Page 40 of No Greater Oblivion

It’s an off the grid, albeit gorgeous, village in Catalonia with shitty wi-fi and streets so narrow only two people can walk at a time. A popular summer tourist destination for Americans on day trips touring the countryside or the pretentious European backpackers who want to “detach” for a few weeks; it exists outside of time, in a world I know Dahlia would happily occupy if given the chance. The streets are a tangle of uneven cobblestone roads, some open to the late August light, and others overshadowed by building alleyways and lined with bird droppings. A bit of reality to muddle the fantasy.

El Castillo de Santa Pau sits at the center of this medieval village and is the North Star at which all roads and streets begin. Once the seat of the Santa Pau barons, the construction of the castle birthed the surrounding village and remnants of the ancient walls still exist all these centuries later. The town is over seven hundred years old and the castle is its oldest structure, now left abandoned because all efforts to return it to its former glory have been fruitless. The entire interior structure is corroded beyond repair and a renovation attempt would not only endanger the building’s stability but would likely cost a fortune.

Now it serves as a playground for the children who run across the grass-covered lawn and climb up the jagged stone steps.

I continue under the covered gallery of one of the buildings, its tan columns overgrown with green vines and summer flowers glistening under the sun. A man in a blue hat takes his time watering each pot and when I pass by him, he bows his head in my direction and I do the same.

“It’s a beautiful day,” he tells me in Catalan.

I stop to admire the flowers. A four o’clock flower with vibrant, hot pink petals blooms in the direction of the sun. I pluck it from its stem, along with the tiny sliver of paper tucked behind it. “Un dia molt bonic,” I reply and continue on my walk. “Very beautiful, indeed…”

A little girl on a bicycle whizzes past me and I drop the flower in her basket. I open the note, the scrap of paper no longer or wider than my pointer finger and read the address inside. Up ahead is a hostel that doubles as a bar and restaurant. A group of men are seated outside, under the protection of the gallery, to shield themselves from the merciless sun. On the second floor, a woman steps out onto the balcony to water her plants and, noticing her Catalan flag has gotten tangled around the flag post, gently unfolds it.

The three men are smoking, and I produce a cigar from the gold case I keep in my pocket. With a genial smile and my best Catalan, I gesture toward the lighter in the bald man’s hand. “Et importaria si agafo el llum?”

Diego’s the polyglot of the family and even Lettie has mastered Catalan with a level of fluency I could never aspire to. But when the occasion calls for it, I can convincingly play the role of local. So long as they speak at a steady pace.

He extends the lighter to me with an affable expression and pinch of the brows. “No, no importa. Voldries unir-te a nosaltres?”

The bearded man across from him produces a fourth chair and after a quick glance at my watch, I decide I can spare a few minutes.

I sit down and while the men are distracted, I set fire to the note and drop the paper to the ground, snuffing out the ashes with the tip of my shoe. We smoke and delve into conversation about the weather, fútbol, and how impossible it was for the fair-haired man to get a new refrigerator delivered to his house a few weeks ago. The middle-aged man, who is the youngest of them, laments over this year’s tourists; a pair of Americans from Milwaukee and his attempt at pronouncing the Wisconsin city pulls a genuine huff of laughter from my lips. When my cigar is done, I thank the gentlemen for the hospitality and get on my way.

I glance at my watch. Perfect. Ferrer should be home any minute.

He lives in a beautiful little stone house with a shingled roof and wooden front door. Tucked between two impossibly tight side streets, there isn’t much sunlight which is a blessing in the summer but a curse in the winter. God knows these old homes are a nightmare to heat. The winters here are foggy with a nasty chill that creeps up on you.

I’m the first one to arrive which is convenient. It’ll give me time to inspect the space.

It’s a treasure trove of antiques and precious trinkets, many of which I doubt belong to Ferrer, if not the eighty-nine-year-old woman he rents from, who recently moved to Barcelona with her granddaughter to be closer to her doctors. Dozens of lamps and old light fixtures hang from the low, wooden beam ceilings. Porcelain plates, picture frames, and crosses are hung along the walls and the only modern appliances are the refrigerator, sink, and gas stove. Across the room is a fully functioning plate stove that I swear has to be almost three hundred years old.

I continue my assessment of the apartment; small living room, furnished with gaudy, dark wood furniture, a weathered but well-loved sofa, and plush rug. More bulky, heirloom furniture in the bedrooms, side tables in the narrow, cramp halls decorated with handknitted doilies, and an old radio that no doubt dates back to the second World War. I check drawers, under the furniture, in the tight, oddly shaped closets, under floorboards, and behind curtains and mirrors. A half hour passes before I’m satisfied with my handiwork and not a minute too soon because it sounds like someone’s home.

Seated in the living room, I have a clear view of the front door by the staircase from which Ferrer enters. Lost in thought, he moves through the halls, barely casting a glance in my direction, and heads toward the kitchen. The apartment is awkward in shape and layout because from this angle, I can see him but he can’t see me. He’d have to fully exit the kitchen and stand at the threshold of the small, informal dining room to do that.

He searches through his fridge for beer that isn’t there. I dumped every last can down the drain before he got here.

“I’d prefer if we had this conversation sober.”

Ferrer spins around.

“That is, if it’s all the same to you.”

One look at him and I can see how deeply transformative the last two years have been. He’s at least twenty pounds lighter and looks a whole decade older.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Even in his current state, he’s still sharp, still tactful. He closes the refrigerator door and doesn’t exit the kitchen, knowing that the direction from which my voice is coming is his blind spot. Instead of pouncing, he slowly exits the room and I watch as his hand reaches out to turn on the light switch. I can’t see from this angle but I already know he’s reaching for the gun he has hidden behind a picture of his landlord and her grandchildren.

I get up from where I’m seated on the sofa and enter the dining room. I extend my hand and open my palm. The bullets from his gun, and every other weapon in this apartment, are scattered across the plastic tablecloth. I dig deep into my pockets, produce more bullets, and drop them one by one.

Ferrer watches me with a trained eye then extends the gun, slowly lowering it to the table. I kick one of the chairs in his direction. “Sit,” I order.

He does, and grips the bottom of his seat⁠—

“Don’t bother.” I drop a pair of pocketknives and wad of scotch tape into the sea of bullets. “I got rid of those too.”

He grinds his teeth. “What do you want?”