Memories of a Life That Never Happened

Chapter 2 - The Unknown

Somewhere on the south of Brazil, a jolly breeze played with white powdery sand. Scooping the grains up in the air, it carried them away, dropped them back on the ground, afar. It was still cool and dark and the sun would not come up for another few minutes. At that early hour, most of the seaside village was still asleep. The beach would be empty if it were not for a handful of fisherfolk and a figure that drew near to the shore.  

Nosy as it was, the breeze decided to sniff the curls of his shaggy golden head. As it ran past him, the boy shivered and the hairs on his neck prickled.  

He arrived barefoot, with arms crossed and pressed against his chest. Scurrying over the carpet of sand, the boy bordered the luscious green forest that framed the beach. There was a hint of caramel to him, but the breeze was not impressed by it. His eyes, on the other hand, were the bluest pair that the gentle wind had ever seen. Even the brightest sky could never match that hue. Even though a profound, unfathomable sadness clouded them.  

The boy looked around for other people. Relieved, he asserted there was no one else. He sat down, not too close to the water, a certain anticipation brewing inside of him. He was about to watch the day break for the last time that year. Extending his legs, he crossed them at the ankles. Then he reclined, arms stretched behind him, and sunk his fingers into the sand.  

An inescapable urgency to capture everything he was feeling swamped him. He closed his eyes and tried to memorize it all. He took in the cold, damp texture of the grains in the soil. Then he inhaled the incoherently sweet scent of the sea. Lulled by the constant melody of waves crashing and birds serenading, he laid on his back. Opening his eyes, he watched the sky change its colors until it set in a deep blue with white wisps here and there.  

To surround himself in unspoiled nature and pay attention to the details: that was his routine to ease his troubled mind. In this particular morning, nevertheless, all he wanted was not to think of anything.  

One by one, the bathers settled along the beach. Some celebrated the dawn of a new day. All prepared to bid the year of 1997 goodbye. The people in this town acclaimed the big changes to come, although they suspected, with great satisfaction, that nothing would change much. Voices polluted the air and expelled the boy out of his peaceful contemplation. Pitching his upper body in his elbows, he searched the sand for the source of disturbance. 

A woman crossed his view of the shore. One hand restrained a straw hat to her head; the other supported the toddler who wobbled beside her. The naughty breeze flapped the rims of the woman's hat and her see-through, loose shirt. Then it followed to play with the frills of the baby's pink swimsuit. 

On the right and most deserted part of the beach, a girl was sit, hugging her legs. Her chin rested on her knees. Long, straight strands of black hair danced all around her face. Probably they obstructed her view from the beach as they kept the boy from seeing her face. She wore an orange tank top that was almost fluorescent. The way it contrasted with her russet skin was beautiful. The girl just stood there, still as a sand sculpture. 

Giggles and chuckles called his attention to his left. Three surfers and their girlfriends gamboled around, enjoying themselves. Their racket spoiled the boy's pleasant moment of loneliness. More than that. All that excitement left him a bit nauseated.  

He got up and brushed the sand off his clothes. Before starting back home, the boy cast a last glance at the beach's right side. The girl with the orange shirt was gone. 

When he reached the main square of Buriti, the bell of the church tower announced it was half past seven. On ordinary days, one could confuse the empty streets on that unworkable hour to those of a ghost town. Everyone was still at rest, except for the seamen, the baker and the priest.  

Nevertheless, the end of December and the first weeks of January were special for the tiny village. Mouthwatering aromas of fresh bread, cakes and coffee wafted through the colorful windows of the attached townhouses. Inside, servants waggled around, readying the household for their masters. These were, after all, the weeks when the aristocratic past of Buriti resurrected and exceeded with glory the great fanfare of good old days.  

That was the reason why, as the boy ambled through the maze of staggeringly uneven stone paved streets, the unprecedentedly high number of five people crossed his path. The first three were deft riders, who rode their bicycles on their way to the beach, carrying surfboards under their arms.  

A platinum blond woman was fourth. The way she jogged had a hint of desperation, as if she was running to free her father from the gallows. The boy noticed she did not forget to apply her makeup, though. Some of her mascara had smudged down, making her fitter to celebrate Halloween than the New Year. If this encounter had happened at night, it would have scared him to death, he thought.  

The last man was the only one that did not have that slight oddity that always denounces a tourist. He was as lean and short as his mustache and his black hair and eyes gleamed under the sun. He gave the boy a subtle nod as they passed each other. It was a little strange, the boy thought. This man seemed to know him, even though the boy was sure they had never met before.  

Leaning against a wall at town edges, where the stones-paved street turned into a dirt one, was the bicycle he had borrowed. He mounted it and twenty boring minutes later, he reached home.  

"Theo!" Someone called as he unlocked a white-painted gate and walked into a pristine front yard with the bike. It was Agnes, the house caretaker. She was an elderly black woman, whose testing life caused her to dwindle in both height and weight.  

"So that's where my bike was," she said.  

Another woman, to whom life appeared to have been much more considerate, emerged on the porch. As a sliver of kapok, she floated across the garden toward him. When they were face to face, she studied him curiously.  

"Where did you go?" she asked him, patting her hands dry in a cloth as white as her summer dress. It almost glittered against her suntanned skin. "I thought you were asleep."  

Agnes, who had caught up with them, took the bike and steered it to the back of the house.  

Theo raised his eyes to look at his mother. Early in the morning, with no makeup on, he thought she looked stunning. One glance at his feet, coated in sand, and she did not have to wait for an answer. She realized where he had been. Again. 

"Oh God! You're filthy! Go wash yourself and come sit with me. Did you have breakfast yet?"  

"No," he answered a couple of tones louder because she had turned to go back inside. "Is Dad up?"  

"He left already. Troubles in paradise. Some employee's sick", she said. Her voice faded as she distanced herself from him. "Someone local, who's supposed to be coordinating the others. Your father's furious. For the first time in all these years, his party's at risk."  

The white house was contoured first by a porch, then by a generous lawn and finally by a hedge that separated the property from nonexistent neighbors. Theo contoured the porch to the right, into a lawn corridor that led to a large backyard. Halfway through this corridor, an open air shower jutted out from the foliage. Theo let his feet soak under the fresh water and glanced at the back of the house. There, a cleft divided the hedge into two equidistant walls. Behind these boundaries, as if sired by the manor, was the plain cottage where Agnes lived in solitude. She had no husband nor children of her own.  

Seclusion, Theo Believed, was unfairly underrated. For some time now, he had envied those who were lucky to be left alone. He would give anything to trade places with Agnes for that night. Then he would be able to lock himself up with a book and wait until the madness surrounding the New Year's celebration passed. 

Every December, those worthy of an invitation flew from the five continents to Buriti to attend the ball thrown by Timeless, the company owned by Theo's father. That year more than any other, Theo dreaded the idea of a celebration. He had no reason to welcome the New Year and hoped to spend the night unnoticed. Given the choice, he would rather stay home, but since that was out of the question, he planned to get drunk as a skunk. Until he had no memory of where he was. Nor of his name. Nor of Lilian.

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A/N: Buriti, the fishing village portrayed in this novel is actually a mix of picturesque Brazilian hamlets. You can check out one of them, (where the first scenes of this chapter take place) in the added picture.