It had been an unseasonably hot day the Sunday that Suarez arrived at the old railway station, for his first experience of the famous Sunday market at Dworzec Ziebodski. Before the stalls started, there was row upon row of clothes, shoes, batteries and all manner of goods strewn out on rugs across the street, the sellers sitting on old milk crates eating sunflower seeds out of long dead flowers.
The heat and the hordes of people bumping into him left Suarez feeling dizzy and disorientated; part of him wished he had asked some of his Rio Grande team mates to accompany him but there was another part of him that was excited and felt adventurous to be experiencing this Wroclawian Sunday tradition on his own. The heat and call of the traders trying to draw his attention to their wares, reminding him of the Grande mercato at Calasparra the mountain town near Rio Grande.
When he had left the hotel that morning Suarez had felt like he needed to do something to take his mind off the worry over Torado’s disappearance. They were roommates and the fact that that Torado had been missing for over a week now had affected Suarez even more than the rest of the team, being stuck in that now empty hotel room made him miss and worry about his missing friend constantly. So it felt good to be out there in the midday sun, surrounded by people, it made him feel less lonely, plus he was here for a reason.
Suarez had spent most of the past two months since they had arrived in Polska, coveting the beautiful old bicycles that the glamorous women and elegant men used to get round the city. He had planned to get himself one weeks ago but recent events had caused him to put the bicycle purchasing on hold. But now here he was with 500 zlotys in his pocket and nothing to stop him from buying the most bellezza 1940’s bicycle he could find.
As he walked through the entrance to the old railway station, the rows of stalls seemed to stretch out indefinitely along the old train tracks, as if they were part of one long never ending train. He passed stall after stall selling nothing but women’s high heels, finally after about an hour of searching Suarez came face to face with the bicycle of his dreams. It was beautiful, he was in love, if there had ever been a more perfectly crafted bicycle he had not seen it. Suarez was sure that such a bicycle as this must possess its own soul and that soul would be old, kind and wise.
It was blue, a turquoise blue the colour of the Rio Grande itself when it had finally finished it journey down the mountain and stretched out before turning into the Pacifico. Its wheels glistened and flashed in the sunlight, the brown grips on the handlebars looking like soft leather gloves, this was his bike the one he had been looking for his whole life, he was sure of that.
The old lady selling it must have been in her eighties, she was so small that powder white saddle of the bike almost came up above her head. Suarez tried to ask her how much in Polish but the lady just smiled and said in perfect English “150 my handsome young man”. Just a 150 zlotys!! Suarez did a few quick calculations in his head, that was only 65 Rio Grandean Redondas, he looked at the kind face of the elderly lady “Signora, that seems too little for such a fine specimen of a bicycle, I would happily pay you three times that amount”.
Suarez was worried that if he bought the bike for such a lowly price, he would be taking advantage of the good lady’s nature; something his mamanina had told him was an ugly and deplorable trait in a man. She had taught him this, when she had caught him cheating a village girl out of her haul of avocados as a 12 year old boy. Suarez could still remember the scolding he had received when his papa had returned home from working in the mine that late summers evening all those years ago. He had learnt his lesson from that day forth and had grown up to be a man of honour and strong principles.
The kindly old lady had said to him that while she was touched by his generosity and honesty the price she got for the bicycle was of little importance to her, it was the perspective owner that mattered to her the most. This had been her beloved husband Pawel’s bicycle, he had died a year ago to this very day and when she had awoken that morning; She had felt in the bicycle the same loneliness and sadness that she had felt every morning since her dearest Pawel’s death. She knew that she herself was now too old to find a new soul mate and was just counting the days until it would be her time to join her beloved Pawel on the golden plains that awaited her on the other side of the clouds. But she knew that the bicycle was still young at heart, full of life and as strong as the day it had been crafted by her husband all those years ago. It had seemed to her that morning a cruel act to make the bicycle suffer the pain, longing and heartache that so haunted her, so as the fog had started to clear, she had set off on the long journey into the town and the market, wheeling the bike with a heavy heart, knowing that today she would be saying to a loyal and old friend. A friend who was the last connection with the life she and her husband had known in this fair country.
When she had seen Suarez approaching the stall, a sense of peace had washed over her, the bicycle had let out a shrill giggle with its bell and she knew then that the bicycle had found a new owner worthy of her slender yet sturdy frame. She told Suarez that she would have happily given him the bicycle for nothing but that she needed 150 zloty to perform one final ritual before she would go into the Sudety hills to re-join her husband. Suarez had asked the lady in the most respectful manner if she could tell him what that ritual was. The kindly lady said she was happy to, she was going to go that evening to the restaurant that her and her Pawel had met for the first time 63 years ago. There she would have one final meal, the very same dish she had eaten on that misty October evening all those years before. Medallions of tender pork, wild mushrooms with a dill and cream sauce. She would also have two glasses of cherry vodka, one for her and another in honour of her husband, then one last espresso which she would nurse and savour as long as possible, along with a final cigarillo. She would pay the bill and leave whatever was left over for the waitress before walking across Plac Solny for the very last time, she would keep walking until she reached the forest and then she would die.
Suarez’s eyes were full of tears as he handed over 200 zlotys, the lady tried to return the extra fifty but he just shook his head and knelt down on the dusty old ground of the old railway track and took her hand in his and planted a delicate kiss on it. Suarez looked up at her and wished her a safe and wonderful journey. He stood up wiping the tears away from his eyes and started to wheel his new bicycle away, after a few steps he looked back toward the old lady, who was still smiling at him through those kindly green eyes, Suarez shouted back to her “kindly Signora what is your name by the way?” “Mirabela” the word echoed back to him, He stopped then slowly lowered himself onto the opulent white saddle of his new steed, gently putting his feet onto the peddles, he looked down “come along Mirabela it is time to go home” and off they rode.
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