My visit to Octavio’s house earlier set my mood for the night. He and his family had erected a candlelit altar in their home adorned with photos of departed relatives. These sat alongside the favourite foods and drinks of the deceased, plus pots of orange marigolds which scented the room.
‘On this day, we help to guide the spirits of our loved ones back home from the land of the dead,’ he said with a misty-eyed look. ‘It’s an important custom for us.’
‘It’s one which I admire. I wish we honoured the dead with more respect in England,’ I told him. Many people back home regard it as a taboo subject.
‘I lost my mother two years ago and miss her wisdom and love so much. Now, you must excuse me.’ He got up from his chair and walked over to the altar where he stopped in front of her photograph and bowed his head. His wife and children remained on the bench and watched him in silence.
Now, I’m standing in the main square in Mexico City watching the Day of the Dead procession. An endless stream of La Catrina skeletons, dancers, moving altars and giant puppets have passed by for over an hour, and I’ve been serenaded by the sound of guitars and trumpets and the rendition of traditional ballads by singers.
Suddenly, one of the Catrinas stops briefly and her hollowed-out green eyes study me from beneath a large hat and a smile forms on her stitched mouth before she dances gaily off into the night. Her gaze triggers a memory of when I first met Gabriela in London.
My first words to her were an apology.
‘Sorry, love,’ I said staring at the Guinness I’d spilt on her white skirt. ‘That was clumsy of me. I’ll pay for the dry cleaning.’
An amused expression appeared on her face.
‘You’re a gentleman but it will cost you as the fabric is silk. Give me your number and I’ll let you know how much you owe me.’ Her accent sounded exotic to me.
‘Let me scribble it on the back of your hand.’ I pulled out a biro and she laughed and stretched out an arm. Her startling, emerald coloured eyes glowed at me.
‘By the way, my name is Gabriela.’
‘I’m Michael.’
It turned out she lived ten minutes from my flat and so after her call I decided to settle the debt in person. She greeted me at her door barefoot wearing a diaphanous blue dress. She looked amazing.
‘It’s kind of you to come round. Do you want to come in for a coffee?’
‘Sure.’ I almost ran in.
‘Grab a seat in there,’ she said, pointing to the lounge. The smell of lavender greeted me when I entered.
‘Do you like living in London?’ I asked her over the first of several cups.
‘Yes, but I also love getting out to the English countryside. It’s so different to the environment around Mexico City where I’m from. I’ve got four months left on my course and I want to see as many chocolate box villages as I can before I go home.’
‘Well, that’s a coincidence. I regularly go on country walks and belong to a rambling group.’
‘Perhaps you could be my guide?’
‘That would be my pleasure.’
Our eyes were feasting on each other as we chatted and I could feel myself falling under her spell. We discovered we had other interests in common, a love of Abba, disco dancing, and playing chess. But more than that, we were easy in each other’s company and laughed a lot.
We became inseparable after that evening and set off on a dizzying voyage together, tripping the light fantastic, exploring the corners of each other’s minds, and watching sunsets together in the Chilterns. We were an unlikely couple. She was a pixie sized beauty with almond shaped eyes and long lustrous black hair. I was a tall, gangly bloke with a mop of red locks and freckles. She was conceived in a far-flung city whereas I was dragged up in Barking. She had a mellifluous voice whereas I talked with a Cockney accent. She was a high flyer doing a business course whilst I taught English in an inner city comprehensive. But through some strange magic we found a connection.
I was proud to introduce her to my family.
‘I can see you’re a good influence on him, Gabriela. He takes more pride in his appearance now,’ Mum told her. She had always hated my jeans and T shirt look.
‘You’re punching above your weight, son. Good on you!’ My Dad slapped me on the back as he gave me his approval.
‘Don’t I know it,’ I replied, watching Gabriela helping Mum to wash up.
I tried to persuade myself that we were having a passionate fling which would end when the time came for her to return home and we would both move onto other relationships. But I was fooling myself. I was head over heels in love with her.
My pal, Tony, sent an invitation to his wedding and Gabriela came with me. She caused a stir wearing a traditional floral embroidered dress and a red flower in her hair.
‘Wow. Are you trying to upstage the bride?’ asked one of the other guests.
‘No. This is how I usually dress for a wedding,’ Gabriela riposted with a big grin.
As I watched Tony and his betrothed standing at the altar, an image appeared in my mind of Gabriela and me in the same position. I glanced to my right to see the expression on her face but I could only guess whether she was thinking the same as me.
I finally made my feelings known one warm Saturday afternoon. We’d been walking in the city for a change and reached the gates of Brompton cemetery.
‘Let’s go in and have a rest,’ I suggested. ‘You’ll like it. The lives of many people are commemorated by spectacular memorials and the wildflowers attract birds and butterflies.’
‘OK. I’m feeling a little tired.’
We wandered up an avenue of stately lime trees and sat down on a bench beside an imposing, ivy clad mausoleum.
‘This makes me think of El Dia de Muertos when we visit the graveyard where my grandparents and other relatives are buried,’ she said softly. ‘We clean their graves and decorate them with candles and flowers to prepare for their return.’
‘That’s a beautiful ritual.’
The sun came out of the clouds and lit up her face, and I felt a tug on my heart.
‘I love you, Gabriela. You make me so happy.’ It felt so good to say it out loud.
‘You are wonderful,’ she replied.
I leaned over and kissed her soft, pillowy lips.
I dreaded the prospect of her returning home as the end of her course approached. Matters came to head when we went for dinner one night to Café Pacifico which had recently opened as the first Mexican restaurant in London. The dining area was dominated by a colourful mural and mariachi music was playing in the background. When we sat down, she picked up the menu.
‘Let me order for both of us,’ she said.
‘I’m in your hands.’
She studied it for a few minutes.
‘Ok. I’m going to order pollo en mole.’
‘Sounds interesting!’
The food arrived and I realised it was chicken in a sauce. I cut a piece and put it in my mouth, and slowly chewed it. It didn’t taste like anything I’d eaten before.
‘Do you like it?’ She looked nervously at me.
‘Yes, it's delicious. What’s the sauce made of?’
‘Chili with a hint of chocolate. I hope it’s not too spicy.’
‘No, I’ve had curries much hotter than this.’ I laughed and sipped some beer.
We ate and chatted for a while until I mustered the courage to say what was on my mind.
‘Have you thought about what I said last night?’ I placed my left hand on hers.
‘Yes, but it’s difficult for me.’ She freed her hand. ‘I promised my father I’d be home by the end of June. He paid for my course so I could help the family firm and I can’t let him down.’
‘But you should pursue your own dreams. We’re so good together and it would be tragic to throw away what we have. I’m sure you could get a job here.’
‘I'm sorry, Michael but I’ve booked a seat on the Aeromexico flight next Tuesday.’
‘That soon?’ I suddenly felt sick.
‘I’m afraid so. In another life, things might have worked out differently.’
I leaned forward and looked her in the eye.
‘I'll follow you there. Just give me time.’ It was a promise I was determined to keep.
‘Que sera, que sera. Whatever will be, will be,’ she said doubtfully.
The procession is now disappearing out of sight and it’s dinner time. I turn off the main avenue and head down a side street and walk until I reach the brightly lit restaurant. The Mestizo is close to the British Council's office where I teach English and I’ve taken a few clients to it since I started working here three years ago. When my short-term contact expired I was pleasantly surprised to be offered a permanent one and snapped it up.
It's noisy inside and the owner sees me and comes across from the bar. He’s a paunchy middle aged guy with a twinkle in his eyes.
‘Good evening, Michael. How are you?’ He likes to practice his English with me.
‘Fine thanks, Jaime. Is that table free?’ I point over to one in a quiet corner.
‘Yes. I'll get you the menu.’
‘There's no need. I'll have pollo en mole with a beer.’
‘Good choice. Please sit down.’
I pull up a chair and make myself comfortable. The table has a pot of marigolds on it and a candle is burning in the middle.
Jaime returns with a bottle and opens it.
‘Is your lady not joining you tonight?’
‘No, she is with her family.’
‘That’s a pity. She has a good business mind and I like to get her advice.’
‘She’ll probably be with me next time.’
I slowly sip my beer until a young waitress arrives and puts a plate down in front of me.
‘Buen provecho,’ she says.
‘Gracias.’
As she leaves, I take the photo out of my wallet and stand it up against the candleholder. I gaze at her face for a few moments before placing the napkin on my lap and starting to eat.
Savouring the rich and decadent flavour of the sauce, I hear her voice in my head.
‘Do you like it?’
I reply in a whisper.
‘Delicious, as always.’
I recall the scent of her lavender perfume and, when I shut my eyes, can imagine her sitting opposite me, talking to me with her honeyed voice. I’m briefly transported back to the happiest days of my life.
But that all too short reverie is rudely interrupted by the memory of the newsreader's voice on late night radio.
‘Mexican authorities have reported that no survivors have been found following the crash of the Aeromexico flight from London to Mexico City. The plane went down north of its destination after the pilot had reported a fire on board to the control tower. It’s the worst air accident in the country's history.’
I’ve never listened to the radio after dark since that day.
I slowly finish the meal, making sure that no sauce is left on the plate. I wipe my mouth with the napkin and look at my watch. I’d better get home. Carla will be wondering where I am. If we stay together, I’ll need to find a way of explaining to her why I need to be alone on this day.
About the author
Rob lives in Edinburgh started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had a few stories published by CafeLit and in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing.
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