The Goddess Returns

Acknowledging the waiter I raise a hand “Bocadillo y cafe por favor”. At the next table a woman wearing sunglasses gently tears a croissant into chunks and starts feeding some birds nearby; she seems to be in her element, clicking her tongue as they eagerly accept the offerings. I catch her fragrance as I sit down.

Though it’s a rare and fine gift in life to be anticipating the first coffee of the day overlooking an early 13th century Gothic style cathedral; I am distracted. I take a quick photograph but I’m in that mood again, I can’t shift my thoughts away from her; has she been visiting me in my dreams and leaving her soft footsteps in my morning waking moments? The most delicate of traces, the warm scent of her olive skin is still with me now.

I wonder how she might have tackled this composition; the chilly, clear spring light as it falls across the facade, the shadows in the courtyard and the gothic spires. I close my eyes. The big sketch pad on the table, pencils and water colours. My eyes fall on her naked semi-divine features, silhouetted by the grand apartment window, framed by the elegant white orchids and the architrave. Soft blonde hair, pushed back revealing her flawless neck, bunches coiled upon her shoulders. Dressed only in those long silver and pearl earrings. The slim curve of the waist to the pear shaped bottom, the gap in the thighs. She takes my breath away as she turns and glides towards me. My passion knew no limits in those days, I should have moved heaven and earth while she was in my orbit.

Moments later, the small cup arrives with textured foam and the warm baguette alongside as a nearby bell starts tolling; each slightly discordantly with the previous. I savour the snack and imagine the medieval peasants in the fields surrounding the city, toiling in the morning sun, sitting on stacks of hay, breaking their fast and chatting. The bell chimes some more. I am reminded of the prints in the hotel lobby nearby.

‘Of course she loves it here. I was a fool to let her go’.

I type “Burgos Cathedral of St Mary” into my tablet; nothing jumps out at first. As I scroll down, the image of the cathedral is revealed. A stock photo. But It is familiar. Uncannily familiar. Then it strikes me. I nearly choke on a piece of bread as it had clearly been taken in precisely the same position that I took the photograph a few moments earlier. A different lens configuration and exposure and of course the lighting and weather conditions were completely different; but just like me, the photographer had clearly been seeking the perfect vantage point in this medieval square.

‘The fates are weaving their threads again’. My hand is trembling. These coincidences seem to be coming regularly now.

Some pigeons flutter nearby and I look up bringing one into sharp focus to check that I’m not still dreaming, an iridescent wing, a rainbow trapped in the refracted light. Shimmering beauty. It looks convincing enough.

The square is getting busier, I notice the tables are filling up in my periphery, the scrape of a steel chair on cobbles, the gurgle of a milk frother, the morning chat, but she is drawing me back as I hear the distant yet distinctive crackle of an old twin cylinder echoing in the old city streets. That glorious and long summer on the Costa da Morte; it used to main-line adrenaline with every spurt of the throttle as we climbed the mountain paths and explored the coast-line together. It would be twenty years since I last saw her. Since we found each other. We were inseparable.

Sitting at a cafe in the old square my heart is beating hard beneath my bike jacket; a bead of sweat runs down my back. She is in my head. Why her? Why now?

Our fading twin shadows flickered along the mountainous verge, they vanished as the path fell away into the rocky escarpment while a light breeze wafted over us like endless Atlantic kisses. The sun started to sink and with it came a pink and golden sunset still vivid in my mind. Our hearts leapt when a bird of prey swept down and came alongside. It flashed red, brown and black against the deepening-to crimson skies with slow and powerful wing beats. Rhythmic, hypnotic. She matched the speed of the old Triumph; head dead still with beady focussed eyes. Checking us out, guiding us. We touched transcendental beauty together in that moment; everything was condensed into silence. No space, no time.

I sigh, finish my coffee and rummage in my pouch for some cigarette papers. I heard she got married and settled down soon after I left for Los Angeles. Would I even recognise her now? Would she even recognise me? a failed and scarred rock star. I’ve put on a few pounds and my hair is cut short like most men my age. Sure, I’m not dead yet; which is mostly down to luck considering my lifestyle over the last few years and I’ve had no shortage of female company but they didn’t light my fire like she did, nobody ever has. I look down at the froth in the cup and scoop some out with a teaspoon. I have a pain in my chest.

I recall that she had simple dreams back then; she wanted motherhood and a big family. She would talk endlessly about a little family restaurant in her beloved cathedral city. Naturally I got cold feet, the thought of commitment versus the lure of a deal with a big west coast label and a tour. I got sucked in. We all did. Then I was spat out two years later when the rock market went to shit as the ‘Ravers’ arrived. I was a dick but at least I didn't sell out.

I glance secretly at the other patrons in the cafe and then my eyes drift across the square to a little Tapas restaurant in the opposite corner. I can just make out the signage in a pastel green that reads “Madeleines”. It would be exactly the type of place that she would have opened; I hadn’t noticed it before now. It can’t be. Surely. I see goose-bumps appearing on my forearms they make my tattoos look weird.

The bell chimes again with more urgency than before and I am becoming acutely aware of the present moment. Next to me, the woman feeding the pigeons pauses briefly. I have a powerful sense of being in the right place at the right time. She looks towards me, looks away, then back again. I look up instinctively and she wrinkles her nose into a smile; leaning back a little she flicks her hair over to the side and grooms it with brightly coloured nails and silver ringed fingers.

“So what brings you here today?” she asks confidently with a thick Spanish accent that washes over me in musky kisses.

I want to tell her it was serendipity that brought me and the cathedral photographer to this table … this precise spot; that unknown forces guided me to sit and drink coffee here today, now at this moment. But I don’t because it sounds crazy. Normal people don’t tend to think like that. Normal people only secretly believe in destiny. I need to appear normal.

She interrupts my thoughts by taking a biscuit from the saucer.

"Ooh, the love of a great coffee, a croissant. Is there anything more important in life?". She laughs. “Or maybe you like to feed pigeons?”. She wrinkles her nose again. There is something in that voice. A depth, an urgency. A memory.

"Pigeons, they follow their instincts...”. I don’t know if my stilted conversation is permeating or not but she nods. I start crafting a cigarette, my hands are still trembling.

She gets my attention with a flick of her hair. “That’s cool...you’re English no?”. She pronounces the word cool with an unmistakable European accent.

"What's cool?”. I mimic her accent and return her smile.

"Your jacket, Its nice. Do you ride a motorcycle?”. She stands briefly, takes her scarf off and hangs it carefully on the chair. She is dressed well in a stylish black figure hugging dress, rock star sunglasses and white pumps, kind of 'exec chic'. She looks like my last three girlfriends or maybe my last three girlfriends look like her.

“Have me met before. You look so familiar?. Can I steal a cigarette?”.

“Sure”. She leans across to help herself to the contents of my pouch.

She dramatically removes her shades and restyles her hair quickly.

Then she looks at me coyly; her eyes hooded revealing a flash of hazel with dilating pupils as she puts the cigarette to her lips, now pursed, which I hadn't noticed until this moment are full, red and very luscious. She has my full attention now. These little gestures and mannerisms feel somehow familiar like footprints on the shore.

Without looking away she just tilts her head slightly. Pupils dilated, her features soften like a vintage movie actress as though the lens is coated in a thin film of petroleum jelly. Her jawline and cheekbones now exposed are still exquisite. Her feline eyes and lashes complete the look. I have a rare but familiar feeling come over me in an invisible wave. I melt into the moment. No time, no space, no air. The cathedral bell chimes. The veil lifts.

‘The fates have conspired again. The Goddess has found me’.