La Menina

It was a beautiful autumn day when my world turned upside down. I was about to cross the ocean to my first big business meeting overseas, and I had been preparing every detail of the event for months. Due to our company policy, each site's representatives had to take different flights, so I was alone that morning. The materials to present were available on each of our laptops, and I had secured safety copies on external hard drives. There was no way I would leave any detail out of my control. I arrived early at the airport, giving me four hours before departure to take care of my luggage, eat something in the lounge, and do some shopping. I looked for the airline's desk and walked there while looking for my flight details on my phone.

"Good morning," I told the flight assistant at the desk.

I had worked so hard to arrive at this moment, spending so many sleepless nights practicing my presentations, checking my data, and running the numbers... That woman in front of me was not just another flight attendant. She was my last door to success.

"Good morning," she replied, "can I see your flight details and identification?"

I handed my phone and passport to the lady before me, and she typed something on her keyboard. She looked at me and smiled again. Then she looked at the screen, at my document...

"Is everything in order?" I asked her.

The woman stopped smiling and said, "I'm sorry, but you're overbooked. Can you please let the next person come forward?" 

I stared at her, incredulous. Overbooking? I had taken care of the reservation months before, I was in the airport much earlier than recommended, and most of all, I couldn't miss that flight; I needed to be on that flight to be on time for the professional opportunity of my life. I placed my hands over the desk, and simultaneously, she handed me my phone and passport. I took them, but I did not move aside. I locked my eyes with hers and said, "I must take this flight."

She did not move. Her face had no expression at all. She showed no surprise, guilt, or an inch of compassion for me. "I need you to step aside. Please go to our Claims desk. There is nothing I can do for you here."

I felt the rage climbing my chest, and I thought seriously about climbing that desk and assaulting the woman behind it, but deep inside, I knew that would not be the solution. I said "Thank you," even if there was nothing to thank for, picked up the handle of my suitcase, and dragged myself to the Claims desk, where a huge queue was forming. When I finally placed myself in the line, more than a hundred people were before me.

"You can solve this," I thought, looking at the multitude before me and opening my phone directory. My travel arranger would find another option. There was plenty of time. I would not about to let anyone defeat me. I was determined to succeed, and no overbooking would stop me. I called my contact in the travel arrangements office, but it was too early. I called the airline help desk, but they were too busy due to technical issues. I texted my manager and colleagues and told them I was having some problems with my flight, but I would solve it on time. I was known for my "fixer skills." I was where I was because I was able to solve the most difficult challenges. No overbooking or lines in front of me would bring me down. 

I looked at the time. A full hour had passed. My travel assistant texted me, "Next best chance tomorrow morning." I managed not to scream, but I grunted something like, "I cannot believe it," loud enough to make a few people turn their heads in my direction. I texted her back and updated the rest of my team. I was beyond annoyed. I was furious, and the noise and movement around me were not helping—they were not helping at all. It took two hours to reach the claims desk, where an exhausted man looked at me and, in a robotic voice, told me: "Ticket and ID, please."

"I need to catch my flight. Please, it is really important." I pleaded, almost hugging the desk.

"Ticket and ID, please," he repeated.

I handed my phone and documents to him and waited for the moment he could tell me everything had been a silly mistake I would laugh about later. He typed something on his keyboard, and the printer spit some paper. He ripped the papers out of the machine and handed them to me.

"You are overbooked. You can fly tomorrow at the same time. Here, you have some meal vouchers and a hotel reservation for the night. Have a nice day." 

I looked at the papers and back at him. I couldn't believe it. I was about to be late for the most important appointment of my life, and he was giving me vouchers. Once more, the rage. I felt an intense pain in my head. I could barely move, and the man asked several times to move aside. I couldn't think, and I saw him asking for help from security. I started to cry when I heard my name.

"Ella?"

I opened my eyes, holding my head with my hands. The man in front of me was yelling something I couldn't understand, and the noise was driving me crazy, but I saw him—James.

I had not seen that boy, now a man, since my last day of university. I had spent that day with him, walking in the park between my student's house and the train station, and I had seen him for the last time when we said goodbye when I left that city, never to return. 

James walked to me and took my arms. I looked at his gentle eyes, and the world seemed to shut up. There was no noise anymore, only blue eyes and a gentle smile to focus on.

"I will take care of her, don't worry," he said to the man on the desk, and we started to talk aside.

"I need to catch that flight," I said.

"I know," he replied, "but it will have to wait until tomorrow." He said while checking the papers in my hand.

He took me to a bench and helped me sit down. "Hold on here," he said, handing me my suitcase. I had not realized he had taken my trolley. I felt lost. Everything around me seemed to be moving in slow motion. I just wanted to cry, and my legs started to tremble as soon as I sat. James left my side, and in less than a minute, he was back on my side with a bottle of water and a cookie.

"Drink. It will make you feel better. The cookie should help as well if your sugar is low."

Ten years. Ten years had passed since I last saw him, and he was as kind as I remembered. I took the bottle and took a sip. I accepted the cookie and took a bite. Little by little, the world around me was recovering its speed, but I was not feeling better.

"It is nice to see you," I said, looking at him.

"It is a surprise to meet you," he replied.

"Are you mad at me? Still?" I said, remembering our last phone conversation. I was supposed to return to the city after a few months but never did. I was expected to keep my promise and return to him, but I broke it. Still, he was nothing but kind and caring. He never yelled at me or said anything hurtful, but I did. I hurt him. I knew it.

"I am not mad. I can't," he said. "But I am hungry. I need to have breakfast," he added.

"I need to catch a flight..." I said

"Tomorrow," he continued, "your flight is tomorrow."

He took me by the hand. With no more words needed, we went to the outside. It was sunny and slightly cold, but the fresh air made me feel better. Suddenly, I was not the determined businesswoman of three hours before but a terrified girl worried about telling something terrible to her father. I would be late. I would miss the first day of the meeting rounds. I would miss my opportunity to shine brighter than the Sun. Still, somehow, I felt protected by the hand of handsome James.

"Where are we going?" I asked him.

"Well, I need to eat, and you need to clean your head, so brownies and paintings seem like a good combination."

"Are we going to El Prado?" I asked, surprised and excited. The last time I had been there was with him, when we were much younger.

"Indeed, milady," he said, laughing. "Do you still remember the terrace where we had that coffee?"

"Well, I remember we complained about the price..." I replied, thinking of my reaction that day when I saw the ticket the waiter left at our table.

"But the view..." he murmured.

"The view was phenomenal. There were no complaints about the view." I completed his phrase, and his eyes sparkled. I had always loved his eyes, which had the superpower to change colors according to the light, from grey to blue or green, according to the luminosity around him. My eyes are dull brown, just brown, but he used to tell me they seemed wild olives. I never knew if that was a compliment or a very creative way of saying they were weird-shaped. I never asked. It never mattered to me.

We entered the parking lot. His small utilitarian car was clearly too small for his height. I laughed to see him contorting until he was seated in the driver's seat, but he did not seem to mind.

"It was the cheapest I could find," he said.

"If it has four wheels and takes us to the brownies, I will not complain," I replied.

And so it was. We arrived at our destination: a too-tall man and a too-stressed woman, ready to stare at pictures as we had done so many years before. We queued for the tickets amidst tourists and schoolchildren, and I felt liberated when we crossed the doorstep. The suitcase with my clothes was in the car, and despite bringing my laptop and external hard disk with me, work was the last thing I could think about. I was in a place I loved, with someone I liked, an old friend. I always liked museums, contemplating paintings, sculptures, walls, floors, and ceilings in their massive corridors and little rooms. I liked the colors, the look of stone and paint, and the sound of whispers and footsteps. During our university years, most friends made fun of me for choosing a museum instead of a couple of beers, but James didn't. He joined me sometimes, and our visits together were always fun. I missed that.

As we walked inside, I asked James:

"What were you doing at the airport?"

"I work there," he replied. "Still the same job as the last time we spoke."

I had somehow forgotten about it. He was an engineer responsible for the baggage belts in the airport terminal. He used to say it was not the most exciting work ever, but it provided good stories to tell friends and family about the weird things people carry in their luggage.

"It was very early," I said.

"Night shift," he replied. "I had been talking with a colleague when I saw you at that desk. I see a lot of people like you every day.

"Desperate to kill the men in front of us?" I chuckled.

"No, beautiful," he said.

I looked at him, embarrassed. Suddenly, I felt like a fifteen-year-old girl trying to kiss a boy. But I did not want to kiss him... or did I? While I was doubting myself, he started laughing... loudly.

"Are you laughing at me?" I asked him, feeling my cheeks flushing.

"Every time I see her, she makes me think of you," he said, pointing at the little girl in the center of "Las Meninas" by Velazquez.

I looked at the picture and then back at him, puzzled by what he had just said. 

"How? Why?" I replied.

He took some steps back and sat on a wooden bench. He tapped the bench with his hand, inviting me to sit beside him. I did.

"She is so little, and so still... someone told her not to move, but everyone moves around her. She smiles, but not too much; she keeps the posture because that's what she's expected to do."

I took a big breath before replying. I looked at him, staring at the picture, and remembered the last time I'd seen him, the day I took the train. He had the same look on his face. So many years had passed, and he seemed to have changed so little...

"No one told me..." I said.

"I know," he replied. "You knew what you had to do... and you did it."

"I had to..." I tried to reply, but then I didn't. I looked at those beautiful green eyes and remembered how much I'd loved him, how much I needed to love myself, and what I did about it... 

"I'm sorry I never came back," I told him.

"I am sorry I let you go," he told me back.

We sat on that bench for hours. Somewhere in time, he held my hand while the people around us contemplated the picture and snatched selfies with the girls in the picture.

"I am happy to be here," I told him by the end of the day.

"Welcome back," he whispered, and his words flooded those massive corridors, echoed in the beautiful pictures around us, and landed in my chest. 

"I am back," I thought. Then, I looked at his grey eyes, and once more, I lost myself.