Once upon a time in Barcelona

Barcelona... How long have I wanted to visit the city whose founding is attributed to the mythological hero Heracles? A city of ancient history, a center of world culture, where all roads and flight paths lead the tourist, where one can admire the creations of the wizard of architectural design, the great Gaudí. The Sagrada Familia... Although not everyone likes this building, what kind of monstrosity with four bottle-like spires is sticking up here? However, there's no accounting for taste. Barcelona must be seen!.. And here I am. By my own prayers and according to the wish —tantamount to an order — of my Boss, the Angel of Death, also known popularly as Lucifer or the Prince of Darkness. I rarely see him now, but that changes nothing.

A room has already been booked for me, which didn't surprise me, as I consider myself on a business trip—that is, travelling the world for work purposes. In what capacity? What difference does it make? Circumstances dictated it. At first, I was escaping the vengeance of the Illuminati, then the 'patriots'. Currently, I am in the capital of Catalonia for the purpose of recuperating. For a short rest. Once I regain my strength—and...

And what?

Apparently, a new assignment and a new test await me. It's like in life: crossing the street at a 'zebra' crossing—an alternation of black and white stripes. And while there's an opportunity, one must take everything from life, especially if you've been put up in a four-star hotel with the telling name 'Transit', on a street three meters wide. Excellent location, in the center of the Old Town, near Plaça d'Espanya, built for the 1929 International Exposition. Not luxurious, but I wouldn't dream of anything else. One can wander the nearby streets, take in their smells, and get acquainted with the sights. And the Barcelona Sants station is close by, and there's free Wi-Fi. Beach hotels aren't for me. I'm interested in the history, geography, and people of the places I manage to visit.

Returning the next day from a morning walk, I found a note addressed to me, Alejandro, on the small table, the size of a chessboard. Either the maid brought it, or the receptionist, although correspondence for guests is usually kept in the lobby. The note instructed me to set off again. How can this be? What will I tell my friends? Not to visit the famous Boqueria market, not to admire the unique five-meter cat sculpture on Rambla del Raval? But you don't argue with the Boss, right?

Barcelona, in the imagination of many who have never been here, is a huge port area surrounded by green forests and flowering fields, stuffed with architectural masterpieces inside. Not at all. Just outside the city lies a genuine, harsh, stony steppe. Perhaps not quite a desert, but a mountainous plateau. A grim triumph of frugal nature. The peculiar ossification of this corner of the country bore the imprint of ancient history, of meticulously preserved medieval traditions and customs, such as bullfighting, the corrida — essentially a primitive amusement, a relic of the past, revered here as a noble sport. Hills, rocky scree, sparse vegetation. Archaic. Beautiful, but not the carefree beach expanse of Barceloneta with its touching concern for spots for the nudists, who are numerous here. Understandably, there's so much sun in these parts that one wants to shed everything. Down to the last thread!

I have no time for beauty. The Boss is calling a meeting. The note didn't specify what the conversation would be about. For secrecy, perhaps. Surprises can vary, right up to the separation of head from neck via guillotine. Just in case, perhaps I should wash my neck. Joking.

The meeting would take place—the note stated—in a cave near the Montserrat Monastery, now a stronghold of the Benedictine Order, a monastery well over a thousand years old. The monastery walls are at least fifty kilometres from Barcelona, according to the map. By train, I could have gotten there in about forty minutes, but the distance had to be covered on foot, like a pilgrim trekking with a staff towards holy sites. On the one hand, it is a test of will and endurance; on the other, perhaps it is to avoid unwanted fellow travellers. The magnificence of the cathedral, nestled among limestone cliffs smoothly worn by wind and rain, miraculously clinging to the edge of an abyss — I would only be able to observe it from afar. The Boss's verdict is harsh, but for me, it's the law. The Benedictine monastery houses one of the most revered relics in Spain, and indeed in the entire Catholic world — the 'Black Madonna', a statue of the Mother of God with the infant on her lap, to which crowds of worshippers, pilgrims, and those curious to see something they can't see back home flock.

It's easy to say that ten kilometres is nothing. For me, young as I am, 50 km felt like hell. I cheated a bit and covered most of the distance by commuter train. Still, by the end of the journey, I was barely shuffling along, plagued by horseflies—luckily not accompanied by vultures soaring in the sky, vultures which possess an extraordinarily keen sense for potential carrion, pursuing it to the bitter end. Boundless space, stone cracked by timelessness, the teasing blue of the sky.

The sun was blinding; I could no longer make out the road—indeed, there probably wasn't one, just a narrow path, slightly overgrown with withered grass... And when I was completely exhausted, what do you expect from a city dweller? —A fork with a signpost appeared ahead of the path. The signpost had been put there specifically for me. I realized that immediately. I had only taken a few more steps when it vanished, as if it had never been there. Ahead, amidst thickets of blackthorn, an iron door suddenly materialized. No, it wasn't a mirage. It didn't look new; in places, it was heavily eaten away by rust and marked by birds. A door leading into the unknown. To the underworld? It was strange to see on it a gleaming, polished bronze handle in the shape of a dragon's maw. So that I wouldn't accidentally pass by, an arrow pointed to the entrance: Aqui! (Here! - Spanish). This was my lot. At first glance, it might seem you are here of your own free will. The meeting place cannot be changed. He who is born to be hanged will never drown. Freedom of choice is an illusion; fatalism rules the world.

I knocked on the locked door. A hoarse, rough, angry voice, as if hungover—sounding to me like the British bassist and vocalist Lemmy—grumbled discontentedly from somewhere beneath the ground: "What's the bell for?" An electric doorbell—where? In the blackthorn bushes. Simply miraculous. All that's missing is an unquenchable flame, and everything would be perfect. True, I'm no Moses either. The door finally swung open, and beyond the threshold, pitch darkness awaited me. And— suddenly (aren't there too many 'suddenlys'?) —someone grabbed my arm and dragged me deep into the cave; moreover, I was distinctly aware that they were hauling me downwards, into a cellar. I told you they were preparing a surprise for me—nothing less than an Inquisition trial, for which this country, abundant in fruit and piety, has been famous for centuries... But why? Are we back in the Middle Ages today? There was no one to ask, so I wisely kept silent, saving my questions for later, should I be permitted to ask them.

And the first question was not long in coming.

" — Over all Spain, the sky is cloudless?.."

Clearly, this was a password, the answer to which could only be known by someone who had been told it. Gathering all my knowledge of Spanish, I responded with the same phrase:

" — En toda España cielo despejado."

Instantly, it became bright as day, and I suddenly—the third 'suddenly'—found myself in a reception area, equipped according to the latest fashion for office spaces, finished in ivory-colored marble. Spain is famous for its excellent marble from Alicante; everyone knows that. Behind a huge walnut desk sat a pleasant-looking secretary, whose name badge read: Maria. To keep from being bored, she was applying nail polish, as befits all secretaries at work. With the small difference that this one had small, neatly filed horns: a genuine she-devil... Where had I seen something like this before? Right, in hell. In Francis Lawrence's mystical thriller Constantine. Completing the picture was Francisco Goya's etching 'The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters' hanging on the wall, having migrated here from the National Library in Madrid by some means still unclear to me—teleportation? The great artist's creation called for vigilance, for resistance against the machinations of dark forces.

“You’ll be seen,” said the creature with little horns and dimples on her cheeks, without even glancing at me. “Sit down for now. You can flip through the magazines.”

There was nothing left to do but obey. Devils are no joke. Casual conversations with young secretaries can easily fall under the article on sexual harassment. The world is full of such news. The magazine I picked up was interesting. Vogue wrote: 'How to wear wide-leg jeans this winter'. Not even ten minutes had passed when someone called out to me:

“Go on in. You are expected.” The she-devil looked me up and down for goodness knows what reason and suddenly smiled, as if she’d found something amusing about me, like mismatched socks.

Incredible! The fourth 'suddenly'. I, in turn, tried to put a smile on my face, but didn't quite manage it. I'm generally a smiley person, but the situation was unusual, my nerves were tense, and here was this young beauty flirting. In short, I pushed the door (upholstered in faux leather, the kind of leather union leaders usually sit behind to be closer to the people) and stepped into the underworld. Who do I see!..

“Well, hello, Alejandro. I promised you — I always keep my promises.”

Of course, how did I not guess earlier? The Boss himself. Alone. In conditions of strictest secrecy. Receiving me, for the first time, in his headquarters. This time, in the guise of a patriarch. A venerable, tall old man with a curly, snow-white beard cascading down his chest, wearing a bright emerald-green silk robe adorned with stars, sandals on his bare feet. A real Genie. Only a turban was missing. I had never seen my Angel like this, nor could I have even imagined it.

“Hello, Boss. How are you doing?”

“Thanks, can’t complain. Had a good rest?”

“Hardly... I wanted to go to Ibiza — they write that people walk around naked there, I wanted to see — but then came your note...”

“Time waits for no one, Alejandro. You already had a decent rest in Tel Aviv. Time to get to work.”

The Boss has the right to joke. He is the Boss. To him, I am just one of the little soldiers in his army. As he once elegantly put it: ‘I carve you like little wooden men, Pinocchios, I put a soul into you, but on the condition that you will be obedient unto Me forever and ever.’ Some Geppetto he is.

“No problem, Boss.”

“Excellent. Do you remember I spoke of a reward for your service?”

How could I forget? That’s all I think about: when and what kind of reward. I lose sleep over it.

“But wasn’t the assignment in Tel Aviv the reward?”

“No, my dear fellow. I’ve decided to send you on a final mission. Truly, the last one. But before that, you must undergo a procedure of reincarnation, a change of identity, to start a new life in every respect.”

I was used to the Boss’s eccentricities. Reincarnation it is, then. It would just be interesting to know what exactly I’ll be reincarnated as.

“You shall be a cat, Alejandro... In another life. But not an ordinary one that skulks around yards and garbage dumps or lies on sofas like dolls. You have nothing to worry about. We’ll write a program into your brain; nothing to worry about, as I already said. Then we’ll send you into space.”

It's foolish to think that our world is the best of all worlds, as the lackeys at court, blessed by a moment's attention from the ruler, smugly assert. No, our world is unjust, savage, capricious, bloodthirsty, simply dreadful. People are corrupt, their tongues are like poisoned arrows piercing the bodies of victims, and their speeches, like miasmas, poison the air. Their deeds and actions are shameless and wanton, ruinous for themselves, but favorably received by the Devil. Only an infant in its mother's arms is pure and sinless. But as soon as it sees the light of day and begins adult life, trying not to fall behind others, to keep pace with progress, its soul inevitably becomes covered with painful, unhealing ulcers and resembles a moth-eaten, hole-ridden dress hanging in a locked, old-fashioned wardrobe.

“But you will overcome everything. I am absolutely sure of it. However, in the end, you will reach a good place, where no one has been.”

Oh, Lord, surely they won't dump me on the Moon and leave me there without a computer?

“That will be your reward. You will manage. Nothing to worry about.”

When someone says three times in a row that you have nothing to worry about, I don’t know about you, but I start to seriously worry.

“It won’t be easy, I’ll tell you straight. The planet is new, not yet discovered by scientists.”

I'll have to walk around in a gas mask and rubber boots for the rest of my time, I thought.

“But our agreement, even though not sealed in blood, remains in force,” the Boss continued. “At the end of your journey, you must tell me: what should be done with Earth and the Earthlings? What conclusion have you reached? If you say leave it as it is — we’ll leave the old lady in peace, let her fade away through a slow, natural death. If you say raze the Earth to the ground, forgive the tautology — that too is within our power.”

“Boss, surely you wouldn’t raze Barcelona, too?”

“So what? You know perfectly well that one way or another, ‘time demolishes granite castles and covers cities with sand.’”

I didn’t argue; it was useless. I said goodbye to the Boss, gave Maria a friendly hug, and kissed her on the cheek. She couldn’t contain her feelings, shed a few tears on my shoulder, leaving lipstick marks. She whispered in my ear: ‘I will wait for you, however long it takes.’ Made an impression, it seems. And my heart felt very light; I felt ready for new exploits. A kind word is pleasing even to a cat.