The Zebra Crossing

Luis crossed paths with her again between the third and fourth stripes of the zebra crossing on Pintor Juan Gris street, just two steps away from the Civil Guard barracks. It had happened every day for exactly fifteen days—three full working weeks. Since their first encounter on a rainy Thursday in March, weekends had barely existed for him. He didn’t see her on Saturdays or Sundays, and during those forty-eight hours, his life had no meaning at all.   

Every day, at exactly 8:20 in the morning, Luis would cross paths with her on his way to the polling office where he worked. There, one day he would ask about voting intentions; the next, about whether there was a microwave in the house; on the third, whether they agreed with homosexuals being allowed to divorce—though those days, the most common question was whether a black man would be named Pope, now that the cardinals were gathered in conclave looking for a successor to the one who had just died. He asked everything of everyone, but when they passed each other every morning, he only looked at her. It was—I almost forgot—the mid-nineties.

Short dark hair, a sharp, perfect nose, green eyes, and full lips. Not too tall, not too short. Not too fat, not too thin. An endangered species, like the Iberian lynx, Sunday Mass, or left-wing Real Madrid fans.

One day, Luis’s alarm didn't go off and—long before kids started using the word "literally" for everything and for no reason—he literally broke his own record to make it to the crossing on time. And she was there, with her steady, confident stride; a little haughty, charming to an extreme.

Another morning, it was Tuesday, Luis arrived at their appointment five minutes early. He killed time browsing the window of a real estate agency and, amidst the "Sold" and "Reserved" signs, something told him to look down the street, well beyond the zebra crossing. There he saw her, observing and writing in something that, despite the distance, looked like a notebook. He imagined—because that was just who Luis was—that she was writing him a love letter that would be in his hands five minutes later. That time passed and nothing; neither one thing, nor the other. Just the punctual crossing and very little else. That "very," exaggeratedly emphatic, was because Luis thought he glimpsed a smile during their daily encounter, but even that didn't happen.

Friday arrived. 8:20 a.m. Pintor Juan Gris street. Luis was punctual; she was not. Not a trace. Luis felt defeated and captive. The weight of the world was on him. He crossed the street and everything seemed much uglier. In disbelief, he decided to turn back. He crossed it six more times, three each way, listening only to the mysterious chirping sound the City Council had installed in every traffic light to help the blind. Luis, so often the one-eyed man in the kingdom of the blind, saw nothing—not even his own pitch-black future.

At 8:25, he gave up. He would go to the office, dial a random number—or *random*, as those same kids would say years later—and ask only one question, a rhetorical one at that: "Is this fair?"

He was lost in these thoughts when a massive explosion made him lose consciousness. He fell to the ground and everything went silent. It felt like minutes to him, but only a few seconds later, he was able to sit up. What he saw were, at least, three mangled bodies. A trail of blood and at least twenty faces twisted in shock. He tried to help, but he was the one in need of help.

The next time Luis saw her was the day he went to the police station to renew his ID card. It had been expired for over a month; he hadn't needed it while he was recovering in the hospital. Three weeks had passed since the terrible attack, one of the bloodiest ETA had ever carried out in the capital. While he hesitated over which finger was the thumb the official had asked him to ink, he looked up toward the far wall. She was staring back at him from a poster, surrounded by unsavory characters. They were searching for her all over the country.