In a village in southern Spain, there was a great abyss which attracted tourists from Britain in August, was quiet and sometimes snow-covered on rare, cold January nights, and again populated by tourists in June, although these were usually American or Spanish. The village was historic in ways that not too many visitors seemed to care about anymore—they were all preoccupied with taking photos of the breathtaking gorge to show their friends, family, and coworkers the greatness of their lives. In the village, the streets were cobblestone, siestas were still commonplace, and the hustle and bustle of modern Spanish life—the citadino style of Madrid or Barcelona, as the townspeople called it—had not yet reached here. The local periódico was read by nearly everyone and the locals knew each other’s names. This could give one a sense of superiority, perhaps, but none of these townspeople were swollen with pride. They lived for each other, for their families, always putting themselves in the place of a commoner while those around them were royalty.
This is how the story begins: an older man in an olive shirt and khakis stood at the guardrail which is perched there in order to potentially halt an errant car from soaring into the gorge. The sky behind him was striped with orange and pink; the dusty countryside where many of Spain’s olives and grapes are grown sat beneath in rolling ridges of beige and green. A few cars crept by across the bridge—even here, in the decidedly non-citadino village—they are mostly German or American. The outdoor restaurant terraces lining the gorge were mostly full: it was May, which meant the smart and seasoned tourists had taken a foothold. The air was warm and had the fluid, temporary quality that those who love summer instantly know and recognise. The newspapers would later say it was a night reminiscent of a painting; witnesses will embellish every minor detail in the way we all do when some watershed memory is recalled. The older man was now looking fervently at the bottom of the gorge, which was barely visible in the evening light. He consciously thrust himself atop the guardrail, glanced over his surroundings—there was no one, it was peak dinnertime—and took a magnificent leap into the abyss.
It all happened very silently, of course, because that’s how May nights in Spain always are. Yes, there was an American woman who gave a shrill gasp—what tumultuous people they are—which shattered the tranquility of the hot and billowing night. But otherwise, the man made no sound, no emergency vehicles felt the need to blare their sirens, and the moon rose with little fanfare. The police investigation was conducted quietly, with thin little whispers and reserved eyewitness accounts. One of the locals who watched his olive body seamlessly blend into the brush of the gorge said something, however, that at first confused and later corroborated with the police reports: “It was like he never fell… I saw him, and then at once, he was gone. I never heard the thump of his body against the dirt nor the rustle of the wind against his khakis.”
The eyewitness didn’t say this with such eloquence, although liberties can be taken under the guise of translation. But that is not what matters. The older man knew what he was doing, yet what was done was not expected by anyone but him. And what did he expect?
The man, in fact, was a prominent investment banker whose office sat in 30 St Mary Axe in the City of London. In England, he had a wife and two kids. They were the perfect example of England’s past: posh accents, proper manners, a bizarre infatuation with Indian food. They took vacations to Portugal, to Italy, and most frequently, to Spain. It was five years ago when the family crossed the very bridge which the man would soar off half a decade later. A part of the man knew then that he would go and vanish there, although he had tried to suppress it at first. He thought it to be irrational and fatalistic. It was. He had a stimulating life at home filled with his lovable children, supportive wife, and quality food, although his work may have been mundane—why do they pay so much for such listless occupations? To the man, however, there was something gravitational and inexplicably haunting about the gorge and the countryside which enveloped it. He’s not the only one to have ever felt this way: three years ago, the local council had proposed an installation of netting just six feet below the bridge, in response to a handful of past suicides. But the townspeople vehemently opposed this (it would cloud the natural beauty of the gorge, which was, in all practicality, the village), and things remained as they had for an eternity.
It was three years ago when the Englishman made a conscious decision in regards to his future, although I like to believe he knew precisely what was to be done the moment he looked down and across the dusty gorge and out into the rolling Spanish countryside. This was on his second visit, while his family was sleeping in the rustic bed and breakfast, that he walked to the bridge and stayed for what felt like the whole night. It was the whole night, though, as he sat and stared vacantly down, while the moon tumbled through the navy, blotched sky and disappeared under the blanket of the vast olive groves to the east. The sun began to rise, and the man headed back to have breakfast with his family. They ate croissants and drank espresso, and he acted cheery and grateful for the occasion, but as the morning sun trickled in through the cafe’s walnut window panes, his wife acutely knew that something changed within the man she had both loved and tolerated for twenty-two years. She never mentioned this, though, as they understood that some things were left unspoken and that the meandering path of life would ultimately send them through different terminals.
They returned to England, the family, but the man’s conscience seemed to resist and cling to the gorge’s magnetic power. They went through many family dinners, soccer matches, and drab, boring days at work. They smiled and laughed and cried when the Englishwoman’s mother died. They took more vacations, although not to Spain. The man appeared wary and fearful of the country, as if some foreign military had occupied the peaceful vineyards and olive groves. So they went now to the United States, to Brazil, to places where the traffic was loud and the people were louder.
From peace to chaos shifted their lives when their youngest child, a girl, was diagnosed with a juvenile bone cancer. Chances of survival were dismal, but they still funded extraordinarily costly treatments—good thing the man was paid well for listless work. This was four years ago. The husband and wife were deeply confounded and upset. They blamed themselves, which was irrational but in the same token it’s not: any wrong done to a child of yours seems to bear some sort of responsibility unto you. Their older child, a boy, headed to university in the United States, somewhere where they spoke of ivy. He was comforting and supportive; he profoundly loved his sister, but only so little can be accomplished across an ocean. So it was them: a husband, a wife, and a dying child. She had days where she was physically inept, she had others where she returned to her old self. Yet, with the exception of a miracle—which don’t occur in these days—she didn’t have many days at all. And one day, when she expected to go to her schoolmate’s birthday party, she simply did not wake up. Her father discovered her tiny, withered, motionless body surrounded by the white sheets of her bed. The elm tree outside her window tapped against the glass with the incessant spring wind and rain of suburban London. He sighed, and told his wife. Tears gushed out of four eyes then, yet they were relieved in an unmentionable way. One less drop of responsibility flowed away with every heaving breath.
After the funeral proceedings, which were grey and cloudy like any proper English funeral, the husband and wife understood what was to be done. The Englishman booked a ticket from Heathrow to Barajas—this was his last flight to ever involve England—and the day of his departure was rightfully and truly grey and dreary. He landed in the dry heat of June in Madrid, and made his way to the village with the gorge. The Englishman was Oxford-educated, and Spanish had been his language of choosing, so he had minimal trouble navigating and comprehending the sun-drenched country. He relished in the beautiful and simple cuisine, and he met scores of intriguing and invigorating people who provided him a temporary happiness. But every night he cried against the sinking Spanish sun, as the dopamine of wine and chocolate would never diminish his pain. Finally, a year ago, he arrived at the village with the gorge. He felt an immense peace that consumed his entire body and returned him to his past happiness. This one may have been permanent, but that didn’t matter. He had made a conscious decision years ago, and he was not one to cower out of decisions.
His decision wasn’t entirely specific. So, the man decided to enjoy the one positive part of his life that was still present, and that was the magnificent clash of mountain and sky and color and gorge and the faraway olive groves that circled the town. He let an apartment with a view of the gorge—good thing listless work paid well—and settled into a stillness that perhaps provided a façade of happiness. He lived his life quietly, with espresso and pastries in the morning, a walk through the village, always visiting his favorite wine shop, in the afternoon, and a slow, small dinner of cheese, wine, and salami on the apartment’s balcony which hung over the wondrous gorge. Sometimes he thought about his son, who was fervently striving for success, and earning it, at university. Other times he thought of his wife, who was living quietly in suburban London, although she now lived with her father. But most of all, as the moon began its slow ascension and shimmered upon the iron wrought railings of the balcony, he thought of his daughter. Oh, how he failed her. He couldn’t protect her, and whether such a thing is a realistic expectation or not, he failed in his principal duty as a parent. He missed her grey eyes and her ambiguously colored hair, but most of all he missed the voice of his wife stretching out every last letter of her name.
He would never hear her name again.
It was in May when the man decided he had spent enough time in the village with the gorge. It was in May that he bought the olive shirt and the khaki pants. It was in May that his wife boarded a plane from Heathrow to Barajas, and it was in May that she drove the tedious and strenuous drive through the mountains to the gorge. She arrived in the village in the afternoon light, where the shadows grew long and wide and the finches grew tired. She knew he was still there, this she was unable to explain, but she did not know what he was about to do. She went to the bed and breakfast first—old habits never die—but he wasn’t there. Then she went to the cafe, where the sun had been so captivating against their daughter’s grey irises, but he wasn’t there. So she resigned herself to a dinner at one of the restaurants beside the gorge, and sat in an outdoor seat amongst the blooming poinsettias. She ate paella in silence—he had never liked it but it was utterly divine to her—and lost herself in the orange and pink of the Spanish twilight. She heard a gasp, and saw a swirl of olive and khaki billowing down the abyss. She knew who it was and what it meant. She watched him in silence, and then he disappeared amid the shrubs and the sand. A few tears stormed out of her eyes but she quickly wiped them away. She paid her bill, and walked to a realty office. She letted an apartment alongside the gorge, as it was too magical to hate or ignore. She would sit on the iron wrought balcony sipping wine, and while the Spanish moon made its slow ascension, she thought of her daughter and whispered her name.