An English translation of #MolinosQuijote. I worked on a draft by Google Translator, so a rewrite would not be out of place, but not now.
From the mill the eye could see the whole town. There it was, with its broken windows, the factory where he had chosen not to work. There were Carrasco’s new houses where my former mates weathered their crises, the general one and our personal ones, just as I did with mine.
A few years ago I did not want to even remember the name of the town. But I had also fallen in social networks, and when someone suggested a class reunion, I fancied to know what happened to Preacher, Barber (each nickname had a story but not today) and those other kids among which I had spent my early years.
As we caught up while I did damage reckoning (Aldonza was no longer the princess she had looked to me then, although Carrasco’s millions disguised it), I was asked how I was doing in Barcelona. I dodged the question with generalities and questioned them back. People like to talk about themselves and I would rather listen then retelling my misery. In the end the unskippable question was: «Sancho, what do you know about Jota? You left together, right? «. I could tell little.
All our kids adolescence went in little sleep and much dreaming, but only Jota and I had moved forward with our dreams. Barcelona seemed to us the first step of success, where we would rub elbows with those hairy guys with bright guitars we saw on album covers.
Not that «we hit reality», simply it fell upon us and we never escaped it. We got to play («The reason of unreason», the name that looked so smashing in the third row of the poster!) at various festivals, even some that, in those years, had made their reputation such as Rock Guinart. In other gigs we left scarred in our pride and in our pocket. I even returned from Atari severely beaten. Amidst, we collaborated in nutritious work. But «success» never arrived. We were not as talented as we thought in our Mancha town.
Eventually I got used to my mediocrity and looked for what my parents called «a real job». I knew about Jota from what Hamid, a common acquaintance, told me and I liked less and less what he told me. Jota had met Blanca, a girl who led him to what he called the «wild side» of music. I once had what we called a ‘Fierabras» with them by the beach. I almost couldn’t tell it. Jota instead followed with Blanca and her friends.
I was already ashamed that somebody would associate me with that junky, which is what he was becoming. When you talked with him, it was all castles in the air, «he was in a deal with someone», «everything was about to take off» and there was a place for me in the project. Weeks later, Hamid gave me a reality check. Jota was stumbling and losing on one side what little he was earning on the other.
The 27th birthday went by and neither of us entered the club of those who leave a beautiful corpse. My decent life and my real job took me in another direction and I barely remembered the old town and Jota.
So when, after the reunion, Jota contacted me, I do not know whether curiosity, affection or nostalgia led me to set an appointment with him in this mill where I’m waiting.
– «Sancho, is it you? You have changed. »
– «Hey, so you’re Jota, of course. You really are changed. «- I bite my tongue not to say how bad he looks.
I return to recite the generalities that I had told at the meeting, but Jota is somewhere else. I ask him about his life; I comment, as if by chance, that one of our former mates wants to start a livestock business:
– «If you’re planning to stay in town, you can talk to Carrasco. He said he needs people.»
– «Sancho, Sancho, you know that these are dreams like those we told ourselves there.» – He points to the park near the record store (Then the town featured a record store) – «Do you see me as Alonso, the Shepherd?»
Alonso is his surname, used by the police and doctors. To us he has always been Jota. Noticing a tension in his voice that did not come from the fantasies of Barcelona, I asked «Are you all right, Jota?» while knowing he was not.
– «I almost could tell you that I have not been better in my life. I now see everything clear and disown all those fantasies. I will never be a rock star and I could never be. I should have done like you and make do with what I can be, which is very little. »
The tension is gone. I interrupt and try to rekindle the old dreams. Jota may be a junkie but not an idiot. I’m not convincing him. I tell him what my life is and what I think of myself every Monday morning, trying to encourage him by contrast. He smiles: «You are so metaphysical». Of course what I am saying is useless and even if it were not, I see that you he is not paying attention. Suddenly he faints. I try to reanimate him while I call emergencies and I watch the ambulance climb along the mill road. They ask me and I respond as I can. They carry him away.
I talked to the doctor. I hear words I can not understand. No matter what he says. Now I think Jota, Alonso, had gone to the mill to die, watching the town in my company.