HILLS LIKE PINK ELEPHANTS

by Bruce Stirling

 

 

 

Nothing had changed. The dry, rolling hills still
framed the valley with the station nestled between two
rail lines, one running south to Barcelona, the other
north to Madrid. Nothing had changed at all. The
thought made her smile. The waiter brought her bottled
water.

She shielded her eyes from the late morning sun. The
breeze felt good. She slipped her sunglasses on. At
the end of the platform, a little girl in a new white
dress carefully counted the telephone poles running
along the rail lines.

The platform speaker crackled to life. The train from
Barcelona was arriving. She sipped some water and
tried to remember the Spanish he'd taught her, phrases
he'd said would see her through. She couldn't remember
any of them.

A tired train crawled out of the heat and came to a
sighing stop. An older couple, dressed in their Sunday
best, got off, the wife burdened with the baggage as
the husband disappeared inside the cool, deep shadows
of the bar.

She looked but didn't see him. She wasn't surprised.
Punctuality had never been his strong suit. Still, she
waited. He'd called out of the blue last month. He
wanted to meet. For a drink. For old time's sake.
She'd agreed. It was no trouble. She'd be there.

She checked her cell phone. The voice messages were
piling up. The vice-president had questions about the
acquisition. The CFO had questions about the stock
split. She slipped her cell phone inside her purse,
then watched the little girl.

The little girl looked up at the platform clock. The
small hand jerked forward and disappeared behind the
big hand pointing straight up. The little girl
giggled, the sun at its zenith failing to dim her joy.

"Hi, Jig."

Nothing had changed. Sincerity dressed in uncertainty.
He sat down, the beer in his hand already half gone.

The waiter came. He ordered another beer and an Anis
del Toro for her. She smiled.

"You're looking well," he said, lighting a cigarette.

His suit and shoes were showing their age. So was his
face. The lines ran deep. His hair, still uncombed,
was streaked with gray.

"You work?" he asked.

"I do."

"For who?"

"For no one."

Her vagueness made him smile. That's what he saw in
her so long ago, a lost girl drifting from moment to
moment with him guiding her to the next bar where they
sat and drank and pretended to be happy. How could
they not have been? They were going to Madrid.

"What do you do?" she asked.

"Me?" He lighted a second cigarette off the first.
" I'm a writer."

"Really? What do you write?"

"Short stories. Novels. Screenplays mostly."

"Have I seen any of your work?"

"No. Always the bridesmaid..."

He'd said the same thing back when he was a painter in
Torremolinos. Once he'd made it big, they'd live in
Paris and have an apartment in Manhattan. He'd
promised to take her there. He'd promised a lot of
things.

"Nice dress," he said, looking at her legs. "You never
said what you did."

"I have my own company," she replied. "You might've
heard of it. It's called Pink Elephant."

He straightened. "The search engine?"

She nodded as she watched the little girl.

"I use Pink Elephant all the time," he said. "It's
huge. Really? That's your company?"

He still didn't trust her. After all these years.

The waiter brought her Anis del Toro. The platform
speaker crackled to life. Passengers returned to the
waiting train.

"It's leaving in two minutes," he said. "I'd like to
stay. Really. But I got to meet someone in Madrid."

She smiled. Nothing had changed.

He finished his beer and found the courage to ask.
" Did you ever go?"

"To Madrid?" she said.

"No, I mean..."

The little girl ran up and gave her a flower.

"Look," the little girl said, pointing at the hills.
" They look like pink elephants."

"They do," she said. "They do."

He looked at the little girl, then at the hills. He
saw no pink, just dry, barren waste. He drank the Anis
down.

"This is a surprise," he said, staring at the empty
glass.

The little girl ran down the platform and looked up at
the platform clock. The big hand clicked forward to
the five. She giggled and waved. He didn't wave back.

"Is she mine?" he asked.

"What do you care?" she said. "You're going to
Madrid."

He butted his cigarette, glanced at the little girl,
then said, "I got to go."

He picked up his suitcase strapped shut with a belt,
the locks broken, the handle frayed.

He climbed onto the waiting train and sat looking at
her from a window seat. He gave his ticket stub to the
conductor, then turned back to the platform, but she
was gone. In the parking lot, he watched as she and
the little girl got in a black Benz, their faces lost
behind tinted glass as they drove off.

The platform speaker crackled to life. The engine had
broken down. He returned to the same table outside the
bar. He ordered a beer and watched the sun set. It was
pretty. Just like a painting. He'd have to come back
and paint it one day.

 

 

 

 

THE END

*Previously published in Eclectica

Bruce Stirling's poetry and prose appear in a number of journals. His short story "Woman Want" was co-winner of the 2007 Fish-Knife Short Crime Fiction Award. View his work at http://gnomonclature.blogspot.com/

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