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Chapter VIII

"De par en par la ventana se abrió como por encanto
entró el amor con su manto como una tibia mañana
y al son de su bella diana hizo brotar el jazmín,
volando cual serafín al cielo le puso aretes
y mis años en diecisiete los convirtió el querubín.

Se va enredando, enredando, como en el muro la hiedra
y va brotando, brotando, como el musguito en la piedra
com el musguito en la piedra, ¡ay sí, sí, sí!"
-Violeta Parra (1)

That day was the day Florian became part of my life.

"Would you let me ride your bike? Pleezzzeee!", she asked in the most comical fashion, looking like a cartoon with her stretched grin and a whimsical batting of her eyelashes.
"Okay- hehe...".
She hopped on in it and pedaled without sitting down as I walked by her side. "I haven't been on a bike for a long time. Whoo-hoo!"

I watched her riding on the street while I followed on the sidewalk. She looked blithe and content, ages apart from moments before when she had been fighting the urge to cry. I didn't doubt for a moment that this lightheartedness was part of her nature, but also felt sure that she was avoiding, like I had done for myself before, heartbreak. I guessed we would eventually talk about it, but I decided to take her lead and let her be; she would talk when she felt ready.

She giggled infectiously and I was soon laughing too, and we began yelling to speak, she from the bike on the street, me from the sidewalk, but I was growing wary of not having her nearer, right next to me, and I remember stopping to think, hope, wish, as my eyes followed her, 'Please come back to me...'

She, who was already slowing down, returned and stopped by the turn of the sidewalk as we had reached the corner, so we were standing facing each other. She didn't say a word, just rested her arms over the handle, lifted her face a little as if ready to listen,and sighed, a serene expression on her face, and as long as I could, I stood there taking it in. And, Florian Braganza, queen of all sass and freshness, I swear, blushed.

She laughed again, and said, "What should we do know?"
"We should eat", I answered, and in a strike of genius added, "Let's pack lunch and eat at a very nice place I know and let's go there on another bike. Do you by any chance have troussers?"

The other bike happened to be a 1924 Indian Big Chief motorcycle. Mr. Marley, the mechanic who tended the funeral home's hearse owned one and taught me to ride. I left Florian at her hotel to order food and lucky for me Mr. Marley was home and lend me the motorcycle while he kept my bike on his garage. He even gave me an extra pair of goggles for Florian, although I didn't specify who was going to be my companion, the less he knew, the less Aickman could find out about it. Not that Mr. Marley would tell on me, but just to be on the safe side, assuming there was one...

When I arrived at the hotel, Florian was waiting outside already, wearing short troussers and her hair in a low ponnytail under a beret. She was carrying the food on a courier bag. I stopped right in front of her with the engine still running.

"Wow, that thing is beautiful!", she exclaimed, "And you don't look that bad either!"
"Thank you. Have you ever rode in one before?", I asked, trying to move on the conversation and stop the rush of blood that crept to my face, which I know was a failed attemp. This girl could bring out my most daring side, but my bashfulness was here to stay.
"Nope."
"Are you ready for it?"
"Heck yeah!"
"Put this on first", and I handed her the goggles, "and we'll have to share the seat, so give me the bag and sit in front of me and hold the handles tightly."
"Haha, don't I look like a chemistry teacher?", she said as I took the bag and sling it and she hopped in.
"Duck your head a little bit, Professor Braganza. Let me know if it gets tiresome."
"Who cares, this is outstanding!"
"Well, let's hit the road!"

So I started the Indian again, and she was right, it was outstanding.


(1) Fragment from Volver a los diecisiete (Return to Seventeen), by Chilean composer, folklorist, and visual artist Violeta Parra (1917-1967). The translation will be your assignment.

Be sure to check my profile for a list of songs that could be used as a soundtrack of sorts for Goatswood Blue. (Subjected to changes! I'll let you know when it's final.)