Az-Zahir

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Az-Zahir الظاهر

 

You are hurling the bicycle from a bridge. It falls right in the deepest part of the river. It soon disappears under the dark current coming from the west mountains. It has been raining since a few days ago and the stream is unusually strong. The river is very high, enough to cover an entire bus under the water. You look downwards to the mesmerising turbulence of whirls and shapes. Just brown water running fast. That’s all what remains of your project to cycle the five thousand kilometres to Istanbul.

 

You stay for a while leaning on the railing and staring at the swift current. It is freezing now, and you should start before it is too late. But something is moving on the other side of the bridge. A big dog is running towards you. It barks wildly. It approaches and looks rather aggressive. It will attack you. But it calms down when arriving at your place, sniffing your wet shoes. Then it runs back to the forest and vanishes.

 

You say goodbye to your new bike and your plans to travel from Spain to Turkey. You look into the backpack for the gloves and cover your numb hands. With your shoes, you brush away the traces on the access to the bridge. You look carefully at the place to check if there is anything else you should hide. Then you start walking through the pine forest towards the small coastal town near Valencia. It is a shocking lonely place, swept by the wind and the rain. You feel free.

 

It has been an extremely difficult journey, starting with the fall right off your house near Granada and the extreme cold temperatures and rainy days. You missed the way many times, sometimes following the wrong directions of the foolish navigation device. The broken topography was difficult to ride, with steep ascents and stoney paths. A rather bad-tempered farmer threatened you with his stick when you tried to ask him for directions. People in this region seem to be particularly unfriendly. You were so discouraged. You thought you could not make it. Better to abandon the crazy idea. Let’s get rid of the bike and tell everybody something.

 

The police station seems to be closed. It is a small construction on the town’s edge, probably a former private house near the highway. You are about to leave but someone is opening the door. A young woman in plain clothes asks what you want. She has a hard look and speaks in a dry tone. You want to report an incident. She doesn’t answer and takes her time looking at you. She points to the office schedule that is on the door. You realize, siesta time. But she let’s you in anyway and disappears behind a counter window. Then comes back in uniform and hands you a form.

 

Name, date of birth, citizenship, address. You fill in the form with all the required information, the officer paying close attention at your writing. Then she sits at the keyboard and asks what happened. They came from a station wagon. What colour? A red one, I think, an old Toyota. It was very dirty. How many of them? Two. They came with a gun and a big wood-cutting ax. What gun? A kind of rifle, but they were not pointing at me. They calmly asked for my wallet and anything else of value. They spoke in Spanish with a foreign accent, maybe Russian, whatever. I gave them the phone, the watch, the saddlebags. One of them told me to show him the wedding ring. But you are still wearing it. Yes, he didn’t like it. In the meantime, the other guy was looking carefully at the bike. He asked how much I paid for it. About two thousand, I replied. He examined and they decided to take it. They went back to the wagon with the bike and everything, they started the engine. They left. That’s it.

 

Quietly, she stares at you. Not a gesture. Then she prints the report out and hands it down to you across the desk. Read it and sign on at the bottom if there are no corrections to be made. You read it quickly. Perhaps too quickly. You sign. She stands up and goes to another office. She comes back with a copy for you. If you recall something else reach us at this number and mention the reference in the form.

 

In the town cafeteria there are a few patrons. You ask at what time is there a bus going to your city. The fat guy behind the counter gives you a paper with the schedule. It is still raining. Forty minutes or so to the bus. It stops right there, an old farmer says, in front of the bar. You ask for coffee and a cheese sandwich. Are you the guy of the bicycle? How can the know already? Gossip runs fast here. We seldom see any foreigners around here, he says in his highpitched voice. You don’t reply and look at the cup of coffee. But the old chap insists. This is very weird, you know? You put more sugar in your coffee. You want milk on it but you don’t want to ask.

 

When you are sitting in the bus, the driver asks if anybody wants a bathroom break. He goes down without waiting for an answer. The bus is half empty. A lady across the aisle is looking at you. Through the window you can see that the driver taking a coffee and speaking with the fat man. They look in your direction. This is taking too much time. But he comes back, starts the engine and drives towards the highway. Some time later, the bus is near the bridge. There are some cars on it. People under the rain looking down to the river. A police car with the lights on. The bus driver honks and slows down. The lady across the aisle. Everybody is staring. Are they looking at you? The bus goes on, faster.