Robert K. Omura
A Letter from Guernica
A Letter from Guernica
Guernica Herman writes a letter from an open-air café in the Basque town that bears her name. Her parents, Jim and Carol, were both art students when they bumped into each other, quite by chance, at a Picasso exhibition in New York City in 1981. Two years later, they christened baby Gee in a small Lutheran chapel down on Dundas Street; witnessed by a small crowd of friends and family, and the usual assortment of well-wishers willing to suffer a cold, wet Lake Ontario squall in November. There, under the yellow banner of God and the red sausage fingers of Pastor Proust, Gee received the Holy Sacrament, and in so receiving, became immersed in the rituals of the Church. During the service, baby Gee wailed out her staccato protests, and managed to hit every high note of "Oh Holy Spirit, enter in." Even then, Gee had struggled with the burden of her name. Since childhood, or more properly the awkward bloom of puberty, Gee had distanced herself even further, refusing to respond to her name when called out in sixth grade homeroom, instead insisting, like an adolescent Aurore Dupin, that she be known simply as “Gee,” full stop. This is how it all started; the convoluted road of self-denial that led Gee to this tiny café in the Plaza de los Fueros at the heart of Basque country.
From the café, smoke from Gee’s cigarette rises up in twisting columns, dissipating over the red clay rooftops. The sun bleaches the cobblestones white beneath her chair, where she slips one foot in and out of a sandal. She brushes aside strands of her brown hair and sucks on the end of a pen, searching for the right words to explain her actions to her fiancé, David – why she left suddenly, without a word, to fly off to Spain. Instead, she describes the farms and meadows of the Urdaibai estuary, how they become high cliff and salt marsh before vanishing into the deep blue of the Bay of Biscay.
The smell of fresh cinnamon pastries hangs delicately in the air, drifting across the courtyard like a dream. A short, stout woman, with round glasses and a white apron ballooned over her breasts, stands in the open bakery doorway, shooing away pigeons like misbehaved children with the end of a broom. An old man, with grey tufts of hair skirting the rim of his brown cap, rides a bicycle up to the woman. He exchanges brief pleasantries with her, and the woman laughs like a schoolgirl, as if perhaps they were lovers once. The well-maintained buildings reveal none of the scars of the Civil War; even the memorials are sanitized and the lawns green and mowed. It all seems so surreal to Gee. Her blue eyes scan the sunny plaza that once witnessed the first mass bombing of civilians in human history. She looks for some sign of the scars, of the landmarks of suffering. Perhaps the delicate bloom of the paper-thin rose petals in square garden boxes and the long rows of oak trees were a mere facade, deceptively placed to sweep away the rubbish of an uncomfortable past. Perhaps, behind the freshly painted shops of the barrio and the bluish tint of fluorescent shop lighting, hid an invisible truth – as mysterious as the Virgin Mother; one where hushed Spanish voices whispered secrets from behind the heavy doors of the Iglesia de Santa Maria. She and David often talked about coming one day, after they finished college, but jobs and life got in the way, preventing anything more than vague promises.
She wishes she could share this experience with David – the fragrance of fresh lavender crumbled between thumb and forefinger or the way amber cava tickles the back of the tongue – but he is half a world away, back in Toronto. He is probably sitting alone at the kitchen table, she thinks, forking at starchy pasta from a microwaveable box while watching the last inning of a Blue Jays game on the flat screen. On the beer stained table, he will have poured out half the contents of his briefcase, yet still be unable to find the work he had brought home. If she had still been there, she would have wiped up the beer stains and found his work lying under his briefcase.
Life with David was pleasant enough. They had their comfortable routines, a sort of pantomime that resembled a life. In the morning, they had breakfast and went to work and in the evening, they came home, had dinner and watched TV until ten. On weekends, they went to the flea market, where they scoured vendor stalls for bargains and ate fast food lunches with gourmet coffee, before invariably returning home to store-bought roast chicken and a late night movie. David was caring and sweet, as reliable as the steady wind that nudged at the leaves outside their window; but the sex, well, that had expired in fits and starts over the previous year. She expected love's wane, even accepted it. However, the emotional vacuum that followed unsettled her, edging her toward indifference. They had become roommates. It was not David’s fault. He loved her. She could tell it by the way he wrapped her in his heavy arms at night and wept. It was her indifference, her blankness.
Early that morning, while strolling along the narrow avenues of the Basque town, she came, quite by chance, upon a tiled wall filled up by Picasso's famous painting – the one that had inspired her parents to conceive her. The painting was all grey tones, devoid of colour. In the middle, a terrified horse – run through by a spear and a charging bull – horrified her. She cupped her hands around her mouth to stifle a gasp. Below, a flower sprouted from the broken sword of a dead soldier, his arm hacked in two, and above, a floating woman held out a lamp. On her left, a bereft mother held her dead baby and wailed at an unkind sky. Gee contorted her neck back and clutched her handbag, parroting the scene, to feel the distortions ripple through her body. Just as her neck reached its maximum upward extension and the muscles under her jaw strained for release – when all she could see was the blue washed sky – the telltale tremble of grief forced her dry lips apart, and a spasm cut her down at the knees. As her eyes clouded over with tears, Gee collapsed to the sidewalk, where she sobbed uncontrollably for half an hour. Eventually, she pushed back the tears from her eyes with the flat of her palms, until the heat of the day had dried them away, but for a salt crust that flaked away under her fingers.
She could not explain the sudden rush of sorrow. Perhaps something built up in her on the long flight from Canada, and the warm breeze and the freedom had unwound the tension, finally releasing her sadness over the end of her relationship. Perhaps something deeper, something trapped inside her since childhood had finally slipped like a sliver from her red finger, or perhaps it was merely the salty anchovies on her morning omelette. She had wanted to tell David about that, too.
Now, she sits in the café alone, surrounded by an army of balled up letters. A row of paper soldiers aligned before her. She crumples up the half-written letter and tosses it next to the others. In the courtyard, an old man feeds pigeons, spreading handfuls of breadcrumbs over the cobblestones. High above, where green hills meet open sky, a jet contrail forms a cloud. One day, all of this would be gone – this café, that old man – even her own presence would vanish; memory and meaning fade. Permanence is an illusion.
The waiter brings her steaming coffee in a small porcelain cup, a café con leche, setting it down lightly next to her arm. When he tries to gather up her papers, she stops him, saying, she wants to remember what it is like to rebuild from the rubble. He nods and smiles, and then leaves her to her writing.
Finally, she writes a simple note that explains nothing. Love and war are the same. With God's grace, sometimes love's wane is inexplicable.
Goodbye, David. Guernica.
She could not explain the sudden rush of sorrow. Perhaps something built up in her on the long flight from Canada, and the warm breeze and the freedom had unwound the tension, finally releasing her sadness over the end of her relationship. Perhaps something deeper, something trapped inside her since childhood had finally slipped like a sliver from her red finger, or perhaps it was merely the salty anchovies on her morning omelette. She had wanted to tell David about that, too.
Now, she sits in the café alone, surrounded by an army of balled up letters. A row of paper soldiers aligned before her. She crumples up the half-written letter and tosses it next to the others. In the courtyard, an old man feeds pigeons, spreading handfuls of breadcrumbs over the cobblestones. High above, where green hills meet open sky, a jet contrail forms a cloud. One day, all of this would be gone – this café, that old man – even her own presence would vanish; memory and meaning fade. Permanence is an illusion.
The waiter brings her steaming coffee in a small porcelain cup, a café con leche, setting it down lightly next to her arm. When he tries to gather up her papers, she stops him, saying, she wants to remember what it is like to rebuild from the rubble. He nods and smiles, and then leaves her to her writing.
Finally, she writes a simple note that explains nothing. Love and war are the same. With God's grace, sometimes love's wane is inexplicable.
Goodbye, David. Guernica.
