The Passing of Time in the Square

Stepping out the taxi, I slam the door and take out my sunglasses. The world darkens a little. In the window of a music shop, I see myself: white sleeveless dress, white shoes, white gloves, white hat, white handbag. Just beyond the glass, a metronome ticks back and forth, and a man sits on a stool, trying out a guitar, fingers flitting around the frets. He has gifted hands.

There are cars to dodge while crossing the road. A couple of horns blare.

Around me, Spanish colonial buildings and sparkling glass towers reach for the skies. I go for a walk, taking in the sights and scents of the city. A different city from the one I call home. A different country. When people speak to me here, I know what they’re saying, but they don’t say it in my language.

A huge baroque cathedral appears through the buildings. My feet lead me there. Stepping into the coolness of the building’s shadow, I climb up the steps and pause at the entrance.

Whispers echo inside. Tourists wander around under the tolerant gaze of a young priest. An elderly woman sits at the back, praying. Down the aisle, at the front, Christ suffers and bleeds on the cross. Frozen in a moment of agony, thorns crown his head, nails pierce his hands, blood pours from his wounds. Back home, I see him every day from my window. Carved out of soapstone, he stands on the mountain, arms outstretched, offering redemption.

I turn away. Outside, in the centre of the great square, an art deco angel with folded wings stretches up, holding a clock in her hands. She keeps time for those who move below, who move around her. She stands with her back to the cathedral. To get the best view, it’s necessary to cross the square.

There’s a pavement café over there, which I make for. That’s when I notice the clock has four faces, so that it can be read from any side. I order black coffee. An old man at the next table nods before returning to his newspaper.

The angel before me has the calm face of eternity. She keeps time as though she’s reached for it, like you might reach for the moon. Impossibly. Yet she’s managed the impossible. She’s caught it, pulled it down from the heavens. Now she holds it up like a beloved trophy.

Around her, the teeming life of the city.

I watch passers-by: tourists, some children playing in a corner of the square. Thumping music erupts briefly from a nearby doorway. Moments later it’s replaced by a tango. There’s a notice outside advertising dance classes. A woman’s voice can be heard, calling out instructions above the 4/4 tempo of the dance. Personally, I prefer the 2/4 of samba.

The old man folds up his newspaper and stands, pausing by my table. Gazing at the statue, he tells me that the angel was a real person.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The sculptor met her,” he says. “The sculptor met Time.” Then he walks away without another word, his steps slow and shuffling.

I close my eyes, stretch out my legs, soak up the sun. Sometimes it’s enough to sit and listen to one’s beating heart. To examine each moment, each thought, before it passes. To be here, now.

I’m here, now.

Voices distract me. One of the café’s patrons spins a plate on his fingertip for an amused young waiter. In the middle of their laughter, the plate slips and smashes on the ground.

Life is like that.

According to the clock in the square, three hours have passed since I left the taxi. Time passes when you’re not looking. But when you do look, it refuses to pass. It drags its heels, says, no way, I’m not hurrying. Because I’m time, and time is on my side. That’s the advantage of being time. It’s always on your side.

The waiter bends to pick up the broken pieces. Just beyond him, a man is approaching. Dressed in a dark suit, hair silvered at the temples. He takes the old man’s seat at the next table. After examining the menu, he gives the waiter his order, then sits back.

I order another coffee.

He glances over at one point, smiles briefly, tanned fingers toying with a wine glass. Otherwise, it’s the angel who holds his attention. An art deco woman carved out of stone. Cold, except when she’s warmed by the sun. Her shadow must move around the square with the hours of the day. Like the hands of a clock.

There’s a cool breeze. It lifts my skirt gently, caresses my thighs.

A pair of lovers pass. They’re not young lovers, but older, in their forties perhaps. They have an affluent sophistication and the quiet confidence of age. I look at their clasped hands, then at my own, gloved, companionless.

On this continent, things are both old and new. Rainforests and skyscrapers. Lost cities and new cities. It’s a place of extremes. People here are very poor, and some are very rich. There’s a word in my adopted language. Saudade. It can’t be translated. Nostalgia or melancholy are offered as equivalents, but these are not quite right. Saudade is a yearning for the past or the future, for the impossible, for what is missed, for things that perhaps can never be had. It’s what I feel now, sitting here in the sun. I think about my home, a plane ride away. I think about time, and lovers.

I remove my sunglasses. There’s a button fastening at the wrist of each glove. I unfasten the right one, pinching each fingertip loose, before sliding it off. It’s only a few steps to his table. I reach out, place my bare hand over his.

He looks up, surprised.

I ask him if it’s true that the sculptor met Time. He doesn’t understand my question. I nod towards the statue.

“Ah,” he says. “He met a woman, and after she modelled for him, she vanished. No one knew where she came from, or where she went. But she was just a woman. There was nothing special about her.”

Except that he loved her. The words are unspoken, but understood.

“Time as a woman,” I say.

“A woman who never ages. Because time never ages, only we do.”

I return to my seat and finish my coffee. Then I pull on the glove, buttoning it up.

“He died, you know,” the man says.

“Of course. The statue must be around ninety years old.”

“No,” he says, “he died of some disease. The doctors couldn’t explain it. But he seemed to age overnight when the statue was complete. It was his final masterpiece. Some of his other work is at the museum across the square. You should go and see it.” He frowned, looking at his watch and tapping the face.

“I can’t. I have a plane to catch.” Taking my bag, I leave.

These are things you should always revere: the warmth of human contact, the fragility of each moment, the passing of time, the last grain of sand that drops from the hourglass.

Turning a corner, I’m walking into the sun. It’s redder now. My plane leaves in three hours. When it takes off, the moon, waning this past week, will hang like a lantern in the sky. And I’ll be on my way home.

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Art by Aleksandra at Fusion Dreams Studio.