We drop Anna off near the famous train station with her backpack, water bottle, and small carry-on suitcase. As our beautiful rental idles by the sidewalk, I watch Anna lift the backpack, thread her arms through the straps, and attempt to set it on her back. Nothing in her movements suggest self-awareness for how she looks contorting herself to adjust the load on her back. She is all about comfort and practicality. Even the handmade crochet necklace that adorns her chest just hangs there in all its asymmetry and dullness, telling me that it was not put there for my aesthetic pleasure but to set me straight: my opinion means nothing to a true artist. Beauty is not in the eye of the beholder but in the eye of its creator.
The resentment I feel for Anna surprises me. I usually enjoy meeting friends of friends. Many times, they are on the same wavelength as my friends, and I am happy to add them to my list of cherished people. However, when it comes to meeting Rita’s friends, it’s a bit different. Rita maintains weird friendships of convenience with a variety of characters that I am not interested in talking to or spending time with, let alone be in close proximity to for almost a week.
Some of the people Rita hangs out with are antisemites who are not shy about yelling their vile prejudices at her. One of them, I heard, even accused her of being a nasty Jew or something of that sort. She laughed at his face she told me, because it’s his problem being an antisemite, not hers. Other people she spends time with espouse right-wing ideologies, the Israeli and American types, cheat on their wives, and consider environmentalists a menace to their livelihood. One of her best friends embezzled so much money from so many people, she awarded him by making him her lover before he was sentenced to community service and a huge fine. But she lets these infractions slide because who are we to judge anyone? Everyone has problems and you have to enjoy the moment because life is short and you never know when it will end.
The interesting thing is that with Anna it was different. Maybe because Anna is from Israel, or maybe because Rita met her long before moving to the United States and attaching herself to the crowd she knows now. I think maybe that’s why before I met Anna it did not occur to me that I might not enjoy her company. I thought she would be a mellow artist type, per Rita’s descriptions, and that we would probably hit it off easily. I have several creative friends who are committed to their artistic expression, so meeting another one would not be a novelty. I even thought that I shouldn’t be too friendly with Anna at first because it might make Rita feel sidelined and that’s the last thing I want to happen.
Then I met Anna and all I felt was her misery. Everything about her radiated escape from a sad existence. In short, she was not the type of person I would have wanted to go on a vacation with, unless she was an extremely close friend or a family member in crisis. And it was obvious that Anna was nothing close to family or dear friend, neither for Rita nor for her mother. She was just another acquaintance Rita collected during her life journey and resurrected when the circumstances called for it.
“Bye, see you next time,” Rita chirps her farewell through the window, both her hands on the steering wheel, the silver rings shimmering in the sunlight.
Vera wishes Anna a good trip back home without getting out of the car. She is not ready to surrender the front seat to me, but I am sure she will insist on switching seats later, if I understand her commitment to always be a good sport.
I decide to let go of my grudge and give Anna a friendly send-off with, “Maybe we will meet in Portugal one day after I retire and move here,” knowing that will probably never happen.
Anna takes my disingenuous offer in stride, by which I mean she doesn’t respond with a fake, “Yeah, that would be great.” She knows that no one will believe it. Instead, she wishes us a safe drive and turns toward the train station. Unlike other people who go through the departure routine, she doesn’t look back to wave a last goodbye or even smile. She stays true to her nature until the last moment. I feel a little sorry for her. The life waiting for her back in Spain is not a happy one, and Rita is not going to appear any time soon to cheer her up or help her meet new people in the village where she settled with her grown-up daughter and their dog.
“It’s time to move before we get a ticket,” Vera grumbles, somewhat impatient.
And just like that, Anna is forgotten. As if she was never part of our troupe; only a mirage that materialized occasionally in the most unexpected moments to remind us of our vanity.
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