Monika

Has God started smoking today? He thought to himself.

Using nicotine to drug and dull the senses to become grey and mellow. In these stressful days of existence for all of us living creatures; do deities get exclusion rights from the daily mundane and all the banal monstrosity of being, of existing? Are they immune to stress? Or do Gods get exemption rights from even higher beings? I wonder what a tarot card would look like foretelling an exception to a stress-free existence in this mysterious universe, in the infinity of time and space continuum. Absenteeism from feeling the heavy grey clouds of depression. Those shades of grey laying thick and weighty in multiple layers; grey upon layer of grey, with a grey smell, and a grey taste.

You may ask, what does grey taste like? Or have you ever tasted grey?

A strange question you may ask, but if you have ever smoked? It doesn’t matter which device or substance, if you have; then you might start to contemplate some understanding or even consider a plausible answer.

The heavy grey clouds weighed heavily inside his head, and outside the wintery view matched his lethargic mood.

He looked out onto the sea vista from his seat to the windless shoreline, and saw misty shades of grey, reflecting grey clouds on the grey mirrored surface of the becalmed sea. Indistinguishable. It was God saying “I’m tired, I need a nap” type of day, he and the day were listless, apathetic, lacking any form of energy or objective. The sea view lacked all sounds. No sound of incoming eager rushing waves on the solemn grey beach; it could barely manage a trickle or a lapping sound. It was also slumbering.

The sky was dense with moisture after the overnight heavy rains from the storm. As it was winter; the pungent smell of wood fires now mingled with the low grey clouds, so the monotone scene, had a smell, a taste of God, having a lengthy smoke, after the rigours of the night’s storm. It had taken its toll; a lot of work and effort went into the making of those huge forks of lightning, and the tremendous effort to create thunderclaps had taken their due on the deity’s body. Now it was time for a quiet relaxing smoke and slumber, amongst the grey clouds, the misty aftermath of the winter storm that had crashed down upon the now empty holiday island in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea.

Everywhere was evidence of the winter off season. A holiday island with a hibernation type mentality matching the greyness, the smokey, misty, indifference of the motionless sea views. It was in complete contrast to the busy, active heat of the summer. The briskness and brightness of those long-crowded summer days, now a distant memory, being held hostage by the depressive wintery smokey grey. The sun was absent, sleeping in the grey. On the occasions it did appear, just like God after the night’s storm, the sun was solemn, and a pale withered version of its former self. Spent and recovering from creating the hot blasts of summer, in depression, hibernating in the northern hemisphere, and at the same time recuperating in the southern hemisphere.

The local inhabitants of the holiday island, said of this time of the year. It was a time to “worry about rain!”. Before the island became a destination for overseas holidaymakers, with their colourful fluffy beach towels and greasy suntan oil, the inhabitants of the island were dependent on the land. Originally, they were all farmers at heart, this was their legacy, and so they all thought like farmers. To the locals, the low lying grey misty clouds full of chimney smoke, smelt like rain. In this time of hibernation and idleness, there was nothing more to do than “worry about rain!” In contrast to the dry, arid, cloudless and endless bright blue skies of summer.

She appeared like a shocking mirage of bright red. A complete contrast: the bright red coat materialized out of the monotone grey of that mundane dreary day. Imagine her appearance as a splash of refreshing colour on an otherwise bland, dull and weary canvas of the day. Her appearance in the full-length red coat being clutched around her slim body was stunning. A startling and comforting contrast to the insipid greys of the mundane sleeping day. The wishy washy, feeble and tasteless colours surrounding the beacon of bright red, as she came into focus, willingly woke him from his enervation. It was stirred by imagining her beautiful feminine form underneath the red coat, and by her visible lively bouncing blonde hair.

As she passed, she acknowledged his appreciative gaze, with an inviting smile of her own.

When she sat near him at an empty table, amongst all the other lonely empty tables, they became the only two occupants on the empty terrace of the coffee shop come bar. The only people in the empty street of greyness hibernating for the winter with the stillness of endless closed shops and restaurants. The sudden appearance of the beautiful girl in the long red coat woke up the waiter from his nap, surprised to see another customer that day. His cheery smile welcomed the beautiful girl, who sat down still clutching tightly to her red coat around her slim body.

He thought to himself; God had not only taken a smoke break, but he had also delivered an angel in a red coat into his empty uneventful grey day. To vanquish the greyness. He knew he would talk with this stranger, simply to find out who and why there was another person living; out and about in the smokey greyness of the ghost town. Why was she not sleeping like the rest of the town through the wintery days until they could feel the welcome warmth of the returning sun on their faces. He had to find out – but he knew it was only excuse to start a conversation with an angel of beauty.

As soon as the waiter had disappeared with her order. He moved his seat to be adjacent to the mysterious stranger in the red coat, which now was slightly open, exposing the most beautiful shapely creamy legs still showing the proof of the now absent summer sun. He absorbed and appreciated the view for a few seconds, before he spoke.

“Hello, are we the only people alive in this ghost town?” He wanted to be witty in his opening line and hoped he had succeeded.

When she spoke, he realized she was Hispanic, which he should have considered before speaking English in opening the conversation.

“My English isn’t good.” She confessed. His Spanish was nonexistent.

“My name is Joe.” He stammered and held out a hand of friendship.

She offered her hand, which appeared like magic from the long sleeve of the red coat, and like her legs, the arm and hand were slender, the fingers were long, and the nails polished. With the movement of her arm and body, he caught the waft of her scent, the perfume smelt fruity. She flashed him her smile again, as she replied.

“Monika.”

“I am also a stranger to this island.” She said with a heavy accent.

“Where are you from, you look German.” He guessed, only based on her name.

“Maybe, years ago from my dad’s side. I’m from Cuba.” Monika responded and smiled with that delicious smile, and her green eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief. She pronounced Cuba, not in way an English person would pronounce the word. In English we pronounce Cuba like Q – BAR. Monika pronounced it correctly in her mother tongue – Spanish – sounding like CUBAR. It would ring around his head for a lifetime and send delicious and wonderful memories to dispel all the depressing grey mists of time. Visions of the bright and lively rosy, red of girl from Cuba named Monika and her long winter red coat. Wrapped around and framing her olive-skinned body, her elfin face, those piercing eyes full of life and fun. Her fun for life and wit he would discover later, as well as those long ash blond tresses cascading down onto her plump breasts. Her breasts were accentuated further, as they sat perky and proud against her delightfully small frame, slim shoulders which were mostly hidden by the long bouncy tresses of ash blonde hair.

The random meeting amongst the empty tables on the grey streets, of the empty sleeping seaside town under the brooding grey skies was the start of short romance with the Cuban beauty in her long red coat. For those short few days, they became inseparable, joined at the hip, words were exchanged in Spanlish, but much more was discovered in the privacy and intimacy of the bedroom, where sounds were not words, but sounds of primitive moaning pleasure.

They agreed to meet later the same day in one of few restaurants open in his district of town, near his hotel. He couldn’t wait for their rendezvous, he had already been entranced by their initial conversation and felt helpless and felt giddy under the beam of her radiant smile. His previous dispirited mood had completely evaporated, his life turned upside down in a good way. Now he sat pensive on the bar stool in the empty restaurant, waiting for his desiree to appear. He ordered a drink, to calm his nervous anticipation. The drink was delivered on tray, with the ability to refill the cocktail glass with ice, lemon and soda. He supposed to allow the waiter come barman to watch the football match uninterrupted on the small screen TV.

When she appeared at the door, even the preoccupied waiter looked up from watching the TV, as the football match was eclipsed by the vision of beauty in the red coat. It wasn’t difficult to recognize him sitting at the bar in the empty restaurant, as she approached him, she smiled wickedly and casually released the opening of the long red coat, which opened fully exposed her short miniskirt, and black leather boots. She was confident her exposure would have the desired effect on his appreciative gaze. Although she was fully clothed, there was a sublime message of uncovering, opening the coat was a private signal to heighten his sexual nervousness. In response he raised his arms in a greeting, an anticipated hug of welcome with his newfound love. Unfortunately, the nervous action sent all the contents of tray of drinks high into the air, and the first date lovers found themselves in an abrupt shower of gin and tonic. Both were drenched by the sweet dousing accompanied by slices of lemon and lumps of ice cubes.

Before he could offer his embarrassed apologies. She said with witty sarcasm.

“I knew you were pleased to see me, but this is a little too much!” The delicious smile appeared amongst the soaked and dripping hair from the gin and tonic shower.

The waiter came to rescue with towels and another round of cocktails. The long red coat was temporarily repaired by absorbent towels, as they both settled into an easy conversation.

“Why do you wear a winter coat and winter boots, the temperature today would be a summer high in London?” He said in jest, but there was a lingering seriousness.

“When else would a fashionable girl show off the contents of her wardrobe. It dispels the greyness, and lifts the spirits, and is an elegant replacement to the warmth of a lover’s arms.” Monika replied mischievously and flashed him one of those delicious smiles.

She added. “I come from a poor background, and if I buy clothes with the purpose of wearing them, not forgotten trophies hanging in the wardrobe.”

Their conversations of discovery and creating a loving respect for each other started under grey skies, and in comic soaking and dripping circumstances, but the main discovery was yet to begin for the businessman. Unaware of the lives of the inhabitants of the island, in the same manner as the tourists, isolated from their daily routine and requirements, ignorant of the island’s history and culture during the grey days of winter off season.

“Why do to stay in this part of town? It’s so depressing. Most of the hotels are closed, all the bars, nightclubs and restaurants, I only wandered up here to stretch my legs. It’s miserable to stay in this district, especially in the winter.” She enquired.

“Do you know the Festival of Sant Sebastià starts tonight around the basilica de Santa Maria” She announced.

“I will show you. Let’s move from this graveyard of a place.” She suggested. The angel in the long winter red coat.

It was the start of a short adventure, a discovery in general, but a specific discovery of txistorra sausage roasting on the open fire, of a very brief yet wonderful, memorable affair with Monika the Cuban beauty.

The festival of Sant Sebastià honors the city's patron saint, Saint Sebastian who was an early Christian saint believed to have been martyred during the persecution of the early Christians by the Roman emperor Diocletian. Each January the festival takes place, with the feast day on the twentieth of the month.

He and Monika walked to the oldest part of the town surrounding the famous Basilica de Santa Maria, an active and living monument to an island which had been conquered by just about every empire that ever existed in the Mediterranean. Such a colourful history in contrast to the grey wintery days.

The two lovers’ days were filled with private lovemaking, the sweet scent of bodily exertions, stretching, and straining with copulation. The nights were full of the sights and sounds of the festival, as the sleeping populace came out onto the streets, to celebrate the festival as a community. The timely festivities, during those grey days of winter, as the thoughts of hibernation, the worry about rain and thoughts about the blistering hot days of summer, were forgotten with the colour and the variety of activities such as the Revetla de Sant Sebastià. Where the streets of the ancient city come alive with the sounds of music, the laughter of dancing, where open fires and bonfires decorated the streets. Both the heat and the light from the flames of the open fires warmed everybody, as the hot street food from many barbeques fed the inner spirits of the crowd.

Then there was the Correfoc, a "fire run" where participants dressed as demons in red outfits dance through the streets with firecrackers and fireworks. Additionally, there are solemn processions and religious ceremonies held in the city's cathedral, offering a glimpse into the island's deep-rooted Catholic traditions.

He and Monika never stopped holding each other, as the backdrop of the festival coloured their nocturnal adventures, eat, dance and make merry. It was the stuff of heady dreams, day and night full of memories, like being wrapped up in Monika’s long winter red coat, he felt protected. He was the blind follower, participating in their lovemaking, and the activities of the night during the festival, it was all very intoxicating. She was the leader, she spoke the language and knew the culture, and he followed like a simple dumb mute experiencing everything in a naïve innocent yet joyful obedient manner.

But those lingering memories would be predominately of the bright red amongst the grey. It would prevail in all the captured images in his head; the red colour against white of the uniformed religious followers at the possessions, the crimson red of demons, and the blood of the patron saint and martyr of the God. The colour of life amongst the sleeping, hibernating winter days, and those unique smokey smells of the festival nights would linger forever in his mind. With the backdrop of the misty smell of grey, the smell of smoking; the smoke from the chimney fires, wood fires, open street fires, smoke of the leftovers of the fireworks mingled with the smell of cooked barbeque meats.

Bright red: life blood amongst the winter sleepy misty, smokey grey.

He failed to keep in touch with his beautiful Monika, but his thoughts of her are tinged with sadness, of an elusive angel, a shining red beacon of life to warm the fading grey days of a life well lived.