To Walk Alone in the Crowd

by Antonio Munoz Molina

  THE WHOLE BEACH, ALL TO YOURSELF. For the first time in months there is rain and a wet wind. For the first time I see the new house in the gray light of an overcast day. It feels like truly moving in, as if we were already living in the winter days that are to come. The future, dimly discerned, reverberates in memory more than the nonexistent past. To go outside and feel the fresh, wet breeze and smell the rain and hear the trees tossing in the wind is like arriving in a different city, farther north and closer to the sea. The sidewalks are full of swirling fallen leaves that seem to have come out of nowhere, since the trees are still green. They are not autumn leaves but rather leaves that were scorched by the summer heat. To hear again the sound of the trees in Madrid is like hearing the ocean. When there is no wind in the city the trees are silent. Now the yellow awnings and the flags high up on the buildings are flapping and bits of trash get caught in short-lived whirlwinds and are swept along with paper flyers, cigarette butts, plastic cups, ads for massage parlors, gold buyers, and car lots, tossed together with the shriveled leaves and with the quick, sputtering drops of an invisible rain that feels like pinpricks on your face; a rain that pierces your light summer shirt and trickles down the windshields of cars that have been parked on the same spot for a long time, turning to pulp the flyers trapped for many days under the wipers.

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  EXCLUSIVE PRIVILEGES JUST FOR YOU. Since it’s chilly and overcast, people walk a bit faster in the morning. Many women are still wearing sandals but they also wear jackets and shawls. There are groups of children on their way to school, mothers holding slow, sleepy kids by the hand, urging them to walk faster. One woman is pushing a double stroller carrying a pair of identical babies, guiding it with one hand while she arranges her hair and lights a cigarette with the other. She is talking on the phone, which she holds awkwardly between her cheek and shoulder. Awkwardly too she takes a cigarette out of the pack and lights it with one hand, her neck all twisted. Each of the babies is gazing at an iPhone. There are many private schools in the neighborhood and the children wear uniforms. There is a powerful sense of newness, of beginnings, a September sense of promise, the smell of fresh notebooks and pencils in one of those stationery stores that will perhaps soon cease to exist, as every useful, lasting thing seems fated to die off when it is suddenly declared—who knows by whom—as belonging to the past. Just as the radio was going to vanish once television arrived, and theaters were going to be shuttered. Just as all those experts on urban planning and architecture decided that sidewalks, streetcars, bicycles, and corner stores had to go, since walking itself was a thing of the past.

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  BEFORE IT RUNS OUT. I used to feel a little embarrassed by my allegiance to the things I had always enjoyed: notebooks, pens and pencils, printed books that you buy in a bookstore. Now I couldn’t care less. Not because I’ve come to terms with being almost an old man living in the past, or because I am resigned to the loss of the things I love, but rather because that loss, that long chain of gleefully anticipated extinctions that until just recently seemed such a certainty, is no longer so clearly going to happen. The people I know who are most passionate about printed books and good typography are thirty years younger than me. Almost none of the practical, valuable things that experts said were outdated have actually disappeared. The more pervasive and ghostly the digital world becomes, the more we care for what is truly and uniquely there, between our hands. Timeless things seem obsolete only to those who don’t realize they belong to the future as much as the past. What is outdated suddenly becomes futuristic: bicycles, streetcars, farmers’ markets, crowded streets, public squares with trees, the fertile mingling of commerce, work, and life.

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  WE HAVE AN AMAZING OFFER JUST FOR YOU. Today I leave the house early, skipping breakfast since I need to have some blood work done. At this early hour I find the city in a morning bustle that I enjoy all the more because I rarely get to see it. Walking down the street on an empty stomach, in crisp weather, wearing a jacket for the first time in several months, heightens the sense of lightness and novelty, as of a promise that need not be voiced to be fulfilled. I move down the sidewalk through flurries of conversation, the smells and the soft din of breakfast being served at the cafés, the fragrant scent of soap and shampoo from people who just showered. Here and there on street corners I see smokers who seem to have gotten up early for the sole purpose of poisoning themselves as quickly as they can, replacing as soon as possible the fresh morning air with hot, toxic smoke. Outside the hospital there is a cloud of smoke and a carpet of cigarette butts. Some of the patients are out smoking in their slippers, in big overcoats and a hospital robe over their pale blue pajamas. A kind, careful nurse sticks the needle in my arm without any pain and switches the plastic vials as they gradually fill up with suctioned blood.

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  FIND THE EXPERIENCE YOU ARE LOOKING FOR. The color of blood is always surprising. When she was finished she placed a bit of cotton on the puncture and wrapped it with a bandage. Instead of feeling weaker from the loss of blood, I feel lighter. I walk down familiar corridors and waiting rooms, the human bustle of a public hospital, as crowded and busy as a marketplace. The sun has not yet warmed the narrow tree-lined streets that lead to El Retiro. Doormen are out hosing down the sidewalk and it looks and smells like morning rain. At the local café, sitting by the Giacometti drawing, I have a larger breakfast than usual to recover my strength after the loss of blood. Coffee, orange juice, toast with olive oil and tomato. The taste of coffee and of dense, nourishing milk are strong and distinct to my grateful palate. Smells linger in the warm air inside the café, sounds blend in the background: people on the phone, the Venezuelan accent of the waiters, the noise of the espresso machine, Bill Evans playing “My Favorite Things.” On the front page of the paper there’s a big picture of Donald Trump standing in front of a slew of American flags. It is nine o’ clock in the morning and the whole day is ahead of me, and my whole life. Inside the light sleeve of my jacket I can feel the tightness of the bandage covering the tiny prick of the needle. A woman next to me is talking on the phone. “I mean, I’m pretty stubborn too, I know I can be a lot to take.” She falls silent as she listens impatiently to the other person, who speaks so loudly that I can hear the voice coming through the phone. She has long, red fingernails and her knuckles are white from pressing the phone against her ear. “All of you can just leave me alone. Just let me be, I can’t take it anymore. Just let me be.”

  YOU’RE MISSING OUT. All the voices turn out to be just one voice. The names of songs seem to change, like the tunes and the lyrics, but it is more or less the same song repeating itself endlessly. All those ads, songs, and political slogans in the second person are referring to you, just you. Every song is about you. Our best player is you. You are the star. You are the journey. We have a Volvo just for you. Every voice is urging you to find out, to go on, to try it, to dare, to push open a door, to enjoy an experience, to click on a banner pulsing on your laptop screen. The best Mediterranean beaches just for you. Visit now. Learn more. Find out more. Click now. Click here. It’s the voice of desire, speaking in suggestive and inviting tones. The voice of someone who knows what you want, what you think and what you fear, long before you ever say it. It knows you so well that it can anticipate your desires before you become aware of them, even things you wouldn’t admit to others or to yourself. It knows your needs and places itself at your service without having to be asked. The ancient, sacred magic of augury and divination is now deployed through unfailing automated algorithms. Someone loves you. We know where you are right now. I know at what time you wake up each morning as if I were sleeping by your side. I know the precise moment you look at the cell phone on your nightstand, and where you go each day, and what the likelihood is that you will do a certain thing or take a certain route. You are our only concern. You, yes, you. The expression on your face—a little tired after a sleepless night, a little dazed and impatient—has been reco
rded by a camera in the ATM. Show us what makes you special. Hello, I am your new bank teller. We’ve improved our navigation so you can enjoy a better experience. We know the clothes, the flowers, and the brand of condoms you purchased today, and whether you changed your clothes since yesterday, and if you showered, and if you went to the hair salon and left a trace by making a call or checking your mail or paying with a credit card.

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  WE MOVE HEAVEN AND EARTH TO GIVE YOU THE BEST. You will never get lost again, because we know at every moment exactly where you are on Earth, what city, which block. We know more about you than anyone else, more than all the people who think they are close to you, more than your priest or your analyst. Even when you pay in cash, so your analyst does not have to declare it, we know who it is, how frequently you go, and where. We can predict with almost complete certainty which of the carelessly strewn magazines in the waiting room you will casually flip through. You open the website where you get your news exactly when we knew you would, to find on the front page a list of breaking stories that we have chosen, selected, tailored just for you. Since we know what book you briefly did a search for yesterday, we can offer it to you today on sale, flashing on the front page of a newspaper that we designed exclusively for you. We work for you. Let us drive for you. The old traffic safety ads used to say, “We cannot drive for you.” That’s no longer true. We can. Let us drive for you. We are always with you now, as faithful as your shadow, not just following your steps but predicting and directing them. Before long, there will be advertising screens on the street that will know when you go by and quickly offer you products suited just for you, temptations that exactly match your secret desires. Go where you didn’t know you wanted to go.

  WELCOME TO THE YOUNIVERSE. It’s time to live a unique experience. Your time is now. The person of the year is you. You are on the cover of Time magazine. The cover is a mirror, a flexible mirror of reflective paper where you see a blurred image of your face. It looks good to be you. Now you’ll see what you were missing. The world will be seduced by you. You will unleash uncontrollable passions. You choose how you live. A new world of sensations awaits you. You can make it come true from your cell phone. Manufactured just for you. Everyone’s eyes will be on you. You will be a millionaire. Readers all over the world will know you. You’re more than just another person. Every great story starts with you. You, yes, you. Nonstop you. Christmas is you. Your story awaits. You are the solution. You can drive the car of your dreams. Equipped with everything you need. Your style is always a step ahead. You can attain your dreams at any age. The smile you always wanted. All you need this summer. Performance in your hands. You are about to live the best moments of your life. You can start your journey today. You can go to places beyond words. The power is yours. You’ll wish the road would never end. Life is smiling on you. What you need, when you need it. Seduction unleashed. Anytime you want it.

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  THE IRRESISTIBLE PULL OF FORBIDDEN DESIRE. Hot girls. A volcano in bed. Come see me. Unforgettable pleasure for body and soul. You walk through the city and the siren voices call. Young girls in flower sing just for you, tender girls in lovely harmonies that circle all around you, come be with us, or just one voice, melodiously calling. Drop your routine and come see me. I am real. I am waiting for you naked. An endless hum beneath the city noise, the flood of all the other voices, emitted at a frequency that is undetectable to the ear but not to the eye. You walk through the city and seem not to hear, not to notice, but a secret part of you answers to the ringing of that chord, that message that someone left under your windshield wiper and is waiting for you in the morning when you walk to your car, or in the door, or even on the sidewalk, left as if by chance or accident among the bits of trash, the cigarette butts, a bright piece of paper not much larger than a business card, whispering, confiding, six girls, new to the neighborhood, call us, free drink, total privacy. Five little friends are waiting for you.

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  WE’LL TAKE YOU TO THE LAST GREAT PARTY OF SUMMER. There’s a telephone number, never an address. A code you can scan with your cell phone. They are always waiting for you. They go wherever you ask. House or hotel. Taxi fare not included. They sweetly specify how many minutes you can spend with them and what each minute costs. Sometimes there’s a tempting parity: fifteen minutes, fifteen euros; each caress is timed, each soft rhythmic slap or thrust, each promise. Asian massage. Enjoy a little extra. The link between “Asian” and “massage” belongs primarily to the imagination. Body rubs. Happy ending. In this polyphonic siren song, ethnic and national variations are as rich and promising as the sound of a voice or an allusion to a special skill. Jenni from the Canaries. New in town. Elena from Paraguay. Dana from Poland. Crisna Supergreek Blonde. The language can suddenly turn corporate, its eroticism made even kinkier by its resemblance to motivational speaking. Specializing in all kinds of service. Maximum involvement. Premium Massage. Stunning Deborah. All in. Busty. Tight little ass. Each statement is a luring prophecy. My hands will soothe you. My mouth and body will give you pleasure. The city is a secret garden of fulfilled desires, a harem you can hire by the minute, a cloistered paradise that will open its doors to you when you show a little card somewhere or other, private apartment, total privacy, secluded house, having dialed a certain telephone number and followed a series of steps as in an old initiation ritual where you have to wear a blindfold. It’s essential that there be a mystery to be gradually unveiled. Women display their breasts or lift their haunches up in the air, but their faces are concealed behind long, flowing hair, or blurred and pixelated, a little clouded oval that is all the more tempting by contrast to their brazen bodies and the exotic beauty of their mercenary names. Marilyn, Nikol, Karina, Karla, Martha, Anita, Dianita, Alicia, Lorena, busty, come and see, Latin, native French, I’m so lonely, all in, barely legal, thirty euros, real picture.

  DOGS CAN SPORT THE NEWEST FASHIONS TOO. The end of summer in Madrid brings to a close as well a life of Edenic leisure. It was a summer of espadrilles, light shorts, a backpack, lazy weekends that seemed to stretch forever. Madrid in August is a rustic idyll that remains entirely unknown to those who leave and never see it. All that is bleak about Mondays is then gathered into the first working day of September. You go back to the office mournfully, back to your obligations and your pressing deadlines. You put on a kind of outward persona, like a formal suit that you kept in the closet for the past few months. You stick your hands in your pockets and find forgotten things. A ticket to a movie you cannot recall, despite the information tidily printed on the piece of paper, the time and day, the theater number, and the name of the movie itself, which draws a complete blank. A supermarket receipt. A restaurant bill. A flyer that you folded several times. A credit card receipt for a purchase at a bookstore. If you were in fact the person who bought those books, you never saw them again. You put on a jacket and feel as if you were usurping someone else’s identity. The task must be deferred so you can make a living. You must go back to things that have an immediate practical purpose. You must submit to scrutiny and judgment.

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  THE NEW ICON OF MASCULINITY. But as I put on less casual clothes and leave grudgingly on a trip, a kind of traveling salesman for my own work, I realize that this will not in fact break off the task but rather blend with it, expanding it. The trip turns into the task without effort or forethought. The task was to wander through Madrid like a pilgrim or a traveler, recording conversations and picking things up off the ground. Now the task is to go to the airport and travel to France. Precisely that. And to listen to the radio in the taxi, and to look at every screen and every sign in Terminal 2, graciously receiving every flyer for a credit card or for an electronics store that is thrust in my path. There is a photograph of a Black woman with slightly parted lips that are painted a reddish gold. Unexpected. Unboring. Unlimited. Sitting at the gate, I record a conversation between two women behind me whom I cannot see. They talk enthusiastically about medi
cal congresses and Caribbean resorts. “The international thyroid congress was in Orlando. Everything was fake. The lakes, the rivers, everything. We were taken to our sessions in canoes.” “The next neurology congress will be in Alicante. They’ll have real heads, you know, from cadavers.” Across from me, a fat man with a mustache that is surely dyed is eating slices of salami, grabbing them from a plastic container that he ripped open in his eagerness and hunger.

  BRING BACK CAPTIVATING FRAGRANCES FROM YOUR TRAVELS. I carry with me everything I need: a pencil, a notebook, an eraser, a small pair of plastic scissors so they won’t be confiscated when I go through security, my cell phone with its camera and voice recorder. The pencil, which I bought on my last trip, is already shorter than my thumb and hard to hold between my fingers. I have a new one but I’m not ready to throw this one away. It is immoral to throw anything away, anything that is worthy of respect and can be used again. Devout Jews did not throw out their copies of the sacred scriptures when they began to come undone. They buried them in special cemeteries, piously, with a ceremony. Throwing out written words would be as inexcusable as throwing out bread when I was a boy. I keep my used pencil in a cardboard box that once held a tin toy. I will put away my pencils there when they can no longer be used. Suddenly I remember how my grandfather, my mother’s father, used to stick his cigarette butts with a bit of saliva on a whitewashed wall in the garden, so he could smoke them later if any tobacco was left.