A Letter From Pamplona

Pamplona Herman writes a letter from an open-air café in the town that bears her name. Her parents, both literary students, met at a Hemingway book reading in New York City 1980. Two years later, they christened baby lona, (as her family “respectably” called her); in a small Lutheran chapel, where she wailed out her staccato protests and managed to hit every high note of “Oh Holy Spirit, enter in.” As a child, lona, hated her name, the letter, capitalized, her preferred moniker, and that hatred carried her and her name into adulthood.
From the café, smoke from her cigarette rises up in columns, dissipating over the red clay rooftops. She sucks on the end of her pen, searching for the right words to explain her actions to David, her fiancé: why she left suddenly, without a word, to fly off to Spain. Instead, she describes the Narrow winding streets, and the dusty, faded-yellow color of the building across from her.

 

Life with David was pleasant enough. He was an art student, caring and sweet, ever reliable, as the gentle breeze nudging the leaves outside their condominium window; and 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. 

Early that morning, while strolling along the paved avenues, she came, quite by chance, upon a tiny bookstore. The front wall was covered by a brightly colored mural of the running of the bulls. It was very intense, she found herself mesmerized by how life-like it seemed. She could almost feel the vibrations of the coursing bulls through the cold gray streets. She saw the piercing sense of immediate danger, and excitement on a runner's face. She could even smell the sweat of his brow. She wondered if Hemingway could realistically describe this event in “The Sun Also Rises”, the way this artist brilliantly captured it. And though she knew her name grew out of the love her parents shared for this book, she never actually read it. So, she figured why not? In the store, she was meant immediately by a large red sign that read “todos los libros de Hemingway en venta”. Which translates to “all Hemingway books on sale”. She grabbed “The Sun Also Rises” off the second shelf of the display, paid for it, and started on her way. Skimming through the first few pages something happened. She was overcome by sadness, and started sobbing. David was the only person she knew who could have understood the beauty of that mural, and her thoughts about Hemingway; she missed him, and was grieving the loss. She covered her eyes with her palms to stem her tears. She had wanted to tell him about that, too. 

Now, she sits in the café alone. Surrounded by balled up letters, she suffers no illusions of love. She crumples up the half-written letter, the latest attempt, tossing it next to the others. In the courtyard, an old man feeds pigeons, spraying breadcrumbs on the ground. High above, the slender streets where the rooftops meet open sky, a jet contrail forms a cloud. Nothing here seems to matter.
The waiter brings her coffee, setting it down next to her. When he tries to gather up her papers, she stops him, saying, she wants to remember what it’s like to rebuild from the rubble. He smiles and nods.
Finally, she writes a simple note that explains nothing. “With God’s grace, sometimes love’s wane is inexplicable.
Goodbye, David. Pamplona”.

 

Reviews

[Chad Wesley Allbrett]

Hey you took me there, thank you, nice read!