Chapter One: At the International Institute

On the morning of September 5th, 2001, instead of going to class, a student panicked and ran into the bathroom on the first floor of the International Institute in Madrid, Spain. As the clock struck eight, a monastery silence reigned over the building.

Staring so deep and hard at his reflection drew an excessive amount of strength and soon the student was overwhelmed and needed to sit down. He pressed the stall door, which opened like a confession booth.

“What’s wrong with me?” He asked.

As he waited for an answer, he stared up at the birds walking along the parapet.

“I’m living in a city without a single person who speaks my language. I’m ignored by the world, overlooked by millions. I can’t change my appearance. I can’t miraculously communicate with these people. I don’t have one Spanish word I can whip off my tongue to convince these people I’m real, I exist.”

But it wasn’t true what he was saying. There were plenty of people in Madrid who spoke English. His roommate spoke English. The students in his classes spoke English. Even his Senora spoke English.

The walk from the Senora’s apartment to the International Institute took approximately thirty-five minutes. It was not uncommon for this walk to produce great strain on Lethe’s delicate emotions. A tide of anxiety swelled up inside him and threatened to drown his face in sweat. Obstacles grew out of the empty air. The large flank of a church nearly pushed him off the curb. A cavity in the road suddenly appeared underneath him.

Construction workers swarmed the sidewalk, suffocating him with their dusty looks and manly shoulders. Cigarettes burned in between their teeth as they shouted orders back and forth. Then came the jackhammers with the crescendo of shrill intensity.

Lethe followed a winding footpath into a wide-open plaza. Set apart from the whirlwind of city madness, a cluster of old men sat with their legs crossed, reading the morning newspaper under the blue fresco dome of the sky. A lazy dog slept underneath one of the chairs.

Lethe stood next to the fountain, debating whether he should go to class this morning. The taut underbelly of the lazy dog rose with each difficult breath.

“What’s wrong with me?” He repeated.

One of the Spanish gentlemen smiled wistfully, as if recalling his own foolish youth.

Lethe glanced at the dog and saw how perfectly content it was. Stupid dog. Lazy dog.

“Que Vida! Que Vida!” The old man proclaimed.

The other men in the plaza hardly moved; they were like figures in a block of marble.

“Que Vida! Que Vida!”

It was too late to make it to his next class. He decided to stay here until the dog woke up.