On entering Tossa the nameless roundabout at the junction of two lower streets next to an empty riverbed doesn’t offer much expectation, but once the sun has set and a dirty moon begins to shine, the anonymous setting acquires a film like quality. The stillness and the forlorn optimism of the blind once whitewashed wall and the two sided rectangular wire-netted fence at the centre of the traffic circle make you eagerly wait for an unexpected adventure to happen, something involving a three wheeled motorcar and a screaming Italian housewife perhaps: Luigi, Luigi, mi amore, ti amo; or else two skinny Americans with tiny jazz cat hats on the back of their heads, kicking and hitting each other while silently moving across the scene, leaving one wondering about the nature of their relationship, all such images in stylish black and white of course. Since we stayed in a flat looking out onto the roundabout, I found plenty of time to put my fantasies to the test. The first evening nothing noteworthy happened, apart from a growing distant noise announcing the inevitable work shy youth slung over the handlebars of a stripped naked scooter, on his way to an always disappointing future in this small community of his. I drank more than I might have and went to bed an hour after the last newly forged holiday couple passed underneath the chemical shine of the roundabout’s street lanterns. Do not expect wonders from tourists.
The next night again I waited in vain, letting the moon and myself get higher and higher until both of us were well in the descendancy, the most memorable event being a limousine making two full turns around the statuesque iron structure before returning into the direction it came from, as if its occupants were hesitant of entering the scene I had planned for them. It was on the third night though, the moon already not as full as it had been, that something worthwhile eventually happened. Events were announced by a home built toilet cleaner blue colored holiday van, made from an ancient delivery vehicle with an elongated loading floor well past the point where you would expect the structure to capsize, leading to the conclusion either the load was shoved up to the front or there was some kind of magic at work, the latter option definitely the more attractive one from my point of view. At first the van only passed by, rounding the junction by three quarters of a circle. I could have sat back in humble acceptance as I had over the course of three long nights, but something about the way it slowly swayed its tail, the absence of all engine noise perhaps, made me believe it would come back. All I needed to do was up my expectations just a little higher. And indeed, after I had made sure my head felt a lot rounder than the by now well deflated moon, the toxic blue mobile home returned to where my gaze was fixed, coming from the same direction as before, meaning it had described somewhat of a large oval through the village‘s backstreets. This time the vehicle halted right on the round square, where I could observe it in its full splendor, the view slightly hampered by the sculpturesque fencing.
A stranded car! Real excitement at last! My heart jumped and my mind warmed itself to the prospect of witnessing a true and original midnight happening, well past midnight actually. After an unreasonably long while the backdoor of the van swung open and green light poured out, mixing with the street lantern’s yellow, the dirty moon barely lighting itself. Then a small hand reached out and something was put on the tarmac, I couldn’t quite make out what since the concrete circle that defined the roundabout was in the line of my curiosity. I nevertheless kept watching in fascination, mesmerized by the mere idea that life could be as real as a movie. The door of the van closed after some time, the vehicle lifted its nose while at the same time the so far silent engine produced a single loud roar, it then jumped forward and without hitting the street with its improbable long tail quietly continued its journey. After silence had settled again my first inclination was to go looking for binoculars, as if enlarging the thin line of shimmering red I managed to see would clarify what my naked high eyes didn’t grasp. I quickly realized this was nothing but laziness and I told so myself, I had no choice but to leave the comfort of my plastic garden chair on the balcony and go out onto the street to investigate the intriguing matter. I thus walked down the stairs and crossed the street with the quietness and ease appropriate for the hour, softly humming a song to suppress a sudden and inexplicable sense of anxiety. We are in a small coastal town and it must be three o’ clock at least and everybody has gone to bed and there really is no need to go all nervy on yourself, I murmured without reassurance. What was my body expecting, what were my feelings growing aware of? The roundabout was still a good fifty meters away and there was ample time to head back and forget about toilet cleaner blue colored holiday vans and other high moon craze induced fantasies, it wouldn’t have been the first time I turned my back on events, but this while an urge for enlightenment pushed me on.
When I cornered the circle with the fenced-in statue, or vice versa, I couldn’t help bursting into laughter. Right before my eyes there stood a little red robot, perhaps a foot high, of the typical late nineteen fifties mechanical household help style, showing off a brave if delusionary defiance of its time proven shortcomings. A kid inside that van had accidentally left his toy on the street, how sad and endearing and how badly I needed to pick it up and keep it for the geezer to come asking for it. As I stepped forward and bent through my knees, I realized that what I had witnessed only minutes ago by no means justified my considerations. The toy was put there deliberately, and since my slowly if at all adapting high moon brain refused to believe it was done out of some kind of punishment, the inhabitants of what undeniably had looked like a hippie bus surely not capable of such a cruel and senseless act, it all of a sudden struck me this funny red machine inexplicably left on the street in the middle of the night might very well contain some kind of explosive. This really wasn’t an exaggerated thought, I reasoned as my reaching hand froze. ETA had detonated a handful of bombs just days ago and wasn’t it before they started targeting low ranked police officers a favored practice of theirs to put explosives in quiet streets where harm was limited to a loud noise and nationwide televised public outrage, leaving the chance that an unaccounted for innocent bystander was hurt to statistical chance itself? Could I just have become that statistical bystander? Since I am merely a guiri in this country and having no desire at all to fall victim to bad luck, I quickly got up and hastily backed away into the one street that kept offering me a sight on the damned thing.
After fifty or perhaps one hundred steps my heart’s thumping eased and I started giggling nervously. You fool, I scolded, why would they want to attract attention by using such an outrageous vehicle? Wouldn’t a Seat work better? And how much explosive power might a small body as that contain? Stop dreaming up this fake reality of yours, if you please, it really can’t be anything but a toy. I walked up half the distance again and found a nice round stone that I planned to throw against the metal puppet, to see what would happen. I am usually not much of a stone thrower, but the combination of barely controlled fright and high mooned spirits must have guided my hand, because from a respectable distance I managed to hit the child machine full in the plated breast, sending it a good five meters through the air before it crashed onto the shiny black tarmac. Strike, I smiled.
I waited for a further reaction from the fallen robotnik and when it didn’t come I told myself it was time to forget my fears and pick up the tiny figure to inspect the damage inflicted. When I had almost reached it, the impossible mobile home reappeared in the hazy early morning distance once again. I quickly hid in the shade of a Bob Ross pine tree and saw how the car stopped anew and a bald man with a long grey beard and an impressive beer belly got out from behind the wheel. There it is, he said to no one in particular, picking up the little red robot and holding it up to the street lantern’s light. Oh no, he continued, it’s been damaged, some car must have hit it, how sad. I felt inclined to step forward and offer my apologies, but something in the man’s voice made me decide he would be happier with his own conclusions than with hearing some middle aged stranger explain why he had destroyed a toy. I waited for the driver to get back into the van and then made my way home in a distinctly altered mood. I wasn’t all that sure anymore whether my life ever could obtain film like qualities.
