My friend remained silent and I let myself be carried along by memories.
“This road meant a lot to us. As did the bicycle, of course. For the children in Obaba, from about the age of seven onward, learning to ride a bike was the number one priority. The arithmetic and grammar they taught at school didn’t matter, neither did the Bible history they talked about in the church sacristy; the only thing that mattered was attending the cycling classes held by the older boys in the square in Obaba and securing a place among the elect group who could go anywhere on two wheels. And if you couldn’t do that by the time you were nine or ten, then you became marginalized, a second-class kid…”
I cut short the thread of my memories at that point and indicated something to our left. We had just entered the straight stretch of road that, counting from Obaba, followed bend number eighty-eight. It formed a natural belvedere from which, by day, you could see first the broad valley and, beyond that, the beaches and the sea.
“The view’s pretty good at night too,” said my friend.
“See those lights in the distance?” I asked.
“What are they? Houses or ships?”
“Ships.”
We slowed down and drove that stretch of road staring out at the lights, slightly astonished at how near the coast seemed to be, simply because the air was so dear.
“How much farther to the top?” my friend asked once the view had disappeared. We were going uphill again now.
“About another forty bends. But don’t worry, once we get there we can look down on the whole valley of Obaba. Just a few more and we’re home! It’s hard going though, isn’t it?” I added.
“It certainly is. And you say you used to come up here on your bikes…”
“A couple of times a week, what’s more.”
“You were real cyclists then!”
“Not as good as Hilario, though…”
“Hilario?”
“Yes, Hilario: the best racing cyclist in the world. And born in Obaba into the bargain.”
Naturally my friend didn’t know who I meant and so I settled down to the eleventh memory of the night — too many perhaps for one journey, too many, even, for one book. But that night my memory was like dry tinder, which the heat generated by the landscape set burning.
“He had a pale blue racing bike, one of those that are light enough to lift with one finger,” I began, once I’d apologized for my fondness for memories, “and every evening he’d put on his shorts and his bright-colored jersey and cycle off to train along the roads around the village. Whenever he passed us we’d shout: ‘There goes Hilario!’ And when he cycled up behind us and overtook us on this very road, we’d always be full of appreciative comments: ‘Did you see the way he passed us? Like a bat out of hell! He’s an amazing cyclist!’ In short, we admired him. We ourselves sped downhill crouched right over the handlebars, and we were pretty good, miles better than the fainthearted cyclists who rode sedately around and around the square, but compared to Hilario we were nothing. He was in a class of his own. And if, for example, one of the older boys suggested to us that Hilario wasn’t really that good, we’d immediately say: ‘What do you mean he isn’t that good? How come they let him wear that cycling jersey then?’ And if the boy made some remark along the lines of ‘Anyone can get a jersey,’ we’d burst out laughing: ‘Oh, they can, can they? Why don’t you go and ask for one then? Go on, and let’s see what you come back with!’ Well, when you’re a child, all arguments tend to be ad hominem since it’s generally assumed that the motivating force behind most human actions is envy. Not such a false assumption, it must be said.
Besides, we had proof. There were, for example, the three photographs hanging on the walls of Obaba’s smartest bar: Hilario smiling, Hilario with his arms raised in triumph, Hilario crossing the finishing line first. It was no use some envious villager trying to convince us otherwise. Our faith in him was unshakable.
And one day, before we’d had time to grow up a bit, a cycle race was announced. The race would pass right through Obaba, along the very road we’re driving now. ‘And Hilario’s competing too,’ someone must have said. And the news became a chant that we never tired of repeating among ourselves.
The day of the race arrived, a Sunday, and we all went up to the top of the pass, where we’re going now in fact… and what’s more we walked up; our parents wouldn’t let us go on our bikes because of all the cars, and as soon as we got to the top, we went and sat down on that mound over there, do you see it?”
“Yes, yes, I see it,” said my friend.
“We came up here to get a better perspective on the race and because this was the final uphill stretch on the route.”
“And…?”
“Well, we were sitting on the mound when, suddenly, a murmur ran through the crowd, horns sounded, a rocket exploded, and the cyclists were upon us. ‘There are three breakaways! Three breakaways!’ someone shouted and we all craned our necks, preparing ourselves to see Hilario. Because, of course, we just took it for granted that he would be among the three in the lead; we hadn’t the slightest doubt. We waited a little longer and then the three cyclists appeared around the bend, about to make the sprint to the top and win the mountain prize. ‘Come on, Hilario!’ one of us shouted. But why that cry of ‘Come on, Hilario!’? Was he among the three? No, he wasn’t. It was odd, but not one of the three leaders was Hilario.
‘Did you see the state they were in? They could barely control their legs!’ one of us said, breaking the silence that had fallen over the group. ‘You’re right, they were absolutely shattered. The main group will soon catch up with them,’ said another in support of this. ‘Hilario’s probably saving himself for the final attack. It’s almost better that way. You know what a great finishing sprint he’s got…!’ said another.”
And the main group passed and no sign of Hilario,” my friend guessed, silently pointing to the lights in the valley below us. The lights of Obaba.
“Well, we didn’t see him at any rate. We saw a caravan of publicity cars, we saw motorcyclists in black leather, we saw cyclists of all sizes and colors, but as for Hilario, not a sign. And when the main group whistled past and headed off downhill, we were all confused, we didn’t know what to think. ‘What’s going on?’ one of us exclaimed angrily. Because it seemed more like a cruel blow from fate rather than any failure on the part of Hilario.
And so, slightly crestfallen, we started walking down the hill, home. ‘The one time the race comes through Obaba and he has to go and fall off,’ said the one rather angry member of our group. ‘Fallen off?’ the rest of us exclaimed. ‘Of course he must have fallen off! Why else would he drop out?’ he argued. ‘Knowing how tough Hilario is, it must have been a really bad fall. You don’t think he could have hurt himself, do you?’ asked the youngest among us.
Soon we were all sorrowing over the misfortune that must have overtaken that flower of Obaba, our knight, Hilario. And then, when we’d reached that wide curve we passed just a short time ago, we heard the sound of car horns. We looked back and… I bet you can’t imagine what we saw. Well, we saw a worn-out old truck with a big broom attached and in front of the truck…”
“Hilario!” said my friend.
“That’s right! Hilario in his black shorts! Hilario in his bright-colored jersey!
A hole opened up in our stomachs. ‘He’s coming in last!’ we shouted, almost on the verge of tears. And at that precise moment, possibly out of respect for us and for our disillusion, the sun slid behind a cloud.
I don’t know how long we stood there, openmouthed and with that hole inside us. As far as I was concerned, the moment seemed an eternity. And, at last, when both truck and cyclist reached us, a querulous cry left our throats: ‘Come on, Hilario!’ …