My wife will see the fire first. Or so she claims, whilst unfolding the picnic and arranging the cheese sandwiches and soft-boiled eggs. She asks if I want one. I decline, tired from the journey. Every year it feels longer. She offers me an egg, peeling it before I can say no.
In the centre of the square, the unlit bonfire awaits its big moment. The crowd gathers. The town committee, who call themselves townsfolk – pretentiously I would say – march forward for the ceremonious lighting. We applaud when the flames lick heavenwards, our glee something primordial. People lay offerings – box wrappings, paper leaflets, the butts of cigarettes – and the fire belches in delight. Soon the heat hits us, and dogs strain on their leads.
A band begins. Guitar, flute, and fiddle. The chatter grows, people are jostled and are overly forgiving, chatting to neighbours they never normally greet on the shared stairwells. Luis, who lives opposite, gives me a nod, then continues his explanations to a tourist: Both tradition and town date from the eleventh century. Above, the smoke rises, curls, and fades into mist over the navy sky. Pagans and Catholics, setting differences aside, celebrate the summer solstice.
I take my wife’s hands. They’ve always fascinated me, these hands. So warm and soft, with the raised veins which articulate her skin like rivers, the smooth burns which crease like paper. My wife enters the beehive gloveless yet moisturises like a religion. We’ve kept a colony throughout our married life, and if no bee or wife absconds by midnight, we’ll have reached our fiftieth anniversary. Nothing has changed, and everything has. In our youth the fire festival would conclude with fierce lovemaking, clinging to each other, searching for our existence. And then followed the years where I zipped my coat around us both, hugging her growing belly to keep those little things warm. The year my wife was five months pregnant, with twins they said, she waddled to our favourite bench, first to arrive, with her picnic of cheese sandwiches, breathless and beautiful.
I open the honey-fried nuts and offer the jar. She accepts, a slight tremor in her hand. She says nothing because her gaze lands on a man who carries a baby, strapped to him in one of those slings. The baby has a whisp of auburn hair that matches his own. He bounces his knees, tempting the little thing into sleep. Meanwhile, a girl grabs at his jeans. He dismisses the girl – Amaia he calls her – and continues bouncing the baby. Amaia begins a game that involves running in figures of eight through the legs of the adults in her group. As she speeds up, she sings a song I recognise, a song my mother once sang, and now it makes my cheeks hot.
The townsfolk appear again, parting the crowd, gesturing to make more space. People squeeze into the walls and point to the starry sky, to the mountain looming beyond. Murmurs rise. Luis continues his explanation. These fires are celebrated in forty towns across Catalonia, Aragon, and the Catalan regions of France! He has a voice that carries. The more you try not to listen, the more you hear.
Most of us know what’s coming, but all the same, the buzz of expectation is palpable. We turn to the dark shadow, the triangle of mountain, our silence falling as the church bells chime midnight. The first sight of fire always reminds me of when I was a runner, marching up at dusk, the handmade torches of pinewood – nearly three metres long – digging into our backs. The sweat, the exhaustion, the flood of adrenaline. The collective energy swept me along. How strong I felt in those moments, like I was inhabiting the body of another. My brother Josep and cousin Nacho were always competing for the longest torch or the heaviest. I feel their absence now my running days are over.
The first fire appears and we clap. My wife cheers, her cheeks full of sandwich. My eyes find little Amaia in the crowd. She copies the adults, clapping, although she cannot see anything. Then she restarts her running game, unaware of the hush that has taken us captive, as we watch the procession, slowly and stately, the zig-zag of flames emerging, growing from the tail, marking the descent of the fire runners. As more torches are lit, a fiery snake forms on the mountain. Perhaps one hundred flairs! Luis declares.
The snake lengthens and the gems of flame begin to bounce. The runners must be moving at a pace, jumping the heather. The fire snake begins disjointing from its body. Amaia stops her game and moves into the centre of the square, close to the popping bonfire. I let go of my wife’s hand to gesture in her direction – watch that child, I want to say. Her father sips beer and continues his bouncing, with his eyes, like everyone’s, transfixed on the mountain. Amaia’s mouth also falls open, so absorbed she cannot feel the fire almost licking her cheeks. I sense my wife stiffen. She can see it too, but she’s not the interfering type.
The townsfolk stride through again, this time waving sticks. The runners are here! Fire is coming. They say. Bring it on! Someone replies. The bonfire crackles greedily. As they get closer, their calls grow louder. Venga! Ánimo! We hold our breath. A border collie whimpers, its ears pricked. I hear footsteps falling on stone and growing louder, not one, but fifty, like cavalry thundering to battle. Amaia runs to her father and peeks through his legs. My wife squeezes my hand.
The heat arrives before they do, rolling over us like a wave. And then the runners. Their charging entrance, their ecstatic calls. The flames on their backs, bandanas on their heads. They seem faster, angrier, more macho, even the women. A young man jumps and kicks his legs. Charred wood escapes from his flare and flies alight to the corner of the church, scattering the crowd, smacking the wall, and streaking the stone a heresy black.
The heat lingers for a second after they’ve left. We hear them lapping the lower streets of the old town, more footsteps on cobbles, before they ascend to the Calle Mayor. They will finish right here, throwing their torches on the bonfire. I remember this as the most victorious of moments. The heat, the pain, the weight, the sweat, the relief of unburdening myself of the torch, hugging the other runners. It’s a question that returns to me often. The conception of such a race, and our propulsion to continue.
Now they thunder up Calle Mayor. My wife leans forward. She loves this bit. The old saying goes, the first to the bonfire will live a life of wealth and orgasms, the last will polish his shoes. The crowd press inwards, thirsting for drama. The cries of the runners return, their footsteps sounding faster.
The first runner appears, that young jumping one, closely tailed by another. A few steps and he’s won. The fire crackles hungrily. Sparks fly. He swings around to check the distance between him and his competitor. And then, there’s Amaia. Running too. Copying. Continuing her game. But in the wrong direction, heading for his legs. I see the collision. I see the torched toppling forwards, slipping from his grasp. Is it falling onto her? I crane forward, thinking I smell the singe of flesh. Then I hear a curdling scream. I gasp. We all do. We’re frozen in a suspended silence as the runner slams face first to the ground, his legs tangling around the girl. The torch comes next, hitting the stone slabs, big splinters of fire thrown into the crowd. The townsfolk rush to the archway, blocking the other runners from the square. Go! Put out your fires! A child is hurt!
My wife lurches, crying for Amaia. But she’s pushed aside by a younger woman. My wife falls, her face smacking stone, her back twisting. I cry out and strain towards her but I’m held back by the mass of bodies. The frenzy is deafening, and I can’t reach her. I don’t know whose limbs I grab and push aside to move forward, but while I do a memory returns. Nurses wrestling me from the room, locking the door, lowering the blinds.
I’m released by the bodies, and stumble forwards. I hold her close, as if cradling an infant. She’s limp and heavy. Her head lolls. I call her name. I take her hands. I grasp her shoulders, pulling her inwards. I shake her, and her eyelids flutter. People press forward, stumble into us. I’m jostled and sworn at. Desperate parents move around us, calling the names of their children, the names we had intended for ours. Josep. Pau. Nora. Amaia.
In such chaos, I only imagine the worst. The smell of burned clothing. The singe of plastic. I call my wife’s name, I shake her, then I feel her body lighten, her muscles tense, her mouth open. She curls into me, foetal-like, and I’m there again. In the hospital bed, her gown soaked in blood.
I’m fine. A small voice says. I’m not hurt. I hold her arm over my shoulder, help her hobble back to the bench. She’s always fine. She always says I’m fine. We sit and watch as the crowd disperses. The bonfire crackles, furious yet indifferent. The fire runners are permitted to enter the square but they scuttle the walls in collective shame, unsure how to extinguish their torches. One runner kicks a pebble, frustrated at his impotence, whilst his flames flicker mockingly above. That was close! Luis says. A twisted ankle and a huge shock. Can you imagine? I don’t want to imagine. The girl, little Amaia, is carried to a bench on the far side. She lies limply in the arms of adults, but her fingers move, making a fist, and her face is rosy, not the grey lifelessness of our twins I see in my dreams. We can try again, I had said to my wife, before she turned away, curling into a ball.
We sit watching as the scene resolves. Amaia is tended to. Strangers shake hands. Children are carried away on the shoulders of their parents, or in prams, whilst the teenagers descend to the marquee with the music. And it’s us again, our little island. Our family, never more or less.
I suggest we head home but my wife says no – that she would like to sit here a while. She rests her head on my shoulder, her hands in mine. Her face is wet, her eyes glassy. Her skin shines, reflecting flames. I look away. What a fright, I say, uselessly. Then I kiss her forehead. I sense her intake of breath, her exhale. How? she says, her voice sparrow-like. How can I still feel the weight of them?
She pushes herself up. I know where she’s going, and that she needs to be alone. The answers she craves are not mine to give. I have my patience, my steadiness, my hope. Most of the time, it’s enough.
I turn back to the bonfire, let my eyes follow the flames. I hear the song again. They are singing to Amaia – her parents – cradling her, rocking her gently. I watch them, until the scene is blocked by the silhouette of a woman stooping to light a cigarette in the embers of a torch.
