9.0 Guadalajara, Mexico

¼Veinte-siete años después, Alberta Bound había de recordar aquella tarde remota en que ella mostrò sua magia¼
—Some fire-spitting punk in Guadalajara

Why Dr. T. should be so sentient, so prescient, so tall is beyond me. Veinte-siete años después, twenty-seven years later, Alberta Bound había de recordar aquella tarde remota would recall that remote afternoon en que in which ella she mostrò showed sua her magia magic.

Veinte-siete años después you would be thirty-two. You are thirty-two. One more year to go. Veinte-ocho años después you, Alberta, would be thirty-three. You will be thirty-three. You will be dead. Alberta will be dead. You are dead. They have given you one year. In one year, you will be betrayed and smothered. Your skin will leap up and wrap you tightly, constricting your oxygen, your blood flow, your skin will pull you down into the earth. In one more year, Alberta, and you will be clay, you will find your planet. You will be dead. I have seen it. I lowered you into the ground myself, carefully replacing the cracked chunks of desert earth over your grave. There is nothing you can do. You can wait, you can only wait, you have no choice. It is already done.

In twenty-seven years Alberta, you will be thirty-two and you will recall when you were five.

No. You are five. One more year to go and you will run away from home for the first time, finding that rocketship in the playground. You will sit in the ship and look at stars and wonder where your planet is. You will sit and watch and know nothing of oxygen and helium and nitrogen. You will know nothing of interstellar travel, bankbooks, quantum physics, of geography. In one year you will learn of your planet (but which one?), pistachio ice cream, extreme cold, of dirty old men. In one year you will learn that the Bad Men keep Smarties in their pockets. You will learn to cry Fuck you! and mean it. In one year you will learn that you can fly.

But it is now. It is one year ago. And you, my Alberta with your travelling Bear, are still alive and well and grifting in Mexico. You arrived, you landed, you were there, you saw the sights, you drank tequila and made love with Dr. T. You made love with tequila con soda, with quesadillas, with cantaloupe and mangoes. In the mornings, you would roll yourself tightly in the blanket of Mexican Spanish. Your tongue pronounced the words of te quiero I love you te extraño I miss you tu peor pesadilla your worst nightmare. Your cheek brushed the skin of Jorge, following the lines of neck and throat and pulse, the collar bones, the heart, the navel, the hair. Te quiero you said with your tongue, your lips, your hands. Te quiero I love you te extraño I miss you hold me tightly.

And the hands and the lips and the eyes.

Alberta, my Alberta, your cobalt eyes, your burning hair. The flames, the fire never seeing itself reflected in your transcendent eyes. Sublime tendrils of smoke curve your brow. The inferno as you soar, my Jalisco dragon. And you flew in Mexico, Alberta, and everyone believed, everyone saw. You flew and they saw.

Te quiero. Te extraño. You, Alberta, are my worst nightmare. Where have you gone? What are these few postcards? These emails? These voicemails? I miss you. I love you. Where have you gone?

But I know, Alberta. I know. That is my pain. I know. It is already done. I put you there myself and now all I can do is sit here with Bear on my lap and wait. And wait.

And write.

Te quiero. Te extraño. Alberta, you are my worst nightmare.

What is this magic? I had asked you.

I can fly, you had said.

You what?

I can fly. Alex, I can fly. And you had shown me—but I already knew.

This, then, is your magic. You fly. Your sanguine hair. Your indigo eyes. You flew.

And my magic? What is my magic?

You cannot fly. You, my Alberta, observed.

That’s right. I cannot fly. That is my magic.

I am invisible. I am dead.