Ana

Ana was my friend Bea's cousin and one of her best friends. A twenty-four-year-old bright and beautiful girl. An only child. A blood clot in her brain sent her into a coma, and then, refusing to respond to drugs and being inaccessible through surgical means, killed her just a few hours ago. I'd never met her, but Bea had told me countless stories about her. She loved her with all her heart, of which she is now left to pick up the pieces and glue them back together. I'd also seen many pictures of her; one of them, a photobooth shot of the two of them together, smiling innocently, always displayed in Bea's purse. She was very keen that we should meet — we would like each other and get along. We never had the chance. Well, we did eventually, yesterday, but all I could meet was her dead body behind a window.

When I learnt that she'd died, after my share of pillow punching I opened my bedroom window and leaned out looking at the few stars that were visible in the urban sky. I tried saying "God". Awkward. Fairy tale. Still, the question came to my lips, "God, should I be grateful?" I tried it in Spanish too: "Dios, ¿debería estar agradecido?" Even though I doubt the existence of the addressee, the question was genuine: if this is what things are like, if best friends die when you need them, if parents can lose their only child, if a young girl can one day be busy thinking about her studies, friends, plans for the future, boyfriends, and be in an irreversible coma the next day, should I still be grateful for life?

I spent some time in the funeral parlour looking at her, mentally repeating her name, recalling all those endearing things Bea had told me about her and how pretty she looked in the photographs I'd seen, wondering what kind of friendship we could have had if we'd been given the chance. That was the most sacred thing I could think of doing, and the situation called for something sacred. Even though her parents are not believers, there was a crucifix standing at the head of the coffin. Would I be able to remember the Lord's Prayer or the Hail Mary? Would it be comforting to recite them? Yes, I was able to remember them. No, it wasn't comforting. I can try to suspend my disbelief for a while, I can look for solace in a heavenly father and a virgin mother. I'm not, however, willing to call myself or anyone else a sinner and beg for mercy. If God exists I'm sure he wouldn't want me to do that.

This evening I drove Bea and a cousin of hers to the crematorium, which, for some reason, was in a small town some forty miles away. It was closed when we got there an hour before the scheduled time. It was dark, it had rained, it was in the middle of nowhere, and we had to drive several miles to find a place where we could have a coffee to kill some time and keep ourselves warm. That gives you an idea of the mood before what we expected would be some kind of ceremony. We then got back to the crematorium and, after being introduced to her parents and Bea's mum, I realised that I was going to be one of the only six people that would be with Ana in her last moments of bodily existence. I felt slightly inadequate and hoped her parents wouldn't mind me being there. We were ushered from the hall into a small room with two benches that were just about big enough for the six of us. Through a window — again, glass between the dead and the living — we saw two men open the coffin so that we could have a last glimpse of Ana. It was then literally a matter of seconds before the coffin was inside the oven and the curtains were drawn inviting us to leave. No prayers, no speeches. Not a single word. The whole process since we got to the crematorium didn't take more than three minutes. It isn't difficult to see why Bea felt cheated. Both Bea and Ana deserved better than that. I'm not sure what, but anything would've been better. The whole thing was so dreary. Dreary as death I suppose.

I didn't mention it to Bea and her cousin, but as we drove back home in silence I couldn't help but comparing Ana's sterile farewell to the cremations in the burning ghats by the Ganges in Varanasi — wood, fire, smoke, crowds of people, ashes, water, boats, garlands, floating oil lamps — and of burials in small villages in Spain — a small procession, hymns, old women dressed in black, the village priest, people chatting outside the cemetery, flowers, prayers, incense, quiet weeping. Not being a Hindu or a Christian, I'd much rather mourn someone's departure in any those ways. Anyway, does it matter?

...

I'm still constantly thinking of Ana, that friend I never met, and I dare to hope that she knows.