The Ascending Rain

The Ascending Rain

It was a cold day; the whole week had been cold. But that day, precisely, it was drizzling, stretching the drops until they became needles. A few days earlier, I had gone through a cold that had knocked me out of bed. The truth is that, in that sense, such a potent illness wasn't necessary; I had always been a bit weak against colds and the flu, not because I was fussy, but because they truly weakened me to the point of wanting to do nothing but sleep for days. But I'm not writing to tell you how my body reacts to illnesses. I decided to sit down and write because a few days ago I had a transcendent experience.

What I'm going to tell you, you can judge it as a tale, as a true story, or even as a dream. It really doesn't matter. But I want to ask you a favor: remember this question when you finish reading: Why has this story come into my hands? Only then decide the veracity of my story. As I said before:

It was Saturday, a cold autumn afternoon nap when my friend Gonzalo invited me to play a soccer match. For a few moments, I hesitated between accepting or declining because I had been sick until just two days before. My friend was one of those people who commit to soccer matches as if he were a professional, and if I accepted his invitation, regretting it later wasn't an option, unless I wanted to engage in a long prayer of forgiveness. I always loved soccer and missed playing, so I accepted.

—Do you have a car to go?

—No, it's still at the mechanic, and since I was sick, I didn't call to ask if it was ready. What about you?

—No, my dad took it. Well, we'll go by bike, after all, it's Saturday and we have time.

—Yeah, but we're going to freeze. Also, I was sick and I don't want to fall back into bed, it was raining until just recently.

—No, it's not raining anymore, plus it was just a drizzle. Bundle up well and let's go, nothing's going to happen. In fifteen minutes I'll come to pick you up at your house.

I hung up the phone and got ready. I was just finishing putting on my cleats when the doorbell rang. I grabbed my backpack, jacket, and went out to the patio. I took out the bike and, upon opening the door, Gonzalo was waiting, bundled up with a jacket and hood on.

The fields were at a considerable distance; we had to pedal for about forty minutes to get there. We embarked on our journey under a cloudy day and nostalgic scenery. There was something adventurous, a journey that excited me. Surely, it was the distance on a day that offered some physical challenge and the climatological difficulty I had prepared for. I enjoyed half the route a lot; the streets were particularly empty, probably because it was Saturday and it had been raining, something unusual in my city, which makes people here want to take refuge at home and enjoy the warmth. Also, the conversation was pleasant and fun. When we had completed three-quarters of the way, it started to drizzle, so we sped up a bit.

I arrived at the field exhausted; I didn't feel the cold in my hands. The rest of my body was fine because I had warmed up from the bike ride. My friend had a waterproof jacket, so he took it off and was dry underneath, but my jacket wasn't waterproof, just like my long pants. I had to take off both garments and the sweatshirt, which had also gotten wet, to be left with the soccer shorts, thermal shirt, and a soccer jersey. We took shelter from the drizzle under the roof of an open barbecue area, but my adversary at that moment was the cold, which I couldn't mitigate solely with a roof.

—Gonza, I'm freezing, I'm going to get sick.

—That gray car over there belongs to Juancito, check if it's open and get in there. Leave your things here so they can dry a bit —he said, pointing to a solitary chair lying lifeless a few steps away.

—Are you sure? Is he going to mind? —I asked, since Juan was his friend and not mine.

—No problem, Juan is a genius. I'm going to go see where it is, in case the car is closed.

I headed to the vehicle without further ado; it was very cold. Obviously, the parking lot was almost empty; it was a terrible day to play soccer. Luckily, the car was open. I carefully entered the back seat, trying not to stain anything with the mud from my cleats. It was a terrible relief to get in there; I hadn't realized that it was windy outside until I took shelter in it. It was a luxurious car, with impeccable gray leather upholstery. It was immobile; I didn't think the owner would get angry for taking shelter from the cold, but if I ended up staining the upholstery, I would surely feel guilty. I started looking out the window for my friend when two people approached the car. An older man, about fifty years old, and a young boy in his twenties who seemed to be his son; it was evident that both had just finished their match because they were unprotected from the cold and a bit sweaty, their foreheads steaming. They both got into the car surprisingly, the man in the passenger seat and the boy in the driver's seat. As the man got in, he saw me and was surprised, then smiled and said:

—Hey! We have a guest.

The boy turned and greeted me kindly:

—Hello.

—Sorry I got in, I thought it was a friend's car.

—No problem, it's freezing outside. I'm Carlos —the man said, extending his hand—. And he's Cristian.

The boy looked through the rearview mirror, raising his hand.

—Nice to meet you, I'm Exequiel. Thanks for letting me shelter here and sorry for the confusion —I began to open the door.

—Wait. What time do you play? —the boy asked.

—At four —I responded. I realized I didn't know what time it was.

—There's still half an hour left. —In the effort not to get wet, we had arrived much faster than expected.

—We were going to buy some sodas to drink with the "vagos" (slang for idle people) and to look for my mom nearby. Do you want to come with us? —the man asked. I looked out the window and it was still drizzling. Carlos looked at me waiting for a response, with a friendly and confident expression, as if he had no worries.

—We’re going to play soon and I don’t want to be late —I replied.

—You’re not going to be late, we'll be delayed at most ten minutes —Carlos said.

—Well, I'll join you. —Both inspired my trust, and in that car, the camaraderie that arises from playing soccer with strangers was developing.

Cristian started the car and we left. They began to comment on the plays and details of the match; Carlos looked back, involving me in the conversation. I listened and sometimes laughed at a comment; it was clear they had enjoyed themselves. I realized that my body was being invaded by fredagsmys, a Swedish expression that explains the feeling of comfort, warmth, and well-being that you feel when you're in a cozy place, often in the company of loved ones or in an atmosphere of tranquility and security. It was an emotion I always had, but I started to clearly identify it only when it was described to me.

We arrived at a small shopping center. It was a small building of about three floors; the ground floor was glassed in. On the left was an ice cream shop with a few tables and on the right, a café with the same number of tables. A few people were sitting chatting while having some kind of infusion. Between both counters, there was an elevator that led to the upper floors which, apparently, were residential. They entered first, waving to some people and the employees of both establishments, called the elevator which opened immediately. Once inside, Cristian pressed the number four and Carlos said to me, smiling:

—When we start going up, you're going to feel something strange. Don't be scared, it only lasts a few seconds.

They both looked at me with a calm expression and the elevator began to ascend normally until, at a certain moment, it accelerated extraordinarily. I could feel the pressure on my shoulders and head, like those rides in amusement parks. The ceiling lights were shining with such intensity that it was hard to see the faces of my companions, as if the light was lower and incredibly bright. I was just becoming aware of what was happening when it stopped and the elevator door opened normally.

—Alright, we’ve arrived. Cristian is going to look for her in Bianca’s room, I'm going to see if she's with Teresita. Exequiel, you can stroll around if you want, there are beautiful gardens back there. We'll meet here in a few minutes to go back —Carlos said with total calm; the boy went to the right. I exited the elevator, and it closed with Carlos inside.

—See you soon —he said, waving his hand and smiling.

Outside the elevator, there was a single hallway perpendicular that stretched to both sides. Ahead was a glassed area, and you could see the city from above; on the other side were the doors to the rooms with names. One said Anna and had painted flowers; they were all different. I decided to go to the left and began to walk, looking through the windows. I reached the end of the hallway, which turned left again; a few meters away, there was a glass door that led to a landscaped garden. I supposed the building must have been built on the slope of a hill; thus, on one side, the city was visible below, and behind it was this patio, reminding me of the coasts of Chile. I stepped into the garden; it had short, green grass, a central fountain, and a flower bed around it full of flowers. A grandmother was among the flowers; the sun illuminated that scene almost like a photograph, and from afar, she looked familiar. I approached the lady who was facing away, humming a cheerful melody. I greeted her timidly, which made her stop singing. She turned and looked at me; what I saw paralyzed me completely. It was my grandmother, but it was impossible; she had passed away a long time ago. Her eyes, her hair; it had been so long since I had seen her that I had almost forgotten her sweet face, which the sun was bathing from the side. A knot formed in my throat.

—Hello! —I greeted eagerly. Amazement stole my words—. I'm María —she finished while taking off her gardening gloves.

—María Herminia… —I whispered.

—For now, I'm María, but look how curious, my daughter's name is Herminia —she looked around and continued—. She’s not around here, what a pity, otherwise I’d introduce her to you. What's your name?

—I don’t remember you —that brought me almost to the brink of tears.

—Mauro, nice to meet you —I said with a trembling voice.

—Are you okay?

—Sorry, but you have an incredible resemblance to someone I lost a long time ago —her hair, gestures, face were identical, but her gaze. The gaze was different, of another person, and her name.

—To whom?

—To my grandmother Herminia.

—Ah, that's why you called me that. I understand, you must have been feeling a thousand things at the same time.

—Yes, sorry for interrupting you.

—It's okay, I was just tending to my petunias, they remind me of my homeland. In spring, houses are full of colors.

—Where are you from?

—From Misiones, actually I was born in…

—Sweden… —I finished saying—. My throat tightened again, it couldn't be my grandmother.

—Yes! —she looked at me surprised.

—I'm also from Oberá —she looked into my eyes, trying to reach her memories and help her remember me.

—How do you know I lived in Oberá?

—Because I was born there… —and I grew up in your house, eating your cookies and I was happy with your smiles. It ended up in my head.

—There are too many coincidences, aren't there? —she said, puzzled.

Of course, there were too many, but in the cruelest of ways, someone had stolen my memory. Why? I was the one who had found her and just as I wasn't remembering her. I had so many memories of her, and she nothing. Tears filled my eyes that I tried to hold back.

—I’m Mauro, you used to make me pepparkakor every time I asked. Don’t you remember? —she looked at me confused. I couldn’t hold it anymore; an overwhelming sadness engulfed me, not even when she died did I feel that pain. This was worse; the day she passed away, I was struck by the pain of never seeing her again, but I knew our memories would accompany her, and now not even that. There is no explanation to increase the pain of a loss. But she had died, I don't understand, how did she come back? And why was she the same age? Had I died? And this was some kind of journey through my consciousness?

—MAUROO!! —I heard from behind me. I turned around, and Cristian was running towards me.

—Good afternoon —he greeted the lady—. Are you okay, brother? —he asked me.

—I don’t understand… —tears were falling from my eyes, while my grandmother looked at me with the eyes of another person.

—Come on, let's go. Carlos is going to explain it to you —he helped me stand up and greeted the lady.

—Bye, Mauro —she said hesitantly. I looked at her for the last time, what was the point of greeting her if she wasn't her? It couldn't be my grandmother Herminia, otherwise she wouldn't remember me.

Cristian took me to the elevator; an infinite sadness inhabited me and, at that moment, it began to overflow. I felt it coming out of my pores and couldn't stop it from spilling. I don't remember the elevator, nor when we went down.

Upon reaching the ground floor, Carlos was sitting at a table in the café. He gestured for me to sit with him. Cristian went back up to the elevator.

—Are you okay? Do you want something to drink?

—I don’t understand anything, am I dead? —I said, and he looked at me with eyes full of peace.

—No, you're not dead.

—I saw my grandmother up there and she didn't remember me —desolation was taking over me again.

—Calm down —he said serenely—. In reality, she doesn't know you —an aura of wisdom surrounded him. I looked more confused still—. She is your great-grandmother; you two never met. She passed away before you were born.

—How? —everything was madness, I was lost.

—What just happened is that you went to heaven. And while you were there, you met your great-grandmother María, who was born in Sweden, gave life to your grandmother María Herminia, and being very young, they emigrated to Argentina, settling in Oberá, Misiones.

—It was my grandmother's face.

—Yes, they looked incredibly alike. Didn’t your family ever mention it? —he took a sip of coffee while my head was sending out questions that were racing to get out.

—A trip to heaven? —the surprise hadn't allowed me to reason the madness of what that man was telling me.

—Correct. Although it may seem incredible, the reality is that all people travel to heaven during their lives, many times. They usually call them transcendental experiences. One of the most common ways is in dreams, you see a loved one who has already passed away. Other times they feel infinite peace while praying, meditating. One way to identify it is that these are experiences that make you question if there is a god, heaven, miracles, if we are all connected, etc.

—Isn't heaven only for the dead?

—First, the definition of heaven is already complicated in itself; explaining the concept of death to you is almost impossible. Answering your question directly is utopian. But to make you understand, let's suppose that the dead live there, but it doesn't mean it's exclusive. It would be cruel to have to wait so long to see that incredible place. It’s such a big and beautiful place that it would be selfish not to share it with everyone.

I was starting to realize that that day had been, from the beginning, the strangest: that man and the boy never made sense. I didn’t really know them. And now he was talking to me about heaven. But I had seen my grandmother and still felt the salt of the tears on my lips.

—Are you an angel? —the question amused Carlos.

—No, I have a long way to go to become one. We're like agents, fulfilling simple missions, so to speak.

—For whom?

—For the same being that the angels or you are for. For God, Allah, Jesus, Jehovah, the Architect, or “The Boss” as we like to call Him. You were our mission today —he reclined in the chair and looked at me with a small smile—. Nothing like a job well done.

—Why did you take me to heaven to see my great-grandmother?

—I have no idea, we don't know those things. We didn't even know you were going to meet someone. Our job was simply to bring you and have you take that elevator. That's as far as my knowledge goes.— The elevator was still there, apathetic, lifeless.

My head was analyzing thousands of thoughts, everything was chaos inside me. I looked around seeking answers to what was happening. The tables were occupied, some by more than two people. There were sad faces, others happy and some confused.

—These people...

—They are people like you. They have all just come back —he turned to look at them.

—Where did they go?

—Who knows. But surely they found something they needed. That's the most important thing; I can't tell you why you were visited, simply I don't know. But I do know that these kinds of trips aren't common, nor for everyone —he looked outside and said—. Cristian has arrived to drop off mom.

The boy had gotten out with the lady, and I hadn't noticed. How much time had passed?

—I forgot about the match! —I had completely forgotten—. Gonzalo must be looking for me desperately —Carlos smiled amusedly.

—Calm down, only three minutes have passed since we left. Let's go to the car so you can get to your match.

We got into the vehicle. Cristian asked me if I was better, to which I responded yes. I looked out the window and wondered what the reason for that experience was. “All people go to heaven during their lives,” was this true? Does heaven exist?

I didn’t realize I was arriving at the field; I was so lost in my thoughts. We got out of the vehicle, Carlos and Cristian greeted me; they had to go with their teammates to the match with the drinks. I hurried to find my friend; he was watching another match.

—Gonza, have they all arrived? —he asked urgently.

—No —he looked away from the match to check his watch—. Only ten minutes have passed, about twenty more —and looked back at the players he had in front.

I looked around and everything was still as empty, the gray car was still parked. Everything seemed the same and the sky was still there, a drop fell on my lip and I could feel its sweetness on my tongue.