BRIDGE OVER THE RIVER “CRY”
By Ric Polansky ©
Its an unassuming structure; forlorn and solitary. A bridge never traveled any more. An old construction yearning for meaning and purpose. Located only one hundred meters from the new E15 Motorway this bridge doesn’t have much of a chance of ever being important again. It will never hear the hum of passenger cars, the scream of motorcycles revved out to their highest RPM’s, nor the lowly whine of scooters or the rumbling of the big rigs. Worst yet, the trestle has no name. It holds little consequence to new tourist to the area or old topographers. Yet, it still has its tales to tell, anecdotes from the past when the bridge was the only lifeline between the dry eastern plains of Almeria and the lush fertile regions of bordering Murcia. A concrete overpass with a skeleton of steel that still retains a memory.
Erected in the Post Franco era as a symbol to progress the “newish” structure still remembers when once babbling brooks gurgled merrily below where it now proudly stands. Twice a year the torrential rains would make the road impassable for usually weeks at a time. Then, Eastern Almeria had no communication with the rest of Spain. Built for a reason, but it could not have been designed worse.
It was here on this bridge where a very unassuming Mohamed Musta tempted the grim reaper. Fortunately he didn’t die although his cherished car was wrecked beyond repair. The vehicle had cost him five long arduous years to pay off, scrimping and watching every durham-- lost in an instant.
It was just a simple accident as tragedies go; typical to those by gone eras when structures were built just wide enough for carts pulled by burros. No other engineering consideration need be given; no vision was held for the future. On either end of the bridge were signs with red and black arrows. Red meaning that if another car was near or on the trestle you had to hold back. Black arrows gave you total right of way and everyone else had better stand back. The idea for the design probably came from Spain’s medieval past, knights jousting. But, if the red arrow side was in a hurry or half asleep fate would greet fortune head on. That’s simply what happened to Mohamed. He lost his life savings and transport but luckily kept his life.
The very next year when Mohamed, from Algeria, was journeying again back to France where he worked. Caution and finances obligated him to take the bus. He rode patiently until the transit vehicle reached the very curve and bridge that almost took his life. The nervous Mohammed became hysterical and had to be led off the bus. While the disgruntled passengers road in style Mohammed lingered behind licking up the exhaust fumes. He made it half way across before being hit by an oncoming car. The driver simply acknowledged that “he hadn’t taken precautions as he had never seen anyone walking on the bridge before”. Once again Mohammed Musfa spent days recovering in the Huercal Overa hospital.
In the passing years Mohammed cleverly took another route to Paris. But, three years having passed Mohammed incomprehensibly returned. Like a magnet he again made the decision sojourning back in the direction of the bridge. This time he kept his composure, his inner strength. His perseverance wasn’t rewarded though, half way across the bridge the bus was hit head on by youths in a charging car. Although there was great commotion, and few serious injuries, Mohammed one of them, he feigned being well, hired a taxi that took him back to Almeria and hasn’t been seen or heard of since.
In years gone by the bridge also held incidental significance for me, for it was on this same bridge that I became a surrogate father. While journeying to Murcia’s Feria de Toros with my good friend Gerald Perego I retrieved a startled crying baby sitting in the middle of the bridge road.
Obviously, somehow the baby managed to unlock the back door and drop out unto the pavement so adeptly and suddenly no one even missed him. A crying baby squatting in the center of a well traveled route is an eye opener, even if you might be a tad hung over. KAPLUNK – there he was; shrieking and wailing with no apparent means of having got there. My equally stunned driver and I looked in both directions, but no one was to be seen. I even looked up hoping that a space ship had left the little darling as a future Superboy. But, no such luck.
Without thinking I leaped from our car and scooped up the baby, jumped back into the still moving vehicle and we continued to accelerate until we had crossed the danger zone. Once on the other side, catching our breath we reconnoitered the situation. We both simultaneously concluded that the baby could only have fallen from a passing motorist. We took off hell bent for leather looking for a “babyless car”.
As we sped forward I worried out loud, “hey, what if the car was going the other way.” We both shuddered and swallowed hard. “Hey, what if someone just abandoned him there waiting for two lucky parents to come by and claim him?” We both shuddered again and swallowed even harder. Mr P. pushed his foot into the floorboard. We drove fast but could see no one in the distance. We looked at each other. Neither could speak. Instant baby had come into this world with two Daddies.
Rounding the last bend leaving the valley we observed a rickety old car doggedly puffing its way up the road. It was a smoker, typical of the Algerian’s returning to France following summer vacation. Every square inch inside the vehicle packed and tottering along at a snail’s pace from carrying an equally over loaded roof rack. We both mumbled silent prayers. The nameless baby needed a home quickly—even if it was the wrong parents. “Quick, get alongside and I’ll hold the child up—maybe they can identify it” I blurted. As we got drastically near Gerald honked and screamed also, but no one wanted to know us. I feared the worse. And couldn’t swallow. Obviously, if the baby didn’t belong to the car we’d both look a right couple of pregnant goldfish (prats).
Impatiently I held the baby out the window. “Your baby” I shouted at the top of my lungs. “Your bambino!” (Presuming I was speaking Algerian).
The dark skinned man with the weathered face glanced back twice, hunched his shoulders up even more and peered relentlessly ahead down the straight Roman road so as to not miss a turn. “The woman can’t see us because of all the junk” I blurted. “You’ll have to pass them”.
Meanwhile the baby has fallen in love with us both. He was chortling and giggling and as happy as any toddler can be being dangled out the window of a fast moving Mercedes. What a smile he had! “Vous bay-bee” I screeched hoping for just a glimmer of recognition. But the driver squinted his eyes snake style and held steady to his course. The woman gestured at us Moroccan style and with that movement I all but lost hope. But, just as I started to retrieve little Mohammed from the rages of wind and circus circumstance-- a shriek was emitted from the other car that left no doubt of ownership nor allowing Solmon’s law to carve justice.
Fatima’s gifted hand had intervened and saved Gerald and I from rendering an explanation that neither wife nor police would ever believe. We tried to pull over as quickly as possible noticing that the mother became hysterical and was clawing and screaming through the piles of luggage and debris in their car to get at her off spring.
As Gerald pulled over to the side of the road I took a long gasp of air relieved at the consequences. Little Mohammed relieved himself too. Then he started to whimper and cry. I could well understand the disappointment of Little Mohammed fearing the instant loss of two fun loving fathers that had shown him so much fun and adventure in just a few minutes ownership.
As our cars glided to a halt on the side of the road I’m still in a daze over the whirlwind events transpired. My mind was numb and my vision curiously blurred from small tears forming in my eyes. But, before I could get my door open it was jerked of it’s hinges and little Mohammed likewise jerked from his flirtation with the gentile world. Mothers being what they are Mohammed’s mother had leapt from her car torn the baby from my arms and was smothering him with a thousands of hugs and kisses. During the course of her embrace she also managed to whack me twice for the embarrassing imprudence I had caused her. Little Mohammed cooed and giggled but not for long. Father flew from the driver’s side and ripped the boy from the mothers adoring arms. While holding the once happy child in the air he slapped it twice and pitched it through the rolled down back window. He then whirled on his haunches and vaulted back into his car. Both their car doors slammed simultaneously and off they hurtled once again down the road leaving but a cloud of blue smoke and two bullfight enthusiast that didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
About every ten years I go back to the bridge. I wonder what happened to those Mohammed’s. Bridges are that way, you can never leave them alone. If you don’t go to them sooner or later they come to you. And then, then you’ve got another bridge to cross.
