Un tren de hielo y fuego

The splendor of looking through my father's new acquisitions for his antique book collection is a hardly describable joy. He shows me the last one he got in Argentina, about the process of cheese fermentation. The endless pages of tables on different cheese fungi bring a spark to his eye that I rarely get to see.

I ask him to recommend a book to me.

He walks down his immense bookshelf, pacing between two stands, "AH" he says, while handing me a very yellow-covered book. It is originally in French, he says, so buy it in its tongue and read it. And this copy I'm not giving to you anyways, he says, because it is signed by the author and you will lose it.

"Do you kids remember when we saw the train of ice and fire depart?" and I have no idea what he is talking about.

The book, written by Ramon Chao, is a chronicle of Manu Chao's former music group, Mano Negra, as they travel in a reconstructed old passenger train from Bogota to the coast. The red colored locomotive, splattered with yellow butterflies, carried one hundred musicians, acrobats and artists, whose purpose was to put on free shows throughout their journey.

"You really can't remember?" he asks expectantly. Heads shake. "Shit did I waste time with you kids. What was the point of taking you to these things?"

Still muttering curses of disappointment, he beings glancing through its pages while Kinder and I exchange an eyebrow raise and a smirk.

"Ok ok.... do you guys think this could be us?"

He hands me the book. In black and white, there is the picture of a long, psychedelic train with hands sticking out the windows, waving. Standing on the sidelines, with no one else to see it part, stands a tall, thin man accompanied by a big-headed four-year-old boy and a long-haired six-year-old girl. The picture captures the threesome from behind, but it still shows what was, undeniably, the three of us approximately 15 years ago.

Shit I wish I remembered that. He rips the book away from me again, now with a hint of a smile but still mumbling about the waste that we are. He continues to glance through the book for at least half an hour. In the meantime, Kinder and I ponder about the deliriousness of the tale, and how I would have loved to be Ramon Chao, documenting such a freaking tripy experience.

"Found it!" He screams in ecstasy, and puts on his sweet storytelling voice that brings him back 20 years to his days as a radio commentator.

"'Ricardo Alarcon, the president of Caracol Radio, and his two children, arrive ten minutes before the departure. I hastily dispatch them...'
There is even a reference to us, kids; A one-sentence one, but a reference nonetheless. How the hell can you not remember this?'"

His face makes me feel like jumping from the couch and pretending a sudden memory flow but I've never been much of a liar. So he puts it back on the shelf and proceeds to show me a copy of "El General en su Laberinto" that has a dedication on the front page from Gabo himself.

"Take the other copy.... fuck I hope you remember this when I'm dead and don't simply throw the book to the trash like your mother did with my records. Really, will you at least remember this? Autographed by Gabriel Garcia Marquez? Probably worth something?"

Yes, father. When you are dead, I sure will.