Marques de Zafra

It had never occurred to me to look into mental illness. As time passed and the symptoms developed into more serious issues, I believed the story line in my head more so than anyone could understand. I started to believe that I was a “famous” artist out completing certain tasks around town to gain the attention of certain celebrities, artists, and even The President of the United States at the time, Barack Obama.

The voice I heard seemed to whisper to me especially in the company of large groups of people. On my last full day there, I spent most of the day walking through the Hong Kong Zoological and Botanical Gardens with the British artist I had originally returned for. We enjoyed the wildlife, and even found a secluded place among the bamboo to drink our last bottle of wine together. Caged animals on display seemed to be a metaphor for my mental illness. In my head I was under the control of under cover agents, who were everywhere, and they seemed to enjoy watching my every move. My greatest effort to impress them through public acts, such as balancing on hand rails, picking up EVERY piece of trash in sight, giving away money that I didn’t have to people in need, and having stand up comedy routine conversation in my head, seemed to always fall short.I was a spectacle, and all I wanted to be was free from other people’s control.

To let these well known people down who seemed to be a part of my invisible life left me feeling dejected, quite often. No one knew deep down that I was having conversations in my head with rap star and business mogul Jay-Z, supermodel Cara Delevingne, and agitator Kanye West on the daily. Jay-Z would say things like, “This guy is an up and coming star!”, and Cara D would compliment me when I finished getting dressed. Kanye West often agreed with my stances on politics and art.

I took a train to the airport with the British artist, said my goodbyes, and boarded my flight to visit an old neighbor from Oregon State University in Madrid. I had never been to Spain, but one thing I did know was that Pablo Picasso spent a significant amount of time there. One of his most famous, if not his most famous painting, “Guernica” was on display at the Reina Sofia museum, and knowing this had me anxiously awaiting my arrival on Spanish soil. In my head I was going to meet his old friends and establish myself around town as the new up and coming artist in town.

After sleeping the entire flight, the plane touched down. I woke up as the person next to me tapped my shoulder and smiled. I opened the window cover and peered out onto the tarmac. It was nighttime, and I was eager to fetch my bag. At the baggage claim, my bag arrived first, which made me feel like the trip was going to follow suit; smoothly with no problems. If only I were so lucky. Upon exiting the airport, I walked outside and immediately enjoyed the cooler air. Although hot, nothing compared to Hong Kong’s summer. Cab drivers swarmed as I enjoyed my cigarette, and as soon as I pitched the butt to the ground, I locked eyes with a driver.

“English?”

“Yeah”.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Marques de Zafra.”

All I remember from the ride was smoking cigarettes the entire way while techno music lightly played in the cab. The driver plugged in the address of my old college neighbor, and I rolled the window down to feel the cool breeze against my face. Although happy, the thought of the suicide was fresh on my mind. It was all I could think about. The image of the young asian girl dangling with her arms hanging below her head of black hair, dripping water seemed to never leave my mind. About 30 minutes later, we circled the block as the cab driver searched for the exact address.

“Here!”, he pointed. “I’ll call her for you.”

“Thank you!”, I said as I swiped my card.

As he spoke in Spanish to my old neighbor, I finished up my payment.

“She is on her way down. Enjoy your stay!”, he replied, as he drove into the night.

My old neighbor appeared at the door, and greeted me with a smile and a hug. We had not seen each other since college, but she seemed to be doing quite well. Her apartment was quite large, and she gave me a short tour, before taking me to the balcony to look out over the town square below. I smoked a cigarette, and we began to catch up. Her boyfriend was on his way home from work, and he was bringing home a bag of marijuana. A lot of our time together in college was spent randomly smoking weed together. We had similar groups of friends, and often found ourselves stressed out about finals, or relationships, and would smoke to ease our minds on her front porch. She had a swinging chair that we used to sit on and talk, while we got high and hurried our separate ways.

The fact that she invited me to visit her in Spain, her new home, surprised me actually, but I had to take her up on the opportunity. Here we sat, years later, on a different set of chairs, smoking, and reminiscing. I told her about the suicide, and she apologized to me. “It’s fine”, I replied. “It was definitely a trip, but nothing that I think will really affect me.”

Oh boy was I wrong! Right then, her boyfriend entered the apartment, and greeted me with a warm smile and hand shake. He immediately showed the bag of marijuana as he sat down and began rolling a spliff.

“I’ll prepare some tapas!”, my old neighbor said, as she gladly walked towards the kitchen to prepare some traditional Spanish snacks.

Before she returned, I was not only high, but very paranoid. Weed was a normal part of my every day, but it had never made me feel this way. Voices from those damn federal agents whispered through the square.

“We don’t know who this guy is, or where he is from, but we’ve got a clear view of him.”

“Yeah, this guy said his name is Manuel Dos. He’s some sort of famous artist, I guess,” they continued.

Manuel Dos was a name that popped into my head right then for some reason, and I would go on to actually sign the paintings I painted that week with that exact name. Without a clue of who Manuel Dos was, or how the name started, the rest of the week, whenever I would walk the city, the people would whisper, “Manuel Dos!”.

My old neighbor returned, placed the food on the center table, and we began to eat. Delicious food. Great conversation. Good company. I was high and paranoid, and needed to go to bed.

“I’d love to talk all night, but I’m tired. The last few days have been long ones, and I should probably get some much needed rest.”

“No problem!”, they both said simultaneously.

“My boyfriend has the day off tomorrow, so he will gladly show you around the city!”

Knowing the morning would come as soon as I hit the pillow, I gave her a hug, shook her boyfriend’s hand, and made my way to bed. Tomorrow was going to be a good day, but I couldn’t get the scene from Hong Kong out of my head!!!