Please note this was written as part of a learning exercise. It is inspired (some would say “way more than inspired”) by some segments of the Spaniard TV Show “El Ministerio del Tiempo.”
“And are you willing to give up all of this?” Asked the time traveler for the millionth time that week as they left the theater, their brains still inebriated with music, and costumes, and laughter, and tears, and drama. The time traveler opened his arms and turned around, as if trying to encompass the entirety of Times Square, with its unashamed glitter and loud bustle.
“Ya, vamos! It’s cold and I want to get to Harlem rápido,” replied Lorca with his thick Spanish accent. He had already stopped a cab and was holding a door open, signaling effusively to his friend so that he entered the car. Once they both were inside and the checker cab blasted, then roared, then moved, Lorca, with his wide smile and bright eyes, gazed at the time traveler, one hand over the other’s leg.
The time traveler wasn’t used to the bumpy rides of the 30s, he was also not used to breaking rules, yet there he was.
“Federico, please…” the time traveler kept trying, relentlessly. “I want to enjoy our last weeks juntos, si?” Lorca said, actively ignoring the time traveler’s words. “You wanted to see Duke Ellington, tocar el piano!” Lorca said, while moving his arms theatrically as if he was playing an invisible instrument. Lorca even sang something unintelligible. The time traveler, inevitably, surrendered to Lorca’s genuine enthusiasm and naked charm, and so it was that the cab driver heard a burst of laughter coming from the back.
Turned out that Billie Holiday was accompanying Duke Ellington’s orchestra that night. Lorca, with the same amused look as the very same day he first set foot in New York, asked: “Is she also remembered in your time?” “She is,” replied the time traveler, and with renewed fervor, he continued: “you know, talented musicians like her will turn your poems into songs, and everyone will remember them a hundred years from now.” The time traveler paused, briefly. “Plays! you will write plays, better than the one we saw tonight, and they will turn them into movies, and Hollywood stars will be in them!” And while Lorca was beaming, a dark cloud re-appeared over the time traveler. “Please stay. You know what will happen. Don’t go to Spain, Federico,” the time traveler persisted. “Pero…” Lorca continued: “you see, I have to go home, a mi hogar, and write all those poems you say.” “They will kill you, Federico, you will lose.” Lorca’s face was like a remnant of peace. He was smiling, a tear shyly forming in his eyes. “But I have already won,” he held the time traveler’s hands between his, that tear already sliding down. “People will remember me many years from now. I have already won.”
