Mum Was Right: Lying Is Wrong. The Sequel to Yesterday’s Story

Mum Was Right: Lying Is Wrong. The Sequel to Yesterday’s Story The story began here — Why Mum Taught Us to Tell the Truth Even at the Ends of the Earth. It’s a Small World When we arrived at the bus station, we found it open and deserted, like the rest of the town. According to the timetable on the wall, there would not be another bus until tomorrow. Restinga Marina, where our home is berthed, was 40 km away. There wasn’t a soul in the streets, and only the occasional car offered hope that there was, after all, life on Mars. After praising the heavens for the marathon distance ahead of us, we decided to look for a taxi. The heavens lent a hand, and soon we spotted the only open door (apart from the supermarket), and in it—oh, miracle of miracles!—a living, breathing taxi driver. His face did not light up with joy in return: he clearly wanted to be somewhere in a bar with a can of beer, not on the other side of the island. In fluent Spanish, the caballero explained that we only had to travel one way, whereas he would also have to drive back, so it would cost either 40 euros or 40 euros each way. We had no choice, so we got into the car. All the way there, I was kicking myself: the bus would have cost us 4 euros for all of us. But when we arrived, the meter read 38.5, and we breathed a small sigh of relief. Meanwhile, in Restinga Meanwhile, our little town was hosting a cycle race. Or rather, this was where the participants were finishing. It was clearly a very important cycle race; rough roads and general chaos were by no means the whole story. The Red Cross had such a strong presence at the finish line that the day before we had decided it must be some sort of Red Cross party, entirely unrelated to sport. The entire waterfront was lined with tents and tables, where the cyclists were eating something resembling pilaf, accompanied by pieces of an enormous cake. A stage had already been erected, along with a full set of instruments for a band. The atmosphere reminded me of that point at a biker festival when everyone has finished competing but has not yet managed to get drunk, so they sit eating shashlik and drinking beer while waiting for the evening show. The Show We went back to the boat to wait for the show. At about seven in the evening, things began stirring onstage. I think it was a sound check. Two bands played three songs each and disappeared. Laduska started dancing on the waterfront, while I calmly filmed her, when suddenly: “Mind you don’t lose the cap—don’t lose the cap!” A suspiciously familiar man detached himself from the crowd and headed towards us. “Do you remember me? You were looking for your camera cap at the museum today!” “Oh, yes, of course!” we said, taken aback. “Are you here on your own?” “No, my children are here too. I’m a musician, and I’m performing today. Well, not me. My children are. I’m a teacher. How old are you?” he asked Nastya. 13 “Thirteen,” Nastya replied, naturally forgetting that at the museum earlier that day she had been eleven and a half. “Oh, thirteen!” Our acquaintance could not have been more delighted. “Thirteen! The same as mine! They’re performing here onstage tonight at ten!” “At ten?! Isn’t that very late?” But Raúl (that was his name) assured us it was just right. Who can understand Canarians? Perhaps in the Canary Islands it really is customary for children to start singing at ten at night... After that, the maestro departed for the stage, repeating one last time that his band was the same age as our daughter. There was an hour and a half left until ten. During that time, the waterfront gradually emptied and the cyclists rode away. I even began to worry about the children: surely they were nervous, waiting and already tired—and there would be no one at the concert. They began, as one would expect, at 10:30. A girl Nastya’s age—the lead singer—and four musicians belted out Cranberries covers so brilliantly that we were spellbound. The entire population of the town attended the concert. They gave them a warm reception and shouted, “Encore!”... Friends Then some bearded men came on to sing. Everyone began dancing, and by the end of the performance the lead singer was so carried away that he could have given both Freddie Mercury and Luciano Pavarotti a run for their money. The indefatigable Raúl bounded over and took Nastya to meet his singers. “Here,” he said to the girls, “she’s thirteen too, and she came on a yacht!” The one who had been playing the keyboard immediately hugged our young sailor as if she were family, while the other, on learning that Nastya had no friends here, said, “Would you like me to be your friend?” Nastya would. Our farewell with Raúl was warm and emotional. We exchanged contact details and invited him to visit. “I’ll be sure to tell my wife that I met you here!” I imagine he did not forget to mention the fact that had delighted him so much: that our daughter was also thirteen... I don’t know what his wife thought, but I thought a clear conscience was worth more than the money saved. Although, if not for this encounter, my conscience would not have so much as twitched over a mere ticket. In all honesty, I thought that too ☺. So Mum was right: lying is wrong! And the captain told me not to sweat it. More about our travels around the island of El Hierro — The Kind of Places You See in Films , El Hierro. Europe’s Westernmost Lighthouse