algún día by tomás del real

“ALGÚN DÍA” by Chilean singer songwriter Tomás del Real is easily one of his most accessible and enjoyable songs. Instantly satisfying, the lead single off his forthcoming album Jakobsoni, is three-and-a-half minutes long and finds del Real expressing all his strengths: gentle, playful melodies, deft guitar work, and that almost half-whispered conversational singing style of his, as if he was confiding in you his most important feelings and thoughts on a walk at night.

The image of the typewriter in the video for the single evokes the literary tradition in pop music and is apt. Think of stories about Bob Dylan and The Band’s The Basement Tapes, where the lyrics were composed line by line on a typewriter in the house they shared, or even The Beatles’ “Paperback Writer” or “Eleanor Rigby.” While sounding almost nothing like McCartney, it could be said that del Real has similar sentiments, a fondness for novelistic writing, atmospherics that make a song glow at its edges, finding inspiration in the everyday.

Though the song glides along as easily as a ghost, del Real said that it even challenged him to play it. “It has this very complex fingerpicking that I heard in my head at first, but couldn’t figure out,” he says. “It took months for it to become natural.” The lyrics also emerged over time and the whole composition came together during a week of self-imposed exile in Berlin.

“I was able to take a break and finish up four of the songs on the new album,” del Real recalls.

“Algún día” reflects on existential themes of life and death, the temporary and timeless.

Algún día de erosión / Nuestras almas se evaporarán / Al encontrar otra forma en vez de despertar / Quizá, me han de contar

Which translates in English to something like

One day, through erosion / Our souls will evaporate / Finding another way instead of waking / Perhaps, they will tell me.

Finding another way instead of waking;

“I think time and the ephemerality of things is a topic that’s on my mind quite often,” he says. “I was searching for the most vulnerable aspects of myself while writing this song, the real spots, for something valuable.”

The single was recorded in Viljandi, Estonia, where del Real has lived for the past few years and produced with Javier Barría, who added the synths and other instrumentation. “Algún día” was mixed and mastered by del Real’s long-time collaborator Jorge Fortune in Chile. It is available on all streaming platforms, including Spotify, as of 31 July. The new album Jakobsoni will follow soon. It will be the fourth record del Real has put out in Estonia, following 2022’s collaboration with Lee Taul Don’t Chase the Lizard, 2023’s Principios de Declaración and 2024’s Notas Rotas. Despite this prolific output, del Real says that he battles writer’s block all the time, even with “Algún día”.

“This one has been like cold brew,” he says. “Drip by drip. It took a while, but it came out right.”

red

IN THOSE OLD STORIES of postwar golden age New York, much of the intelligentsia was same-sex oriented, and it was not unknown for up-and-coming writers to submit to the advances of a powerful editor or publisher, so long as they got a book deal in the end. This was not playing out in my mind as I was invited to spend the night at Nelson’s house uptown, but it became evident that evening when, after showing me to my room, the friendly publisher decided to invite himself into bed with me. “Aha,” he said, “Now we can get down to business.” The sensation of a sinewy male monkey body brought on states of revulsion, gloom, despair.

I ran away, naturally. In my pajamas. Can you imagine me, fleeing like that on West 81st Street?

I wandered for some time like that, through the city. I wandered through other cities. I admired the commotion, the jackhammers, the cranes. Glass doors that sensed your presence and opened before you. Sandy depressions that were becoming parking garages. Eventually I fell in love again, this time with my friend’s wife, who had long sumptuous red hair. It was a lion’s mane of crimson. You should have seen how it spread across the white linen sheets, how the red of her hair flowed into the texture of a red blanket. She was a 1930s pre-Code Venus.

But I could never tell her I loved her. I could only say something like, “My favorite color is red.”

“My favorite color is red.” It wasn’t really. But I would whisper it in her ear, beneath her thick hair, at any number of dull dinner parties in Tallinn’s Old Town, while her husband was getting a refilled martini or gin and tonic. He worked at SEB and liked to talk about mortgages and interest rates. She was neurotic and dangerous enough to keep me interested. I was hooked.

One day we were driving away from a boutique hotel. Miss Red was at the wheel. It was a cool, autumn day, the leaves were turning orange and purple. A group of kindergartners began crossing the street, but she was so tormented by the fact that she had again betrayed her husband, that she almost ran the kids over. Before she mowed down the children, I grabbed the wheel, took control of the vehicle, pressed on her leg to slow the car. I reached out of the window, waved a frightened boy across the street. The little boy gave a stunned and shocked look. He was wearing a sweater and bowtie. The boy’s look said it all. “The adults are maniacs.”

ticket

IT WASN’T THAT I didn’t have a ticket. It was that I had the wrong ticket, or a ticket that had been purchased for a different journey. It was a ticket north. But I was lost somewhere in the city. This is how I found myself a scofflaw in the Stockholm T-bana, the underground metro, hiding out from the dreaded Storstockholms Lokaltrafik inspectors, in their blue uniforms. On the run from the law, on the lam so to speak. I hid out in a cave in the metro that was inhabited by other scofflaws and dissident thinkers. Difficult characters who had never purchased a metro ticket in their lives. But a matronly inspector found me and dragged me out by my feet.

“You have to pay the fine!” she said. “But I had a ticket,” I yelped. “It was just the wrong ticket.”

The wrong ticket. During the dragging, one of my upper teeth came loose. I could see it fall out and plink on the train platform, like a 5 kronor coin. I retrieved my tooth, tried to fit it back into place, and slipped past the SL ticket inspector to make an escape. But the tooth was still crooked. It would never settle on its own, it would never look like a legitimate tooth.

I had to find a Swedish dentist, one who could properly reinstall it, as it were. I found one in Södermalm, a pleasant, middle-aged blonde dentist in a pastel blue shirt, who said she could do it and it would be subsidized by the state. It would all be covered by the Allmänt tandvårdsbidrag. But first I would have to take off my clothes. “Is that because you don’t want to soil my clothes with spurting blood?” I asked. “No,” said the dentist. “Now, strip for me!”

I’m not sure where those hands of hers went during the dental surgery. Maybe I enjoyed it? Not long after that, I arrived back in Tallinn. I was walking up Niguliste Street on a cool summer evening. The Green House Cafe had opened up a new location there, and the windows were all open. Inside, the bustle of a warm kitchen, shadowy figures in aprons carried trays, the metallic clanging of the espresso machine. Ingredients were arrayed along the window, including a bowl of sweet almonds soaking in warm milk, likely destined for a pastry.

“Oh, it’s so nice to have all your teeth,” I said to myself. I took a sweet almond from the milk bowl. It dissolved on my tongue. When I looked up again, Mai was there. She was wearing her apron and peering at me with those huge eyes of hers. She climbed through the cafe window and soon we were kissing below the church. It felt good to feel the loving heft of Mai in her black shirt. “Are you really sure you want to do this?” I asked her. Mai looked back at me with that colorful baker’s hat on her head and said, “But I’m crawling on top of you. Of course I do.”

beds

THESE WERE planter beds and they were also single beds. Each measured 90 by 200 centimeters. The frames were made of white wood. They were arranged head to foot in a row, like sarcophagi in an ancient Egyptian tomb. Indeed, the room could have been discovered in the Valley of the Kings. All was dark, an impenetrable blackness that seemed painted on.

But it was night, and we were tired. We had missed the afternoon ship from Kasepää and we had no place else to stay. The beds were at a friend’s house. He had turned these single beds into small, productive gardens. Green plants sprouted from the rich, black soil. If you pulled back the earth, though, like a blanket, a perfectly fine bed could be discovered within. Crisp, linen sheets. Two fluffy pillows. All you had to do is pull back the topsoil and slide right in.

My friend Madis had experience with such beds. He was already tucked in, wearing one of those old-fashioned nightcaps. It was green, with a dangling pom-pom. He looked like Ebenezer Scrooge in A Christmas Carol, only a younger, sleepier, happier one. When I climbed into my planter bed, some of the plants fell onto the floor. The floor was as black as the room around it. “Don’t worry about that,” said Madis, yawning from his planter box bed. “I don’t think our old friend Holbrooke cares so much about the soil or plants. Let’s all just get some sleep.”

house

I WAS INVITED to her house. Or was I? Either way, I went there, out of curiosity, out of instinct. I assumed her husband was away. Would she have invited me over if he was there? What would that have been like, some conversation, tea, and potato salad? Maybe I had it all wrong. Maybe this had all taken place in my mind. Maybe there had never been an invitation.

It was an old wooden house, situated at the top of a hill. Shadowy, sheathed in long planks of dark wood. Built at the turn of the last century. The interior stairwell was also shady and dusty, but cool and not unpleasant. This is where she had been living. This was her zone. She came up and down these stairs every day now, and her children trailed her, or she went running after them. Sometimes her husband’s heavy, plodding strides could be heard in the creak of these steps as he returned from work. I ascended them gently, lightly. Soon I was at the top.

From my perch at the top of the steps, I could hear her feet on the floor. She had a soft and deliberate way of walking. She never hurried anywhere. Hers was the unhurried motherly life. They swept one way across the floor, then she returned from what she was doing. Was she waiting? I could see her in the summer light. She would stand in her kitchen looking at me.

Around their door were piles of toys and children’s clothing. Colorful rubber boots, raincoats dangling from hooks and nails. But were the children at home too? From somewhere in the house, I heard the sound of a little boy. He was talking to his mother or calling for her. Was it the same boy or someone else’s son. I crouched there in the darkness. I breathed quietly. I wasn’t sure about any of it. But hadn’t I been invited? Maybe she was waiting for me to knock.

From somewhere in the house, I heard the boom of a man’s low voice. Was it his? This I also couldn’t say. I didn’t want to find out. I fled down the stairs. Outside it was summer, that tired, drawn-out heat that sneaks in by mid-July. Some laborers were at work at a neighboring villa. They were keeping the grounds and watched as I ran along the crest of a fieldstone wall. They saw me leap. They saw me run off down the street, hail a passing car, get in, and drive away.

murder

SHE WAS MURDERED in the night. At what time, I cannot say. If Hercule Poirot were called on, I am sure he would deduce that it was somewhere between 3 AM and 4 AM, and all while munching on an apple and leaning against a desk in the study. This was not that kind of story.

It was Klaudia who called me up and showed me the victim. She was dark-haired, with Mediterranean features, although I was told she was purely Estonian. Maybe one of those creamy-colored Saaremaa islanders, the ones with the shipwrecked Portuguese forefathers. I didn’t know how they killed her but she looked quite peaceful lying there, like an old pillow.

It was also Klaudia who told me that I had to dispose of her body. This I did, without asking any questions. It’s hard to explain how this happens, but when you are standing over a corpse in the early morning hours, you just don’t start interrogating people. I loaded her up into my car, took her out to the moor. The green muck of those bogs swallowed the girl up and she’s still there, I suppose. The world sucking on her bones. A feast for the microbiota of the moor.

When I got back to the spa hotel, Klaudia was lounging around in her bathrobe like nothing was amiss. She looked beautiful, with her flame of blonde hair. She was inspecting her pedicure. “Don’t you feel guilty at all?” I asked her. “What for?” she shrugged. “She was annoying. Ever since she took over as our manager, Miss Jänes has been on the war path. She’s never satisfied.” “You didn’t have to kill her. You could have just joined another PR agency.”

Klaudia walked over to me and pressed a fingernail against my chest. She said, “Don’t forget that you are in on it too! If we get caught, you’re also going to jail.” I felt overpowered by guilt at that moment, awash in sorrow. I knew that it was true, what she said. But I never intended to become an accessory to murder. It was just another one of those things that happened in life. A coincidence. You miss a train, you stumble on the sidewalk, you dispose of a murdered and despised PR manager in an adjacent swampland. These things do happen, you know.

I looked over at Klaudia as she fixed her pedicure, blowing on her toes to dry them. How could a woman be so beautiful and so cold-hearted and remorselessly evil? I closed my eyes then. I clenched them shut and hoped that when I reopened them, Miss Jänes would still be alive and I would still be innocent. But when I opened them, I wasn’t at the spa hotel at all. I was standing in line at a ticket booth in a Finnish bus station. It was winter and there were restless Finns in jackets queueing behind me. But where was I even going? Something –järvi? Something –koski? Somewhere, anywhere, so long as it was far away from that bitter killing.

neighbors

THE HOUSE WAS located in the middle of town, built in the contemporary style that was popular in the 1970s. There were three levels, with lofts and staircases that led every which way, and there were so many doors and rooms that I didn’t notice two women and their families move in. They were somewhere in the house. I could hear them talking to each other and to their children at all hours. There were grandparents there, other visitors, next of kin. But even though they had been living in my house for days, I never saw my new neighbors.

I took care after that though. I made sure not to leave my razor by the sink, for instance, and to always put the toilet lid down just in case. The milk was put away after it was taken out and I left my shoes neatly by the door. I didn’t want to anger anyone or overstep some boundary.

Who knew what they were capable of.

Then one night I left my noisy, haunted home and went to a party. It was just a few days past midsummer, the sky was bright. There were groups of people standing in circles and drinking wine. Esmeralda was there too, listening quietly, running her silver-ringed fingers through her dark hair. She seemed to be the obelisk around which the world turned. When I saw Esmeralda there, I felt a powerful vibration, frightening and terrific in its intensity. Just this small, solemn girl standing there. She didn’t have to say a word. But for me, the sky turned blackpurple then; there was a howling wind. I didn’t even dare to speak to her and I left the party immediately.

There were a lot of people out for a stroll that night by the riverbank. They walked beside me while I sulked about Esmeralda and my invisible guests. All these women. How long could I avoid them? Maybe if I kept walking this way, Esmeralda would manifest at the end of the trail. Swim up ahead. But who should happen to cycle by but Jack Diablo, an old school chum and the recent author of a bestselling book about sports betting. Diablo was a round and happy-looking character. He spread out a blanket on the ground that was printed to look like a chessboard. “Let’s check the odds,” he said, “see what we can see.” Jack Diablo looked up at me as he arrayed the pieces across the board. He smiled. But the wind was too strong and the pieces would not stand upright. Jack frowned. He said, “We’ll have to try some other time.”

At home, I could still hear the voices of my new neighbors. Somewhere two floors down, a little boy was whispering, “Mama.” It was early morning now, the dark storm having long since blown through. I curled up beneath the window as the gray light streamed through and stared up at the ceiling. This house, this house, this house, I thought. Will it ever go back to sleep?

the sea

I COULD SEE the sea when I emerged from the forest, a darker shade of blue beneath a bright blue horizon. To get there I would have to walk through yellow rapeseed fields. There was a fine path straight through but along the way I became very tired, paused by an old tree stump, and fell into a deep sleep. I half expected to wake up back in bed in my home, but when my eyes again opened, I was still on that same path and there were flies buzzing around my face.

I stood up, dusted myself off, wiped the sweat from my eyes and brow, and continued my pilgrimage to the sea. As I neared the coast, I came to a series of old farmhouses, the kinds that are common out on the islands here, with their thatched sea reed roofs. A farmer was in a nearby field, but he paid me no attention as I walked across his property toward the seaside. It was a hot day, and I was looking forward to jumping into those cool and soothing waters.

I walked along a fence and then through a barn, until I came to the dock on the sea. But, to my surprise, there was no beach there, no shallow inlet. The sea just churned beneath a white boat, deep and dark, and I lost any desire to dive into it. It was too vast, it was too heavy, too capable of swallowing everything up. So I just stood there watching it for some time alone.

childhood

IN JUNE 1970, Led Zeppelin played their only concert ever in Iceland. Most of the country was on strike, but at the last moment enough volunteers were found to have the show, which was held at the Laugardalshöll, a venue that hosted handball events. Their set list included “Heartbreaker” and “Dazed and Confused.” They only spent 24 hours in the land of the midnight sun, but letters and paternity suits followed. “Dear Robert,” an Icelander named Sigríður allegedly wrote Plant. “Maybe you would like to meet your son, Snorri Robertsson.”

I found an old magazine about the show at Laugardalshöll in 1970 at an antique shop on Austurstræti and brought it with me to the music studio where Björk was recording her new album. She had been suffering from writer’s block (or singer’s block?) and had been in a funk for many weeks. But seeing the black-and-white photos of Led Zeppelin’s stay in Iceland piqued her curiosity and she sat there in silence in the studio’s lounge, paging through the magazine. “Look, there,” she said, pointing out a man with a shaggy beard in a loose shirt. “It’s my mother’s old boyfriend, Sigurður Guðmundursson! You know, I forgot all about that guy.”

These grainy memories of the old days helped to take her mind off the recording process. Soon Björk was jotting down lyrics onto a notepad and holding my hand. “I got a new idea,” she said. The sweetest moment was when she noticed, in a tiny photo, a small girl with dark hair being led by the hand across the tarmac to where Led Zeppelin’s plane had landed. She was not yet five years old when this had happened and had no recollection of having been there. “This is so magnificent,” she said, staring at the photo. “You just gave me my childhood back.”

dukkha and apta

MARJATTA WAS ONCE THERE, standing in line. This was the unwritten part, with no context really. She was wearing a red dress and talking to someone. It was like a scene from a documentary. The light framed her in the stairwell; her brown hair was unusually shiny. A block of text typed out in Times New Roman was superimposed beside her, so that you could read it against the wall, something like a biography. All of it was known to me, but there had been some kind of glitch, because two words were out of place, the Sanskrit words dukkha (दुःख) and apta (आप्त), which I later learned, upon reviewing old library dictionaries, meant something like “suffering” and “reliable.” Reliable suffering? Was that what she embodied?

Truth be told, the last time I had seen her, she had been standing in the frozen foods section of a supermarket, talking in an almost frightened tone to a lanky man who bore an uncanny resemblance to the actor Dharminder Phillipe and was all dressed in green. She was talking to Dharminder the way women talk to their men: “And don’t forget this … ” and so on. Dharminder just stood there tall and strong and somewhat boyish. Maybe women like men like that, men like Dharminder, men who are quiet as a rule but make the occasional ironic joke and in the end lift some box over there, or bring a package here, men who pay, who assist, and who don’t ask questions. After seeing Marjatta with Dharminder, I forgot all about her. I mean, did I really want to stand beside her in a supermarket, hearing her say, “Please don’t forget”?

The thought did occur to me that I should go see her perform on the summer stage. To be her admirer. Just the idea of admiring someone amused me. Whether I went or not, I’d probably be seeing her somewhere and I would feel good after seeing her because I always felt good after seeing Marjatta. Whatever it was that she offered me, it was at least something else. She loved a cup of masala chai. She was masala chai. That’s all she ordered. Not a latte, never espresso; masala chai. Once I saw her order it at the bar, and thought, but only to myself and happily: you are my dukkha and my apta. In the winters, she drank it warm. In the summers, with ice.