She raised her eyebrows. “You’re the world’s greatest lover?” she said.
“Yes I am, and I want to teach people what it is that causes friction between the sexes.”
“Why? And what makes you think you’re qualified?”
“Long ago I became disturbed by an alarming malfunction that I observed in the glue that binds men and women, each to the other. The glue doesn’t stick and instead has hardened into a partition between the genders. Just as a lack of nutrition makes the body wither, so this missing capacity to bond causes a divide between male and female.
“I have waited years for some wise individual to inform the world of the true nature of the man-woman relationship but no one has come forward. Having spent the majority of my life engaged in the study of love, it seems that I alone have accumulated the expertise necessary to prevent an epidemic of loneliness and to ensure that humankind’s next major conflict will not be between the sexes. Therefore, I wish to pass on what I have learned in a lifetime during which I climbed to the very apex of that category of men who call themselves lovers. By this means I hope to educate others to the possibilities inherent in romance. After all, love is the book that outsells all others — it is the story we read whenever we wish to restart our life.”
“You never mentioned this when we were young.”
“No, I didn’t. I must confess that I did not begin my adulthood with this study in mind but the need for explanation grew as one-by-one I was exposed to love’s handmaidens — foolishness, exhilaration, passion, unvarnished emptiness, crushing loneliness and the hopeless beauty of unrequited obsession. It was only after I had gained considerable experience that I discovered that the single greatest truth in the realm of romance is also the single greatest puzzle — that most love is made without love which is akin to donning a blindfold before entering an art gallery, or inserting ear plugs before listening to a symphony.”
She clapped her hands. “I understand. You’re the world’s greatest lover in the same manner that Madame Tussaud was the world’s greatest sculptor. You intend to gather your romantic creations, replicate them, and display them publicly like wax copies in a museum.”
She did not seem to be taking me seriously but I ignored her derision. “Tell me,” I said. “Why did you choose me?”
“Adultery is just a way of saying there’s something more,” she said. “I was with a man I had nothing in common with. Our lives were a parade of maybe nots and wait and sees, unremarkable when said, but they added up to intolerable boredom. There was a cavity in our lives and it was filled with all the words we didn’t say. I wasn’t particularly attracted to you but you were my antidote. It was as simple as that.”
“Surely you once cared for each other. Why else would you marry?”
“Ah,” she said. “Marriage — there’s no venture that begins with so much optimism and which so often ends in tears. Even the restaurant business has a better success rate.”
“But he must have wanted you at one time,” I said.
“Oh, he did,” she replied. “But why would a man chase a bus he had already caught? No one desires what he doesn’t lack. It’s true that a woman loses her lover when she takes him as her husband.”
She looked at me closely and her eyes sparkled. “We’re both ancient,” she said. “But I wager we could still do it like sloths.”
Adriana looked startled and then she chuckled. “You didn’t take Felicia up on her offer,” she said.
She was right. Felicia’s comment about being ancient had unnerved me, not because I’m old, but because of what it implied about my future. I have reached the age where I no longer view death as a tragedy. The real tragedy is living long enough to run out of lovers because when you run out of lovers you run out of love, and when you run out of love you have outlived desire and with it your hopes and dreams.
My learning curve turned down and I psychologically crossed the threshold into old age when I noticed that I was no longer making plans to attend events that were well into the future. Gradually the time horizon shrank until I found myself, like a recovering alcoholic, living one-day-at-a-time. It’s not that I can’t think of the future. I can, but I feel that the risk of not seeing my plans come to fruition far outweighs the benefits that might accrue if they do. The exception is my birthday when I force myself to reminisce, when I take inventory of my aches and pains to try and discover what has changed from the previous year, and when I mentally create a straight line trajectory so I can determine how I will be feeling on my next birthday should I be so fortunate as to have one. My checklist includes memory loss, hemorrhoids, a tendency to repeat myself, an addiction to Viagra, arthritis, an enlarged prostate, chest pain, and a tendency to repeat myself. If I’d known the Good Lord was going to prickle the world’s patience by keeping me around so long, I would have been less fastidious about the perspiration caused by physical exertion.
Apart from my physical health, I annually record the changes that have occurred in the way I conduct my life. Whereas there was a time when, for amusement, I raced cars, soared in hot air balloons, climbed mountains, and canoed in dangerous rivers, I now calm my adventurous spirit with the occasional game of checkers with Adriana. Also I have my crocheting which, by the grace of the good Lord, I will finish before I pass on. I am making the shroud in which I intend to be buried and across which I have stitched my epitaph in brilliant colours: Gigantic in Love, Small in Misfortune.
Adriana says the message is all wrong and should read, “Gigantic in my own head and small where it counts.”
The conundrum is that as I get older and the world’s expectations of me become less I find that some things are more interesting. For example, the realm of love is not as much populated by young people as I had always believed. Rather, it is the domain of age and experience. Few in the newer generations understand that as performance becomes less important, love itself becomes a joint venture rather than a proprietorship. This means that the amount of liability that each partner assumes varies with the occasion which, in most circumstances, should optimize the experience for both.
Love and sex are twins joined at the navel, the offspring of desire and passion. Together they run the cosmos. Universal, immutable and omnipotent, they affirm life and are the antithesis of dying. I think Adriana agrees although she says my birthday list is like a lost cohort of whining complaints marching through the evening air in search of sympathy, and that she will be happy to put me out of my misery any time I so desire.
Felicia’s offer was made with neither love nor desire and, as such, it suggested that I had out-run my hopes and dreams, thus portending a future entirely too bleak to contemplate.
In Business
ADRIANA AND I WERE ENJOYING A post-dinner brandy in the garden at Cafe Dos Lunas after having made quick work of steak dinners. She was prattling but I called my attention back from its wanders in time to hear her congratulate Don Emilio on the quality of his cuisine.
“It’s a marvelous restaurant you run, Señor. We’re lucky to live nearby.”
He dismissed her praise with a friendly wave and I jumped into the momentary silence. “This may surprise you, my muttering meat-loaf, but I once ran a restaurant that was Don Emilio’s main rival.”
“You were a restaurateur? How is that possible for someone who can’t make toast without a recipe?”
“It was years ago and it’s partly the reason that you must pay for our dinners.”
“Please enlighten me. Considering how rarely you reach for your wallet, I thought that perhaps the sight of a bill caused temporary paralysis in both of your arms.”
“Very well. You are aware that I once had ample resources to feed even you, my Rubenesque pot roast. It was while I was married that my financial circumstance began its retreat, heading downhill faster than a race car with a tailwind.”
When I was young I didn’t really know my father, the nature of his business, or the source of his wealth. Therefore, when teachers
or fellow students enquired, I would improvise.
“Papa struck it rich in the South African gold fields.”
“My father’s a world famous brain surgeon.”
“He’s a retired movie star.”
The truth, I eventually discovered, was that my father had inherited some wealth but he had joined the ranks of the very rich by founding a chain of high-end eateries that were located in every major city in the Americas. I acquired them on his passing. You may remember — his name was Bernardo and the restaurants were called Bernardo’s Beef Bistros. The specialty was steak, ribs, and other beef dishes. They served everything from Filet Mignon to Chateaubriand and they were Papa’s pride and joy; he had built the enterprise starting with one hamburger stand on the malecon in Aguas Profundas.
When he first expanded, he had allowed his brother Alphonso to acquire a limited number of shares, which made him a minority stakeholder in the enterprise. Alphonso, in turn, had left his holdings to an assortment of kin who, until my father’s demise, had been content to cash their annual dividend cheques. Unfortunately, the dividends eroded steadily during my stewardship and were in danger of being washed away completely in the wake of my divorce.
My cousin, Alphonso Dos, had always been jealous of my nimble wit, carefree banter and ability to leap over pitfalls placed in my path by either man or nature. He was a lawyer and an animal lover who used his dividend cheques to finance and run a shelter for unwanted dogs. He owned a dachshund named Piggy who he had rescued from near starvation and a life of vagrancy. Piggy had thrived and was now extremely overweight. She never left Alphonso’s side and he, in turn, loved her like his own child.
When the dividends dried up and his dog shelter was threatened with closure, Alphonso called a meeting of my relatives and expressed concern at the rapidity with which my lifestyle was depleting the value of the company. The result was an application to the courts, citing my incompetence as a reason to nullify Father’s will.
To combat Alphonso’s legal assault and to rescue Papa’s legacy, I decided that the company needed a large injection of cash. The idea of work was abhorrent to me so I determined to find an easier means of acquiring money.
The waiter brought our bill and Adriana reached for it. “I’ll pay,” she said. “I see where this conversation is heading. What did you do?”
“I decided to patronize the racetrack. I mean, how difficult could it be to decide which horse will arrive first out of a field of only eight or ten? I determined that most who wager at the races analyse the wrong factors. They look at things like past records and track conditions.”
“What did you do, read jockey entrails?”
“Not at all. I approached handicapping very scientifically. I looked at pedigrees.”
“That makes sense. Knowledge of the sire and dam should provide clues as to how the offspring will perform.”
“Not the horse! I looked at the rider’s pedigree. I reasoned that if a jockey came from the right social background and parentage, then he would be a winner … and he would automatically transmit that attitude to the horse.
“I then went to a major track in the United States to test my system. Unfortunately the test exposed a factor that I had not considered. Though I had handicapped the race, I had not taken my own handicap into account.”
“I understand. The second coming could happen three times before you’d be able to deal with all your handicaps.”
“I’m serious. It happens that I have a mild form of dyslexia which caused me to bet on the wrong horse. For example, if I went to the betting window with the intention of putting two dollars on number ten, I would inevitably bet ten dollars on number two.”
It sounds like you needed to find a bookie.”
“That’s what I did, but my problem didn’t go away. If I wanted to place 5000 on number five in the third then I found myself telling the bookie to place 5000 on number three in the fifth. Soon, I had depleted all of my resources and a great deal of money that belonged to the company.”
“No wonder I have to buy dinner. You can’t keep numbers straight.”
“That’s not all. One afternoon I was bemoaning my luck to a gentleman I met in the bar. He told me a sure-fire way to recoup everything. He was a horse owner and had succeeded in getting an unknown named Hole-In-Your-Pocket into its first race against competition that had no chance. The young filly was extremely under-matched and the odds would be astronomical. With a large bet I could get back all that I had lost. I placed a mortgage on our corporate headquarters and withdrew the company’s complete line-of-credit. Then I wrote out my bet and gave it to the bookie.
“The race unfolded just like the man said. Hole-In-Your-Pocket led from the start and soon was so far ahead that there was no chance she would be caught by any horse in the field.”
“Did you get rich? How much did you win?”
“No. Unfortunately I lost everything.”
“How could that be?”
“In the homestretch, with less than 100 metres to go, the jockey fell off. The other nine horses finished while Hole-In-Your-Pocket trotted over and began grazing on the infield grass.”
“Is that when you lost the restaurants?”
“Not yet. I still had an ace up my sleeve. I had no choice but to repair the company’s ills so even though I hate work, I adopted a hands-on approach to running the restaurants. The task wasn’t easy as we were in the midst of a severe recession.
“My first and most crucial goal was to dam the flow of red ink. To attract new business and increase revenues, I implemented a brilliant strategy. I reasoned that many people spend a good deal of time dressing and primping before dining out. They then arrive at a restaurant only to be told that they have to wait for a table. I thought, why not combine the two events? Consequently, I remodelled the entrances to all of our restaurants to include barber shops, beauty parlours, showers, and changing rooms so that a customer could arrive directly from whatever sweaty activity that he or she chose, have a haircut and set, apply makeup, shave, shower and dress for dinner while waiting for a table.”
“Brilliant, you say, did you gain even one new customer?”
“A few. However, we found that many people made reservations, used our waiting area to dress, and then left to dine at other establishments. The cost of operating the new facilities actually accelerated the drain on the company.”
“Sounds bad. What did you do?”
“I decided that the red ink could only be contained by brutally slashing costs. An examination of profit and loss showed that by far the biggest expense was for the high quality beef that we served.
“Unfortunately, without beef there was no business. I could see only one way out of that dilemma. It was necessary to cut out the middleman. I immediately stopped all dealings with abattoirs and began buying only cattle not destined for slaughter. For the most part these were animals that were near or already dead so they could be acquired for little or no cost. Besides, I considered slaughterhouses and abattoirs to be cruel and inhumane. What better way to stop the unethical killing than to serve meat from animals that had already lost the ability to care for themselves?
“All this produced a dramatic improvement to our bottom line so I decided not to fight with a good thing. I expanded the operation to include other inexpensive meats that were freely available on the sides of highways. We added each new delicacy onto our menu as a Chef’s Surprise.”
“I don’t believe it. Did you get sued?”
“No, my gibbering gourmet. Business improved. We kept the source of our dinners to ourselves, reasoning that it gave us a competitive advantage. We also lowered our prices and had lineups everywhere but in a few locations where our new menu items were old hat.”
“Where would that be?”
“Some places had anticipated our strategy. We found competitors in Saskatchewan, Georgia, and Montana who carried items on their menus such as Flat Frog Flambé, Prairie Dog Paté, Dead and Gone Fawn, and St
iff Donkey Stew.”
“So, what did you do?”
“I thought, Why not meet this competition head on? We developed advertising campaigns in every country. Using a series of spots on radio we introduced each menu item with catchy ads that we thought people would remember. I’m sure you recall at least some of them. For a while they were on everyone’s lips.”
“Refresh my memory, meat man.”
“There were many, but a few should suffice. You must remember slogans such as:
Gopher and Grits — a southern treat with tiny feet … or, Supine Feline — found on Route 99.
How about Noodles and Poodles — Italian pasta with a French flavour … and, Fricassee of Chickadee — the best of Highway 63.
There was also Corgi on a Croissant — lost his bark to a fresh tread mark … and, last but not least, Roasted Toad — fresh from the road.”
“Stop before I get sick. Did you pull it off? Did the restaurants survive?”
“Yes, they did … and I almost did. Alphonso dropped his lawsuit when the dividends restarted. He even took to dining in the restaurant. Occasionally, he even brought important clients. All was going well until one evening when we were very busy and started to run short of menu items. Our practice, when this happened, was to send some of the restaurant staff out foraging. Normally, they returned with ample supplies and that night was no exception. We recovered with barely a ripple and were catering to a full house when suddenly there was an incredible wrenching wail from the dining room.
“I rushed in. There was cousin Alphonso, white as a sheet, sitting with a shocked expression on his face as he contemplated a cooked and glazed Piggy, resplendent on a silver platter holding a shiny red apple in her mouth.
“Alphonso redoubled his efforts and, aided by the resulting publicity, he quickly broke father’s will. He placed himself in command and then successfully sued for all of my other assets saying they had been acquired with money taken from the company. I was allowed to keep my house or I would have been left on the street with little more than I’d had on that fateful night when mother pushed me into this world. I have only one confession.”
The Greatest Lover of Last Tuesday Page 8