Love in Lowercase

by Francesc Miralles

  “So it seems, but don’t forget that, like the moon, people have a dark side. You’ll see what I mean in a moment. Do you have a watch?”

  I pulled up the sleeve of my jacket to demonstrate that I did. Valdemar nodded in approval.

  “Take note, then: he’s going to stand up at 1:24 exactly, and then he’ll come out that door humming.”

  I looked at my watch. It was 1:21. Although I had no idea what this was all about, I was curious to see if Valdemar could foresee the future. We sat there, in tense silence, waiting for the minute hand to reach the predicted time.

  Indeed, at 1:24 on the dot the redheaded man left a coin on the counter and walked out humming. I was mystified.

  “How did you know that? Is this one of your chess moves?”

  “No.” He chuckled behind his beard. “Simple observation. He’s been coming here for months, and he always does the same thing. No matter what time he gets here, he always stays exactly seventeen minutes, no more, no less. Then he leaves. I discovered this when I started timing him.”

  I couldn’t decide who had the most screws loose: the person who was being timed or the one doing the timing.

  “Do you know why he does that?” I asked.

  “How would I know?” His tone was irate. “I’m a physicist and I stick with the facts—which in themselves are already quite disconcerting. When you start paying attention to what’s going on around you, you discover that you’ve been blind to a whole world of signs. There’s nothing soothing about that, I can assure you.”

  “You mean things like the seventeen-minute customer?”

  “That’s nothing, a mere trifle compared with what I know and wish I’d never found out.”

  His words made me think of the prologue to The Dark Side of the Moon—which, for the first time, wasn’t on the table. I assumed it was inside his backpack under the table.

  “What did you discover?”

  “It all began on a Metro platform. I used to sit there every afternoon, as my doctor had prescribed.”

  “What? Which doctor?”

  “I had to see a psychiatrist for several months because of an accident. But he didn’t give me any medication: it was just behavioral therapy.”

  “I’m not following you. You had an accident?”

  “Yes.”

  Valdemar paused for a few seconds, trying to decide whether to tell me or not. In the end he said, “I have relatives in Ushuaia in Argentina. It’s the southernmost city in the world.”

  What on earth has this got to do with the Metro and the shrink? I kept my question to myself because I didn’t want to interrupt him.

  “When I was working at the university and had some money, I used to go there every winter, when it’s summer there. Well, it’s still cold, actually, as it’s close to Antarctica. It’s a wonderful place for exploring unspoiled landscapes, which is what I used to do during those vacations. I’d take the car to the end of the road and walk on from there with my camera. On one of these solitary excursions there was a one-hundred-foot precipice that I didn’t see, and I fell over the edge.”

  “One hundred feet? Nobody would survive a fall like that.”

  “Usually not, but I was lucky because a tree broke my fall. I must’ve hit more than one branch before I landed on the ground. I regained consciousness hours later next to a frozen river. My arm was broken, my lip was split, and there was no way of getting back to the trail leading to the car. There was a one-hundred-foot-high natural wall separating me from the way back. The only thing I could do was to follow the river and hope to find some inhabited place. I walked for fifteen hours, managing to forget about the pain, but then I reached a massive waterfall that was impossible to cross. It was getting dark and the temperature had dropped to ten degrees below zero. I certainly wouldn’t have survived the night in that place. I would have froze to death before anyone could find me. I was terrified. Suddenly, I saw a rescue boat that was searching for me in the distance. I began to scream like a madman, but they couldn’t hear me over the noise of the waterfall. It was almost dark and I could see the boat moving away. Then I had an idea that one might describe as brilliant.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Something very simple, which hadn’t occurred to me before. Miraculously, my camera wasn’t smashed, so I was able to fire off the flash a few times. They saw the signal and came to rescue me. It was incredible. It took me six months to recover. While I was trying to save my life I didn’t feel a thing, but as soon as I got to the hospital I started howling with pain. They had to drug me and knock me out.”

  “That’s not surprising,” I said. “The adrenaline kept you totally focused on what you had to do, like a cat pouncing on its prey. But . . . what’s all this got to do with the Metro platform?”

  “When I returned to Barcelona I had bad attacks of claustrophobia, which can occur several months after a trauma. I kept having this feeling of dread, of being trapped under a wall of rock. This was a problem because I had to take the Metro to get to the university but didn’t feel up to it.”

  “So you started seeing a behavioral psychiatrist?”

  “Yes, I did. He told me I didn’t need medication, so he devised a therapy of gradual exposure, which is very effective for dealing with phobias. It consisted of going down into the Metro and sitting on the bench with the waiting passengers. Only that. At first I had to do it for five minutes, or as long as I could bear being underground. I then kept gradually increasing the time until I could do it for half an hour. That was the day I got on the train and went to tell the psychiatrist I was cured.”

  “Happy ending.”

  “Not quite, because that was the first time I saw the dark side, not of the moon, but of people. If I hadn’t discovered that, things would be a lot easier for me now. I realized that some people on the platform never got on the train. They just stayed there. In normal conditions I wouldn’t have noticed this, because when you go underground it’s to get a train.”

  “Perhaps they were cold and taking refuge there.”

  “No. It was summer and as hot as hell. The air-conditioning was never working in that station. I can’t believe that anyone would stay down there for fun.”

  “What were they doing, then?”

  “That’s what I asked the psychiatrist. I told him what I’d seen. Do you know what he said?”

  “What?”

  “He said, ‘Perhaps they’re in therapy like you.’”

  Alice in the Cities

  When I reached my street, my head was pounding like a drum. As I was about to enter my building, I realized that, despite the cold, I didn’t want to go home. All that was waiting for me there was a cat and tasks to deal with—both my own work and what I had to do for Titus.

  Acting on a rebellious impulse, I pulled the key out of the lock, turned around, and walked off to the Verdi movie complex to see what they were showing.

  I was amazed to discover that they were screening Alice in the Cities, my favorite of all Wim Wenders’s films.

  It’s a very special kind of road movie. A German journalist, Philip Winter, is traveling the United States on an assignment for a magazine. He takes such a long time trying to find something to write about that his editor cancels the deal and Philip decides to return to Germany. At the airport he starts chatting with a young German woman with a nine-year-old daughter named Alice. Just before departure, the woman leaves the child in Philip’s care, promising to meet up with them later, but she fails to appear. After they land, Philip rents a car and he and Alice set out to find the only relative the child has in Germany: her grandmother. But Alice can’t remember her name or the town where she lives. The only clue she has is a photograph of a house that looks like millions of others in Germany, and could be anywhere. They set out on their desperate journey, showing the photo to people in every town, to no avail, as Philip�
��s money runs out.

  —

  I was in an emotional state when I walked out, perhaps because I’ve always felt like Alice in the cities, a waif hoping to find warmth somewhere.

  Before going home, I went to have a bite to eat in one of the many Lebanese restaurants in the neighborhood. I had a minibottle of wine and indulged in the fantasy that I was Philip Winter. I liked the man: he had a clear goal at least, which was to find the grandmother so he could free himself of the burden of the little girl. My goal was much less clear.

  —

  In the darkness of my living room I could see that my answering machine was flashing. I imagined that it was one of those messages urging one to change one’s telephone or water company, or whatever.

  But the voice in the message was deep and sweet. It said something wonderful.

  “Hello. We have your Barenboim CD. You can come to get it when it’s convenient for you. Thank you.”

  Prisoner of the Heart

  I’ve got an ace up my sleeve, and my luck’s going to change. It was seven in the morning, and I got out of bed with this thought. I had almost another hour to laze in bed and enjoy the remnants of my dream. But I was bursting with energy and wanted to start my day as early as possible.

  Before having a shower, I hit the PLAY button on my answering machine once more so I could hear Gabriela’s voice again. She sounded delicious, a combination of slightly husky and delicate. What a pity she was only talking about a CD by a Jewish pianist, but that could change anytime now because I had an ace up my sleeve. At least I thought I did.

  —

  After a tedious German-language class, I was free until the afternoon. Ready to risk everything, I didn’t want to wait a moment longer before going to see her.

  I didn’t have to go inside, because Gabriela was in the shopwindow, hanging up a poster about some new release. Since she had her back to me, I could gaze at the mane of hair rippling over her red pullover. She was thirty-seven and her beige corduroys showed off a very slim figure.

  When she first noticed I was looking at her—my nose was almost pressing against the glass—she looked slightly baffled, as if she didn’t know what I was doing there, but then she must have remembered my CD because she stepped out of the shopwindow and beckoned me inside with a big smile.

  After placing the double-CD box set of the Barenboim version on the counter, she asked, “Do you have children taking piano lessons?”

  I was taken aback. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “The Songs without Words are typical learner pieces.”

  “Oh, really?” I was embarrassed.

  “They all have to learn at least one. I didn’t get past ‘Spinning Song.’”

  “I don’t have children,” I told her.

  Then, as often happens in such cases, I did the dumbest thing I could do at the worst possible time. Without any explanation, I pulled the photo out of my pocket and placed it on the counter. Gabriela gave me a quizzical look, without paying any attention to the photo. She was clearly wondering why I was showing her a picture of some little girls at a ballet class when I’d just told her I didn’t have any children.

  Anyway, having gotten to this point, the only thing I could do was to see it through to the end.

  “That little girl at the back of the line, do you know who she is?”

  Gabriela picked up the photo carefully, and the expression in her eyes changed from uneasiness to bewilderment. I think I even glimpsed a tear.

  “That’s me.”

  Piano Lesson

  András Schiff plays the “Venetian Boat Songs” as if they are serious pieces to be performed in concert halls. His version is slow and decadent, and he uses the pedal to heighten their languor.

  Barenboim’s recording, however, is truer to the original spirit of the pieces. Listening to his version of the songs makes me think of parlors in which well-brought-up young ladies practice on their pianos.

  Schiff’s “Venetian Boat Songs” are extremely passionate and sentimental, as if he’s about to die after every bar. The first piece lasts two minutes and forty-one seconds, while Barenboim’s version of the same song takes only one minute and fifty-two seconds. The message is clear. Daddy’s girl, who’s trying to finish her class as soon as possible, races through the exercise because she wants her afternoon snack.

  I believe I was having all these thoughts—as I switched CDs after each piece—in order to protect myself. It’s easier to concoct theories about Mendelssohn’s piano works than to face certain facts. I was probably trying to put off any analysis of what had happened in the shop as I hadn’t had the time to digest it all. Because, once again, something completely unexpected had occurred.

  “This is for you,” I’d said to Gabriela, handing her the photo.

  She was astounded. “For me, really?”

  “You can keep it. I don’t think my sister will notice it’s gone.”

  Then came the bombshell.

  “Well, can I invite you for coffee, as a way of saying thank you?”

  I couldn’t believe my ears, couldn’t speak, until she added, “I’ll be free tomorrow at two. Can you be here then?”

  I nodded. That was all I could do. Well, I believe I also said, “I’ll be here.”

  Moon Dust

  Wednesday began with a jolt. I was so agitated that I’d hardly slept a wink all night, and when the alarm went off I jumped out of bed like a jack-in-the-box.

  Oddly enough, Mishima didn’t follow my lead. He was fast asleep on the bed.

  “No problem,” I told him. “If I were you, I’d do the same.”

  I showered and got dressed very quickly, although there was absolutely no reason to hurry. In the blink of an eye I was on the street, heading for the Metro station. It was quite a warm day, but with every step I took I was feeling colder and colder. An icy chill was moving up my legs and making my whole body tremble.

  Then I realized that I wasn’t wearing any shoes. I’d left home in my socks and gone too far to turn back and put some shoes on. I’d be late for my nine o’clock class, and the shoe shops didn’t open till ten. What on earth could I do?

  All of a sudden the sky went dark—as if there had been a solar eclipse—and a familiar buzzing sound resounded in the city, where I suddenly seemed to be the only person walking around.

  —

  When I opened my eyes I was in bed. I switched off the alarm.

  I’d just had what’s called a “false awakening.” You dream you’re awake and doing exactly what you’d be doing if you really had woken up. You remain under the impression of being awake until some strange detail—like being on the street without your shoes on, or a solar eclipse, or a buzzing sound—tells you that this can’t really be happening—at least not in the waking world.

  The annoying thing is that, once you understand what’s gone on, you have to get out of bed and start the entire process all over again.

  —

  After finishing my morning classes I had to wait only two hours before I would see Gabriela again. I started feeling nervous. Without knowing where I was going, I crossed the road.

  I needed to find something to distract me until two o’clock came around. It was a little early, but there was a chance that Valdemar would be sitting on the terrace, so I headed in that direction, without giving it a second thought.

  —

  None of the tables were occupied. I sat at the middle one—I’m a creature of habit—and asked for my aperitif as I basked in the February sun.

  I had hoped Valdemar would be there, so that his talk of lunar studies and nostalgia for the future would transport me far away from myself—which is exactly what I needed. However, the appearance of a familiar figure provided an unexpected source of entertainment.

  It was the man in black who, according to Valdemar, always spent
seventeen minutes at the bar.

  Since I had nothing better to do, I decided to find out for myself whether the previous confirmation of his theory had been pure chance and the whole story was the product of Valdemar’s overheated imagination. When the man took his seat at the bar and asked for a beer it was 12:43 on the dot. That meant he had to leave at one o’clock. He’d made it easy for me.

  I played the detective, monitoring his movements and keeping an eye on my watch. The redheaded man took a couple of sips of his beer, leafed through a sports paper, and lit a cigarette. He put it out half smoked, had another sip of beer, and kept reading listlessly. The seventeen minutes were about to end, but the man didn’t seem to be in the slightest hurry.

  When the minute hand was vertical, a sudden ringing noise made me jump. It was the phone at the bar.

  As the waiter reluctantly answered, the man in black left a coin on the bar and rushed out, as if awakened by the ringing.

  Seventeen minutes. It was true.

  However, I started wondering whether the man would have done the same thing if the phone hadn’t rung. But my musings were interrupted by another surprise.

  “I think it’s for you,” the waiter said, handing me the cordless phone.

  I was baffled. Who could possibly know I was there? And how did the waiter know who I was? He didn’t even know my name. Two words from the caller, however, put an end to the mystery.

  “Valdemar speaking.”

  Well, it couldn’t have been anyone else. Yet I was surprised that he’d phoned instead of coming to the bar as he usually did at midday.

  “Is something wrong?”

  The noise in the background made his voice sound as if it was coming from another planet. After a moment’s hesitation, he answered, “Yes.”

  “Could you give me a few more details?”

  “Having some problems. But it’s not something I can talk about on the phone.”

  “We can talk about it this afternoon. Here’s my number—”