Love in Lowercase

by Francesc Miralles

  He cut me off. “I told you, I can’t talk on the phone. Tell me where you live and I’ll come to you.”

  I rather reluctantly gave him my address. Then I changed the subject. “You sound as if you’re miles away, as if you’re calling from the moon.”

  “In a way I am.” His tone suddenly relaxed. “It’s not quite time yet, but I’m preparing for the launch.”

  “What will life be like on the moon?” I welcomed this change of topic. “I mean, when we have to flee from Earth and discover that we are immortal and all that.”

  “Oh, there are a few technical glitches that have to be sorted out first. But nothing too serious.”

  “Are you talking about the journey itself?”

  “No, all that’s sorted. The technology’s good enough to get us there. The problem is the regolith.”

  “Regolith? What on earth is that?”

  “It’s moon dust, which is caused by the impact of meteoroids. The particles are so abrasive that within a few days it had disabled the astronauts’ instruments. That’s why nobody’s had the bright idea of building hotels on the moon.”

  “Because of the regolith?”

  “Yes, it would corrode any building they might put up there. It’s like having sandpaper everywhere. The astronauts were saved by the asbestos in their space suits. Now there’s a fantastic material . . .”

  All of a sudden I realized that the waiter was standing in front of me with his arms crossed. “Hey man, you’re hogging the phone. It’s supposed to be for work purposes only.”

  Mustache in the Sky

  I had fifteen minutes to walk a distance of less than a hundred yards, so I headed off to the music shop in slow motion.

  I was strangely aware of details that I didn’t usually notice: the smell of pasta boiling in a saucepan, a puddle shaped like a fish, the smudge on a baby’s forehead, the murmuring sound of distant trees . . .

  I stopped to look in the shopwindows, whiling away the time and aware of the butterflies in my stomach.

  I reached my destination a little early, three minutes to two. Nevertheless, I entered the shop.

  Gabriela was talking softly to a fat man, who was showing her a catalog. I stood behind her without saying anything. The cashier seemed to have left already.

  Maybe I should have waited on the street—or the salesman was making her edgy—because Gabriela interrupted her conversation and said to me, “Wait for me at the café. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  “Which café?”

  “Do you know the Kasparo?”

  “Yes, it’s not far from here.”

  I didn’t need to be asked twice and went off to the famous Kasparo, a café with tables under an arcade in a quiet square.

  It must have been ten years since I’d been there, but the atmosphere seemed more or less the same: young people who had aged prematurely because they wanted to live too fast, recycled old hippies, the odd sidetracked tourist who’d come across the place by chance.

  It wasn’t a particularly warm day, but there were a few solitary souls having the daily special outside.

  I found a free table next to a column and hastened to strike the right pose: man waiting for the woman he loves; first date. It’s difficult to seem natural in such a situation, so I asked for a coffee and looked up. Just then, two especially fluffy clouds came together to create a great big mustache in the blue sky.

  I watched it for ages, as if I’d gone there with no other purpose but to observe clouds moving. When I emerged from my reverie—which had kept anxiety at bay—I looked at my watch and it was almost two thirty.

  I started to panic. Somehow I knew what was at stake. I wasn’t prepared for a world without Gabriela, or without the illusion of Gabriela at the very least.

  I was getting increasingly desperate when I saw her approaching the square. I had a few seconds to enjoy the lightness of her step, her feet appearing to glide just above the ground. Her hips were swaying under a green woolen dress that showed off her curves. Before she reached my table, a gust of wind lifted her hair and swung it around across her lips. Gabriela deftly brushed it back and said, “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  She sat in the chair facing mine.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve been watching the clouds.” What a terrible way to start. I was annoyed with myself but couldn’t leave the matter at that because it would have sounded even worse. “Do you know what? While I was waiting for you two long clouds joined up to make a mustache in the sky.”

  Gabriela looked at me as if she had some kind of weirdo sitting across from her. Then she took a deep breath and, with an expression that had abruptly turned serious, asked, “What do you want from me? I don’t even know who you are.”

  I was stunned into silence. I’d planned to tell her lots of things before confessing what I felt for her—that is, if I was capable of doing so. Now I was facing her final verdict without having been given a chance to submit a single piece of evidence.

  “Well,” I said, trying to sound offhand, “I discovered a photograph of you as a little girl, and I gave it to you. After that, you invited me to have coffee with you. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

  “Of course. What I want to know is why you brought me the photo. It’s just a coincidence that your sister went to ballet classes with me, so what’s it to you? There are hundreds of strangers in our family photo albums, and we don’t all run around trying to find them.”

  Damn it! She’s not making it easy for me. My only chance was to resort to my university lecturer spiel in an attempt to keep her at the table. If she got up and left, all would be lost.

  “I’ll tell you if you’ll just listen carefully for a couple of minutes. You and I met when we were six or seven. Something special happened between us, even if you don’t remember it, so the little girl in the photo remained engraved in my memory all these years. When our paths crossed at the traffic light, I recognized you, and that made a huge impression on me. It doesn’t often happen that you recognize someone you knew as a child. You looked at me twice, first as we passed and then when you reached the pavement on the other side, before you continued on your way. That led me to believe that perhaps you’d experienced something similar.”

  “It’s true, I did look at you,” she confessed, brushing her hand through her hair, “but not because I remembered anything special. It was because you were walking around the streets in your pajamas.”

  “How did you notice that?” I suddenly felt embarrassed. “I had my trousers and overcoat on top of them.”

  “It was easy to spot because your coat was open. That’s why I turned around to look again.” Now she smiled for the first time.

  “Then the whole thing’s been a misunderstanding.” I was crushed. “But the photo proves that you are the person I remembered. Even if you don’t recall what happened, you must accept that much.”

  “That’s true. But what’s the point of digging up something that happened thirty years ago? People grow up, change, and forget about each other. Otherwise, life would be impossible, don’t you think?”

  I was on the brink of tears, something that hadn’t happened to me since I was a teenager. I decided to put an end to the meeting before I embarrassed myself any further, but Gabriela delivered one last blow.

  “You must be very lonely if you feel the need to rummage around in such a distant past.”

  While I signaled to the waiter to bring the bill, I tried to find the perfect riposte and put an end to the matter in a more or less dignified way. Nothing came to me.

  Gabriela looked at me with concern, as if she suddenly felt responsible for my pain, but I had just experienced her contempt and wasn’t willing to face her pity as well. I stood up and, leaving her still sitting at the table, said, “I’m sorry for bothering you.”

  As I walked away I fel
t as if I’d aged thirty years.

  Buddha’s Consolation

  The wound was so deep I had to go somewhere to lick it in order not to bleed to death. I got home convinced I’d burned all my boats. The gondoliers would have to sing their songs somewhere else, for I had no wish to hear them again.

  With a newly hardened heart I rushed up to Titus’s apartment to immerse myself in the chapter that was entirely appropriate to my situation: “Treasures of Solitude.”

  On Titus’s bookshelves I found two American books on the matter and thought they’d contain a few clues: Party of One: The Loner’s Manifesto and Celebrating Time Alone: Stories of Splendid Solitude. It’s incredible how books like these can make a virtue or obligation out of necessity.

  The former referred to some well-known loners like Newton or Michelangelo, who “were never part of the choir” and were fine with that. The latter was more concerned with the specific benefits of solitude. I made a few notes to refer to when I was writing the chapter:

  Living alone is the new millennium’s predominant lifestyle.

  It favors one’s own priorities and decision making.

  It offers a maximum degree of freedom.

  It puts time at our own disposal.

  It helps us to find meaning in our own lives.

  It brings us closer to self-knowledge and godliness.

  I had to leave it at that as I was getting depressed. I could see now that accepting maxims like this was akin to burying myself alive, just when—in spite of everything else—I’d stuck my head out into the world. I’d blown my chance of being with Gabriela, but I wasn’t yet ready to don the hermit’s robes.

  There’s a whole world out there, even if I don’t always understand it.

  Comforted by this thought, I made dinner, gave Mishima some cat food and fresh water, and did the dishes as I listened to the radio. Yes, I was probably something of a hermit, but I was prepared to come down from the mountain.

  I decided that, however much it hurt, I’d banish any hopes I had about Gabriela and embark on a new path, no matter where it would take me. I’d let those who are tired of living enjoy the treasures of solitude. I needed to get started.

  I got into bed and started reading Buddha’s soothing words. One page, chosen at random, comforted me in my despair before I dropped off to sleep.

  Let us be thankful, for if we have not learned a lot today,

  we have at least learned a little; and if we have not learned a little,

  we have at least not fallen ill; and if we have fallen ill,

  we have at least not died, and for this we are thankful.

  IV

  Words to Be Invented

  Nocturne

  Several days went by and nothing happened. I was waiting for Valdemar’s visit, but there was no sign of him. He also failed to turn up at the bar. It was as if he’d vanished into thin air.

  I spoke with Titus on the phone a couple of times, and the conversation usually proceeded along predictable lines. He’d say he was recovering slowly but surely; he’d ask about Amalfi’s book; I’d exaggerate the amount of work I’d done in order to reassure him. I’d put an abrupt end to our chat before he could ask about Gabriela and promise to call him again.

  Titus, however, was a sly old fox and guessed the truth.

  “Samuel, I can tell that things aren’t going so well for you.”

  “What are you talking about?” I protested.

  “The most important thing is to keep loving life. As Freud said, we must begin to love so as not to fall ill.”

  It surprised me to hear these words spoken by a seriously ill man. On second thought, perhaps that was precisely what had given him the right perspective.

  Titus ended the conversation with words that seemed to come out of the blue, but I took note.

  “Good-bye Samuel, and remember that nothing happens without a reason.”

  —

  Now that I was liberated from my romantic delusions, I could devote all my energy to nourishing my routine. In the literature course, we’d finished with Hesse and moved on to Bertolt Brecht. The February exams were about to start, and a few tears would be shed in my office. Just like every other year.

  One Wednesday evening, when I was preparing my class on Brecht, I had a strange premonition. As I was brushing up on a list of his plays, I was struck by the certainty that something was going to change. I can’t explain how I came to this conclusion, but the fact is I knew that the routine into which I’d settled was as illusory as it was temporary.

  I went to bed with yet another conviction. My rebirth as Francis Amalfi was endangering my mental health. And I’d written only a dozen pages. I had to finish it before I went completely off the rails.

  —

  A loud buzzing woke me. Flustered and not yet fully awake, I heard a second buzzing sound which made sure that I was no longer asleep. Somebody was ringing the doorbell at the street level.

  I checked the time on my digital alarm clock. It was just after three in the morning. Feeling terribly tired, I sat up, cursing the drunk who was making such a nuisance of himself after closing time—because only a drunk or a madman could be ringing the doorbell at this hour.

  I dragged myself along the hallway on legs that were still asleep, thinking about the curses I was going to rain on the head of the unwanted visitor. There was another possible explanation for this intrusion, which I didn’t want to think about. However, when I answered on the intercom my worst fears were confirmed.

  “It’s Valdemar. I need help.”

  Hiding Place

  Valdemar came up the stairs, visibly terrified. Before explaining what had happened, he dumped a mysterious metal box, a large canvas bag, and the backpack in which he usually carried his manuscript in the hallway.

  I ushered him into the living room. I was about to turn on the light, but Valdemar, who’d flopped onto my couch, said, “No, please don’t. It’s better if we stay in the dark.”

  He lit a cigarette without asking for permission. It was the first time I’d seen him smoking.

  I handed him an ashtray and sat in the chair facing him. In the darkness of the living room I thought about how disconcerting it was to have a conversation with someone whose face is hidden. He hadn’t even taken off his hat; I could see its silhouette. He took a deep drag on his cigarette, its glow lighting up his face for a few seconds. Then he said, “Samuel, I’ll be straight with you. I have nowhere to go.”

  That’s a great start.

  “I’m renting an apartment,” he continued. “It’s true that I’ve sometimes been a bit behind with the rent, but the landlady’s been quite understanding. After the fire she changed her mind and gave me three days to leave. Today was the last day.”

  I was alarmed. “What fire?” I asked as he stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.

  “Someone set fire to my door. I suppose the idea was that the flames would spread inside the apartment. But, don’t worry, my manuscript is safe.”

  “Your manuscript?” Now I was completely flabbergasted. “Do you think someone tried to burn the house down in order to destroy your manuscript?”

  “And me with it. There are people who want me out of the way. They know I’m discovering certain things. That’s why I asked you not to turn on the light. I don’t want them to know that I’m here talking to you. I’m telling you this for your own safety.”

  I wondered if the whole thing was a figment of his imagination, the paranoid fantasy of a man who believed he could read the future in a chessboard. Yet the fact he’d come to my apartment in the wee hours bringing all his possessions with him was quite unnerving.

  “What are you going to do now?” I asked.

  “I need to lie low for a while until they forget about me. I don’t want to put you in any danger. Let me sleep here tonight and I’ll leave tomor
row.”

  “Are you looking for somewhere to hide?”

  “Yes, I am. To hide from myself too. I’ve taken too many risks lately.”

  A crazy idea flashed into my mind and remained there, demanding my attention. My place had just one bedroom, so I could only offer Valdemar the couch, with all the inconvenience that would entail. Looking up at the ceiling, I said, “I have the keys to the apartment upstairs. Strictly speaking it’s for my use only, but I suppose the owner wouldn’t find out if you stayed there for a few days.”

  “It’s unoccupied?” He seemed very interested.

  “It belongs to an old editor who’s had a bout of angina. He gave me his keys so that I could help him finish a book he’d started to work on. But I can use my own computer for that.”

  “What kind of book is this?”

  “Nothing that would be of any interest to you. It’s an anthology of inspirational texts called A Short Course in Everyday Magic. As you can see, I have my dark side too.”

  “We all do.” He suddenly brightened up. “And it’s our obligation to travel there and explore it. But it’s a dangerous journey.”

  “You’re the living proof of that,” I said with a yawn.

  I was trying to send him a signal to make him understand it was time to sleep, but Valdemar was now in good spirits and it wasn’t going to be so easy to make him give up the chance to expound on his visions.

  “Before the space race started, the dark side of the moon led people to imagine the most extraordinary things. That’s why the first photos were such a big deal, but also such a disappointment.”

  “What did they expect to discover on the dark side of the moon?”

  “People thought there were moon men who’d gone to hide on the far side because they were afraid we were going to ruin things for them. But the scientists knew perfectly well that there was nothing there.”

  “So, why so much interest in the photos and going there?”