Love in Lowercase

by Francesc Miralles

  “That’s if they did go there,” Valdemar specified. “There are no limits to human curiosity, and sometimes we forget about the risks that come with it. Unless you’re prepared to lead a marginal existence, it’s better not to know everything, believe me.”

  “Is that what your book’s about?”

  “Yes, it’s a chronicle of the discoveries that have led me to this point. I began with the mysteries of the moon: the contradictions of the space missions, the real possibilities of settling there, when that might happen, immortality, and so on. The whole lot. But this was just the preliminary work. It took me a while to get to the real truth. The dark side of the moon is a reflection of the human soul. Forget about the space race. That’s child’s play compared with what’s really there.”

  Afternoon Tea and a Cat

  I woke up still feeling tired after our long nighttime conversation. Somewhere between the moon and the human soul, Valdemar had gone back to the “platform people” episode.

  “Maybe they were the ones who tried to burn down my door. Perhaps they haven’t forgiven me for discovering that they hang around there without ever boarding a train.”

  I’d gotten him to abandon that theory, mainly because I didn’t believe that anyone would want to attack this poor man. I told him that there was probably a much simpler explanation: someone, maybe Valdemar himself, had dropped a still-burning cigarette butt next to the door. This had set fire to the doormat, which had created a nasty-smelling smoke.

  Valdemar had taken his things up to Titus’s apartment, and we’d arranged to meet the next evening. Meanwhile, I had to contend with my own drowsiness and the apathy of my students, most of whom had skipped the class because they’d started to study for exams.

  —

  I no longer had a reason to go to the bar, so I used my lunch break to go to the vet. I’d seen on the appointment card Meritxell had given me that Mishima was due for his second shot, so I asked her when I could bring him in.

  “This afternoon I have a home visit very close to where you live. If you want me to come by, it’ll save you the trip. I’ll charge you as if you’d come to the clinic, OK?”

  It was clear that she liked me. The cat was a secondary matter. I could start planning for the hot chocolate with ladyfingers because it was about to become a reality. However, some pretense was necessary, as Meritxell was shy and would never admit she was more interested in going to meet the owner than treating his cat.

  “All right,” I agreed, “but don’t tell me what time you’re planning to come—and I’ll also try to forget that you’re coming, so Mishima won’t hide again.”

  “That’s a good tactic,” she said and winked before disappearing behind the door of her consulting room.

  —

  I went back to the university in order to have a bite to eat before my next class at four. The bar of the philology faculty, a veritable underground rats’ nest, is not the most comfortable of places, but I opted for killing time there.

  I have a social life. I felt smug as I munched on the second sandwich of the day.

  Since Mishima’s arrival, a ragtag bunch of acquaintances had entered my life: the old man, Valdemar, and now Meritxell. It seemed that they all needed something from me. The cat wanted an owner; Titus, a substitute editor; Valdemar, a hiding place for his fears and late-night conversation. In Meritxell’s case, I imagined she was just looking for a bit of friendship.

  There was one exception, but I didn’t want to dwell on that. I was delighted to be of use to the others. I could never have imagined this. For the first time I realized that the most important indicator of our value in this world is the good we do unto others.

  Unlearning the Learned

  Before entering my apartment, I went upstairs to make sure nothing was amiss. I put my ear to the door, but I couldn’t detect any sign of activity. Valdemar was probably sleeping. He needed to gather strength in order to keep me awake all night.

  Looking forward to my afternoon snack with Meritxell, I forgot that I was supposed to conceal it from myself so that Mishima wouldn’t get wind of it. My homecoming, complete with a bag of ladyfingers, didn’t go unnoticed and, after some rushing up and down the passage, he vanished. This time I didn’t bother to go looking for him.

  I put the ladyfingers on the kitchen counter next to the container of cocoa and dropped into my chair without any feeling of regret. I wanted to make the most of the waning afternoon light to leaf through the dictionary of untranslatable words again.

  While I flipped through the pages, I came across a familiar term, dharma. I read the entry:

  What is my place in the universe? What is the best way to live my life? How do I find the right answers to the previous questions? The spiritual traditions of the world have been built upon the human impulse to seek such answers.

  Writing Amalfi’s book had taught me to skim works like this, so I skipped the etymological history of the term and the outline of Hindu cosmology. I stopped at a reference to one of Kerouac’s novels, The Dharma Bums, which I’d read years earlier. This Beat Generation classic had inspired the author of the dictionary to reflect:

  Finding ways of learning and following one’s own dharma doesn’t mean blind submission to one god or doctrine. Rather, it means recognition of the fact that the right way of living can lead to the enlightenment of all those beings who feel it, a declaration that each and every person has a unique chance to discover the essential truth.

  My reading was cut short by the doorbell and the arrival of Meritxell. When she reached the landing and rang at the door of my apartment, I was leaning against the wall waiting for her. She came in with a small bag, in a disconcertingly good mood. I noticed that she was wearing eyeliner and that she’d used some kind of gel to give her short hair a tousled look. Girls who are naturally beautiful should be forbidden from using such unnecessary embellishments.

  “I’ve got two bits of news, one good and the other bad. Which one do you want to hear first?” I asked.

  She laughed. “The bad news. You should always start with the bad news.”

  “I can’t find the cat. He’s run off to hide somewhere again.”

  “Well, that’s not the end of the world. So what’s the good news, then?”

  “I can make you hot chocolate with ladyfingers.”

  “I never have chocolate in any form. I’m allergic to it. But I’ll come in and rest for a moment. I’m completely done in!”

  She sat down on the couch, and I went to heat the milk for the hot chocolate and get her an orange juice, surreptitiously keeping an eye on what the lovely vet was up to. She checked her hair a couple of times and then inspected everything I had in my living room. She seemed to feel at home, while at the same time she had an expectant look on her face, although I wasn’t sure what she was hoping for.

  I served our afternoon snack and drew my chair closer to the table. I could have sat next to her on the couch—there was plenty of room for both of us—but that was a risky option. If I was wrong and Meritxell didn’t want anything from me, she’d feel uncomfortable with my nearness. If, on the contrary, she was foolish enough to want something from me, then she’d expect me to put my arm around her at some point in the conversation. After that, anything could happen.

  Solution: I sat across from her to see what would happen. I simply wanted to have an afternoon snack in good company without any further expectations.

  “I live alone too,” she offered. “I shared a place for years, but then all of a sudden I needed to have my own space.”

  “I’ve always had the same feeling,” I confessed, “although, since the new year, things have been getting complicated. Not that I wanted any of it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I was on the verge of telling her what love in lowercase had done to my life, but I changed my mind just in time, because I didn’t want
to bore her.

  “Let’s say that my solitude is very noisy, like that novel by Hrabal.”

  “Who’s Hrabal?”

  “A Czech writer. Sorry, we teachers have the bad habit of lacing our conversation with literary references, which is a pretty stupid thing to do.”

  “Why is it stupid? It’s always good to learn something new.”

  “Up to a point it is, but knowing too much can be very awkward. Valdemar’s a good example of that.”

  “Who’s Valdemar?”

  “It’s better not to know.”

  “So according to you, nobody should know anything!”

  “OK, Buddha once said that knowledge should be like a boat. You can use it to get across the river, but once you reach the other side it’s absurd to keep lugging it with you. Do you know what I mean?”

  “You’ve used Buddha’s words to explain yourself.”

  “You see? I’m hopeless. That’s what I mean. I have to unlearn everything I’ve learned and go back to being a normal person. Culture is just background noise that prevents me from seeing life as it really is. Culture makes no one happy. I want to be a simpleton or a wise peasant who knows when it’s going to rain and goes to bed and wakes up when the sun sets and rises.

  “My brother has a farm near Berga,” she said teasingly. “He might lend you a hoe if you ask him nicely.”

  “What I need is a good whack on the head.”

  The phone started to ring, interrupting the unexpectedly animated conversation. I didn’t have a clue why I was saying all of this, but my guest seemed to be enjoying herself, so I declared, “I’m not going to get it. I’m never going to answer the phone again. We’re on strike against background noise that won’t let us see life as it really is.”

  At the third ring the answering machine came on. The message made me spill hot chocolate on my sweater.

  “Samuel, I’m sorry about what happened last week. I think I was being unfair. Can you forgive me? There are lots of things you don’t know about me. Actually, you know nothing. Or almost nothing.”

  The contralto voice seemed to quaver with the last few words, and the message ended.

  My heart had clenched like a fist, but I made a huge effort to forget about what I’d just heard and continue the conversation. Meritxell no longer looked relaxed on my couch. She seemed uncomfortable at having heard these intimate words that had also relegated her to second fiddle. No woman was going to put up with that.

  I mumbled, not very convincingly, “See what I mean? You can’t live in peace these days.”

  The phone rang again, destroying any remnant of coziness between us. I didn’t dare to speak and, even less, to take the call. I was a plucked chicken, cowering in my chair.

  It was Gabriela again, completing her previous message.

  “What I was trying to say was that I’d like to see you again if you’re not angry with me. Perhaps we can be friends. I promise to behave. My phone number is—”

  Even before she had finished speaking, Meritxell stood up and got her bag and coat, saying, “It’s getting late.”

  I walked her to the door in a state of utter confusion. Before I could think of a suitable way of saying good-bye, she added, “You’re right. Your solitude is very noisy. Good-bye.”

  Leitmotif

  Valdemar didn’t turn up that night as arranged, but I didn’t make the effort to go to see him either.

  Once in bed, I began to review everything that had happened that surprising day. I came to what I thought was an interesting conclusion: every day has a certain tone or leitmotif. By the end of the afternoon I’d already understood what the leitmotif of that day had been: “They want to be with you.”

  When you’re feeling lonely this might appear to be a blessing, but the bottom line is that it can be complicated if you’re not ready for it. In order to accept the love of others, you need a wise heart because rejection’s easier to cope with than love. You can turn against someone who is attacking you, but what are you supposed to do when someone reveals their love for you?

  Before I went to sleep I thought that it was very nice of Meritxell to want to have an afternoon snack with me and put up with my blathering. Despite her abrupt departure, there had been something between us that enabled us to reveal ourselves as we were, without being afraid of saying or doing something wrong.

  But, what about Gabriela? Why had she called me just then?

  It was as if, from a distance, she’d noticed that I was starting to get involved with someone else, and she wanted to put a stop to it so that my yearnings would again be focused on her. But why?

  Fear of being loved was the reason behind my long period of solitude, and it might also explain Gabriela’s vehemence when she rejected me on our first meeting.

  Lesson number 1: whatever they say, life is never easy.

  Those Who Know Should Enlighten Those Who Don’t

  I’d worked hard on my introductory class on Bertolt Brecht. The students aren’t huge fans of his, perhaps because we live in times that are too cynical for ethical considerations. And he is essentially a moral writer.

  What I like most about Brecht are the titles he gives his plays—for example, The Caucasian Chalk Circle or The Good Person of Szechwan. Rather than boring my students with Brecht’s biography, I discussed this latter work, which is a very good example of his more didactic phase.

  The play opens with a discussion between three gods as to whether a good and just character can survive in a world of selfish people. They decide to put their theories to the test with Shen Teh, a prostitute who lives in Szechwan, and the only person who is willing to offer the hospitality of her cottage to three strangers who have come to her town. Thinking about her neighbors and their needs, she uses the money the strangers give her to open a shop, but people are so ruthless in taking advantage of her goodness that she goes out of business.

  Having learned her lesson, she starts again, this time disguised as a tough man whom all the customers respect, although they wistfully wonder what has become of the kindhearted Shen Teh. In the end she reveals herself, and they’re all amazed at her stratagem.

  The underlying question is: in order to be good, should one adopt the guise of a bad person?

  I’d told them this much when a student raised his hand. It was the first time I’d seen him in my class that term. I was expecting him to open the discussion about goodness, fear, and all the rest, but his question was much more banal.

  “Does Szechwan exist?”

  The few students who’d turned up for the class sniggered at the naïveté of the question.

  “Yes, I think it’s called Sichuan these days. I know that because they have some giant-panda sanctuaries there. I saw a documentary about them.”

  They all started laughing.

  What’s so funny about that? I had to go on the offensive in order to regain my dignity as a teacher.

  “It makes no difference whether the story takes place in Szechwan or Samarkand. Bertolt Brecht used an exotic setting to produce a parable about goodness. I suppose you know what a parable is, or am I mistaken?”

  The smart girl with the round glasses went into action. “It’s a story with a message, like the ones in the New Testament.”

  “Exactly. Contemporary writers also use the device. Adorno, the German Marxist philosopher, said that Kafka’s fiction works, especially The Castle, are primarily parables. But The Good Person of Szechwan isn’t a sententious work like the New Testament stories, and neither does it hold out a pessimistic view of things as Kafka does. It’s an invitation to reflect on a fairly complicated matter. In this regard it’s more like the Nasreddin stories. Does anyone know who Nasreddin is?”

  Round-Specs offered, “I think it’s a Sufi thing.”

  “Very good. Nasreddin is the main character of many Sufi exemplary tales. Ther
e’s one about wisdom that I think is especially good. Would you like to hear it?”

  Not a peep out of anyone, which was perfectly in keeping with this Middle Eastern story. I therefore began:

  “Nasreddin came to a small village where they mistook him for a famous wise man. He didn’t want to disappoint the people who’d gathered in the square, so he opened up his arms and said, ‘I imagine that, since you’re here, you know what I’m going to tell you.’

  “The people said, ‘No, what do you have to tell us? We don’t know. Tell us, please.’

  “Nasreddin replied, ‘If you’ve come here without knowing what I want to say, then you’re not ready to hear it.’

  “Then he stood up and walked away. The crowd was shocked by his abrupt departure. They were about to write him off as a madman when someone said, ‘How clever he is! He’s totally right. How could we dare to come here without knowing what we were coming to hear? How stupid we’ve been. Now we’ve wasted a wonderful opportunity. How brilliant he is! How wise he is! Let us ask this man to come and speak to us a second time.’

  “Some of the villagers went to find him and begged him to come back, saying that his knowledge was too vast for a single lecture. After all their pleading, Nasreddin went back to the same square. Now the crowd was twice its previous size. Once again he said, ‘I imagine that you know what I’m going to tell you.’

  “Having learned their lesson, the people nodded and someone spoke up. ‘Of course we know. That is why we have come.’

  “On hearing this, Nasreddin looked down and said, ‘Well, since you know what I have to say to you, there is no need to repeat it.’

  “He left the square and walked away. The people were dumbfounded. Then one fanatic started to shout, ‘Brilliant! Marvelous! We want him to give us more of his wisdom!’

  “A delegation of village notables went to find him and begged him on their knees to come back and give a third and final lecture. They beseeched him so persistently that he agreed to come back for the last time. When he reached the square he was greeted by roars of a veritable multitude. Once again, he said, ‘I imagine that you know what I’m going to tell you.’