As Diego was circling the class, he came to Cara’s easel and whispered, “Off to a good start. You’re capturing her essence.” Cara smiled. Finishing his circle, Diego pulled a stool next to Priscilla and sat down.
“Would it make you nervous if I sat here next to you?” Diego whispered.
Priscilla smiled. “No—I guess I need the special attention. I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“Well—you’re probably very good at something that I’m not good at. What do you do?”
“I’m a programmer.”
“Oh—I used to be in that line of work.”
“Really, doing what?”
“Information design—I was more like a permanent consultant for a tech company.”
“Ah—so you were one of those people that would think up things for me to do.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much it—I would tell management how things should look and feel—draw up a few diagrams and hand over the keys to a project manager, who would probably hand the work over to someone like you.”
“So—I do all the work and you get paid probably an obscene amount of money.” Priscilla glared at Diego with playful incredulity.
“I know, and you’re the one with all the skills and talent. I can’t program worth a damn.”
“How could you live with yourself?” Priscilla smiled.
“Well—everything catches up with you sooner or later. My life felt empty and meaningless, and that’s why I became a teacher.”
“Sounds like you were on top of the world. I don’t think that would be too bad.”
“I guess there’re a plenty of people who don’t mind getting paid a lot of money for doing nothing—while some people work very hard, even risking their lives. I’m not expecting too many things to make sense in this life.”
“Like me coming to a drawing class.”
“Actually, for someone that says they can only draw stick figures—you’re not doing so badly.”
“Really?”
“Yeah—see—you’ve rendered a figure that’s solid—three dimensional—nice movement. Looks like stuff I’ve seen in museums.”
Priscilla laughed. “So, you’re saying my work is so bad that it looks like modern art—”
Diego smiled. “Modern art—conceptual art, whatever you want to call it—all it is—is people who are very smart and get bored easily. So they push back boundaries. Sometimes the best art is art that challenges and confuses you a little.”
“Oh—I don’t understand art,” Priscilla laughed.
“I barely understand it myself,” Diego grinned. “But for what it’s worth, that’s actually a very good gesture drawing. Alberto Giacometti would be envious.”
The hour seemed like an eternity for the model that had to hold still—her muscles burning with stiffness. For Cara, time seemed too short, and like a child, she didn’t want to leave the playground. The model covered herself with her robe, and Diego walked with her around the class so she could see the drawings. She smiled and nodded, pleased with her likeness being transformed into the ineffable. After she was gone, Diego returned to be with Priscilla. As Cara and the other students were leaving the class, Diego and Priscilla continued talking. Cara was satisfied with what appeared to be a blossoming friendship. She walked out into a quiet night, delighted with the dramas and pleasures that life had to offer.
Diego and Priscilla remained alone in the room. After some time had passed, Diego sketched her. Priscilla sat up straight on the stool, her posture expressing pleasure, her face radiant with adulation.
Diego described his old life as he drew Priscilla’s features, “...And then there was this one programmer who used to pick at his zits in his cubicle all day, and then he would show up to a meeting without realizing his face was a bloody mess.”
“Oh no!” Priscilla laughed.
“Try not to talk now—I’m working on your lips. I think I’m in love with your face.”
Priscilla widened her eyes and laughed. “So, what—are you going to ask me out—or something?”
“Hey—don’t move that mouth,” Diego laughed. “That’s all right—I think it’s finished.” He turned the drawing pad around to show Priscilla. “Just a sketch.”
“Oh—that doesn’t look like me—I’m not that beautiful.”
“You’re very beautiful.” Diego removed the drawing from its pad, rolled it up and handed it to Priscilla. “Here—a gift from a man who is devastated by your beauty and charm.”
“Thank you.”
“No, thank you—it’s so nice of you—that you would stay and talk to an old guy like me. If I were younger, I’d ask you on a date,” Diego said with a sad smile.
“You’re not so old.”
“If only I could—”
Priscilla was no longer able to smile. “What do you mean—if?”
“I can’t.”
Priscilla looked away, not saying anything for a while. When she spoke again, her voice cracked, “Oh—uh—I’m sorry—I feel like an idiot.” She unrolled the drawing, to give herself something to look at. “Oh God.”
“Hey,” Diego said with concern.
“I guess I should tell you what’s going on here. Someone I work with—someone who cares a lot about you told me to come tonight—that we might hit it off.”
“Cara?”
“Yeah, and—I guess I’ve made a fool out of myself.”
“No—I’m the fool.”
Priscilla put the drawing pad and clipboard on the stool. “All this stuff belongs to you and Cara—I’ll just leave it here. Thanks for the drawing.” Priscilla walked to the door and turned to look at Diego again. “You should never do that to a woman—it’s humiliating. No woman should ever have to feel desperate—like she’s hideous—repulsive.”
Diego could see her eyes swelling with tears. “You’re beautiful,” he said.
“You’ve made me feel like garbage. Goodnight Diego...Diego—I’ve been thinking about your name. It’s a beautiful name, and you’re a very handsome man—just like Cara said. But you don’t know anything about women, or you would never do what you did tonight. Here—you keep the drawing so you can have something to remember me by. I don’t want that drawing to remind me of you. I never want to think of you again.”
After Priscilla had left, Diego studied the drawing. In the layers of diagonal lines, drawn in a classical style, he could see the emptiness of his life. No wife or children or grandchildren. He felt as if he had just committed genocide, ridding the earth of the descendants of an older man and a beautiful young woman. Once again, he had deprived himself of happiness.
...
Diego walked down the hallway toward room 208. He slowly opened the door trying not to disrupt the painting class in session. As the students remained immersed in two dimensional worlds, their instructor, Ling Woo, noticed Diego looking at her. She walked out to greet him.
“Hey,” Ling said.
“I just needed to see you tonight.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, it’s not easy being me.”
“You’re telling me,” she laughed. “Well, you’re always there for me. Maybe I can listen to your problems for a change.”
“I’m all right—just needed to see a pretty face.”
“Thanks.”
“Go back to class. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As Diego left the building and walked to his car, he thought of how he was much like a schoolboy, obsessed with one girl, piously shunning all others. God I love that woman. I hope she gets better. I’d give my life to be with her.
One nauseated man whose eyes had been fixed on the horizon for quite some time, broke his silence.
That’s so Hollywood. Such complete garbage.
What do you mean?—Asked the storyteller.
What man behaves like that? Men like Diego don’t exist. A woman practically throws herself at him and he rejects her because he’s in love with another woman? Absurd—ridiculous. If a b
eautiful woman were to give me even the slightest hint of amiability, I’d be all over her like a wolf. Believe me, I’d give it to her good.
The large man laughed.
Don’t be so sure there aren’t men like Diego. A confident man, who is familiar with life and love. He would know that you don’t toy with young hearts. It’s a pathetic man that is so desperate that he has no self-control.
The nauseated man seemed on the verge of vomiting.
A real man is a lover. He is not afraid of consequences. He risks his life in war and all things that require courage. He takes what he needs, and if a woman allows him, she has no one to blame but herself. A real man doesn’t obsess about feelings and heartbreak. He does not lose sleep over his sexual conquest. It is the woman that tempts the man with clothing and cosmetics and warmth and sensuality.
Is that so?—Smiled the large man.—Every woman is someone’s daughter, or perhaps a mother or sister. Perception is everything. For you, a woman might be a temptress. For someone else she may be an enticement to fall in love. Are men so different? Don’t we also want to be loved? You call yourself a human rights activist? You consider yourself a fighter for a greater cause? Where is your compassion? Are you not aware that men also possess sensitivity?
Sensitivity is for effeminate men.
It is because you are an insecure girly man that you despise the feminine. Don’t get on my nerves or I’m going to hit you so hard you’ll be cured of your stupidity.
May I continue?—Asked the storyteller.
Chapter Twenty
The two dogs leaped to the floor and ran to the door with high-pitched whining.
“Diego’s here,” Alex said.
Diego slowly opened the door holding the rolled up drawing.
“Hey guys.”
“Hey Tio.”
“Hey Tio.”
Diego tossed the drawing by his canvases and went into his bedroom and came back, kicked off his shoes and jumped into the armchair. He held his hands to his face, his finger tips touching his mouth, staring at Cara.
“Anything exciting happen after I left?” Cara said.
“No,” Diego said.
Cara noticed that Diego was staring at her and fixed her eyes on her laptop screen. Alex sat next to Cara on the couch and booted up his computer.
“Move over!” Alex said.
“How much of the sofa do you want?” Cara asked.
“Move!”
Cara nervously looked at Diego again. “I saw you were really having a nice time with that girl.”
“I was.”
Alex opened a document where he had pasted facts and thoughts that he wanted to share with Diego.
“I did tons of research today. Some of it having to do with the Bible—thought you would be interested.”
“Sure,” said Diego.
“Did you know that Jesus didn’t know any Latin?”
Cara elbowed Alex in the ribs. “Diego goes to church—don’t be disrespectful!” she whispered.
“Not anymore,” Alex said.
Diego took his hands away from his mouth and smiled. “No, that’s okay. I never thought about it—I guess you’re right, Jesus was Jewish, so he knew Hebrew, Aramaic and maybe a little Greek—but Latin—I guess that would be stretching it a little. I just usually figure—he’s Jesus, so he knows everything.”
“Yeah, I’ve been learning lots of stuff—all very interesting, but not usually what you would hear preachers say on TV.”
“Oh don’t ever watch those televangelists—unless you believe all that stuff about doubling or tripling your income if you send them money.”
“Did you know that monkeys in Thailand use public transportation?”
“Fascinating—so what did you learn about the Bible?”
“Did you know that the book of Revelation was written in a style called Hebrew Apocalyptic? That you have to be a historian and scholar of ancient texts to understand the symbolism of it? It’s not supposed to be taken literally.”
Diego rubbed his eyes and then looked at the canvases in the room, showing interest in the painting Cara had begun.
“Alex,” Cara said with a disapproving look.
“How does one compete with a search engine?” Diego whispered to himself. He stretched his legs and folded his hands over his stomach. “Don’t worry—even if I’m completely wrong about everything I believe in, I won’t lose my faith. I’m a Christian, I’ll always be.”
Alex, with a panicked expression, put his hands on his head. “Oh, no, that’s not what I meant—that’s not what I meant at all! It’s just that after you left your church, I figured that maybe there really was something wrong with those people and that the stereotype might be true—you know—close minded Christians. Maybe the problem is just organized religion. What if it weren’t organized?”
“Disorganized religion?”
“Yeah, something unorganized. They have groups like that. You can find them online. You know—if you miss church and being around people, you can go to a meetup—you never know—you might like it.”
“I don’t know-”
“You can be SBNR.”
“SBNR?”
“Spiritual but not religious.”
“Hmm...unorganized religion. God that sounds weird—All right, maybe I’ll do some surfing.”
“I know how important church was to you and everything. I’m sorry if—”
“Oh my God—oh my God!” Cara shrieked.
“What’s wrong?” said Alex.
“Dad has his own blog!” Alex and Diego both moved closer. “I just Googled his name—look—he calls it The Octoblog—it only has two entries.”
“Read the first one,” Alex said.
“These were very recent, just before Mom went to the hospital. The first post he made is a video.”
“Dad posted a video—cool!”
Diego patted Cara on the shoulder, “Go-head, play the video.”
Cara clicked the play button and turned up the volume. Octavio could be seen from the chest up in a green t-shirt, his face unshaven. Behind him were kitchen cabinets with many sticky notes clinging to them. His voice seemed deeper than they had ever remembered.
“Hey—this is Octavio here—this is my first blog and first video post—just thought I’d try it. I’m not feeling too bad today. I’m going to the VA later to try and get some treatment. Just working and sleeping—don’t have any energy to do much else. Speaking of energy—that about does it for me—I don’t really have much to say. Don’t send me any emails—I’m not online that much. I wish I felt better so I could do it more often. All right—signing off—Octavio.”
“He said signing off just like you Alex,” Cara said.
Alex exhaled slowly. “What about the second post?”
“He typed this one—only a few days later—it says: I’m feeling terrible. I think the doctors are misdiagnosing me and giving me medications that only make me feel worse. I feel like I’m in another world, but I think it’s the medication. The VA won’t admit me because I’m not suicidal. I can’t begin to describe how tired I’m feeling. I don’t think I’ll be blogging much for a while. At least I was able to fill out the benefits form. All twenty three pages. Thank God I was able to do that.”
“That’s it?” Alex said.
“And yet they see no problem with sending him back to Afghanistan,” Diego said, shaking his head.
Alex stood up, suddenly very conscious of his arms and not knowing what to do with them, except to adjust his glasses. “This war has been going on ever since I can remember. They say they’re going to start a withdrawal soon. I hope Dad can make it just a little longer.”
Diego stood and walked to the other side of the sofa, sitting on the arm, leaning over to look at Alex. “I grew up in a time of peace. I was too young to remember Vietnam. I have no idea what it’s like to be you—going through what you’re going through. I don’t think there’s much we can do right now except pray for your fat
her.”
Alex turned to look at Diego, for a moment, appearing to be much older, “I’ll try praying, but I’m pissed. This country is so messed up.”
“Alex, this is a great country, but there is no perfect system in the world. Look at what happened in Cuba and how it affected our family. Think of all the violations of human rights, all the labor camps—what they did to political prisoners. And you know all about the evils of capitalism—out of control greed. There’s nothing perfect on earth. Everything in this world is a lie—truth only comes from above.”
Diego heard Cara’s breathing and leaned back in the sofa to see her looking at the ceiling with tears in her eyes. He wanted somehow to erase all the pain he had witnessed that day. Priscilla, the beautiful woman he met in class. He had only wanted to look at her—talk to her for a while—to enjoy her physical beauty. Cara and Alex—maybe he was making things worse by declaring the world to be a dark place devoid of truth.
Chapter Twenty One
The teacher’s lounge at the college was so small that Diego had given it a name—the econo-cabin, because it reminded him of a stay onboard a cruise ship. Within the walls covered with paperwork held with pushpins were file cabinets and two small tables that appeared half the normal size of folding furniture. Every item ingeniously arranged to be space saving. A tiny coffee machine and toaster rested on top of a microwave oven, which rested on a mini refrigerator.
Harry Struhl, the art history professor, scribbled on a pile of papers, grading the exams on Byzantine architecture. He wore a blue shirt, striped tie and a black yarmulke. His head and beard were red, perhaps aging him slightly, but Diego could see a very young man in his late twenties or early thirties.
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