“Is he Chinese?”
“Měiguórén.”
“Měiguórén?”
Ling sighed. “Cuban Měiguórén.”
“Cuban? There’s a Chinatown in Havana. But most Chinese people left Cuba. Very few Chinese in Cuba now. When will I meet the Měiguórén?”
“His name is Diego. We haven’t even gone out, Mom.”
“Does he have bad habits?”
Ling could sense her mother’s frustration at being so far away, unable to protect her fragile Asian flower, alone in the world like wheat among the tares. “No, he doesn’t have any bad habits.”
“He smart man if he like Chinese woman. Western women disrespect their men. You must bring him to Flushing. Everyone will want to meet him.”
What would Diego think? All the elder Chinese men that had become like surrogate dads. Their interrogations. The deciphering of his intentions. What would he make of the world she grew up in? Her mother would, no doubt, introduce him to every friend and relative. He would be like a celebrity. What would he think of the Chinese homes? —jade and lacquers, calligraphy scrolls and the ubiquitous Chinese knots, red decorations that hung in every room and even on car rear view mirrors? And what of the traditional cuisine—chicken feet, fish heads and cow intestines? Did he have a strong enough stomach?
“We’re getting way ahead of ourselves,” Ling said, incredulous at all the details she was considering.
“Get to know him, and bring him here so I can meet him.”
Ling could imagine herself in New York with Diego, riding the train to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, smooching like teenagers in a carnival ride, their warm breath melting away the subway car filled with indifferent passengers. At the Met, they could visit the Egyptian Art galleries. What would he think of her morbid fascination for ancient tomb art and relief sculptures created for the afterlife?
“Maybe.”
“You feel good? Anything you’re not telling me?”
“You know I always feel good.”
...
Diego sat in a large glass and steel office as David handed him a corporate check—one hundred fifty thousand. David smiled and folded it before handing it to Diego.
“Nice work today,” David said.
“All I did was tell you that you needed a new web site. Anyone could’ve done that.”
“Yeah, but no one can do it quite like you. So tell me—you’re probably gonna make a killing off all these guys we’re bringing in to sub-out work—you are gonna get a cut, right?
Diego made a dry closed lipped smile.
“All right, don’t tell me—so what’s going on? —you don’t seem thrilled. You made a nice little chunk of change for a day’s work.”
“David, you’re a businessman—I’m an artist. You don’t understand me, and I don’t understand you.”
“You understand business, Diego.”
“I use to think I did, but I don’t anymore. It’s all a mystery to me now.” Diego tightened his brow the way he did when trying to solve a problem. “There’s an ancient book on Chinese garden design, it says: It is not practical for ordinary people to live in the depths of the mountain.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you saying I’m superficial?” David laughed.
“Another useless phone app? Really Dave? How can you possibly find that interesting? There’re a lot more important things to do in life. Personally, I like teaching.”
“Oh—yeah—how’s that going for you?”
“I love it. But here’s the thing—why should everything be about the money? Everything here is—pointless. The company you work for produces nothing of lasting value. What does it profit a man to gain the whole world but lose his soul?”
“Now you’re quoting the Bible? What are you going to say next, that the love of money is the root of all evil?”
“It’s not just about the money. Life is short. We take ourselves way too seriously in business. I don’t know what I was doing here all those years. This place is a graveyard for painters and poets.”
“Diego, you just don’t realize how valuable an asset you are—like most creative people, you don’t like structure. And this is a real honest-to-goodness, very structured organization—it’s probably suffocating to you. We love you here—but—you love teaching. If you ever need any money, just let me know.”
“There’s something I’ve learned in life.”
“What have you learned?”
“All men are insecure. We do whatever it takes to make ourselves feel important.”
“There’s nothing wrong with working and earning a living.”
“You know, you can take anything to an extreme. But I do thank you. You’ve always been good to me.”
“Look—I understand—”
“No you don’t. If you understood anything, you’d spend more time with your wife and children. You’d cut out all this stress from your life. Do you have any idea how short life is? How little time we have?”
“You have to work your butt off to establish a career. Of course, you’re never going to spend enough time with family. Of course kids are going to grow up feeling neglected. Life forces us to make impossible choices. Life is complicated.”
“Complicated? Dave—this is what’s complicated. This is a corporate institution, listed on the NASDAQ. A technology company—doesn’t get more complicated than that. I got a little too close today, and I breathed in the poisonous air.” Diego made an absurd smile and added, “It’s making me very sick—being here.”
“All right then. I’m sorry I dragged you away from teaching. I was hoping you still loved technology a little. As soon as you stop loving anything, it becomes hell. Don’t you know that? Go on. Get out of here. Go back to paradise.”
...
Later that night in the hotel room, despite being exhausted, Diego was unable to sleep. Every position seemed torturous and every attempt to silence his mind seemed fruitless. Eventually, late into the morning hours, his mind began to surrender to the strange and solid surroundings of unreal things that seemed very real. And once again, he was in a small room in the cardiologist’s office.
Take off your shirt—was the request made by a woman, not in a nurse’s uniform, but in a gown the color of sandstone that hit at her ankles. She wore a spiked coral necklace. It was Ling. Her warm full lips smiled serenely. Her eyes sparkled as if she were giving birth to poetry. Her fair complexion glowed like a celestial being that had just entered the physical plane. She walked to the window and closed the blinds to make the room darker.
Okay, lie on the table with your back toward me. I’m going to apply some gel.
An echocardiogram. Diego knew the procedure well. Ling put her arm around him and held the transducer against his chest. He felt her warmth against his back.
I really like this—it’s like getting a long hug, Diego mused.
I like this very much too.
Can you see anything?
I see your heart. I see the leaflets flapping and your left ventricle contracting. Your heart is like an old beat-up little machine. Looks like it’s been through a lot. Sure you’ve never had your heart broken?
Oh lots of times I suppose.
Which was the worse?
Hmm—maybe one of my many failed relationships. There was a little girl. I was her stepfather. I loved her so much. When her mother and I were no more, I was devastated not to have a daughter anymore. To this day I still can’t admit that I was married. It was a very short marriage. I prefer just to forget it ever happened. I cry like a baby every time the girl’s birthday rolls around.
What was her name?
The girl’s name is Sashi, it means moon in Sanskrit.
Love is the worst thing for the heart, isn’t it?
Yeah, I know.
And so is loneliness.
Yeah—What else do you see?
I see a lot of love in your heart. Despite the pain it causes. Love is like a stubborn disease. There
’s no way to cure it.
Diego caressed Ling’s hand. What else do you see?
Yes Diego, I can see that you love me.
Diego felt Ling’s breath behind his ear and then a tiny kiss on his neck.
And Cara is like having Sashi back, right?
Yeah.
So it all worked out. The love you showed Cara—you’ll never know how important that was to her. Something she desperately needed. It’s all because you had a void in your heart shaped like a little girl. See how things work?
Maybe.
And me? You’ve ever wondered why you’re so attracted to me?
Why?
It’s what I represent to you. I am—Asia. I’m a continent far, far away. One of the furthest and most unfamiliar places you can go without leaving the earth. You want everything to be new and different. An Asian woman would logically be the next step in your departure from this world. That’s what you see when you look at my Chinese face. Escape. You can’t take this world anymore. You want to escape from your sadness. The sadness you won’t admit to.
I’m very happy right now.
Diego felt another kiss and the dream melted away like beach sand in the warm surf.
...
Diego slogged onto the plane—only wishing to find his seat and fall asleep and maybe dream of Ling again. The cabin air felt even hotter than it did in Miami. He wanted the six hours to be over—to go home and see how Alex, Cara and Adriana were—and if they had taken good care of Ebay and Yahoo. Most of all, he wanted to be sitting across from Ling at the table in the art department lounge, drinking coffee, content to be absolved of secrets. Ling knew that he was in love with her—he could just sip from his mug and smirk, knowing that there was nothing left for him to do but wait to see if she would return the sentiment.
He remembered what Belarenus had said: both people had to be positive and happy people or else it would never work. That could take a long time, Diego thought. He stared at the empty seat next to him—craving the simple pleasure of being close to Ling. The other women—some inaccessible, but none unapproachable, only made him love Ling more. There was no one like her—no one that he could obsess over—no one with whom he could share his taste for art—no one that understood the need to become a new creation as much as she did. Robbed of her innocence and then her wings, no longer able to hypnotize audiences—she had fallen from the sky, only to be adored by someone who knew no greatness—someone who had developed a love for art, only so that he would be able to love her better.
About two hours into the flight, Diego felt a discomfort in his throat, like being softly choked by two hands. Over time the tightness spread to his jaw and then down his arm. The cabin air should have felt cooler at thirty-five thousand feet; his clothes stuck to the seat with perspiration. Diego wondered—is it my heart? The next time I see Ling—I’m gonna kiss her—I don’t care how depressed she is—Oh man—my heart—my heart…
Chapter Twenty Nine
If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you.
- A. A. Milne
By the time Diego got into the cab at MIA, he felt light-headed and short of breath.
“Where to?” said the Haitian driver in a Creole accent.
“Take me to the hospital,” Diego said.
“Which hospital?”
“Let’s try Baptist—I like Baptist. My niece and nephew were born there. I’m not feeling so good—just to let you know.”
Diego felt his phone vibrate and dug it out of his pocket to see a picture of Ling. He smiled despite his dizziness and tried to read the text message, which shook with his hand. Unable to still the blurry letters, he laid the phone down on the seat, but could not read the words that appeared like living forms deep in the ocean. He thought the words said—I’m all yours.
She messaged me—why couldn’t she have called? But what a beautiful message—I wonder if it says what I think it says...
...
Ling and Cara recognized each other as they ran through the parking lot, their paths bringing them closer as they neared the emergency department at Baptist Hospital.
“Hey Ling,” Cara shouted through her fear.
Ling glanced at Cara, but did not say a word as she ran with her toward the entrance. Once inside, the name Diego Alonso prompted a phone call, and an invitation to walk through a doorway that led them to a woman wearing green medical scrubs.
“Cara and Ling?”
Ling slowly nodded and Cara waited a moment before making a single slight nod.
“I’m Dr. Fox—I called both of you. Diego couldn’t see well enough to use his phone—he asked me to call—which I did just before he was triaged to the resuscitation area.” Ling and Cara listened to her intently, sick with trepidation. “I’m so sorry,” Dr. Fox whispered.
Ling and Cara opened their mouths in horror, gripping each other’s hands.
“All the doctors worked very hard on him—he had a myocardial infarction. Mr. Alonso passed away at eight fifteen—just a short while ago. I’m so sorry.”
“Let me see him,” Ling said with a threatening look.
“You can both see him—please follow me.”
No longer in haste, Cara and Ling’s senses awoke to sounds of oxygen and monitoring machines and the odor of bile. They also noticed that there were several patients being treated, some in terrible agony. The screams echoed the cries of their hearts.
“Are you related to him?” Dr. Fox asked.
Cara and Ling looked at each other with pained expressions.
“Yes-yes we are,” Cara said.
“He referred to you both as his girls,” Dr. Fox said.
Ling stopped and leaned against the wall as she bent down and sobbed, slowly toppling. Dr. Fox and Cara put their arms around Ling to lift her up. Ling could feel Cara’s wet and trembling face against hers and opened her eyes to see that Cara was also in great torment.
Dr. Fox was also on the verge of crying. “Before you see him—just one more thing—I didn’t know when to bring this up—He wasn’t feeling well on the plane and wrote you a letter.”
Dr. Fox removed a folded piece of paper from her pocket and held it out like a flower. Cara took it, but did not open it.
“Let’s see him,” Cara said needing to swallow.
They walked toward a room with a drawn curtain. Dr. Fox pulled on the curtain with a surprising harshness, causing tiny ball bearings to screech. An entranceway into a place for departed souls had opened before them, the body laying on its sepulcher. Diego didn’t appear any different than if he were sleeping. Ling stood over him and whispered softly, “Diego—Diego.” She put her head on his chest.
Ling’s words began like faint murmurs and crescendoed into cries, “I loved him—I loved him—I loved him—I loved him—I loved him—I loved him! —I loved him!” She sobbed like she had finally been given the right to mourn for herself—an entire lifetime of emotional pain—released into whatever was left of Diego—rising into the heavens where pain cannot breathe or mock the eternal.
“You can have as much time as you want,” Dr. Fox said and walked away.
Cara crept up to Ling and ran her fingers through her hair. “Thank you for loving Diego.”
“I waited too long,” Ling whispered.
“Diego always said that nothing in life made sense.”
“He was right.”
Cara stepped away to wipe her own tears and unfold the letter, which contained these words:
I’m on a plane and not feeling well. Ling, all I can think of is you. Thank you for being my friend. The heart doesn’t need so much a body to touch as much as a person to love. Maybe what Andy Warhol said is true. ‘Fantasy love is much better than reality love.’ I’ve been so discouraged lately. Sometimes I wonder if I’m losing my faith. I’m confused about everything. Everything except you. You’re the only thing in this world that ever made sense to me. The whole world is a dese
rt, and you’re a treasure. All anyone ever wants is to love and have that love returned. I think you loved me – but if that’s not true, I hope I can die believing that it is.
Diego.
Cara, hardly conscious, gave the letter to Ling. Ling sat down and wept bitterly as she studied the glossy ink that became more and more blue—taking her deeper into the night, far from this world to be with Diego.
Dr. Fox opened the curtain again and Cara could see Alex, Adriana and Joyce, their faces wilting with disbelief.
“Fathead,” Cara whispered.
Alex spoke with a sigh of heartbreak, “Poor Tio.”
Cara, Adriana and Alex held each other. Alex turned to Joyce. “This is Diego—a great man—there’ll never again be anyone like him. What a fascinating and creative man. What a magnificent man. An artist and a dreamer. God, I’m going to miss him.”
Ling whispered into Diego’s heart, “You left me. You’re not supposed to leave a sick person before they get better. You’re not supposed to leave a sick person. You’re gone and I remain. You’re somewhere and I’m still here. Wherever you are, I hope you know eternal joy. I know only sorrow and tears.”
One of the men shook with anger. Diego dies? Are you kidding me—he dies? We have been fools to make this journey. And even more foolish to listen to this story! What kind of a sick man are you to tell us a tragic story during a time like this? Are you insane?
Calm down—urged the large man.
The storyteller, with eyes that were both dark and flaming, snapped back.
Diego had to die. He had to!
Why?—Asked the large man.
No one appreciates a good man while he’s still alive. No one is fully respected and admired until he’s dead. And if a man dies before his time, he will be revered all the more. While you’re still alive there is ample opportunity to bring disgrace upon yourself and all the people you love. After you’re dead, they can say, oh what a good man. He never hurt anyone. He never raped anyone. He never stole. He never killed. He never molested children. He never tortured animals. He never set fire to anything. He never did anything indecent. He never committed an unpardonable sin. And then, once he has finally left this awful world they can say, what a good man. And their hearts will ache from all the things that they were never able to express. Only in death is a person truly loved.
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