There had never been any data to suggest that such things were possible, not a shred of proof that the soul lives on along with thoughts and memories, nothing that could be verified in a controlled experiment. Yet despite the plain conclusions of logic and reason and all empirical evidence, he felt the presence of God’s consuming fire seething before him.
There was a quality that was beyond fear and trembling, a sobriety, maybe it was an inquisitiveness that drew him closer. What was this light? This fire? Was it the collective unconsciousness of man? Was there truth to the Eastern concept of Ātman? Was it true that only that which is formed of the love of Christ would enter paradise?
He thought he had known paradise, in the love of his children and his wife’s fleeting touch. Yet there had been many times that he had suspected that truth only came from above, that there was none of it on Earth. The sky always seemed so mysterious, so many stars and swirling cloudscapes. He could imagine it opening up like a hidden doorway through a bookcase to a secret room.
He had never seen such an entrance, and could only imagine what a façade of faux book spines looked like. It seemed his wife’s love had been like that, an illusion, a lie. If only he could have been like Diego. “God must have wanted Diego to be happy,” he thought. “God must have cared deeply about his happiness, because he gave him Ling.”
There was a great silence. And then he could almost hear music coming from the light; an ocean of harmony.
...
In a courtyard in a dilapidated building in Northern Havana, Diego and Ling sat together at a mosaic patio table. Ling drank her espresso; Diego swung a bag of black tea like a pendulum to his favorite ostinato blaring from their apartment in the second floor.
She’s hardly eaten in days—Ling said.
How?—Diego asked—How could this happen?
I told you she was crazy—secretly writing erotica about other men and expecting her husband never to find out.
And what do you think—she would keep her darkness bottled up?
It’s just such a shame—and now he’s gone.
It was obvious it would never last—with her mental illness, and with his fear of abandonment, it was only a matter of time.
Everyone is a little crazy—like artists. It seems the smarter people are, the less they can control their thoughts. But we don’t judge. Do we?
We know better.
What about us? Tell me we’ll always be together.
Para siempre—forever and ever.
Ling beamed as she lifted Diego’s hand up to her cheek.
Diego, what we have is rare.
Some people say that you have to find happiness in yourself, or higher self, or God—that you can’t expect to find it in another person. But I have to be honest with you, I can’t imagine being happy without you.
And I can’t live without you.
Look at us—we’re still covered in sand from the beach. I can still feel the sun on your face. We have everything. We have Sashi. How can anyone say we’re not having a good day?
There was something curious about the way Diego and Ling held hands. It was much more than simply craving each other’s touch. It was almost as if they had been granted a vision of an alternate existence, and had learned the art of contentment. Despite their lack of talent and riches, they could see what others could not: the simplicity of love.
Octavio walked by, dressed in his policeman’s uniform.
Is everything good here?
Ling smiled—Better than we’ll ever know.
Acknowledgments
Before giving thanks, I’d like to clarify a few points about the story. The description of the Cuban prison was based on the life of my grandfather, Francisco Velasco, a political prisoner, and Jorge Valls’ book, Twenty Years & Forty Days: Life in a Cuban Prison, (Washington, D.C.: America’s Watch Committee, 1986). I will always remember his courage to preserve his sense of humor despite post-traumatic stress disorder. I included El Viejo not to make any political point, but simply to include that part of the spectrum of human suffering. The novel is, after all, a study in the many forms of sadness, something that fascinates me, having endured years of my own mind delusions. I can look back upon major depression; almost as if it was a past life and see that there is a common thread that many experience, unable to separate reality from illusion. The end of Cara’s story (for Cara this story about sadness would end well) is a tribute to Dostoevsky’s ending in Crime and Punishment.
I would like to thank my wife, Jean, for her love, higher consciousness and maturity, all instrumental in helping me find inner peace and the art of writing. Jean proofread many early drafts of this book and made wonderful suggestions. A special thanks to the family of publishers, editors and writers at Aignos, which I am happily becoming acquainted with. In particular, I would like to thank Jon Marcantoni for his inspiration as a writer, as well as his faith in this book. Jon, with remarkably painless guidance, turned a mess of a story into something I’m very happy with. The scene in which Adriana receives the news about Tavi’s death, Jon wrote himself.
The English translation of Pablo Neruda’sMe gustas cuando callas is my own. The original fifth verse is:
Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente.
Distante y dolorosa como si hubieras muerto.
Una palabra entonces, una sonrisa bastan.
Y estoy alegre, alegre de que no sea cierto.
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