The Beautiful Dream of Life

by Domingo Zapata

And even during this time away from Carlotta, I haven’t gotten freaked out, jealous, bitter, or vengeful.

  And then it occurs to me: perhaps I really am reformed. Or getting there. I have endured many hardships and survived a dark past. And now I am seeking a higher consciousness. I am invoking spirituality. I am operating on a higher plane. I am soaring close or closer to heaven in order to connect to the divine. I am following my proper path. I’ve really become Eagle. I’ve taken flight. And I’m on my way.

  “What are you thinking, Rodrigo?” she asks softly.

  This prompts me to formulate a question for her. “You taught me about Eagle. And I think of it every day. It’s even in my work, as you have seen. So I am asking you—what does the Panther mean to you?”

  Carlotta considers my question. Her face and eyes are still wet, and the mascara has run down her cheeks in distinct tar paths. She looks as beautiful as I’ve ever seen her.

  “That’s a very good question. Basically, it’s that you can be too afraid of the darkness to see the light, and you should confront your fears and have confidence that the answers will come to you.” She hesitates again. “But as you can see—when I doubted you, I gave in to fear. I lost sight of Panther. And then I arrive today, and there he is. The Panther portrait, right on your wall, staring down at me.”

  “Yes, but there are other factors involved,” I tell her. “Like one’s family. One’s upbringing. What one has gone through in life. The challenges. And you have had challenges. Things have to be weighed. And considered. I don’t think you gave in to fear at all—”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because you’re here. Are you here?”

  “. . . Y-y-yes . . .”

  “You have come back. That took confidence. And faith. You just needed time for more answers. Perhaps you have some answers now.”

  At that moment a tear makes its way down her cheek, refracting the window sunlight like a tiny diamond.

  “Yes, amore mio, I do,” she says with a weak smile.

  I’m hopeful and encouraged to hear her utter the word amore. “Love” has returned to our intimate language.

  “And maybe now you can have trust in the future.”

  Carlotta leans in and kisses me so very lightly on the mouth, as if still asking for forgiveness. I can feel that her lips and breath are heated, as if she is running a fever.

  “Amore?” she says.

  “Yes?”

  “Make love to me. Now. Per favore.”

  It reminds me of the first time we made love. I lead her to the bed and undress her piece by piece until she is beautifully nude before me. I undress myself, and our bodies meld together. I look into her eyes, which a few minutes ago were red from crying, but are glossy and sparkling now as they register the slow rhythmic penetrations within her. The tears stream down our cheeks, but they are tears of joy, for both of us. She has missed me as much as I have missed her. Our lovemaking is the reward for having found our separate ways back to each other, with our Life Forces being exchanged and now passing through each other to form an unbreakable bond.

  Afterward, we lie side by side on the bed, holding hands, and talk.

  “What made you come here today?” I ask.

  “I had something to tell you. And I’d forgotten it. Remember? I mentioned it at the Accademia café.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I came here to remind you. Of your mentor.”

  “Heriberto?”

  “Yes. I had a dream about him. You must track Heriberto down and pay him a visit and find out how he is—if in fact he is still alive.”

  “He’s alive.”

  “Then you must find him and tell him what you told me—how you feel. That will be good for you to do. Good for both of you.”

  “So you do believe in dreams?”

  “More than ever now. I think you are right. In dreams, everything is possible.”

  “And Heriberto came to you?”

  “Yes. He would love to see you. He told me so. In my dream.”

  “And I would love to see him. Now that I am ready. That feels right, yes.”

  A pause, a comfortable silence, before Carlotta speaks again. “Do you believe in God, Rodrigo?”

  “No, not one god. I believe in them all. The gods of all religions. The faith is the same. And so is the love. God is love no matter what name or shape He takes, no matter who tries to possess Him and call Him his own . . .”

  “I agree. God is in every one of us.”

  “I believe that. Everyone has a piece. That’s why there are many gods.”

  “You make me a stronger woman.”

  “You make me a better man.”

  “I love you, Rodrigo, so very much.”

  “I love you pretty much more.”

  We are lying there in my bedroom with the Animal sub-series of The Parallel Universe surrounding us, enveloping us. I spin back and into the arms of the woman I love, and we exchange knowing, hungry looks once again.

  “You sure you didn’t come here for anything else?”

  “Well, the make-up sex, of course, caro.”

  “Thought so.”

  We make love then, again and again and again. And later that night, with Carlotta’s sleeping head resting upon my chest, I have a dream that I remember, that I will always remember:

  The Great Spirit looks down upon Mother Earth and sees the Panther and the Eagle. The Panther, trusting with open heart in a future with the soaring Eagle, derives courage and confidence from his strength and leaps forward in the face of considerable darkness. She borrows a brush from him and paints her own portrait of grace and nobility for all to see.

  The Eagle, inspired by the Panther, sheds all that had soiled and weighed him down and takes flight, soaring higher and higher through the clouds and mists, getting closer to the heavens than ever before.

  And the Great Spirit praises Panther and Eagle. They have met their challenges head-on, with courage, strength, and integrity, and are the better for it. They make love in each other’s arms and rejoice in the gifts they have given each other. Then they fly forth with humility and gratitude. They have garnered the golden blessings of the gods of all religions. The Great Spirit deems it so.

  I wake up from the dream in the middle of the night. I watch Carlotta sleep sweetly beside me. I caress her twitching cheek and kiss her softly. I stretch the bedspread up and over her exposed shoulder.

  I rise from bed and make my way into the studio. There I climb the ladder and remove a canvas from the wall. In the bedroom, I reclaim another from the Animal sub-series and replace it with the one taken from the studio. Now, hanging from the wall, side by side, are Panther and Eagle, floating together like kindred, harmonious spirits.

  The Parallel Universe is now united.

  “Rodrigo?”

  “Yes, my love?”

  “I’ve missed you in my sleep.”

  “No need to worry. I’m always there.”

  18

  ASIAN ANGEL

  Rodrigo? Wake up. Rodrigo, wake up!”

  “What is it, Carlotta, my love? Did you see Eagle and Panther?”

  “Wake up! Rodrigo! Come back!”

  “Where?”

  “To me, Akira. I’m right here. Come back to me now . . . That’s it, open your eyes. You can stop sleeping.”

  The world was identifying itself to me, making its presence felt: colors and shapes, words spoken, and soothing music.

  “Rodrigo. Welcome back.”

  I could see her now. She was wearing a sapphire satin dress. Her hair was swept to the side, and diamond-fire drop earrings dangled beneath her chin.

  “I’m happy you came back.”

  “What day is it today?”

  “Today is Friday.”

  “And I’ve been here how long?”

  “Three days.”

  “Holy shit.” I tried to sit up and didn’t make it the first time. “Wow . . .”

  “Did you have a good
time?”

  I angled over at her and smiled. “I had a great time.”

  “That’s good. For you.”

  “I have to go. I have to get on a flight. Can you get me my stuff?”

  “It’s ready. I have it right here.”

  On a table was my jacket. My shoes were on the floor, and I put them on. My money and passport were in my pants. I had to clear my mind and figure it out. I couldn’t go back to SoHo, since my friends and staff had confronted me and revealed their plans to make me take psychological tests. Now that I was producing paintings I had no intention of selling, I was worried that such testing could give them a foothold. To do something more. To take control. Of my work, of my money, of my life. After all, I knew what they were after. And it had nothing to do with my mental health.

  No. I was definitely not going back to Manhattan.

  “Akira, perhaps you can help me.”

  “How?”

  “Tell me, can you drive me to the airport? JFK?” I didn’t want to leave any taxi records that could be traced back to me.

  “Uh, well. Maybe. When?”

  “Now.”

  “No, no. I can’t right now. I’m working.”

  “Let me speak to your boss.”

  “He will not let me.”

  “I can be very persuasive when I want to be.”

  Within fifteen minutes, we were entering the ramp to the Van Wyck Expressway heading south. It was nighttime, though I hadn’t been sure until we left the warehouse and hit the pavement. I’d bought Akira for the night, making the Asian underworld drug-den proprietor an offer he could not refuse.

  “You might be the most important person in my life right now. You know that?”

  “Really?” And she laughed a high-pitched, girlish giggle.

  “You’re the most trustworthy woman in New York. I trust you more than anyone.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But I want you to know, I’m in love with a woman. Very much in love. In my former days, that wouldn’t matter. But, well, I’ve changed. I need a new team around me. Maybe you can come work for me.”

  She said nothing, but the look on her face implied, “Doing what?”

  “We’d think of something. Where you work now, it’s dangerous, you know? You could get in a lot of trouble.”

  She was silent and remained so for a while. Then she said, “I’m with a guy, too. I don’t think he would let me. He’s no good. He treats me bad.”

  If I’d heard it once, I’d heard it a thousand times.

  “He owns the club where I work. That’s why you stayed a long time, because I asked him. And because you paid a lot. Even though I wanted you to stop what you are doing. You are killing yourself, Mr. Concepción. You are a good man.”

  I hadn’t thought of myself that way in a long time—a good man. Betrayal, disappointment, and anger had built up in me a self-defense system, and I had become a user, a taker, a narcissist. But hadn’t I begun to change all that during the time I had just spent with Carlotta?

  “Are you okay?” Akira asked.

  The overpowering emotions of the past three days, especially the draining task of keeping my two lives going, hit me all at once. My eyes began to flood, and I cried.

  Akira put her hand across mine and squeezed it. “Is everything okay? What’s going on in your life that’s making you so sad?”

  “I have two. So it’s . . . a lot.”

  “Two lives?”

  “You think that’s possible? To have two lives?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You probably think I’m crazy. Like everyone else.”

  “Maybe you’re searching for a better life. Searching is good. I’m searching, too.”

  “You deserve the beautiful life you are searching for, Akira.”

  “Thank you. But it doesn’t come easy. There’s nothing wrong with working on yourself.”

  “You have a beautiful soul, Akira. I know it’s tough, working where you do. If you are ever in trouble, please call me, okay?” I wrote down my number and placed it in the console. “When we stop, you give me your number, too.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Concepción.”

  “Rodrigo. Always Rodrigo.”

  “You’re a nice man. I could tell. I liked you very quickly. That never happens.”

  “Akira?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re an angel. You’ve helped me get where I need to be—twice. I believe you came into my life for a reason.”

  “Maybe, yes. Angels have helped me, too. That’s why I am here.”

  She drove up to the airline terminal, and I got out. Akira got out, too, and gave me her number. Then we embraced as if we had known each other for a thousand years.

  There was a midnight red-eye to Madrid on Iberia. I could get a connecting flight from there to anywhere I wished to go. I bought the ticket in cash, waited for an hour, and boarded the plane.

  And just like that, with liftoff, I was on my way to another life.

  19

  PARALLEL NO MORE

  The plane touched down in the afternoon at Madrid-Barajas, where I had a two-hour layover.

  During the long flight to Madrid, I’d had plenty of time for a nap. Even though it had been only a few hours since I’d left the drug warehouse, I was a little twitchy and glad of the opportunity to rest and to sleep. I let Carlotta know I was heading to Spain. I invited her, too, but she had a wine festival to attend in Fiesole, where she was going to introduce some of their new selections to the vendors. She was happy that I was making this excursion, and she liked the idea of Ronda—my proposed destination for a cozy shared getaway. I thought we might rent a house there, and suggested that Carlotta join me when she had wrapped up business in Fiesole. In the meantime, I could turn the house into a studio, as was my habit, and embark upon the next installment of The Universe. I planned to get some fresh Spanish supplies in Barcelona to enhance my color palette.

  After the plane landed in Madrid, my first move was to buy a Spanish phone in the airport and make a few important calls. First I contacted my bank in New York and had them wire money into my Spanish account in Mallorca. It was the very same bank in which I had deposited the contents of my little red box all those years before, and requesting a transfer brought back a wave of nostalgia. Having organized what I hoped would be my hard-to-trace monies, I placed several calls to real estate brokers to find a nice finca or ranch or villa up on the hillside in Ronda.

  Then I boarded my flight to Palma de Mallorca. We landed in Palma around sundown, the beautiful pinks, reds, and peaches flooding the plane windows. From Palma, I would go to see Heriberto in Valldemossa. I had been thinking about this ever since Carlotta had encouraged me to go and visit him. I looked forward to seeing him again after all these years, albeit with some apprehension.

  I decided to stay in a modest, low-profile two-star hotel in Palma rather than drive northwest to Valldemossa in the dark of night. I ordered some tapas at a cantina close by, though I wasn’t very hungry. I hadn’t been eating much since, well, before I went to the warehouse in Brooklyn; but even before that, in Florence, my appetite had waned when I was finishing the Animal sub-series. (My normal eating habits in New York had been embarrassingly gluttonous for a person my size.)

  As I lay in my hotel bed, I realized I was feeling much better. That subterranean interlude, those three lost days in Brooklyn—during which I had no memory of eating—had taken a lot out of me and left me depleted. Scattered. Run-down. Perhaps even depressed, thanks to a post-binge crash.

  But I’d slept well on the plane. My nerves and anxiety had calmed, my faculties had been restored, my sensibilities were realigned, and my mood was rebooted. Everything seemed to be functioning in proper working order. In fact, I hadn’t felt this good in a while. It was like the pressure was off. I felt whole. Unified. Relieved.

  And why? It felt as if my two worlds had found their overlap and come together, and now I could just relax. And be myse
lf. And live. And produce my art. And most important, be with the woman I loved.

  I was exhausted from the trip, but I was still wide awake. Before I eventually drifted off to sleep, I thought to try Carlotta again. But her phone just rang and rang, so I left a message that I’d speak to her the following day.

  The next morning, I got off to an early start and opted for an anonymous taxi instead of a hired car. I hailed it right outside the hotel.

  The beautiful coastal hillside village of Valldemossa, eighteen kilometers northwest of Palma, was only a thirty-minute drive. The quaint fishing village, now a repository of Spanish culture, had a long and sometimes violent history dating to shortly after the Trojan War. The inhabitants had fought many invasions (and even pirates) in the old days; in more recent centuries, they had been host to many famous guests, among them the Polish composer Frédéric Chopin and the French writer George Sand, who had lived in the monastery after it was sold to private owners.

  Valldemossa was also a gateway to the Serra de Tramuntana mountains, a spectacular range that had already provided the rough and ragged topline I had painted as the stunning backdrop for Carlotta and me during our sailing voyage to Cala de Deià.

  Once again I began to have professional aspirations and designs in mind. As we wound through the beautiful roads that led to Valldemossa, I pictured the area’s delicious portraiture potential: luscious landscapes, local rituals, indigenous quirky color, and of course the sweeping Mediterranean overlooks. All of which could be targeted for Part II of the Universe series, which I would call The Unified Universe—The Parallel Universe being Part I.

  This was a day that had been a long time coming, and frankly, my visit with Heriberto was long overdue. I was finally going to spend time with my old mentor, friend, and colleague—and the more I thought about it, the more I realized that this visit was perhaps the subconscious reason for my unexpected return to Mallorca, when I needed to hide out from my staff and friends in New York. Heriberto had been on my mind for years. I mean, how could he not be? I painted every day, and his influence was always with me, but not only in spirit. I did think of him, the man himself, more often than I cared to admit once upon a time.