The Four Corners of my Past

by Alaitz Arruti

I understood that Beatriz needed to talk, that her world had just been reduced to her pain and that there was no hole to escape from it. So, I got on her side and listened. She told me that two years ago, four months after her partner proposed during some vacation in New York, he got cold feet and decided to terminate the engagement. She went to Thailand for fifteen days to think while he decided to do the contrary, not think, in the bed of some other woman of which she didn’t know the name of. Before her plane landed in Barcelona again, Beatriz, started to receive text messages from a repented ex-fiancé that confessed to her his business in unknown sheets and was begging for a new chance.

  - Only you can understand me, there is no one that knows me better than you. I just needed to be away from you to see it. Please – he was begging – come back to me.

  She had two options, to believe him or not. She chose the first. Even though she knew he was a man who only loved himself, that marriage and the possibility of putting his own wellbeing in second place, didn’t enter his plans and that a son, or a daughter, were just a subtraction in the calculator of his bank account. The ex-fiancé, whom she never referred to by his real name, is, as she told me, a selfish, narcissistic and superficial man. A serial manipulator, if there is such a thing. His professional career is the big love of his life and the rest, merely secondary actors coming in and out of the scene to his convenience. A man lacking empathy to whom the feelings of others are worth nothing.

  - You know? I have always wanted to be a mother – Beatriz told me – to me, the only objective of getting married was to create a family, which is why when he came back asking for a second chance, I told him that if I agreed it was to pull forward completely. That I wasn’t willing to go back, like when we were twenty-five years old and we lived in separate houses. My only objective was to create a family. All or nothing.

  It seemed, that he accepted the “all”, even though deep down, they both knew he wouldn’t give anything.

  She believed him, because the idea of not fulfilling her dream to become a mother and create a family was harder than the sadness of failure. She believed him because not to do so meant renouncing to what she wanted, even when she knew he was not the right person, even though deep inside herself there was the certainty that she was making a mistake and maybe she could even intuit the drama that would explode in her face a few months later.

  She forgave him because she had been educated to do so, because in romantic movies the happy ending always comes after a break up or a deception. She forgave him because she thought that he would change for her. She forgave him and forgot to ask herself the most important. Am I happy by his side?

  If she had made herself that question the day she arrived from Thailand, with her skin suitcase in her hand and went straight to the house they were sharing, she would have saved herself the tears that came later. But she didn’t, because sometimes the fear of feeling like we failed forces us to keep going, thinking wrongfully that unhappiness is just another part of the way towards success and only now, in her consultory, sharing her sadness with a stranger, she confessed to herself that actually, she hadn’t been happy at his side for several years.

  - I know you must’ve been told a million times in the last few days and most certainly you won’t be able to see it right now – I told her – but believe me, it’s the best thing that could happen to you. Marry him, having a child with him, would have been your damnation.

  She nodded sadly. She believed me, she wanted to believe me but her body was still aching from all the suffering and even if she knew that time would heal her, she felt tired of waiting.

  That morning, while I was walking towards the office, I thought about why, a woman like Beatriz, independent, resolute, working and economically stable woman, was renouncing her happiness for the false love of a man. I thought about why we try to give second chances that we know are going to fail. I thought about why we fight for a wrong, lost beforehand, cause. Thinking... I thought of Quim and in the young woman that decided to give him the chance he did not deserve. Me.

  At my twenty-three years old, recently celebrated, on a Friday on the month of June in which I got out from the university, I came home, took a good nap woke up with a craving for chips, I wrote to Quim. It had been six months since the Christmas at Norfolk, four since I decided to delete his number and save it in a memory box. I had become stronger, but I still thought about him at least a couple of times a week. There was always something, a song, a stare, a smell... that reminded me of Quim. His memory didn’t hurt, but it wasn’t gone either. I stopped asking myself questions even though some nights, when I closed my eyes, I used to take a walk through my memory and repeat that feeling, young and innocent, that had conquered me the previous autumn.

  Sometimes I doubt if throughout my life I have fallen in love with the people or with the history I have built around them. Of whether it was the other person conquering me or if I fell in love with the feeling that was being born inside me. It’s just so nice to be in love that I think I let myself go. Maybe the men I loved weren’t as interesting as I thought they were, but it was pretty while I loved them, the time my mental derangement lasted.

  My story with Quim was one of those wonderful tragicomedies. A story that was almost a muse. It was worth to write a few hundred poems, a musical album, a play and even a thriller, if things got twisted. Surely, he, Quim, was much simpler than all of that, but how to give up such a story?

  The day I wrote him, six months after our last encounter, I don’t know why I did it. Maybe I was searching for one last try that confirmed the death of that story and allowed me to get rid of his number and forget him at last. Or maybe, I refused to spend summer without a pretty adventure to tell.

  I liked being in love, to feel identified with the songs I listened, to dream with a <> that was not eternal, a fire that was born and died in me. A feeling of my own, that filled the minutes of my day to day. It is not that I was not afraid to love, it was that I was a kamikaze. I wanted to love, even more than I wished to be loved. That is why I wrote to Quim, because I didn’t want to renounce to that feeling I liked so much.

  I came close to the little metallic box, in which a little green butterfly with open wings, protected my memories. There, I kept my first subway bill from London, a string bracelet I made at school, the starfish my father gave me when I was born, my first student card... in the box I kept everything that deserved to be remembered in my life and it was there, where I kept Quim. I opened the box and took out the folded paper in which I had written, in blue ink, his phone number. Without his name, I didn’t need that, I knew exactly to whom those nine numbers belong. The exact place in planet earth where a phone would announce my message, with or without my name.

  - Hi Quim. How long it’s been! I know it may seem strange for me to write you and surely it is, but today I thought of you and I just wanted to write and know how you are doing. I hope everything goes well. Elena.

  It was seven o’clock in the morning when the sound of the phone ringing woke me up. I still didn’t want to wake up, I half turned in my bed wanting to keep dreaming, but I didn’t make it. I was not thinking about Quim, it’s not that I forgot the message of the previous afternoon but when the phone rang, I supposed it was a friend telling me something about the party last Thursday. But I was already awake, so I picked up the cellphone to clear any doubt and I saw the stranger number of some <>. Quim had answered.

  - Hello Elena. I really liked receiving your message. I have thought many times about writing you but never had the courage to do it, thanks for being braver than me. I hope you are doing well. Quim.

  Now what? – I thought. I felt as if I had a bomb in my hands and I didn’t know what to do with it. To write to him had been reckless, a mistake, it didn’t make any sense... but he had responded. Why now? Why now he did and six months ago he didn’t? could I trust him? No, that’s for sure... did I want to trust him? Yes, why if I hadn’t written to him? I read an
d reread the message dozens of times. I checked that the phone number was his and not someone making a mean joke. I could not believe that after six months, of all the unanswered calls, text messages, the suffering, that after all that happened was so easy as to write him on a Friday and get an answer on Saturday. Really? Was it everything that easy? So simple? What had happened during all this time? What had changed? Above all, I had two big questions, why did he leave? And, why did he choose to come back?

  I arrived to Bescanó at twelve o’clock in the afternoon with the tranquility of the familiar road. I felt serene, strong, confident. That morning, even from my bed, I texted Quim back and after exchanging several rutinary phrases such as <>, <>, <>... I proposed seing each other. after everything we lived, what was the point of writing? There was a story to close (or open). We couldn’t just go back to texting, to write as if nothing had happened. We could ignore what happened but then it was better for us to ignore also whatever was about to happen. Time may heal wounds, but it does not make magic, it does not forgive, and it does not have the ability to cancel what happened.

  None of us knew what we could expect from the other and to see each other on tha june morning, was the only way to found out.

  When I reached the containers on the corner and turned onto the cobblestone road that lead to his house, I stopped in my tracks. The memory of the suffering made me ask myself a dozen times if I was sure of what I was doing. I opened the door to the January storm, to a love I had obviously not forgotten and that was presented in an open field, in front of me, with the light of the house turned off and the mystery of what I would find after so many months of silence. Was I really ready to open the Pandora’s box?

  - Yes – I thought.

  For some strange reason I had left a window opened the day I closed his door and that reason, reasonable or not, had to be resolved. If I was wrong, I would at least do it with my boots on.

  I accelerated without worrying for the stones and the holes in the road, I accelerated so that I wouldn’t think and arrive as soon as possible. Whatever it was, whatever happened, I needed to live it, I had to try.

  My heart was beating very strongly, I had a nervous laugh, a sudden warmth. I turned off the radio, pulled the car windows down and breathed deeply. I was returning to Bescanó. It had only been six months and I had the sensation that it had been a lifetime. The memories seemed far away even though I had the impression of been on friendly land.

  There, everything was still the same. The trees shaded the road, the Ter River was tranquilly descending, the sky was clear, and the sun was shining up high. While I deaccelerated to turn into the last curve, I filled my lungs with air, got my pulse back and remembered the polar circle lovers. – Brave... brave, brave... Jump brave! - .

  Luna came to greet me and behind her he showed up. Even more handsome than before, painfully handsome and I was inevitably lost.

  He had lost weight since the last time I saw him, I noticed as soon as I saw him. He wore a white T-shirt, with half a sleeve, that showed the tan of his skin. He had traded the mountain boots for more summery shoes, but he was still faithful to his ripped jeans. His hair had cleared up, it looked almost blonde under the noon sun. He had a more childish look but when he looked at me and smiled, I checked he was still as handsome as before, even more. If that, ever, seemed possible.

  Quim had prepared an appetizer on the garden with two beers, olives and a pack of chips. We saluted each other with care and we erased the past with a hug, as if November had been yesterday and the heat of that noon in June, a strange pre-Christmas phenomenon. Nothing indicated a finished relationship, my tears, perhaps his or a great unknown. Nothing. It was all so perfect, so “as before”, that we let each other go and postponed the pending conversation.

  -I don’t have any food at home – he said when there were a few minutes until for two in the afternoon – if you feel like it, I invite you to eat at the grill of a friend of mine.

  I sat on the copilot seat of his white fur wagon, the one that brought me so many and great memories. We took the curves of the road interchanging smiles, avoiding to talk about the things we had to say. We left all reproaches aside, simply enjoying that moment, that new opportunity which we didn’t know where it would take us, traveling to the only destiny that was guaranteed at that moment, the restaurant.

  It was ten minutes in which we barely spoke. We were close but far away. We looked at each other once in a while but could not stop thinking about all the stuff we needed to say. That pending conversation was like a ghost, a shadow that was persecuting us.

  I knew I had to ask for explanations, that he could not go unpunished. I couldn’t smile and make as if nothing had happened. I couldn’t but I did. I let myself because of the memory, because of the feeling I hadn’t forgotten, because of his voice, the way he looked at me. I let myself go and I wanted to give myself that instant. Whatever happened after, whatever his excuse was, it would have to wait. After so many tears, I deserved to enjoy that moment.

  I have always been a sea person. Not that I had a choice either << may the waves bring you, may the waves carry you, and may they never force you the way to go>>. My life has always been attached to the sea, to the Mediterranean coast. I have visited many countries, wonderful countries, cultures that have given me great life lessons, but after every journey, I have come invariably, back home, back to my sea. I haven’t been able to find a place where I feel better at. Bescanó is a lot more rural. Sweet water land, willows, poplars and Alamo trees. Over there, the horizon has an end and it’s not blue, it’s green. Bescanó is the back of my house. It is north but not mine. I could get lost a few instants, days, even years, but I would always come back to my sea.

  The restaurant was an ancient house with a wooden roof. You could barely read the entry sing and if Quim hadn’t come forward to open the door and invite me in, I would have just passed it. His friend greeted him with a hug.

  - Long time without seeing you Quim! What’s up with your life?

  - I know... I’m a mess, it’s been month without me coming by to say hello. I’ve had a rough winter but oh well... - he stopped explaining right away, protecting his stare from mine – I’m here! This is Elena.

  Elena, nothing else. He didn’t say who Elena was to him. If it was his ex-partner, a friend or a third cousin... he only said Elena.

  - Enchanted.

  - Likewise – I answered.

  We sat on the last table of the restaurant, just like we did at that basque restaurant on our first date. Away from the world, the corner of our intimacy. There was not many people in the room, barely two tables having dessert and coffee. It was three past a quarter in the afternoon and we assumed we were the last two customers from the morning shift.

  Out of the kitchen came the smell of grilled meat. A couple of years after that encounter, I would become vegetarian but at twenty-three years old I couldn’t resist a good chop. I listened Quim’s advice for the menu’s choice and the wine. The waiter took out a plate of sausages from earth with coca bread to liven up the wait. It was a tranquil meal, we talked without going too deeply into the chores of our lives during the last months, dodging any sensitive matter that could remind us of the conversation we still had pending and that we both avoided. He talked about the works in his house, of the project of opening his own gardening company.

  We had not lost a shred of past complicity. I was still amused by his sarcasm, his refined humor, the way he mixed up the two languages when he spoke. Sometimes he used Catalan and sometimes Spanish. He was not aware that he did it and I did not tell him. It was nice to hear him speak awkwardly, searching for the right words to surrender later and let go. I didn’t talk much during dinner, I dedicated myself to observe him, to try to understand what had happened. I kept resisting to make the damn question but could not get it out of my head. Neither when we toasted, and Quim repeated the “us” of the first encounters.

&n
bsp; We extended the after-lunch with the confidence of being in a familiar place, so familiar that for a second, it was also indiscreet.

  - Quim, is she your girl?

  I had left the table to go to the bathroom, when the waiter and friend approached him. I heard the voice from the open window of the services and I stood motionless waiting for his answer.

  - We were together for some time and then... - he stopped. I couldn’t see his gestures, his eyes, the place where he supported his hands while talking about me, of that us that had sounded so good once, before the tears, the deception and the suffering of a silence dissolved in smoke and waiting – we are giving ourselves a second chance.

  That confession, if it could be called that, caught me by surprise. I think that deep down that was what I wanted, although I still hadn’t stopped to think about it. Why else had I gone there? For what reason had I decided to break with the tranquility of my routine and go back to the known and announced storm that could not possibly catch me by surprise? I had to do it with conscience, however unconscious that decision was.

  - Good luck dude! – The friend said goodbye.

  - Thanks.

  I waited a few seconds before returning to the table, trying to put an I-didn’t-hear-anything face, a face that didn’t show I had smiled in the intimacy of the bathroom. I felt a slight satisfaction at that answer. As if I had won a war, a victory I was not expecting.

  We had eaten so much that we needed to take a walk to lighten up the body. On our return to Bescanó, we picked up Luna, she was always running ahead of us and then she was forced to stop and wait. We walked without a path, letting ourselves be carried along the path of green, the furrow that the wheels of the tractors leave in the earth. Their print.

  We were back there again, in the joy of a November dream, the illusion of two lovers that still have everything ahead to discover. Our hands, clumsy, would caress each other accidentally on every step and the looks confirmed the pleasure of our reencounter. If the past hadn’t been so hurtful, this would have been a precious start. The best way to rewrite our story.