Happy That It's Not True (27 page)

              “Nothing can be more interesting than a holy man writing steamy letters.  And your friend—is he religious?”

              “Spiritual.  I don’t think he likes to be called religious.”

              “Do you think of him as the Cardinal, and are you like the mysterious woman?”

              “I don’t know,” Ling laughed.

              “Tell me about your friend.”

              “I think life keeps letting him down.  Things start off great for him, but then the bubble always bursts.”

              “Is that why you won’t date him?”

              “I’m mentally ill.  It wouldn’t be fair to him.”

              “You’re a very smart and mature woman.  You’re not going to blame him for your problems, and try to make his life miserable through pettiness and passive aggression.  Maybe you need a project to keep you going—like the man who built Vizcaya.  Maybe your friend, he can be your project.  Everyone needs a passion to live.”

              Ling stared at a mental image of the library.  Most of the books were real.  Leather-bound, with many words by many men with many discouragements and qualms—how many words had the owner of the estate read?  How many words had interested him?  How many hours had he spent with these words?  How many words had bitten and torn at him?  How many words had excited him, resurrected him from his melancholy?  How many words had mocked him, amusing themselves with his state and condition?  Cruel words, comforting words.   

              And then she thought of Diego.  She knew exactly which words she wanted to say to him:  I don’t feel well.  I really don’t feel well.  But I want you to know that I’ve fallen in love with you.  I’m all yours.  Please be gentle with me.

…

              Ling paced her house with her phone.  She never tired of inspecting her grandfather’s framed calligraphy as she spoke, admiring his landscape paintings—mountains and mist and the mystery of man becoming one with nature.  Her mother bantered with questions about Diego.

              “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.