Love in Lowercase (11 page)

Wednesday began with a jolt. I was so agitated that I'd hardly slept a wink all night, and when the alarm went off I jumped out of bed like a jack-in-the-box.

Oddly enough, Mishima didn't follow my lead. He was fast asleep on the bed.

“No problem,” I told him. “If I were you, I'd do the same.”

I showered and got dressed very quickly, although there was absolutely no reason to hurry. In the blink of an eye I was on the street, heading for the Metro station. It was quite a warm day, but with every step I took I was feeling colder and colder. An icy chill was moving up my legs and making my whole body tremble.

Then I realized that I wasn't wearing any shoes. I'd left home in my socks and gone too far to turn back and put some shoes on. I'd be late for my nine o'clock class, and the shoe shops didn't open till ten. What on earth could I do?

All of a sudden the sky went dark—as if there had been a solar eclipse—and a familiar buzzing sound resounded in the city, where I suddenly seemed to be the only person walking around.

—

When I opened my eyes I was in bed. I switched off the alarm.

I'd just had what's called a “false awakening.” You dream you're awake and doing exactly what you'd be doing if you really had woken up. You remain under the impression of being awake until some strange detail—like being on the street without your shoes on, or a solar eclipse, or a buzzing sound—tells you that this can't really be happening—at least not in the waking world.

The annoying thing is that, once you understand what's gone on, you have to get out of bed and start the entire process all over again.

—

After finishing my morning classes I had to wait only two hours before I would see Gabriela again. I started feeling nervous. Without knowing where I was going, I crossed the road.

I needed to find something to distract me until two o'clock came around. It was a little early, but there was a chance that Valdemar would be sitting on the terrace, so I headed in that direction, without giving it a second thought.

—

None of the tables were occupied. I sat at the middle one—I'm a creature of habit—and asked for my aperitif as I basked in the February sun.

I had hoped Valdemar would be there, so that his talk of lunar studies and nostalgia for the future would transport me far away from myself—which is exactly what I needed. However, the appearance of a familiar figure provided an unexpected source of entertainment.

It was the man in black who, according to Valdemar, always spent seventeen minutes at the bar.

Since I had nothing better to do, I decided to find out for myself whether the previous confirmation of his theory had been pure chance and the whole story was the product of Valdemar's overheated imagination. When the man took his seat at the bar and asked for a beer it was 12:43 on the dot. That meant he had to leave at one o'clock. He'd made it easy for me.

I played the detective, monitoring his movements and keeping an eye on my watch. The redheaded man took a couple of sips of his beer, leafed through a sports paper, and lit a cigarette. He put it out half smoked, had another sip of beer, and kept reading listlessly. The seventeen minutes were about to end, but the man didn't seem to be in the slightest hurry.

When the minute hand was vertical, a sudden ringing noise made me jump. It was the phone at the bar.

As the waiter reluctantly answered, the man in black left a coin on the bar and rushed out, as if awakened by the ringing.

Seventeen minutes
. It was true.

However, I started wondering whether the man would have done the same thing if the phone hadn't rung. But my musings were interrupted by another surprise.

“I think it's for you,” the waiter said, handing me the cordless phone.

I was baffled. Who could possibly know I was there? And how did the waiter know who I was? He didn't even know my name. Two words from the caller, however, put an end to the mystery.

“Valdemar speaking.”

Well, it couldn't have been anyone else.
Yet I was surprised that he'd phoned instead of coming to the bar as he usually did at midday.

“Is something wrong?”

The noise in the background made his voice sound as if it was coming from another planet. After a moment's hesitation, he answered, “Yes.”

“Could you give me a few more details?”

“Having some problems. But it's not something I can talk about on the phone.”

“We can talk about it this afternoon. Here's my number—”

He cut me off. “I told you, I can't talk on the phone. Tell me where you live and I'll come to you.”

I rather reluctantly gave him my address. Then I changed the subject. “You sound as if you're miles away, as if you're calling from the moon.”

“In a way I am.” His tone suddenly relaxed. “It's not quite time yet, but I'm preparing for the launch.”

“What will life be like on the moon?” I welcomed this change of topic. “I mean, when we have to flee from Earth and discover that we are immortal and all that.”

“Oh, there are a few technical glitches that have to be sorted out first. But nothing too serious.”

“Are you talking about the journey itself?”

“No, all that's sorted. The technology's good enough to get us there. The problem is the regolith.”

“Regolith? What on earth is that?”

“It's moon dust, which is caused by the impact of meteoroids. The particles are so abrasive that within a few days it had disabled the astronauts' instruments. That's why nobody's had the bright idea of building hotels on the moon.”

“Because of the regolith?”

“Yes, it would corrode any building they might put up there. It's like having sandpaper everywhere. The astronauts were saved by the asbestos in their space suits. Now there's a fantastic material . . .”

All of a sudden I realized that the waiter was standing in front of me with his arms crossed. “Hey man, you're hogging the phone. It's supposed to be for work purposes only.”

I had fifteen minutes to walk a distance of less than a hundred yards, so I headed off to the music shop in slow motion.

I was strangely aware of details that I didn't usually notice: the smell of pasta boiling in a saucepan, a puddle shaped like a fish, the smudge on a baby's forehead, the murmuring sound of distant trees . . .

I stopped to look in the shopwindows, whiling away the time and aware of the butterflies in my stomach.

I reached my destination a little early, three minutes to two. Nevertheless, I entered the shop.

Gabriela was talking softly to a fat man, who was showing her a catalog. I stood behind her without saying anything. The cashier seemed to have left already.

Maybe I should have waited on the street—or the salesman was making her edgy—because Gabriela interrupted her conversation and said to me, “Wait for me at the café. I'll be there in a few minutes.”

“Which café?”

“Do you know the Kasparo?”

“Yes, it's not far from here.”

I didn't need to be asked twice and went off to the famous Kasparo, a café with tables under an arcade in a quiet square.

It must have been ten years since I'd been there, but the atmosphere seemed more or less the same: young people who had aged prematurely because they wanted to live too fast, recycled old hippies, the odd sidetracked tourist who'd come across the place by chance.

It wasn't a particularly warm day, but there were a few solitary souls having the daily special outside.

I found a free table next to a column and hastened to strike the right pose: man waiting for the woman he loves; first date. It's difficult to seem natural in such a situation, so I asked for a coffee and looked up. Just then, two especially fluffy clouds came together to create a great big mustache in the blue sky.

I watched it for ages, as if I'd gone there with no other purpose but to observe clouds moving. When I emerged from my reverie—which had kept anxiety at bay—I looked at my watch and it was almost two thirty.

I started to panic. Somehow I knew what was at stake. I wasn't prepared for a world without Gabriela, or without the illusion of Gabriela at the very least.

I was getting increasingly desperate when I saw her approaching the square. I had a few seconds to enjoy the lightness of her step, her feet appearing to glide just above the ground. Her hips were swaying under a green woolen dress that showed off her curves. Before she reached my table, a gust of wind lifted her hair and swung it around across her lips. Gabriela deftly brushed it back and said, “I'm sorry to have kept you waiting.”

She sat in the chair facing mine.

“Don't worry. I've been watching the clouds.”
What a terrible way to start
. I was annoyed with myself but couldn't leave the matter at that because it would have sounded even worse. “Do
you know what? While I was waiting for you two long clouds joined up to make a mustache in the sky.”

Gabriela looked at me as if she had some kind of weirdo sitting across from her. Then she took a deep breath and, with an expression that had abruptly turned serious, asked, “What do you want from me? I don't even know who you are.”

I was stunned into silence. I'd planned to tell her lots of things before confessing what I felt for her—that is, if I was capable of doing so. Now I was facing her final verdict without having been given a chance to submit a single piece of evidence.

“Well,” I said, trying to sound offhand, “I discovered a photograph of you as a little girl, and I gave it to you. After that, you invited me to have coffee with you. That's why we're here, isn't it?”

“Of course. What I want to know is why you brought me the photo. It's just a coincidence that your sister went to ballet classes with me, so what's it to you? There are hundreds of strangers in our family photo albums, and we don't all run around trying to find them.”

Damn it! She's not making it easy for me.
My only chance was to resort to my university lecturer spiel in an attempt to keep her at the table. If she got up and left, all would be lost.

“I'll tell you if you'll just listen carefully for a couple of minutes. You and I met when we were six or seven. Something special happened between us, even if you don't remember it, so the little girl in the photo remained engraved in my memory all these years. When our paths crossed at the traffic light, I recognized you, and that made a huge impression on me. It doesn't often happen that you recognize someone you knew as a child. You looked at me twice, first as we passed and then when you reached the pavement on the other side, before you continued on your way. That led me to believe that perhaps you'd experienced something similar.”

“It's true, I did look at you,” she confessed, brushing her hand through her hair, “but not because I remembered anything special. It was because you were walking around the streets in your pajamas.”

“How did you notice that?” I suddenly felt embarrassed. “I had my trousers and overcoat on top of them.”

“It was easy to spot because your coat was open. That's why I turned around to look again.” Now she smiled for the first time.

“Then the whole thing's been a misunderstanding.” I was crushed. “But the photo proves that you are the person I remembered. Even if you don't recall what happened, you must accept that much.”

“That's true. But what's the point of digging up something that happened thirty years ago? People grow up, change, and forget about each other. Otherwise, life would be impossible, don't you think?”

I was on the brink of tears, something that hadn't happened to me since I was a teenager. I decided to put an end to the meeting before I embarrassed myself any further, but Gabriela delivered one last blow.

“You must be very lonely if you feel the need to rummage around in such a distant past.”

While I signaled to the waiter to bring the bill, I tried to find the perfect riposte and put an end to the matter in a more or less dignified way. Nothing came to me.

Gabriela looked at me with concern, as if she suddenly felt responsible for my pain, but I had just experienced her contempt and wasn't willing to face her pity as well. I stood up and, leaving her still sitting at the table, said, “I'm sorry for bothering you.”

As I walked away I felt as if I'd aged thirty years.

The wound was so deep I had to go somewhere to lick it in order not to bleed to death. I got home convinced I'd burned all my boats. The gondoliers would have to sing their songs somewhere else, for I had no wish to hear them again.

With a newly hardened heart I rushed up to Titus's apartment to immerse myself in the chapter that was entirely appropriate to my situation: “Treasures of Solitude.”

On Titus's bookshelves I found two American books on the matter and thought they'd contain a few clues:
Party of One: The Loner's Manifesto
and
Celebrating Time Alone: Stories of Splendid Solitude
. It's incredible how books like these can make a virtue or obligation out of necessity.

The former referred to some well-known loners like Newton or Michelangelo, who “were never part of the choir” and were fine with that. The latter was more concerned with the specific benefits of solitude. I made a few notes to refer to when I was writing the chapter:

Living alone is the new millennium's predominant lifestyle.

It favors one's own priorities and decision making.

It offers a maximum degree of freedom.

It puts time at our own disposal.

It helps us to find meaning in our own lives.

It brings us closer to self-knowledge and godliness.

I had to leave it at that as I was getting depressed. I could see now that accepting maxims like this was akin to burying myself alive, just when—in spite of everything else—I'd stuck my head out into the world. I'd blown my chance of being with Gabriela, but I wasn't yet ready to don the hermit's robes.

There's a whole world out there, even if I don't always understand it
.

Comforted by this thought, I made dinner, gave Mishima some cat food and fresh water, and did the dishes as I listened to the radio. Yes, I was probably something of a hermit, but I was prepared to come down from the mountain.

I decided that, however much it hurt, I'd banish any hopes I had about Gabriela and embark on a new path, no matter where it would take me. I'd let those who are tired of living enjoy the treasures of solitude. I needed to get started.

I got into bed and started reading Buddha's soothing words. One page, chosen at random, comforted me in my despair before I dropped off to sleep.

Let us be thankful, for if we have not learned a lot today,

we have at least learned a little; and if we have not learned a little,

we have at least not fallen ill; and if we have fallen ill,

we have at least not died, and for this we are thankful.