Love in Lowercase (12 page)

Words to Be
Invented

Several days went by and nothing happened. I was waiting for Valdemar's visit, but there was no sign of him. He also failed to turn up at the bar. It was as if he'd vanished into thin air.

I spoke with Titus on the phone a couple of times, and the conversation usually proceeded along predictable lines. He'd say he was recovering slowly but surely; he'd ask about Amalfi's book; I'd exaggerate the amount of work I'd done in order to reassure him. I'd put an abrupt end to our chat before he could ask about Gabriela and promise to call him again.

Titus, however, was a sly old fox and guessed the truth.

“Samuel, I can tell that things aren't going so well for you.”

“What are you talking about?” I protested.

“The most important thing is to keep loving life. As Freud said, we must begin to love so as not to fall ill.”

It surprised me to hear these words spoken by a seriously ill man. On second thought, perhaps that was precisely what had given him the right perspective.

Titus ended the conversation with words that seemed to come out of the blue, but I took note.

“Good-bye Samuel, and remember that nothing happens without a reason.”

—

Now that I was liberated from my romantic delusions, I could devote all my energy to nourishing my routine. In the literature course, we'd finished with Hesse and moved on to Bertolt Brecht. The February exams were about to start, and a few tears would be shed in my office. Just like every other year.

One Wednesday evening, when I was preparing my class on Brecht, I had a strange premonition. As I was brushing up on a list of his plays, I was struck by the certainty that something was going to change. I can't explain how I came to this conclusion, but the fact is I knew that the routine into which I'd settled was as illusory as it was temporary.

I went to bed with yet another conviction. My rebirth as Francis Amalfi was endangering my mental health. And I'd written only a dozen pages. I had to finish it before I went completely off the rails.

—

A loud buzzing woke me. Flustered and not yet fully awake, I heard a second buzzing sound which made sure that I was no longer asleep. Somebody was ringing the doorbell at the street level.

I checked the time on my digital alarm clock. It was just after three in the morning. Feeling terribly tired, I sat up, cursing the drunk who was making such a nuisance of himself after closing time—because only a drunk or a madman could be ringing the doorbell at this hour.

I dragged myself along the hallway on legs that were still asleep, thinking about the curses I was going to rain on the
head of the unwanted visitor. There was another possible explanation for this intrusion, which I didn't want to think about. However, when I answered on the intercom my worst fears were confirmed.

“It's Valdemar. I need help.”

Valdemar came up the stairs, visibly terrified. Before explaining what had happened, he dumped a mysterious metal box, a large canvas bag, and the backpack in which he usually carried his manuscript in the hallway.

I ushered him into the living room. I was about to turn on the light, but Valdemar, who'd flopped onto my couch, said, “No, please don't. It's better if we stay in the dark.”

He lit a cigarette without asking for permission. It was the first time I'd seen him smoking.

I handed him an ashtray and sat in the chair facing him. In the darkness of the living room I thought about how disconcerting it was to have a conversation with someone whose face is hidden. He hadn't even taken off his hat; I could see its silhouette. He took a deep drag on his cigarette, its glow lighting up his face for a few seconds. Then he said, “Samuel, I'll be straight with you. I have nowhere to go.”

That's a great start.

“I'm renting an apartment,” he continued. “It's true that I've sometimes been a bit behind with the rent, but the landlady's been quite
understanding. After the fire she changed her mind and gave me three days to leave. Today was the last day.”

I was alarmed. “What fire?” I asked as he stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.

“Someone set fire to my door. I suppose the idea was that the flames would spread inside the apartment. But, don't worry, my manuscript is safe.”

“Your manuscript?” Now I was completely flabbergasted. “Do you think someone tried to burn the house down in order to destroy your manuscript?”

“And me with it. There are people who want me out of the way. They know I'm discovering certain things. That's why I asked you not to turn on the light. I don't want them to know that I'm here talking to you. I'm telling you this for your own safety.”

I wondered if the whole thing was a figment of his imagination, the paranoid fantasy of a man who believed he could read the future in a chessboard. Yet the fact he'd come to my apartment in the wee hours bringing all his possessions with him was quite unnerving.

“What are you going to do now?” I asked.

“I need to lie low for a while until they forget about me. I don't want to put you in any danger. Let me sleep here tonight and I'll leave tomorrow.”

“Are you looking for somewhere to hide?”

“Yes, I am. To hide from myself too. I've taken too many risks lately.”

A crazy idea flashed into my mind and remained there, demanding my attention. My place had just one bedroom, so I could only offer Valdemar the couch, with all the inconvenience that would entail. Looking up at the ceiling, I said, “I have the keys to the apartment upstairs. Strictly speaking it's for my use
only, but I suppose the owner wouldn't find out if you stayed there for a few days.”

“It's unoccupied?” He seemed very interested.

“It belongs to an old editor who's had a bout of angina. He gave me his keys so that I could help him finish a book he'd started to work on. But I can use my own computer for that.”

“What kind of book is this?”

“Nothing that would be of any interest to you. It's an anthology of inspirational texts called
A Short Course in Everyday Magic
. As you can see, I have my dark side too.”

“We all do.” He suddenly brightened up. “And it's our obligation to travel there and explore it. But it's a dangerous journey.”

“You're the living proof of that,” I said with a yawn.

I was trying to send him a signal to make him understand it was time to sleep, but Valdemar was now in good spirits and it wasn't going to be so easy to make him give up the chance to expound on his visions.

“Before the space race started, the dark side of the moon led people to imagine the most extraordinary things. That's why the first photos were such a big deal, but also such a disappointment.”

“What did they expect to discover on the dark side of the moon?”

“People thought there were moon men who'd gone to hide on the far side because they were afraid we were going to ruin things for them. But the scientists knew perfectly well that there was nothing there.”

“So, why so much interest in the photos and going there?”

“That's if they did go there,” Valdemar specified. “There are no limits to human curiosity, and sometimes we forget about the risks that come with it. Unless you're prepared to lead a marginal existence, it's better not to know everything, believe me.”

“Is that what your book's about?”

“Yes, it's a chronicle of the discoveries that have led me to this
point. I began with the mysteries of the moon: the contradictions of the space missions, the real possibilities of settling there, when that might happen, immortality, and so on. The whole lot. But this was just the preliminary work. It took me a while to get to the real truth. The dark side of the moon is a reflection of the human soul. Forget about the space race. That's child's play compared with what's really there.”

I woke up still feeling tired after our long nighttime conversation. Somewhere between the moon and the human soul, Valdemar had gone back to the “platform people” episode.

“Maybe they were the ones who tried to burn down my door. Perhaps they haven't forgiven me for discovering that they hang around there without ever boarding a train.”

I'd gotten him to abandon that theory, mainly because I didn't believe that anyone would want to attack this poor man. I told him that there was probably a much simpler explanation: someone, maybe Valdemar himself, had dropped a still-burning cigarette butt next to the door. This had set fire to the doormat, which had created a nasty-smelling smoke.

Valdemar had taken his things up to Titus's apartment, and we'd arranged to meet the next evening. Meanwhile, I had to contend with my own drowsiness and the apathy of my students, most of whom had skipped the class because they'd started to study for exams.

—

I no longer had a reason to go to the bar, so I used my lunch break to go to the vet. I'd seen on the appointment card Meritxell had given me that Mishima was due for his second shot, so I asked her when I could bring him in.

“This afternoon I have a home visit very close to where you live. If you want me to come by, it'll save you the trip. I'll charge you as if you'd come to the clinic, OK?”

It was clear that she liked me. The cat was a secondary matter. I could start planning for the hot chocolate with ladyfingers because it was about to become a reality. However, some pretense was necessary, as Meritxell was shy and would never admit she was more interested in going to meet the owner than treating his cat.

“All right,” I agreed, “but don't tell me what time you're planning to come—and I'll also try to forget that you're coming, so Mishima won't hide again.”

“That's a good tactic,” she said and winked before disappearing behind the door of her consulting room.

—

I went back to the university in order to have a bite to eat before my next class at four. The bar of the philology faculty, a veritable underground rats' nest, is not the most comfortable of places, but I opted for killing time there.

I have a social life
. I felt smug as I munched on the second sandwich of the day.

Since Mishima's arrival, a ragtag bunch of acquaintances had entered my life: the old man, Valdemar, and now Meritxell. It seemed that they all needed something from me. The cat wanted an owner; Titus, a substitute editor; Valdemar, a hiding place for his fears and late-night conversation. In Meritxell's case, I imagined she was just looking for a bit of friendship.

There was one exception, but I didn't want to dwell on that. I was delighted to be of use to the others. I could never have imagined this. For the first time I realized that the most important indicator of our value in this world is the good we do unto others.

Before entering my apartment, I went upstairs to make sure nothing was amiss. I put my ear to the door, but I couldn't detect any sign of activity. Valdemar was probably sleeping. He needed to gather strength in order to keep me awake all night.

Looking forward to my afternoon snack with Meritxell, I forgot that I was supposed to conceal it from myself so that Mishima wouldn't get wind of it. My homecoming, complete with a bag of ladyfingers, didn't go unnoticed and, after some rushing up and down the passage, he vanished. This time I didn't bother to go looking for him.

I put the ladyfingers on the kitchen counter next to the container of cocoa and dropped into my chair without any feeling of regret. I wanted to make the most of the waning afternoon light to leaf through the dictionary of untranslatable words again.

While I flipped through the pages, I came across a familiar term,
dharma
. I read the entry:

What is my place in the universe? What is the best way to live my life? How do I find the right answers to the previous questions? The spiritual traditions of the world
have been built upon the human impulse to seek such answers.

Writing Amalfi's book had taught me to skim works like this, so I skipped the etymological history of the term and the outline of Hindu cosmology. I stopped at a reference to one of Kerouac's novels,
The Dharma Bums
, which I'd read years earlier. This Beat Generation classic had inspired the author of the dictionary to reflect:

Finding ways of learning and following one's own dharma doesn't mean blind submission to one god or doctrine. Rather, it means recognition of the fact that the right way of living can lead to the enlightenment of all those beings who feel it, a declaration that each and every person has a unique chance to discover the essential truth.

My reading was cut short by the doorbell and the arrival of Meritxell. When she reached the landing and rang at the door of my apartment, I was leaning against the wall waiting for her. She came in with a small bag, in a disconcertingly good mood. I noticed that she was wearing eyeliner and that she'd used some kind of gel to give her short hair a tousled look. Girls who are naturally beautiful should be forbidden from using such unnecessary embellishments.

“I've got two bits of news, one good and the other bad. Which one do you want to hear first?” I asked.

She laughed. “The bad news. You should always start with the bad news.”

“I can't find the cat. He's run off to hide somewhere again.”

“Well, that's not the end of the world. So what's the good news, then?”

“I can make you hot chocolate with ladyfingers.”

“I never have chocolate in any form. I'm allergic to it. But I'll come in and rest for a moment. I'm completely done in!”

She sat down on the couch, and I went to heat the milk for the hot chocolate and get her an orange juice, surreptitiously keeping an eye on what the lovely vet was up to. She checked her hair a couple of times and then inspected everything I had in my living room. She seemed to feel at home, while at the same time she had an expectant look on her face, although I wasn't sure what she was hoping for.

I served our afternoon snack and drew my chair closer to the table. I could have sat next to her on the couch—there was plenty of room for both of us—but that was a risky option. If I was wrong and Meritxell didn't want anything from me, she'd feel uncomfortable with my nearness. If, on the contrary, she was foolish enough to want something from me, then she'd expect me to put my arm around her at some point in the conversation. After that, anything could happen.

Solution: I sat across from her to see what would happen. I simply wanted to have an afternoon snack in good company without any further expectations.

“I live alone too,” she offered. “I shared a place for years, but then all of a sudden I needed to have my own space.”

“I've always had the same feeling,” I confessed, “although, since the new year, things have been getting complicated. Not that I wanted any of it.”

“What do you mean?”

I was on the verge of telling her what love in lowercase had done to my life, but I changed my mind just in time, because I didn't want to bore her.

“Let's say that my solitude is very noisy, like that novel by Hrabal.”

“Who's Hrabal?”

“A Czech writer. Sorry, we teachers have the bad habit of lacing our conversation with literary references, which is a pretty stupid thing to do.”

“Why is it stupid? It's always good to learn something new.”

“Up to a point it is, but knowing too much can be very awkward. Valdemar's a good example of that.”

“Who's Valdemar?”

“It's better not to know.”

“So according to you, nobody should know anything!”

“OK, Buddha once said that knowledge should be like a boat. You can use it to get across the river, but once you reach the other side it's absurd to keep lugging it with you. Do you know what I mean?”

“You've used Buddha's words to explain yourself.”

“You see? I'm hopeless. That's what I mean. I have to unlearn everything I've learned and go back to being a normal person. Culture is just background noise that prevents me from seeing life as it really is. Culture makes no one happy. I want to be a simpleton or a wise peasant who knows when it's going to rain and goes to bed and wakes up when the sun sets and rises.

“My brother has a farm near Berga,” she said teasingly. “He might lend you a hoe if you ask him nicely.”

“What I need is a good whack on the head.”

The phone started to ring, interrupting the unexpectedly animated conversation. I didn't have a clue why I was saying all of this, but my guest seemed to be enjoying herself, so I declared, “I'm not going to get it. I'm never going to answer the phone again. We're on strike against background noise that won't let us see life as it really is.”

At the third ring the answering machine came on. The message made me spill hot chocolate on my sweater.

“Samuel, I'm sorry about what happened last week. I think I
was being unfair. Can you forgive me? There are lots of things you don't know about me. Actually, you know nothing. Or almost nothing.”

The contralto voice seemed to quaver with the last few words, and the message ended.

My heart had clenched like a fist, but I made a huge effort to forget about what I'd just heard and continue the conversation. Meritxell no longer looked relaxed on my couch. She seemed uncomfortable at having heard these intimate words that had also relegated her to second fiddle. No woman was going to put up with that.

I mumbled, not very convincingly, “See what I mean? You can't live in peace these days.”

The phone rang again, destroying any remnant of coziness between us. I didn't dare to speak and, even less, to take the call. I was a plucked chicken, cowering in my chair.

It was Gabriela again, completing her previous message.

“What I was trying to say was that I'd like to see you again if you're not angry with me. Perhaps we can be friends. I promise to behave. My phone number is—”

Even before she had finished speaking, Meritxell stood up and got her bag and coat, saying, “It's getting late.”

I walked her to the door in a state of utter confusion. Before I could think of a suitable way of saying good-bye, she added, “You're right. Your solitude is very noisy. Good-bye.”