Love in Lowercase (13 page)

Valdemar didn't turn up that night as arranged, but I didn't make the effort to go to see him either.

Once in bed, I began to review everything that had happened that surprising day. I came to what I thought was an interesting conclusion: every day has a certain tone or leitmotif. By the end of the afternoon I'd already understood what the leitmotif of that day had been: “They want to be with you.”

When you're feeling lonely this might appear to be a blessing, but the bottom line is that it can be complicated if you're not ready for it. In order to accept the love of others, you need a wise heart because rejection's easier to cope with than love. You can turn against someone who is attacking you, but what are you supposed to do when someone reveals their love for you?

Before I went to sleep I thought that it was very nice of Meritxell to want to have an afternoon snack with me and put up with my blathering. Despite her abrupt departure, there had been something between us that enabled us to reveal ourselves as we were, without being afraid of saying or doing something wrong.

But, what about Gabriela? Why had she called me just then?

It was as if, from a distance, she'd noticed that I was starting to
get involved with someone else, and she wanted to put a stop to it so that my yearnings would again be focused on her. But why?

Fear of being loved was the reason behind my long period of solitude, and it might also explain Gabriela's vehemence when she rejected me on our first meeting.

Lesson number 1: whatever they say, life is never easy.

I'd worked hard on my introductory class on Bertolt Brecht. The students aren't huge fans of his, perhaps because we live in times that are too cynical for ethical considerations. And he is essentially a moral writer.

What I like most about Brecht are the titles he gives his plays—for example,
The Caucasian Chalk Circle
or
The Good Person of Szechwan
. Rather than boring my students with Brecht's biography, I discussed this latter work, which is a very good example of his more didactic phase.

The play opens with a discussion between three gods as to whether a good and just character can survive in a world of selfish people. They decide to put their theories to the test with Shen Teh, a prostitute who lives in Szechwan, and the only person who is willing to offer the hospitality of her cottage to three strangers who have come to her town. Thinking about her neighbors and their needs, she uses the money the strangers give her to open a shop, but people are so ruthless in taking advantage of her goodness that she goes out of business.

Having learned her lesson, she starts again, this time disguised
as a tough man whom all the customers respect, although they wistfully wonder what has become of the kindhearted Shen Teh. In the end she reveals herself, and they're all amazed at her stratagem.

The underlying question is: in order to be good, should one adopt the guise of a bad person?

I'd told them this much when a student raised his hand. It was the first time I'd seen him in my class that term. I was expecting him to open the discussion about goodness, fear, and all the rest, but his question was much more banal.

“Does Szechwan exist?”

The few students who'd turned up for the class sniggered at the naïveté of the question.

“Yes, I think it's called Sichuan these days. I know that because they have some giant-panda sanctuaries there. I saw a documentary about them.”

They all started laughing.

What's so funny about that
? I had to go on the offensive in order to regain my dignity as a teacher.

“It makes no difference whether the story takes place in Szechwan or Samarkand. Bertolt Brecht used an exotic setting to produce a parable about goodness. I suppose you know what a parable is, or am I mistaken?”

The smart girl with the round glasses went into action. “It's a story with a message, like the ones in the New Testament.”

“Exactly. Contemporary writers also use the device. Adorno, the German Marxist philosopher, said that Kafka's fiction works, especially
The Castle
, are primarily parables. But
The Good Person of Szechwan
isn't a sententious work like the New Testament stories, and neither does it hold out a pessimistic view of things as Kafka does. It's an invitation to reflect on a fairly complicated matter. In this regard it's more like the Nasreddin stories. Does anyone know who Nasreddin is?”

Round-Specs offered, “I think it's a Sufi thing.”

“Very good. Nasreddin is the main character of many Sufi exemplary tales. There's one about wisdom that I think is especially good. Would you like to hear it?”

Not a peep out of anyone, which was perfectly in keeping with this Middle Eastern story. I therefore began:

“Nasreddin came to a small village where they mistook him for a famous wise man. He didn't want to disappoint the people who'd gathered in the square, so he opened up his arms and said, ‘I imagine that, since you're here, you know what I'm going to tell you.'

“The people said, ‘No, what do you have to tell us? We don't know. Tell us, please.'

“Nasreddin replied, ‘If you've come here without knowing what I want to say, then you're not ready to hear it.'

“Then he stood up and walked away. The crowd was shocked by his abrupt departure. They were about to write him off as a madman when someone said, ‘How clever he is! He's totally right. How could we dare to come here without knowing what we were coming to hear? How stupid we've been. Now we've wasted a wonderful opportunity. How brilliant he is! How wise he is! Let us ask this man to come and speak to us a second time.'

“Some of the villagers went to find him and begged him to come back, saying that his knowledge was too vast for a single lecture. After all their pleading, Nasreddin went back to the same square. Now the crowd was twice its previous size. Once again he said, ‘I imagine that you know what I'm going to tell you.'

“Having learned their lesson, the people nodded and someone spoke up. ‘Of course we know. That is why we have come.'

“On hearing this, Nasreddin looked down and said, ‘Well, since you know what I have to say to you, there is no need to repeat it.'

“He left the square and walked away. The people were dumbfounded. Then one fanatic started to shout, ‘Brilliant! Marvelous! We want him to give us more of his wisdom!'

“A delegation of village notables went to find him and begged him on their knees to come back and give a third and final lecture. They beseeched him so persistently that he agreed to come back for the last time. When he reached the square he was greeted by roars of a veritable multitude. Once again, he said, ‘I imagine that you know what I'm going to tell you.'

“This time the people had come to an agreement and had nominated the head man of the village to speak for them. The head man said, ‘Some do and some don't.'

“The crowd fell silent and everyone looked at Nasreddin, who concluded, ‘Then those who know should enlighten those who don't.'

“Having said that, he left.”

The tale of Nasreddin brought the class to a successful conclusion. As those stories have been around for hundreds of years, there's something to be said for the oral tradition.

I had another class early that afternoon, so I decided to go for a walk and make the most of the sun. I crossed the Plaça de la Universitat and dived into the Raval quarter. After walking past a Russian bookshop, I went down Carrer de les Egipcíaques.

This is one of the few streets I go down simply because I like the name. Since my midday meetings with Valdemar had come to an end, I was a little lost, and I started roaming around, up one street and down the next, without stopping anywhere.

After an hour of this aimless meandering around the neighborhood, I sat down under a palm tree on the Rambla del Raval.

You're such a moron, wandering around like this because you can't decide whether to call her or not
.

I looked at my watch and saw that it was half past two. Gabriela was probably on her way home, or walking through the streets like I was. She'd given me her cell phone number, so there would be no problem finding her.

I dug a couple of coins out of my pockets and unfolded the bit
of paper on which I'd written her number. I must have been learning the hard way, because I didn't feel too nervous as I waited for her to answer.

“Hello?”

That changed everything: just hearing that question was enough to rekindle the flame. But I'd promised myself I'd handle myself with dignity.

“Hi, this is Samuel.”

“Hello, Samuel. Where are you?”

“Everywhere and nowhere. I'm working at what they call killing time.”

“Not a bad job,” she said in the affable tone of someone speaking to a small child. “Do you do that often?”

“I try to.”

“I was in bed, about to have a nap.”

“I'm running out of money and don't have any more coins. Tell me when and where to meet.”

The silence barely lasted an instant. “Tomorrow, six o'clock, at Caelum.”

“I don't know where that is. What did you say it's called?”

“Just think about heaven.”

We were cut off. Though I didn't know where we were supposed to meet, I felt very calm. I leaned against a palm tree and did as I was told.

I stared at the sky and, all at once, the world seemed to make sense again. The children's shouts weren't noise but life in the purest state; the wind wasn't a chilling knife thrust but a cool caress.

I looked again at the scrap of paper. I liked seeing her name written next to the nine numbers.
Gabriela
.

“You know what? I often have the feeling that my accident in Patagonia didn't end the way I think it did.”

Valdemar was on the couch, smoking in the darkness again. He'd come downstairs just before midnight, when I was about to go to bed. It seemed that he was at his most lucid at midday and late at night.

“Really? So how did it end?”

Valdemar's sweaty forehead momentarily glistened in the faint light of a deep drag on his cigarette. “Sometimes I imagine that I died in that accident. You're right. It's impossible to survive a fall of one hundred feet. Ever since then, everything that's happened has been only a dream—the path on the bank of the frozen river, the flash of my camera, being rescued, the hospital, my return to Barcelona, this conversation, and all the rest—none of it's real.”

“If it's not real, how come we're sitting here talking about it now?”

“It's part of a dream, the only place where the dead can live.”

“So I'm part of your dream?”

“More or less.”

“That means I don't have a life of my own. I exist just in your head or, worse, in the eternal dream of a dead man.”

“Something like that.”

We drifted into a long minute of silence. Valdemar, hatless this time, was blowing clouds of smoke toward the ceiling, in shapes I couldn't make out. Then he seemed troubled by some thought and sat upright, crushing the butt in the ashtray.

“When are you going to stop fretting and embrace nothingness at last?” He was going for the jugular.

“Maybe when I'm sure I'm dead.”

“That's the biggest joke of all, because there's no way we'll ever know that.”

I had to do a bit of research in order to discover where I'd arranged to meet Gabriela at six that afternoon. Her comment, “Think about heaven,” confirmed that the name of the place was Caelum—Latin for “sky.”

During my lunch break I went to the Fnac bookshop to check out the Barcelona city guides and eventually found Caelum in a list of “charming” cafés and restaurants. It was in one of the backstreets near Plaça del Pi, and I learned that it was a tearoom that served only cakes and biscuits made by nuns.

Somewhat surprised by this choice, I jotted down the address in my diary and went home to have a nap.

My alarm went off at five, and Mishima started circling around my bed. I had the impression I'd slept for only a few seconds, but the clock clearly showed that my nap had lasted an hour and a half. Too long.

I got out of bed and staggered into the shower, where the hot water gradually woke me up. I was wondering whether I should shave or not. Most women like clean-shaven men, especially if they have to kiss their cheeks by way of greeting. Then again, if
I looked too dapper, I'd be admitting that the date was very important for me. And that might put her on the defensive.

So in the end I decided not to shave, though I did put on the best clothes in my humble wardrobe: some gray trousers, which were quite stylish, and a somewhat tight blue sweater. My long overcoat provided the requisite bohemian touch.

Let's go
. I locked my door believing that when I came back I'd be a new man.

To my surprise, Gabriela was already there when I arrived at the agreed time. Before going inside I saw her, looking like a mirage in the tearoom window. The place was lit only by the tremulous glimmering of candles, creating an atmosphere that was somewhere between monastic and romantic.

Gabriela was studying the list of teas when I nervously presented myself at her table.

Should I greet her in the usual way with a kiss on each cheek
? I opted to sit down and see what happened. I greeted her shyly and started perusing the menu. Since I don't know much about tea, I ordered a Lady Grey, simply because the name appealed to me.

“I'll have the same, please,” Gabriela said to the waitress, who asked if we'd like some of the nuns' cakes as well.

“Not yet, thank you,” I answered for both of us, still surprised that she'd asked for the same as me.

After these formalities, we sat there looking at one another in silence. I saw that she wasn't wearing earrings, but she did have two butterfly clips holding back her wavy hair. In my addled state, I interpreted this as a good omen.

While I was trying to think of some way of starting up a
conversation, Gabriela, who'd been turning her empty cup round and round in her hands, said without looking at me, “Japanese craftsmen are geniuses when they make cups. Do you know which part requires the most effort?”

“I don't know. The handle maybe?”

“Japanese cups don't have handles.”

“How do you know?”

“I lived there long enough to find out.”

“You lived in Japan?”

“You haven't answered my question.” She frowned teasingly.

“I suppose they make an effort to keep the decoration on the outside of the cup as simple and harmonious as possible. Something very Zen.”

“No, not that.”

“Then they try hard to make it perfectly round.”

“No. An irregularly shaped cup can be a work of art.”

“I give up. Which part is it then?”

“The bottom of the cup, the part you can't see—and do you know why?”

“No idea.”

“That's where God looks.”

“They must have a word for that,” I replied, as the waitress served our tea.

“What do you mean?”

“The Japanese must have a word for the hidden beauty that only God can see. If not, they should invent one.”

“How do you know? Have you lived in Japan?” She laughed, then blew on her hot tea.

“No, but I've got a dictionary of strange words. Lots of them exist only in Japanese, and I get the impression that they live in a separate world with codes that only they can understand.”

“It's a bit like that.”

A sad expression crossed her face, and she used her index finger to block a tear that was trying to escape.

It was evident that I'd accidentally tugged at something that she didn't want touched. This was confirmed by the swiftness of her next comment, so that I wouldn't have time to ask any further questions: “This dictionary sounds appealing. But I'd be even more interested in one made up of words that don't exist and need to be invented, as you just said. I'm sure you could do that.”

“What makes you think I could write a dictionary?”

“You look like someone who'd do that kind of thing.”

I was annoyed by her comment, mostly because it was true. Only someone like me would set out to do that kind of thing. Francis Amalfi's book—even if I was doing it as a favor to Titus—was a similar type of project. I went on the offensive.

“You've persuaded me. I think I'll write one. But I'll need your help. What other concepts need a name, apart from the beauty that only God sees?”

“There are lots of words that need to be invented. Why do we have the term ‘orphan' for a child who loses his or her mother when there's none for a mother who loses her child? Does she suffer less, perhaps?”

“You're right. Now that I'm thinking about it, I have a definition that requires a word for it: love in lowercase.”

“Love in lowercase?”

“It's when some small act of kindness sets off a chain of events that comes around again in the form of multiplied love. Then, even if you want to return to where you started, it's too late, because this love in lowercase has wiped away all traces of the path back to where you were before.”

“That sounds beautiful, but I'm not sure I understand.”

“I don't understand it myself. But the proof that it exists is that we're here.”

I immediately regretted having revealed myself. It had all gone well so far and, like an idiot, I'd messed it up at the last moment.

She confirmed my fears. “It's getting late. I must get home.”

We both stood up. “Where do you live?” I asked.

“In Plaça dels Àngels.”

“Let me walk with you some of the way,” I offered spontaneously.

“No, don't bother. I want to think of some words that need inventing.”

What an excuse!
But Gabriela had fallen into her own trap.

“If I'm going to write this dictionary, I'll need to know what entries you come up with. Can I take you to lunch one day? There's a restaurant in Gràcia, and I've never been able to work out why it's called what it is. It's the perfect place for inventing words.”

“What's the name?” Gabriela was already on the street, buttoning up her coat.

“Buzzing. When would you like to go?”

She gave me an exasperated look. She could see that I wasn't going to let her go without her granting me another date, so she said, “Thursday perhaps.”

“That works for me. Since you don't know where it is, I'll come to the shop and we can go there together.”

“As you wish.”

I kissed her on both cheeks to say good-bye.

“You're prickly,” she said with a faint smile, and walked away. This made me think that not all was lost.