A Surprising Invitation
It was ten past five in the afternoon when I met Meritxell at one of Gràcia’s old cafés, cooled by fans whirring from its high ceiling. I immediately spotted the nature of her big news. A very prominent belly announced the advanced stage of her pregnancy. Otherwise she was still the serene woman with lovely features I’d met eight years earlier. She smiled as if amused by my surprise at her state.
“Congratulations,” I said, kissing her on each cheek. “I didn’t know . . .”
“A year ago, when we last met, I had no idea this would happen. But it did, sort of all of a sudden.”
We found a table and sat down. Embracing Titus’s new habit, I asked for green tea before saying teasingly, “All of a sudden? You make it sound like it just sprouted out of nowhere.”
Meritxell laughed at my silliness, which gave me a chance to admire the harmony of her features. There was something about her that gave out a sense of peace, which was probably helped by her deep yet sweet voice.
“I’m not with anyone,” she blurted out. “This boy will have to grow up without a father.”
I was surprised by her spontaneous confession. Pouring tea into my cup, I plucked up the courage to ask, “Did the baby’s father leave you?”
“I don’t know who he is.” Once again, she seemed to find my reaction amusing. “I opted for artificial insemination.”
I tasted my tea—which was not nearly as good as Titus’s—thinking that Meritxell was braver than I’d thought. I now understood what she’d said about being off work. Pregnant women are usually advised to keep away from cats.
She took a sip of her mineral water. “I’m nearly forty and I got tired of waiting for a man to settle down with and have a family. So I decided to make my dream come true all by myself.”
“You’ll be a great mother.”
“I’ll do my best. I don’t know my little boy yet, but I already love him so much I’m sure I’ll cope.”
“It could be tough . . .” I mused aloud. “Who’ll take care of the baby when you go back to work? Are you close to your family?”
“I don’t have a family. My parents were quite old when I was born, and they died a while ago. I don’t have any brothers or sisters.”
“In that case, I admire you even more. There are plenty of terrified future fathers and mothers who have lots of family around them.”
Meritxell rewarded me with a smile that lit up her eyes. Then she asked me how I was. I didn’t hide anything from her, but didn’t go into details either. Neither did she try to pry into the reasons for my separation, for which I was grateful, because I didn’t know myself.
Like Titus, she seemed fascinated by the two postcards and gave me the same advice. “If I were you, I’d go looking for this nameless friend.”
“But I don’t know who’s sending me these postcards. I only know that they’re coming from Kyoto.” Then I told her about the handwritten wordswabi-sabiand what they meant.
“The old capital of Japan,” she sighed. “I’ve always wanted to go there. It takes time to get round to doing these things . . . And you don’t have the sender’s address either?”
“I don’t think so, though I discovered that the first postcard—the one with the beckoning cat—has the address of a workshop on the back.”
“A workshop where they make maneki-neko?”
“I’m not sure. It saysatelier. Maybe it’s something to do with wabi-sabi. Or maybe not. How would I know?”
“Go there and ask if someone from that workshop sent the postcards.”
“That’s crazy! I don’t know anyone there, and I don’t understand how this person got my address.”
“All the more reason for going there. Didn’t you say your vacation starts in a couple of weeks?”
“You talk as if Kyoto was just around the corner,” I muttered. Now, for the first time, I pondered playing along with this madness. “The flight there must take fifteen or sixteen hours.”
“That wouldn’t be so different from when you’re sitting at home reading,” she prodded. “You won’t notice the time. Just make sure you’re here in August.”
“Well, I have to be back at the faculty then . . .” I said, surprised. “Why did you say that?”
“Well, actually I feel a bit embarrassed about this.” Her eyes wandered to the glass door through which we could see the old buildings around Plaza de la Revolución square bathed in afternoon sunlight. “Would you like to be my son’s godfather?”
