Something big must have happened to her there and led to her sudden decision to come back. She never wanted to tell me what it was. No way. She wouldn’t talk about it. To go back to sentimental archaeology, when this phase of establishing all the old stories comes to an end, the real challenge begins. The couple can no longer call on past miseries. Now there’s only the present, which unfolds, generally without much fanfare, one day after another.
Instead of turning her on by telling her how you once hid between two cars and did it with a girl from your class, you talk about your day at work. In the beginning it’s fun, because she doesn’t know the actors in the little show performed, day in day out, in the theater of work. But when one has sat through the same story a hundred or a thousand times, it starts to get wearing.
The problems are always the same, and the advice you can give your partner is always the same.
This is the point when the fascination that fuels the fire of love starts to die.
The Angel’s Reasons
At five in the morning, on the verge of catching pneumonia, I swapped the bathtub for the couch and a light blanket. Trying to find some kind of anchor to hold me to past happiness, I watchedWings of Desirefor the umpteenth time.
It’s strange to see how the passing of time affects modern classics like this movie. In our era of smartphones and social networks, the pace of this black-and-white movie is intolerably slow. We no longer know how to stay still in front of a screen where nothing is happening. Or almost nothing.
I was almost catatonic with shock, numbed by the cold bathwater and sleeplessness. Maybe that’s why I felt better listening again to the angel’s reasons for giving up eternity.
It’s great to live by the spirit, to witness day by day, for eternity, only what’s spiritual in people’s minds. But sometimes I’m fed up with my spiritual existence. Instead of forever hovering above, I’d like to feel a weight grow in me to end the infinity and to tie me to earth.
As my eyes were closing, I thought I’d felt something like that when I came down from my own sky of German authors and composers of classical music to love Gabriela. The man who’d taken refuge from reality and left the world on the wings of art and culture had come down to earth again to experience the simple pleasures.
This was my last thought before I fell asleep.
The Golden Pavilion
I woke up before nine, wallowing in feelings even more wretched than those of the early hours of the morning.
In the confusion of the night, my drama had seemed to be part of a nightmare or alcoholic haze, although I hadn’t drunk a drop. I’d felt authorized to project myself onto the angel in the movie while humanity slept until the breaking of a new dawn.
In the cold hard light of day, however, I had no choice but to accept what I’d become: a man who was now unwillingly alone.
I decided to go to the faculty, although I had no exams or lessons. As I was shaving, I looked at all the gray hairs which had won the battle over the black ones. The bags under my eyes were more pronounced too, no doubt because of the tears I’d shed in the night.
Maybe you should phone her and ask how she is. I splashed some refreshing aftershave on my face.They say the one who leaves suffers more than the one who’s left.
In keeping with my state of mind, I dressed in black. An exhausted, shambling beast, I dragged myself to the door and was about to go out when I saw a new postcard lying on the floor by my feet. The postman must have left it there early in the morning, perhaps on his way to deliver a recorded parcel to Titus.
It showed an elegant Asian temple surrounded by hills and water. It wasn’t difficult to guess that the sender was the same person who’d sent me the cat which had brought me such ill fortune.
The stamp was Japanese, and so was the writing on the postmark, but a few English words in one corner revealed that this was a photo of the Golden Pavilion temple in Kyoto. As with the first postcard, my name and address were written in ink, in beautiful handwriting.
It was disconcerting not to have a clue as to who was sending me these things, especially as I’d never been to Japan. The most disquieting thing was the space reserved for the message.
It was completely empty.
Umami
Too tired and confused to do anything useful, I decided that my best option would be to change my routine that Tuesday, so I went upstairs to see Titus, looking for a little human warmth.
Just like every other day of the week, including Saturday and Sunday, he was at his table, surrounded by books and tapping away at his computer keyboard. Titus’s body seemed to have shrunk a little more every time I saw him, but he never tired of working. His clean-shaven head made me think of Zen monks in temples like the Golden Pavilion.
Since I was still hurting too much from the blow I’d received, I started with the temple.
“I just got another postcard.”
I put it down on the table, trying to make him look up from his computer. After a quick glance, he took off his glasses, cleaned them and examined both sides of the postcard.
“Looks like you have a faithful friend in Kyoto. The first one was from there too.”
“Faithful friend? I don’t know anyone in Kyoto—or anywhere else in Japan, for that matter. It must be a mistake.”
