Jan Gosan no se limita a escribir historias; traza un mapa del terreno invisible donde se cruzan la ética, la fe y la realidad social. Firmemente convencido de que la conciencia es la única fuerza capaz de propiciar el desarrollo humano integral, Gosan utiliza la narrativa como un espejo de nuestras propias coherencias y contradicciones. Para el autor, la política y la espiritualidad comparten el mismo horizonte: la plenitud de la persona. En sus obras, el «qué» lo dicta la conciencia, la fuerza para actuar proviene de la Gracia, y la voluntad es el timón que decide si un alma se enciende o se apaga. Con un estilo visualmente impactante y una profundidad filosófica que evita los tratados complejos para centrarse en la verdad del individuo, Jan Gosan invita al lector a dejar de ser un espectador pasivo. Sus libros son, en última instancia, una llamada a la acción: un recordatorio de que el peso de los problemas del mundo se disipa cuando cada persona simplemente decide escuchar su propia voz interiory actuar en consecuencia. x Capítulo 1 Mi médico me acaba de dar una devastadora noticia. “Padeces una enfermedad incurable”.Hay un tenso silencio. Parece como si temiera continuar describiendo mi situación, pero ha considerado debía ser claro parar que excepcional, y si respondo bien al tratamiento, tal vez un año. Salgo del hospital renegano uttme fees c el diagnóstico. Después de todo los dolores son todavía soportables. Es una mañana fresca y húmeda, como son las del otoño, pero agradable para pasear. Para demostrar que no es aceptable el diagnóstico, regresaré caminando a mi apartamento. ¿Por qué yo? Sí, conozco mucha gente que padecen enfermedades incurables, pero por alguna inexplicable razón yo me creía inmune. Ahora necesito algún tiempo para hacerme a la idea de mi error. Aún a mi pesar, tengo que aceptar que soy tan humano como los demás, y puedo sufrir sus mismas enfermedades. Estoy cansado y todavía me falta más de la mitad del trayecto. Entro en un pequeño parque junto a la iglesia del barrio. En uno de sus bancos dormita un mendigo, que al acercarme me mira con una clara expresión de odio, porque debe sentirse humillado por mi apariencia de persona bien situada. Él no puede saber que acababan de condenarme a morir prematuramente, si lo supiera no tendría ningún motivo para envidiarme. Me siento en un banco contiguo, porque mis piernas no pueden dar un paso más. El mendigo parece contrariado y se revuelve en sus harapos, como si esta fuera su casa y yo hubiera entrado sin llamar. El facultativo me ha creado un estigma. Ya no soy el yo-mismo que apenas una hora antes podía hacer aquello que me apeteciera, sino yo-mismo-y-la-muerte. En adelante cada uno de mis pensamientos o actos deberán contar con ella. Pero no estoy resignado. Los médicos pueden estar equivocados. Tal vez mis informes médicos se hayan traspapelado y sean los de otro paciente. Alguna inexperta secretaria ha podido cometer ese terrible error. La naturaleza no puede abandonarme y la vida no puede ser tan irresponsable conmigo. El destino no puede ir en contra de mi voluntad, porque es mi voluntad la que debe crear mi destino. Esto no me puede estar pasando a mí. Todavía tengo muchas cosas nuevas que admirar, muchas historias fantásticas que contar, y, por qué no, tal vez alguna persona a quien amar. ¿Es un castigo divino? ¿Me condenan a una muerte prematura por supuestos pecados cometidos, aunque no pueda saber la naturaleza de mi culpa? Un pecador no necesita conocer los detalles de su culpa, le basta con padecer el castigo para saber que ha pecado. Es perfectamente posible que esta enfermedad estuviera escrita en las estrellas, o puede leerse en la palma de mi mano, sin que por ello deba considerarlo un castigo. Pero lo más razonable es que sea el resultado de mis largas noches de insomnio voluntario, dando vida a personajes que en agradecimiento me llevan a mí a la muerte. Pero no les guardo rencor. Desde el principio acepté que cada obra que merece el elogio es porque en ella hay un poco arrancado de nuestra propia humanidad, y la humanidad debe tener también sus límites. Tal vez haya sido esa mi culpa: haber creado fantasmas y presumido de ser su dios. Pero sin mí nunca hubieran existido, luego debo de estar en lo cierto: yo soy su dios, y por ello no merezco ser castigado con tanta crueldad. Si esa es la justicia divina, todos los artistas iremos al infierno y la imaginación sería perseguida y severamente castigada. La gran impresión y desasosiego que me ha causado el diagnóstico anula totalmente mi sentido del tiempo. No sé cuánto tiempo he permanecido sentado en este banco. Mientras yo pienso en mi desolación en algún remoto lugar del universo, estoy seguro de que alguien, que ya conoce mi destino, debe estar compadeciéndose de mí. Probablemente sea un ángel, el mismo que aparecía en las estampas que nos regalaban cuando éramos unos críos en la clases de religión. Por entonces yo también quería ser un ángel. Quería volar, ver el mundo desde lo alto, emigrar a tierras cálidas, ser libre como los pájaros, y, de acuerdo a aquellas brillantes estampas, solo los ángeles sabían volar. Por eso quería ser un ángel. Se me erizan los cabellos, porque presiento que ese ángel puede estar ahora sentado en este mismo banco, escuchando mis nostálgicos pensamientos, intentando inútilmente consolarme, porque los ángeles y los humanos, por alguna razón que solo Dios debe saber, somos incompatibles. Pero he vuelto al tiempo real por la turbia y resignada mirada que me dirije de vez en cuando el mendigo, incapaz de comprender qué hace alguien como yo sentado en este banco a estas horas de la mañana, reservado para indigentes. Me gustaría decirle que yo tampoco lo sé, pero para él no tendría ninguna utilidad. Luce un sol frío, otoñal, pero limpio y brillante. Una fresca y húmeda brisa procedente de un mar cercano humedece mi acalorado rostro. Todavía quedan rastros del relente matutino sobre los coches y en las aceras. Pronto llegará el invierno. Es inevitable que a todos nos llegue algún día el invierno, pero algunos ya no vivirán para contemplar la próxima primavera. El mendigo se ha erguido y me contempla extrañado. Creo que a pesar de su aspecto, debe tener la capacidad de leer los pensamientos. Sí, sabe lo que estoy pensando, porque los que sufrimos tenemos el mismo rictus, la misma languidez en la mirada, la misma curvatura de la espalda, los mismos ojos enrojecidos, y todo eso es fácil de traducir al lenguaje común:i Durante unos instantes parece indeciso. Finalmente se decide, y con la forma de caminar de quien tiene los músculos entumecidos, viene a mi banco, pero no se sienta. Permanece de pie, vacilante, indeciso. Por fin se decide, y me pide un cigarrillo, pero lamentablemente yo no fumo. Le ofrezco unas monedas, pero incomprensiblemente las rechaza. Extravía su mirada en un punto indeterminado, parece meditar si entablar conversación o volverse a su mundo. Como si aquel encuentro no hubiera tenido lugar y sin hacer el más mínimo gesto, recorre de nuevo con la misma torpeza esa corta distancia que separa nuestros dos mundos, y de nuevo se envuelve en sus harapos para seguir dormitando. No tiene valor para salir de su pobreza y yo no tengo valor para aceptar la mía. Él ha perdido la confianza en los seres humanos, a los que solo les pide un cigarrillo; yo he perdido la confianza en mí mismo, al que solo pido valor para enfrentarme a mi desgracia. El mendigo ha vuelto a levantarse y de nuevo viene hacia mí. Me pide con gesto de fingida humildad las monedas que le ofrecí. No tengo ganas de interesarme por su situación, solo tengo algún interés por la mía. No ha transcurrido ni una hora desde que he conocido mi condena y presiento que antes de regresar a mi apartamento habré pasado a la fase de rebeldía, que no es otra cosa que el recurso del pataleo, paso previo a la aceptación y el sometimiento ya sin defensas ni reservas. «He aquí el esclavo del Señor, hágase en mí según tu palabra». El mendigo se impacienta, seguramente piensa que deseo humillarle y noto en su extraviada mirada más odio que en la anterior. Le entrego las monedas y se vuelve a su banco sin darme las gracias. Las cuenta y me dirige una despreciativa y tosca mirada. Sin duda esperaba que hubiera sido más generoso. No soporto más su andrajosa presencia y reemprendo el camino, pero una .parte de mi cuerpo arde como si ya estuviera en el infierno, y me cuesta caminar. ¿Existirá el infierno? ¿Existirá el cielo? ¿Existirá Dios, y sus ángeles y querubines? Me horrorizo al darme cuenta de mi rápida transformación. Por primera vez he dudado de mis arraigadas convicciones seculares. Hasta hace solo un minuto el infierno, el cielo y Dios, eran algo anecdótico; un tema de conversación lleno de incongruencias y fanatismo para crédulos e ignorantes; de ceguera intelectual e irracionalidad. Y de improviso surgen de nuevo estas preguntas teológicas pero con una renovada importancia. También presiento que mi mente se quedará pronto en blanco, negándose a pensar, puesto que no podría dejar de pensar en la muerte y sus intrincados misterios. Tengo que redescubrir la nada, y sumergirme en ella hasta el día de mi anunciada muerte. Son las tres de la madrugada y no consigo conciliar el sueño. Solo oscuridad y nada más. Esas figuras que las luces de los automóviles proyectan sobre el techo es lo único que llama mi atención, lo demás parece haberse desvanecido. Todo a mi alrededor es silencio, oscuridad, nada. Quien haya creado esta absurda palabra pensaba en mí, yo le he dado su verdadero sentido; su auténtico significado; su opresivo vacío. A las cuatro de la madrugada seguiré pensando en lo mismo que pienso ahora, y las próximas horas, los próximos días hasta el día de mi muerte seguiré teniendo los mismos pensamientos: nada. Ya no me queda nada en qué pensar excepto en la nada, y, pensar en la nada es como no pensar. Dejo la mente en blanco para intentar disuadir a mi cerebro para que no me reviva malos recuerdos, los buenos no los he olvidado. Pero de todo aquello ya no queda nada. Es la hora de mi propio juicio final. He sido ambicioso, egoísta y desleal. Si existe el infierno sin duda que me condenaré. Tengo que reconocerlo, estos insistentes dolores, sumados a mis remordimientos, han mermado la creatividad de mi imaginación. Mi última novela es mediocre, incluso patética. Los personajes han nacido muertos y actúan como verdaderos zombis. Creo que he perdido la conexión con la realidad y vivo en un mundo paralelo. Veo el nuevo mundo pero no lo siento; lo escucho pero no lo entiendo, y ya no tengo a nadie a mi alrededor para comentar esta faena del tiempo; un confidente al que se le puedan contar un cúmulo de desdichas sin que te rechace, te ignore, o te olvide. He traspasado de una a otra dimensión sin apenas darme cuenta, entretenido con mis sueños de grandeza, con el convencimiento de que pondría el mundo a mis pies y ahora yo soy su felpudo. He traicionado a la única mujer que he amado. He despreciado a mis amigos, y admirado a mis enemigos, porque prefería el estímulo de la victoria después de una enconada guerra contra mis enemigos a la estéril paz de los amigos. Y ahora no tengo amigos ni enemigos. A unos los he humillado, y los otros me han ignorado y rechazado mi enemistad, así que no queda nada, ni de unos ni de otros. Estoy postrado sobre la cama intentando olvidar que tengo un cuerpo corrompido, que amenaza con destruir también mi alma y mi mente. Esta noche las esporádicas luces de los automóviles que cruzan por el techo me parecen almas en pena que me advierten que muy pronto seré una de ellas y cruzaré los techos de otros condenados; que ni el cielo ni el infierno existen, solo la insoportable nada. Por fin amanece. He dormido dos o tres reparadoras horas. Es un alivio dormir; poder tener la oportunidad de encontrarte con las personas más queridas, pero no las reales, sino las que tu estado de ánimo necesita, y que durante la vigilia duermen en tu imaginación. Solo en sueños las cosas suceden como deseamos que sucedan; sin los sueños el alma no tendría donde refugiarse; donde anidar y entonar su canto, estaría presa de la cruda y severa realidad. No sé quién nos dio la facultad de soñar, pero debió ser alguien muy comprensivo y buen conocedor de las debilidades del ser humano. Tal vez fuera el Dios del que hablan las religiones, pero yo no puedo aceptarlo, porque simplemente no creo en nada. Incluso he dejado de creer en mí mismo. Quien vive sumido en la nada no puede creer en nada. Pero está amaneciendo y es mi hora para el optimismo; el momento más esperado, porque la luz debe ser la causa de todo lo creado, mientras que las tinieblas son las encargadas de destruirlo, de sumir lo creado en un abismo sin retorno, el mismo que nos debe esperar tras la muerte. He pensado mucho en la muerte, especialmente en mi muerte; en mi irreversible y temprana muerte. Me gustaría creer en la transmigración, porque la vida no se destruye, solo se transforma. Sería un consuelo poder creer que instantes después de mi último suspiro ser parte de una nueva vida, en algún lugar de la Tierra o del Universo. Al fin y al cabo de él venimos y a él volveremos. Pero mi habitación se ha inundado de luz y ahora veo las cosas como son y no como las sueño. Veo en la estantería minuciosamente ordenados por grosor, color y altura mis novelas, en las que he gastado, o tal vez desgastado, toda mi vida, y algunas fotos de tiempos remotos e irrecuperable. Las mejores novelas las escribí cuando mi mente y mi imaginación tenían alas, porque eran jóvenes y libres, y se entendían mutuamente: lo que la imaginación creaba mi disciplinada mente lo escribía. La mayoría de mis novelas han sido un rotundo éxito, pero la última estaba contaminada de mi enfermedad. En mi mesa de escritorio, junto al ventanal por donde contemplo la parte de mundo que me corresponde, veo que permanece inactivo y silencioso el ordenador que en días mejores me provocaba constantemente, sin apenas dejarme respiro, ni tiempo para el descanso. Solo se escuchaba el excitante y rápido sonido de las teclas describiendo sobre la pantalla iluminada las imágenes que brotaban como un manantial de agua fresca de mi exuberante imaginación. Entonces esta máquina era una extensión de mi mente y de mi espíritu, ahora es un vulgar ordenador, como hay miles, sin alma y sin actividad, porque ya no tengo nada que contar. El teclado me parecían un universo, con el que se podían expresar hasta los más recónditos pensamientos filosóficos, escribir los más apasionados diálogos, o describir los más bellos escenarios. Todo estaba allí, a la vista, solo había que elegir las letras adecuadas, en la forma más acertada y con el ritmo también adecuado. Esa era otra vida. Cada personaje que salía de ese ahora inerte teclado trastocaba completamente la realidad: ellos eran los reales, lo demás era un sueño. Los sentía tan vivos que muchas veces los invocaba convencido de que aparecerían en mi habitación, y discutiríamos sobre su futuro como personaje de la novela. Siempre tuve la sensación de que no estaban conformes con su papel, porque yo nunca llegué a conocerlos como realmente eran, a pesar de que yo mismo los había creado. Pero eso fue antes del diagnóstico; antes de que mi caminar se hiciera torpe y descompasado; mucho antes de que los primeros síntomas de mi enfermedad me hicieran perder el sentido por causa de un intenso dolor surgido de alguna parte imprecisa del interior de mi cuerpo. Pero yo presentí mi enfermedad mucho años antes. Posiblemente tuve el presentimiento ya desde mi nacimiento, por eso viví con urgencia, escribí con urgencia y también envejecí con la misma urgencia. Ahora ya puedo descansar y tranquilizarme, ya no hay razón para la urgencia. He desechado toda esperanza. Sé que voy a morir, pero en contra de mi voluntad. No puedo aceptar que la naturaleza decida por mí. Tengo que anticiparme a sus ciegos impulsos; a su destrucción irracional. Solo yo puedo decidir cuándo y cómo debo morir. Es un pensamiento que me horroriza, pero tal vez deba poner yo mismo fin a mi vida. ¿Suicidarme? ¿Sería capaz de hacerlo? Pero ¿cómo? No quiero tener una muerte violenta. ¿Recurriendo a los sedantes? Pero, sabiendo mi situación ningún médico me los recetaría. Nunca pensé que fuera tan difícil atentar contra la propia vida. Envidio a los que tienen la fortuna de morir durante el sueño, porque la mayor dificultad de un suicida es tomar la última decisión de su vida, porque no es posible rectificar. Tal vez podría recurrir a la eutanasia, pero no quiero morir donde la ley lo permite, ni que mi muerte sea un intercambio comercial. Desearía morir junto al mar, al atardecer de un crepúsculo otoñal, para llevarme su belleza a la eternidad. ¿No se cumplen los deseos de un moribundo? ¿Por qué no pueden cumplirse los míos? Pero estoy hablando de mí; planeando mi muerte por mis propias manos y por mi voluntad. Pretendo ser yo mismo el homicida que destruya todo cuanto he creado; acabar con el fruto de mis ilusiones juveniles, mis ambiciones consumadas tras muchos años de soledad y tristeza, con mis gratos recuerdos. Al menos si me mata la naturalezag yo no seré responsable de este homicidio. No, no puedo atentar contra mí mismo. Ningún árbol destruiría sus propios frutos. Pero si no tengo el valor suficiente para atentar contra mi cuerpo, tengo que acallar mi conciencia, limitar los lúgubres pensamientos y cerrar los ojos de la imaginación, la única responsable de mis sufrimientos, porque no sufrimos si no imaginamos. ¿Entonces, tengo que dejar que esta terrible enfermedad siga su curso? ¿Cómo soportaré esta larga agonía? ¿Con qué estímulo contaré? No me puedo imaginar esperar impasible la muerte postrado en la cama de un hospital, con la mente aturdida por los analgésicos y la vista nublada, tontamente fija en algún punto de la habitación. No, esa no es una forma digna de morir. Debe de haber otra forma más humana y menos dolorosa. Puede que la única forma digna de morir sea en aquel lugar que llames tu hogar, y estar junto a quién sienta verdadero afecto por ti; que puedas estrechar su mano hasta que en el último suspiro se pierda su contacto, porque es a través de las manos como las almas se comunican y expresan sus deseos y sentimientos, de esta manera te puedes llevar su afecto y su sonrisa a la eternidad, aunque mis ojos ya no vean, mis oídos ya no escuchen y mi cuerpo ya no sienta nada. ¡Esa es la única forma digna de morir! Una sabia reflexión pero inútil, porque yo no tengo un hogar ni nadie que sienta tanto afecto por mí. Este apartamento no es un hogar, porque falta lo esencial: una mujer. Solo es un lugar de residencia; un confortable refugio; el espacio adecuado para un escritor; una jaula dorada donde dejar libre la imaginación. Solo una mujer puede convertir la sala de espera de una estación en un hogar, porque ella es el hogar. Está entre su brazos, en su seno, en su energía femenina. El hogar está en el lecho donde yace una mujer. En cuanto a alguien que sienta por mí tanto afecto como para velar mi agonía y estrechar la débil mano de un moribundo, lamentablemente hace muchos años que no sé nada de ella. Fue mi primer y único amor, la persona que estimuló mi imaginación y mi creatividad. A ella le debo lo que soy y los recuerdos que han inspirado la mayoría de mis novelas. Pero por entonces mi ciega ambición era más fuerte que mis sentimientos. Nos unió y nos separó nuestra pasión por la literatura. Los dos teníamos confianza en nuestro talento y no teníamos la menor duda sobre nuestros futuros éxitos. Nuestra relación le inspiró sus mejores poemas, por lo que yo me sentía halagado y transportado a otro mundo, pero la providencia le tenía reservado un doloroso destino. También fue fruto de nuestra relación el argumento de mi primera novela: la historia de una poetisa fracasada que describe en su último poema su suicidio. ¡Una amarga paradoja del destino! Ella me ayudó a corregir mis notables defectos literarios de principiante, incluso mecanografió el manuscrito y me sugirió que lo enviase a un conocido concurso literario para principiantes. Compartía mis ilusiones y mis ambiciones con generosidad y sin la menor sombra de envidia. Se entregó por entero a esta labor, que finalmente dio sus inesperados frutos: ¡Gané el primer premio! Lo que siguió después es la causa de mis remordimientos y que nunca podré perdonarme. Una reconocida agente literaria se interesó por mí, y me aseguró que tenía un gran talento literario y que en uno o dos años haría de mi el escritor más leído y admirado de aquella época. Yo me sentí profundamente halagado y acepté su apuesta. Ella me sugirió el tema de mi segunda novela: una historia romántica con final feliz, y yo no tuve dificultad en imaginar el argumento, tan solo tenía que añadir algunas escenas nuevas a mis propias vivencias personales. En esta segunda novela fue ella quien revisó y corrigió los numerosos defectos de estilo y errores gramaticales del primer manuscrito. Solíamos trabajar en su propia casa, en un ambiente de intimidad y familiaridad, creado para seducirme y hacerme caer literalmente en sus brazos. No solo había visto en mí un escritor con talento, sino también un amante. Desgraciadamente para mi fiel compañera, mi agente era una mujer con el atractivo de las mujeres maduras todavía bellas, con un espíritu joven y una gran experiencia en las artes de la seducción, por lo que fue imposible resistirme. En poco tiempo consiguió dominar completamente mi voluntad. Pasaba los días en un frenético programa de promoción de mi novela que apenas me permitía dedicar unos minutos al recuerdo de otra mujer que debía sufrir en silencio cada vez que mi imagen, con una sonrisa estudiada de triunfador prepotente, aparecía en algún medio de comunicación. Los pocos momentos que no dedicaba a mi promoción tenía que ocuparlos en satisfacer sus deseos, siempre insatisfechos, no como mi agente sino como mi amante. Aunque había momentos en que era consciente de mi desleal comportamiento, no pude renunciar a la vanidosa sensación de estar por encima de la gente común; de dominar sus voluntades, convirtiéndolos en aduladores y en mis admiradores. Desde entonces no ha habido paz para mi espíritu y no he conocido ni la verdadera amistad ni mucho menos, el apasionado sentimiento del amor. Ahora ya es demasiado tarde, porque tanto la amistad como el amor son como una bella planta, necesita tiempo para florecer. A veces me pregunto qué hubiera sido de mí si no hubiera ganado aquel inesperado premio. Posiblemente estaría casado, tendría dos o tres hijos, un abdomen más prominente y podría haber encontrado un buen empleo en una compañía de seguros, donde ya habría ascendido a subdirector. Viviríamos en una bonita casa con suficientes habitaciones para todos, situada en un tranquilo suburbio residencial. Tendríamos dos perros, un histérico Yorkshire de mi mujer y otro de una raza más grande, además de un gato siamés. Dos de mis hijos irían ya a la Universidad. El mayor estudiaría Derecho, y tendría ya asegurado un empleo en mi empresa, y mi hija mediana estudiaría periodismo, porque creería tener vocación de escritora, y ya habría publicado en la red un libro de tema romántico. La pequeña, porque muy probablemente tendríamos dos hembras, estaría todavía en el Instituto y llevaría una prótesis dental para corregir la desviación de su dentadura. Mi mujer sería presidenta de alguna asociación cultural, y cada primer sábado de mes nuestro amplio salón se convertiría en una sala de reuniones, donde una docena de activas madres de familia, y algún viudo jubilado, discutirían los detalles de un ambicioso programa cultural. Tendríamos una buena relación con nuestros vecinos. Él podría ser un alto ejecutivo de una multinacional de alimentos para mascotas, y ella regentaría una pequeña boutique de ropa exclusiva, dentro de nuestra zona residencial, que con toda probabilidad sería un negocio ruinoso. Cada verano mi mujer, yo y nuestra hija pequeña pasaríamos dos semanas en una popular localidad de la costa, donde tendríamos reservado cada año un apartamento en el piso 15 de un edificio en la tercera línea de mar, mientras nuestros hijos mayores aprovecharían el verano para seguir cursos intensivos de inglés en Londres o en Nueva York. ¿Es eso lo que me he perdido? No; es una suposición demasiado convencional que yo nunca hubiera aceptado. Pero no quiero pensar en lo que hubiera podido n ‘ mn mi vida con aquella mujer como si se tratara del argumento de una de mis novelas. Ella es una persona y no debo confundirla con un personaje; nuestra relación no fue una novela. A veces no sé distinguir el sueño de la realidad, porque los recuerdos con el tiempo se vuelven sueños, y los sueños con el tiempo se hacen realidad. Todo hubiera podido ser distinto si yo no hubiera sido tan ciego y ambicioso y no hubiera caído en los brazos de mi agente literaria. Pero pronto su avidez por sentirse joven y atractiva no encontraba ya en mí el estímulo suficiente, y se buscó un nuevo amante, otro joven escritor ambicioso. No sentí en absoluto su traición, más bien supuso una liberación, porque yo también necesitaba nuevos estímulos para proseguir la meteórica ascensión de mi popularidad. Entonces intenté recuperar mi primer amor, pero perdí su rastro, daba la impresión de que había emigrado a otro planeta o se la había tragado la tierra, porque se había ausentado de todos los medios que pudieran identificar su paradero. Desalentado por la inútil búsqueda, intenté buscar consuelo en alguna de mis jóvenes admiradoras. No me fue difícil seducirlas, incluso podía elegir entre las muchas jovencitas que me idolatraban. No la elegí por su inteligencia sino por su cuerpo, porque mi capacidad para amar había quedado anulada por mi traición. Por desgracia, a pesar de su atractivo, mi constante remordimiento me hacía impotente e insensible, por lo que mi relación con mis jóvenes amantes era breve y frustrante. Mis remordimientos me llevaron a aceptar la soledad y me entregué en cuerpo y alma a mi trabajo. Pero cambió radicalmente la temática de mis novelas, los anteriores argumentos tenían siempre un final feliz, los nuevos se tornaron desdichados, negativos y con finales trágicos, en los que invariablemente moría el protagonista de la historia. Pero lejos de decaer mi popularidad siguió creciendo, porque en nuestra época apenas se conocen relaciones con un final feliz, y mis lectores se identificaban mejor con el nuevo giro dramático de mis trágicos argumentos. Sí, a pesar de todos estos años, todavía guardo viva su imagen, porque ella ha sido la que ha inspirado mis más entrañables personajes femeninos. La he descrito tantas veces que no podría olvidarla aunque me lo propusiera. Y si mi memoria me jugara una mala pasada y borrase su imagen, solo tengo que leer una y otra vez las novelas donde ella está presente para volver a recuperarla intacta, tal como la he tenido guardada estos últimos veinte años. Pero los años pasan y dejan su horrible huella. Puede que si me cruzase con ella en la calle no la reconocería. ¿Qué estragos habrá hecho el tiempo en su rostro aniñado y en sus mejillas sonrosadas? ¿Cómo serán aquellos labios carnosos e irresistibles? ¿Y de qué color serán sus rubios cabellos rizados, siempre alborotados, que se enredaban entre mis dedos? ¿Y sus senos, menudos pero sensuales? Lo que no ha debido cambiar es su mirada sincera y tierna, ni el color azul de sus ojos. ¡Cuánto la he añorado en mis largas noches de insomnio dando vida a personajes con sus cualidades! ¡Cuánto hubiera dado por sentir sus manos en mis hombros doloridos por aquellas interminables horas intentando recrear el mundo con las fantasías de mi agotada imaginación! ¡Y cuántas mañanas he amanecido abrazado a la almohada, despertando de un sueño en que yo la tomaba entre mis brazos, y tumbados sobre un oloroso césped recién cortado, contemplábamos un cielo azul impoluto, que nuestros ojos apenas podían contemplar una ínfima parte de su inmensidad. La conocí en la cantina de la facultad un día de principios de la primavera de 1997, el año que Darío Fo ganó el premio Nobel de literatura, y que secretamente yo aspiraba a ganar algún día. Ella estaba delante de mí en la fila de la cafetería y pretendía coger su taza de café y un enorme pastel de nata y fresas con una sola mano, porque la otra sujetaba varios libros de poesía. Yo me ofrecí a sujetarle los libros, pero lo rechazó. Finalmente, y como era de temer, la taza de café, el pastel y sus preciados libros rodaron por el suelo. Entonces sí aceptó mi ayuda. Mientras ella limpiaba los trozos de tarta que habían embadurnado los libros, yo conseguí una nueva taza de café y la última porción de tarta que quedaba. Pero quiso el destino que aquella mañana de principios de la primavera ella se quedase sin su café y su deliciosa tarta de nata y fresas, porque tropecé con una silla descolocada y, una vez más, café y pastel fueron a parar al suelo. Aquella coincidencia en nuestra torpeza lo interpretamos como una señal del destino, de que estábamos hechos el uno para el otro. Los días y meses que siguieron a nuestro accidentado encuentro fueron simplemente gloriosos. Nos descubrimos nuestras respectivas vocaciones y ambiciones, y acordamos, sellado con un beso, recorrer juntos el camino hacia la gloria, que nuestro optimismo juvenil daba por conquistada. Solíamos sentarnos sobre el mullido césped de nuestro campus y nos intercambiábamos cuartillas con nuestros respectivas creaciones. Yo leía y valoraba sus poesías y ella leía mis narraciones y las comentábamos en acaloradas discusiones literarias. Todavía hoy recuerdo uno de sus poemas, dedicado a mí, naturalmente: Si tu corazón fuera espuma, yo sería océano; Si tu alma fuera cielo, yo sería nube; Si tu mirada fuera lluvia, yo sería campo; Si tus manos fueran agua, yo sería sed. Acudíamos a todos los actos culturales relacionados con la literatura, y éramos considerados «Les enfants terribles» de las presentaciones de libros, por nuestras exhaustivas preguntas. Creo que los autores nos temían. No nos perdíamos ninguna película biográficas de escritores. Hacíamos planes para el futuro, para cuando fuéramos ricos y famosos. Acordamos que pasaríamos medio año en París y el otro medio en Mallorca, en una pequeña casa sobre algún acantilado y que desde la ventana del dormitorio se pudiera contemplar el amanecer en el mar Mediterráneo. Incluso habíamos decidido tener nuestro primer hijo cuando yo cumpliese 30 años, y tener tiempo suficiente para consolidar nuestras respectivas carreras literarias. Todas esas maravillosas fantasías sucedían antes de que yo ganara aquel maldito premio. Ahora me doy cuenta de que estaba seguro de cómo sería mi brillante porvenir con toda clase de detalles, pero no estaba seguro de cómo era yo, y apenas soporté la primera prueba que el destino puso en mi camino. Apenas he tenido tiempo de reflexionar y ser plenamente consciente de mi lamentable destino y mañana tengo que presentarme en público y hacer la presentación de mi última novela. Soy el esclavo de mi propio éxito, preso de las cláusulas de un draconiano contrato. Hace mucho que he dejado de ser libre para convertirme en un esclavo admirado. Daría todo lo que poseo para volver atrás y reemprender mi vida junto ella, y que nunca hubiera tenido la torpeza de presentar mi primera novela y un concurso literario, para tener la desgracia de ganarlo. Pero ya es demasiado tarde. Ahora volveré a ser portada de las revistas especializadas, pero para anunciar mi inevitable muerte. Se escribirán panegíricos llenos de elogios y virtudes que seguramente no tengo, pero a los muertos se les ensalza o se les mancilla, pero rara vez se les respeta. Seguramente que se triplicarán las ventas de mis libros, por lo que mi prematura muerte es un magnífico negocio para mi editorial, para las imprentas y para las librerías. Estos llorarán mi muerte con lágrimas de cocodrilo. Mi agente me visitará repetidas veces para asegurarse su comisión tras de mi muerte. El editor también me visitará, y con afectada tristeza, me hará firmar un nuevo contrato para asegurarse la exclusiva de mis libros cuando deje este mundo. Recibiré miles de condolencias de mis admiradores, y serán tan hipócritas que desearán mi pronta mejoría, pero en el fondo mi muerte es mucho más morbosa y excitante para ellos. ¿Y qué será de mi obra? ¿Cuánto tiempo permanecerá en la memoria de mis actuales admiradores? Un escritor muerto solo es rentable mientras dure sus funerales y homenajes, después otros escritores vivos ocuparán mi vacío, y seguramente serán víctimas de mi misma enfermedad. No es probable que me sobreviva mucho tiempo. Siempre he tenido la sensación de que estaba escribiendo lo que los lectores querían leer no lo que yo deseaba escribir. Nunca sabré que clase de escritor soy porque realmente nunca me he puesto a prueba. Todo ha resultado demasiado fácil para ser importante. No hay mayor desgracia para un escritor de vocación que ganar un concurso a una temprana edad ni peor tortura que triunfar en algo que no te gusta. Para escribir lo que te dicta tu propia intuición es necesario no pensar en los lectores por lo menos hasta haber cumplido los cuarenta. Yo soy una de esas víctimas. Intento apartar de mi mente estos patéticos pensamientos leyendo alguno de los numerosos mensajes que recibo cada día. Hoy no quiero leer ese coro de elogios de los que parecen haber nacido para admirar a cualquiera que tenga su nombre impreso en algún lugar que no sea su documento de identidad o en el buzón del correo postal. La mayoría me admiran solo porque tengo otros cientos de admiradores y seguidores, pero en realidad no saben por qué me admiran. Todos esperan lo mismo de mí: una pocas palabras de respuesta del mito al que están subyugados para sentirse bendecidos por la gracia divina. Las de estos admiradores incondicionales son una breves frases que deben tener guardadas en la memoria del ordenador para enviarlas a sus escritores favoritos: «Muy buena su última novela», «Me ha enganchado su última novela», «He disfrutado con su última novela», «Me ha encantado su última novela»; etc. ¿Y qué puedo responder? Les podría dar unas enormes gracias y que se las repartan entre ellos. Pero hay un mensaje que llama mi atención. Es el de una joven. No puedo explicarlo, pero su imagen me produce desasosiego e inquietud. Tal vez sea porque hay algo común en nuestros rasgos; o por su altiva y provocadora mirada, y sin embargo, hay algo de dulzura en su rostro. Tengo la impresión de que su arrogancia oculta una personalidad vulnerable. ¿Casi no me atrevo a leer ~, |presiento que no será favorable y no tengo el día para soportar críticas. Después de todo los elogios son un bálsamo, no curan pero calman; las críticas son una amarga medicina, saben mal pero curan. Me atrevo a leerlo: «Hola, soy una aspirante a escritora que ha leído todas sus novelas y en mi modesta opinión solo hay una que tiene una buena motivación: la primera, el resto son aceptables, pero carecen de esta importante cualidad. Parece como si después de la primera novela usted hubiera perdido la motivación de la primera. En cuanto a su última novela, lamento decirle que parece como si hubiera perdido tanto la motivación como la inspiración. Disculpe que sea tan sincera, pero esa es mi opinión. Noemí.» Quién quiera que seas, Noemí, ¡has descubierto mi secreto mejor guardado! Confieso que esta severa crítica de una jovencita arrogante y engreída me ha afectado. No debería preocuparme, todas las invitaciones para la presentación de mi nueva novela están reservadas desde hace una semana, y las críticas no han sido muy efusivas pero tampoco malas, pero lo que me sorprende es la seguridad de sus juicios, que coinciden plenamente con la realidad de mi carrera literaria. Es cierto que las novelas posteriores a la primera las escribí influenciado por mi agente literario, no por un ser humano, y que no las escribió el artista sino el profesional con un buen estilo. Y ese rostro... esa expresión... esos rasgos tan similares a los míos; la frente despejada, los hoyuelos de las mejillas y la ligera caída de los párpados... son idénticos. Pero me pregunto ¿quién es esta misteriosa Noemí? No hay nada en su perfil que la identifique, ni dónde estudió, ni dónde vive, ni fotografías, ni un blog; ¡nada! Le respondo: «Estimada Noemí, tu dura crítica ha herido mi amor propio, pero agradezco tu sinceridad. No me cabe la menor duda que serás una gran escritora. Soy consciente de que ninguna de mis novelas merecerá ni un modesto rincón de la posteridad. Si escribiera pensando en la posteridad perdería prácticamente todos mis lectores. En los tiempos que nos ha tocado vivir ningún escritor puede estar por encima del nivel intelectual de sus lectores, porque de ser así les haría sentirse culpables e ignorantes. Si apareces media docena de veces en un canal de televisión de gran audiencia y tienes algún atractivo físico, te conviertes automáticamente en el ídolo de millares de personas que han nacido para ser seguidores. Los medios tienen tanto poder que si se lo propusieran harían que ganara el premio Nobel el redactor de las crónicas de sucesos de un periódico de provincias. Si los medios te han idealizado, puedes escribir cualquier cosa, porque no dejarán de admirarte. Mi última novela no es brillante, es tan normal y corriente como los lectores normales y corrientes que disfrutaran con su lectura, porque habla en su mismo idioma, tiene sus mismos vicios y virtudes. En fin, esa es la novela que ellos mismos escribirían, pero yo les he ahorrado ese penoso trabajo. La mayoría de los escritores actuales no perseguimos a los lectores sino a los periodistas y a los creadores de imagen, que son los que realmente gobiernan el mundo. Si sueñas con ser una escritora fuera de lo común, tu vida transcurrirá dentro de ese mismo sueño fuera de lo común, y nunca podrás vivir en la realidad. Espero tu comprensión. Un afectuoso saludo» Lo envío. Me parece una buena réplica, pero tengo que admitir que su crítica tiene fundamento. No debo mi fama a mi supuesto talento sino a la popularidad que me dio mi primera novela, y que ella me inspiró, y el inteligente marketing de mi protectora. Yo no tengo más mérito que haber sabido interpretar sus consejos, su profundo conocimiento de la psicología de los lectores y sus acertadas ideas, con mi capacidad para escribirlos con un estilo aceptable. Pero estoy seguro de que habrá cientos de escritores con mucho más talento que yo que no han tenido mi misma suerte. Acabo de recibir un nuevo mensaje de Noemí. Me pregunto cómo habrá interpretado mi réplica. Podría borrarlo. Después de todo es solo la opinión de una joven inmadura, no tengo por qué tenerla en consideración. Me sobran los admiradores y ya no me preocupa ni el éxito ni el fracaso, porque ya no habrá más novelas que criticar. Ella lleva razón: carezco de musa y de inspiración. Pero siento curiosidad por conocer su opinión y lo abro: «Sí, las buenas novelas necesitan buenos lectores, por eso son tan escasas. Pero los buenos escritores hacen los buenos lectores, y si escribe usted novelas mediocres siempre tendrá lectores mediocres. Espero con gran interés escuchar sus opiniones en la presentación de su nueva novela. Un cordial saludo y nos vemos mañana. Noemí.» Me hiere, pero lo acepto. Lleva toda la razón: cada lector tiene el autor que se merece. Sin duda yo soy uno de los culpables de la mediocridad de los lectores, porque me he conformado con sus halagos sin preocuparme si eran o no fundados. Ya es demasiado tarde para rectificar. ¿Qué puedo decir yo sobre la novela si no he escrito jamás una verdadera novela? Otra interminable noche en vela. Veo misteriosas sombras que se deslizan sigilosas en torno a mi cama. Sin duda que padezco alucinaciones. He tenido que ocultar todas las imágenes que decoraban esta habitación, porque al contemplarlas parecía como si se movieran y salieran de sus marcos. A veces contemplo mis manos y me parece que son de otra persona y no las mías. Cualquier pequeño objeto se convierte en un insecto que se arrastra por los estantes de mi librería, o por la mesa de mi estudio, incluso los veo moverse sobre la colcha de mi cama. Sé que son simples alucinaciones causadas por mi vista cansada y mi ánimo deprimido, pero me angustian. No puedo soportar este sufrimiento hasta el día de mi muerte. Tengo que hacer algo. Necesito su perdón. Tengo que encontrarla aunque tenga que bajar a los mismísimos infiernos, de los que estoy ya a solo un paso. ¿Por qué no se ha puesto en contacto conmigo en todos estos años? Soy un personaje público. Ella ha debido de saber cómo ponerse en contacto conmigo. Una herida no puede estar abierta durante veinte años. Dicen que el tiempo todo lo cura, pero no dicen qué clase de heridas son las que cura. Hay algunas por las que, al parecer, no pasa el tiempo, y probablemente algunas de ella sean la deslealtad y la traición. Pero también puede estar ya casada y con familia, y ya no sienta ningún interés por mí. O, quién sabe, y me angustia el solo pensamiento, pero puede estar ya muerta. Los fantasmas siguen rondando mi cama. Parece como si todos los espíritus se confabulasen contra mí para acabar con mi poco juicio que me queda, pero resistiré; no es un buen momento para la locura. He tomado de la estantería mi última novela y leo el pasaje en que la heroína descubre que su amante le engaña. Es una historia de amor corriente, y también en la vida real el engaño es corriente, y yo tengo vivencias personales como para escribir con realismo estas escenas. Otro amanecer sin ninguna razón para el optimismo. He debido dormir dos o tres horas, pero me siento cansado y dolorido, porque las pocas horas que he conciliado el sueño han estado ocupadas por una horrible pesadilla. Afortunadamente solo puedo recordar los instantes finales. Yo estaba postrado en la cama de un hospital, pero la habitación estaba pintada de rojo y una enfermera sin rostro me inyectaba una dosis de morfina. Enfrente de mi lecho se podían ver escenas de un carnicero degollando cerdos. Los cerdos hablaban y preguntaban al carnicero: «¿Por qué yo?» Pero el carnicero no escuchaba sus lamentos y descargaba uno tras otro sus golpes mortales. Incomprensiblemente me llegaba el turno a mí, y volví a hacerle la misma angustiosa pregunta: «¿Por qué yo?» Con el mismo resultado. Y el carnicero se preparaba para asentar su golpe mortal, cuando súbitamente se transformó en ella, sonriente, tal como la vi por última vez en el campus. Me acarició mi aturdida cabeza. Me contempló unos instantes, y apenas como un susurro, exclamó: «Despliega sus alas el ángel de la muerte, porque tiene un importante encargo de Lucifer. Cuando estés suspendido por sus mortíferas garras, no lloraré por ti sino por mí, pues no podré acompañarte a los infiernos, como era mi deseo.» Y se desvaneció, transformándose en el carnicero, quién de nuevo se disponía a asentar su golpe mortal cuando afortunadamente una llamada de mi móvil me despertó de este horrible sueño. Es mi actual agente literario. —Perdona que te llame a estas horas, pero quiero que sepas que lo siento; ¡lo siento de veras! —su ambiguo mensaje me causa una gran inquietud— ¡Siento lo de tu diagnóstico! —¿Cómo sabes lo de mi diagnóstico? —¡Alguien del hospital ha filtrado la noticia de tu enfermedad incurable y está circulando por todas las redes sociales! ¡No sabía que fuera tan grave! ¡Créeme que lo siento; no sé qué decir..! —mi agente se cree en la obligación de hacerse cargo de situación y comenta visiblemente afectado—: Si no te encuentras bien podemos cancelar la presentación. Pero esto significaría incumplir el contrato con la editorial y nos traería muchos males de cabeza. Solo la muerte puede ser una justificación legal. No, tengo que hacer la presentación. Tarde o temprano sabrán mi estado de salud. Un escritor sin un contrato es libre de hacer lo que le venga en gana, porque no tiene nada publicado. En cambio un escritor con un contrato y que ha publicado tiene algo que justifica su esclavitud. Escribimos para tener un motivo para perder nuestra libertad. Así de paradójico es el mundo del escritor. Quedamos en desayunar juntos en un café cercano a mi apartamento. Mi agente ha venido acompañado de una joven que me ha causado una gran impresión. Pero no por su belleza, sino por su aspecto y curioso atuendo. Viste una amplia cazadora de piel de un llamativo color escarlata, que contrasta con su cabello negro y lacio, recortado a la altura de su nuca, pálida como la nieve. Lleva unos ajustados leotardos, negros, y una falda también negra que le cubre una escasa parte de sus muslos. Pero lo más llamativo son sus enormes botas de estilo militar, que ata con cordones también de color rojo. En cuanto a su rostro, me parece vulgar, sin nada que destacar. Tengo la impresión de que con esa llamativa vestimenta pretende que no prestemos atención a su rostro, que ella misma debe ser consciente de su falta de atractivo o encanto. Sin embargo su mirada y sus gestos son sencillos y francos. Solo por su forma de saludar deduzco que es culta e inteligente. La joven es la última representada de mi agente. Según él tiene talento. Ha querido que nos acompañase en nuestra entrevista porque necesita introducirse en el mundo de la literatura, y ha considerado que yo soy un buen comienzo. La joven parece algo intimidada por mi presencia. Ha derramado su café dos veces al agitarlo con demasiada energía. No se atreve a mirarme de frente, y no aparta su mirada de su agitada taza de café. Me pregunto qué estará pensando. Espera que yo le dirija la palabra y la verdad es que no sé de qué podemos hablar, que no sea sobre el tiempo. Rompo el silencio comentando que está siendo un otoño muy húmedo. La joven asiente con un leve movimiento de cabeza, pero solo por cortesía. Mi trivial observación confunde a mi agente, que no quiere perder el tiempo con estas nimiedades. De un bolsillo de su chaqueta saca un recorte de periódico y me lo entrega. Es la última crítica publicada sobre mi novela. Le pido que me la resuma, para eso tengo un agente: —Es buena —asegura, sin ocultar la satisfacción del hombre de negocios—, incluso sugiere que puede ser la novela del año. No lo comento con mi agente, pero sospecho que este crítico debe cobrar un cheque cada mes de mi editorial, y no quiere enemistarse con ellos. Ya quedan pocos críticos honestos, o si lo son, ignoran los fundamentos de la literatura. Por el bien de este arte milenario hubiera preferido una mala crítica, como se merece esta novela. En otra ocasión me hubiera alegrado, pero ahora que debo rendir cuentas a mi conciencia de todos mis actos, me entristece, porque también ahora tiene sentido la sabia frase: «Ha llegado la hora de la verdad». Y la verdad es que es una mala novela. La joven escritora me felicita y asegura que lo merezco, y parece esperar mi agradecimiento. Creo que está tratando de sugerir algún tema de conversación en el que ella pueda participar. —Perdone que me entrometa —se decide por fin a intervenir—, pero a mí también me parece una buena novela. Le pregunto qué le motiva esa opinión. —Está bien escrita y los personajes están muy bien caracterizados —responde algo azorada, porque no esperaba mi pregunta—. Tiene descripciones muy bien dibujadas y los diálogos son muy naturales. Sí, creo que su última novela es muy buena. Es evidente que esta jovencita pertenece a esta generación en que son raros los ideales, porque ha omitido lo fundamental: El argumento. Una poesía no necesita argumentos, le basta con las palabras, pero una novela no puede existir sin argumento. El argumento es lo que vincula la ficción con la realidad, y una buena novela debe ser testigo de la realidad de su tiempo a través del argumento; del compromiso del autor con su tiempo. Si no existe esta vinculación, no puede trascender de su inmediatez, y en lugar de una novela escribimos un panfleto de trescientas páginas, decorado con una sugestiva portada, y con un precio injustificado. No le expongo esta idea porque muy probablemente ella no se sienta comprometida con su época. Le pregunto qué opina del argumento y parece meditar la respuesta: —Es un tema clásico —responde sin demasiada convicción—. La traición del ser a quién amamos. Es un buen argumento. Pero es una descortesía que no muestre interés por su trabajo. También estoy interesado por su idea de la literatura. Le pregunto cuál es el género de la literatura que más le atrae, y sin apenas dejarme terminar la frase, responde: —¡La novela, por supuesto! Debe ser así, porque su rostro se ha transfigurado con el encanto que da el entusiasmo. Parece complacida por mi interés; es evidente que deseaba comunicarse conmigo, pero de escritor a escritora. Ya lo ha conseguido. Le pregunto cuál es la razón de su entusiasmo por la narrativa, y su respuesta no deja lugar a dudas: —Solo con la novela se puede contar una historia compleja y que sea un mundo completo. El cuento es muy breve y el relato solo puede contar una parte de ese mundo. Sin duda esta joven sabe lo que quiere. Ahora veremos si también sabe por qué lo quiere. Le pregunto por su motivación. —¿Mi motivación? Nunca me he hecho esta pregunta. ¡Creo que nací ya motivada por el amor por la literatura! Tengo muchas razones para estar motivada —responde mostrando una súbita y asombrosa seguridad en sí misma—. Pero tal vez la principal es que a través de la literatura se pueden trasmitir muchos valores que pueden ayudar a que cada generación sea moralmente superior a la anterior. Es una buena respuesta. Me he equivocado con esta joven y la he subestimado. Le hago la última pregunta: —¿Y qué es para ti la literatura? —La literatura es un modo de contar historias que provoquen en el lector el sentimiento de la belleza del lenguaje, la creatividad de la imaginación y el entendimiento de la realidad en la que vienen o desean vivir. Cuando las palabras no impiden a la imaginación ver, escuchar o sentir lo que estás leyendo, porque todas están en perfecta harmonía, sin que sobre o falte alguna. Esa es mi opinión. Su respuesta me ha impresionado, y felicito a mi agente por su acertada elección. La joven está fuera de lo común, pero eso no quiere decir que tenga el éxito que sin duda merece. Capítulo 2 Me despido de mi agente y de su joven acompañante, a quien le doy ánimos para continuar porque creo que tiene el talento necesario para el éxito, pero también le advierto del precio que deberá pagar por su pasión. Advertencia inútil, porque la pasión desborda todo intento de contención. Seguirá su camino sin tener en cuenta mis advertencias. Mi agente me pregunta qué pienso hacer hasta la hora de la presentación, y si me apetecería que almorzásemos también juntos. Tal vez esté pensando que no es un día para dejarme solo y necesite compañía. Le digo que había pensado dar un largo paseo por el parque, pero rechazo su invitación; nunca me han gustado los restaurantes. La joven también parece preocupada por mí estado de ánimo y me hace una tentadora oferta: Le gustaría acompañarme en mi paseo y después ir a su apartamento, donde cocinará para mí una de las especialidades de su región. Me parece un buen programa y acepto. Noto en su invitación el deseo de comunicarme sus inquietudes y enseñarme sus obras para conocer mi opinión, pero también un súbito afecto por mí, que debe tener una gran dosis de compasión. Está nublado y a intervalos se abren claros por los que penetra la luz del sol, y todo el follaje se ilumina como si fuera un fresco pintado por algún genio de los que probablemente habiten en este parque. Mi joven acompañante parece sentirse feliz por haber aceptado su invitación, y camina a mi lado pero en silencio. Tengo la impresión de que ya ha conseguido su propósito y no cree necesario más argumentos o razones para convencerme. No hay duda de que me admira, lo que me hace sentir incómodo. Ninguna persona es más admirable que otra, lo que se admira son los resultados de su educación, intuición o creatividad, pero no el ser humano en sí. Puesto que todos merecemos el mismo respeto y consideración, no puede haber unos más admirables que otros. Intento hacérselo ver con una comprometida pregunta personal: —Me encantaría saber qué idea tienes formada sobre mí; y ¿por qué tenías interés en conocerme personalmente? La pregunta la ha cogido desprevenida. Medita unos instantes su respuesta, perdiendo la mirada en un punto indefinido del frondoso paseo, esbozando una sonrisa que debe surgir de sus pensamientos. Se vuelve hacia mí, me clava literalmente con su mirada, y no duda en su sorprendente respuesta: —¡Porque estoy enamorada de usted! Ahora el sorprendido soy yo, pero los años me han hecho escéptico y limitar mi capacidad de sentir afecto por los demás. Pero hay otra razón para que rechace su sorprendente declaración: no tengo otra misión en lo que me resta de vida que encontrar a la mujer a quien debo lo que esta joven admira. Mientras no pague mi deuda mis sentimientos están bloqueados. Se lo hago saber de la manera menos dolorosa posible: —A veces los escritores vivimos nuestras fantasías como si fueran realidad. Seguro que a quien amas es a algún personaje de tus novelas que se parece a mí. Pero su respuesta me sorprende todavía más que la primera: —Yo le he dicho que estoy enamorada de usted, pero no que usted esté enamorado de mí. No puede usted impedir que le ame, pero yo tampoco puedo impedir que usted no sienta ningún afecto por mí. Sé que no me encuentra atractiva, incluso puede que me considere fea, y no le guste mi manera de vestir. Yo elijo a quién amar, pero no pretendo que además sea mi amante. Me conformo con poder pasear a su lado, y si le apetece, probar mis guisos, ¡pero debe saber que le amo! Es sublime su generosidad: entrega sus sentimientos a cambio de acompañar el vacilante paso de un moribundo, y tener un comensal en su mesa. Sin duda que esta joven poco agraciada tiene un corazón inmenso y puede permitirse derrochar sus afectos. No debo permitir este derroche, puede que más adelante los necesite para ella misma. —Pero tú misma has sido testigo de que te has enamorado de un enfermo que pronto dejará este mundo! —Lo sé, y siento una gran tristeza, pero usted también es escritor y hace que se amen personas que solo existen en su imaginación. ¿Por qué no puedo hacer yo lo mismo? Cuando llegue el lamentable día en que usted se haya ido, yo seguiré teniéndolo en mi imaginación, y seguiré amándole como le amo ahora. Es inevitable que le haga esta crucial pregunta: —Pero ¿qué puede tener de atractivo un curentón desahuciado que despierte en ti esa pasión? —Son muy pocos los hombres que han sido capaces de penetrar en el alma de una mujer. Admiramos al hombre que tiene ideas brillantes, pero amamos al hombre no por su inteligencia sino por ser esencialmente un hombre, en cambio podemos caer perdidamente enamoradas de un gigoló, un mecánico de manos grasientas o un alcantarillero maloliente, ¡siempre que sean esencialmente hombres! Si además es inteligente y creativo, ¡entonces es irresistible!. —¿Pertenezco yo a esa categoría? No me responde, pero su sonrisa contesta a mi pregunta El apartamento de mi joven enamorada es un museo de nostalgias, porque está lleno de objetos que le recuerdan su lugar de origen, y que debe añorar profundamente. Es una sola habitación donde reina un cierto caos. Su mesa de escritorio está junto a la única ventana de la estancia, y está repleta de cuartillas con textos impresos, que deben ser sus escritos, por donde aparece su portátil. Sobre la impresora hay un pequeño oso panda de peluche, y en la repisa de la ventana, ordenados en fila, hay una verdadera colección de objetos variados, posiblemente regalos o recuerdos de viajes. Su cama es un amplio sofá convertible, porque no hay espacio suficiente para una cama normal. En el lado opuesto a la ventana hay un espacio separado por una amplia cortina que debe ser su cocina. Y junto a ella una mesa en la que no caben más de dos cubiertos, siempre que se retire el enorme ramo de flores que empiezan a marchitarse. También la mesa está ocupada por restos de una comida anterior, como platos sin fregar, vasos medio llenos o restos de pan. Es evidente que no esperaba visitas, por eso se apresura a justificar aquel desorden: —Perdone este desorden, pero no esperaba visitas, lo ordeno en un momento. A pesar del desorden el conjunto es íntimo y acogedor. Preferiría que no lo ordenara. —¿Quiere leer alguno de mis escritos mientras preparo el almuerzo? Le ruego que no me trate de usted, porque ya nos hemos hecho suficientes confidencias como para tutearnos. —Los leeré con sumo interés. Intenta poner orden en las cuartillas desparramadas sobre su escritorio hasta reunir una veintena de páginas. —Son las primeras páginas de mi nueva novela —me dice con cierto embarazo—, es la historia de amor entre una joven bailarina y su coreógrafo... que está inspirado en usted. Insiste en no tutearme. Supongo que su amor por mí incluye este distante tratamiento. Si me tutease, se perdería parte de su encanto. Tengo que aceptarlo. Me gusta su estilo. Me llama especialmente la atención este pasaje: «Una bailarina con talento entiende el lenguaje de la música y lo traduce en los armoniosos movimientos de su ágil cuerpo. Tú ya no necesitas un coreógrafo, sino ¡un amante que interprete la música que mueva tu cuerpo!» La comida ha sido deliciosa y para ella, además, motivo de añoranzas. Todavía me quedan unas horas para la presentación. Ella me sugiere que duerma un poco para estar más despejado. Acepto la idea. Desplegamos la cama y me recuesto. Ella me cubre con una ligera manta, cierra la persiana de la ventana y se encierra en su minúscula cocina para lavar los platos y el resto del servicio. Escucho el trajín de la cocina ya casi en sueños, y me trae el recuerdo de imágenes de otros tiempos, en que ella también cocinaba para mí. Me despierta el sonido de un llanto. Es la joven que está llorando. Está recostada junto a mí, y se apresura a secar sus lágrimas cuando nota que despierto. —¿Te sucede algo, Alicia? Le pregunto alarmado. Pero su respuesta me desconcierta: —Discúlpeme, soy una tonta; lloraba de felicidad, por tenerle junto a mí, en mi propia cama! Nunca pude imaginar que esa joven poco agraciada y con una vestimenta llamativa fuera un ser humano tan excepcional. Sin duda que las apariencias engañan. Siento necesidad de saber más sobre ella. Dejo que se aproxime a mí, porque siento por ella un afecto más paternal que apasionado. Le ruego que me cuente algo sobre ella. Se aproxima más a mí. Creo que desea que la estreche entre mis brazos. No puedo desairarla y hago sus deseos. Me sonríe agradecida. —¡Solo soy una chica de provincias, fea y torpe —intento protestar, pero me interrumpe—. No; es verdad, soy fea, por eso me visto con ropa llamativa, aunque no sirve de mucho. A los chicos no les gustaba, aunque más de uno intentara violarme. He crecido sin el menor afecto y pronto no me quedó otra alternativa para mitigar mi soledad que inventarme amantes y amigos. Sentía verdadera repugnancia por los chicos de mi edad, violentos y groseros. Me enamoré por primera vez de un hombre maduro y casado. Me trataba con delicadeza y, aunque yo se lo hubiera permitido, nunca me pidió hacer el amor. Es mi destino, él tampoco estaba enamorado de mí, creo que sentía lástima. 8. No tuve otra opción que salir de mi ciudad, y me vine aquí. La literatura fue mi única amiga. Mis novelas eran mi único consuelo. Conseguí interesar a un modesto editor para que publicase una de mis novelas, aunque tuve que pagar la edición de mi bolsillo. De eso hace casi dos años. Envié el manuscrito a varias editoriales, pero en todas me lo rechazaron. Alguien me aconsejó que buscara un agente literario, y encontré su agente en Internet. Le envié un ejemplar de mi novela, y el resto ya lo conoce. Permanezco en silencio porque me ha impresionado su relato, ¡tan distinto del mío! Yo he traicionado a los que me amaban; ella ha sido fiel a los que no la amaban. Su historia me hace sentirme todavía más culpable. Pero ha omitido algo y ya no puedo aceptar que no estoy interesado: ö —¡Pero en tu relato falto yo! —¡Sí, claro; falta usted! Le conocí durante la presentación de su anterior novela. Yo estaba sentada en la última fila. Entonces tenía el aspecto de una joven normal, y usted se acercó a mí en varias ocasiones, pero debía ser invisible, porque no me dirigió ni una simple mirada y yo no me atreví a llamar su atención. Siempre he sido algo tímida e introvertida, pero aquel día estaba fuera de este mundo. Al verle en la tribuna, con la camisa desabrochada, con su gesto burlón y provocador, tan seguro de sí mismo, algo se agitó en todo mi cuerpo, y enseguida comprendí que me había enamorado de usted, pero del hombre, todavía no conocía al escritor —permanece unos instantes en silencio, como reviviendo aquel momento en su imaginación, porque siento como si su cuerpo se agitara; sonríe como si ahora le pareciera gracioso su súbita pasión por mí—. Cuando salí de su presentación no sé cuánto tiempo estuve andando sin rumbo fijo, tratando de contener el llanto. Me había enamorado del hombre más admirado del mundo de la literatura. Aún me duelen los aplausos a su brillante intervención. Cuando finalizó y bajó de lo que para mí ya era un trono, pues usted ya era mi rey, todas las mujeres jóvenes de la sala le rodearon porque querían tocar a su ídolo. Todas eran hermosas y vestían ropa de marca. Yo era una chica de provincias, fea, tímida y torpe, y vestía ropa pasada de moda. Aquella noche la pasé en vela, sin parar de llorar. Cuando una mujer se enamora, el amante forma parte de su carne y de su alma, y su ausencia duele como si te arrancaran ambas cosas. Creemos que no podremos sobrevivir a estas terribles heridas —hace una nueva pausa, pero ahora parece estar reviviendo aquellos amargos momentos. Inesperadamente toma una de mis manos y la acaricia. Eso la reconforta y prosigue su relato—. Pasé unos días angustiosos, pero finalmente me resigné e intenté echar tierra al fuego que me abrasaba, pero no dejé de amarle, solo adormecer su memoria. Pero me propuse estar algún día a su mismo nivel, para que se fijara en mí. Cambié mi vestuario y escribía frenéticamente una novela tras otra en las que de alguna manera usted era siempre el protagonista —cambia una significativa mirada conmigo y prosigue—. ¡No se puede imaginar la alegría que me invadió cuando vi su fotografía en el despacho del agente que había aceptado representarme! —¡Sí, puedo imaginarlo! —la interrumpo. —Y ahora está usted aquí, en mi propia cama, y me estrecha entre sus brazos. ¿no tengo motivos para llorar de felicidad? El relato de su generoso amor por mí, que desde luego no merezco, cambia mi afecto por esta sensible joven, que tiene el evocador nombre de Alicia. Ya no la encuentro fea, ni torpe; no veo su rostro sino su alma, y me parece hermosa. Me gustaría hacérselo saber, pero temo que pueda cambiar de opinión cuando vuelvan mis remordimientos por mi imperdonable traición. Solo si me libro de ellos podría incluso corresponder a su amor por mí. Pero no puedo olvidarme de que no debo hacerme la ilusión de gozar de los placeres de la vida, porque antes de que mis sentimientos pueda ser libres de amar a quien lo desee, habré muerto. Alicia no merece este castigo. Es hora de acudir al lugar de la presentación. Mi agente me ha llamado al móvil, está preocupado por mi estado de ánimo, pero le tranquilizo, me siento con fuerzas para afrontar la presentación. Incluso la historia de esta joven me ha sugerido nuevos argumentos para defender la literatura que surge de lo más profundo de los sentimientos y condenar la banal y entretenida. Tal como lo esperaba la sala está a rebosar de público. La mayoría permanecen de pie porque no hay suficientes sillas para todos. No hay duda de que conocen la noticia de mi diagnóstico. Mi agente me espera en una sala contigua para ponerme al corriente de los asistentes más prominentes. Han venido los directores de varias revistas literarias, y la mayoría de los periodistas de las secciones de cultura de los periódicos. Deben estar interesados en el relato del escritor que muere no por el que escribe. Alicia me ha acompañado hasta aquí, pero se ha confundido con el público y la he perdido de vista. El moderador y otros invitados ya están en la tribuna. Cuando aparezco en la sala se escucha un murmullo delatador. Varios fotógrafos toman instantáneas del panel, pero sobre todo dirigen sus cámaras hacia mí. Deben pensar que estas serán las últimas fotografías que me tomarán. El moderador me introduce y hace una breve síntesis de la novela que voy a presentar. Ha llegado el momento de mi intervención. Busco a Alicia entre la multitud, y la descubro en un extremo de la sala, apoyada sobre una columna. Ella ha sentido mi mirada y me sonríe. Quiere darme ánimos; su sonrisa me facilita el comienzo de mi intervención. —Buenas tardes. Antes de nada quiero darles las gracias a todos ustedes por asistir a la presentación de mi última novela. Me siento culpable de disponer de este confortable sillón cuando la mayoría de ustedes tienen que estar de pie. De haber sabido que vendrían tantos hubiéramos celebrado esta presentación en el Estadio Olímpico —ríen mi broma, pero estoy seguro que la mayoría no esperaban que dadas las circunstancias, todavía tenga sentido del humor—.Supongo que todos ustedes han leído las críticas de mi nueva novela. La mayoría son favorables, pero no todas. ¡Me olvidé de enviar el cheque a dos o tres críticos! También supongo que ya deben saber la noticia de mi diagnóstico. Sí, me quedan pocos meses de vida, y no es como para tomárselo a broma, pero mi salud no mejorará si me lo tomo en serio —me interrumpe un gran murmullo, pero ruego silencio—. Supe el diagnóstico ayer, y por culpa de la filtración no he podido ampliar la prima de mi seguro de vida. Lo siento por mi gata, que es la beneficiaria del seguro, porque como ustedes deben saber, no tengo descendencia. Aprecio mucho a mi gata, porque es a la única que entiendo. ¡A los humanos hace años que he renunciado a entenderlos! Pero supongo que no han venido para que les hable de mi buen entendimiento con mi gata, sino de mi última novela. Aunque pueda sorprenderles, esta novela y las anteriores no hubiera podido escribirlas sin mi gata. Ella me ha enseñado a aceptar quien me alimenta sin perder mi dignidad. También me ha enseñado que siempre hay un momento para jugar. ¡A pesar de mi avanzada edad no he dejado nunca de jugar! Para mí escribir es un juego, pero un juego serio. Para jugar es necesario conocer solo estas tres reglas básicas: tener una buena técnica, tener un estilo propio y una sólida motivación. Quien conoce bien estas tres reglas tiene todas las de ganar. Hoy los escritores tenemos un sólida formación, no cometemos faltas de ortografía y sabemos dónde poner una coma o punto y coma. Al fin y al cabo, solo son reglas que hay que memorizar, por tanto la gran mayoría tenemos una buena técnica. Pero cuando hablamos de estilo no todos entienden cuál es su significado y cómo se valora, aunque los críticos se empeñen en encasillarnos con tal o cual corriente, porque el estilo no tiene reglas, sino que depende de nuestra sensibilidad y el valor que damos a las palabras. Cada palabra, además de un significado, tiene un tono y debe unirse a otras palabras perfectamente afinadas, lo que no es corriente en la literatura actual, prevalece el significado y no la entonación. Y si hablamos de motivación, por lo general lo asociamos con remuneración, y no con un compromiso con los valores de nuestro tiempo, que deben reflejarse de alguna manera en los argumentos de lo que escribimos. Los artistas también pagamos alquiler; para hacienda somos uno más y en los supermercados no nos dan crédito, si no pagamos no comemos. Por eso el escritor debe estar remunerado. Pero esta no debe de ser la motivación. Y esa es la enfermedad incurable del arte, porque lo que es patrimonio de espíritu se transforma en un producto del mercado; lo que no debe tener precio se convierte en un valor contable; lo que debe ilustrar se convierte en algo para entretener. Finalmente el espíritu no tiene con qué ejercitarse y se atrofia por inactividad y el resultado es que perdemos la sensibilidad para distinguir lo bello de lo feo; lo bueno de lo malo; lo trascendente de lo intrascendente. Y ese es el deplorable estado en que se encuentra hoy en día la literatura, prácticamente a nivel global, porque la insensibilidad por el arte también se ha globalizado. Toda la responsabilidad de esta situación recae en un cincuenta por ciento de los lectores y otro cincuenta de los autores, porque cada lector tiene el autor que se merece, y cada escritor tiene los lectores que se merece. 9. Sobre esta última novela, no voy a desvelar el argumento, solo avanzarles que se trata del drama de dos escritores, ella es poeta y el es narrador, a quienes les une la literatura, pero les separan las palabras. Entendemos a las personas que imaginamos, pero no a las reales que amamos. Para finalizar quiero contarles una emotiva historia que ilustra mejor que ningún complicado argumento lo que es y para qué sirve la Literatura. La historia que deseo contarles es la de una joven escritora de provincias, que se considera a sí misma fea y torpe, a quien todos rechazaban, y que aprendió a amar con generosidad a través de los personajes de sus novelas. Esta joven no escribe para conseguir fama y dinero, sino para sentirse amada, aunque sus amantes sean de ficción. Pero su extraordinaria humanidad y generosidad ha tenido su recompensa, y el amado protagonista de su ficción se ha hecho realidad. No obstante, pese a su felicidad pasajera, la historia no tiene un final feliz, porque el personaje real morirá pocos meses después, y esta joven escritora de provincias, que como he dicho, se considera a sí misma fea y torpe, volverá a recurrir al poder de sugestión de la literatura para conservarlo en su memoria y mantener siempre viva la llama de su amor. —intento ver cuál es la reacción de Alicia a mi mención, pero ya no está junto a la columna. ¡Ha desaparecido! Tal vez la he ofendido, pero tengo que continuar—. Y es de este extraordinario poder de la literatura del que deseaba hablarles en esta presentación. Poder que solo tiene la literatura que surge de la inspiración y que moldea una creativa imaginación. No puede haber nada más obsceno que una literatura embrutecida, sin inspiración y sin alma. Miles de palabras juntas sin armonía ni humanidad, que nos cuentan historias banales, deshumanizadas, sin otra finalidad que la de entretener nuestro hastío y distraernos de nuestras preocupaciones. Me asusta la muerte, como a cualquier ser humano, pero a cambio me ha dado algo que no hubiera tenido sin su terrible amenaza: ¡libertad! Ahora puedo decir lo que pienso sin temor a las consecuencias, y pienso que la novela que les presento hoy aquí no la he escrito yo, sino que la ha escrito la demanda del mercado, como prácticamente todas las demás novelas que se publican en la actualidad. Solo esa joven escritora provinciana, fea y torpe, y tal vez miles más tan provincianas, feas y torpes como ella, a las que nadie les prestará atención, escriben sus novelas para ellas mismas, según le dictaba su corazón y su mente, porque simplemente lo necesitan. La Literatura, escrita con mayúsculas, es una necesidad, no un pasatiempo; no solo entretiene, sino que enseña; no solo calma, sino que cura; no solo se lee, sino que se vive. Si volviera a nacer me gustaría que fuera en un mundo donde se pudiese sobrevivir sin las leyes del mercado; y donde todos fuéramos provincianos, feos y torpes. No tengo más que añadir, pero responderé gustoso a sus preguntas, siempre que no sean demasiado personales. Varias manos se han alzado pidiendo turno para sus preguntas. Respondo la de un periodista: —Lamento lo de su enfermedad, pero me gustaría saber cómo piensa usted pasar sus últimos días. Respondo sin titubear: —Meditando sobre la muerte. La siguiente pregunta es de una mujer que debe tener mi misma edad: —¿Qué es lo que ha deseado, pero no ha conseguido realizar? —¡Entender el mundo en que vivimos! La tercera pregunta me ha causado una inexplicable emoción. Es de la joven Noemí, con la que intercambié varios mensajes. La pregunta me desconcierta, para la que no tengo una respuesta preparada. —¿Lamenta usted no haber formado una familia, y tal vez haber tenido uno o varios hijos, y que ahora cuidarían de usted? Presiento que su pregunta encierra algún oculto sentido. ¿Qué puedo responder? Es demasiado tarde para lamentos. —Tu pregunta es demasiado personal y ya he advertido que no respondería a esas preguntas. La joven parece muy contrariada, y no quiere renunciar. Insiste. —¿Qué o quién le ha inspirado esta novela y cuál ha sido su motivación? No he meditado mi respuesta, ha surgido directamente de mi subconsciente, donde debía estar desde hace muchos años: —Todos los escritores tenemos un conflicto emocional entre lo que creamos y dónde nos inspiramos. Por lo general hacemos que nuestra imaginación haga realidad lo que no es posible en la vida real. Yo me he inspirado en una persona real a la que no entiendo. En cuanto a mi motivación, es precisamente tratar de entenderla La joven parece satisfecha con mi respuesta y no insiste. Aplauden mi intervención, pero solo los más jóvenes parecen haber entendido mi mensaje. La utopía no tiene más de veinte años. El dolor vuelve con severa intensidad. Ruego al moderador que dé por concluida la presentación. Los asistentes parecen comprender las razones y la sala se está quedando vacía. Alicia se ha reunido conmigo. Había salido precipitadamente de la sala para que no la vieran llorar. Tal vez yo me excediera y debí ser menos dramático. Mi agente me comunica que fuera de la sala nos espera una multitud para que firme ejemplares. No puedo negarme. La mayoría me muestra su tristeza por mi enfermedad con alguna palabra de consuelo. No sé cuántos libros he firmado pero estoy agotado. Ruego a Alicia que deje que me apoye en su hombro y volvemos a la sala para recoger nuestros abrigos. Siento que el dolor nubla mi vista y estoy tan débil que si no me apoyara en ella ya me habría desplomado. En este deplorable estado no soy capaz de reconocer a la joven Noemí, que permanece es su asiento, porque me está esperando. Mi agente ha hablado con ella y me transmite su deseo de hablar conmigo, pero no le ha revelado el motivo. No me encuentro con el estado de ánimo como para mantener charlas sobre literatura con mis admiradoras. Le pido que se excuse, y que se comunique conmigo por correo. Mi agente le comunica mi mensaje, pero la joven insiste en hablar conmigo. No es sobre literatura, al parecer es algo personal. Alicia me ayuda a acomodarme en un sillón de la sala contigua, y parece que el dolor remite. Le pido a mi agente que llame a la joven. ¡Confío en que no se trate de otro amor platónico! 10. Por primera vez mi enfermedad me ha impedido cumplir con los compromisos de mi editorial. Es evidente que mi estado de salud empeora cada día que pasa. Ha sido una bendición que conociera a Alicia en este crucial momento. Por primera vez no puedo valerme por mí mismo y necesito ayuda. Empiezo a sentir los dolorosos preámbulo de la muerte. Estoy inquieto por la entrevista con la joven Noemí. Hay algo en ella que me resulta familiar, como si la hubiera conocido en una vida anterior. Pero, por otro lado, presiento que trae consigo graves sucesos que pueden alterar lo poco que me quede de vida. Alicia parece compartir mi inquietud. Puede que se trate de una rival con ventaja, porque Noemí es una joven muy agraciada. Es de una complexión mediana, sus larga melena, de un elegante color castaño y sus armoniosas formas, la hacen una joven muy atractiva. Entra en la sala acompañada por mi agente. Parece inquieta o tal vez nerviosa. Me contempla postrado en el sofá. Debe comprender lo inoportuno de esta entrevista. Al acercarse siento en su mirada una profunda lástima. Parece que siente mi enfermedad como si ya nos conociéramos. Le ruego que se siente en el sillón contiguo. —Y bien, Noemí, ¿qué es eso tan importante que tienes que decirme? Hace un ademán para sentarse, pero vuelve a mantenerse erguida, algo le inquieta. Cambia una mirada con mi agente y con Alicia, que permanece junto a mí, recostada sobre uno los brazos del amplio sofá: —¿Podríamos estar solos unos minutos, —me ruega visiblemente nerviosa—, lo que tengo que decirle es muy personal. Mi agente cambia una mirada de interrogación conmigo, y Alicia se inquieta, porque debe creer que la joven es definitivamente una temida rival. Si les ruego que nos dejen solos, pensarán que no les tengo confianza, pero ahora estoy vivamente interesado en lo que esa joven quiere decirme. Les ruego que nos dejen solos. Alicia no puede evitar cambiar conmigo una mirada triste y a la vez de duda, pero respeta mi deseo. Los dos salen de la sala sin ningún reproche. Noemí los sigue con la mirada y parece aliviada cuando cierra la puerta tras de sí. Durante unos instantes, en que parece ordenar sus pensamientos y tranquilizarse, no aparta su mirada de un punto indeterminado del suelo. Después alza su mirada y visiblemente emocionada me pregunta: —¿Recuerda usted quién escribió este verso?: Si tu corazón fuera espuma, yo sería océano; Si tu alma fuera cielo, yo sería nube; Si tu mirada fuera lluvia, yo sería campo; Si tus manos fueran agua, sed. Es como si un rayo cruzase mi mente. Tengo una poderosa intuición, pero me niego a reconocerla. ¿Cómo ha llegado ese poema a esta joven? No respondo, pero soy yo quien hace la siguiente pregunta, y siento que mi respiración se hace difícil y mi viejo corazón se agita: —¿Quién lo escribió? Ella me mira y siento en su mirada una profunda ansiedad. Está al borde del llanto. —¡Lo escribió mi madre hace veinte años...! Rompe a llorar en silencio y se cubre el rostro con sus manos. No se atreve a mirarme. Yo me siento aturdido, y no sé cómo reaccionar. Me hago la pregunta de la que espero con ansiedad una respuesta: ¿Es esta joven mi hija? Si es así, ¿cómo han podido pasar todos estos años sin que su madre me lo dijera? Sí, es posible; hicimos el amor pocas semanas antes de mi traición, y no tomamos precauciones. Pero no pienso en ti, —le digo—, cuando aceptaste representarme yo ya había adoptado el mal hábito y todas mis novelas adolecían de lo misma falta de motivación, pero tenían él éxito asegurado. Sólo empecé a inquietarme a partir de esta última novela, era el resultado de todos estos años negarme a mí mismo? ¡No volveré a escribir porque no merezco ser amado ni puedo amar a nadie! Alicia no admite mi renuncia. Protesta y quiere dar su opinión: —¡No estoy de acuerdo; tu padre no es totalmente culpable! Quién tiene el coraje de reconocer su culpa merece el perdón; los más santos fueron los más pecadores. No es el santo quien necesita compasión, sino ¡el pecador! Noemí, tienes que perdonarle, no porque sea tu padre y aunque en el pasado se haya comportado como un canalla, sino un ser humano arrepentido que reconoce sus culpas, merece tu compasión y tu perdón. Perdonar es lo que nos hace seres humanos; el rencor nos vuelve bestias sin alma, solo con memoria. Mi hija vuelve a estar al borde del llanto. Está sufriendo una gran presión emocional y ¡parece tan vulnerable! Me mira y noto en su mirada su deseo de perdonarme. Alicia toma una de sus manos y la pone sobre la mía. Su mano está ardiendo y tiembla. Ha sido el prodigio de una verdadera escritora quién ha hecho el milagro del perdón. Noemí se abraza a mí y llora en silencio. Creo escuchar como un susurro: —¡Papá, te quiero! Yo también tengo deseos de llorar. ¡Pero ahora tengo una hija que necesita un padre que sea fuerte! Han pasado dos días desde la accidentada presentación de mi última novela. No es mucho tiempo para asumir que ahora soy el padre de una joven encantadora. He recibido una dura lección, pero no es más que el principio de mi redención. He vivido veinte años de soledad y aislamiento y ahora me resulta difícil asumir que tengo que dedicar algo de mi tiempo en pensar en los demás. Desconozco cuáles son las responsabilidades de un padre. Noemí es tan independiente como su madre y no necesita que nadie le diga lo que tiene que hacer o cómo lo tiene que hacer, y no me crea grandes responsabilidades. Seguirá viviendo en el apartamento que comparte con dos compañeras de la universidad, pero haremos lo posible por cenar juntos dos o tres veces a la semana en mi apartamento. Alicia se ha ofrecido a ser nuestra cocinera, y nos deleitará con sus deliciosos guisos locales. Noemí confiesa que no es muy hábil en la cocina, es una joven entregada a su carrera. Creo que ha heredado la pasión mía por la literatura y la sensibilidad de su madre para la poesía. No puedo decir si tiene o no talento, todavía no ha tenido tiempo ni oportunidad de ponerse a prueba. No ha escrito nada importante. Pero siempre he creído que el talento no se hereda, sino que se nace ya con él. No está en los genes; está en la mente y en el alma y debemos adquirirlo en el mismo instante de nuestra gestación. Puede que nos venga del cosmos o de algún fallecido en ese mismo instante. Creo en la transmigración, porque el espíritu, como la energía, no se destruye, se transforma. Desde el principio de los tiempos hay un espíritu universal, al que los creyentes llaman Dios, de donde provienen todos los de los seres animados. La prueba evidente de la transmigración es que en mi familia no hay artistas ni escritores, solo personas normales, preocupadas por cosas normales. Tal vez haya habido alguno entre mis remotos ancestros, pero yo lo desconozco. Mi enfermedad sigue su diabólico curso y no me deja mucho tiempo libre y sin dolores. Tengo que acudir con frecuencia al hospital para seguir un doloroso tratamiento. A cambio de soportar todas estas molestias me aseguran poder prolongar el tiempo que me quede de vida y que necesito para poner en orden mi conciencia. 11. Como era de esperar, mi última novela ha triplicado las ventas de las anteriores. La muerte es un extraordinario reclamo. Mi editor no puede ocultar su satisfacción, aunque se muestre compasivo. Los medios de comunicación me acosan y he tenido que cambiar de número de teléfono. Los mensajes de condolencia son abrumadores, me resulta imposible leerlos todos. Pero por fortuna aún desconocen mi inesperada paternidad, deben creer que la joven que me acompaña es mi última conquista. En cuanto a Alicia, no puedo negar que siento por ella un profundo afecto, pero no se puede llamar amor, porque en estos críticos momentos desconozco el significado de esta hermosa palabra. Ella parece resignada y creo que, a pesar de todo, es feliz solo con poder estar a mi lado y servirme de ayuda. Sí, debe ser su destino el que no sea correspondida. No ha tenido suerte en la elección de sus amantes. Ella y Noemí parecen entenderse bien, y comparten las mismas inquietudes. Creo que se han hecho buenas amigas. Pero esta pasajera felicidad tiene una oscura sombra: ¡su madre! He hablado con Noemí sobre ella, no es un tema fácil. Noemí cree que mi presencia podría ayudarla a recobrar la memoria. Pero yo me pregunto si no será mejor que mantenga su amnesia. No debe ser para ella nada grato el recordar mi traición. Si recobra la memoria tal vez pueda perdonarme, pero también puede aumentar su resentimiento hacia mí. Por mi culpa ha malogrado veinte preciosos años de su existencia, no hay penitencia lo suficientemente grande para compensar su sufrimiento. Sé que a Noemí le haría enormemente feliz vernos juntos otra vez. Como si el tiempo no hubiera transcurrido, y reconstruir el pasado en el momento en que éramos más felices. Cuando escribió aquel corto y apasionado poema para decirme, con cuatro rimas, cuánto me amaba, y que ha marcado nuestras vidas. Hoy cenaremos en mi apartamento. Mis dos mujeres llegarán de un momento a otro y tengo que poner un poco de orden. No me encuentro muy bien, a pesar de los calmantes que hacen estragos en mi estómago, persiste un dolor constante que consigue hacerme perder la calma y agriar mi buen carácter. Es asombroso y tristemente paradójico que durante los últimos veinte años en los que he gozado de una excelente salud no creo haber tenido ni cinco minutos de felicidad, y cuando mi salud se ha quebrantado no soy capaz de gestionar tantos momentos de felicidad, he conocido a una extraordinaria mujer y he recuperado una hija ignorada! Vivir es un juego que consiste en hacer lo contrario de lo que consideramos razonable. La primera en llegar ha sido Alicia. Ha venido con algo de antelación para que cuando llegue Noemí esté a punto la cena. Se interesa por mi salud. Me sugiere que dado el estado en que me encuentro debería tener alguien que cuidase de mí las 24 horas del día y probablemente tiene razón, pero insisto que no ha llegado todavía el momento. —¿Y cuándo llegará ese momento, cuando esté muerto? Ha sido una reacción espontánea, pero lamenta habérmelo dicho. Está profundamente arrepentida. —¡Perdóneme; yo no quería...! —No hay nada que perdonar —la interrumpo—, llevas razón y sé que tú misma lo harías con agrado, pero no puedo aceptar tu ayuda. Antes tengo que terminar de pagar mis deudas. La madre de Noemí necesita más ayuda que la que necesito yo, y ella cree que mi presencia puede hacer que recupere la memoria. Pero no sé cómo reaccionaría si recuerda nuestra relación. Alicia ha entendido lo que no me atrevo a decir. Ahora su rival es la madre de Noemí, porque si aceptase perdonarme ella sería quien cuidaría de mí hasta el día de mi muerte. —Lo comprendo, una vez más se cumple mi triste destino: nunca seré correspondida por las personas a quienes amo. De nada me ha servido todos mis esfuerzos para vivir este momento. Siempre soy la última de la fila, y cuando llego yo se ha terminado lo que estaban regalando. Alicia ha vuelto a deleitarme con sus guisos, pero Noemí no parece haber disfrutado de la cena. Ha permanecido ausente y con su pensamiento lejos de aquí. Antes de venir habló con su madre por teléfono y cree que está profundamente deprimida y desorientada. —Teme olvidarse también de mí —comenta angustiada—. Me ha enviado un verso que reflejan su confusión y lamentable estado anímico. Tenemos que tomar una decisión esta misma noche. Hoy he soñado que soñaba, que tú no eras quien eras, que el tiempo no tenía tiempo, y que la muerte había muerto. No puedo evitar comparar este verso con el de hace veinte años. A pesar de todos esos años olvidados, sigue siendo una gran poetisa. ö Le ruego a Noemí que me cuente todo lo que recuerda de su madre después de su ataque de amnesia. —Lo que sé de los primeros años, de los que apenas guardo una borrosa imagen, me lo han contado mis abuelos. Noemí no parece estar muy entusiasmada con mi sugerencia. Deben ser recuerdos tristes. Recuerdos de una niña criada por dos ancianos y una madre sin pasado, sin que pueda contar a su hija cómo se gestó, por quién y dónde. Sin que fuera capaz ni siquiera de mencionar el nombre de su posible padre. No solo no ha tenido un padre desconocido, sino olvidado. Pero le ruego que intente superar su tristeza y prosiga. Antes de que nos encontremos necesito saber cómo han transcurrido todos estos años de olvido. —No sabemos nada de cómo se produjo la separación —continuó superando la tristeza de revivir su infancia—, pero debió ser muy dolorosa porque no recordaba nada de lo sucedido y ni siquiera recordaba quiénes eran sus padres o dónde vivía. Una policía la encontró dormitando en un parque y afortunadamente pudieron identificarla gracias a una receta de un medicamento contra las náuseas del embarazo, porque no llevaba ningún documento oficial de identidad. Pero no podían dejarla sola en aquel estado, y localizaron a mis abuelos, que la acogieron. Y eso es todo lo que sabemos de los primeros días de su amnesia. Noemí ha cambiado varias miradas inquietantes conmigo. Posiblemente todavía se esté preguntando si después de todo merezco su perdón. Yo permanezco en un patético silencio, sin atreverme a decir nada en mi defensa. Yo solo conozco la historia a partir de un domingo en que habíamos acordado asistir a la proyección de una película de Oscar Wilde, pero yo nunca acudí a la cita... mientras ella esperaba inútilmente en las puertas del cine, ¡yo estaba en la cama de mi seductora agente! ¿Tendré el valor de confesarlo? ¡Si no lo confieso mi conciencia nunca estará tranquila! Esperaré a conocer toda la historia. Le ruego que me cuente qué pasó durante los años siguientes. Mi pobre hija está rememorando una parte de su vida que posiblemente desee también ella olvidar, pero se sobrepone y continua: —Mi madre se trasladó a vivir a la pequeña localidad del norte de sus padres, mis abuelos maternos, y todos los esfuerzos por que recuperase la memoria fueron inútiles. Aparentemente podía llevar una vida normal, pero tuvo que aprender a reconocer su propio nombre, el de sus padres, y todas las demás circunstancias posteriores a su amnesia. Cuando nací yo ya era plenamente consciente de todo, excepto de su estancia en esta ciudad y de sus relaciones contigo —se dirige a mí con la misma expresión de velado reproche—. Mi abuelo era un funcionario del Ayuntamiento y consiguió una pequeña pensión para mi madre, porque tenía frecuentes lapsus de memoria y no estaba capacitada para realizar ningún trabajo. Mi abuelo murió cuando yo tenía diez años, su salud empezó a deteriorarse desde el día en que se enteró de la amnesia de mi madre, y mi abuela murió unos meses antes de que me matriculase en la universidad. La pobre fue muy desdichada por todos estos sucesos, pero jamás le hizo ningún reproche a mi madre. Teníamos una criada desde hacía varios años, antes de que yo naciera, de la misma edad de mi madre, que es quien la acompaña en estos momentos. Yo no podía renunciar a la Universidad, porque conseguí una beca de estudios, con la que sobrevivo en estos momentos. Ella no dejó de escribir poemas, debe de tener escritos los suficientes para llenar una docena de volúmenes, pero se ha negado a publicarlos. Siempre sospeché que te los dedicaba a ti, pero solo debía ser una débil intuición, que no accedía a su consciencia. Tal vez por eso vivía atormentada por la incapacidad de concebir la imagen de quien tenía solo una intuición. Eso es todo lo que puedo contar sobre mi madre. Alicia nos ha preparado café, que nos sirve mientras guardamos un pensativo silencio. Yo trato de imaginarme a su madre veinte años después, la mujer con la que tendré que reencontrarme muy pronto y rendir cuentas de mi imperdonable comportamiento. Tengo la impresión de que me horrorizará, porque creo ver en su envejecido rostro la indeleble marca del sufrimiento, del que yo soy culpable. Alicia rompe este tenso silencio: —Tal vez si recibe un fuerte estímulo para recordar a la persona a quién según parece que sigue amando, recobre la memoria. Alicia ha puesto el dedo en la llaga. No es suficiente con que se reencuentre conmigo, sino con su amante, como si nunca hubiera sucedido mi traición. Alicia parece profundamente afectada, creo que se arrepiente de su sugerencia. Pero mi redención requiere algún sacrificio, y Alicia lo comprenderá y terminará por aceptarlo. Veinte años después tengo que intentar volver a seducir a la misma mujer que traicioné. El destino quiere ponerme a prueba y no puedo defraudarle. 12. ¿Es posible sanar un corazón herido? ¿Puede borrar el tiempo las heridas olvidadas? ¿Puede amar un viejo con un corazón agotado? ¿Puede un enfermo sanar a otro enfermo? Me hago estas angustiosas preguntas para sentirme todavía un ser humano, pero sé que yo no tengo la respuesta. Noemí y Alicia se han marchado hace algo más de una hora, y han dejado un vacío inmenso. Nunca me había sentido tan esencialmente solo. Es una soledad abismal, sin fondo, sin el menor atisbo de luz. Mi alma ha quedado en la más absoluta oscuridad. El cuerpo la ha abandonado; la alegría ha emigrado a otras tierras más cálidas y acogedoras. El placer se ha transformado en intenso dolor y la felicidad, que hasta hace solo una hora rebosaba por todos sus bordes, se ha ido con ellas, yo soy incapaz de retenerla mucho tiempo junto a mí. Una interminable noche más me esfuerzo inútilmente por estar ausente de mí mismo. Busco con verdadera desesperación un estado mental cercano a la nada, sin pensamientos incontrolados, sin movimientos de ningún tipo. Intento ejercitarme para preparar mi muerte sin sobresaltos de última hora, pero es totalmente inútil. La mente no duerme, solo se desconecta provisionalmente de la conciencia. Deja de pensar en lo que ve para pensar en lo que imagina. No se cansa, no se agota, no se rinde, porque no tiene una carne que pueda enfermar, ni un esqueleto que la sustente; no tiene ojos, ni boca, ni oídos, no come, ni bebe ni ve ni oye, solo piensa sin reposo porque es eterna y ya existía antes de que fuera mi mente. Noemí cree que, a pesar de las huellas visibles de mi enfermedad, yo sigo siendo un hombre atractivo y que puedo volver a seducir a su madre. Alicia no me ha dado su opinión, que ya conozco. Es una mujer desgraciada, pero en algún momento y en algún lugar tendrá su recompensa. Pero el tiempo apremia, la enfermedad se agrava y mi ánimo decae. No estoy seguro de poder llevar este plan hasta el final. Hemos acordado que Noemí invitará a su madre a pasar unos días con ella en la ciudad. Nuestro encuentro será durante una cena de bienvenida, en el apartamento de Noemí Me acaba de llamar Noemí, su madre ha aceptado la invitación y vendrá este mismo fin de semana y el sábado será el gran día de la prueba. Tengo que retroceder veinte años y tratar de entender las razones que motivaron mi traición. No basta con culpar a la ambición, la vanidad o al egoísmo. Tiene que haber una explicación razonable para justificar ese comportamiento, porque los humanos siempre tenemos una buena razón para justificar nuestra conducta. Lo he pensado en infinidad de ocasiones que descubrir significa destruir lo que estaba oculto. El sol brilla a costa de destruir sus reservas de hidrógeno. La imaginación crea a costa de destruir lo que todavía no ha sido imaginado. Al final no quedará nada que imaginar porque habremos destruido las reservas de imágenes, la muerte. Era inevitable destruir las causas que habían provocado mi creatividad, y esa causa era la mujer que las había inspirado. Si quería seguir creando tenía que buscar nuevas fuentes para mi inspiración, para volver a destruirlas, y así hasta la muerte. No soy del todo culpable. Nunca debimos inventar la literatura porque se alimenta del alma de los humanos. Cada novela, cada relato, cada cuento o cada poesía han devorado su insaciable ración de humanidad. Yo no soy una excepción, también tengo mis víctimas, pero de otro modo no habría literatura ni arte ni ninguna otra expresión del alma humana que necesite alimentarse del alma humana. Nadie entenderá estas razones, solo nuestro creador conoce nuestras debilidades, nuestro canibalismo espiritual, nuestra venganza por ser humanos. No puedo argumentar estas razones para mi exculpación, solo las entiende quienes somos víctimas de la inspiración, por donde se contagia este mal. Las personas corrientes están inmunizadas contra esta enfermedad del espíritu. Ahora ya no me cabe la menor duda de que ha sido esta la causa de mi enfermedad corporal. Mi espíritu dañino se ha introducido en mi cuerpo y no cejará hasta provocar su muerte. No hay cielos reservados para los escritores, pero tampoco hay infiernos, solo hay purgatorios: cerca del cielo, cerca del infierno. Si me quedasen fuerzas y el tiempo de vida necesario, escribiría una novela con este título, que sería la gran novela de mi vida, pero puede que la escriba después de muerto, y sea la gran novela de mi muerte. Pero ¿por qué escribir; por qué remover las tranquilas aguas de la inconsciencia; por qué sacar a relucir los defectos y las virtudes, las pasiones y los desencantos o las lealtades o traiciones de los seres humanos? ¿Por qué contar tantas mentiras; tantas historias que nunca han sucedido ni nunca sucederán? ¿Por qué ese enfermizo afán de perpetuar nuestra memoria después de que hayamos perdido la memoria? No, aunque me quedaran cien años más de vida no volvería escribir ni una novela más. Alguien tiene que dar el primer paso para librar de esta lacra a la humanidad. Tengo la impresión de que estoy delirando y pienso cosas que carecen de sentido. No hay justificación para quién causa daño a un ser humano sin una razón también humana. Un médico puede causarte algún daño para curarte una herida, pero un escritor no puede alegar sus fuentes de inspiración para causar daño. Si pusiera en una balanza el placer que hayan podido causar mis novelas y el daño causado el escribirlas, ¿de qué lado se inclinaría la balanza? ¿Y quién puede tener la respuesta? No tengo escapatoria posible. No tengo más juez que mi propia conciencia, y no cesa de gritarme que soy culpable. Hoy ha amanecido un día desapacible que influirá en mi estado de ánimo. Hoy también es el día en que llegará a la ciudad la madre de Noemí; la persona de la que depende mi salvación. No me siento con el ánimo adecuado para las circunstancias. Debería de sobreponerme y mentalizarme de que he vuelto a mis años de la universidad; años en que la vida era una pliego en blanco, esperando a ser escrito por ambas caras; años en que lo más importante era ser joven, no solo para gozar de la vida, sino para vivir alejado de la muerte; años en los que estaba todo permitido menos la nostalgia; que el amor era una herramienta de trabajo, en los que la sabiduría de la experiencia era considerada una manía de viejos y no valía nada comparada con la vitalidad de los hechos. Esos años en que las personas que te rodeaban eran muestras para tu laboratorio o el plomo de tu redoma, de la que esperaba obtener oro, siguiendo la mágica fórmula inventada por tu excluyente imaginación. Años, en fin, que siempre he deseado olvidar y que ahora tengo que rememorar. Mi memoria tiene que borrar sin dejar el menor rastro lo que sucedió después de que ganara el inoportuno premio literario, como si no hubiera sucedido. Como si hubiéramos seguido juntos nuestro anhelado sendero de la gloria, y una vez alcanzada, puesto que parecía inevitable dada nuestra genialidad, viviríamos seis meses al año en Pigalle, en Montmartre o en Saint-German-des-Prés, donde yo escribiría mis novelas al calor de su inspiración, y ella sus apasionados versos inspirados por su amor por mí. Como si cada primavera amaneciéramos en nuestra casita de Mallorca, junto al acantilado más elevado del litoral, desde donde nuestra vista se perdiese en un horizonte tan infinito como nuestros deseos de vivir; tan hermoso como nuestras almas gemelas, tan misterioso como nuestra inspiración, o tan acogedor como nuestro lecho donde hacemos el amor. Cuando tenía veinte años no podía imaginarme con sesenta años, ahora que estoy a punto de cumplirlos no puedo imaginarme con veinte años. No obstante, tenía que suceder, porque el tiempo es la mayor estafa del entendimiento humano, ya que se trata de un instante eterno, este instante en el que vivo, o mejor diré, malvivo hoy, es el mismo en el que vivía hace veinte años, lo que ha cambiado es la perspectiva y el escenario, ¡pero el instante es el mismo! Noemí me ha llamado para decirme que ha recogido a su madre en la estación de ferrocarril, y que la ha encontrado muy desmejorada y aturdida. Ya están en su piso, y ha podido descansar y recuperarse algo. Me comenta que, si se encuentra mejor, asistirán a la Ópera, que es la pasión de su madre. Representarán «Madame Butterfly», que le parece muy oportuno para las circunstancias. Su madre no recuerda haber visto antes esta ópera, pero la había visto dos veces porque aún guardaba las entradas como recuerdo. Cree que puede ayudar a nuestro plan. Le ha comentado su deseo de que el lunes le acompañe a la Facultad, la misma a la que asistió ella, pero insiste que ella no no recuerda haber asistido nunca a una universidad en aquella ciudad. Es evidente que sigue obstinada en no permitir que las imágenes y sentimientos que guarda en su subconsciente accedan a la conciencia. 13. También me ha llamado Alicia. Está preocupada por el empeoramiento de mi salud. Quiqere saber si necesito ayuda. Se lo agradezco, pero insisto en valerme solo hasta ver como acaba la prueba. Alicia está confundida y apenada, porque no puede desear que sea un fracaso, pero tampoco que sea un éxito. Se hubiera sentido dichosa solo por tener la exclusiva de mis cuidados hasta el día de mi muerte. Pero la madre de Noemí tiene preferencia. Si tan solo fuéramos buenos amigos, ambas mujeres podría velar mi agonía, pero ha cometido la debilidad de enamorarse de mí, y el amor es egoísta y rigurosamente incompartible. Parece resignada pero no vencida. Yo soy el gran amor de su vida y no está dispuesta a retirarse y darse por vencida. Merodeará esperando una oportunidad. He creado muchos personajes femeninos, y presumía de cocerlas incluso mejor que se conocen ellas mismas, pero Alicia me ha demostrado lo irrisorio de mi petulancia: aún me quedan muchos recovecos del alma femenina por descubrir. Tal vez mi prematura muerte me ayude a descubrirlos. Lo que no he sabido comprender es cómo ve la muerte quien da la vida. Posiblemente sientan el mismo afecto por ambas. Muchas mujeres sufren más depresiones inmediatamente después de traer al mundo una nueva vida, que ante la visión de un moribundo. La vida les duele tanto como la muerte. Sigue el tiempo desapacible. Sobre el cristal de mi gran ventanal resbalan las gotas de agua de una lluvia débil pero persistente. La lluvia no me deprime, al contrario, me vivifica, el agua trae vida, pone brillo en todo lo que cubre. Las plantas se vigorizan y muestran todo su esplendor y belleza. Pero lo que agrada a la naturaleza desagrada a los humanos. Veo desde mi ventana gente contrariada. Les molesta todo lo que no pueden dominar y controlar, y la naturaleza no se somete fácilmente. Por esa razón estamos poniendo todo nuestro empeño en destruirla. Puede que logremos destruir también la lluvia. Permanezco recostado en la cama hasta casi el mediodía porque no sé qué puedo hacer que justifique el estar levantado. No tengo nada que escribir, a ningún acontecimiento que asistir ni alguna visita que recibir, nada; pero he encontrado una ocupación: releer mi primera novela, y tal vez también debería decir que es la única que he escrito, porque pienso que reúne las tres condiciones básicas para que pueda considerarse una novela: tiene una motivación: un apasionado alegato en defensa de la poesía y los poetas. Argumento también fruto de su imaginación y no de la mía. Las novelas que siguieron después carecían de motivación, solo tenían técnica y estilo, por eso no eran de este mundo mundo, sino de un mundo paralelo y deshumanizado. Noemí lleva razón. «Es media noche. Las luces de la ciudad ensucian el cielo y no puedo ver las estrellas. Tengo que imaginarlas. También tengo que imaginar la gente en esta calle desierta. Y los rosales, las orquídeas y las geranios inexistentes en los balcones de sus casas deshabitadas. Tengo que imaginar los niños que juegan en una escuela fantasma, y los gorriones que anidan en unos árboles ausentes. Esta es mi calle, donde no vivo, donde no habito, donde solo me imagino que vivo y habito.» Así debe ser. Nuestra vida debe transcurrir en una de estas calles desiertas, donde no vivimos sino que imaginamos que vivimos, porque cuando menos te lo esperas se agota tu tiempo, y te parece que en realidad no has vivido sino que te has soñado. Al releer esta primera novela siento con toda su crudeza la falsedad en la que he vivido todos estos años, y me pregunto qué clase de escritor sería hoy si hubiera seguido fiel a mí mismo. ¡No hubiera sido extraño que ganara el Premio Nobel! Ahora me tengo que conformar con el premio del mercado, y con los millares de adeptos al consumo de literatura entretenida y con fecha de caducidad. No tienen nada que trasmitir sobre nuestra forma de entender la vida y sus valores a generaciones venideras. No tengo vocación de redentor, y me agobian los elogios, pero cuando un artista se expresa en cualquiera disciplina, está enviando un mensaje en una botella que indefectiblemente caerá en manos de gentes de otras épocas, en otras latitudes del inmenso océano del tiempo; que tendrán otros valores, y que, gracias a esos mensajes, podrán asentarlos en el tronco general de la historia. Dada la brevedad de nuestra existencia, lo único sólido que tenemos los humanos para salvarnos de la riada de los inevitables cambios que todo lo arrollan, es la Historia. Hoy tengo uno de esos días en que me siento demasiado insignificante como para tener grandes ambiciones, porque esta gran humanidad que puebla nuestro planeta, de la que yo soy una ínfima parte, no es ni siquiera un grano de arena del desierto comparado con la inmensidad del universo que habitamos. Los hombres poderosos se creen grandes porque reinan sobre sus diminutos dominios, mientras que aquellos que reconocen ser infinitamente pequeños, habitan en el gran dominio de la inmensidad del universo. Los humanos tenemos un sin fin de alternativas para elegir la forma en que deseamos consumir nuestro valioso tiempo, pero solo hay una que se corresponde con nuestra personalidad. La razón de nuestra existencia no es otra que encontrarla y serle fieles hasta la muerte. Solo así cada individuo será una persona, y cada persona será un mundo, y todos los mundos juntos formarán un universo, y muchos universos reunidos en uno solo será la única idea que podemos hacernos de algo a lo que llamar «Dios», por lo que solo las personas y sus mundos están en contacto directo con Dios. Yo he vivido en permanente contacto con el infierno, porque renuncié a mi mundo personal, por lo que no tengo acceso al cielo. Puede que todavía me quede tiempo para reparar mi gran error, pero tendría que escribir una última novela: la continuación de la primera, lo que me allanaría el camino de mi salvación, pero para ello no solo necesito tiempo, sino inspiración; no solo tendría que reencontrarme con el escritor, sino también con su amante. ¿Podría suceder mañana? Debería pensar en la cena de mañana y en mi salvación, y creo que tengo una idea que serviría para ambas cosas: escribir mi última novela con la historia de nuestra relación. Revivir su memoria día a día, beso a beso, caricia a caricia, con todo detalle, matiz, sentimientos, ilusiones, esperanzas y proyectos para el futuro. Sí, ella tendría el relato que su conciencia se niega a recordar. Sería sin duda la gran novela de mi vida, la que me facilitaría una buena muerte. Pero ¿me quedará tiempo suficiente? ¿Podré afrontar el reto con la clarividencia y estado de ánimo adecuado para que esté al nivel de mi primera novela? Noemí me ha enviado un mensaje para comunicarme que su madre se ha recuperado y está muy animada. Por la tarde irán a la Ópera, como estaba previsto, y a la salida cenarán en un pequeño restaurante italiano que hay en las proximidades. Dice que me echa de menos y hubiera sido una dicha completa si pudiéramos estar los tres ya juntos y unidos como una familia. ¡Pobre Noemí! Aunque se cumplieran tus deseo tu dicha durará poco. Es mejor que te acostumbres a mi ausencia, aunque sigas echándome de menos en tus momentos felices, puede que yo te acompañe, aunque tú no puedas verme. Mañana le comentaré mi idea. 14. También ha invitado a Alicia a la cena de bienvenida de su madre, porque quiere que parezca una reunión de viejos amigos, en la que su madre no sea el foco de mayor atención. Quiere probar si me reconocerá. Todavía no le he comunicado mi nueva idea, porque no estoy seguro de que esté en las condiciones y el estado de ánimo para realizarla. Llamo a Alicia para comunicarle la invitación de Noemí. Acepta. —Si le parece bien, puedo pasarme ahora por su casa y preparar algo de comer —me sugiere—, después podemos ir juntos al apartamento de su hija. Noto por el tono de su voz que ha recibido la noticia con gran alegría. Ahora la balanza del destino se inclina a su favor y en mi contra, pero acepto su oferta. Esta mujer se está convirtiendo en una necesidad, siempre está donde yo la necesito. No es un viejo sueño del pasado sino una realidad del presente, sin historia, sin remordimientos, sin necesidad de recuperar la memoria de lo que no ha sucedido. Ella trae paz a mi espíritu y consigue hacerme olvidar mi pasado, para recuperar el presente, que tanto lo necesito en estos difíciles momentos. Alicia ya está en mi apartamento y de nuevo escucho el sonido doméstico y de gratas recuerdos del trajín en la cocina. Esta mujer va dejando por donde va el halo de lo cotidiano, lo simple, pero que es lo verdaderamente entrañable. No solo está preparando una deliciosa comida, sino el ambiente hogareño que no es solo un caluroso sentimiento, sino una necesidad de cualquier ser humano. —¿Qué hará usted si no le reconoce? Me pregunta con aire despreocupado, como si no le afectase mi respuesta, mientras me sirve lo que ha cocinado. Yo le pido una vez más que no me trate de usted, porque ya no soy el héroe de sus sueños, sino el hombre desvalido y torturado que necesita de su ayuda. Pero Alicia sabe que tutearme significa dar un paso de gigantes en nuestra breve relación, y no desea cambiar el trato hasta que no esté segura de que ha conquistado mi alma y mi voluntad. Mientras tanto, seguirá con el mismo trato distante y respetuoso. Necesito descansar y dormir un poco para estar presentable durante la cena con mi hija y Alicia me prepara la cama, tal como hizo la primera vez en su minúsculo estudio. Mientras ahueca las almohadas me dirige varias miradas que yo puedo interpretar fácilmente. Parece quererme decir que esta vez no me despertará su llanto. Me ayuda a recostarme y, al igual que la primera vez, se vuelve a la cocina, y yo vuelvo a escuchar ese sonido tan doméstico y relajante del trajín de la cocina, con el que me quedo dormido. Alicia ha velado mi sueño leyendo el manuscrito de mi primera novela, que había quedado sobre la mesita del salón. Cuando despierto me lee en voz alta uno de sus pasajes más trágicos de la novela, momentos antes del suicidio de la protagonista. «No he nacido para vivir. No vine a este mundo para gozar de los placeres de la carne. No estoy viva para celebrar las maravillas de la naturaleza. No me siento parte de la vida. No, yo he venido al mundo para cantarlo, para recitarlo, para convertirlo en un largo poema, para disolverlo entre bellas palabras. Para que se diga de mí cuando muera que fui solo poesía, sin nada que me lo impidiera, ni mi cuerpo, ni mi mente; solo poesía, nada más que poesía.» —¿Quién ha podido inspirarle estas dramáticas líneas? —me pregunta con un gesto de desolación o tal vez de horror—, ¿ella? Todavía no tengo la mente suficientemente despejada para responder y me limito a sonreír. Ella lo entiende, y sigue leyendo, pero en silencio. Veo por su expresión de asombro que le impacta lo que está leyendo, no me extraña, son los pasajes previos al suicidio de la poetisa protagonista. Cierra el libro y se recuesta sobre el sofá. No espera mi respuesta porque ya la conoce. Cambia una triste mira conmigo. Creo que quiere darme su opinión: —¿Sabe?, creo que el suicidio de su poetisa protagonista está justificado —hace una pausa y parece como si lo que dice a continuación sea para ella misma—. Todos nacemos con un estigma grabado en nuestra frente, que nos dice quiénes somos y para qué hemos venido a este mundo; y a lo que podemos aspirar y lo que tenemos rigurosamente prohibido. Su protagonista nació con el estigma de la poesía en un mundo sin poesía, no tenía otra opción que inmolarse con ella —nuevo silencio que rompe con un sentido suspiro, y prosigue—. Yo también he nacido con un estigma: el de la fealdad. Sin duda un accidente de la naturaleza, porque no se parece en nada a mi alma. Debieron que nacer cada uno por su lado, sin ponerse de acuerdo. Mi alma me colma de buenos y nobles sentimientos, mientras mi cara me impide que los aproveche y muestre a los demás. Solo cuando escribo soy libre de regalar generosamente esos sentimientos a mis personajes, porque ellos no me encuentra fea y no ven mi estigma. No me cabe duda de que sabe de qué habla. Yo mismo la rechacé en los primeros momentos por su poco agraciado rostro. Me pregunto por qué los humanos hemos creado cánones de belleza que marginan al ostracismo y la soledad a personas como Alicia, o a mujeres y hombres en lo mejor de sus vidas, solo porque sus espaldas se encorvan, sus manos se descarnan, y en sus frentes aparecen las arrugas, que son el precio pagado por su sabia madurez, serenidad, dulzura, equilibrio e inteligencia! Sin duda merecemos cada uno de los tormentos a que conduce este comportamiento. Es inútil que trate de consolarla elogiando la belleza de su alma, porque el alma no se ve, el rostro sí. Lamentablemente para las personas con estos estigmas, el rechazo termina por contagiar también su alma del mismo estigma. Alicia es una gloriosa excepción, pero sin duda que se lo debe a la literatura. Parece que ambos estamos sumidos en nuestros respectivos pensamiento, y permanecemos en un elocuente silencio. Es Alicia quien lo rompe con una pregunta que me recuerda la idea de escribir un nuevo libro: —¿Aún nos quedan tres horas para reunirnos con su hija, ¿por qué no me cuenta algo de su romance con su madre? Creo que la idea es interesante, puede servirme de ejercicio para esa última novela que me ronda por la cabeza. Accedo y Alicia prepara café. ¡Sin duda espera una larga e interesante confesión! 15. Alicia parece una niña a quien la abuela se dispone a contarle un cuento de príncipes y princesas encantadas. Se ha quitado los zapatos (desde que me conoce ha moderado su vestimenta, y sobre todo ya no lleva aquellas horribles botas de militar), se arrellana en el sillón, recogiendo las piernas también en el sillón, y espera con ansiedad infantil mi relato. No sé cómo explicarlo, pero parece totalmente transfigurada. Soy incapaz de reconocer la joven torpe y fea, como ella misma se define, y veo una joven con una expresión radiante, una mirada inteligente, a la vez que curiosa como la de un gato, y un cuerpo rebosante de vitalidad. La naturaleza se ha portado mal con su rostro, pero ha sido generosa con su cuerpo. Empiezo contándole la anécdota de la cafetería donde nos conocimos. —Después de aquel gracioso suceso cada uno nos fuimos a nuestras clases correspondientes. Estábamos en la misma universidad y cursábamos los mismos estudios, pero yo le aventajaba en un curso, por lo que nuestras clases no coincidían. No nos intercambiamos nada con que poder ponernos nuevamente en contacto. Ella parecía desconfiar de todo el mundo, aunque yo por entonces desconocía la razón. Ha sufrido varias agresiones sexuales de alguno de sus compañeros de clase. Aquel día ninguno de los dos pudimos concentrarnos en las clases, algo mágico había sucedido. Creo que me enamoré de ella cuando me ofrecí a sujetarle los libros. No me miró con desconfianza, sino que apenas me vio noté como si yo fuese un viejo amante, a quien no había visto desde hacía mucho tiempo y se alegrase de volverme a ver, pero pasado ese instante de grata sorpresa, volvió su desconfianza, y rechazó mi ayuda. De no haber sufrido aquel aparatoso accidente posiblemente todo hubiera concluido así, pero el destino lo tenía todo previsto. —Aquel fin de semana nuestra facultad había organizado un encuentro de jóvenes poetas. Yo no hubiera dudado en asistir de haber sido de narrativa, pero de poesía no me entusiasmaba la idea. Pero aquel sábado estaba profundamente aburrido. Era fin de mes y mi asignación estaba prácticamente agotada. El encuentro era gratuito, así es que parecía una buena manera de matar el tiempo. Llegué con algo de retraso, justo en el momento de la intervención de la joven que conocí en la cafetería. Nos cruzamos en el pasillo central de la sala, cuando yo entraba y ella se dirigía al escenario, y creo que tanto a ella como a mí nos dio un vuelco el corazón, y nos saludamos con una delatadora sonrisa. Cuando la vi sobre el escenario, completamente a oscuras, excepto ella, iluminada con un haz de luz, me pareció un ángel que había descendido del cielo para anunciar la buena nueva de su poesía. Este fue el verso que escribió después de nuestro primer encuentro: Apenas nos miramos y ya nos besábamos Apenas nos conocíamos y ya nos amábamos, Apenas nos hablamos y ya nos entendíamos. Apenas nos separamos y ya nos añorábamos. Alicia parece sobrecogida por la pasión que hay en estas cuatro líneas. Ella no es apasionada, es sensible, porque la pasión ciega el entendimiento y Alicia es una persona reflexiva y razonable. Permanece en silencio para no distraerme de mi confesión. —Cuando finalizó aquel acto yo me apresuré a felicitarla por la lectura de sus poemas, que fue muy aplaudida por los asistentes, en su mayoría compañeros de la facultad. Al salir de la sala la encontré rodeada de sus amigos y admiradores, que la asediaban con preguntas y felicitaciones. Apenas había intercambiado unas miradas y unas sonrisas y ya me creía con derecho de tenerla para mí en exclusiva. Estaba tan contrariado que no sentí deseos de despedirme de ella, y malhumorado salí del auditorio. De nuevo parecía que el destino fuera en contra nuestra. Pero apenas estuve fuera del auditorio comprendí que había actuado con ira y sin una justificación, y regresé precipitadamente, justo en el momento en que ella salía acompañada de una de sus amigas. Al verme pude observar de nuevo su expresión de alegría reflejada en su rostro, y esta vez no dudó en llamar mi atención. —¿Por qué te has ido sin despedirte? ¿No te han gustado mis poemas? ¡Me gustaría conocer tu opinión! La amiga comprendió la situación y se excusó dejándonos solos. —¡Me han encantado! No me atreví a confesarle que había sentido celos. Le dije que yo también escribía, pero narrativa, no había nacido con la gracia de la poesía, pero sí con la necesaria imaginación para escribir novelas. Estuvimos paseando un buen rato, hablando de nuestras obras, de la importancia de la poesía, la mediocridad de las novelas que se publicaban, la excesiva comercialización del arte. Parecíamos haber encontrado el interlocutor ideal para desahogarnos de nuestras inquietudes artísticas. Por lo general coincidíamos en todo. Quedamos en vernos al día siguiente en el parque. Yo le enseñaría mis historias y ella sus últimos poemas. Aquella noche prácticamente la pasé en vela, porque no estaba satisfecho con ninguna de las historias que había escrito y no quería defraudar a mi nueva amiga. Yo por entonces era un perfecto desconocido, mientras que ella era muy conocida entre los estudiantes de la facultad y otros círculos locales sobre poesía. Todas las críticas eran favorables y le auguraban una brillante carrera literaria. Sin duda que influyó en mi inspiración su benéfica amistad, y aquella noche escribí mi primera obra verdaderamente literaria, las anteriores no pasaban de ser simples relatos, casi todos autobiográficos, que carecían de lo principal: una motivación. Cuando la conocí tenía 18 años. Como tú, había llegado de provincias, con una idea fija, que llevaba más en corazón que en la mente: ¡Triunfar como poetisa! No necesitaba los elogios, ella se consideraba genial, y no estaba equivocada. Todos los que la conocíamos nos habíamos formado la misma opinión. Para mí su genialidad era su mejor atractivo. Me atraía más como poetisa que como mujer, porque ninguno de los dos habitábamos en este mundo, sino en esos dos mundos hermanos: ella en el de la poesía y yo en el de la novela. ¡Y esa fue la causa de nuestra separación! Vivíamos con demasiada intensidad lo irreal y nos olvidamos de lo real. Nos encontramos en el parque en un día que hubiera podido haber pintado Botticelli o Velázquez. Era a principios de la primavera, en que el tono de las hojas nuevas es verde intenso. El cielo de un azul inimitable, decorado con nubes blancas de formas caprichosas e imaginativas. Huele a la savia de los rejuvenecidos tallos y a las resinas perfumadas que desprenden los tilos. Las aves nuevas aletean en sus nidos, impacientes por volar y conocer lo que será su mundo. En este mágico ambiente y en un apartado y solitario rincón del parque, le leí mi primer cuento escrito gracias a ella y para ella. En ese mismo instante empezó a fraguarse nuestra separación. Nuestra relación se hacía más íntima cada día, pero siempre sostenida por la pasión común de la literatura. Nuestra euforia crecía al mismo ritmo e intensidad que la calidad de sus poesías o de mis cuentos y relatos, porque por entonces todavía me sentía incapaz de abordar la novela. Nunca pensamos seriamente en nuestra relación como una simple pareja de enamorados, sino enamorados de la poetisa y del escritor. En ningún momento se nos pasó por la mente vivir juntos, porque eso supondría privarnos de la soledad necesaria para crear, teníamos suficiente con nuestros encuentros diarios, durante los que nos cargábamos de frases geniales, poemas apasionados, historias fantásticas y una dosis moderada de sensualidad. No hicimos el amor hasta después de los seis meses que duró nuestra relación. ¡En esa única relación se gestó Noemí! Alicia parece meditar sobre todo lo que le contado hasta ahora, porque tiene su mirada perdida en algún punto de la calle que se ve através de mis ventanas. Ha reaccionado y me mira con un cierto aire de reproche. —Entonces, no amaba a esa mujer, solo la utilizaba. —Sí, puedes decirlo así. —Y ella, ¿crees que también le utilizaba? —No, ella no me utilizaba; ella no necesitaba estímulos, ya te he dicho que estaba plenamente segura de su talento; era yo quien los necesitaba para descubrir el mío. Un mes después de nuestro encuentro, cuando ya había escrito una docena de relatos y cuentos que a ella le parecían geniales, me sugirió que escribiera una novela. Acepté su consejo y traté de encontrar un argumento que me motivara. Todos giraban, de una manera u otra, entorno a ella y nuestras extrañas relaciones. Le expuse mis ideas, pero no las encontró suficientemente originales. Fue entonces cuando me leyó su poesía sobre el suicidio de una poetisa, y me sugirió que ese podía ser un buen argumento, en el que ella podría colaborar con sus poesías. Acepté encantado su propuesta y comencé a trabajar en el argumento. Durante el tiempo que tardé en escribirla, tan solo dos meses, nuestros encuentros se centraban en el progreso de mi novela. Ella revisaba diariamente cada capítulo, cada párrafo y cada palabra que escribía, y corregía mis muchos defectos y erratas, hasta que le parecía que la síntaxis, ortografía, ritmo y estilo eran perfectos. Parecía como si la estuviera escribiendo ella misma. Cuando mi novela estaba prácticamente concluida, me sugirió que la enviara a un popular concurso literario para nuevos autores. Yo no podía negarme, porque no era solo mi novela, sino nuestra novela. Alicia me interrumpe. —¡Ahora entiendo por qué sufrió ese terrible ataque de amnesia. Su traición fue doble, porque traicionó a la amante y a la escritora! —¡Sin duda, fue una doble traición, pero entonces yo no lo tuve en consideración! No solo colaboró en su redacción, sino que se tomó la molestia de mecanografiar el original y enviarlo ella misma al concurso. —¿Por qué razón cree usted que lo haría? ¿Estaba realmente tan enamorada de usted que se sacrificó para ayudarle en su carrera? —Aunque me apena reconocerlo, debió ser así. Los días previos al fallo del concurso fueron realmente angustiosos para mí, pero no para ella. Sabía perfectamente que habíamos presentado una de las posibles novelas ganadoras, hasta ese extremo tenía confianza en sí misma y en sus juicios sobre literatura. Pero, además, era consciente de que entre los principiantes hay escasas posibilidades de que se presenten buenas novelas. La mayoría adolecen de un exceso de pasión, estilos disparatados, defectos de estructura y sintaxis, y argumentos poco originales. En realidad la gran mayoría son simples imitaciones de sus ídolos, o de los escritores de moda. Ella sabía que ganaríamos, ¡y así fue! Ella fue también la primera en conocer la noticia del premio, porque recibió el mensaje con el resultado y la invitación para la entrega de premios para ese mismo fin de semana en un conocido hotel de la ciudad. Cuando nos vimos en la facultad, ella me recitó la famosa sentencia de Julio César: «Vini, vidi, vici», que yo comprendí su sentido inmediatamente. Confieso que instantes después de conocer la noticia, me consideraba un ser superior, había matado al indeciso y modesto escritor para sentirme un nuevo miembro de las élites culturales del país. Y esa imagen me cegó desde el primer momento. Ella no sospechó nunca mi arrogancia, y se sentía tan feliz como si ella hubiera sido la premiada. Durante la ceremonia de entrega del premio, debió sentirse como la madre que asiste a la entrega del diploma de honor a su hijo en la universidad. 16. : sin envidia o celos profesionales. Pero yo ya estaba muy distante de ella. Veía mis libros apilados en las librerías, con la mención de aquel galardón. Me veía firmando ejemplares de mis boquiabiertas admiradores, pero sobre todo, me sentía superior y dominante. Alicia ha reaccionado, se yergue y me dirige una interrogante mirada. —¡Creo que se está inventando la historia! ¡Le conozco ya lo suficiente como para no creer que usted se comportara de esa manera! —¡Conoces un demonio arrepentido veinte años después. Pero no hubiera cometido ese pecado si no hubiera conocido a la verdadera culpable. Durante el cóctel que nos ofrecieron los patrocinadores, fueron muchos las invitados que se acercaron a mí para felicitarme. Ella parecía orgullosa de mi súbita popularidad. Desde el primer día en que supo mi vocación de escritor, deseaba que adquiriesemás seguridad en mí mismo, para proseguir nuestras ambiciosas carreras al mismo nivel. Ya daba por hecho que lograríamos nuestro ambicioso proyecto de fama y gloria sin que uno le hiciera sombra al otro. Cuando, fatigados por tantas emociones y ajetreo, estábamos a punto de abandonar la reunión, se nos acercó una mujer de mediana edad y de aspecto elegante, vestida con un sobrio traje chaqueta, el cabello de media melena, rubio y ligeramente rizado, y dirigiéndose a mí, como si no se hubiera percibido la presencia de mi compañera, y sin dejar de clavar su profunda e insinuante mirada en la mía, me entregó una tarjeta de visita, que debía estar perfumada con las fragancias del infierno, porque cuando la leí el perfume me evocó un abismo en el que no tardaría en caer —Necesitará un buen agente. Llámeme mañana y hablaremos sobre su futuro. Fue todo lo que dijo, y volvió a reunirse con un grupo de invitados. Aquella mirada me perturbó de tal manera que por un momento yo también me olvidé de su presencia. ¡Ella debió presentir en aquel momento mi traición! Ruego a Alicia que me perdone, pero no deseo continuar. Lo que sigue es la parte más dolorosa para mí, y su recuerdo me ha perseguido durante todos estos años. Alicia parece despertar de un sueño, o tal vez sea una pesadilla. Se ha terminado el café. Recoge la cafetera y las tazas y las lleva a la cocina. Permanece en silencio pero su mente debe estar rememorando la historia que acabo de contarle. Regresa de la cocina, cambia una triste mirada conmigo, vuelve a sentarse y, por fin, sé en qué está pensando. —¡Pobre mujer, no me hubiera gustado estar en su lugar. Yo también hubiera perdido la memoria. ¡No, yo hubiera perdido la cabeza! Su comentario me hace sentirme más culpable. Los que no tienen remordimientos no pueden saber lo duele recordarnos nuestros pecados. —¡Perdóneme. Sé que está profundamente arrepentido, y si yo fuera esa mujer, probablemente le perdonaría, pero eso no repara el daño causado. Tal vez fuese mejor que no recobrase la memoria! Si ella no recobra la memoria y no tengo su perdón, ¡me condenaré sin remedio! 23. Han sido unos momentos de gran tensión emocional. Alicia se debate entre su elevado sentido de la justicia, su solidaridad con otras mujeres, su misericordia y su amor por mí. Finalmente han vencido la misericordia y el amor, pero eso no quiere decir que me considere redimido. Cree que de alguna manera debo recompensar a esa mujer. Pero ella no sabe cómo. Tampoco yo lo sé. —Aunque le reviva malos recuerdos, creo que se sentirá mejor si me cuenta el final de la historia. ¡Le prometo que no le haré ninguna recriminación! Tal vez Alicia tenga razón. Ocultando mi culpa solo consigo que se enquiste en mi conciencia, es más saludable airearlos. —Está bien, te contaré el resto de esta lamentable historia. Ni yo ni ella nos sentíamos como se supone que debíamos sentirnos después de la entrega de premios. Yo todavía no me había repuesto de la impresión que me causó la insinuante mirada de aquella mujer, y ella parecía quererme preguntar en qué estaba pensado, porque creo que leía mis pensamientos. Con un tono de voz casi suplicante, me rogó que no aceptara aquella mujer como mi agente, porque habría otros que estarían encantados en representarme. Supuse que sentía celos de ella, pero no tuve el valor de confesarle que, pese a sus temores, la llamaría y nos entrevistaríamos para conocer sus planes sobre mi promoción como escritor. Lo que sucedía era que aquella mujer vivía en el nuevo mundo en el que yo creía haber entrado después del premio, mientras que ella pertenecía a uno ya superado y sin alicientes para un escritor ambicioso. Yo no era ya un estudiante de letras, ¡era un escritor!, y los escritores pueden transgredir todas las normas morales porque están justificados. Aquella noche no pude conciliar el sueño hasta el amanecer, porque yo también me debatía entre lo que me dictaba mi conciencia y lo que me reclamaba mi ambición, porque no tenía sentido haber llegado hasta allí y renunciar a lo que cualquier otro autor haría en mi lugar. Después de todo, ella misma me ayudó a llegar hasta allí, ¿por qué no aceptar la ayuda de alguien que haga realidad tu sueño de escritor? Cuando aquella mañana nos encontramos en el campus, ya había tomado una decisión y ella me parecía una intromisión en mi libertad inaceptable, pero no tuve el valor de hacérselo saber, y traté de aparentar que nada había cambiado después del premio y seguiríamos nuestros planes de futuro tal como lo habíamos soñado. Ella debió sentirse aliviada por mi actitud, pero era evidente que mi entusiasmo y jovialidad había cambiado. Ya no ponía atención a sus lecturas ni estaba motivado para escribir nuevas historias. Ella lo interpretó como mi cansancio por los esfuerzos realizados para escribir mi primera novela, y no me lo reprochó. Esa misma tarde acudí al despacho de la agente, con la que ya había concertado una entrevista esa misma mañana. Su despacho estaba situado en su propio domicilio. Un amplio apartamento en un edificio noble, situado en una de las avenidas más caras de la ciudad. Ella misma me recibió a la salida del ascensor. Apenas si pude reconocerla. Ahora vestía unos tejanos ceñidos, que resaltaba las formas suaves de sus caderas, y una holgada blusa, con lo que parecía el logotipo de su agencia. Su recibimiento fue extremadamente cordial. Era evidente que tenía un gran interés por mí, no solo como escritor, sino como persona. —¡Mi más calurosa felicitación por el premio, pero ahora tienes que evitar que se olviden de tí en un par de meses.., yo puedo ayudarte —me dijo apenas salí del ascensor. Me introdujo en su despacho, una amplia y luminosa habitación sobriamente amueblada con dos confortables sillones de cuero negro, una gran mesa de trabajo y un amplio sofá del mismo material que los sillones. El único detalle que indicaba que estábamos en un despacho de trabajo eran las decenas de fotografías de sus autores representados que pendían de las paredes. Algunos de sus escritores encabezaban frecuentemente los primeros puestos de las más prestigiosas secciones de libros de periódicos y de revistas de literatura. Pronto estaría la mía también allí. Todo ello me demostraba que había elegido un buen agente. Nos acomodamos en los dos sillones. Me ofreció un dulce de una pequeña cesta que había sobre una mesita de cristal, y sin perder tiempo en presentaciones, me preguntó: —¿Quieres convertirte en el autor de moda? ¿Cuál podía ser mi respuesta: «No»? No había más que una posible respuesta: —¡Sí! —Bien, entonces a partir de hoy tenemos que trabajar en un programa que puede resultar duro y requerir toda tu dedicación. ¿Estás decidido? Me limité a asentir con un firme gesto de cabeza. —Mi comisión es del cinco por ciento; el contrato es por dos años, y tengo tu representación en exclusiva para todos los medios donde sea publicada, incluidos cine, televisión, radio y en la red. ¿Estás conforme? Volví a dar mi conformidad con un enérgico gesto afirmativo de cabeza. —Bien, entonces vuelve mañana a esta misma hora y firmaremos el contrato. ¡Antes de dos años serás uno de los escritores más leídos y cotizados del país! ¡Y así fue como firmé el contrato que arruinaría mi vida personal y de donde nacería el escritor profesional! Al día siguiente, y como estaba previsto, firmé mi condenación. Mi nueva agente fue más explícita y me argumentó las razones por las que estaba segura de mi éxito. —Tú representas el ideal de joven con talento, triunfador desde su primera obra, que no recurre a la pornografía, ni a la violencia, ni a tramas esotéricas, ni a romanticismos empalagoso, ni a detectives filósofos. Que escribes novelas sencillas, pero reales y ejemplares, que gustan a todos. Que además, tienes suficientes atractivos físicos como para atraer a las jóvenes lectoras. Tú escribes novelas que pueden leer toda la familia, en todas las edades, y en todas las épocas... —¡Pero yo solo he escrito una novela! La respuesta debí de haberla imaginado. Prácticamente estaban en las cláusulas del contrato que no me molesté en leer: —¡Pero las escribirás, yo te diré cómo! 24. Cuando salí del despacho de mi nueva agente comprendí el grave error que había cometido por mi precipitación y ceguera. Lo culpé a mi falta de experiencia, pero me consoló el que afortunadamente eran solo dos años, que pasaron vertiginosamente. Ahora me sentía avergonzado porque había echado tierra sobre nuestras nobles inquietudes, nuestra ilusión de mantenernos puros, desinteresados, alejados de los mercaderes de sueños, que nos atraen con cantos de sirena, y acaban por arrastrarnos a su sucio mundo de transacciones económicas, balances, accionistas, inversores, directores ejecutivos, banqueros, comerciantes sin principios ni escrúpulos y toda una marabunta de individuos incapaces de valorar lo que no tiene un precio y puede venderse en el mercado, como la honestidad, la generosidad o la ilusión... No tienen escrúpulos en vender y comprar almas, y subastarlas en sus corrompidos mercados financieros. Yo seré una de ellas. Pero, a decir verdad, antes de entrar en este despacho ya estaba corrompida. Aquella tarde habíamos quedado para asistir al estreno de una película sobre la vida de Oscar Wilde. Yo no estaba con el humor para asistir a la representación de otra crucifixión de un autor, pero debía mantener en secreto mi relación con mi nuevo agente. Acudí a la cita, aunque con cierto retraso, cuando la película ya había comenzado. Ella esperaba pacientemente en la solitaria entrada de cine. Pese a mi tardanza ella siempre justificaba mis deslealtades, porque no tenía ni una sombra de duda sobre mi fidelidad. Necesito hacer una pausa. Alicia está tan conmocionada como yo, pero ha prometido no hacerme recriminaciones y lo cumple. Yo me siento mal, porque no puedo borrar de mis recuerdos su frágil figura, iluminada por los letreros parpadeantes de la cartelera, cruzada de brazos, mirando angustiada a un lado y otro de la calle, tratando de justificar mi tardanza. Es probable que me hubiera esperado mucho tiempo más sin perder la fe en mí fidelidad. —Cuando me vio aparecer por el lado de la calle opuesto al que esperaba que llegase, tuvo un momento de duda, pero mi visión desbordaba cualquier deseo de reproche, y me recibió con una sonrisa que intentaría arrancársela a la tristeza que minutos antes la atenazaba. Creo que por primera vez sentí lástima de ella, y tal vez tuve un sincero deseo de arrepentimiento. Estuve tentado de ponerla al corriente de su situación, pero su sonrisa desbarató mi deseo. La abracé, nos besamos e improvisé una excusa. Ella me creyó porque necesitaba creerme y me urgió a que sacara cuanto las entradas que ya tendríamos tiempo después de la película para aclarar los detalles. ¡No era posible despertar a quien vive como sonámbula sin peligro de causarle algún daño irreparable! No hubo aclaración. La película nos había impactado tanto que al salir del cine durante un buen rato, paseamos por las calles ya desiertas sin decir una palabra. Ella rompió el silencio con un comentario que echó más fuego sobre mi conciencia: —¿Por qué tienen que pagar tan alto precio los genios solo por ser famosos? ¿Tendremos que pagar también nosotros tan alto precio? ¡No, claro que no; nosotros no cometeremos su error ni llevaremos dobles vidas que puedan causar escándalo! Seremos una pareja de escritores perfecta sin dar motivos para que no suceda lo que al desgraciado Oscar Wilde, ¿verdad? ¿Qué podía responder? En aquel momento no tuve el valor necesario para decirle la verdad y deshacer el engaño de una vez. Por mucho que sufriera no sería comparado a lo que tuvo que sufrir después. ¡Tanto que justificase su amnesia! Alicia me indica con gesto de su brazo que quiere decirme algo. —¿Y esa es la mujer que se sentará esta noche a su lado, en la misma mesa? Desde luego que si recobrase la memoria tendría motivos para odiarle. Pero siga, perdone mi interrupción! —Los días que siguieron a la firma del contrato fueron tan intensos que no tuve oportunidad de pensar en ella. Mi agente me invitaba a su apartamento, y, después de una ligera cena, nos sentábamos en los sillones de su despacho y discutíamos sobre el argumento de mi próxima novela. Desde luego que sería una historia de amor con final feliz. Una vez en mi apartamento yo escribía un capítulo o dos que le mostraba la noche siguiente. Ella hacía las correcciones y me sugería los cambios que creía eran necesarios. Tengo que confesar que llegamos a estar bien coordinados, porque a mí sus argumentos e ideas no me desagradaban y me resultaba fácil interpretarlas y escribirlas. Como dijo Noemí en su primer mensaje: Solo cambie de musa, y anulé cualquier noble motivación. Durante los primeros días su comportamiento fue estrictamente profesional, pero a medida que pasaban los día se fue haciendo más familiar e íntima, y se cambiaba de ropa para vestir una cómoda bata de noche, que dejaba sus atractivas piernas práticamente al descubierto. Tenía un plan para seducirme, pero no lo llevaría a cabo hasta que yo no finalizara la novela. ¡Ese sería el premio! Mis relaciones con la otra mujer que se había enredado en este drama, seguían siendo superficiales, como son las relaciones de quienes ocultan sus verdaderos sentimientos. Algunas veces se atrevía a preguntarme la causa de mi apatía, que tanto la hacía sufrir, y ella misma llegó a la conclusión de que la causa podría estar en una falta de relaciones más sensuales. Aunque no estaba en sus planes, se propuso seducirme y consentiría en que hiciéramos el amor. Nuestra relación había sido desde un principio una afinidad artística y no estábamos seguros de nuestra atracción física. En esos momentos me atraía infinitamente mas la belleza madura y la esperimentada sensualidad de mi agente que la de aquella poetisa, que no había despertado de su sueño de gloria y fantasías. Con la escusa de invitarme a cenar, preparó el ambiente necesario para mi seducción. Aquella noche gestamos a Noemí, pero ninguno de los dos quedó satisfecho de aquella relación. No; no nos habíamos unido para el amor carnal, ¡solo para el espiritual! No puedo continuar este relato, porque hoy, veinte años después, siento todavía la vergüenza de aquel precipitado placer, de aquellas relaciones frustradas que estaban más cercanas de la prostitución que del amor. —Discúlpame Alicia, pero creo que ya es hora de ir a nuestra cita con mi hija.. —¡Y con su madre! —Sí, y con su madre. Esta será la última vuelta de tuerca del destino. ¡No quiero pensar en nada más! Alicia está visiblemente abatida, lo noto en su mirada triste y ausente, tan distinta de la del principio de este relato. Se levanta apesadumbrada, como si le pesaran las piernas, y me ayuda a vestirme. Salgo de mi refugio privado como si me moviera una fuerza sobrenatural, contra la que de nada sirve mi propia voluntad. Ya es de noche, los días son cortos en octubre. Me sienta bien la brisa fresca del crepúsculo vespertino. Todavía queda una pálida franja de rojo en el horizonte. Hemos llamado un taxi que nos recogerá en la puerta, pero le pido al conductor que nos deje dos manzanas antes de la casa de mi hija. Alicia aprueba la idea. Quiero terminar mi relato ante de enfrentarme a esta difícil prueba. —Dos semanas después yo ponía punto y final a mi segunda novela, aunque tendría que reescribir varios capítulos que no eran del agrado de mi exigente agente. Pero ese era el día elegido por ella para seducirme, y preparó todo para que no tuviera escapatoria. Pero ese mismo día había quedado con la otra desgraciada mujer para volver a ver la película sobre Oscar Wilde, porque la vez anterior nos habíamos perdido buena parte del comienzo. La idea surgió de ella y no me pude negar. Pero no era solo el interés por la película por lo que deseaban verme, sino porque al parecer tenía una importante noticia que darme, pero no quiso avanzarme de qué se trataba. Deseaba que estuviera presente cuando me la diera. Supuse que debía tratarse de algo relacionado con sus poesías, tal vez había ganado un premio, o había encontrado un importante editor que se las publicase. Yo acudí a mi cita diaria con mi agente, con la intención de dejarle el manuscrito para que lo leyera y me anotara las correcciones, pero para mi sorpresa, me encontré con una mesa preparada con sumo esmero y detalles para dos personas, iluminada pálidamente por dos artísticas velas, Sobre una mesita auxiliar había una botella de champan puesta a enfriar, y en el centro de la mesa una bandeja de plata con canapés de caviar, salmón y otras delicatessen por el estilo. Pero lo que más me impresionó, y por supuesto me excitó, fue la forma que se había vestido para esa ocasión. Llevaba puesta una blusa de seda del mismo color de la piel abierta prácticamente hasta la cintura, donde se entreveían parte de sus senos, todavía firmes y una falda negra, ceñida y que le cubría por encima de sus rodillas. El conjunto era de una extrema elegancia, pero sobre todo ¡de un irresistible atractivo! No sé si conoces bien a los hombres, Alicia, pero no hay voluntad capaz de vencer una tentación como aquella. Por esta misma causa se condenó la humanidad; es el eterno pecado que ha cometido el hombre desde sus inicios: ¡la irresistible atracción de Eva y su manzana! En aquella sala se reproducía este drama bíblico: Caviar, champán y sexo. Después ya puede llevarnos la parca a sus tinieblas. Tenía que elegir entre las dos mujeres: una me ofrecía fama. La otra afecto espiritual, amistad sincera y, por supuesto, lealtad. —¿A quién hubieras elegido tú, Alicia? La pregunta la ha cogido desprevenida, pero la respuesta es fulminante: —¡A la segunda, por supuesto! —¡Yo no quería elegir; deseaba que las cosas siguieran como estaban, podía seguir teniendo ambas relaciones y no hacer daño a ninguna, pero mi agente me obligó a elegir. Finalmente quien decidió fue el champán y su irresistible atractivo sexual. Para festejar mi traición, comenzamos la velada en un cabaret donde escenificaban escenas sexuales de un indecente mal gusto, pero era parte de su plan. En la entrada del cine, iluminada solo por las luces parpadeantes de los letreros de neón, con los brazos cruzados, y sin dejar de mirar angustiada a un lado y otro de la calle, esperó inútilmente a quien ahora sé que deseaba comunicarme ¡que iba a ser padre! ¡Afortunadamente perdió la memoria! 25. Nos aproximamos a la apartamento de Noemí. Yo he concluido mi doloroso relato, y nos entregamos en silencio a nuestros propios pensamientos. Alicia debe preguntarse si no se habrá cegado por mi popularidad, porque no merezco su afecto; y yo me pregunto si podré mirar de frente a la mujer que espera la visita de un perfecto extraño. Los últimos acontecimientos sobrepasan mi capacidad de asimilación, y ahora me tengo que enfrentar a una nueva prueba descomunal. A unos pasos de distancia voy a encontrarme con la mujer a quien he robado los mejores años de su vida. Puede que me reconozca, en cuyo caso no sé cómo podré justificarme, y si no me reconoce, tampoco podré justificarme. Todos estos años solo me han servido para comprender que la ambición sin una causa noble no da frutos nobles, sino envenenados, con el veneno de tu propio espíritu igualmente envenenado. Pero hay algo que me inquieta y me asombra: ¿Realmente ha transcurrido todo ese tiempo? ¿No estamos siempre en el mismo instante? ¿Cuánto camino recorre el barquero en su barca? ¡Ninguno! Y, sin embargo, la barca sí recorre un espacio y consume un tiempo, arrastrada por la corriente. Yo también he sido arrastrado por la corriente, pero sigo en la misma barca; el mismo instante de siempre, y que probablemente sea eterno. La mujer que debe estar en el apartamento de Noemí es la misma que abandoné en la puerta de un cine de barrio, pero sigue, como yo, viviendo el mi mismo instante, ¡por nosotros no ha pasado el tiempo, nosotros hemos pasado sobre el tiempo, como el barquero sobre la corriente del río! Pero no es el cuerpo el que viaja dentro de la barca, sino el alma, a la que no afecta el tiempo. Ella tendrá la misma alma que tenía el día en que perdió la memoria, y es esa alma la que no ha envejecido y a buen seguro me reconocerá. Ahora se vuelven a encontrar y se preguntarán: ¿qué hemos hecho de nuestras vidas que tuvieran que separarse? Solo yo tengo la respuesta: No haberla escuchado ni seguido sus deseos. Estamos ante la puerta de su apartamento. Alicia me dirige una suplicante mirada. —¡Ha llegado su gran momento! Ahora tendrá la única oportunidad de salvar o condenar su alma! Llama y se escuchan unos pasos ágiles que deben ser los de mi hija Noemí. Pero no nos abre Noemí, ¡sino ella! Alicia no ha podido evitar un expresivo gesto de sorpresa y yo siento como si me precipitara por un abismo del tiempo y recorriese los veinte años pasado para caer en el mismo sitio donde me encontraba la noche de mi traición: ¡por ella no ha pasado el tiempo! ¡No hay en su rostro, todavía terso y joven, ningún rastro de sufrimiento. Su figura es la misma. Sus cabellos siguen rizados, pero algo más descoloridos, y lo que más me impresiona es su mirada serena y tierna, pero como perdida en la nada. No sé qué decir, pero estoy angustiado por su posible reacción. ¿Me habrá reconocido? Escucho unos pasos rápidos, es Noemí que viene a recibirnos. Pero se ha quedado como paralizada y contempla con ansiedad la escena. Por fin estamos su madre y yo frente a frente y ninguno de los dos es capaz de romper la tensión del momento. Noemí observa a su madre, pero no se produce ninguna reacción que pueda dale a entender que me ha reconocido. Ella permanece sujetando el pomo de la puerta, y parece relajada, está esperando que venga su hija. —¿Son tus invitados, Noemí? Noemí intenta disimular su desolación, ¡no me ha reconocido! —Si, mamá, son nuestros invitados. Cambia una desconsolada mirada conmigo. Alicia también siente la tensión del momento, y me mira interrogadora. La madre de Noemí nos ruega que entremos, nos deja libre la entrada y cierra la puerta detrás de Alicia. Nos sigue hasta un pequeño salón, donde ya está preparada una mesa para cuatro comensales. Nos quitamos los abrigos y Noemí los cuelga de un perchero. Su madre permanece callada frotándose las manos, no sabe qué hacer con ellas. Nos dirige fugaces miradas y sonríe levemente. Hay en su expresión extrañeza, es evidente que nos considera extraños, y no sabe cuál debe ser su comportamiento. Creo que está esperando a que su hija se los presente. Noemí esperaba algún gesto en la expresión de su madre que mostrase algún indicio de que me recordaba, pero es evidente que no ha sido así. Parece resignada y nos presenta a su indecisa madre. —Mamá, estos son mis amigos de los que te he hablado. Los dos son escritores, como nosotras. La madre parece acoger nuestra profesión con agrado, porque nos ha dedicado una amplia sonrisa con un gesto de admiración. Noemí intenta sin demasiadas esperanzas, provocar la memoria de su madre. —¡Él es un escritor muy famoso, seguro habrás visto su fotografía en algún periódico o en las revistas de literatura! Pero la madre lo niega rotundamente con un gesto de cabeza. Nos coge a todos de improviso una pregunta de su madre dirigida a mí: —Y qué escribe usted, ¿novelas o poesía...? Yo escribo poesías..., sí, he escrito muchas poesías... Pierde su mirada en un indeterminado punto de la habitación. Yo trato de no mostrar mi deplorable estado de ánimo y le respondo forzando una amistosa sonrisa: —Escribo Novelas, historias de gente corriente. Nada especial... pero conocí a una poetisa admirable, que por desgracia para sus muchos admiradores, ¡nunca las publicó! Ella me devuelve la sonrisa, pero no hace ningún comentario. Tengo la sensación de que algo está perturbando su mente, porque la sonrisa se ha quedado congelada en sus labios. Parece ausentarse y trasladarse algún otro lugar. Tal vez al campus de nuestra universidad. Es una mujer desvalida y vulnerable, la misma de hace veinte años, pero el tiempo y la amnesia la han tornado extremadamente sensible y emotiva. Me encantaría leer sus poesías. Me atrevo a sugerir: —¿Por qué no nos lee alguna? Ella se ha sobresaltado por mi inesperada sugerencia y parece avergonzarse. —¡Oh, no, no; las escribo para mí... Son muy personales... No les gustarían! Noemí escucha a su madre y parece desolada —Mamá, estos son mis amigos. Puedes confiar en ellos. ¡Vamos, anímate y léenos algunos de tus poemas! Todavía falta algo de tiempo para que esté la cena lista. Noemí quiere intentarlo todo. Posiblemente no habrá otra oportunidad. Su madre parece aturdida. Nos mira como si con ello quisiera comprobar nuestra disposición a escuchar sus poemas. Una vez más parece sumirse en lugares lejanos. Noemí vuelve a intentarlo y sugiere a su madre que lea los primeros que escribió, pero que ella no recuerda cuándo y dónde los escribió. No hay duda de que está padeciendo una gran presión. Siento lástima por ella, pero sobre todo me siento todavía más miserable. Esta pobre mujer asustada, que escribe poemas románticos dedicados a un amante que no consigue recordar y que lo tiene delante de ella, no merece este sufrimiento. Parece estar dudando. Todos estamos pendientes de su decisión. Ella vuelve a mirarnos como si tratara de leer nuestros pensamientos. Alicia ha estado en silencio, debe darse cuenta de que ahora tiene una verdadera rival. Tiene motivos justificados, ahora que la he vuelto a ver, retornan a mi mente con infinita nostalgia aquellos días felices, puros y generosos, y empiezo a creer que si el destino lo tiene previsto, podrían volver, aunque sea por poco tiempo. Neomí ha conseguido vencer los temores de su madre y accede a leernos algunos de sus poemas. Nos acomodamos los tres en un pequeño sofá mientras ella revuelve nerviosa varios cuadernos que guarda en una bolsa de viaje, y parece que no sabe por cuál decidirse. Por fin se decide por uno con las tapas de color rosa, donde hay una leyenda que no puedo leer. Se sienta en una de las sillas del comedor, hojea varias páginas y, por fin, parece decidirse por uno. Tiene el mismo tono de voz, la misma pausada cadencia y entonación. Era una grata experiencia escucharla recitar, ¡y veo que sigue igual! SI TU FUERAS... Si tu corazón fuera espuma, yo sería océano; Si tu alma fuera cielo, yo sería nube; Si tu mirada fuera lluvia, yo sería campo; Si tus manos fueran agua, yo sería sed. ¡Por el amor de Dios, otra vez ese verso! ¿Por qué juega el destino al gato y el ratón? ¿Por qué ha elegido precisamente este poema? Creo que ella ha notado mi turbación. Me dirige una extraña mirada que podría ser de interrogación, tal vez esté empezando a recordar! Noemí ha cambiado una mirada de asombro conmigo, parece que se está haciendo la misma pregunta. Alicia no ha reaccionado, pero sospecho lo que debe estar pensando: ¡Su estigma le persigue! La madre de Noemí ha salido de su momentáneo impase y prosigue la lectura. Cuando lo concluye tenemos la sensación de que ha hecho un gran esfuerzo. Cierra el cuaderno, lo deja sobre la mesa y se deja caer relajada sobre la silla. No quiere leer más poemas. Algo está perturbando nuevamente su mente. Ahora puedo leer la leyenda del cuaderno: «Poemas de amor y olvido. Primavera de 1997». Pero no hay ninguna indicación del lugar ni nombre de su autora. La felicito efusivamente, ella me lo agradece con una bondadosa sonrisa, pero la noto ausente, turbada. Noemí está preocupada por el abatimiento de su madre. Debe pensar que no debemos presionarla. Despertar su memoria bruscamente puede causarle un nuevo trauma. No insiste. La cena ya está lista. Alicia acompaña a Noemí a la cocina para ayudarla a servir la mesa. Ha cocinado mi hija y me ha sorprendido, no sabía que era tan buena cocinera. Su madre se ha relajado; está más tranquila y intercambiamos comentarios sobre lo húmedo que está resultando este otoño y lo que ha visto durante su estancia en la ciudad. —¿Le gustó la ópera «Madame Butterfly»? —¡Oh, sí; mucho! —¿No la encuentra un poco triste? —Sí, usted lleva razón, es un poco triste... Tengo la impresión de que está hablando conmigo, pero sus pensamientos están en otra parte. ¡Daría cualquier cosa por saber dónde! Noemí interviene en la conversación. —¡Tengo una idea —se dirige a mí—, ¿por qué no acompaña a mi madre a visitar algún museo? Yo no puedo faltar a clase, pero usted tal vez tenga tiempo. Sé que tenía deseos de ver la última exposición del Museo Nacional. Su madre intenta protestar. A mí me parece una buena idea. —¡Estaré encantado de acompañarla. Yo también tenía deseos de verla! Alicia permanece en un dramático silencio. Todo se está confabulando contra ella. Ha notado que yo empiezo estar vivamente interesado por la madre de Noemí, y hasta creo que sospecha que pueda sentir algo más que compasión. Lo cierto es que siento una gran añoranza de los tiempos en que éramos dos enamorados de la literatura, pero también dos buenos amigos, y la amistad es menos apasionada que el amor, pero más leal y generosa. Por otro lado, me gustaría pagarle con mi afecto su sufrimiento. Pero no puedo hacer nada por ella si no recobra la memoria y recuerda quien soy. Creo que Noemí es de la misma opinión. La cena ha sido deliciosa. Felicito a mi hija, que se siente muy halagada. Pero mis dolores amenazan con volver y me gustaría estar de vuelta a mi apartamento antes de que esto ocurra. Noemí nos trae los abrigos y noto en la mirada de su madre que siente nuestra marcha, creo que le he caído bien y ha superado sus recelos iniciales, posiblemente me recuerde vagamente. Quedamos en que la recogería aquí el día siguiente y pasaríamos la mañana visitando la exposición. Después iríamos a almorzar a un restaurante italiano, pues Noemi me ha puesto al día de los gustos gastronómicos de su madre, y adora la pasta italiana. ¡Sí, ya lo recuerdo! He pasado una noche con intensos dolores. Puede que todas estas emociones perjudiquen mi salud. A los dolores se ha unido la incertidumbre sobre la madre de Noemí. Es muy probable que de no haber mediado nuestro pasado me hubiese sentido atraído por ella; por su bondad y sensibilidad, tan poco frecuente en el ambiente en que he vivido estos últimos veinte años. La he encontrado todavía atractiva, pero no es una atracción exclusivamente física, tal vez no pueda explicarlo a pesar de ser escritor, pero es una atracción física que emana del espíritu; una atracción física propia de seres humanos y no de animales. Es el gozo del placer cuando está atemperado por la sensibilidad y no solo por la sexualidad. Es como si el alma te diera su bendición para gozar de los placeres de la carne sin inconsciencia y bestialidad. No es sexo, es senso, si puedo decirlo así. Tal vez por eso tuvimos aquella frustrada relación, porque ella intentó imitar un comportamiento que no estaba en su personalidad, y yo por entonces tampoco lo hubiera sabido interpretar. No me siento bien, estoy decaído y me duele todo el cuerpo, pero tengo que sobreponerme y cumplir con la promesa que hice a la madre de Noemí. ¡Una nueva ausencia sería intolerable! El tiempo nos acompaña. Ha amanecido un día soleado, casi veraniego. La ducha me ha despejado y me siento algo mejor. La perspectiva de pasar una mañana con alguien que te ha amado pero es incapaz de reconocerte me llena de incertidumbre. Puede que no esté a la altura de las circunstancias y no sepa cómo comportarme. Después de todo somos dos enfermos, y los enfermos se entienden entre sí. Un taxi me lleva a la casa de Noemí, le pido que espere, porque nos llevará al Museo Nacional. La madre de Noemí me estaba esperando vestida para salir desde hacía mucho tiempo. Cuando me abre la puerta noto entusiasmo en su expresión. La saludo con un amistoso beso en la mejilla y no puedo evitar hacer un elogio de su buen aspecto, que ella parece agradecer. Sospecho que le he caído bien y se siente segura conmigo. ¿Qué ocurriría si supiera quién soy en realidad? No lo sé, pero tarde o temprano tiene que saberlo. Me cuesta aceptar lo que está sucediendo. Paso la mañana al lado de una mujer que he añorado durante muchos años, y ahora que está junto a mí me siento incapaz de manifestarle abiertamente mi afecto, y sigo padeciendo de los mismos remordimientos que con las anteriores, pero agravado por el constante temor de que recobre la memoria y se dé cuenta que está junto al hombre que más daño le ha causado. Me gustaría que terminara esta pesadilla; que me reconociera y me condenase o perdonase. Si en muchas ocasiones me he preguntado qué hubiera sido de mí si no la hubiera abandonado, ahora no necesito imaginarlo. Visitaríamos la última exposición del Museo Nacional, pero iríamos cogidos de la mano, y hablaríamos de la marcha de las ventas de mi última novela, que a buen seguro no alcanzarías ni el décimo puesto de los más vendidos, pero a cambio contaría con un buen número de lectores cultos y fieles, con los que intercambiaría pensamientos, inquietudes, ideas y comentarios sobre mis novelas, el mensaje de los personajes, sobre literatura y arte en general. A muchos los conocería personalmente y podría considerarlos mis amigos, además de fieles lectores. Pero no me adularían, aunque sintieran admiración por mis novelas. No sería un ídolo de jovencitas cegadas por mi popularidad y el atractivo de un cuarentón con experiencia y que me consideran sexy, ya que tendría una compañera que todos conocerían y sabrían que siempre le había sido fiel, como dijo ella misma a la salida del cine de tan amargo recuerdo y que me resuenan en los oídos como si las hubiera pronunciado ayer: «Nosotros no cometeremos errores ni llevaremos dobles vidas que puedan causar escándalo! Seremos una pareja de escritores perfecta, sin dar motivos para que no suceda lo que al desgraciado Oscar Wilde, ¿verdad?». ¡Cómo desearía que hubiera sido así! Pero también hablaríamos del éxito de su último libro de poesías, porque sería mucho más popular y admirada que yo. Sus libros sí estarían en la cabeza de los más vendidos y valorados. Y no serían poemas dirigidos a un amante fantasma, sino a todo ese espectro multicolor que se puede expresar con la poesía. Este es el sueño que yo he malogrado y que ni siquiera puedo convertirlo en una novela ejemplar, escrita con el corazón y no con la cabeza, sin estudiar los gustos y tendencias del mercado, el número de lectores potenciales y las posibles regalías, ni malgastar el tiempo en eternas sesiones fotográficas para publicar la imagen más comercial, o mendigar una entrevista en el programa de mayor difusión a cambio de promocionar a un patrocinador al que no interesa lo que opinas sobre literatura, para que las futuras generaciones recibieran ese mensaje de amistad, fidelidad y generosidad de las gentes de generaciones ya desaparecidas. Esa hubiera sido posiblemente mi vida con ella. Durante el recorrido del taxi hasta el Museo, ella observa extrañada lo que ve como si nunca hubiera estado aquí. Cuando algo le llama especialmente la atención, cambia una mirada de asombro conmigo, yo le respondo con una sonrisa en señal de aprobación. En el museo ella parece entusiasmada con las pinturas que exponen. No hay duda que es una artista. Me comenta las que llaman más su atención. He adquirido para ella como recuerdo de esta visita un libro ilustrado sobre el pintor de la exposición, que me agradece con un discreto beso en la mejilla. Sin lugar a dudas es la misma encantadora mujer de hace veinte años. Sería una mañana memorable si yo no padeciera esté constante dolor. Intento que ella no note mi padecimiento, porque aunque sea breve, hoy es probablemente uno de los días más felices de los últimos años. Lo que nos hace más humanos es nuestra capacidad para conseguir el afecto y los amigos que solo nos conocen. Una amistad sin afecto es como una fotografía en blanco y negro: le falta color. La visita al Museo me está resultando agotadora, pero ella parece inmune al cansancio. Le sugiero que hagamos un descanso y tomemos algo en la cafetería del museo. Le parece buena idea. La cafetería me trae el lejano recuerdo de la de nuestra universidad. Veinte años después ella está otra vez en la fila delante de mí ¡y también lleva un libro en una mano! Por si no fuese suficiente esta coincidencia, ¡también tienen porciones de tarta de nata y fresas! Ella las ha visto y parece dudar si pone una porción en su bandeja. Hace el gesto con la intención de tomar una porción pero se retrae. Creo que la visión de esa tarta ha despertado posiblemente alguna zona de su inconsciencia. No puedo ver la expresión de su rostro, pero es incapaz de seguir adelante solo con una taza de café. Tengo la impresión de que algo vuelve a perturbar su mente. Hay varias personas detrás de nosotros que se están impacientando, porque ella se ha quedado como paralizada delante de la bandeja de las tartas. Con un extraño gesto, que me parece más impulsivo que voluntario, toma por fin una de las porciones. Estoy empezando a inquietarme, presiento que veinte años de amnesia pueden tener aquí un trágico final. Pero no me importa, y doy un paso más hacia ese abismo, ¡me ofrezco a sujetarle el libro para que pueda coger la bandeja con las dos manos! Se vuelve bruscamente hacia mí y tengo la alarmante sensación de que su mirada me resulta remotamente familiar, ¡la misma que recuerdo cuando se volvió hacia mí en la cafetería de la facultad. Puede que ella también esté empezando a recordar aquella escena porque ¡vuelve a rechazar mi ayuda! No sé si afortunadamente o desgraciadamente, pero no se ha repetido el accidentado suceso que nos unió, y conseguimos llegar a una mesa sin accidentes! Ella ha debido notar mi turbación mezclada con mis dolores, porque su mirada muestra cierta inquietud, parece como si estuviese mirando a un extraño, que no es el mismo al que diez minutos antes había besado para agradecerle el inesperado regalo. El café y su porción de tarta están sobre la mesa, y por alguna razón permanecen intactos. Es como si fueran testigos de algún importante suceso y eran necesarios presentarlos como pruebas condenatorias a un jurado imaginario pero exigente. No puedo mirarla a los ojos sin sentirme descubierto, perdido en una profunda sensación de culpa para la que no hay redención. Si pudiera leer su mente seguro que mi imagen aparece desdibujada en una densa niebla, pero se encamina con rapidez a zonas más despejadas, donde terminará por ser perfectamente visible. Yo también estoy teniendo la sensación de que esta mujer se está transfigurando, y en poco tiempo puede emerger de la bruma y podrá, ¡por fin, conocer la identidad de su traidor! En medio de este estado de angustiosa transformación, escucho el ruido familiar de tazas y platos rodar por el suelo ¡Una mujer de avanzada edad ha perdido el equilibrio, y se le ha caído la bandeja! ¡Otra vez el destino entrometiéndose en nuestras atormentadas vidas! La mujer que está sentada frente a mí tiene ahora el rostro crispado, los ojos desorbitados, la mirada acusadora fija en la mía, que me siento incapaz de sostener. Se ha levantado tan bruscamente que ha provocado la caída de nuestras tazas de café y las porciones de tarta acusadores. Casi me grita: —¡Tú; eres tú! TERCERA PARTE: EL REENCUENTRO «El que perdona el pecado, busca afecto; el que lo divulga, aleja al amigo.» (Proverbios 17:9) 27. La madre de Noemí se ha desvanecido en la cafetería. No sé hasta dónde ha recobrado la memoria, pero es evidente que me ha reconocido. Un guarda de seguridad del museo ha localizado a un médico entre los visitantes, que está intentando reanimarla. Me ha preguntado por la causa del desvanecimiento. Le he dicho que ha sufrido un shock. El médico quiere saber qué le causó el shock. Le respondo que la causa ha sido la fuerte impresión de reconocer a una persona que había olvidado durante los últimos veinte años. —Esa no es causa para un desvanecimiento. —Ella no deseaba reconocerle. Parece recuperarse. Entreabre los ojos, me contempla unos instantes y vuelve a cerrarlos. —¡Quiero volver a la casa de mi hija; llamen a mi hija y que venga a buscarme...! Le pide al médico que la atiende. —Le puede llevar el caballero que la acompaña. —¡No, no; llamen a mi hija! El médico me mira extrañado. —Es a mí a quien no quería reconocer. Es una larga historia; no sabría cómo explicársela. El guarda del museo sugiere que busquemos un taxi y que indiquemos al taxista dónde debe llevarla. Ella asiente con un débil gesto de cabeza. Alguien de los que contemplan la escena me ha reconocido, y corre la voz entre los demás que contemplan la escena. Noto en sus miradas un velado reproche. Creo que saben por lo que publican las revistas del corazón que mis relaciones con las mujeres son tortuosas, y que ella puede ser otra de mis víctimas. Nada causa más placer a los admiradores que descubrir las debilidades de sus ídolos, porque en el fondo los odian. Su admiración les esclaviza y este descubrimiento es una liberación. Pasan unos minutos angustiosos, pero por fin aparece un joven que debe ser el taxista, porque le acompaña el guarda. Le indico dónde deben llevarla. El joven taxista y el médico la acompañan, y salen de la cafetería. Yo me encuentro terriblemente solo, rodeado de gente que probablemente me odien por mi supuesta mala conducta con la víctima. Es posible que alguien haya podido tomar alguna foto con su móvil y mañana en toda la prensa amarilla y en las redes se publicará la foto, y algún periodista sin principios ni ética, aprovechará el incidente para escalar puestos recurriendo al libelo. Se inventará una historia asegurando que yo maltrato a mis compañeras, que deleitará a los lectores. Sabe perfectamente que yo no le demandaré, porque con toda seguridad será un pobre diablo al que no le llegará su mísero sueldo a fin del mes, y solo podría pagar los daños y perjuicios a costa de los contribuyentes, dándole cobijo y alimento en alguna de nuestras abarrotadas prisiones. Pero mi imagen se deteriorará, y en estos críticos momentos es lo que más deseo conservar. No doy oportunidad a los que han contemplado la escena de darles explicaciones y salgo precipitadamente del museo. Es urgente que llame a Noemí para que esté informada de la recuperación de la memoria de su madre y el dramático desenlace, que desgraciadamente ya me temía. Su móvil está desconectado, debe estar en una clase. Llamo a la secretaría de la Universidad y les ruego que le envíen mi mensaje, y que vaya a su casa urgentemente. No sé qué más puedo hacer. Después de hacer estas llamadas, me detengo a pensar sobre lo que ha sucedido. Y no necesito hacer grandes alardes de inteligencia para comprender que mi vida carece ya de sentido. Ni siquiera me sirve de agarradero de esta vida el tener una hija, porque no he sido, no soy ni podría ser, el padre que cualquier hija necesita. Conocerla ha sido un error. Hubiera sido mejor que no nos hubiéramos conocido. Cuando yo no existía, todo su afecto era para su madre y yo no tenía a nadie que juzgase mi conducta. Ahora yo me he entrometido y se siente obligada a repartirlo conmigo, y yo me siento obligado a rendir cuentas de mi conducta. Es mejor que yo me aparte cuanto antes de su camino, como si hubiera sido un espejismo, y que emplee sus nobles sentimientos en quién los merezca. Estoy paseando sin rumbo fijo por una avenida muy concurrida, pero dudo de que se percaten de mi presencia, porque ya me siento flotando en un lugar impreciso, antesala de mi viaje final, que ya no tardaré mucho en emprender. ¡Tal vez antes de lo previsto! ¡Alicia; sí, Alicia me ayudará! ¡Puedo confiar en ella; hará lo que le pida! Desconozco el sentimiento del amor y hasta donde podemos sacrificarnos por el ser amado, pero ella debe saberlo porque no hay sacrificio más sublime que amar sin ser correspondido. Y ella lo ha soportado con infinita generosidad. Alguien tiene que darme el empujón para que me encamine a un lugar donde pueda encontrar la paz. Me sobresalta la alarma de mi móvil. ¡Es Alicia! ¡Es como si mis anteriores pensamientos hubieran sido un conjuro para invocarla y hubiera escuchado mis deseos de morir antes de lo previsto. Ha sabido por Noemí que su madre ha recuperado la memoria y quiere saber cómo ha reaccionado al recordarme. Hace solo un minuto Alicia era poco menos que mi ángel exterminador, y ahora que la escucho la vida me vuelve a reclamar su atención, y consigue alejar de mi mente estos lúgubres pensamientos. Ella es una mujer y sabe cómo piensan y sienten las mujeres, por eso sabía que me rechazaría. Me pregunta cómo me encuentro de ánimo y le respondo que como un niño perdido en unos grandes almacenes a quienes los adultos les piden que no llore porque pronto encontrarán a sus padres. Yo también lloraba antes de su llamada porque me sentía perdido y asustado. Me pregunta si quiere que venga a mi apartamento para que le cuente que ha sucedido para que la madre de Noemí recuperase la memoria. —¡Gracias a una porción de tarta de nata con fresas! —le contesto. Alicia tiene libre el camino, pero sabe que yo seguiré siendo inaccesible en tanto no tenga el perdón de la mujer que ahora ya sabe quién soy y dónde vive su enemigo. Por supuesto, le ruego que venga. 3 28. A pesar de la inestimable ayuda moral y espiritual de Alicia, estoy profundamente deprimido. Debe ser una de esas depresiones que conducen inevitablemente al suicidio. Si no lo he cometido todavía es por cobardía y horror al dolor físico, pero hay muchas maneras de acabar con este sufrimiento. Si la vida no se apoya en el algún aliciente, no es posible vivirla. En los seres humanos la defensa de la vida no es instintiva, sino mental; es una decisión razonada y justificada, pero presionada por la falta irreversible de alicientes. Ningún animal se suicida. Yo he consumido y malgastado todos mis alicientes, sin que el resultado haya sido el que yo hubiera deseado. Pero también debo admitir que nunca he sabido qué es lo que realmente deseaba. Noemí me ha llamado. Ya está en su apartamento. Su madre está muy afectada y quiere marcharse mañana mismo a su localidad. Ha recuperado totalmente la memoria y recuerda como si hubiera pasado ayer las causas de su amnesia con todo detalle. Noemí ha intentado hacerla ver que estoy profundamente arrepentido, pero no quiere que hablen de mí. Cree que necesitará algún tiempo para superar sus resentimiento, pero lo único que yo no tengo es tiempo. No le ha hablado de mi enfermedad para que no piense que la quiere hacer chantaje. Ella siente profundamente esta situación, por tener que dividir sus afectos entre dos padres enfrentados. Su madre no comprende por qué ella me ha perdonado, cuando yo soy la principal víctima de este drama. Noemí teme que su madre se distancie de ella porque cree que no se ha comportado como ella esperaba. Piensa que debía haber sido más consecuente y no haberme perdonado, y pienso que tal vez su madre lleve razón. Alicia acaba de llegar. Desde el día que nos conocimos no ha pasado un solo día en que no se haya preocupado por mí y yo sigo obstinado en ignorarla. ¿Por qué insiste en mantener su lealtad a un hombre condenado y desahuciado que solo puede inspirar compasión y lástima? La respuesta debe estar en esos recovecos del alma de las mujeres que no he conseguido entender. 29. (Narradora: Alicia) Hoy lo he encontrado en un estado deplorable. Sé que esperaba que la madre de Noemí le hubiera dado la oportunidad de expresarle su arrepentimiento y sus propios sufrimientos y remordimientos en veinte años de soledad. Si ella ha vivido esos veinte años en la oscuridad, él hubiera preferido haber perdido también la memoria. Las mujeres estamos condenadas a perdonar las infidelidades de los hombres, porque han creado un mundo donde no es posible evitar este pecado. Si fuera el mundo de las mujeres, no sería posible la infidelidad porque tampoco existiría la propiedad. Los hombres serían tan compartidos como los alimentos o el trabajo. Nadie sería propiedad de nadie. Este hombre es una víctima de ese mundo, donde no hay otro aliciente que la competencia y el irrisorio placer de los vencedores. Él es también un vencedor desgraciado en un mundo hecho a su imagen y semejanza. Nosotras no podemos cambiar un mundo que tiene un Dios masculino. Pero las mujeres tampoco tendríamos dioses, solo energías, positivas o negativas. La energía ha creado el mundo, todos somos energías. Sé que en su desesperación estará pensando en el suicidio, pero es un hombre débil, y para suicidarse es necesario tener coraje. Los hombres se sienten fuertes si disponen de armas terribles, nosotras no necesitamos esas diabólicas armas ¡pero si nos lo propusiéramos, podríamos provocar la destrucción del mundo en el mismo tiempo que tardó Dios en crearlo! El mismo Dios tuvo que ser engendrado por una mujer. Me gustaría hacerle entender que él no es culpable y que sus remordimientos no tienen fundamento. Si hay que buscar una culpable es la madre de Noemí, porque su fantasía y su ignorancia de la naturaleza humana y de la realidad en la que vive provocaron la infidelidad de este hombre. Los pecados más graves no los cometen los inteligentes, sino los ignorantes, pero no se sienten culpables porque su ignorancia les sirve de atenuante. Su agente literario vivía en el mundo real, era una cuestión de competencia y ella tenía la mejor oferta, por eso fue la ganadora y consiguió el producto. Sería necesario revisar completamente nuestra moralidad y adaptarla también a las leyes de la oferta y la demanda. Si amo a este hombre es porque, además de la atracción física, durante veinte años ha sido consecuente y ha escrito lo que el mercado requería, pero su soledad justifica su rechazo. Solo cuando le amenazó la muerte decidió poner fin a esta inmoralidad, y decir en público lo que realmente sentía y pensaba. ¡Para mí es un héroe! Se pregunta por qué la madre de Noemí no quiere escucharle y le sugiero una idea que podría ayudarle: —¿Por qué no escribes una nueva novela con la historia de tus relaciones con ella y cómo has vivido en estos últimos veinte años. Ella no deseará verte, pero puede que leyese la novela. Creo que esta idea ya le rondaba por la cabeza desde hace algún tiempo, pero no se siente con suficientes fuerzas como para hacer algo así —¡Ya es demasiado tarde, Alicia, temo que mi enfermedad se agrava y ni siquiera podré contar con esos seis meses de tregua. Presiento que yo no viviré para ver florecer la próxima primavera y que no me libraré ya del frío invierno de la muerte! Es inútil que le dé ánimos, el sabe mejor que nadie cuándo le sobrevendrá la muerte, porque debe ser el acontecimiento más presentido. Sí, es posible que no vea florecer la próxima primavera y que para él sea demasiado tarde, pero no para mí: ¡Yo escribiré en su nombre esa novela! 30. He tenido que ayudarle para que se cambie de ropa y se ponga cómodo. Tal vez haya llegado el momento de tutearle. Creo que ya solo me tiene a mí. Su hija Noemí solo sentirá piedad y compasión por él, pero permanecerá unida a su madre. Ahora es joven e idealista, y cree amar a todo el mundo, pero pronto será más selectiva, y será más exigente al prodigar sus afectos. Este ya es un padre muerto, del que solo quedará el recuerdo, pero la madre seguirá viva y reclamará exigente su afecto maternal, más como una obligación familiar que como un sincero sentimiento moral. Ahora mi pobre amigo es un perdedor, ya que con la muerte lo pierde todo. Necesito que me cuente lo que ha sido su vida en estos veinte años de remordimientos infundados. —Te prepararé algo de comer y después puedes descansar. Mientras duermes yo terminaré de leer tu primera novela. Pero cuando te despiertes, si te encuentras bien, quiero que me cuentes lo que ha sido tu vida durante estos veinte años. —¡Alicia, me has tuteado! Esperaba esta observación —Sí, te he tuteado; ya no hay razón para seguir guardando las distancias. Ahora estamos más cerca el uno del otro y compartimos la misma soledad. Puede que no me ames, pero me necesitas tú a mí como yo te necesito a ti. Ahora somos compañeros de viaje. Tú te apearás antes que yo, pero mi viaje tampoco será muy largo. Yo solo puedo confiar en ti y tú solo puedes confiar en mí. Posiblemente yo sea la única que llore tu muerte. Ahora descansa y yo vuelvo a la lectura de su primer libro, que ahora leo con suma atención. El que yo escriba debe tener su mismo estilo, porque debe ser su libro. No sé si debo informarle de mi idea, es posible que se sintiera frustrado al no poder escribirlo él mismo. He leído un párrafo que me impacta: «El día es oscuro para los poetas malditos, y la noche es clara y acogedora para nosotros; la luz daña nuestros ojos acostumbrados a las tinieblas. En las tinieblas no hay caminos visibles, es necesario recorrerlos con la imaginación. Durante el día son visibles todos los senderos donde te obligan a transitar. Por eso solo en las tinieblas somos libres, mientras que en la claridad del día somos esclavos. Yo he elegido la oscuridad de la muerte, porque al otro lado de la oscuridad siempre hay claridad. Renaceré en nuevo mundo saturado de luz, donde viviré eternamente.» ¿Será verdaderamente así? ¿Cómo saberlo en vida? Mi buen amigo lo comprobará muy pronto, y yo debería acordar con el un conjuro para que traspasara nuestra dimensión y me informase. ¿Sería posible? El breve descanso le ha sentado bien. Se ha levantado con buen estado de ánimo y accede a contarme su historia. Preparo café para los dos; me siento cómodamente en el sillón y le escucho con enorme atención. —Mi agente sabía que yo había traicionado a la otra mujer, pero no se sentía culpable. Creía que ella era infinitamente más beneficiosa para mi carrera que mi compañera. Como agente daba prioridad al triunfo de sus representados por encima de sus sentimientos. En solo tres meses conseguimos situar mi novela entre las 10 más vendidos, y dos meses más tarde, alcanzamos el primer puesto. ¡Ella había cumplido su promesa! Conocía todos los resortes para promocionar la novela de un perfecto desconocido. Y en ocasiones esos resortes no se movían con mucha ética o moralidad. Nuestra relación extraprofesional no era muy satisfactoria para ambos. Yo no era un amante a la altura de sus exigencias. La verdad es que por unas razones o por otras nunca he sido un gran amante. Cuando consiguió situarme en la cúspide de la popularidad dejó de interesarse por mí. Su pasión era sacar del anonimato a jóvenes escritores y compartir sus triunfos de una forma muy personal y física. Durante los primeros seis meses no tuve el valor necesario para interesarme por la suerte que había podido correr la víctima de mi ambición, pero no pasaba un solo día sin que su recuerdo y mi traición no pesase en mi conciencia. Me había prometido a mí mismo que tan pronto como mi carrera estuviera consolidada y libre de las ataduras de mi contrato con mi agente, la buscaría y le propondría retomar nuestros viejos sueños de gloria, y volveríamos a ser la pareja de escritores que ella había imaginado. Yo tenía ya los medios para hacerlo realidad. Pero todavía me quedaba un año de compromiso con mi agente. No, esa mujer no merece el afecto de este hombre; y por supuesto que él no es culpable. Si él es culpable ¡vivir es pecado! Nada de lo fundamental que hacemos los seres humanos es justo, porque nos mueve la necesidad y no la voluntad, pero en esto consiste el vivir. Todos hemos heredado el «pecado original.» —Mi agente no esperó a que terminara nuestro contrato para buscarse un nuevo amante. Otro joven escritor, tan ignorante e inexperto como era yo. Seguramente que le propondría la misma fama y éxito que a mí, pero él no había ganado ningún concurso. Es posible que no fuera mejor escritor que yo, pero probablemente era mejor amante. Por entonces no solo había ascendido a los primeros puestos de popularidad, sino que había creado una saga que prácticamente aseguraba el éxito de mis futuras novelas. Por eso decidí que había llegado el momento de reparar el daño causado, reencontrarme con ella, tratar de que me perdonara, y recuperar el tiempo perdido, que no obstante para mí había sido muy provechoso. ¡Pero no había ni rastro de ella —permanece unos instantes en silencio, creo que se da cuenta de la desolación que le esperaba si no lograba dar con el paradero de aquella mujer—. Ella estaba escondida en una remota localidad que apenas tenía contacto con el resto del país, y nadie sabía con quién se relacionaba durante su estancia en la universidad. Ella nunca reveló el nombre de aquella localidad, que tampoco coincidía con su lugar de nacimiento. Su padre era el secretario del Ayuntamiento y había hecho ya varios traslados, hasta ocupar ese cargo en aquella pequeña localidad. Fueron inútiles todas mis pesquisas. Para colmo ella había adoptado un nombre artístico para firmar sus poesías por el que era conocida, y no por su verdadero nombre, ¡que ni yo mismo sé! —¿Entonces, es cierto que agotaste todos los intentos para dar con ella? —le pregunto, aunque ya me ha dado la respuesta. —Todos los que estaban en mis manos. Supuse que había eliminado todo rastro del lugar en que se encontraba para que no pudiera localizarla. Yo no sabía que había perdido la memoria. Todavía dejé pasar el año que quedaba en nuestro contrato, sin dejar ni un solo día de intentar algún otro medio de dar con ella, pero todos mis esfuerzos resultaron inútiles. Finalmente llegué a la conclusión de que ella no quería ser localizada, porque de lo contrario después de dos años no había ninguna razón para que no fuese ella la que intentara ponerse en contacto conmigo. Sobre todo para que conociera a Noemí ¡No la creía tan rencorosa!, y desistí de seguir buscándola. Dos años de duro trabajo, de haber alcanzado la cúspide de popularidad y contar con los medios necesarios para realizar nuestro sueño, carecían de sentido y utilidad; en otras palabras: ¡se habían malogrado! —Pero ella dice todo lo contrario: que tú no tenías intención de dar con su paradero. —¡Para ella yo debía de estar ya muerto; no era necesario esperar a que padeciera esta enfermedad! —¿Y cómo viviste los años siguientes? —Los años siguientes no viví; sobreviví! No tenía otro aliciente que esas novelas de encargo, una cada año, ¡veinte espinas clavadas en mi mente! Contaba con miles de admiradoras, pero ni una sola a quién poder confiarme. Cuando escribes novelas para gente corriente, no esperes encontrar ni una sola fuera de lo corriente. Han sido unos años tan perdidos como para ella, a pesar de tener una excelente memoria. 31. Confidencias de una madre (Narradora Noemí) Mi padre no me ha contado toda la historia de su relación con mi madre. Ahora que ha recuperado la memoria y conozco la verdadera historia por mi madre, creo que tal vez ella lleva razón y no merece mi perdón. Mi madre pudo haber evitado mi nacimiento haciéndome abortar, que posiblemente lo habría hecho si mi padre hubiera conocido mi gestación. Si me gestaron es porque ella creía amarle y no quería perderlo, pero él no supo valorar su sacrificio y la abandonó. Ella sabía que había aceptado la representación de aquella mujer viciosa y desalmada, y fue tan ingenua que creyó que podría competir con ella. ¿Qué otra cosa podía hacer para retenerlo a su lado? De nada servía que escribiera los mejores poemas y se los dedicara, porque él había dejado de interesarse por la poetisa, y por supuesto por la mujer, pero no tuvo el valor de sincerarse con ella. Mi pobre madre ha estado llorando prácticamente desde que ha llegado a mi casa. Ha sido muy doloroso encontrarse cara a cara con un hombre que había mostrado tan poco coraje al ocultarle su infidelidad. —Es fácil arrepentirse cuando se presiente la muerte... —me comenta entre sollozos—. Has tenido que ser tú quien le encontraras... Si hubiera puesto más empeño hace años que hubiera dado conmigo, pero el éxito, y seguramente que sus muchas admiradoras, le tenían muy ocupado. No puedo reprocharle su rencor, no se olvidan veinte años perdidos en unas horas solo porque padezca una enfermedad incurable. Él es la causa de que mi madre padezca también un enfermedad incurable, pero del alma. Pero me entristece profundamente esta situación. Me hubiera gustado poder encontrar una justificación para los dos, porque en el fondo creo que son dos buenas personas. Los dos tienen un alma noble, y, si se han hecho daño debe de haber una poderosa razón. Mi padre culpa a su pasión por la literatura y tal vez tenga razón. Para crear es necesario salir de este mundo y contemplarlo sin que exista una relación afectiva, de otro modo no es posible entenderlo. Supongo que para crear personajes con distintas personalidades, el autor no tiene que estar vinculado emocionalmente a ninguna de ellas. Cuando mi padre se vio inmerso en la creación de sus novelas, su relación con el mundo que le rodeaba, incluida mi madre, debió cambiar y ya no eran personas sino personajes. Su vida era una ficción y su relación con mi madre, el argumento de alguna de sus futuras novelas. Como así fue. Si pretendo seguir sus pasos y ser tan buena escritora como es él, debo evitar crearme lazos afectivos con nadie de este mundo, porque, como él mismo me dijo, y que no he podido olvidar: «Si sueñas con ser una escritora fuera de lo común, tu vida transcurrirá dentro de ese mismo sueño fuera de lo común, y nunca podrás vivir en la realidad.» Mi madre también vivía su sueño fuera de lo común, pero cometió la torpeza de enamorarse de uno de sus personajes. No puedo exponer esta reflexión a mi madre porque tal vez no podría entenderla. A pesar de haber recobrado la memoria, sigue viviendo en su mundo de ficción, y mi padre es un personaje de su imaginación que accidentalmente se ha encarnado en el cuerpo de un amante. Deberían despertar de sus respectivos sueños y contemplarse el uno al otro tal y como son. Solo así podrían saber qué sienten realmente el uno por el otro. ¿Pero cómo despertar de un sueño a quién no sabe que está soñando? Sé que es inútil, pero intento hacer ver a mi madre este otro punto de vista: —Comprendo que estés dolida, pero tal vez vuestra pasión por la literatura os jugase una mala pasada, ninguno de los dos sabíais cómo era el otro verdaderamente. El amor es ciego, y solo ve lo que imagina que ve. Puede que tú estuvieras enamorado de alguien que existía solo en tu imaginación. Mi madre ha reaccionado, y me mira confusa y con cierto recelo. Parece que no ha entendido lo que he querido decir. Intento ser más explícita: —Lo que quiero decir es que tanto tú como él os necesitabais como admiradores de vuestras respectivas obras, que era lo que realmente amábais. Cuando mi padre encontró otra admiradora, ya no te necesitaba, pero tú seguías necesitándolo. Creo que sigue sin entender mis pensamientos sobre sus relaciones. Temo que crea que lo estoy tratando de justificar. —¡Noemí, hija, no sé qué intentas decirme! Su culpa es evidente, se aprovechó de mi inocencia. Yo siempre trataba de justificar su falta de interés porque creía ciegamente en que, a pesar de todo, me seguía siendo fiel. No era la primera vez que esa mujer le hacía llegar con retraso a nuestras citas, pero aquella noche necesitaba verle y comunicarle que estaba embarazada de ti, y no sabía cómo podría reaccionar. No era probable que deseara ser padre en aquellos delicados momentos de su carrera. Era necesario que lo supiera cuanto antes, pero no creía adecuado comunicárselo por escrito o por teléfono. Deseaba ver su primera reacción para saber si te aceptaba o te rechazaba. Por eso, ya puedes imaginar mi enorme frustración y angustia, por su ausencia. A pesar de dolor, intenté creer que tendría alguna poderosa razón para no acudir a la cita, ¡seguía confiando ciegamente en su fidelidad! Su expresión ha cambiado. Parece estar sintiendo la desolación y el dolor de aquella noche. Lo noto en las arrugas de su frente y en la humedad de sus párpados, está a punto de volver a llorar. —Me sentía tan angustiada e impotente que después de esperarle inútilmente más de una hora, no regresé directamente a mi apartamento. La noche era cálida y clara por lo que apetecía pasear. Pensé que un largo y relajante paseo calmaría mi angustia y estuve vagando por las calles más concurridas, para mezclarme con la gente y distraerme de mis pensamientos. Confiaba en que al día siguiente tendríamos oportunidad de encontrarnos. Y es entonces cuando tuve la terrible impresión que causó mi amnesia. En una de estas calles, había un club nocturno de mala fama, y me entretuve en contemplar las obscenas fotografías del reclamo, cuando de un taxi descendió él, acompañado de aquella mujer, que le tomó por el brazo y entraron en el club. Los dos parecían embriagados. Aquella imagen me produjo un fuerte impacto y sentí como si mi cabeza fuera a estallar. Cuando me recuperé de aquella terrible impresión no sabía dónde me encontraba ni tenía la menor idea de cómo había llegado hasta allí... —solloza en silencio; ahora la comprendo mejor—. Tampoco sabía dónde vivía, !ni siquiera recordaba mi nombre! Cerca de aquel lugar había un pequeño parque, perteneciente a una parroquia del barrio. En la mayoría de los bancos dormitaban indigentes. Estaba aterrorizada, pero necesitaba descansar, y me dejé caer exhausta sobre el único que estaba libre. Momentos después una mujer de la policía urbana que patrullaba el barrio se extrañó de mi aspecto, que no era de un mendigo y quiso que me identificara, pero yo no pude responder a ninguna de sus preguntas, por lo que comprendieron que me encontraba en estado de shock, y me trasladaron a la comisaría del barrio... El resto ya lo conoces... ¡Por el amor de Dios! ¿Por qué tengo que encontrarme ante este horrible dilema? ¡Si salvo a uno condeno al otro! ¿Dónde está la justicia? ¿Quién de los dos es verdaderamente inocente y quién es verdaderamente culpable? ¿Y por qué tiene que ser uno de ellos culpable? ¿Por qué no pueden ser los dos inocentes? Cada uno tiene sus razones para hacer lo que han hecho y yo soy incapaz de juzgarlos. ¡Supongo que solo Dios puede juzgarlos! Mi madre está haciendo su pequeña maleta de viaje, porque se dispone a tomar el primer tren de la mañana. No habrá oportunidad para la reconciliación. Es probable que no esté en la cabecera de su lecho cuando él fallezca. No quiere volver esta ciudad que tan malos recuerdos le trae. Está decidida a olvidarse de él, pero ahora voluntariamente. Quién sabe, ahora que ha recobrado la memoria y puede hacer una vida normal, tal vez conozca a otro hombre con quien rehacer su traumática vida. Y yo, ¿qué debo hacer yo? Quiero que ella misma me dé la respuesta: —Mama, comprendo que tú estés resentida y quieras olvidarte de él, pero yo, ¿qué debo hacer yo? ¡Es mi padre, y es un moribundo! ¿Debo estar en la cabecera de su cama cuando fallezca? Su respuesta me hunde más en mi incertidumbre: —Hija mía; haz lo que te dicte tu conciencia, ya eres adulta, debes decidir por ti misma... Ahora soy yo quien siente deseos de llorar. —¡Yo no quiero ser adulta! 32. La madre de Noemí (Narradora: la madre de Noemí) Todavía no ha amanecido y ya estamos dispuestas para encaminarnos a la estación. Mi tren tiene su salida dentro de una hora y la estación no está lejos, pero aprovecharemos el tiempo para desayunar en la cafetería. Mi hija no está acostumbrada a estos madrugones y todavía está soñolienta. Se ha empeñado en acompañarme a la estación, pero ahora yo puedo manejarme sola perfectamente. El taxi nos espera en la calle y en menos de veinte minutos nos deja en la estación. Contemplo con nostalgia el paisaje urbano de mi juventud y que ya no volveré a ver. Tenemos mucho tiempo para charlar, pero antes de nada necesitamos un café bien cargado para despejarnos. Nos sentamos en una mesa apartada de la cafetería y Noemí me trae los cafés y dos croissants que todavía están calientes. Desayunamos en silencio. Ella espera que le cuente algo sobre cómo será mi vida desde ahora en mi pequeña localidad. Le digo que no cambiará nada, pero que ahora intentaré publicar algunos de mis poemas. —¿Incluso si están dedicados a mi padre? —¿Por qué no? Un poema es un poema, y no importa a quién esté dedicado, lo que importa es que mueva el sentimiento y emocione —Pero él puede leerlos. —Él no ha perdido la memoria; no tiene nada que recordar. —¿Volverás algún día a esta ciudad? —No, Noemí, mi pobre niña, no volveré a pisar esta ciudad. Para mí él ya está muerto ¡desde hace veinte años! Se quitó la vida la noche en que asistió a ese club de mala fama del brazo de aquella mujer. Ella cavó su propia sepultura, y después borró el epitafio de su tumba, porque también ella se olvidó de su víctima. Para mí ha permanecido muerto estos veinte años, hasta que resucitó momentáneamente para revivir de nuevo su agonía. He escrito el último verso dedicado a él, que puede servirle de panegírico: Fallezco cuando todavía soy joven; Muero cuando todavía soy adulto; Resucito cuando estoy a punto de morir; Vuelvo a morir cuando estaba a punto de vivir. —Este es mi regalo de despedida hasta que la muerte me quiera llevar también a su lado. Entonces sabremos quién de nosotros dos ha obrado justamente. La literatura perderá un escritor con todo su talento sin apenas usar y una poetisa con todo su talento sin apenas recordar. No, Noemí, no quiero forzarte a que tengas que elegir a quién condenas o a quién salvas. Tu alma y tu mente no nos pertenecen, solo tu cuerpo. El alma la has recibido de Dios, y solo tú tienes la posibilidad de descubrir cuál es tu verdadera personalidad. No trates de imitarnos y elige tu propio camino, que puede que te lleve a ser una escritora genial, pero también podrías ser una excelente doctora o una genial futbolista. No nos debes nada. Te engendramos por nuestra imprudencia, sin que ese fuera nuestro deseo, como se engendran la mayoría de los seres humanos. Somos nosotros los que estamos en deuda contigo, pero no tenemos los medios para compensarte por nuestros errores. Naciste libre y libre eres de elegir quién merece tu afecto y tu recuerdo. Tu madre te recibirá siempre con los brazos abiertos, pero vive tu vida y no sientas compasión ni esperes consuelo de nosotros. Si necesitas consuelo, aprende a consolarte tú misma; si necesitas apoyo, aprende a apoyarte en ti misma; si necesitas compasión; aprende a compadecerte de ti misma y si necesitas amor, aprende a amarte a ti misma. Tal vez no haya sido el consejo que una madre debe dar a su hija, pero al menos en esto coincido con su padre, a las personas solo les unen los afectos que suscitan sus obras; sin obras no puede haber afectos. —Tu padre y yo fuimos felices cuando ambos admirábamos nuestras respectivas obras, pero cuando él dejó de interesarse por mis poesías y yo dejé de admirar las suyas, porque dejó de escribir relatos para dedicarse a escribir novelas inspiradas por su perversa agente, no teníamos ninguna razón para seguir amándonos. Pero yo no quise aceptar que aquel joven escritor con talento se dejaría manejar por su agente, y seguía admirando al autor de «Poetas sin cielo». ¡Ahora sé lo equivocada que estaba! Solo si volviera a ser el escritor que yo idolatraba podría perdonarle. Pero tal vez para él sea ya demasiado tarde. Ese debe ser su destino y este debe ser el mío. La megafonía de la estación anuncia la inminente salida de mi tren. Mi pobre hija lo ha sentido como si anunciasen la salida de un tren hacia la eternidad y sin retorno, porque me mira angustiada y sé que está haciendo grandes esfuerzos para contener el llanto. —Mamá, si tengo que ser adulta, quiero ser como tú. Te quiero mucho... pero también a mi desgraciado padre... —Lo sé, tienes un corazón generoso porque eres joven. Con la edad se encoje y se vuelve más egoísta, aunque más fiel y exigente. —quiere acompañarme al andén—. No, nos despedimos aquí... Cuídate mucho, y no hagas pucheros como cuando eras una niña o me harás llorar también a mí. Regálame una sonrisa de despedida! Noemí intenta complacerme, pero su sonrisa es una alegre forma de llorar. Se me rompe el corazón en mil pedazos cuando me alejo de ella arrastrando mi pequeña maleta de viaje como si fuera mi ataúd. Cuando al fin traspaso la puerta de entrada al andén y ella ya no puede verme, dejo que mi alma oprimida se desahogue libremente y lloro en silencio... ¡No puedo evitar sentirme culpable de haber vivido! 33. La segunda novela (Narradora: Alicia) He leído dos veces el manuscrito de su primera novela y creo estar preparada para asumir este importante reto. Por supuesto que alteraré algunas cosas, ella tiene que comprender las razones de su abandono y ser capaz de justificarlo. Este hombre no puede dejar este mundo sin que tenga la conciencia tranquila y yo no podré convencerle de que es inocente. Pero tengo poco tiempo. ¡Me esperan largas noches en vela! He sabido por Noemí que su madre ha vuelto a su localidad y parece que no tiene intención de volver nunca más. Afortunadamente Noemí me sigue considerando una buena amiga en la que puede confiar. No me lo ha dicho de forma expresa, pero está atravesando por unos momentos muy complicados. Hemos quedado en encontrarnos en la cafetería donde conocí a su padre, pero él no asistirá, porque no le informaré de nuestro encuentro. Quiero que Noemí no tenga nada que le impida abrirme su corazón y me diga qué conclusiones ha sacado después de que lo que haya podido contar su madre sobre el comportamiento de su padre. Necesito esa información para terminar de hacerme una idea del argumento de esta nueva novela. Ahora ella conoce toda la historia, pero según la versión de su madre, quiero que conozca también la de su padre. Aprovecho hoy que pasará la mañana en el hospital para encontrarme con ella. Yo he llegado la primera y ocupo la misma mesa de aquel día. Frente a la mesa hay unos grandes espejos donde me veo reflejada y apenas puedo creerme que esa mujer sea yo. Mi mirada se vuelto severa, o mejor diría, fría y desencantada. Ya no me encuentro ni fea ni guapa, solo sobria y adulta. Tampoco necesito llamar la atención de nadie, porque ya tengo a quien prestar toda mi atención, por eso me visto otra vez con las mismas prendas pasadas de moda de cuando llegué de provincias. Incluso noto que mis movimientos son pausados y mi aspecto en general sugiere el de una sencilla asistenta social. Me encuentro más yo misma que con aquellas provocadoras prendas. ¡Qué poco se estiman a sí mismas quiénes necesitan esconderse en su forma de vestir! Noemí acaba de llegar. Tiene todo el aspecto de una criatura indefensa y confundida. Se queda indecisa en la puerta, como si temiera ser descubierta. No me ha visto o tal vez no me haya reconocido con mi nuevo aspecto, y hace ademán de salir. Le hago una señal con el brazo, y al reconocerme parece volver a la vida. Sonríe como si la hubiera salvado de algún peligro imaginario. Se sienta enfrente de mí. Me pregunta por el estado de salud de su padre. —No quiero engañarte Noemí, todos estos acontecimientos le han afectado... creo que no pasará de este inverno —su sonrisa se ha convertido en una amarga expresión de profunda tristeza—. Yo creo que lo que está empeorando su salud es su profunda depresión tras el rechazo de tu madre. Noemí baja la vista, como si no quisiera que note en su mirada el conflicto de sus sentimientos repartidos. Guardamos unos instantes de silencio en memoria del padre moribundo. Ella no tiene nada que decir, soy yo quien inicio la conversación. —¿Puedo preguntarte por qué razón tu madre no quiere escuchar la confesión de tu padre? Me cuenta la verdadera causa y no la que todos creíamos. Me temo que la madre tiene una poderosa razón para su actitud rencorosa. Incluso a mí me costaría perdonarle si estuviera en su lugar. La traición tiene ahora una imagen pornográfica, algo simplemente intolerante para una sensible poetisa. En sus delirios debió imaginárselo como un sátiro con cara de ángel. ¿Cómo podré justificar esa escena? ¿Por qué fueron a ese club después de que, con toda probabilidad, hubieran bebido con exceso durante la romántica cena privada? Debe haber una buena razón que le exculpe. —Querida amiga, a veces me pregunto, sobre todo como escritora, de qué nos sirve el lenguaje sin con él no logramos entendernos. Tal vez hubiera sido mejor comunicarnos con unos cuantos sonidos para expresar los sentimientos fundamentales, como hacen los animales, porque las palabras, por cultos, creativos o realistas que seamos, no son capaces de expresarse con la misma claridad que esos sencillos sonidos. Tus padres son dos excelentes personas, y se hubieran entendido con simples sonidos, sin utilizar palabras. El uso de las palabras los han confundido y separado. ¡Es una maldición bíblica! Las mismas palabras tienen distinto significado según quién y cómo las pronuncia. El corazón no entiende el significado de las palabras, sino el tono con que se pronuncian. El significado es tarea de la mente, pero la mente carece de sentimientos, lo mismo le da una palabra que otra. Tu madre solo escucha lo que se dice si es poético; pero tu padre solo presta atención de lo que le dicen si se parece a los diálogos de una novela. ¡Ninguno escucha lo que verdaderamente dice el otro! —¡Sí; ellos mismos admiten que su pasión por la literatura es lo que les ha separado! —No, Noemí; no es la literatura, sino las palabras. La literatura es un noble intento de dar algún sentido emotivo o intelectual a las palabras para que sus mensajes sean claros para los sentidos. Pero la vida no es una novela, no sabemos quiénes son los personajes ni de qué va el argumento ni siquiera conocemos su autor. Confiamos en que las palabras y sus significados sean suficientes para ir por el mundo con moralidad y sentido de la justicia, pero lo único que hacemos es inventarnos moralidades y justicias con palabras que no tienen el mismo significado para todos, por lo que no puede haber moralidad ni justicia mientras haya palabras. Noemí parece reflexionar sobre mis pensamientos. Ha llegado a una sabia conclusión: —Entonces, ¿tú crees que los dos son culpables? —Sin duda, pero es un pecado inevitable, porque necesitamos las palabras, no para entendernos, sino para comunicarnos. Por eso es tan necesaria la literatura que nace de esta maldición y trata de redimirse, pero no la que nace ya maldita y se regocija en su maldad, como el cerdo se revuelca en sus excrementos. Los escritores solo tenemos una misión: liberar las palabras de las llamas del infierno y conseguir que alcancen el cielo. Somos los ángeles caídos en este infierno, mientras habitamos la Tierra, y del cielo, cuando la abandonamos. —¿Y qué puedo hacer para que se reconcilien? —Las palabras no los reconciliarán, a menos que estén dichas de tal manera que el corazón las entienda. —¿Qué quieres decir? —¡Tu madre solo reaccionará si recibe el mensaje en una poesía! —¿Y quién escribirá esa poesía? —La persona que más los quiere... Tú la escribirás. Será tu debut en este mágico mundo de la Literatura y lo pasarás con un sobresaliente, porque tienes lo principal: una gran motivación. Sé que se siente abrumada, pero al mismo tiempo noto en su mirada la chispa del genio que exige su oportunidad. —Pero mi madre solo se reconciliaría si le prueba con una nueva novela que es el mismo que escribió «Poetas sin cielo», y que ella ha amado inconscientemente estos veinte años... —¡Tu padre la escribirá! No quiero revelar a Noemí que seré yo quien la escriba, porque inconscientemente podría revelárselo a su madre y todo el trabajo sería inútil. —Alicia, nunca me has dicho por qué te sientes obligada a cuidar a mi padre, porque siempre le tratas de usted, que no es propio de una amante... ¿Tienes algo que ver con su editorial o con su representante? Siempre había temido que Noemí me hiciera esta pregunta. Pero no tengo una clara respuesta aunque me la haga a mí misma. Hace solo un mes era una mujer enamorada de un escritor de fama, que me atraía físicamente y admiraba por su talento, por lo que no tenía la menor duda de las causas. Ahora mis sentimientos han sobrepasado el amor y están en una dimensión desconocida, que probablemente no sea de este mundo. Gracias a su enfermedad nos hemos encontrado en una dimensión que vas más allá de lo humano y debe tener algo que ver con lo divino, y que debe de ocultarse en nuestra personalidad astral. Solo en situaciones extremas penetramos en esa dimensión, que crea lazos eternos. Es como si yo estuviera ayudando a este hombre a entrar en esa dimensión, que debe ser el mito del Paraíso, donde nos volveremos a encontrar y ser amantes por toda la eternidad, por lo que no podemos escatimar esfuerzos para conseguirlo. Estoy tratando de asegurarme el amor de este hombre después de su muerte, por lo que no puedo sentir celos de su madre, que solo podrá amarlo con ese amor terrenal, temporal y de seres humanos, cuando yo me reservo su amor eterno y divino. Pero Noemí no lo entendería. —Tu padre y yo somos, además de colegas de profesión, viejos amigos. Me siento obligada a ayudarle a tener una buena muerte. Haría lo mismo por cualquiera de mis amigos y colegas escritores. 34. La redacción Hoy he comenzado la redacción de la novela. Tengo la extraña sensación de estar cumpliendo un mandato divino; la voluntad me llega de una fuente desconocida. De su resultado depende la salvación o condenación de un alma humana. Es como si estuviera donando sangre a un malherido. Empiezo con esa aterradora frase para todos los escritores: «Capítulo primero». Es como abrir las ataduras de la imaginación, en una perfecta unión con la mente. Es absolutamente necesario que las primeras lineas susciten en la madre de Noemí la necesidad de leer las siguientes líneas restantes o el fracaso estará asegurado. Estas son mis primeras líneas: «Los personajes protagonistas de esta historia no se conocieron por el azar, sino por el destino. Pero durante veinte años pusieron todo su empeño en ir contra lo que estaba escrito en las estrellas. Esta es la historia de dos amantes unidos por la literatura, pero separados por las palabras.» Creo que es un buen comienzo, y solo con un buen comienzo es posible un buen final. Ahora tengo que crear el autor de la novela, porque esta novela no la escribiré yo sino mis personajes. También en la vida real las cosas funcionan de la misma manera. Dios ha creado el hombre, y le ha dotado del entendimiento necesario para que decida por sí mismo el argumento de su historia. Prosigo: «Estos personajes son dos jóvenes con los defectos y las virtudes de todos los jóvenes: utópicos, independientes, rebeldes, temerarios, inconformistas, generosos, inocentes y descreídos. Como todos los jóvenes no viven en el presente, sino en el futuro; no tienen historia, solo grandes deseos de hacer historia. Tampoco tienen experiencia, solo vivencias. No son sabios, solo tienen deseos de saber. Hacen complicado lo sencillo, porque creen que lo sencillo es de viejos o de niños, pero no de ellos. Son, en fin, dos jóvenes de nuestro tiempo, pero como han sido los jóvenes en todos los tiempos. Ella siente pasión por la sensibilidad de Garcilaso y él por la imaginación de Cervantes; ella adora a Dante Alighieri, él a Lope de Vega; ella es poeta, el narrador. Ella se sabe con talento y está segura de sí misma; él duda de su talento, y no tiene confianza en sí mismo. Pero ella cree en él y decide posponer temporalmente su inevitable conquista de fama y gloria para ayudar al narrador joven inseguro, para así recorrer juntos el camino de la gloria, sin que uno haga sombra al otro.» Han pasado ya cuatro agotadoras semanas. La novela progresa con el mismo ritmo que decaen mis fuerzas. He llegado al punto crítico de la separación y no tengo ninguna dificultad para exonerar de toda culpa a mi reo de muerte. ¿Dónde puede el escritor encontrar la fuente de su inspiración si no es en la vida real? ¿Cómo describir un prostíbulo, observar la profunda tristeza que encierra la falsa alegría de las prostitutas; el afán de hacer pagar hasta la más mínima gota de placer recibido, si nunca ha estado en un prostíbulo? ¿Cómo puede una escritora con sus alas intactas y libre de volar donde le plazca, cortarle las suyas a otro escritor para que no se aleje demasiado de su nido? La poesía surge del alma; la narrativa de la vida. El poeta ve el mundo desde una nube; el narrador desde las alcantarillas. La poesía es música; la narrativa es ruido. La madre de Noemí todavía sigue viendo el mundo desde una nube, y si no desciende a tierra firme nunca sabrá que las nubes se hacen lluvia, ¡y el agua de la lluvia corre por las alcantarillas! He utilizado estas notas en este decisivo capítulo : «No fue una sorpresa encontrarme con una mesa montada con su inconfundible estilo para dos comensales. El champán puesto a enfriar, los canapés de caviar y otras delicatessen. Incluso sabía que elegiría las prendas más provocativas, en otras palabras, no era más que un escenario de novela que yo debía describir en la novela que escribía en aquellos momentos. Era la peculiar forma de colaboración de mi inteligente agente. Pero todavía quedaban algunas complicadas escenas por describir para las que carecía de las imágenes necesarias y podía caer fácilmente en el ridículo. Lo comenté con mi agente y me sugirió que hiciéramos una visita a uno de los clubes de peor reputación de la ciudad, donde seguramente tendría las imágenes que necesitaba. Pero recordé mi cita. Fue una dolorosa decisión. Sabía que se indignaría, pero quien tiene por compañero a un escritor debe estar habituada a estos desplantes. ¿Se enfadaría si yo fuera un médico que falta a su cita porque tiene que atender a un enfermo? Con mis novelas yo también curo a miles de enfermos de aburrimiento y falta de alicientes. ¡Mañana me excusaré y ella lo entenderá! Antes de aquella excursión a las entrañas más nauseabundas de la ciudad, terminamos el champán, porque sobrios no hubiéramos tenido valor para entrar en aquel lupanar.» »Lamentablemente dio la fatal coincidencia de que ella, frustrada y herida por mi ausencia, paseara por la calle donde se encontraba el club y nos sorprendió en el momento en que descendíamos del taxi y entrábamos en el club algo mareados, por lo que mi agente tuvo que apoyase en mi brazo. Si era cierto que confiaba ciegamente en mi fidelidad, debió esperar al día siguiente para comprobar que, a pesar de que las apariencias me condenaban, yo seguía siendo fiel. Pero aquella equívoca imagen superó toda su capacidad de tolerancia, y le hirió profundamente, ¡causándola el fatal trauma que nos ha mantenido separados durante estos últimos veinte años!» Si después de leer esto no le perdona, ¡esta mujer ha perdido el alma! 35. Invierno Cuanto más lento deseas que pase el tiempo más rápido se empeña en pasar. He estado tan ocupada este último mes que no he tenido consciencia del paso del tiempo ¡y ya estamos en invierno! Después de su entrevista con la madre, Noemí se muestra menos afectuosa con su padre. Lo que haya podido contarle su madre sobre sus relaciones con su padre le ha afectado notablemente. Hay algo que los separa, pero Noemí no quiere comentar con él su encuentro con la madre, y su versión de lo sucedido. Si lo oculta será porque debe ser algo muy escabroso y que no se atreve a comentar. También se ha habituado a la enfermedad de su padre, incluso parece mentalizada para asumir su prematura muerte, y tan solo le visita una vez por semana. Su disculpa es que está tan atareada con sus exámenes que apenas puede permanecer una hora en su apartamento, y ni siquiera se queda para la cena. Desde su precipitado regreso, de la madre no sabemos nada. Parece enterrada en un absoluto silencio. Al menos Noemí no la menciona. Lamentablemente es como si todo nuestro comportamiento hubiera entrado en una irresponsable rutina, sin que seamos verdaderamente conscientes de la gravedad del momento. Su padre ha tenido que ser ingresado varias veces en urgencias, porque su enfermedad se está agravando alarmantemente. Cada vez que llamo a una ambulancia para transportarlo al hospital, me ruega que le deje morir en su cama. ¡Siente horror de los hospitales, porque cree que allí están todos tan familiarizados con la muerte que ellos mismos la provocan! Los dolores le enturbian la mente y en esos críticos momentos pierde totalmente la voluntad de vivir, pero no puedo acceder a sus deseos, porque todavía necesito que sobreviva al menos el suficiente tiempo para ver culminado mi propósito. La novela está prácticamente concluida, porque no es muy extensa. Solo faltan algunas correcciones. Tuve alguna dificultad para encontrar un buen desenlace, pero creo haberlo resuelto satisfactoriamente. Su editor no tendrá conocimiento de esta novela, de la que editaré tan solo unas cuantas copias, las suficientes para cumplir con su cometido y ninguna más. Sobre el poema que debe escribir Noemí, tal vez sobrevaloré su talento, pero sigo confiando en ella, cualquier día me sorprenderá. Mi plan es que por Navidad se consume la reconciliación, y, por fin, yo también podré reconciliarme conmigo misma. Tal vez también aproveche esta penosa experiencia para escribir mi propia novela y con mi propia versión de los hechos, pero lo más probable es que dedique mi próxima obra a la memoria de este gran hombre. Tal como esperaba, Noemí no me ha defraudado, y ha escrito una conmovedora poesía que con toda seguridad influirá en el ánimo de su madre. De todas formas no creo que siga los pasos de sus padres. Es demasiado realista y tiene los pies demasiado firmes en la tierra. Sería una buena investigadora, o profesora. Si sus padres tienen problemas es por su temperamento artístico, creativo, inconstante, impredecible. Es difícil convivir con un artista. 36. El último invierno (Narrador: el enfermo) Este será, si la medicina no lo impide, mi último invierno. Me gustaría vivirlo intensamente, pero la vida se me escapa por entre los dedos como finos granos de arena de una playa. Pronto habré abandonado este conflictivo mundo. Cada día que pasa me siento más familiarizado con la muerte. Cada nuevo amanecer sale para mí el sol más oscuro, y su luz es más tenue. Lentamente lo que era una pesadilla se convierte en un sueño. A medida que la vida me castiga, la muerte me premia. La muerte me parecía un drama antes de conocer el verdadero rostro de la vida. Ahora que lo conozco la muerte me parece una comedia, y me causa un irresistible deseo de reír. Al final terminaré por convertir mi muerte en gran evento y me sentaré en el patio de butacas con verdaderas ansias de que se levante el telón. Puede que esté empezando a perder el juicio, pero esa debe ser la estrategia de la mente para eludir el sufrimiento. ¡Bendita sea la locura cuando la cordura se alía con el dolor para que lo sufras conscientemente! Pero yo deseo ser un testigo de excepción de mi propia muerte, porque es una experiencia única en la vida, y yo soy un escritor. Si pretendo describir la muerte en mis novelas ¡tengo que haberla experimentado! Sé que parece un pensamiento absurdo, pero más absurdo es creer que nuestra mente y nuestro espíritu no trascienden más allá del umbral de la muerte. Creo que todo cuanto hemos llegado a concebir e imaginar permanecerá de alguna manera, y sobrepasará a nuestra muerte, para ser los fundamentos de la personalidad de una nueva vida en el instante de su gestación, en quien nos transmigremos. También sé que este es un consuelo ingenuo, porque nadie ha podido comprobar semejante teoría. Otros creen que sus almas subirán al cielo, permanecerán en el purgatorio o descenderán al infierno, donde se reunirán con otras almas gemelas, virtuosas o pecadoras. Esta es la versión más popular. En mi teoría no hay cielos ni infiernos, pero si superación o degradación. Un alma ruin y depravada puede transmigrar en el feto de una bestia. No es la más popular, pero yo creo que debe ser así. Ahora paso la mayor parte del día postrado en la cama y mi mente solo está despejada cuando me hacen efecto los sedantes y desaparecen los dolores, cada vez con más intensidad. Alicia pasa el día junto a mí, pero por la noche, después de dejarme sedado y que consigo conciliar el sueño, regresa a su apartamento, para volver a primera hora de la mañana. Debe estar agotada, porque a veces se queda dormida en el sofá y soy yo quién vela su sueño. Se ha traído su portátil con el que pasa el tiempo cuando yo dormito. Dice que está trabajando en su nueva novela sobre la bailarina, pero no quiere leerme nada hasta que no esté finalizada. Se ha vuelto muy supersticiosa y cree que trae mala suerte. La encuentro cada día más desmejorada, incluso más delgada. Temo que ella pueda caer también enferma. Hoy hace uno de los días más crudos del invierno. Cae una copiosa nevada y los copos parecen como enloquecidos al ser empujados por un fuerte viento racheado, que cambia de dirección constantemente. Como cada mañana, escucho el agradable ruido de la cerradura cuando Alicia llega a mi apartamento. Está temblando de frío y completamente empapada. Le sugiero que se ponga una de mis batas y seque su ropa en el radiador de la calefacción. Muchas veces he tenido su cuerpo entre mis brazos, pero nunca la había visto desnuda. Esta mañana he tenido por fin esa oportunidad. Veo el cuerpo de una mujer atractiva pero no provocadora; sensual pero no sexual. Es armonioso pero no erótico. Es solo un cuerpo de ser humano. Ya se siente mejor. Mientras prepara mi desayuno, me intereso por la situación de su carrera, que parece haber abandonado por mi culpa. —Alicia, ¿cómo te van las cosas con mi agente? ¿Te ha conseguido algún contrato? Alicia lo niega con leve gesto de cabeza. —¿Y te ha dado alguna razón? —A los editores no les gusta las novelas donde no hay sexo, o por lo menos algo que excite su imaginación, y mis novelas las encuentran demasiado intelectuales o espirituales. —Sí, creo que mi primer agente me sedujo para que tuviera una experiencia sexual de primera mano y que pudiera describirlo con todos sus mínimos detalles. Esa fue también una de las clave del éxito de mis novelas. La sexualidad no es un invento de la cultura, es una realidad natural y no hay razón para que no sea parte de una trama, pero no debe ser descrita como una simple relación sexual, similar a la que mantienen los animales, porque lo que caracteriza a un ser humano es que de todas sus vivencias naturales extrae una valoración moral, lo que no existe en los animales. Entre los humanos el sexo no puede estar exento de esa misma moralidad. En la mayoría de las novelas se prescinde de esta necesaria premisa moral para describirlo como una relación puramente animal y, por tanto, inmoral. No es verdad que tanto en la guerra como en el amor todo vale. En la guerra también hay normas de conducta, ¿por qué no ha de haberlas en la sexualidad? Alicia escucha atentamente mi breve disertación sobre la sexualidad y parece estar de acuerdo, pero matiza algunos detalles. —La moral es relativa, y sus valores no son compartidos por todos, por eso creo que la sexualidad tiene que basarse en otras normas más realistas, que satisfaga el deseo sin incurrir en la prostitución... —¿Y cuáles son esas normas? —Por supuesto, el consentimiento mutuo, y el respeto de la sensibilidad de cada amante, siempre que ambos sean conscientes de las consecuencias de esta relación. Esa actitud ya es suficientemente moral. Ningún amante debe ser considerado un objeto de placer, sino que el placer debe tener un objeto, el de la mutua satisfacción de los sentidos, sin que nos cree una mala conciencia: ¡lo contrario sería prostitución! 37. La última Navidad (Narradora: la madre de Noemí) De nuevo estoy en esta pequeña y remota localidad. Me ha acogido con la primera nevada de este año y siento que esa nieve está cayendo también sobre mi alma. Ahora que he recuperado la memoria, los últimos veinte años de bendita amnesia me parecen un breve instante. Si no fuera por las arrugas, las del rostro y las del alma, no sabría que el tiempo ha pasado. Recordar para qué; ¿para reconocer el causante de tu amnesia?; ¿para volver a ver aquella dolorosa escena a la entrada de aquel burdel?; ¿para revivir aquellos sueños truncados por la ambición de un amigo desleal? ¡Para esto es mejor no recordar! Ahora tengo que olvidar lo que he recordado para que no me siga perturbando y reencontrarme con la poesía, que es mi única amiga y confidente. La única que es leal y por ninguna causa, justificada o no, te traiciona. No somos más que aquello en lo que creemos y creamos, lo demás es una quimera, porque solo existe en nuestra imaginación. Yo le imaginé como deseaba que fuera, pero él no era como yo le imaginaba, porque nadie puede penetrar en la mente y en el alma de otra persona. ¡Siempre nos defraudarán! Ahora tengo que seguir los mismos consejos que di a Noemí: Si necesitas consuelo, aprende a consolarte tú misma; si necesitas apoyo, aprende a apoyarte en ti misma; si necesitas compasión; aprende a compadecerte de ti misma y si necesitas amor, aprende a amarte a ti misma. ¿Qué hubiera sido de mí si él no hubiese ganado aquel inoportuno premio? ¿Seguiríamos unidos, se habría cansado de mí? Posiblemente estaríamos separados. Recuerdo la noche del recital. No se despidió de mí porque tenía celos de mis amigos. Pero, por otro lado, solo los que aman sienten celos. ¿Y qué hubiera sido de su carrera literaria si no hubiese conocido aquella mujer? Noemí quiere que lea sus novelas, pero ella misma asegura que están bien escritas y son interesantes, pero carecen de motivación. No trasmiten nada trascendental o humano, son novelas para regalar los oídos de gente corriente, sin ambiciones, conformistas y resignados a su vulgaridad. Si yo le hubiese ayudado, posiblemente no sería tan famoso, pero estaría mejor considerado y tendría más alicientes. Tenía el talento necesario para escribir algo más ambicioso; algo que mereciera pasar a la posteridad. Acabo de recibir un correo de Noemí. ¡La hecho tanto de menos! Debería escribirme más a menudo. Lo abro sin poder contener la emoción: «Querida mamá, dentro de dos semanas vuelve a ser Navidad y este año no sé con quién de vosotros dos debo pasar estas entrañables fechas. Sabes lo mucho que te quiero, pero me duele que mi padre las pase solo, estando tan enfermo. Mi corazón sigue dividido entre los dos, y no puedo decidirme por ninguno, ¡porque me gustaría que pudiera pasarlas con los dos!» Mi pobre hija se debate en una insoportable lucha emocional. Debería escribirla y decirle que no me importará si no viene y que la pase con su padre. ¡Alguien tiene que sacrificarse, porque ninguno de nosotros dos ha hecho más méritos para que merecer su cariño! «Tengo otra importante noticia para ti: Alicia me ha dado varias copias de la última novela autobiográfica de papá. A pesar de estar muy débil ha cumplido su promesa. La he leído y no he podido evitar llorar de alegría, pero no te digo por qué, es mejor que la leas y lo sepas por ti misma. ¿Me prometes que la leerás? Te envío una copia por correo. También te adjunto mi primera poesía dedicada a vosotros dos. Ya te dije en la estación que deseaba ser como tú. Espero que te guste. Un abrazo muy fuerte de tu hija que te quiere y te echa de menos, Noemí» Bien sabe Dios que haría cualquier sacrificio porque Noemí fuera feliz y no tuviera que sufrir por nuestras faltas, ¡pero me pide lo imposible! La traición no tiene redención. Jesús tampoco hubiera perdonado a Judas ni Dios perdona al demonio. Con una traición es suficiente, ahora no puedo traicionarme también a mí misma. No, Noemí, mi pobre niña, tú no puedes entender todavía como duelen las heridas del corazón. El mío ha sangrado durante veinte años, y ahora necesita cicatrizar su herida, puede suceder mañana o nunca. Todo está escrito en el destino. Deja que él decida por nosotros. Me dice que su padre ha publicado una nueva novela, y que es autobiográfica. Presiento que no debe dejarme en un buen lugar entre sus recuerdos. ¿Por qué Noemí tiene tanto interés en que la lea? No soy rencorosa. Yo también hubiera deseado que todo hubiera sucedido de otra manera. También añoro aquellos felices días del campus; aquel joven escritor inseguro que necesitaba mi ayuda; aquellos sueños prácticamente al alcance de nuestra mano. Pero el renegó de todo a cambio de treinta monedas de plata. ¡Dios es justo y le ha enviado el castigo que merece! Sin embargo los senderos del Señor son inescrutables, gracias a mí debilidad nació esta hija mía, que promete superarnos a los dos y ser el consuelo de ambos. Solo Dios sabe lo que está bien y lo que está mal. Si me mantengo firme será su voluntad y si él debe morir con remordimientos, también. Hoy ha amanecido con un denso manto de nieve que iguala todo con la misma blancura. A duras penas se puede caminar por estas empinadas callejuelas. Me he encontrado con el cartero cuando salía de la panadería y me ha entregado el sobre con el libro que me envía Noemí. Aquí todos nos conocemos y no son necesarios los buzones. Si no supiera que contiene también una poesía de mi hija ni siquiera lo abriría, pero quiero ver si Noemí llegará a ser una gran poetisa o está siguiendo un camino equivocado. Lo abro y me causa un doloroso impacto el título del libro: «Si tú fueras..., Memorias de dos amantes unidos por la literatura y separados por las palabras». ¿Qué pretende con este título? Pero veo el poema de Noemí. No es muy extenso. Lo leo: «NACÍ DE PADRES OLVIDADOS Por el amor o desamor, por el encanto o desencanto, de dos amantes desconocidos nací yo del olvido. De bebé no tuve quien me meciera, de niña no tuve quien me mimara, de adulta no tuve quién me aconsejara porque nací de padres olvidados Conocí a mi padre cuando se moría, conocí a mi madre cuando no recordaba, me conocí a mí misma cuando lloraba, porque seguimos estando olvidados. Te escribo este sencillo poema para que olvides lo que has recordado y recuerdes lo que has olvidado del escritor que habías amado. Tu hija que te quiere, Noemí.» Es un poema digno de mi hija. No ha podido expresar mejor sus deseos. Me ha llegado a lo más profundo de mi alma dolorida. Me siento culpable de haber ignorado los anhelos de mi hija. Tal vez ella tenga la correcta perspectiva de este drama y yo esté obcecada en mi venganza. Tal vez, después de todo, esté escrito en el destino que deba perdonarle. Pero ¿cómo saberlo? ¿Quién puede aconsejarme? ¿Debería recurrir a un sacerdote? ¿Saben ellos más sobre el alma humana que nosotros? ¿Les ha donado el mismo Dios la gracia de la fe, por lo que están más cerca de la virtud que los demás seres humanos? Yo he perdido la fe y confiado solo en mi propio juicio, sin esperar el milagro de la revelación, pero después de leer el emotivo poema de mi hija estoy empezando a dudar de mis certidumbres morales y puede que haya llegado el momento de pedir consejo a quien está entregado a la salvación de las almas, y la mía debe de estar en riesgo de condenarse. Si mi hija lo desea, creo que debo leer esta nueva novela. 38. La alarma (Narradora: Alicia) Tengo que avisar a Noemí, ¡su padre se está muriendo! Sé que es en contra de su voluntad, y es la voluntad de un moribundo, pero voy a llamar al hospital para que lo ingresen. Tiene que seguir aferrado a la vida unos días más. No puedo aceptar que esa mujer no tenga corazón. Tiene que venir y salvarle del infierno de sus remordimientos o no descansará en paz ni podremos encontrarnos en ese lugar del cosmos reservado para nuestras almas. Está postrado en la cama. Ya apenas puede moverse y no tiene ningún deseo de hablarme. Pero sigue todos mis movimientos con una mirada apagada, sin vitalidad, como si ya solo pudiera mover las niñas de sus ojos. Pero en esa turbia mirada de moribundo debe de haber una mente lúcida, que no está afectada por la enfermedad, y debe estar pensando en su situación. Casi puedo leer sus pensamientos. Acepta que su viaje por este mundo ha llegado a su fin, y espera la muerte con serenidad y resignación. También me dedicará alguno de sus últimos pensamientos. Sé que me escucha, lo noto en el parpadeo de sus ojos, y tengo que intentar reconfortarle: —Sé que puedes escucharme —parpadea ligeramente—. Tú no has sido un hombre fuerte, porque los genios son más débiles cuanta más sabiduría adquieren, pero la enfermedad te ha dado la fuerza necesaria para aceptarla sin quejas ni lamentos. Cada día que pasa y se acerca tu fin mi amor por ti se acrecienta con la misma proporción. En el momento de tu muerte seré la mujer más enamorada del universo. Ya sé que esto no te consuela... no estés triste, porque ella vendrá! Pero tienes que mantener un titánico pulso con la muerte. ¡No dejes que te lleve hasta que ella no te de su bendición! —sujeto su trémula mano que ya apenas tiene fuerza, para saber cómo reacciona—. Tienes que perdonarme, pero tengo que llamar al hospital para que prolonguen tu vida tanto como les sea posible. Cuando ella y Noemí lleguen te traeremos de nuevo aquí y podrás morir como sé que deseas: estrechando su mano hasta tu último suspiro. Después empezará nuestra verdadera vida. Entonces yo no seré la chica de provincias, fea y torpe, sino un alma luminosa que se encontrará con la tuya y permanecerán unidas por toda la eternidad. Pero si mueres sin su bendición, tu alma vagará errática de un universo a otro eternamente, sin que encuentre la paz, y yo estaré sola por la eternidad. Sé que harás esto por mí. Intento retirar mi mano para marcar el teléfono del hospital, pero he notado una ligera presión y sus mirada parece avivarse. Creo que trata de decirme algo. Tal vez quiera que no deje de estrecharle la mano. Sí, eso debe ser. —No quieres que llame al hospital, ni que deje de estrecharte la mano, ¿verdad? —lo confirma con un débil parpadeo—. Está bien, no llamaré al hospital, pero tienes que ser fuerte y resistir hasta que llegue ella y tu hija Noemí. Cierra los ojos y tengo la sensación de que está tratando de decirme que ya es muy tarde. ¿Quiere esto decir que puede morir en cualquier momento? 39. Un fatal destino (Narradora: la madre de Noemí) No he podido terminar de leer su última novela. Creo que es suficiente para sentirme cerca del infierno, ¡cuando me creía cerca de cielo! ¿Por qué el destino me tendió esa monstruosa trampa? ¿Por qué no confié en su lealtad? ¿Cómo es posible que una engañosa imagen haya podido robarnos los veinte mejores años de nuestras vidas? ¿Quién me impulsó a estar en aquel lugar en aquel preciso momento? ¿El demonio? ¿Qué monstruoso pecado había cometido para merecer ese castigo? ¡Pobre hombre, durante todos estos años no ha podido contarme lo que realmente había sucedido! ¡De haberlo sabido, por supuesto que yo le hubiera perdonado! ¿Cómo podía escribir las novelas que yo le inspiraba si se ha sentido culpable todos estos años? Tengo que escribir urgentemente a Noemí, comunicándole mi deseo de volver cuanto antes y mostrar a su padre mi arrepentimiento y mi deseo de reconciliación. ¡Posiblemente no habrá otra persona más feliz en este mundo que ella cuando reciba mi mensaje! Pero yo también siento como si mi corazón dejara de estar oprimido por primera vez desde hace veinte años, y está rebosante de júbilo y siento que vuelve a latir con la misma fuerza que cuando tenía diez y ocho años, el día que conocí a este desgraciado escritor por culpa de una porción de tarta de nata con fresas! ¡Esa debe ser la felicidad que causa el perdón! ¡Bendito sea Dios que me ha iluminado! ¡Estoy desesperada y al borde de una nueva crisis: la última tormenta de nieve nos ha dejado incomunicados! No hay ningún medio de comunicarme con Noemí. Sé por experiencia de otros años que estaremos varios días incomunicados, ¡y él puede morir en cualquier momento! ¿Por qué? ¿Qué fuerza maligna se interfiere en nuestro destino una y otra vez? ¡Por el amor de Dios, espero que no sea demasiado tarde! No; no puedo esperar a que reparen las líneas del teléfono y limpien de nieve de la carretera. Tengo que intentar llegar a la estación del ferrocarril, porque los trenes siguen circulando. Solo son cinco kilómetros. Dentro de una semana es Navidad y podía estar junto a su lecho, y pasar todos juntos las primeras navidades después de veinte años de ausencias. Tal vez el taxista del pueblo quiera llevarme. Iré a su casa ahora mismo. El taxista es un hombre ya mayor, a punto de jubilarse, y no se atreve a circular con esta ventisca. La carretera es angosta, con tramos con pendientes muy pronunciadas. Me sugiere que esperemos a que pase los vehículos quita-nieves, pero no cree que despejen la carretera hasta mañana o tal vez pasado mañana. Pero ni mañana ni pasado mañana hay trenes que enlacen con el que lleva a la capital. Tengo que tomar el próximo, que sale a las cinco de la mañana. Ha dejado de nevar y puedo hacer andando este recorrido. Para este viaje no necesito equipaje, será suficiente con lo quepa en el bolso. ¡Tengo que intentarlo! 40. La agonía (Narrador: el moribundo) ¡Pobre Alicia! ¿Cómo podría decirle que mi mente está despejada y soy plenamente consciente de que estoy a punto de morir? ¿Cómo decirle también que ya no tengo ningún remordimiento, porque solo he hecho lo que el destino tenía previsto para mí. Nuestras vidas están escritas en las estrellas, y nuestro espíritu es una parte del destino del universo. Destino que desconocemos. También la madre de Noemí tenía un destino; que se ha cumplido ya. No sé como decirle que he presentido su muerte en algún gélido lugar, y que nunca estará en la cabecera de mi lecho de muerte. Una vez dije que una muerte digna es morir estrechando la mano que quién sienta más afecto por ti, y esa persona eres tú, Alicia, además que tu presencia en este lugar lo convierte en un hogar, con lo que se cumplen sobradamente mis condiciones para una buena muerte. Ahora ya puedo morir en paz. Ella lo ha comprendido y sigue estrechando mi mano. Siento como late su vida en ella, ya inerte, y ese contacto hace que empiece a sentir una paz interior indescriptible. Es su alma que me traspasa y la siento dentro de mí, cuando apenas me quedan unos segundos de vida. Ahora aparecen las más emotivas imágenes familiares de mi infancia que guardaba en el subconsciente. Se suceden una detrás de otra con sus sonidos y sus sensaciones. Escucho mi propio llanto y la voz de mi madre que me mece en la cuna que le regalaron mis abuelos; veo a mi padre empujando el columpio del parque cercano a nuestra modesta casa en las afueras de la ciudad, cuando apenas debía tener dos o tres años. Él es joven y vigoroso, y empuja el columpio con tanta fuerza que me hace llorar por la excitación del juego. Pasan muchas otras imágenes, y de todas guardo alguna impresión. Me veo vestido con mi traje de almirante de mi primera comunión, y a mis padres, que me llevan de la mano casi en volandas a la iglesia del barrio. Allí veo a la niña, con su virginal vestido de primera comunión, que me hizo sentir la primera emoción apasionado del amor. Se suceden multitud de imágenes familiares, como la fotografía del colegio de primaria, el primer automóvil de mi padre, mi primer viaje en tren, la primera chica con que salí y el primer beso en los labios de una mujer, y después de muchas otras, también las imágenes de la cafetería de la universidad y las que sucedieron después. Pero todas pasan vertiginosamente y va quedando un vacío indescriptible tras de su efímera visión. Es como si se estuvieran borrando de mi conciencia para que cuando sobrevenga la muerte no queda ni rastro en mi alma de lo que ha sido mi vida en este mundo. Presiento que cuando llegue a la última imagen moriré, y ese momento está llegando ya, porque veo la imagen de mi agente literario, aquella noche que destruyó nuestras vidas. Veo a ella en la puerta entreabierta del apartamento de Noemí. Mi imaginación se ha quedado en blanco, y me invade una inmensa paz. Ya no siento la mano de Alicia, Ahora veo una luz intensa, cegadora, sé que voy a penetrar en esa luz donde permaneceré eterna... mente.... 41. La muerte (Narradora: Alicia) Ha hecho apenas un leve movimiento de cabeza recostándose contra la almohada, y no siento ninguna señal de vida en su mano, ¡creo que ha muerto! Pero parece que se ha quedado plácidamente dormido. No hay en su rostro el más mínimo signo de dolor. Retiro mi mano y la suya se desploma. ¡Sí, ha muerto! ¡El gran amor de mi vida yace muerto ante mis ojos! A partir de este instante la muerte hará su trabajo y sus bellas manos, su prodigiosa cabeza, y su maltrecho cuerpo los convertirá en cenizas. Pero la odiosa parca no tiene suficiente poder para destruir el fruto de quién ahora le pertenece. Su obra sobrevivirá, y su memoria no se borrará de mi imaginación hasta la muerte me lleve a mí también. Ahora debería llorarle evocando su memoria, pero quien se lo ha llevado de mi lado no se saldrá con la suya. Aunque mi alma está rota en pedazos, no derramaré una sola lágrima, porque ya le he llorado cuando estaba vivo. Ahora ya no me quedan apenas lágrimas, y debo guardar las que todavía me queden para cuando empiece a echarlo de menos y sienta su ausencia. ¡Ha sido un hombre con suerte, porque ha vivido haciendo la voluntad de otros, pero ha muerto de acuerdo a su propia voluntad. Solo unos pocos privilegiados tienen una muerte así. ¡Si es difícil vivir, mucho más es morir! 42. Las dos muertes (Narrador: el autor) Los dos amantes de la literatura mueren en el mismo día y a la misma hora, porque así estaba escrito en las estrellas. El cuerpo congelado de la madre de Noemí lo encontró el conductor del vehículo quita-nieves, que circularía esa misma mañana, limpiando de nieve la tortuosa carretera. Su cuerpo no estaba sobre la carretera, sino en un pequeño barranco, donde debió caer dada la oscuridad y la capa de nieve que lo ocultaba. Su antiguo amante murió por complicaciones mortales de su enfermedad incurable. Noemí había presentido la muerte de su madre cuando se despidieron en la estación del ferrocarril. Lamentablemente no tuvo que elegir con quién de los dos pasaría las Navidades, sino a quién de los dos lloraba. No fueron enterrados juntos. Ella yace en el pequeño cementerio de su localidad, y él se hizo incinerar su cadáver, y aventadas sus cenizas en una playa cercana, como era su deseo. Alicia se sintió profundamente afectada, pues según sus creencias, no se reuniría con su amado en esa dimensión que creyó descubrir en su personalidad astral. TERCERA PARTE: ENCUENTRO ASTRAL «Trabajad no por la comida que perece, sino por la comida que a vida eterna permanece.» (Juan 6:27) 43. La despedida La muerte me lo ha quitado y la muerte me lo devolverá. ¡Te buscaré allí donde te encuentres y volveremos a estar juntos, pero para la eternidad! Si estás en el Infierno te rescataré; si estás en el purgatorio, te acompañaré hasta que ganemos el Cielo, y si ya estás en el Paraíso, allí nos encontraremos, porque el amor no conoce barreras, ni humanas ni divinas. Este cadáver que yace en la cama ha perdido su alma, que debe vagar por el cosmos sin un destino en concreto. Nadie excepto yo podré dar con su paradero, porque mi cuerpo astral podrá viajar por todos los rincones más allá del universo, y en alguno de estos lugares te encontraré. Ella te condenó al infierno en una de tus pesadillas, y no ha venido para librarte de esta maldición. Ahora ya no es necesaria su presencia. Tengo que comunicar esta penosa noticia a Noemí, porque ella, a pesar de la oposición de su madre, le tenían un gran afecto. Ha muerto cuando faltan unas horas para un nuevo amanecer. No vale la pena despertar a Noemí tan temprano. Ya no es necesario que se apresure, su padre ya no la necesita. Esperaré a que amanezca. Me siento como si yo fuera la mensajera de la muerte, pero de una muerte esperada. Nadie se sorprenderá. Quienes conocieron su diagnóstico ya solo esperan leer su nota necrológica en la prensa o en la red, y exclamarán aquellas frases de condolencia que habrán escuchado en otras defunciones de otros personajes famosos. «Pobre, ha muerto en la flor de su vida y en la cúspide de su popularidad»; «Ha muerto cuando lo había tenido todo menos la salud»; «Así acaban sus vidas la mayoría de los grandes personajes: siempre antes de lo previsto»; «Los artistas viven a un ritmo e intensidad insano, por eso mueren temprano», etc. Creo que en el fondo llevan razón. El alma es lo que da vida al cuerpo y si abusamos de nuestra alma, abusamos también de nuestro cuerpo. Al final, el alma exhausta, pierde sus defensas y las pierde también el cuerpo, y sobreviene la inevitable enfermedad mortal. Mi desdichado amigo estaba condenado, porque vivió abusando de su alma desde que tuvo conciencia de su existencia. Amanece, pero este no es el mismo sol de ayer, ni las mismas estrellas que se desvanecen. No es la misma brisa matutina, ni el mismo color azul del cielo. No es la misma ciudad, ni la misma calle. Porque esta noche ha muerto un escritor, y cuando un escritor muere algo muere en el alma colectiva del mundo, porque los escritores y los artistas somos el alma del mundo. Con gran dolor de mi corazón me decido a llamar a la desdichada Noemí para comunicarle la triste noticia. Ella no responde, pero recibo un mensaje del contestador de su móvil: «Lo siento, no estoy disponible. Me dirijo a la localidad de mi madre. Me acaban de comunicar que la han encontrado muerta por congelación en la carretera cuando se dirigía a pie a la estación del ferrocarril. Estoy desolada y no puedo hablar. Déjame tu mensaje». Me siento profundamente afectada y, al mismo tiempo culpable, porque juzgué prematuramente a esa mujer. ¡Espero que me perdone! No obstante, ha tardado demasiado en perdonarle. Es ella quien hubiera tenido que estar estrechando su mano cuando expiró. Sin duda que ha encontrado la muerte cuando intentaba acudir a la llamada de su falsa novela, pero cuando ya era demasiado tarde. Nuevamente el destino se vuelve incomprensiblemente contra mí, y ella volverá a ser mi rival después de su muerte, porque los tres nos volveremos a encontrar más allá de esta atormentada vida. 44. El último viaje La infeliz Noemí ha tenido que hacerse cargo de dos sepelios en pocos días. Ha asistido al de su madre y, apenas ha tenido tiempo de llorarla, cuando tiene que hacerse cargo del de su padre. El hospital se ha encargado de su incineración y le ha entregado las cenizas. Ahora tiene que cumplir con la última voluntad de su padre y esparcirlas en el mar. Me ha pedido que la acompañe y saldremos para la costa mañana a primera hora. —¿Cómo murió mi padre —me pregunta Noemí cuando regresamos en un taxi a su apartamento, sin poder ocultar en su mirada una gran tristeza y su delicado rostro desfigurado por el dolor. —Creo que en paz, pero no puedo decirte más porque apenas podía hablar, solo puedo decirte que su semblante era sereno y parecía haber aceptado la muerte con resignación. —¿No mencionó a mi madre? —No podía hablar, pero estoy seguro que la tendría en sus últimos pensamientos. —El taxista de la localidad me dijo que intentaba coger el primer tren de la mañana para reunirse con mi padre, y que él no se atrevió a llevarla a la estación, por lo que ella intentó llegar a pie. —¿Por qué no esperó a que despejaran la carretera de la estación? —le pregunto, aunque yo puedo suponer la razón. —No lo sé, pero he encontrado un breve verso que escribió la noche de su muerte: «Esta noche no hay estrellas y no dejará de ser noche Esta noche no habrá luna, y nunca será de día.» Debió presentir también ella su muerte, porque no creía poder ver a mi padre con vida. Pero lo intentó y le costó también a ella la vida. Estén donde estén, mis padres se habrán reconciliado y por fin tendrán la paz que merecen. Escucho a Noemí y no puedo evitar un injusto deseo de que no se cumplan sus esperanzas. ¡No puede interponerse entre nosotros también después de muerta! Ya estamos en el apartamento de su padre. Yo no puedo evitar tener la sensación de su presencia, como si todavía su alma no hubiera salido de esta habitación y no pudiera salir por alguna razón que solo él debe saber. Noemí recorre con la mirada todo lo que perteneció a su padre, y que ahora le pertenece a ella, pero no parece que le preste interés. Ha ido a la estantería y selecciona una de sus novelas. Contempla la fotografía de su padre en la contraportada, y no puede contener el llanto. —Alicia, ¿cómo era mi padre realmente? Tú debiste conocerle mejor que yo. —Creo que sobre todo tenía miedo de condenarse, porque nunca pudo vivir de acuerdo a sus deseos por culpa de sus constantes remordimientos. Era un alma atormentada que escribía novelas para olvidarse de la causa de sus tormentos. —¿Tú le amabas? —Sí, le amaba, pero él nunca me correspondió. —Entonces ¿por qué no le abandonaste? —¿Abandonarle? ¿Cómo puedes abandonar lo que ya es una parte de ti? —Y ahora, ¿que harás? —Escribiré una novela sobre el viaje que hará tu padre por el cosmos. ¡Su vida después de muerto! —¡Pero eso es imposible! Supongo que te lo imaginarás. ¡Nadie ha podido reunirse con los muertos! No quiero alarmar a Noemí y explicarle que yo puedo desdoblar mi personalidad y separar mi cuerpo astral del físico. Lo he experimentado una vez y lo lograré una segunda vez. La primera apenas me moví a cortas distancias de mi cuerpo físico, pero esta nueva experiencia tengo que tomar todas las precauciones necesarias para que nadie perturbe mi concentración, porque tardaré mucho tiempo en regresar. —Sí, por supuesto que me lo imaginaré. —¿Dónde crees tú que estará en estos momentos? —noto en su mirada que se siente inquieta y temerosa, pero debe acostumbrarse a los fenómenos paranormales, porque sus padres intentarán ponerse en contacto con ella por medio de sus sueños, y debo prevenirla. —Creo que está aquí, porque su alma todavía no se habrá desarraigado totalmente de las emociones que le trasmitirán los objetos con los que ha tenido contacto en vida. —¿Y crees que nos estará viendo y escuchando? —me pregunta sin poder disimular su inquietud. —No, ni nos ve ni nos oye. Solo puede ponerse en contacto con nosotros a través de nuestro cuerpo astral, lo que sucede durante los sueños. Tienes que estar prevenida, porque es probable que aparezcan en tus sueños, y querrán saber en qué estado de ánimo te encuentras. Pero es probable que no hagan ninguna referencia a sus muertes, sino que aparecerán en escenas que no tendrán ningún sentido para ti. En los sueños no tenemos control de nuestra imaginación ni del tiempo ni del espacio. Creo que no debí hablarle de esta posibilidad. Ahora parece realmente asustada y lo estará más cuando llegue la noche y se enfrente a los sueños. Amanece un día brumoso y desapacible. No es el más adecuado para diseminar sus cenizas. Hemos quedado en la estación del ferrocarril, donde tomaremos un tren que nos dejará en una localidad costera. Noemí ya me está esperando en la entrada de la estación. Todavía tenemos tiempo de tomar un té caliente, que nos levante el ánimo. Nos hemos sentado en la misma mesa en que estuvo por última vez con su madre. Ella parece que ha recuperado su entereza. —Ahora sé por qué mi pobre madre me dio aquellos tristes consejos. «No esperes consuelo de nosotros. Si necesitas consuelo, aprende a consolarte tú misma». Yo presentí su muerte. Cuando se alejó de mí, ¡tuve el presentimiento de que esa era la última vez que la vería con vida! Durante el viaje a la costa apenas hemos intercambiado algunas palabras sobre el tiempo desapacible. Al otro lado de la ventanilla el paisaje parece participar de nuestra profunda tristeza. Una densa niebla se cierne sobre las pequeñas poblaciones que vamos dejando atrás. Es difícil creer que pueda haber gente feliz en un paisaje tan deprimente. A veces el tren circula junto a la carretera, y podemos ver los automóviles que circulan a la misma velocidad, ocupados por gente con obligaciones y responsabilidades que no piensan en la muerte, pero tampoco tienen oportunidad de pensar en la vida. ¡Viven, eso es todo! 45. Las cenizas A medida que nos aproximamos a la localidad costera se puede sentir el olor a salitre. Salimos de la pequeña estación del ferrocarril y es fácil orientarse y saber dónde está el mar, porque el frescor de la brisa marina nos indica claramente la dirección. El cielo parece un inmenso manto grisáceo, y una fría y húmeda niebla confunde las formas de las cosas. Los automóviles circulan con las luces encendidas a pesar de no ser todavía mediodía. Hay poca gente en las calles, parece una ciudad fantasma. Nos encaminamos al paseo marítimo. No está lejos. Ya se escucha el escandaloso graznido de las gaviotas. La calle de la estación desemboca directamente en un sencillo paseo marítimo, tan desolado como el resto. Ya podemos escuchar las olas chocando con la pared del paseo. Desde este paseo divisamos el mar, pero no puede verse la linea del horizonte, que se confunde con el cielo por su tono grisáceo y la densa neblina. A un lado del paseo hay un pequeño espigón, donde están amarradas unas pocas embarcaciones pesqueras, que seguramente no se han hecho a la mar por el temporal. Elegimos ese lugar para esparcir las cenizas. —Es muy triste acabar una larga vida de ilusiones, proyectos y ambiciones —comenta Noemí preparándose para volcar en el mar los restos de su padre—, en un puñado de polvo que se lo llevará las corrientes hasta el fondo del mar, y así termina su desgraciada historia. —Es solo su cuerpo, su alma seguirá existiendo, como seguirán existiendo sus obras. Un grupo de hambrientas gaviotas revolotean alrededor, sin duda deben creer que los restos que Naomí esparce sobre el agua puede ser alimento. —Ya se ha cumplido su deseo —me comenta sollozante—. ¡Ya no habrá mas muertes; ya no necesitamos esta urna! Con un gesto airado, arroja también la pequeña urna al mar. Se seca las lágrimas con el dorso de la mano, me coge enérgicamente del brazo y nos alejamos de aquel lugar. —«Si necesitas consuelo, aprende a consolarte tú misma». ¡Sí, mamá, ya he aprendido! Noemí ha recobrado el ánimo. La vida sigue y carece de utilidad llorar a los muertos. Bastante les hemos llorado cuando estaban vivos. De los muertos solo queda el recuerdo y él ha dejado un buen recuerdo. No es motivo de llanto. Me asombra su entereza, pero en realidad hasta hace solo unos meses ha sido huérfana desde que nació. No es de extrañar su comportamiento. El viaje de regreso es tan silencioso como el anterior. Noemí parece ausente, o tal vez esté pensando en su futuro como huérfana. Tiene su mirada perdida en el paisaje brumoso que vamos dejando atrás. Parece reaccionar a algún pensamiento que le obsesiona, porque de improviso se vuelve hacia mí y me comenta: —Tenías razón, esta noche he soñado con mis padres... —guarda un elocuente silencio, como si se preguntara si debe desvelarme su sueño—. Yo estaba sentada en un banco del parque y mi padre apareció de pronto y se sentó junto a mí, pero estaba muerto. Yo le pregunté por qué había abandonado a mi madre, y, de súbito, ella apareció sentada junto a él, pero también parecía estar muerta. No podían responder a mi pregunta. De pronto apareció un policía, y dirigiéndose a mí, me dijo. «Perdone, pero los muertos no pueden estar en el parque. Llévelos al cementerio y entiérrelos». Yo no sabía qué contestar, estaba aterrada. Pero incomprensiblemente, los dos se incorporaron, y dirigiéndose al policía, mi padre le dijo: «No es necesario que nos entierre ella, nosotros mismos nos enterraremos. Adiós Noemí, no tardes en reunirte con nosotros...», y desaparecieron hundiéndose en el suelo del parque. En ese momento desperté —guarda un silencio sepulcral, parece muy afectada por el sueño—. ¿Qué puede significar este sueño, Alicia? —¡Que tus padres te echan de menos! —respondo sin vacilar. —¿Quieres decir que desean mi muerte? —Para ellos ahora tu vives en la muerte, y ellos en la vida. Se han cambiado los papeles, por eso quieren que te reúnas con ellos. Es posible que este mismo sueño vuelva a repetirse, aunque con diferente argumento, y volverán a insistir en que te reúnas con ellos. Tienes que ser fuerte y no dejarte obsesionar por lo que escuches de tus padres durante el sueño. Aunque suceden en la dimensión astral, están perturbados por tu propio subconsciente. —¿Quieres decir que subconscientemente deseo morir y reunirme con ellos? —me pregunta alarmada. —Sí, pero es por causa de tu estado de ánimo actual. Lo superarás y tus padres ya solo aparecerán en tus sueños cuando los añores. Noemí parece reconfortada por mi explicación. Pero sigue sumida en sus pensamientos, y vuelve a perder su mirada en el paisaje brumoso que contemplamos al paso del tren. Noemí parece salir nuevamente de sus lúgubres pensamientos, se vuelve hacia mí y me confiesa: —¡Me gustaría ser como tú, Alicia: segura de quién eres y lo que deseas hacer de tu vida. Pero ¿quién soy yo? La hija no deseada de dos soñadores que fueron amantes de la literatura, pero que no entendieron el significado de la palabra amor, a pesar de que la escribieron cientos de veces. ¿Qué debo hacer? Ya no estoy segura de que quiera escribir, ¡con el ejemplo de mis padres he tenido suficiente! Tal vez, como dijo mi madre, sería una excelente doctora. No estoy segura de si debo animarla a que siga la vocación de sus padres, pero precisamente porque ellos no supieron combinar sus ambiciones mundanas con sus relaciones personales, Noemí aprenderá de los errores de sus padres y podría ser una excelente escritora sin necesidad de arruinar su vida. Sí, creo que debo animarla. ¡Sería el mejor tributo que rendiría a sus malogrados padres! —Noemí, en estos tiempos en que ya nadie cree en lo que escuchan o ven, solo pueden creer en lo que pueden imaginar, ¡y los escritores podemos proporcionarles esas imágenes del mundo que desearían escuchar o ver! Lamentablemente son mayoría los escritores que se regocijan en recrear las nauseabundas imágenes de lo que ya no podemos creer ni deberíamos ver. ¡Tú puedes ser una escritora que ilumine a los lectores! —Pero ¿cómo sé si tengo el talento necesario para no quedarme en la mediocridad? —Mi querida amiga, ¡eso nos preguntamos todos! No sabrás la respuesta hasta que no hayas superado unos cuantos fracasos, porque cada fracaso significará que has elegido un mal camino, y debes rectificar hasta que encuentres el tuyo propio. El talento consiste en ser tú misma. El tren está entrando en la estación central. Noemí no se trasladará al apartamento de su padre, porque no quiere vivir sola. Prefiere seguir viviendo con sus compañeras de la facultad, pero me ha sugerido que, si lo deseo, puedo acuparlo yo. La idea es muy atractiva, porque me facilita mi experiencia. Acepto su ofrecimiento, al menos por lo que reste del curso, y me trasladaré lo antes posible. 46. (Narradora: Alicia Ya estoy instalada provisionalmente en el apartamento del padre de Noemí. Es una sensación difícil de describir, porque todos los objetos del apartamento tienen algo de él, y aún tengo viva la memoria de su cuerpo muerto sobre la cama en que me dispongo a dormir. Pero no siento ningún temor, sino todo lo contrario, dormir en la cama donde todavía están los eflujos de un difunto es la mejor forma de comunicarse con él. Soy consciente de los riesgos y desconozco qué puede haber más allá de esta dimensión. Puede que se encuentre atrapado por alguna fuerza superior y mi energía no sea suficiente para liberarle. Pero también puede haber alcanzado alguna dimensión que se asemeje al Cielo, y mi viaje será en vano. De cualquier modo, su destino estaba escrito en las estrellas desde el día de su nacimiento, y se habrá cumplido sin apelación posible. Sobre todo tengo que asegurarme que nadie perturbará mi sueño mientras mi espectro se encuentre separado de mi cuerpo. Tengo que desconectar todo lo que pueda sonar, incluido el teléfono y todo lo que cree campos magnéticos, lo que me temo que será imposible de eliminar, y no se cómo me afectará. Después de todo, cuando me separe del cuerpo seré solo energía y no sé cómo pueden afectarle otras fuentes de energía que pueda haber en el apartamento. Es un riesgo que tengo que correr. La otra duda es, en el caso de que se encuentren nuestros espectros, saber cómo nos comunicaremos, porque en el encuentro solo nos podremos comunicar a través de nuestros pensamientos, para lo que deberemos ascender al plano mental. Si lográsemos alcanzar esa dimensión no podremos ocultar nuestros pensamientos, por lo que es imposible la mentira o el engaño, y todo debe suceder con total transparencia. Esa debe ser la maldición de la vida material: ¡la posibilidad de engañar y mentir, la causa de todos los desastres de este mundo! ¿Qué sucederá si no pudiera volver a mi cuerpo? ¿Moriré yo también? ¡Sería un suicidio, lo que supone ir contra mi destino escrito en las estrellas y mi alma vagaría, sin encontrar reposo, ¿hasta cuándo? ¿Pero cómo tener una noción del tiempo donde no hay más que energía? Todo es muy confuso, y sé que corro un gran riesgo. Pero ¿qué sentido tiene ya mi existencia en este mundo? He entregado mi corazón a un difunto y ahora no tengo otra opción que reunirme con él, ¡tanto si está en el Cielo como en el Infierno! Este fin de semana podría ser el día señalado para el encuentro, porque Noemí viajará a la localidad de su madre para gestionar los trámites de su herencia y no existe el riesgo de que pueda presentarse de improviso. Tampoco espero visitas inesperadas, porque en los últimos meses de su vida no tenía más amigo que su agente literario. Su negativa opinión sobre los escritores actuales le causó la enemistad con los que tenía alguna relación. De todas formas dejaré una nota en la puerta para asegurarme de cualquier otra eventualidad. Esta noche será el gran viaje. Quiero aprovechar estas horas previas para dejar por escrito lo que me propongo hacer, y espero poder escribir también lo que haya podido suceder a mi regreso. Para relajarme, doy un largo paseo por el mismo parque en el que le declaré mi amor. Es un paseo lleno de nostalgia y de profunda tristeza. Todo lo que veo me recuerda su amable persona, y a veces tengo la sensación de que está paseando junto a mí y me hace nuevas preguntas, pero esta vez son sobre los misterios de la vida y la muerte, para los que no tengo respuestas. Me siento en un banco y recuerdo el sueño de Noemí, me gustaría que me sucediera a mí, pero eso solo pasa en los sueños, la realidad es más terca, se niega a cambiar sus rígidas normas y todo sucede como está previsto que suceda. Estoy de nuevo en el apartamento y escribo las notas sobre la experiencia de esta noche. Ya oscurece. Es un gélido día de finales del invierno. Es posible que nieve. Por alguna razón la nieve me deprime. No me gusta, porque siento como si me estuviera callendo en mi alma. Me gustan los países cálidos, porque son más acogedores y la vida es más sencilla. Escucho los oratorios de Bach, porque creo que es la música que debe escucharse en el Paraíso. Me tiendo sobre la cama y me preparo para la concentración. 47. (Narrador: el difunto) Sé que he fallecido. He sentido una extraña vibración y lo que debe ser mi alma se desprende de mi cuerpo. Alicia ya se ha dado cuenta de mi fallecimiento y ha soltado mi mano, que cae ya inerte. Siento que una fuerza me impulsa a salir de mi apartamento, y traspaso la pared sin ninguna dificultad. Ahora estoy viajando a una velocidad vertiginosa, y me dirijo hacía la luz que vi en el momento de mi fallecimiento. He entrado en una extraña dimensión y continúo mi viaje atravesando un espacio en semi tinieblas. En esta dimensión veo multitud de espectros atrapados, que me imploran ayuda y tratan inútilmente de retenerme, porque sus manos crispadas penetran en mi espectro sin poder asirlo. Por su aspecto y vestiduras deduzco que algunos están en estas tinieblas desde hace miles de años. También creo que se trata de personas que han debido morir de forma violenta, porque sus espectros están horriblemente mutilados. Algunos carecen de extremidades, otros de cabeza y la mayoría muestran heridas posiblemente causadas por las guerras o accidentes, por las que habrán muerto. Pero ¿por qué permanecen en estas tinieblas y no ascienden a la zona luminosa donde parece que me dirijo yo? Noto una importante diferencia entre ellos y yo, donde debe estar la explicación. Mi aura es absolutamente resplandeciente, las de ellos están oscurecidas. Tal vez al morir con la conciencia tranquila y en paz, mi aura se cargó con energía positiva, que le confiere ese resplandor. He descrito este fenómeno en una de mis novelas, fruto de mi intuición, pero que ahora compruebo que era acertada. Por esta razón mi alma debe ser atraída directamente hacia la fuente de luz. Debe tratarse de un efecto simple de atracción electromagnética. Por esta razón, supongo que quien muere con la conciencia intranquila, de improviso o por accidente, el alma debe contener energía negativa que oscurece el espectro, y en esas condiciones deben de ser atraídos solo hasta esta dimensión, que debe ser la astral, la primera dimensión de donde están los que han muerto. Estas almas están suspendidas entre lo que los teólogos llaman el Cielo y el Infierno, que debe ser el Purgatorio. Su desesperado intento por adherirse a mí debe ser para que les transfiera la energía positiva que necesitan para entrar en una nueva dimensión que les lleve hasta la luz a la que me dirijo yo. Pero no parece que esta transferencia sea posible entre espectros. Posiblemente esa energía positiva que necesitan se les debe poder transferir desde el mundo físico, con invocaciones, oraciones o cualquier otra forma que desconozco, dirigidas especialmente a ellos y que les muestren su afecto. Sigo viajando a una velocidad que posiblemente sea la de la luz, pero todavía no he salido de esta dimensión donde posiblemente haya millones de almas en similares condiciones. Si este es el Purgatorio, donde las almas no están lo suficientemente iluminadas para alcanzar el Cielo, aquellas personas que mueran y que hayan cometido faltas que no tengan redención, sus auras estarán cargadas de energía negativa, y deben aparecer absolutamente oscuros, por lo que no podrán elevarse y permanecen en el mundo físico, y esto debe ser el Infierno de las almas en pena de la teología, y que por alguna causa que desconozco, pueden aparecer como muertos vivientes, o zombies. No tengo otra explicación. He atravesado otro plano cósmico y, por fin, estoy en la dimensión de la luz cegadora que me atrae irresistiblemente desde el instante de mi muerte. Tiene las mismas luminosidad que mi alma. Sin sombra que la oscurezca. Mi viaje por las dimensiones del cosmos parece que termina aquí, porque he dejado de moverme a velocidades vertiginosas. También aquí tal vez haya millones de almas luminosas como la mía. Todas parecen tener la mismo aspecto juvenil, no deben tener más de 18 ó 20 años, y permanecen suspendidos en esta inmensa dimensión luminosa. Mi espectro se mueve lentamente entre ellos. Me sonríen y parece que me dieran la bienvenida. Me detengo frente a un espectro que asombrosamente tiene mi apariencia de cuando tenía 18 ó 20 años, y estaba todavía en la universidad. Parece que sea mi doble. Ha ocurrido algo extraordinario: siento una extraña vibración y mi doble se ha fusionado penetrando en mi espectro. Ahora también yo tengo su misma apariencia. Me siento confundido, pero al mismo tiempo siento una gran sensación de bondad indescifrable. Una de las almas que ha contemplado mi transformación se acerca a mí y parece que desea comunicarme algo. Yo intento leer sus pensamientos, pero no escucho nada. Instantes después se acerca a mí otra alma todavía más resplandeciente, y, como la anterior, creo que está intentando que escuche sus pensamientos. ¡Le escucho! —¡Bienvenido a la dimensión luminosa, porque tu alma solo tiene energía positiva, y brilla como la luz que genera la fuente que alumbra y ha creado el cosmos! Una extraordinaria fuente de energía positiva, situada en una dimensión todavía más elevada, y que su luz es la creadora de todas las ilusiones visible e invisibles del cosmos. Cuanto más luminosa es nuestra alma, más nos acercamos a esa extraordinaria fuente de luz. Allí están las almas de los más virtuosos personajes de la historia, como Sócrates, Jesucristo o San Juan de la Cruz. Yo también soy una entidad luminosa superior y puedo comunicarme con cualquier alma, pero tú solo puedes comunicarte con los que hayas tenido contacto en vida y sientan afecto por ti. De ellos podrás escuchar sus pensamientos, pero ellos no podrán leer los tuyos. —Pero ¿qué me ha sucedido? ¿Quién era ese doble mío? ¿De dónde ha surgido? —Escucho tus pensamientos y contestaré a tus preguntas. Cuando nos gestan se generan dos entidades espirituales. Una tiene la forma del espacio que llegaremos a ocupar en el límite de nuestro crecimiento. Esa entidad está compuesta por energía positiva y permanece en esta dimensión. En ella está escrito nuestro destino. La otra entidad espiritual permanece en el embrión, que lo anima. Su energía es variable y depende de los procesos de su conciencia, que pueden generar energía positiva o negativa. Nuestro destino se cumple cuando actuamos de tal manera que se mantiene con energía positiva hasta el instante de nuestra muerte. De lo contrario actuamos en contra de nuestro destino y al morir no podemos fusionarnos con nuestro doble energético y permanecemos en una dimensión intermedia o en el mundo físico, si nuestra conciencia no tiene redención. Ese doble tuyo ha seguido tu desarrollo personal, y ha estado a tu lado siempre que lo invocabas. ¡Era tu ángel custodio! —¡Sí, ahora recuerdo mi experiencia en el pequeño parque de la iglesia horas después de conocer mi diagnóstico, en la que creí que un ángel estaba sentado en mi mismo banco. Debía ser este doble mío, al que yo había invocado previamente. —Ahora estás constituido tal y como estaba previsto en tu destino. ¡Ya no hay dualidad en ti, sino una absoluta unidad energética! Mi extraño viaje hasta esta dimensión luminosa ha concluido al reunirme con mi doble personalidad. Es como si a partir de este momento empezara una nueva vida eterna, pero no puedo decir que sea feliz, porque sería aceptar la infelicidad, desconocida en esta dimensión. Es un estado neutro, indescriptible, carente de toda angustia, temor o inquietud. Posiblemente la expresión adecuada sea «beatífico». Pero afortunadamente no estoy completamente separado de mi realidad física anterior, porque, en efecto, puedo escuchar los pensamientos de quienes se acuerdan de mí y me invocan, aunque débiles, como un susurro. En estos instantes Alicia me está invocando y escucho débilmente sus pensamientos. Me temo que está a punto de cometer una grave imprudencia, porque pretende unirse a mí en el plano astral, donde yo no estoy, y ella nunca podrá acceder a esta dimensión luminosa mientras esté viva. Si el cuerpo astral de Alicia penetra en la dimensión de los muertos corre el riesgo de que no pueda reincorporarse a su cuerpo físico, y es muy posible que se quede también atrapada en las tinieblas del Purgatorio, ¡y ya no podrá reunirse conmigo, como era su deseo! Tengo que encontrar la manera de comunicarme con ella y hacerla ver el riego que corre si persiste en su intento. Ahora no soy más que un contingente de energía sutil invisible, pero que puede desplazarse al mundo físico. Corro el riesgo de contagiarme con energía negativa y no poder regresar a esta dimensión, pero no puedo permitir que Alicia se condene por mi culpa. ¡Tengo que intentarlo! 48 He regresado a la dimensión del mundo físico y estoy a los pies de la cama donde yace Alicia. Está acercándose al estado de concentración donde puede producirse el desdoblamiento de su cuerpo astral. Si provoco una descarga de energía tal vez consiga encender la lámpara de la mesita de noche e interrumpir su concentración. Consigo que la lámpara parpadee y afortunadamente Alicia ha salido bruscamente de su concentración. Contempla extrañada la lámpara, pero no lo asocia con mi presencia. La desenchufa y vuelve a concentrarse. Tengo que intentarlo de nuevo y espero que se de cuenta de que trato de comunicarme con ella, porque la energía de mi áurea decae. Consigo que vuelva a parpadear débilmente, y Alicia se ha sobresaltado. Creo que ha comprendido que soy yo quien lo provoca. —¿Eres tú? ¿Estás aquí? Vuelvo a hacer parpadear la lámpara. Alicia ha comprendido que es mi respuesta. —¡Entonces, no has salido de tu apartamento, tal como yo suponía! Pero no puedes comunicarte conmigo. Ten paciencia pronto me reuniré contigo. Tal vez esta misma noche. Estoy intentando concentrarme y lograr desdoblar mi cuerpo astral, y entonces podremos comunicarnos y me podrás contar dónde te encuentras! Intento hacer parpadear de nuevo la lámpara pero es inútil. No podré evitar que se desdoble y entre en la dimensión de los muertos, y si llega a esa dimensión y queda atrapada no podré rescatarla. Solo espero que su alma no se condene y no pueda ya salir del mundo físico, lo que podría suceder si muere, porque el suicidio es una falta grave, ¡y llenaría su alma de energía negativa! —Por si me escuchas te comunico que la madre de Noemí también ha muerto —Alicia no sabe que no puedo escuchar cuando me habla, pero sí sus pensamientos, y se confirma mi presentimiento de la muerte de la madre de Noemí. Pero está pensando que confía en que no nos hayamos encontrado, porque sigue considerándola su rival, incluso después de muerta. Si la madre de Noemí está muerta debería poder comunicarme con ella. Tal vez sea que por no haberme dado su perdón antes de morir esté en el Purgatorio. ¿Pero, cómo saber dónde se encuentra? Debería escuchar sus pensamientos para saber dónde dirigirme, de otro modo me resulta imposible encontrar su alma entre millones de almas. Tal vez sus pensamientos no me mencionen y solo piense en la desdichada Noemí. Eso lo explicaría. Alicia vuelve a estar al borde de su proyección astral. Si lo consigue nos volveremos a encontrar, pero será por breve tiempo, porque ella debe regresar a su mundo físico de los vivos y yo al mío energético de los muertos. Son inútiles todos sus esfuerzos, nuestros destinos no se encuentran ni en la vida ni en la muerte. Siento verdadera lástima por esta mujer, pero ahora sé que es inútil luchar contra lo que está escrito en las estrellas. Debe ser el estigma de que ella me hablaba. El cuerpo de Alicia parece agitarse. Está vibrando. Mueve la cabeza de lado para otro, como si algo estuviera intentando desprenderse del cuerpo. Sí, lo está consiguiendo, y el espectro de su cabeza se desprende de su cuerpo, y el resto de su cuerpo astral también. Su cuerpo físico ha quedado en absoluto reposo, sin duda que duerme profundamente, mientras ella sueña su desdoblamiento. Sus primeros movimientos son imprecisos, se eleva lentamente pero mantiene sus ojos cerrados. Un delgado hilo de energía la mantiene unida a la vida. ¡Confío que no se rompa! Su ascensión se ha detenido. Abre los ojos y me contempla asombrada, pero no puede hablar. Ahora deberá leer mis pensamientos y yo los suyos. —Alicia, ¿por qué lo has hecho? —¡Está aquí! ¡Lo he conseguido! Pero ha cambiado iu aspecto, ¡ahora es un hombre joven! —¡Alicia, lo que has conseguido es poner en riesgo tu vida! —Me reprocha lo que hago, solo por estar a su lado. —Alicia, puedo escuchar tus pensamientos. Sí, tengo que reprochártelo. Ahora no podrás reunirte conmigo. Yo estoy muerto y tú estás viva... —¡Entonces si mi muerte puede solucionar nuestras diferencias, no volveré a mi cuerpo! —No conseguirías nada, porque sería un suicidio, y sabes que tu alma se condenaría y no podría separarse del mundo físico. ¡Renuncia a este amor inútil y peligroso para los dos! —¿Tú me lo pides? ¿No he sido tu fiel compañera hasta tu último suspiro? —Alicia, estás poniendo en peligro también mi salvación. Estos reproches, que sé que no son justos, harán que mi alma se contamine con energía negativa, y puede impedirme volver a la dimensión de la luz en la que había logrado ascender. Por el bien de los dos, ¡renuncia! —Lo entiendo... mi estigma me persigue también aquí, entre los muertos. Deseas estar con ella por toda la eternidad. ¿No es así? Si renuncio me condenaré de todos modos... —¡Pero salvarás mi alma, y también la de ella! —¡Os habéis encontrado! ¡Ella, con su inesperada muerte, ha ganado! —No, Alicia, no nos hemos encontrado. No sé dónde pueda estar. Tal vez nunca nos encontremos. Pero donde estoy el tiempo no existe. ¡Te esperaré, pero tienes que morir en paz con tu conciencia! No te asuste la vejez, cuando te reúnas conmigo volverás a tener 18 años. —¿Y ella? —Alicia, donde nos reuniremos no existe la felicidad ni la desdicha, solo la bondad; allí no podrás amarme ni odiarme; los tres podremos gozar de esa infinita bondad eternamente, y cuando le llegue su hora, confío en que también Noemí se reunirá con nosotros. —¿Me pides que deje consumir mi vida con la esperanza de compartir eternamente contigo la bondad de tu Paraíso? —!Sí, te lo ruego! —¿No tengo elección? —El Infierno ahora o el Cielo cuando la muerte quiera llevarte. —¡Me das a elegir entre dos infiernos! —Sí, Alicia, pero uno puede durar 30 ó 40 años y el otro la eternidad... —Supongo que debo renunciar y despedirnos hasta dentro de 30 ó 40 años, ¡y ni siquira puedo estrechar la mano que sostuve en el instante de tu muerte! —Así debe ser, Alicia... Pero tengo que pedirte algo más... Es sobre la madre de Noemí. Temo que esté retenida en un espacio tenebroso, intermedio entre el Cielo y el Infierno. Para que se libre de esta oscura dimensión necesita la ayuda de alguien vivo, que le trasmita la energía positiva que le ayude a ascender a un plano superior, y tú puedes ayudarla, y al mismo tiempo, ayudarte a ti misma para ganar tu salvación... —¿Me pides que salve a mi rival? —Ya no es tu rival, es un alma, que igual que tú, merece ascender a la dimensión de la luz y salir de las tinieblas donde puede que se encuentre. —¿Y qué puedo hacer por ella? —¡Reza por ella! —¡Nunca he rezado; no sabría cómo hacerlo! —Solo tienes que invocar su nombre y mostrarle tu afecto. Eso será suficiente para trasmitirle energía positiva. Trasmite este deseo también a mi hija, Noemí, que rece también por su madre, y entre las dos la salvareis. —¡Qué triste es mi destino! —No, querida Alicia, en el mundo de los vivos no hay mayor dicha que sentirse útil y necesario. Entrégate el resto de tu vida a escribir novelas con argumentos que inciten a la generosidad y la bondad, y vivirás feliz hasta que llegue tu hora y te reúnas con nosotros. —¡Ni siquiera tengo el consuelo del llanto! —Vuelve con los vivos y podrás aliviar tu corazón con el llanto. —Adiós entonces. ¡Hasta que la muerte nos una! —Adiós, mi querida Alicia, te esperaré en el cielo... Su espectro vuelve a unirse con su cuerpo, que permanece inmóvil. No puedo escucharlo, pero noto por su triste expresión que debe estar a punto de llorar. Ahora se lleva las manos al rostro y debe sollozar amargamente. ¡Pobre Alicia, nadie más que ella merece entrar en el Paraíso! 49. (Narradora: la madre de Noemí) ¿Por qué estoy encerrada en estas tinieblas? ¿Es este el destino de los muertos? ¿Dónde me encuentro? He visto mi cuerpo congelado al borde de la carretera mientras mi alma ascendía hasta llegar este tenebroso lugar. Sí, debo de estar muerta. ¡He sido una imprudente, y lo he pagado con la vida! ¿Qué será de mi pobre Noemí? Pretendía salvar a alguien de sus remordimientos y muero yo sin tener a nadie que me salvara de los míos! ¡Es este lugar el Infierno que merezco! ¡Sufriré esta angustia eternamente! Creo ver un pequeño resplandor que se aproxima a mí. Ahora distingo el espectro de un joven... ¡Oh, Dios mío; es él! ¡También él ha muerto! Pero es tal como era cuando le conocí hace veinte años! Sí, es él; es el mismo joven inquieto y ambicioso que leía mis poemas en el campus de nuestra universidad; con la misma sonrisa burlona; el mismo encanto en su mirada. Me avergüenzo de que me encuentre envejecida, aunque no sea más que un fantasma. Tal vez haya escuchado mis lamentos. ¡La muerte nos une de nuevo! Se acerca a mí y puedo escuchar sus pensamientos: —Mi querida amiga y admirada poeta, nos volvemos a encontrar en extrañas circunstancias. He sabido de tu triste muerte en la nieve cuando te disponías a velar mi lecho de muerte. Tan pronto como he escuchado tus lamentos me he apresurado a reunirme contigo. ¡No sé por qué estás en este tenebroso lugar, pero yo te ayudaré y te devolveré en la muerte con creces lo que has sufrido por mi culpa en vida. Yo necesitaba tu perdón para morir con la conciencia en paz, pero mi sincero arrepentimiento y las ayudas de nuestra hija y de esa extraordinaria persona, Alicia, me salvaron del infierno. —Yo te hubiera perdonado, pero la muerte se interpuso. Pero, ¡por el amor de Dios!, ¿puedes decirme dónde me encuentro? —Estás a medio camino entre el Cielo y el Infierno; en el Purgatorio. Tu conciencia no debía estar en paz en el momento de morir, y se contaminó con energía negativa, lo que te impide ascender a una nueva dimensión, donde yo me encuentro. Pero no temás, tu hija Noemí y Alicia de sacarán de aquí y podrás reunirte conmigo. —Nunca he hecho mal a nadie, ¿por qué merezco este castigo? —No tengo la respuesta. La energía y su relación con la conciencia tiene su propia norma, pero supongo que la energía positiva o negativa que acumula nuestra alma depende de estado del estado de nuestra conciencia en el momento de la muerte. —Entonces merezco estar en este siniestro lugar, porque fui una imprudente... ¡pero tenía una buena causa! —No hubiera servido de nada, porque yo fallecí el mismo día. ¡Ya era demasiado tarde! —Pero yo no sabía las razones que te llevaron a ese burdel aquella noche, y que cuentas en tu última novela. Si lo hubiese sabido, yo te habría perdonado desde el primer encuentro. —¡Yo no he escrito ninguna novela describiendo ese desgraciado suceso! —Noemí me envió una copia que le había entregado Alicia... —¡Alicia! Ella escribió ese libro y alteró los hechos para que tú acudieras a cofortarme en mi lecho de muerte. No sé que habrá relatado sobre aquel desgraciado suceso, pero tu impresión fue la verdadera: ¡yo te traicioné! —¿Es también este engaño parte de mi trágico destino? —Alicia solo pretendía salvar mi alma... —¡A costa de condenar la mía! —Se había propuesto prolongar mi vida hasta que tú llegases, pero yo se lo impedí. ¡Yo soy una vez más el culpable! Pero ya es tarde para lamentaciones. Nuestros destinos están a punto de cumplirse. El mío ya se ha cumplido, y Alicia y Noemí te ayudarán para que se cumpla también el tuyo. Ninguno de nosotros merece el Purgatorio, y mucho menos el Infierno. Nos equivocamos porque éramos humanos, pero por la misma razón nos arrepentimos, y pagamos con sufrimiento nuestra absolución. Ahora ya solo nos queda ganar el Cielo y toda una eternidad para sumirnos en una beatífica calma en la dimensión de la luz. —Si ese es también mi destino, ya solo me queda confiar en mi hija Noemí y reunirme contigo es ese Paraíso. ¡Así concluye una dramática historia que comenzó un día a principio de la primavera, ¡por causa de una tarta de nata y fresas! EPÍLOGO: REUNIÓN ASTRAL 50. Oraciones (Narradora: Noemí) Alicia me ha llamado porque desea verme para algo relacionado con mis padres fallecidos. Quedamos esta misma tarde y cenaremos juntas en el apartamento de mi padre, como en otros tiempos. Yo he recuperado el ánimo y hago una vida normal. Por suerte mi carrera me absorbe todo mi tiempo y ocupa mis pensamientos. Solo por las noches siento la ausencia de mis padres, pero en realidad siempre he sentido esta ausencia. Vuelvo a estar en el apartamento de mi difunto padre. Alicia no ha cambiado nada y sus libros, ordenador y todos sus objetos personales permanecen en el mismo lugar. Parece muy desmejorada. Es como si padeciera alguna enfermedad. Su mirada es lánguida y distante. Algo la distrae y la perturba constantemente. Me da la bienvenida con una leve sonrisa. Ya no es la mujer fuerte y segura de sí misma. Sin duda que la muerte de mi padre la ha afectado profundamente. —Alicia, ¿no te sientes bien? Pareces cansada, te encuentro muy desmejorada. —Sí, Noemí, no me encuentro bien. Estoy deprimida y triste. —¡Es por causa del fallecimiento de mi padre! —Sí, es por eso... Permanece en silencio, como si no quisiera darme otras razones para su depresión. Nos sentamos a la mesa y Alicia me sirve lo que ha cocinado para la cena y comemos en silencio. —He pensado en tu madre —me dice en una pausa, porque parece no tener apetito—. No soy creyente, pero creo que deberíamos rezar por la salvación de su alma... —¿Quieres decir que su alma no merecía ir al Cielo, si es que existe? —Las circunstancias de su muerte no han sido naturales sino accidentales, y en estas condiciones murió sin una compañía que la reconfortase y ayudase a limpiar su alma de cualquier remordimiento. Puede que esté en una dimensión en la que necesite nuestra ayuda. —¡Alicia, me inquietas! ¿Está sugiriendo que mi madre puede estar en el Infierno? —Si estuviera en el Infierno ya no tendría salvación, pero si está en el Purgatorio, nuestros rezos pueden ayudarla a salir de allí y subir al Cielo, ¡que es donde merece estar! —Alicia, estás hablando como una creyente. ¿De verdad crees en infiernos, purgatorios y cielos? Mi comentario parece haberla confundido, y creo que está meditando su respuesta. —¡Noemí, yo ya no sé en lo que creo! Te ruego que no me hagas más preguntas, porque no sabría qué contestar. Pero presiento que debemos invocarla y mostrarle nuestro afecto. Solo necesitas pensar en ella y trasmitirle tu cariño. Esté donde quiera que esté ella recibirá tu mensaje, y estará más cerca del Cielo. —Alicia, siempre he creído que tú y mi madre erais rivales. —Querida Noemí, con los muertos no se compite. Fuera de este mundo ya no late el corazón y no hay lugar para emociones como el amor. Solo hay bondad en el Cielo y maldad en el Infierno. Cerca de Cielo y del Infierno solo hay ansiedad y dudas. Nota del autor Alicia murió de tristeza dos meses más tarde. Su corazón se detuvo porque ya no tenía utilidad. No había en su alma ni un átomo de energía negativa y ascendió a la dimensión de la luz sin la mínima sombra FIN 1. Diagnosis Five simple words were all it took for the whole fantastic universe I created with my novels and in which I have lived apart from this world to collapse: "You suffer from an incurable disease". I have just been told this by the specialist who treats my illness. The messenger waits for my reaction, but I am unable to get an idea of what I have just heard. There is a tense silence. It seems as if the doctor is afraid to go on describing my situation, but he felt he had to be clear so that I would not be under any illusions, and he warned me that I have no more than six months to live, or, in exceptional cases, and if I respond well to treatment, perhaps a year. I leave the hospital reneging on having allowed myself to be diagnosed with the cause of my discomfort. Of course I do not accept the diagnosis. After all, the pains are still bearable. It is a cool, damp morning, as autumn mornings are, but pleasant for a walk. To prove that the diagnosis is not acceptable, I will walk back to my apartment. Why me? Yes, I know many people who suffer from incurable diseases, but for some inexplicable reason I thought I was immune. Now I need some time to come to terms with my mistake. Even to my regret, I have to accept that I am as human as others, and I can suffer from their same diseases. I am tired and I still have more than half of the journey to go. I enter a small park next to the neighborhood church. On one of its benches a beggar is dozing, and when I approach him he looks at me with a clear expression of hatred, because he must feel humiliated by my appearance of a well-placed person. He cannot know that I had just been condemned to die prematurely; if he did, he would have no reason to envy me. I sit down on an adjoining bench, because my legs can't take another step. The beggar looks disgruntled and shuffles around in his rags, as if this were his house and I had entered without knocking. The doctor has created a stigma for me. I am no longer the me-self who just an hour before could do whatever I wanted, but me-self-and-death. From now on, my every thought or act will have to count on it. But I am not resigned. The doctors may be wrong. Perhaps my medical records have been misplaced and are those of another patient. Some inexperienced secretary may have made that terrible mistake. Nature cannot abandon me and life cannot be so irresponsible with me. Fate cannot go against my will, because it is my will that must create my destiny. This can't be happening to me. I still have many new things to admire, many fantastic stories to tell, and, why not, perhaps someone to love. Is this a divine punishment? Am I being condemned to a premature death for supposed sins committed, even though I cannot know the nature of my guilt? A sinner does not need to know the details of his guilt, it is enough for him to suffer the punishment to know that he has sinned. It is perfectly possible that this illness was written in the stars, or can be read in the palm of my hand, without that I should consider it a punishment. But the most reasonable thing is that it is the result of my long nights of voluntary insomnia, giving life to characters that in gratitude lead me to death. But I bear them no grudge. From the beginning I accepted that every work that deserves praise is because in it there is a little bit of our own humanity, and humanity must also have its limits. Perhaps that was my fault: to have created ghosts and presumed to be their god. But without me they would never have existed, so I must be right: I am their god, and therefore I do not deserve to be punished with such cruelty. ZIf that is divine justice, all artists will go to hell and imagination would be persecuted and severely punished. 2. The reaction The great impression and uneasiness that the diagnosis has caused me totally overrides my sense of time. I do not know how long I have been sitting on this bench. While I think of my desolation in some remote part of the universe, I am sure that someone, who already knows my fate, must be feeling sorry for me. It is probably an angel, the same one that appeared in the prayer cards we were given when we were kids in religion classes. Back then I wanted to be an angel too. I wanted to fly, to see the world from above, to migrate to warm lands, to be free like the birds, and, according to those bright pictures, only angels knew how to fly. That's why I wanted to be an angel. My hair stands on end, because I sense that this angel may now be sitting on this very bench, listening to my nostalgic thoughts, futilely trying to console me, because angels and humans, for some reason that only God must know, are incompatible. But I have returned to real time because of the murky, resigned look the beggar gives me from time to time, unable to understand what someone like me is doing sitting on this bench at this hour of the morning, reserved for the homeless. I would like to tell him that I don't know either, but it would be of no use to him. A cold, autumn sun shines, but clean and bright. A cool, damp breeze from a nearby sea moistens my hot face. There are still traces of the morning lightning on the cars and sidewalks. Winter will soon be here. It is inevitable that winter will come to all of us one day, but some of us will not live to see the next spring. The beggar has stood upright and looks at me in wonder. I think that despite his appearance, he must have the ability to read my thoughts. Yes, he knows what I am thinking, because those of us who suffer have the same rictus, the same languor in our eyes, the same curvature of the back, the same reddened eyes, and all that is easy to translate into common language: Desolation. For a few moments he seems undecided. Finally he makes up his mind, and with the gait of one whose muscles are numb, he comes to my bench, but does not sit down. He remains standing, hesitant, undecided. Finally he makes up his mind, and asks me for a cigarette, but unfortunately I don't smoke. I offer him some coins, but he incomprehensibly refuses. His gaze wanders to an indeterminate point, he seems to meditate whether to engage in conversation or return to his world. As if that encounter had not taken place and without making the slightest gesture, he walks again with the same clumsiness that short distance that separates our two worlds, and again wraps himself in his rags to continue dozing. He has no courage to come out of his poverty and I have no courage to accept mine. He has lost confidence in human beings, from whom he only asks for a cigarette; I have lost confidence in myself, from whom I only ask for courage to face my misfortune. The beggar has risen again and comes towards me. He asks me with a gesture of mock humility for the coins I offered him. I don't feel like taking any interest in his situation, I only have some interest in my own. Not even an hour has passed since I have known my condemnation and I have a feeling that before returning to my apartment I will have passed to the phase of rebellion, which is nothing more than the resource of kicking, previous step to the acceptance and submission without defenses or reservations. "Behold the slave of the Lord, be it done unto me according to thy word". The beggar gets impatient, he probably thinks I want to humiliate him and I notice more hatred in his stray look than in the previous one. I hand him the coins and he goes back to his bench without thanking me. He counts them and gives me a contemptuous and coarse look. No doubt I had hoped he would have been more generous. I can't stand his ragged presence any longer and resume my walk, but part of my body burns as if I were already in hell, and I find it hard to walk. Is there a hell? Is there a heaven? Is there a God, and his angels and cherubs? I am horrified to realize my rapid transformation. For the first time I have doubted my deep-rooted secular convictions. Until just a minute ago, hell, heaven and God were something anecdotal; a topic of conversation full of incongruities and fanaticism for the gullible and ignorant; of intellectual blindness and irrationality. And suddenly these theological questions arise again, but with renewed importance. I also sense that my mind will soon go blank, refusing to think, since I could not stop thinking about death and its intricate mysteries. I have to rediscover nothingness, and immerse myself in it until the day of my announced death. 3. It's three in the morning and I can't get to sleep. Just darkness and nothing else. Those figures that the lights of the cars project on the ceiling are the only thing that catches my attention, the rest seems to have vanished. Everything around me is silence, darkness, nothing. Whoever created this absurd word was thinking of me, I have given it its true meaning; its authentic meaning; its oppressive emptiness. At four o'clock in the morning I will still be thinking the same thoughts I am thinking now, and the next hours, the next days until the day of my death I will still have the same thoughts: nothing. I have nothing left to think about except nothingness, and, thinking about nothingness is like not thinking. I leave my mind blank to try to dissuade my brain from reliving bad memories, the good ones I have not forgotten. 824 there is nothing left of all that. It is time for my own final judgment. I have been ambitious, selfish and disloyal. If hell exists, no doubt I will be condemned. I have to admit it, these insistent pains, added to my regrets, have sapped the creativity of my imagination. My latest novel is mediocre, even pathetic. The characters are stillborn and act like real zombies. I think I have lost connection with reality and live in a parallel world. I see the new world but I don't feel it; I hear it but I don't understand it, and I no longer have anyone around me to comment on this chore of time; a confidant to whom you can tell a host of misfortunes without being rejected, ignored, or forgotten. I have crossed from one dimension to another without realizing it, entertained with my dreams of greatness, with the conviction that I would put the world at my feet and now I am its doormat. I have betrayed the only woman I have ever loved. I have despised my friends, and admired my enemies, because I preferred the encouragement of victory after a bitter war against my enemies to the sterile peace of friends. And now I have neither friends nor enemies. Some I have humiliated, and the others have ignored me and rejected my enmity, so that there is nothing left, neither of one nor of the other. I am prostrate on the bed trying to forget that I have a corrupted body, which threatens to destroy my soul and my mind as well. Tonight the sporadic lights of the cars that cross the roof seem to me like souls in pain that warn me that very soon I will be one of them and I will cross the roofs of other damned; that neither heaven 8 hell exist, only the unbearable nothingness. 4. The first sunrise 6 It's finally dawn. I have slept two or three refreshing hours. It is a relief to sleep; to be able to have the opportunity to meet with the dearest people, but not the real ones, but the ones that your mood needs, and that during wakefulness sleep in your imagination. Only in dreams things happen as we wish them to happen; without dreams the soul would have nowhere to take refuge, nowhere to nest and sing its song, it would be prey to the harsh and severe reality. I do not know who gave us the faculty to dream, but it must have been someone very understanding and well aware of the weaknesses of the human being. Maybe it was the God that religions talk about, but I cannot accept it, because I simply do not believe in anything. I have even stopped believing in myself. He who lives in nothingness cannot believe in anything. But it is dawn and it is my hour for optimism; the most awaited moment, because light must be the cause of all creation, while darkness is in charge of destroying it, of plunging creation into an abyss of no return, the same that must await us after death. I have thought a lot about death, especially about my death; about my irreversible and early death. I would like to believe in transmigration, because life is not destroyed, only transformed. It would be a comfort to be able to believe that moments after my last breath to be part of a new life, somewhere on Earth or in the Universe. After all, we come from it and we will return to it. But my room has been flooded with light and now I see things as they are and not as I dream them. I see on the shelf meticulously arranged by thickness, color and height my novels, on which I have spent, or perhaps worn out, all my life, and some photos of remote and unrecoverable times. The best novels I wrote when my mind and my imagination had wings, because they were young and free, and understood each other: what the imagination created my disciplined mind wrote. Most of my novels have been a resounding success, but the last one was tainted with my illness. On my desk, next to the window through which I look out on my part of the world, I see that the computer that in better days constantly provoked me, leaving me hardly any respite, no time for rest, remains inactive and silent. I could only hear the exciting and rapid sound of the keys describing on the illuminated screen the images that gushed like a spring of fresh water from my exuberant imagination. Then this machine was an extension of my mind and my spirit, now it is a common computer, like thousands of others, without soul and without activity, because I no longer have anything to tell. The keyboard seemed to me like a universe, with which one could express even the deepest philosophical thoughts, write the most passionate dialogues, or describe the most beautiful scenery. Everything was there, at sight, you just had to choose the right letters, in the right form and with the right rhythm. That was another life. Each character that came out of that now inert keyboard completely disrupted reality: they were the real ones, the rest was a dream. I felt them so alive that I often invoked them convinced that they would appear in my room, and we would discuss their future as a character in the novel. I always had the feeling that they were unhappy with their role, because I never got to know them as they really were, even though I had created them myself. But that was before the diagnosis; before my walking became clumsy and unsteady; long before the first symptoms of my illness made me lose consciousness because of an intense pain arising from some vague part of the inside of my body. But I had a premonition of my illness many years before. I may have had the presentiment from birth, so I lived with urgency, wrote with urgency and also grew old with the same urgency. Now I can rest and calm down, there is no longer any reason for urgency. 5. A dignified death I have discarded all hope. I know I am going to die, but against my will. I cannot accept that nature will decide for me. I have to anticipate its blind impulses; its irrational destruction. Only I can decide when and how I should die. It is a thought that horrifies me, but perhaps I must put an end to my life myself. Suicide? Would I be able to do it? But how? I don't want to die a violent death. By resorting to sedatives? But, knowing my situation, no doctor would prescribe them. I never thought it would be so difficult to attempt against one's own life. I envy those who are fortunate enough to die in their sleep, because the greatest difficulty for a suicidal person is to make the last decision of his life, because it is not possible to rectify it. Perhaps I could resort to euthanasia, but I do not want to die where the law allows it, nor do I want my death to be a commercial exchange. I would like to die by the sea, at the dusk of an autumn twilight, to take its beauty with me into eternity. Can't the wishes of a dying person be fulfilled? Why can't mine be fulfilled? But I am talking about me; planning my death by my own hands and by my own will. I intend to be myself the murderer who destroys everything I have created; to put an end to the fruit of my youthful illusions, my ambitions consummated after many years of loneliness and sadness, to my pleasant memories. At least if nature kills me, I will not be responsible for this homicide. No, I cannot attempt against myself. No tree would destroy its own fruit. But if I do not have enough courage to attempt against my body, I have to silence my conscience, limit the gloomy thoughts and close the eyes of imagination, the only one responsible for my sufferings, because we do not suffer if we do not imagine. So, do I have to let this terrible disease take its course? How will I bear this long agony? What stimulus will I count on? I can't imagine waiting impassively for death lying in a hospital bed, my mind dazed by painkillers and my vision blurred, foolishly fixed on some spot in the room. No, that is not a dignified way to die. There must be another, more humane and less painful way. Maybe the only worthy way to die is in that place you call home, and to be next to someone who feels true affection for you; that you can shake his hand until the last breath is lost, because it is through the hands that souls communicate and express their desires and feelings, so you can take his affection and his smile to eternity, although my eyes no longer see, my ears no longer hear and my body no longer feels anything. That is the only worthy way to die! A wise but useless reflection, because I don't have a home or anyone who feels so much affection for me. This apartment is not a home, because it lacks the essential: a woman. It is only a place of residence; a comfortable refuge; the right space for a writer; a gilded cage where to let the imagination run free. Only a woman can turn a station waiting room into a home, because she is the home. It is in her arms, in her bosom, in her feminine energy. Home is in the bed where a woman lies. As for someone who feels enough affection for me to watch over my agony and shake the weak hand of a dying man, unfortunately I haven't heard from her for many years. She was my first and only love, the person who stimulated my imagination and my creativity. To her I owe what I am and the memories that have inspired most of my novels. But back then my blind ambition was stronger than my feelings. We were united and separated by our passion for literature. We were both confident in our talents and had not the slightest doubt about our future successes. Our relationship inspired his best poems, for which I was flattered and transported to another world, but providence had a painful fate in store for him. The plot of my first novel was also the fruit of our relationship: the story of a failed poetess who describes her suicide in her last poem - a bitter paradox of fate! She helped me to correct my notable literary defects as a beginner, even typed the manuscript and suggested that I send it to a well-known literary contest for beginners. She shared my illusions and ambitions with generosity and without the slightest shadow of envy. He gave himself entirely to this work, which finally bore its unexpected fruits: I won the first prize! What followed is the cause of my regrets and I will never be able to forgive myself. A well-known literary agent was interested in me, and assured me that I had great literary talent and that in one or two years she would make me the most read and admired writer of that time. I was deeply flattered and accepted her bet. She suggested the theme of my second novel: a romantic story with a happy ending, and I had no difficulty in imagining the plot, I only had to add some new scenes to my own personal experiences. In this second novel it was she who revised and corrected the numerous stylistic flaws and grammatical errors of the first manuscript. We used to work in her own home, in an atmosphere of intimacy and familiarity, created to seduce me and make me literally fall into her arms. He had seen in me not only a talented writer, but also a lover. Unfortunately for my faithful companion, my agent was a woman with the appeal of mature yet beautiful women, with a young spirit and great experience in the arts of seduction, so it was impossible for me to resist. In a short time she managed to completely dominate my will. I spent my days in a frenetic program of promotion of my novel that barely allowed me to dedicate a few minutes to the memory of another woman who had to suffer in silence every time my image, with a studied smile of an arrogant winner, appeared in the media. The few moments I did not dedicate to my promotion I had to occupy them in satisfying her desires, always unsatisfied, not as my agent but as my lover. Although there were times when I was aware of my disloyal behavior, I could not give up the vain feeling of being above the common people; of dominating their wills, turning them into sycophants and my admirers. Since then there has been no peace for my spirit and I have known neither true friendship nor, much less, the passionate feeling of love. Now it is too late, because both friendship and love are like a beautiful plant, it needs time to bloom. 6. Memories Sometimes I wonder what would have become of me if I had not won that unexpected prize. I would possibly be married, have two or three children, a more prominent abdomen and could have found a good job in an insurance company, where I would have been promoted to assistant manager by now. We would live in a nice house with enough rooms for everyone, located in a quiet residential suburb. We would have two dogs, my wife's hysterical Yorkshire and a larger breed, plus a Siamese cat. Two of my children would already be going to university. The eldest would study law, and would already have secured a job in my company, and my middle daughter would study journalism, because she believed she had a vocation as a writer, and would have already published a book on the web with a romantic theme. The little one, because we would most probably have two females, would still be in high school and would wear a dental prosthesis to correct the deviation of her teeth. My wife would be president of some cultural association, and every first Saturday of the month our large living room would become a meeting room, where a dozen active mothers of families, and some retired widower, would discuss the details of an ambitious cultural program. We would have a good relationship with our neighbors. He might be a top executive of a multinational pet food company, and she would run a small, exclusive clothing boutique in our residential area, which in all likelihood would be a ruinous business. Every summer my wife, myself and our youngest daughter would spend two weeks in a popular seaside resort, where we would have an apartment booked every year on the 15th floor of a building on the third line of the sea, while our older children would take advantage of the summer to follow intensive English courses in London or New York. Is that what I missed? No; it's too conventional an assumption that I would never have accepted. But I don't want to think of my life with that woman as if it were the plot of one of my novels. She is a person and I must not confuse her with a character; our relationship was not a novel. Sometimes I don't know how to distinguish dream from reality, because memories eventually become dreams, and dreams eventually become reality. Everything could have been different if I had not been so blind and ambitious and had not fallen into the arms of my literary agent. But soon her eagerness to feel young and attractive no longer found sufficient stimulus in me, and she found herself a new lover, another ambitious young writer. I did not feel her betrayal at all, rather it was a liberation, because I also needed new stimuli to continue the meteoric rise of my popularity. Then I tried to recover my first love, but I lost track of her, it gave the impression that she had emigrated to another planet or had been swallowed up by the earth, because she had disappeared from all the means that could identify her whereabouts. Discouraged by the futile search, I tried to seek solace in one of my young female admirers. It was not difficult for me to seduce them, I could even choose among the many young girls who idolized me. I chose her not for her intelligence but for her body, because my capacity for love had been nullified by my betrayal. Unfortunately, despite her attractiveness, my constant remorse made me impotent and insensitive, so my relationship with my young lovers was brief and frustrating. My remorse led me to accept loneliness and I gave myself body and soul to my work. But the theme of my novels changed radically, the previous plots always had a happy ending, the new ones became unhappy, negative and with tragic endings, in which the protagonist of the story invariably died. But far from declining, my popularity continued to grow, because in our time there are hardly any relationships with a happy ending, and my readers identified better with the new dramatic twist of my tragic plots. 7. Ella Yes, despite all these years, I still keep her image alive, because she has been the one who has inspired my most beloved female characters. I have described her so many times that I could not forget her even if I tried. And if my memory should play a trick on me and erase her image, I only have to read again and again the novels where she is present to recover her intact, just as I have kept her for the last twenty years. But the years go by and leave their horrible mark. Maybe if I passed her in the street I wouldn't recognize her. What havoc has time done to her childish face and rosy cheeks? What color are her curly blond hair, always tousled, tangled between my fingers? And her breasts, small but sensual? What must not have changed is her sincere and tender look, nor the blue color of her eyes. How much I have longed for her in my long sleepless nights giving life to characters with her qualities! How much I would have given to feel her hands on my sore shoulders for those endless hours trying to recreate the world with the fantasies of my exhausted imagination! And how many mornings I woke up hugging my pillow, waking up from a dream in which I took her in my arms, and lying on a fragrant freshly cut lawn, we contemplated a pristine blue sky, which our eyes could barely contemplate a tiny part of its immensity. I met her in the faculty canteen one day in the early spring of 1997, the year Dario Fo won the Nobel Prize for literature, which I secretly aspired to win someday. She stood in front of me in the cafeteria line and pretended to hold her cup of coffee and a huge strawberry-cream cake with one hand, because the other was holding several books of poetry. I offered to hold the books for him, but he declined. Finally, as feared, the coffee cup, the cake and his precious books rolled on the floor. Then she did accept my help. While she cleaned up the pieces of cake that had smeared the books, I got a new cup of coffee and the last remaining slice of cake. But as fate would have it, that early spring morning she was left without her coffee and her delicious strawberry and cream cake, because I tripped over a misplaced chair and, once again, coffee and cake ended up on the floor. That coincidence in our clumsiness we interpreted it as a sign of destiny, that we were made for each other. The days and months that followed our eventful meeting were simply glorious. We discovered our respective vocations and ambitions, and agreed, sealed with a kiss, to walk together on the road to glory, which our youthful optimism considered conquered. We used to sit on the soft grass of our campus and exchange notes with our respective creations. I would read and appreciate her poetry and she would read my stories and we would discuss them in heated literary debates. Even today I still remember one of her poems, dedicated to me, of course: If your heart were foam, I would be ocean; If your soul were heaven, I would be cloud; If your gaze were rain, I would be a field; If your hands were water, I would be thirsty. We attended all cultural events related to literature, and we were considered "Les enfants terribles" of book presentations, because of our exhaustive questions. I think authors were afraid of us. We didn't miss any biographical film of writers. We made plans for the future, for when we were rich and famous. We agreed that we would spend half the year in Paris and the other half in Mallorca, in a small house on some cliff and that from the bedroom window we could watch the sunrise over the Mediterranean Sea. We had even decided to have our first child when I turned 30, and to have enough time to consolidate our respective literary careers. All those wonderful fantasies were happening before I won that damned prize. I realize now that I was sure of what my bright future would be like with all sorts of details, but I wasn't sure what I was like, and I barely endured the first test that fate put in my path. 8. The message I have barely had time to reflect and be fully aware of my pitiful fate and tomorrow I have to appear in public and make the presentation of my latest novel. I am the slave of my own success, a prisoner of the clauses of a draconian contract. I have long since ceased to be free and become an admired slave. I would give everything I own to go back and restart my life with her, and that I would never have had the clumsiness to submit my first novel and a literary contest, only to have the misfortune of winning it. But it's too late now. Now I will be back on the cover of specialized magazines, but to announce my inevitable death. They will write eulogies full of eulogies and virtues that I surely do not have, but the dead are extolled or sullied, but rarely respected. Surely the sales of my books will triple, so my untimely death is a magnificent business for my publishing house, for the printers and for the bookstores. They will mourn my death with crocodile tears. My agent will visit me repeatedly to secure his commission after my death. The publisher will also visit me, and with affected sadness, will make me sign a new contract to ensure the exclusivity of my books when I leave this world. I will receive thousands of condolences from my admirers, and they will be so hypocritical as to wish for my speedy recovery, but deep down my death is much more morbid and exciting for them. And what will become of my work? How long will it remain in the memory of my current admirers? A dead writer is only profitable as long as his funerals and tributes last, then other living writers will occupy my void, and they will surely be victims of my same disease. I am not likely to survive long. I have always had the feeling that I was writing what readers wanted to read not what I wanted to write. I will never know what kind of writer I am because I have never really tested myself. It has all come too easy to be important. There is no greater misfortune for a writer of vocation than to win a contest at a young age nor worse torture than to succeed at something you don't like. To write what your own intuition dictates, it is necessary not to think about readers at least until you are forty. I am one of those victims. I try to put these pathetic thoughts out of my mind by reading some of the numerous messages I receive every day. Today I don't want to read that chorus of praise from those who seem to be born to admire anyone who has their name printed somewhere other than on their ID card or in the mailbox. Most of them admire me only because I have hundreds of other admirers and followers, but they don't really know why they admire me. They all expect the same thing from me: a few words of response from the myth they are subjugated to in order to feel blessed by divine grace. Those of these unconditional admirers are a few short sentences that they must have saved in their computer memory to send to their favorite writers: "Very good your last novel", "I was hooked by your last novel", "I enjoyed your last novel", "I loved your last novel"; etc. And what can I answer? I could give them a huge thank you and have them divide it among themselves. But there is one message that catches my attention. It is that of a young woman. I can't explain it, but her image makes me uneasy and uneasy. Perhaps it is because there is something common in our features; or because of her haughty and provocative look, and yet, there is something of sweetness in her face. I have the impression that her arrogance hides a vulnerable personality. I almost don't dare to read her message, I have a feeling it will not be favorable and I don't have the day to endure criticism. After all, praise is a balm, it doesn't cure but it soothes; criticism is a bitter medicine, it tastes bad but it cures. I dare to read it: "Hi, I am an aspiring writer who has read all your novels and in my humble opinion there is only one that has a good motivation: the first one, the rest are acceptable, but lack this important quality. It seems as if after the first novel you have lost the motivation of the first one. As for your last novel, I am sorry to say that it seems as if you have lost both motivation and inspiration. Forgive me for being so frank, but that is my opinion. Naomi." Whoever you are, Naomi, you have discovered my best kept secret! I confess that this severe criticism from an arrogant and conceited young lady has affected me. I shouldn't worry, all the invitations for the presentation of my new novel have been booked for a week now, and the reviews have not been very effusive but not bad either, but what surprises me is the certainty of her judgments, which fully coincide with the reality of my literary career. It is true that the novels after the first one I wrote were influenced by my literary agent, not by a human being, and that they were not written by the artist but by the professional with a good style. And that face... that expression... those features so similar to mine; the clear forehead, the dimples in the cheeks and the slight droop of the eyelids... they are identical. But I wonder who is this mysterious Naomi? There is nothing in her profile that identifies her, not where she studied, not where she lives, no pictures, no blog; nothing! I answer: "Dear Noemí, your harsh criticism has hurt my self-esteem, but I appreciate your sincerity. I have no doubt that you will be a great writer. I am aware that none of my novels will deserve even a modest corner of posterity. If I wrote with posterity in mind, I would lose practically all my readers. In the times we live in, no writer can be above the intellectual level of his readers, because that would make them feel guilty and ignorant. If you appear half a dozen times on a TV channel with a large audience and you have some physical attraction, you automatically become the idol of thousands of people who were born to be followers. The media has so much power that if they had their way, they could win the Nobel Prize for the editor of the crime chronicles of a provincial newspaper. If the media have idealized you, you can write anything, because they won't stop admiring you. My latest novel is not brilliant, it is as normal and ordinary as the normal and ordinary readers who will enjoy reading it, because it speaks in their same language, it has their same vices and virtues. Anyway, that is the novel they would write themselves, but I have spared them that painful work. Most of us writers today are not chasing readers but journalists and image-makers, who are the ones who really rule the world. If you dream of being an out-of-the-ordinary writer, your life will be spent within that same out-of-the-ordinary dream, and you will never be able to live in reality. I look forward to your understanding. Kind regards" I send it. I find it a good rejoinder, but I have to admit that your criticism has merit. I don't owe my fame to my supposed talent but to the popularity that my first novel gave me, and that she inspired me, and the intelligent marketing of my protector. I have no more merit than to have been able to interpret her advice, her deep knowledge of the psychology of readers and her wise ideas, with my ability to write them in an acceptable style. But I am sure that there are hundreds of writers with much more talent than me who have not been as lucky as me. I just received a new message from Naomi. I wonder how she interpreted my reply. I could delete it. After all, it's just the opinion of an immature young girl, I don't have to take it into consideration. I have plenty of admirers and I am no longer worried about success or failure, because there will be no more novels to criticize. She is right: I lack muse and inspiration. But I am curious to know her opinion and I open it: "Yes, good novels need good readers, that's why they are so scarce. But good writers make good readers, and if you write mediocre novels you will always have mediocre readers. I look forward with great interest to hearing your views on the presentation of your new novel. Best regards and see you tomorrow. Noemí." It hurts me, but I accept it. You are absolutely right: each reader gets the author he or she deserves. No doubt I am one of those to blame for the mediocrity of the readers, because I have been satisfied with their compliments without worrying about whether or not they were well-founded. What can I say about the novel if I have never written a real novel? 9. Hallucinations Another endless sleepless night. I see mysterious shadows creeping stealthily around my bed. No doubt I suffer from hallucinations. I have had to hide all the pictures that decorated this room, because when I looked at them it seemed as if they were moving and coming out of their frames. Sometimes I look at my hands and it seems to me that they are someone else's and not mine. Any small object becomes an insect crawling on the shelves of my bookcase, or on my study table, I even see them moving on the quilt of my bed. I know they are simple hallucinations caused by my tired eyesight and depressed mood, but they distress me. I cannot bear this suffering until the day I die. I have to do something. I need her forgiveness. I have to find her even if I have to go to hell itself, from which I am only a step away. Why hasn't he contacted me in all these years? I am a public figure. She must have known how to contact me. A wound can't stay open for twenty years. They say that time heals everything, but they don't say what kind of wounds it heals. There are some for which, it seems, time does not pass, and probably some of them are disloyalty and betrayal. But she may also already be married with a family, and no longer feel any interest in me. Or, who knows, and I am distressed at the very thought, but she may already be dead. The ghosts keep haunting my bed. It seems as if all the spirits are conspiring against me to destroy what little judgment I have left, but I will resist; this is not a good time for madness. I have taken from the shelf my latest novel and read the passage in which the heroine discovers that her lover is cheating on her. It is an ordinary love story, and in real life cheating is also ordinary, and I have personal experiences to write these scenes realistically. Another dawn without any reason for optimism. I must have slept two or three hours, but I feel tired and sore, because the few hours I have slept have been occupied by a horrible nightmare. Fortunately I can only remember the final moments. I was bedridden in a hospital bed, but the room was painted red and a faceless nurse was injecting me with a dose of morphine. Scenes of a butcher butchering pigs could be seen in front of my bed. The pigs would talk and ask the butcher, "Why me?" But the butcher would not listen to their cries and would unload one after another of his deadly blows. Incomprehensibly it was my turn, and I asked him again the same anguished question, "Why me?" with the same result. And the butcher was preparing to settle his killing blow, when he suddenly transformed into her, smiling, just as I last saw her on campus. She stroked my dazed head. She gazed at me for a few moments, and barely as a whisper, she exclaimed: "Spreads his wings the angel of death, because he has an important assignment from Lucifer. When you are suspended by its deadly claws, I will not cry for you but for me, for I will not be able to accompany you to hell, as was my wish." And he vanished, transforming into the butcher, who again was about to lay his deadly blow when fortunately a call from my cell phone woke me up from this horrible dream. It is my current literary agent. -I'm sorry to call you at this hour, but I want you to know that I'm sorry; I'm really sorry! -His ambiguous message causes me great concern -I'm sorry about your diagnosis! -How do you know about my diagnosis? -Someone from the hospital has leaked the news of your incurable disease and it's circulating all over the social networks! I didn't know it was so serious! Believe me I'm sorry; I don't know what to say...! -My agent feels obliged to take charge of the situation and comments visibly affected: "If you are not feeling well, we can cancel the presentation. But this would mean breaching the contract with the publisher and would bring us a lot of headaches. Only death can be a legal justification. No, I have to make the presentation. Sooner or later they will know my state of health. A writer without a contract is free to do whatever he wants, because he has nothing published. On the other hand, a writer with a contract and who has published has something to justify his slavery. We write to have a reason to lose our freedom. That's how paradoxical the writer's world is. We arranged to have breakfast together in a café near my apartment. My agent was accompanied by a young woman who made a great impression on me. But not because of her beauty, but because of her appearance and curious attire. She wears a wide leather jacket of a striking scarlet color, which contrasts with her straight black hair, cropped at the nape of her neck, pale as snow. She wears tight black tights and a black skirt that covers a small part of her thighs. But the most striking thing is her huge military-style boots, which she laces up with red laces. As for her face, it seems vulgar to me, with nothing to highlight. I have the impression that with that flashy outfit she intends us not to pay attention to her face, which she herself must be aware of its lack of attractiveness or charm. However, her gaze and gestures are simple and frank. Just by her manner of greeting I deduce that she is cultured and intelligent. The young lady is the latest represented by my agent. According to him, she has talent. He wanted her to join us for our interview because she needs to be introduced to the world of literature, and he felt I was a good place to start. The young woman seems somewhat intimidated by my presence. She has spilled her coffee twice by shaking it too vigorously. She doesn't dare look at me straight on, and doesn't take her eyes off her shaken coffee cup. I wonder what he is thinking. He waits for me to speak to him, and the truth is, I don't know what we can talk about other than the weather. I break the silence by commenting that it's been a very wet autumn. The young woman nods slightly, but only out of politeness. My trivial remark confuses my agent, who doesn't want to waste time with such trifles. From a pocket of her jacket she pulls out a newspaper clipping and hands it to me. It is the latest published review of my novel. I ask him to summarize it for me, that's why I have an agent: -It's good," he says, not hiding the businessman's satisfaction, "even suggesting it could be the novel of the year. I don't discuss it with my agent, but I suspect this reviewer must collect a check every month from my publisher, and doesn't want to antagonize them. There are few honest critics left, or if they are, they are ignorant of the fundamentals of literature. For the sake of this millennial art I would have preferred a bad review, as this novel deserves. On another occasion I would have rejoiced, but now that I must give an account to my conscience for all my actions, it saddens me, because even now the wise phrase: "The hour of truth has come" makes sense. And the truth is that it is a bad novel. The young writer congratulates me and assures me that I deserve it, and seems to expect my thanks. I think she is trying to suggest some topic of conversation in which she can participate. -Forgive me for butting in," he finally decides to intervene, "but I think it's a good novel, too. I ask him what motivates his opinion. -It's well written and the characters are very well characterized," she answers a bit embarrassed, because she wasn't expecting my question. It has very well-drawn descriptions and the dialogues are very natural. Yes, I think your last novel is very good. It is evident that this young girl belongs to this generation in which ideals are rare, because she has omitted the fundamental: the plot. A poem does not need a plot, words are enough, but a novel cannot exist without a plot. The plot is what links fiction with reality, and a good novel must bear witness to the reality of its time through the plot; of the author's commitment to his time. If this linkage does not exist, it cannot transcend its immediacy, and instead of a novel we write a pamphlet of three hundred pages, decorated with a suggestive cover, and with an unjustified price. I don't put this idea to her because she probably doesn't feel committed to her times. I ask her what she thinks of the argument and she seems to mull over the answer: -It's a classic theme," he answers without much conviction. The betrayal of the one we love. It's a good argument. But it is rude of me not to show interest in your work. I am also interested in his idea of literature. I ask him which genre of literature he is most attracted to, and without barely letting me finish my sentence, he replies: -The novel, of course! It must be so, because her face has been transfigured with the charm of enthusiasm. She seems pleased by my interest; it is evident that she wished to communicate with me, but as a writer to a writer. She has succeeded. I ask her what is the reason for her enthusiasm for narrative, and her answer leaves no room for doubt: -Only a novel can tell a complex story that is a complete world. The short story is very brief and the tale can only tell a part of that world. No doubt this young woman knows what she wants. Now we'll see if she also knows why she wants it. I ask about her motivation. -My motivation? I've never asked myself this question, I think I was born already motivated by the love of literature! I have many reasons to be motivated," she answers with a sudden and astonishing self-confidence. But perhaps the main one is that through literature many values can be transmitted that can help each generation to be morally superior to the previous one. That's a good answer. I have been wrong about this young woman and I have underestimated her. I ask her the last question: -And what is literature for you? -Literature is a way of telling stories that provoke in the reader the feeling of the beauty of language, the creativity of the imagination and the understanding of the reality in which they come from or wish to live. When the words do not prevent the imagination from seeing, hearing or feeling what you are reading, because they are all in perfect harmony, with none missing or surplus. That is my opinion. I am impressed by her response, and I congratulate my agent on his wise choice. The young lady is out of the ordinary, but that doesn't mean she will have the success she undoubtedly deserves. 10. The walk I say goodbye to my agent and his young companion, to whom I give encouragement to continue because I believe he has the necessary talent for success, but I also warn him of the price he will have to pay for his passion. A useless warning, because passion overflows all attempts at restraint. He will go on his way without heeding my warnings. My agent asks me what I plan to do until the time of the presentation, and if I would like to have lunch together as well. Maybe he's thinking that it's not a day to leave me alone and he needs company. I tell her that I had thought about taking a long walk in the park, but I decline her invitation; I have never liked restaurants. The young woman also seems concerned about my mood and makes me a tempting offer: She would like to accompany me on my walk and then go to her apartment, where she will cook for me one of the specialties of her region. It sounds like a good program and I accept. I notice in his invitation the desire to communicate his concerns and show me his works to know my opinion, but also a sudden affection for me, which must have a large dose of compassion. It is cloudy and at intervals clearings open through which the sunlight penetrates, and all the foliage is illuminated as if it were a fresco painted by some genius of those who probably inhabit this park. My young companion seems to be happy that I have accepted his invitation, and walks beside me but in silence. I have the impression that he has already achieved his purpose and does not think he needs any more arguments or reasons to convince me. There is no doubt that he admires me, which makes me feel uncomfortable. No person is more admirable than another, what is admired are the results of his education, intuition or creativity, but not the human being himself. Since we all deserve the same respect and consideration, there cannot be some more admirable than others. I try to make him see it with a committed personal question: -I would love to know what idea you have formed about me; and why were you interested in meeting me personally? The question has caught her off guard. She meditates for a few moments on her answer, losing her gaze in an undefined point of the leafy walk, sketching a smile that must emerge from her thoughts. She turns to me, literally glares at me, and doesn't hesitate in her surprising answer: -Because I am in love with you! Now the surprised one is me, but the years have made me skeptical and limited my ability to feel affection for others. But there is another reason for me to reject her surprising statement: I have no other mission in my remaining life than to find the woman to whom I owe what this young woman admires. As long as I do not repay my debt my feelings are blocked. I let her know this in the least painful way possible: -Sometimes we writers live our fantasies as if they were reality. I'm sure you love a character in your novels who looks like me. But your answer surprises me even more than the first one: -I have told you that I am in love with you, but not that you are in love with me. You cannot prevent me from loving you, but neither can I prevent you from feeling no affection for me. I know you don't find me attractive, you may even consider me ugly, and you may not like the way I dress. I choose whom I love, but I don't pretend that you are also my lover. I am content to be able to walk beside him, and if he feels like it, to taste my casseroles, but he must know that I love him! Her generosity is sublime: she gives her feelings in exchange for accompanying the faltering step of a dying man, and having a guest at her table. No doubt this ungraceful young woman has an immense heart and can afford to squander her affections. I must not allow this waste, she may later need them for herself. -But you yourself have witnessed that you have fallen in love with a sick man who will soon leave this world! -I know, and I feel a great sadness, but you are a writer too, and you make people love each other who exist only in your imagination. Why can't I do the same? When the unfortunate day comes when you are gone, I will still have you in my imagination, and I will still love you as I love you now. It is inevitable that I will ask you this crucial question: -But what is so attractive about a dying curentón that awakens such a passion in you? -There are very few men who have been able to penetrate the soul of a woman. We admire the man who has brilliant ideas, but we love the man not for his intelligence but for being essentially a man, whereas we can fall madly in love with a gigolo, a greasy-handed mechanic or a smelly sewer man, as long as they are essentially men! If he is also intelligent and creative, then he is irresistible! -Do I belong to that category? He doesn't answer me, but his smile answers my question. 11. Lunch The apartment of my young lover is a museum of nostalgia, because it is full of objects that remind her of her place of origin, which she must miss deeply. It is a single room where a certain chaos reigns. His desk is next to the only window in the room, and it is full of pages with printed texts, which must be his writings, where his laptop appears. On the printer is a small stuffed panda bear, and on the window ledge, arranged in a row, is a veritable collection of assorted objects, possibly gifts or souvenirs from trips. His bed is a large convertible sofa, because there is not enough room for a regular bed. On the opposite side of the window there is a space separated by a wide curtain that must be your kitchen. And next to it a table where no more than two pieces of cutlery can fit, as long as you remove the huge bouquet of flowers that are beginning to wilt. The table is also occupied by the remains of a previous meal, such as unwashed dishes, half-full glasses or leftover bread. It is obvious that he was not expecting visitors, so he hastens to justify the mess: -Excuse this mess, but I wasn't expecting visitors, I'll tidy it up in a moment. Despite the clutter the set is intimate and cozy. I'd rather you didn't tidy it up. -Would you like to read some of my writings while I prepare lunch? I beg you not to address me as you, because we have already made enough confidences to be on a first-name basis. -I will read them with great interest. He tries to put order in the pages scattered on his desk until he has gathered about twenty pages. -It's the first pages of my new novel," she says with some embarrassment, "it's the love story between a young dancer and her choreographer... who is inspired by you. He insists on not calling me by my first name. I suppose his love for me includes this distant treatment. If he were to call me by my first name, some of his charm would be lost. I have to accept that. I like his style. I am particularly struck by this passage: "A talented dancer understands the language of music and translates it into the harmonious movements of her agile body. You no longer need a choreographer, but a lover who interprets the music that moves your body!" The meal was delicious and for her, moreover, a source of longing. I still have a few hours to go before the presentation. She suggests that I get some sleep to be clearer. I accept the idea. We unfold the bed and I lie down. She covers me with a light blanket, closes the window shade and locks herself in her tiny kitchen to do the dishes and the rest of the service. I hear the bustle of the kitchen almost in my sleep, and it brings back images of times gone by, when she also cooked for me. I am awakened by the sound of crying. It is the young woman crying. She is lying next to me, and hurries to wipe away her tears when she notices that I wake up. -Is something wrong, Alicia? I ask him in alarm. But his answer puzzles me: -Forgive me, I am a fool; I was crying with happiness to have you next to me, in my own bed! I could never have imagined that this young, scantily clad, strikingly dressed young woman was such an exceptional human being. No doubt that appearances can be deceiving. I feel the need to know more about her. I let her approach me, because I feel more paternal than passionate affection for her. I beg her to tell me something about her. She comes closer to me. I think she wants me to hold her in my arms. I cannot rebuff her and do her bidding. She smiles gratefully at me. -I'm just a provincial girl, ugly and clumsy," I try to protest, but she interrupts me. No, it's true, I'm ugly, that's why I dress in flashy clothes, although it doesn't do much good. The boys didn't like me, even though more than one tried to rape me. I grew up without the slightest affection and soon I had no other alternative to mitigate my loneliness than to invent lovers and friends. I felt real disgust for boys of my age, violent and rude. I fell in love for the first time with a mature, married man. He treated me gently and, although I would have allowed it, he never asked me to make love. It's my fate, he wasn't in love with me either, I think he felt pity. I had no choice but to leave my city, and I came here. Literature was my only friend. My novels were my only consolation. I managed to interest a modest publisher to publish one of my novels, although I had to pay for the edition out of my own pocket. That was almost two years ago. I sent the manuscript to several publishers, but all of them rejected it. Someone advised me to look for a literary agent, and I found his agent on the Internet. I sent him a copy of my novel, and the rest you know. I remain silent because I am impressed by her story, so different from mine! I have betrayed those who loved me; she has been faithful to those who did not love her. Her story makes me feel even more guilty. But she has omitted something and I can no longer accept that I am not interested: -But I am missing in your story! -Yes, of course; you're missing! I met him during the presentation of his previous novel. I was sitting in the last row. I looked like a normal young woman then, and you approached me several times, but you must have been invisible, because you didn't so much as glance at me and I didn't dare to catch your eye. I have always been somewhat shy and introverted, but that day I was out of this world. When I saw you on the rostrum, with your shirt unbuttoned, with your mocking and provocative gesture, so sure of yourself, something stirred in my whole body, and I immediately understood that I had fallen in love with you, but with the man, I didn't know the writer yet -he remains silent for a few moments, as if reliving that moment in his imagination, because I feel as if his body was shaking; he smiles as if now he finds his sudden passion for me funny-. When I left his presentation, I don't know how long I walked around aimlessly, trying to hold back tears. I had fallen in love with the most admired man in the literary world. I still ache from the applause of his brilliant speech. When he finished and came down from what for me was already a throne, for you were already my king, all the young women in the room surrounded him because they wanted to touch their idol. They were all beautiful and wore brand name clothes. I was a provincial girl, ugly, shy and clumsy, and I wore old-fashioned clothes. That night I stayed up all night, crying non-stop. When a woman falls in love, the lover is part of her flesh and soul, and his absence hurts as if both were torn away. We don't think we can survive these terrible wounds," she pauses again, but now she seems to be reliving those bitter moments. Unexpectedly she takes one of my hands and caresses it. That comforts her and she continues her story. I spent some anguished days, but I finally resigned myself and tried to put the fire that burned me down, but I didn't stop loving him, only to numb his memory. But I resolved to one day be on the same level as him, so that he would notice me. I changed my wardrobe and frantically wrote one novel after another in which somehow you were always the protagonist - he exchanges a meaningful glance with me and continues - You can't imagine the joy that invaded me when I saw your photograph in the office of the agent who had agreed to represent me! -Yes, I can imagine! -I interrupt her. -And now you are here, in my own bed, and you hold me in your arms. Have I no reason to weep for happiness? 12. The presentation The account of her generous love for me, which I certainly do not deserve, changes my affection for this sensitive young woman, who has the evocative name of Alicia. I no longer find her ugly, nor clumsy; I see not her face but her soul, and I find her beautiful. I would like to let her know this, but I fear I may change my mind when my remorse for my unforgivable betrayal returns. Only if I rid myself of them could I even reciprocate her love for me. But I cannot forget that I must not delude myself into enjoying the pleasures of life, for before my feelings can be free to love whomever I wish, I will have died. Alicia does not deserve this punishment. It's time to go to the presentation venue. My agent has called me on my cell phone, he is worried about my state of mind, but I reassure him, I feel strong enough to face the presentation. Even the story of this young woman has given me new arguments to defend the literature that arises from the deepest feelings and condemn the banal and entertaining. As expected, the room is packed to capacity. Most of them remain standing because there are not enough chairs for everyone. No doubt they know the news of my diagnosis. My agent is waiting for me in an adjoining room to bring me up to date with the most prominent attendees. The editors of several literary magazines have come, and most of the journalists from the culture sections of the newspapers. They must be interested in the story of the writer who dies, not the one who writes. Alicia has accompanied me here, but she got confused with the audience and I lost sight of her. The moderator and other guests are already on the podium. When I appear in the room there is a telltale murmur. Several photographers take snapshots of the panel, but mostly they point their cameras at me. They must think that these will be the last pictures they will take of me. The moderator introduces me and gives a brief summary of the novel I am going to present. The time has come for my speech. I look for Alicia in the crowd, and discover her at one end of the room, leaning against a column. She has felt my gaze and smiles at me. She wants to encourage me; her smile makes it easier for me to begin my speech. -Good afternoon. First of all I want to thank all of you for attending the presentation of my latest novel. I feel guilty that I have this comfortable chair when most of you have to stand. Had I known so many of you were coming we would have held this presentation at the Olympic Stadium -you laugh at my joke, but I'm sure most of you didn't expect me to still have a sense of humor under the circumstances-. I assume you have all read the reviews of my new novel. Most are favorable, but not all - I forgot to send the check to two or three reviewers! I also assume you must already know the news of my diagnosis. Yes, I have only a few months to live, and it's no laughing matter, but my health won't improve if I take it seriously," I'm interrupted by a loud murmur, but I beg for silence. I learned the diagnosis yesterday, and because of the leak I haven't been able to extend my life insurance premium. I am sorry for my cat, who is the beneficiary of the insurance, because as you must know, I have no offspring. I'm very fond of my cat, because she's the only one I understand - I gave up understanding humans years ago! But I guess you haven't come here to hear about my good understanding with my cat, but about my latest novel. Surprising as it may surprise you, this novel and the previous ones I could not have written without my cat. She has taught me to accept who feeds me without losing my dignity. She has also taught me that there is always a time to play, and despite my advanced age I have never stopped playing! For me writing is a game, but a serious game. To play it is necessary to know only these three basic rules: to have a good technique, to have one's own style and a solid motivation. Whoever knows these three rules well has every chance of winning. Writers have a solid training, and we know how to distinguish a past perfect from a pluperfect, we do not commit spelling mistakes and we know where to put a comma or semicolon. After all, they are just rules to memorize, so most of us have a good technique. But when we talk about style not everyone understands what its meaning is and how it is valued, although critics insist on pigeonholing us with this or that current, because style has no rules, but depends on our sensitivity and the value we give to the words. Each word, in addition to a meaning, has a tone and must be joined to other words perfectly tuned, which is not common in today's literature, the meaning prevails and not the intonation. And if we talk about motivation, we usually associate it with remuneration, and not with a commitment to the values of our time, which must somehow be reflected in the arguments of what we write. Artists also pay rent; for the tax authorities we are just one more and in supermarkets they don't give us credit, if we don't pay we don't eat. That's why the writer must be paid. But this should not be the motivation. And that is the incurable disease of art, because what is the patrimony of the spirit becomes a market product; what should not have a price becomes an accounting value; what should entertain and enlighten, only serves to entertain. Finally, the spirit has nothing to exercise itself with and atrophies by inactivity and the result is that we lose the sensibility to distinguish the beautiful from the ugly; the good from the bad; the transcendent from the inconsequential. And that is the deplorable state in which literature finds itself today, practically on a global level, because insensitivity to art has also become globalized. All the responsibility for this situation falls on fifty percent of the readers and another fifty percent on the authors, because each reader has the author he deserves, and each writer has the readers he deserves. About this last novel, I will not reveal the plot, just advance that it is the drama of two writers, she is a poet and he is a narrator, who are united by literature, but separated by words. We understand the people we imagine, but not the real ones we love. Finally, I would like to tell you a moving story that illustrates better than any complicated argument what Literature is and what it is for. The story I wish to tell you is that of a young writer from the provinces, who considers herself ugly and clumsy, rejected by everyone, and who learned to love generously through the characters in her novels. This young woman does not write for fame and money, but to feel loved, even if her lovers are fictional. But her extraordinary humanity and generosity has been rewarded, and the beloved protagonist of her fiction has become a reality. However, despite her fleeting happiness, the story does not have a happy ending, because the real character will die a few months later, and this young writer from the provinces, who, as I have said, considers herself ugly and clumsy, will again resort to the suggestive power of literature to keep him in her memory and keep the flame of her love alive forever. -I try to see what Alice's reaction to my mention is, but she is no longer standing by the column. She has disappeared! Perhaps I have offended her, but I have to go on. And it is this extraordinary power of literature that I wanted to tell you about in this presentation. Power that only literature that springs from inspiration and shapes a creative imagination has. There can be nothing more obscene than a stultified, uninspired, soulless literature. Thousands of words put together without harmony or humanity, telling us banal, dehumanized stories, with no other purpose than to entertain our boredom and distract us from our worries. Death scares me, as it does any human being, but in return it has given me something I would not have had without its terrible threat: freedom! Now I can speak my mind without fear of the consequences, and I think that the novel I present to you here today was not written by me, but by market demand, like practically all other novels published today. Only that young, ugly and clumsy provincial writer, and perhaps thousands more as provincial, ugly and clumsy as her, to whom no one will pay attention, write their novels for themselves, as their hearts and minds dictate, because they simply need to. Literature, written in capital letters, is a necessity, not a pastime; it not only entertains, but teaches; it not only calms, but heals; it is not only read, but lived. If I were to be born again, I would like it to be in a world where one could survive without the laws of the market; and where we were all provincial, ugly and clumsy. I have nothing more to add, but I will gladly answer your questions, as long as they are not too personal. Several hands were raised asking for their turn to ask questions. I answer the one from a journalist: -I am sorry about your illness, but I would like to know how you plan to spend your last days. I answer without hesitation: -Meditating on death. The next question is from a woman who must be my age: -What is it that you have wished for but have not been able to achieve? -Understand the world we live in! The third question has caused me an inexplicable emotion. It is from young Naomi, with whom I have exchanged several messages. The question puzzles me, for which I do not have a ready answer. -Do you regret not having started a family, and perhaps having had one or more children, who would now take care of you? I sense that there is some hidden meaning to your question. What can I answer? It is too late for regrets. -Your question is too personal and I have already warned that I would not answer such questions. The young woman seems very upset, and does not want to give up. She insists. -Who or what inspired you to write this novel and what was your motivation? I have not meditated my answer, it has come straight from my subconscious, where it should have been for many years: -All writers have an emotional conflict between what we create and where we get our inspiration. We usually make our imagination make real what is not possible in real life. I have been inspired by a real person whom I don't understand. As for my motivation, it is precisely to try to understand her. The young woman seems satisfied with my answer and does not insist. They applaud my intervention, but only the youngest seem to have understood my message. Utopia is no more than twenty years old. The pain returns with severe intensity. I ask the moderator to close the presentation. The attendees seem to understand the reasons and the room is becoming empty. Alicia met with me. She had rushed out of the room so she wouldn't be seen crying. Perhaps I had overdone it and should have been less dramatic. My agent tells me that outside the room a crowd is waiting for us to sign copies. I can't refuse. Most of them show me their sadness for my illness with some words of comfort. I don't know how many books I have signed but I am exhausted. I beg Alice to let me lean on her shoulder and we return to the hall to collect our coats. I feel the pain blurring my vision and I am so weak that if I didn't lean on her I would have collapsed by now. In this deplorable state I am unable to recognize young Naomi, who remains in her seat, because she is waiting for me. My agent has spoken to her and conveys her desire to talk to me, but has not revealed the reason. But I am not in the mood to hold literary talks with my female admirers. I ask her to excuse herself, and to contact me by mail. My agent communicates my message to her, but the young woman insists on talking to me. It's not about literature, apparently it's personal. Alicia helps me into an armchair in the next room, and the pain seems to subside. I ask my agent to call the young woman - I hope it's not another platonic love! 13. Noemi For the first time my illness has prevented me from fulfilling my editorial commitments. It is evident that my health is getting worse with each passing day. It has been a blessing that I met Alicia at this crucial time. For the first time I am unable to fend for myself and I need help. I am beginning to feel the painful preambles of death. I am anxious about the interview with young Naomi. There is something familiar about her, as if I had known her in a previous life. But, on the other hand, I sense that she brings with her serious events that may alter what little life I have left. Alicia seems to share my concern. She may be a rival with an advantage, because Naomi is a very graceful young woman. She is of a medium build, her long hair, of an elegant brown color and her harmonious forms, make her a very attractive young woman. She enters the room accompanied by my agent. She seems uneasy or perhaps nervous. She contemplates me prostrate on the couch. She must understand the inappropriateness of this interview. As she approaches, I feel a deep pity in her eyes. She seems to feel my illness as if we already knew each other. I beg him to sit in the next armchair. -So, Naomi, what is this important thing you have to tell me? She makes a gesture to sit down, but again she remains upright, something is bothering her. She exchanges a glance with my agent and with Alicia, who remains next to me, leaning on one of the arms of the wide sofa: -Could we be alone for a few minutes," she asks me, visibly nervous, "what I have to tell you is very personal. My agent exchanges a questioning glance with me, and Alicia becomes uneasy, because she must believe that the young woman is definitely a feared rival. If I beg you to leave us alone, you'll think I don't trust you, but now I'm keenly interested in what this young woman wants to tell me. I beg you to leave us alone. Alicia can't help exchanging a sad and doubtful look with me, but she respects my wish. The two leave the room without reproach. Naomi follows them with her eyes and seems relieved when she closes the door behind her. For a few moments, during which she seems to gather her thoughts and calm down, she does not take her eyes off an indeterminate point on the floor. Then she looks up and, visibly excited, asks me: -Do you remember who wrote this verse? If your heart were foam, I would be ocean; If your soul were heaven, I would be cloud; If your gaze were rain, I would be a field; If your hands were water, I would be thirsty. It's as if a bolt of lightning crosses my mind. I have a powerful intuition, but I refuse to acknowledge it. How did that poem come to this young woman? I don't answer, but it is I who asks the next question, and I feel my breathing become labored and my old heart flutter: -Who wrote it? She looks at me and I feel a deep anxiety in her eyes. She is on the verge of tears. -My mother wrote it twenty years ago...! She breaks into silent tears and covers her face with her hands. She doesn't dare look at me. I am stunned, and I don't know how to react. I ask myself the question I anxiously await an answer to: Is this young woman my daughter? If so, how could all these years have passed without her mother telling me? Yes, it is possible; we made love a few weeks before my betrayal, and we took no precautions. But how should I behave towards her? I cannot feel sudden parental affection for someone I do not know, even if she is my own daughter. We will need some time to get to know each other and maintain a normal father-daughter relationship. On the one hand the news fills me with joy, but on the other hand it saddens me, because for twenty years I have ignored its existence and when I learn of it I have only a few months to live. I have managed to regain my composure, I have to act sensibly. I hope she will also regain her composure and clear up my many doubts. Where is her mother? Why has she kept my daughter away from me all these years? My so-called daughter has calmed down and stops crying. She turns to me with a pleading look on her face, because she expects me to somehow prove to her that I have adopted her. But I need some answers: -Dear Naomi, you must understand that this situation is very confusing. I can't behave like a father in a few moments. Calm down and tell me why you haven't contacted me before. Where is your mother? But let my agent and Alicia come, they are absolutely trustworthy and can be present. I must not show them mistrust. My supposed daughter nods slightly as she wipes her tears and tries to regain her composure. I call my agent and Alicia and update them on the new situation. They are both perplexed and don't know what to say. Alicia approaches Naomi and tries to comfort her by stroking her long silky hair. Naomi thanks her with a smile. She seems to be calm now. I hope she can clear all my doubts. 14. Naomi's story -I didn't know you were my father until just a month ago, when I needed a novel for a paper on current literature and I found one of your novels in the faculty library. When I saw your photograph I was struck by our physical resemblance, but I didn't pay any more attention to it, but when I read the description of the female character, I realized that you were describing my mother. I read all her novels and in all of them, with minor changes, she was still the same description of my mother. But I was missing one of her books: the first one, which won a well-known literary contest of that time, and I could have the definitive proof. But they had no copy in the library. The book was out of print and a bookseller informed me that you had not authorized its reprinting. So I went to all the used bookstores in town, with no success. When I had already lost all hope of finding that book, I received a call from a classmate of mine to give me the good news that she had a copy of the book I was looking for. When I read it, all my doubts were dispelled. Your novel was titled "Poetas sin cielo" (Poets Without Heaven), after a poem written by my mother, which is the plot of your novel. Certain that you were my father, I booked an invitation to the presentation of your new novel. But I didn't want you to know until I was sure what kind of person my father was, because I had formed a very negative idea of who had abandoned my mother. When I found out about her illness, I changed my attitude, but when I listened to her today I felt enormously proud to be her daughter, and I want to believe that she will have some powerful reason that could justify her abandoning her when she was pregnant with me. Unfortunately my mother doesn't have the answer. You don't know this, but so great was the trauma of the separation that she suffered a bout of severe amnesia, from which she has not yet recovered. She still has no memory of her relationship with you. I grew up with my grandparents in a small northern town, but they were not aware of their daughter's relationship with you either. My mother was a free and independent woman, always doing what she wanted, until she lost her memory. My grandparents took her in and she still lives there, but now she is alone, because both my grandparents have died and I have enrolled in the university in this city, the same one where you and my mother met, twenty years ago! It is true that reality surpasses fiction! I am desolate, my soul hurts me more than my body, but for this evil they don't sell painkillers in pharmacies, they can only be found in hell. I do not deserve the affection of this ignored daughter; I do not deserve the affection of anyone and I doubt very much that I can avoid my damnation. I almost wish it as a deserved punishment! 15. Repentance There is a sepulchral silence. I notice in the expressions of my agent and Alicia a veiled reproach. Naomi looks exhausted, indecisive, waiting for my reaction. Now I should give her a justification for my behavior, but I have none and she must know it. I do not expect her forgiveness, but at least she will not live deceived. She must know who her father is, and if in spite of everything she believes she deserves his affection and understanding. -No, dear Naomi, I have no justification, your father is a scoundrel! -Alicia wants to protest, she can't understand how I could have behaved that way, but I beg you to let me finish, I need to confess my guilt. Naomi cannot blame her mother; I am the only one to blame. When we are young and ambitious, everything seems valid and we believe that wounds heal easily. I knew your mother would suffer for my betrayal, but I assumed she would soon get over it. Perhaps she would find another young man and soon forget about me. I could never imagine that her love for me would be so deep, and my betrayal so painful. I also didn't know she was pregnant, because after I left her I didn't have enough courage to take an interest in her, and I never saw her again. I know that Naomi must be disappointed with my statement of guilt. I can see the dismay and confusion in her expression. It is unfortunate, but I still believe that youth heals wounds quickly. Naomi must also soon heal this wound. In my desperation I can only think of a remote justification: -Literature brought us together and literature itself drove us apart. I believed that my literary career was above feelings; as if I had been born to fulfill a mission, and I could not put anything, including people and their feelings, before this blind ambition. My only love was literature, there was no room for anyone or anything else! When I received your first message I understood my mistake, and why my novels lacked motivation and humanity, because there can be no humanity in a novel if it is not inspired by love for people, from which the characters arise. Alicia has proved my mistake: she knows what literature is and what it is for. She has not had the misfortune of finding a literary agent with the ability to promote an author's works; someone who knows the tastes of ordinary readers and knows what they like to read. An agent who uses your talent for her commercial purposes. Who makes you the idol of ordinary people and the monster of yourself. My agent has reacted. He seems to wonder if he's not doing the same thing to me. I don't want him to feel guilty too. -When you agreed to represent me, I had already adopted the bad habit and all my novels suffered from the same lack of motivation, but they were guaranteed success. I only began to worry after this last novel, it was the result of all these years of denying myself; the writer who wrote "Poetas sin cielo", the only novel fruit of my love for a person, and not of marketing and the market. Noemi reminded me when it was too late to redeem my sin: I will never write again because I do not deserve to be loved and I cannot love anyone! Alicia does not admit my resignation. She protests and wants to give her opinion: -I don't agree; your father is not totally guilty! Whoever has the courage to acknowledge his guilt deserves forgiveness; the holiest were the most sinful. It is not the saint who needs compassion, but the sinner! Naomi, you have to forgive him, not because he is your father and even if in the past he has behaved like a scoundrel, but a repentant human being who recognizes his faults, deserves your compassion and your forgiveness. Forgiveness is what makes us human beings; resentment turns us into soulless beasts, only with memory. My daughter is on the verge of crying again. She is under great emotional pressure and looks so vulnerable! She looks at me and I can see in her eyes her desire to forgive me. Alicia takes one of her hands and places it on mine. Her hand is burning and trembling. It has been the prodigy of a true writer who has performed the miracle of forgiveness. Naomi hugs me and cries silently. I think I hear a whisper: -Dad, I love you! I feel like crying too, but now I have a daughter who needs a father who is strong! 16. Reconciliation It's been two days since the eventful launch of my latest novel. It's not long to assume that I am now the father of a lovely young woman. I have been taught a hard lesson, but it is only the beginning of my redemption. I have lived twenty years of loneliness and isolation and now it is hard for me to assume that I have to spend some of my time thinking about others. I don't know what the responsibilities of a parent are. Naomi is as independent as her mother and doesn't need anyone to tell her what to do or how to do it, and it doesn't create big responsibilities for me. She will continue to live in the apartment she shares with two college roommates, but we will do our best to have dinner together two or three times a week at my apartment. Alicia has offered to be our cook, and she will delight us with her delicious local stews. Naomi confesses that she is not very skilled in the kitchen, she is a young woman devoted to her career. I think she has inherited my passion for literature and her mother's sensitivity for poetry. I can't say whether or not he has talent, he hasn't had the time or opportunity to test himself yet. He hasn't written anything important. But I have always believed that talent is not inherited, but born with it. It is not in the genes; it is in the mind and in the soul and we must acquire it at the very moment of our gestation. It may come to us from the cosmos or from someone who died at that very moment. I believe in transmigration, because the spirit, like energy, is not destroyed, it is transformed. From the beginning of time there is a universal spirit, which believers call God, from which all animate beings come. The obvious proof of transmigration is that in my family there are no artists or writers, only normal people, concerned about normal things. There may have been some among my remote ancestors, but I do not know it. My illness continues its diabolical course and does not leave me much free time without pain. I often have to go to the hospital for painful treatment. In exchange for putting up with all this discomfort, I am assured that I will be able to prolong the time I have left to live, which I need to put my conscience in order. As expected, my latest novel has tripled the sales of the previous ones. Death is an extraordinary attraction. My publisher cannot hide his satisfaction, even if he is sympathetic. The media hound me and I have had to change my phone number. The messages of condolence are overwhelming, I find it impossible to read them all. But fortunately they are still unaware of my unexpected paternity, they must believe that the young woman who accompanies me is my latest conquest. As for Alicia, I cannot deny that I feel a deep affection for her, but it cannot be called love, because in these critical moments I do not know the meaning of this beautiful word. She seems resigned and I believe that, in spite of everything, she is happy just to be by my side and to be of help to me. Yes, it must be her fate that she is not reciprocated. She has been unlucky in her choice of lovers. She and Naomi seem to understand each other well, and share the same concerns. I think they have become good friends. But this fleeting happiness has a dark shadow: her mother! I have talked to Naomi about her, it is not an easy subject. Naomi thinks my presence might help her regain her memory. But I wonder if it might not be better for her to keep her amnesia. It must not be pleasant for her to remember my betrayal. If she regains her memory she may be able to forgive me, but it may also increase her resentment towards me. Because of me she has wasted twenty precious years of her existence, there is no penance great enough to compensate for her suffering. I know it would make Naomi enormously happy to see us together again. As if time had not passed, and to reconstruct the past at the moment when we were happiest. When she wrote that short and passionate poem to tell me, with four rhymes, how much she loved me, and which has marked our lives. Today we will have dinner at my apartment. My two wives will be arriving any minute and I have to tidy up a bit. I don't feel very well, despite the painkillers that wreak havoc on my stomach, a constant pain persists that manages to make me lose my temper and sour my good nature. It is amazing and sadly paradoxical that during the last twenty years in which I have enjoyed excellent health I don't think I have had even five minutes of happiness, and when my health has broken down I am not able to manage so many moments of happiness, I have met an extraordinary woman and I have recovered an ignored daughter! Living is a game that consists in doing the opposite of what we consider reasonable. The first to arrive was Alicia. She has come a little early so that when Noemi arrives, dinner will be ready. She is interested in my health. She suggests that given the state I am in I should have someone to take care of me 24 hours a day and she is probably right, but I insist that the time has not yet come. -And when will that time come, when he is dead? It was a spontaneous reaction, but she regrets having told me. She is deeply sorry. -Forgive me; I didn't mean to...! -There's nothing to forgive," I interrupt her, "you're right and I know you'd be happy to do it yourself, but I can't accept your help. I have to finish paying my debts first. Naomi's mother needs more help than I do, and she believes that my presence can help her recover her memory. But I don't know how she would react if she remembers our relationship. Alicia has understood what I dare not say. Now her rival is Naomi's mother, because if she agreed to forgive me she would be the one to take care of me until the day I die. -I understand, once again my sad destiny is fulfilled: I will never be reciprocated by the people I love. All my efforts to live this moment have been of no use to me. I am always the last in line, and when I arrive I have finished what they were giving away. Alicia has returned to delight me with her casseroles, but Naomi does not seem to have enjoyed her dinner. She has remained absent and with her thoughts far away from here. Before coming she spoke to her mother on the phone and believes she is deeply depressed and disoriented. -He's afraid to forget about me too," she says in anguish, "He sent me a verse that reflects his confusion and pitiful state of mind. We have to make a decision tonight. Today I dreamed that I dreamed, that you were not who you were, that time had no time, and that death had died. I can't help but compare this verse with the one from twenty years ago. Despite all those forgotten years, she is still a great poet. 17. Amnesia I beg Naomi to tell me everything she remembers about her mother after her bout of amnesia. -What I know of the early years, of which I have only a blurry picture, was told to me by my grandparents. Naomi doesn't seem to be very enthusiastic about my suggestion. They must be sad memories. Memories of a child raised by two old men and a mother with no past, unable to tell her daughter how it came about, by whom and where. Without her being able to even mention the name of her possible father. Not only has she not had an unknown father, but a forgotten one. But I beg you to try to overcome your sadness and go on. Before we meet I need to know how all these years of oblivion have passed. -We don't know anything about how the separation happened," she continued, overcoming the sadness of reliving her childhood, "but it must have been very painful because she didn't remember anything about what happened and she didn't even remember who her parents were or where she lived. A policewoman found her dozing in a park and fortunately they were able to identify her thanks to a prescription for a medicine against morning sickness, because she had no official identity document. But they couldn't leave her alone in that state, so they found my grandparents, who took her in. And that's all we know about the first days of her amnesia. Naomi has exchanged several uneasy glances with me. Possibly she is still wondering if I deserve her forgiveness after all. I remain pathetically silent, not daring to say anything in my defense. I only know the story from one Sunday when we had agreed to attend a screening of an Oscar Wilde film, but I never showed up... while she waited uselessly at the cinema doors, I was in my seductive agent's bed! Will I have the courage to confess it? If I don't confess it my conscience will never be clear! I'll wait to know the whole story. I beg you to tell me what happened during the following years. My poor daughter is recalling a part of her life that she may also wish to forget, but she gets over it and goes on: -My mother moved to live in the small northern town of her parents, my maternal grandparents, and all efforts to get her memory back were futile. She was apparently able to lead a normal life, but she had to learn to recognize her own name, her parents' names, and all the other circumstances following her amnesia. When I was born I was already fully aware of everything, except her stay in this town and her relations with you," she addresses me with the same expression of veiled reproach. My grandfather was a civil servant at the City Hall and got a small pension for my mother, because she had frequent memory lapses and was unable to do any work. My grandfather died when I was ten years old, his health began to deteriorate from the day he learned of my mother's amnesia, and my grandmother died a few months before I enrolled in college. The poor thing was very unhappy about all these events, but she never reproached my mother. We had a maid for several years before I was born, the same age as my mother, who is with her at the moment. I could not give up the University, because I got a scholarship, with which I am surviving at the moment. She never stopped writing poems, she must have written enough to fill a dozen volumes, but she has refused to publish them. I always suspected that she dedicated them to you, but it must have been only a faint intuition, which did not access her conscience. Perhaps that is why she lived tormented by the inability to conceive the image of one who had only an intuition. That is all I can tell you about my mother. Alicia has made us coffee, which she serves us while we keep a thoughtful silence. I try to imagine her mother twenty years later, the woman I will soon have to meet again and account for my unforgivable behavior. I have the impression that she will horrify me, because I think I see on her aged face the indelible mark of suffering, for which I am guilty. Alicia breaks this tense silence: -Perhaps if she receives a strong stimulus to remember the person she seems to still love, she will recover her memory. Alicia has put her finger on the sore spot. It is not enough for her to be reunited with me, but with her lover, as if my betrayal had never happened. Alicia seems deeply affected, I think she regrets her suggestion. But my redemption requires some sacrifice, and Alicia will understand and eventually accept it. Twenty years later I have to try again to seduce the same woman I betrayed. Fate wants to put me to the test and I cannot let it down. 18. Preamble Is it possible to heal a wounded heart? Can time erase forgotten wounds? Can an old man with an exhausted heart love? Can a sick man heal another sick man? I ask myself these anguished questions to still feel like a human being, but I know I don't have the answer.Naomi and Alicia left a little over an hour ago, and they have left an immense void. I have never felt so essentially alone. It is an abysmal loneliness, bottomless, without the slightest glimmer of light. My soul has been left in utter darkness. The body has abandoned it; joy has migrated to other, warmer and more welcoming lands. Pleasure has been transformed into intense pain and happiness, which until only an hour ago was brimming over all its edges, has gone with them, I am unable to keep it with me for long. One more endless night I strive uselessly to be absent from myself. I search with real desperation for a state of mind close to nothingness, no uncontrolled thoughts, no movements of any kind. I try to exercise myself to prepare for my death without last minute shocks, but it is totally useless. The mind does not sleep, it only disconnects temporarily from consciousness. It stops thinking about what it sees to think about what it imagines. It does not tire, it does not exhaust itself, it does not give up, because it has no flesh that can make it sick, nor a skeleton to sustain it; it has no eyes, no mouth, no ears, it does not eat, drink, see or hear, it only thinks without rest because it is eternal and already existed before it was my mind. Naomi believes that, despite the visible traces of my illness, I am still an attractive man and that I can seduce her mother again. Alicia has not given me her opinion, which I already know. She is an unfortunate woman, but at some time and somewhere she will have her reward. But time is pressing, the illness is getting worse and my spirits are failing. I am not sure I can see this plan through to the end. We have agreed that Naomi will invite her mother to spend a few days with her in the city. Our meeting will take place during a welcome dinner at Naomi's apartment. Naomi just called me, her mother has accepted the invitation and will come this weekend and Saturday will be the big day of the test. I have to go back twenty years and try to understand the reasons for my betrayal. It is not enough to blame ambition, vanity or selfishness. There has to be a reasonable explanation to justify that behavior, because we humans always have a good reason to justify our behavior. I have thought it on countless occasions that to discover means to destroy what was hidden. The sun shines at the cost of destroying its hydrogen reserves. Imagination creates at the cost of destroying what has not yet been imagined. In the end there will be nothing left to imagine because we will have destroyed the reserves of images, death. It was inevitable to destroy the causes that had provoked my creativity, and that cause was the woman who had inspired them. If I wanted to continue creating I had to look for new sources for my inspiration, to destroy them again, and so on until death. I am not entirely to blame. We should never have invented literature because it feeds on the souls of humans. Every novel, every story, every tale or every poem has devoured its insatiable ration of humanity. I am no exception, I have my victims too, but otherwise there would be no literature or art or any other expression of the human soul that needs to feed on the human soul. No one will understand these reasons, only our creator knows our weaknesses, our spiritual cannibalism, our revenge for being human. I cannot argue these reasons for my exculpation, only those who are victims of inspiration understand them, through which this evil is contagious. Ordinary people are immunized against this disease of the spirit. Now there is no longer the slightest doubt in my mind that this was the cause of my bodily illness. My harmful spirit has entered my body and will not cease until it dies. There are no heavens reserved for writers, but there are no hells either, there are only purgatories: near heaven, near hell. If I had the strength and the necessary time to live, I would write a novel with this title, which would be the great novel of my life, but I might write it after I am dead, and it might be the great novel of my death. But why write; why stir the still waters of unconsciousness; why bring out the faults and virtues, the passions and disenchantments or the loyalties or betrayals of human beings? Why tell so many lies; so many stories that have never happened and never will happen? Why this sick eagerness to perpetuate our memory after we have lost our memory? No, even if I had a hundred more years to live, I would never write another novel. Someone has to take the first step to rid humanity of this scourge. I have the impression that I am delirious and think things that make no sense. There is no justification for someone who causes harm to a human being without a reason that is also human. A doctor can cause you some harm to heal a wound, but a writer cannot claim his sources of inspiration to cause harm. If I were to put on a scale the pleasure my novels may have caused and the harm caused by writing them, on which side would the scale tip? And who can have the answer? I have no way out. I have no judge but my own conscience, and it keeps shouting at me that I am guilty. 19. The mother Today has dawned an unpleasant day that will influence my mood. Today is also the day Naomi's mother will arrive in town; the person on whom my salvation depends. I am not in the right frame of mind for the circumstances. I should get over myself and realize that I have returned to my college years; years when life was a blank sheet of paper, waiting to be written on both sides; years when the most important thing was to be young, not only to enjoy life but to live away from death; years when everything was allowed except nostalgia; when love was a working tool, when the wisdom of experience was considered an old mania and was worthless compared to the vitality of facts. Those years in which the people around you were samples for your laboratory or the lead of your flask, from which you hoped to obtain gold, following the magic formula invented by your excluding imagination. Years, in short, that I have always wished to forget and that now I have to recall. My memory has to erase without a trace what happened after I won the untimely literary prize, as if it had never happened. As if we had followed together our longed-for path to glory, and once we had achieved it, since it seemed inevitable given our genius, we would live six months a year in Pigalle, in Montmartre or in Saint-German-des-Prés, where I would write my novels in the heat of her inspiration, and she her passionate verses inspired by her love for me. As if every spring we would wake up in our little house in Majorca, next to the highest cliff of the coast, from where our view would be lost in a horizon as infinite as our desires to live; as beautiful as our soul mates, as mysterious as our intuition, or as cozy as our bed where we make love. When I was twenty years old I could not imagine myself at sixty, now that I am about to turn sixty I cannot imagine myself at twenty. Nevertheless, it had to happen, because time is the greatest swindle of human understanding, since it is an eternal instant, this instant in which I live, or better I will say, I live badly today, is the same in which I lived twenty years ago, what has changed is the perspective and the scenario, but the instant is the same! Noemí called me to tell me that she had picked up her mother at the train station, and that she found her very unwell and dazed. They are already in her apartment, and she has been able to rest and recover a little. She tells me that, if she feels better, they will go to the Opera, which is her mother's passion. They will perform "Madame Butterfly", which seems very appropriate for the circumstances. His mother does not remember seeing this opera before, but she had seen it twice because she still kept the tickets as a souvenir. She thinks it may help our plan. She has told him of her desire to have him accompany her to the college on Monday, the same one she attended, but insists that she does not remember ever attending a college in that city. It is evident that she remains obstinate in not allowing the images and feelings that she keeps in her subconscious to enter her consciousness. I also got a call from Alicia. She is concerned about my worsening health. She wants to know if I need help. I thank her, but I insist on fending for myself until I see how the test turns out. Alicia is confused and saddened, because she can't wish it to be a failure, but she can't wish it to be a success either. She would have been happy just to have the exclusivity of my care until the day I die. But Naomi's mother takes precedence. If only we were good friends, both women could watch over my agony, but she has committed the weakness of falling in love with me, and love is selfish and rigorously incomparable. She seems resigned but not defeated. I am the great love of her life and she is not willing to withdraw and give up. She will lurk around waiting for an opportunity. I have created many female characters, and I boasted of cooking them even better than they know themselves, but Alicia has shown me how laughable my smugness is: I still have many nooks and crannies of the female soul to discover. Perhaps my premature death will help me to discover them. What I have not been able to understand is how those who give life see death. Possibly they feel the same affection for both. Many women suffer more depression immediately after bringing a new life into the world than at the sight of a dying person. Life hurts them as much as death. 20. A bad day The weather continues to be unpleasant. On the glass of my large window, the drops of water from a weak but persistent rain drip down. The rain does not depress me, on the contrary, it enlivens me, the water brings life, it brightens everything it covers. The plants are invigorated and show all their splendor and beauty. But what pleases nature displeases humans. I see from my window disgruntled people. They resent everything they cannot dominate and control, and nature does not submit easily. That is why we are putting all our efforts into destroying it. We may succeed in destroying the rain as well. I lie in bed until almost noon because I don't know what I can do to justify being up. I have nothing to write, no event to attend, no visit to receive, nothing; but I have found an occupation: rereading my first novel, and perhaps I should also say that it is the only one I have written, because I think it meets the three basic conditions for it to be considered a novel: it has a motivation: a passionate plea in defense of poetry and poets. This argument is also the fruit of his imagination and not of mine. The novels that followed lacked motivation, they only had technique and style, that is why they were not of this world, but of a parallel and dehumanized world. Noemi is right. "It's the middle of the night. The city lights litter the sky and I can't see the stars. I have to imagine them. I also have to imagine the people on this deserted street. And the rose bushes, orchids and non-existent geraniums on the balconies of their uninhabited houses. I have to imagine the children playing in a ghost school, and the sparrows nesting in absent trees. This is my street, where I don't live, where I don't inhabit, where I only imagine that I live and inhabit." This is how it should be. Our life must pass in one of these deserted streets, where we do not live but imagine that we live, because when you least expect it your time runs out, and it seems to you that in reality you have not lived but have dreamed. On rereading this first novel I feel in all its crudeness the falseness in which I have lived all these years, and I wonder what kind of writer I would be today if I had remained true to myself. It would not have been strange if I had won the Nobel Prize! Now I have to be satisfied with the market prize, and with the thousands of followers of the consumption of entertaining literature with an expiration date. They have nothing to transmit about our way of understanding life and its values to future generations. I am not a redeemer, and I am overwhelmed by praise, but when an artist expresses himself in any discipline, he is sending a message in a bottle that will inevitably fall into the hands of people of other times, in other latitudes of the immense ocean of time; who will have other values, and who, thanks to those messages, will be able to place them in the general trunk of history. Given the brevity of our existence, the only solid thing we humans have to save us from the flood of the inevitable changes that sweep everything away is History. Today I have one of those days when I feel too insignificant to have great ambitions, because this great humanity that populates our planet, of which I am a tiny part, is not even a grain of sand in the desert compared to the immensity of the universe we inhabit. Powerful men believe themselves to be great because they reign over their tiny domains, while those who recognize that they are infinitely small inhabit the great domain of the immensity of the universe. Humans have an endless number of alternatives to choose the way we wish to consume our valuable time, but there is only one that corresponds to our personality. The reason for our existence is none other than to find it and be faithful to it until death. Only in this way each individual will be a person, and each person will be a world, and all the worlds together will form a universe, and many universes gathered into one will be the only idea we can have of something to call "God", so that only people and their worlds are in direct contact with God. I have lived in permanent contact with hell, because I renounced my personal world, so I have no access to heaven. I may still have time left to repair my great mistake, but I would have to write one last novel: the continuation of the first one, which would pave the way to my salvation, but for that I need not only time, but inspiration; I would not only have to meet again with the writer, but also with his lover. Could it happen tomorrow? I should think about tomorrow's dinner and my salvation, and I think I have an idea that would do both: write my last novel with the story of our relationship. To relive her memory day by day, kiss by kiss, caress by caress, with every detail, nuance, feeling, illusion, hope and project for the future. Yes, she would have the story that her conscience refuses to remember. It would undoubtedly be the great novel of my life, the one that would give me a good death. But will I have enough time left, and will I be able to face the challenge with the foresight and the right frame of mind to bring it up to the level of my first novel? Naomi sent me a message to let me know that her mother has recovered and is in good spirits. In the afternoon they will go to the Opera, as planned, and when they leave they will have dinner in a small Italian restaurant nearby. She says she misses me and it would have been a complete joy if the three of us could be together and united as a family. Poor Naomi! Even if your wishes were fulfilled, your happiness will be short-lived. It is better that you get used to my absence, even if you continue to miss me in your happy moments, maybe I will accompany you, even if you cannot see me. Tomorrow I will tell you my idea. 21. Waiting He has also invited Alicia to his mother's welcome home dinner, because he wants it to feel like a reunion of old friends, where his mother is not the focus of most of the attention. He wants to test whether she will recognize me. I haven't communicated my new idea to her yet, because I'm not sure she's in the condition and mood to do it. I call Alicia to tell her about Noemí's invitation. She accepts. -If it's okay with you, I can stop by your place now and prepare something to eat," he suggests, "then we can go to your daughter's apartment together. I notice from the tone of his voice that he has received the news with great joy. Now the scales of fate are tipped in her favor and against me, but I accept her offer. This woman is becoming a necessity, she is always where I need her. She is not an old dream of the past but a reality of the present, no history, no regrets, no need to recover the memory of what has not happened. She brings peace to my spirit and manages to make me forget my past, to recover the present, which I need so much in these difficult times. Alicia is already in my apartment and once again I hear the domestic sound and the pleasant memories of the hustle and bustle in the kitchen. This woman is leaving everywhere she goes the halo of the everyday, the simple, but that is what is truly endearing. She is not only preparing a delicious meal, but the homey atmosphere that is not only a warm feeling, but a necessity of any human being. -What will you do if you don't recognize him? He asks me with a nonchalant air, as if he is not affected by my answer, while he serves me what he has cooked. I ask her once again not to address me as you, because I am no longer the hero of her dreams, but the helpless and tortured man who needs her help. But Alicia knows that calling me "you" means taking a giant step in our brief relationship, and she does not want to change the deal until she is sure that she has conquered my soul and my will. In the meantime, she will continue with the same distant and respectful treatment. I need to rest and get some sleep so I can be presentable for dinner with my daughter, and Alicia makes up my bed, just as she did the first time in her tiny studio. As she fluffs the pillows she gives me several looks that I can easily interpret. She seems to want to tell me that this time I won't be woken up by her crying. She helps me to lie down and, just like the first time, goes back to the kitchen, and I hear again that very domestic and soothing sound of the bustle of the kitchen, with which I fall asleep. Alicia has veiled my dream by reading the manuscript of my first novel, which had been left on the coffee table in the living room. When I awoke, she read aloud one of the most tragic passages of the novel, moments before the suicide of the protagonist. "I was not born to live. I did not come into this world to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh. I am not alive to celebrate the wonders of nature. I do not feel part of life. No, I came into the world to sing it, to recite it, to turn it into a long poem, to dissolve it into beautiful words. So that it may be said of me when I die that I was just poetry, with nothing to stop me, not my body, not my mind; just poetry, nothing but poetry." -Who could have inspired these dramatic lines? -he asks me with a gesture of desolation or perhaps horror, "her? My mind is not yet clear enough to respond and I just smile. She understands, and continues reading, but silently. I see from her astonished expression that she is shocked by what she is reading, no wonder, they are the passages prior to the suicide of the poetess protagonist. She closes the book and leans back on the sofa. He doesn't wait for my answer because he already knows it. He exchanges a sad glance with me. I think he wants to give me his opinion: -You know, I think the suicide of your poetess protagonist is justified," she pauses and it seems as if what she says next is for herself. We are all born with a stigma engraved on our foreheads, which tells us who we are and what we have come to this world for; and what we can aspire to and what we are strictly forbidden. Your protagonist was born with the stigma of poetry in a world without poetry, he had no choice but to immolate himself with it -a new silence that he breaks with a heartfelt sigh, and continues-. I was also born with a stigma: that of ugliness. No doubt an accident of nature, because it is nothing like my soul. They must have been born each on their own, without agreeing. My soul fills me with good and noble feelings, while my face prevents me from taking advantage of them and showing them to others. Only when I write I am free to generously give those feelings to my characters, because they do not find me ugly and do not see my stigma. I have no doubt that she knows what she is talking about. I myself rejected her in the first moments because of her unattractive face. I wonder why we humans have created canons of beauty that ostracize and ostracize people like Alicia, or women and men in the prime of their lives, just because their backs are hunched, their hands go astray, and wrinkles appear on their foreheads, which are the price paid for their wise maturity, serenity, gentleness, balance and intelligence! No doubt we deserve every one of the torments to which this behavior leads. It is useless to try to console her by praising the beauty of her soul, because the soul cannot be seen, the face can. Unfortunately for people with these stigmas, rejection ends up infecting their souls with the same stigma. Alice is a glorious exception, but no doubt she owes it to literature. It seems that we are both immersed in our respective thoughts, and we remain in an eloquent silence. It is Alicia who breaks it with a question that reminds me of the idea of writing a new book: -We still have three hours left to meet your daughter, why don't you tell me about your affair with her mother? I think the idea is interesting, it can serve as an exercise for that last novel that's been on my mind. I agree and Alicia prepares some coffee, no doubt a long and interesting confession awaits! 22. Confession Alicia looks like a little girl whose grandmother is about to tell her a story of enchanted princes and princesses. She has taken off her shoes (since she has known me she has toned down her clothes, and above all she no longer wears those horrible military boots), she settles down in the armchair, gathering her legs also in the armchair, and waits with childish anxiety for my story. I don't know how to explain it, but she seems totally transfigured. I am unable to recognize the clumsy and ugly young woman, as she defines herself, and I see a young woman with a radiant expression, an intelligent gaze, at the same time curious as that of a cat, and a body brimming with vitality. Nature has been bad to her face, but generous to her body. I start by telling you the story of the coffee shop where we met. -After that funny event we each went to our corresponding classes. We were at the same university and had the same studies, but I was one class ahead of him, so our classes did not coincide. We didn't exchange anything to get back in touch. She seemed to distrust everyone, although I didn't know why at the time. She had been sexually assaulted several times by some of her classmates. That day neither of us could concentrate in class, something magical had happened. I think I fell in love with her when I offered to hold her books for her. She did not look at me with distrust, but as soon as she saw me, I noticed as if I was an old lover, whom she had not seen for a long time and was happy to see me again, but after that moment of pleasant surprise, her distrust returned, and she refused my help. If I had not suffered that terrible accident, everything would have ended like that, but destiny had foreseen it all. -That weekend our faculty had organized a meeting of young poets. I wouldn't have hesitated to attend if it had been for narrative, but for poetry I wasn't enthusiastic about the idea. But that Saturday I was deeply bored. It was the end of the month and my allowance was practically exhausted. The meeting was free, so it seemed like a good way to kill time. I arrived a little late, just at the time of the intervention of the young woman I met in the cafeteria. We passed each other in the center aisle of the hall, as I was entering and she was heading to the stage, and I think both her and my hearts skipped a beat, and we greeted each other with a telltale smile. When I saw her on the stage, completely in the dark, except for her, illuminated with a beam of light, she looked to me like an angel who had descended from heaven to announce the good news of her poetry. This was the verse she wrote after our first meeting: We barely looked at each other and we were already kissing. We barely knew each other and we already loved each other, We barely spoke to each other and we already understood each other. We were barely separated and we were already longing for each other. Alicia seems overwhelmed by the passion in these four lines. She is not passionate, she is sensitive, because passion blinds the understanding and Alicia is a thoughtful and reasonable person. She remains silent so as not to distract me from my confession. -At the end of the event I hurried to congratulate her on the reading of her poems, which was very well received by the audience, mostly fellow faculty members. As she left the hall I found her surrounded by her friends and admirers, who besieged her with questions and congratulations. I had barely exchanged a few glances and smiles and already I thought I had the right to have her all to myself. I was so upset that I did not feel like saying goodbye to her, and I grumpily left the auditorium. Once again it seemed as if fate was against us. But as soon as I was out of the auditorium I realized that I had acted in anger and without justification, and I returned hastily, just as she was leaving accompanied by one of her friends. When she saw me, I could again see her expression of joy reflected on her face, and this time she did not hesitate to call my attention. -Why did you leave without saying goodbye? Didn't you like my poems? I'd like to know your opinion! The friend understood the situation and excused herself, leaving us alone. -I loved them! I did not dare confess to him that I had been jealous. I told him that I also wrote, but narrative, I was not born with the grace of poetry, but with the necessary imagination to write novels. We walked for a while, talking about our works, the importance of poetry, the mediocrity of the novels that were published, the excessive commercialization of art. We seemed to have found the ideal interlocutor to unburden ourselves of our artistic concerns. We generally agreed on everything. We agreed to meet the next day in the park. I would show her my stories and she would show me her latest poems. That night I practically stayed up all night, because I wasn't satisfied with any of the stories I had written and I didn't want to disappoint my new friend. I was a complete unknown at the time, while she was well known among the students of the faculty and other local poetry circles. All the reviews were favorable and predicted a brilliant literary career for her. Undoubtedly her beneficial friendship influenced my inspiration, and that night I wrote my first truly literary work, the previous ones were simple stories, almost all autobiographical, lacking the main thing: a motivation. When I met her she was 18 years old. Like you, she had come from the provinces, with a fixed idea, which she carried more in her heart than in her mind: to triumph as a poetess! She didn't need praise, she considered herself great, and she wasn't wrong. All of us who knew her had formed the same opinion. To me her genius was her best attraction. I was more attracted to her as a poet than as a woman, because neither of us lived in this world, but in those two sister worlds: she in that of poetry and I in that of the novel. And that was the cause of our separation! We lived with too much intensity the unreal and we forgot the real. We met in the park on a day that could have been painted by Botticelli or Velazquez. It was early spring, when the tone of the new leaves is intense green. The sky is an inimitable blue, decorated with white clouds of whimsical and imaginative shapes. It smells of the sap of the rejuvenated stems and the perfumed resins given off by the linden trees. New birds flutter in their nests, impatient to fly and get to know what will be their world. In this magical atmosphere and in a secluded and lonely corner of the park, I read her my first story written thanks to her and for her. At that very moment our separation began to take shape. Our relationship became more intimate every day, but always sustained by our common passion for literature. Our euphoria grew at the same pace and intensity as the quality of her poetry or of my stories and tales, because at that time I still felt incapable of tackling the novel. We never seriously thought of our relationship as a simple couple in love, but in love with the poetess and the writer. At no time did it cross our minds to live together, because that would mean depriving us of the solitude necessary to create; we had enough with our daily encounters, during which we would load each other with brilliant phrases, passionate poems, fantastic stories and a moderate dose of sensuality. We didn't make love until after the six months that our relationship lasted, and it was in that one relationship that Noemí was born! Alicia seems to be meditating on everything I have told her so far, because her gaze is lost in some point of the street that can be seen through my windows. She has reacted and looks at me with a certain air of reproach. -So, he didn't love that woman, he was just using her. -Yes, you can put it that way. -And she, do you think she also used him? -No, she didn't use me; she didn't need encouragement, I told you she was fully confident of her talent; it was me who needed it to discover mine. A month after our meeting, when I had already written a dozen stories and tales that she thought were great, she suggested I write a novel. I took her advice and tried to find a plot that would motivate me. They all revolved, in one way or another, around her and our strange relationships. I put my ideas to her, but she didn't find them original enough. It was then that she read me her poem about the suicide of a poetess, and suggested that this could be a good argument, in which she could collaborate with her poetry. I was delighted to accept her proposal and began to work on the plot. During the time it took me to write it, only two months, our meetings focused on the progress of my novel. She checked every chapter, every paragraph and every word I wrote daily, and corrected my many flaws and typos, until she felt that the syntax, spelling, rhythm and style were perfect. It seemed as if she was writing it herself. When my novel was practically finished, she suggested that I submit it to a popular literary contest for new authors. I couldn't refuse, because it wasn't just my novel, it was our novel. Alicia interrupts me. -Now I understand why he suffered that terrible attack of amnesia. His betrayal was double, because he betrayed the lover and the writer! -No doubt it was a double betrayal, but then I didn't take it into consideration! Not only did she collaborate in its writing, but she took the trouble to type up the original and send it herself to the contest. -Why do you think she would do that? Was she really so in love with you that she sacrificed herself to help you in your career? -Although it pains me to admit it, it must have been. The days leading up to the contest judging were really nerve-wracking for me, but not for her. She knew perfectly well that we had submitted one of the possible winning novels, so much so that she had confidence in herself and in her judgments about literature. But she was also aware that among beginners there is little chance of good novels being submitted. Most suffer from an excess of passion, nonsensical styles, defects of structure and syntax, and unoriginal plots. In fact, the vast majority are simply imitations of their idols, or of fashionable writers. She knew we would win, and we did! She was also the first to know the news of the award, because she received the message with the result and the invitation to the awards ceremony that same weekend at a well-known hotel in the city. When we met at the faculty, she recited to me the famous sentence of Julius Caesar: "Vini, vidi, vici", which I understood immediately. I confess that moments after hearing the news, I considered myself a superior being, I had killed the undecided and modest writer to feel like a new member of the cultural elites of the country. And that image blinded me from the first moment. She never suspected my arrogance, and she was as happy as if she had been the awardee. During the award ceremony, she must have felt like the mother who attends the presentation of the diploma of honor to her son at the university: without envy or professional jealousy. But I was already very distant from her. I saw my books piled up in bookstores, with the mention of that award. I saw myself signing copies for my gawking admirers, but above all, I felt superior and dominant. Alicia has reacted, stands up and gives me a questioning look. -I think you're making up the story! I know you well enough by now not to believe that you would behave that way! -You meet a repentant demon twenty years later. But I wouldn't have committed that sin if I hadn't met the real culprit. During the cocktail party hosted by the sponsors, many guests approached me to congratulate me. She seemed proud of my sudden popularity. From the first day she learned of my vocation as a writer, she wanted me to become more self-confident, so that we could pursue our ambitious careers at the same level. I took it for granted that we would achieve our ambitious project of fame and glory without one overshadowing the other. When, fatigued by so many emotions and hustle and bustle, we were about to leave the meeting, we were approached by a middle-aged, elegant-looking woman, dressed in a sober suit jacket, her hair half-haired, blonde and slightly curly, and addressing me, as if the presence of my companion had not been perceived, and without ceasing to fix her deep and insinuating gaze on mine, she handed me a business card, which must have been perfumed with the fragrances of hell, because when I read it the perfume evoked in me an abyss into which I would not take long to fall -You will need a good agent. Call me tomorrow and we'll talk about your future. That was all she said, and she went back to join a group of guests. That look disturbed me so much that for a moment I too forgot about her presence. She must have sensed my betrayal at that moment! I beg Alicia's forgiveness, but I do not wish to continue. What follows is the most painful part for me, and the memory of it has haunted me all these years. Alicia seems to wake up from a dream, or maybe it's a nightmare. The coffee is finished. She picks up the coffee pot and cups and takes them to the kitchen. She remains silent but her mind must be replaying the story I just told her. He returns from the kitchen, exchanges a sad look with me, sits back down and, finally, I know what he is thinking. -Poor woman, I would not have liked to be in her place. I would have lost my memory too. No, I would have lost my head! Your comment makes me feel guiltier. Those who have no remorse cannot know how much it hurts to be reminded of our sins. -Forgive me. I know you are deeply sorry, and if I were that woman, I would probably forgive you, but that doesn't repair the damage done. Perhaps it would be better if she did not recover her memory! If she does not recover her memory and I do not have her forgiveness, I will be hopelessly condemned! 23. End of confession It has been a time of great emotional tension. Alicia is torn between her heightened sense of justice, her solidarity with other women, her mercy and her love for me. Mercy and love have finally won out, but that doesn't mean she considers me redeemed. She thinks that somehow I must repay that woman. But she doesn't know how. Neither do I. -Even if it brings back bad memories, I think you'll feel better if you tell me the end of the story. I promise I won't hold it against you! Maybe Alicia is right. Hiding my guilt only causes it to become entrenched in my conscience, it is healthier to air them. -All right, I'll tell you the rest of this sorry story. Neither I nor she felt the way we were supposed to feel after the awards ceremony. I still hadn't gotten over the shock of that woman's insinuating stare, and she seemed to want to ask me what I was thinking, because I think she was reading my thoughts. In an almost pleading tone of voice, she begged me not to accept that woman as my agent, because there would be others who would be happy to represent me. I assumed she was jealous of her, but I did not have the courage to confess to her that, despite her fears, I would call her and we would meet to find out her plans for my promotion as a writer. What was happening was that the woman was living in the new world I thought I had entered after the award, while she belonged to one that was already outdated and without incentives for an ambitious writer. I was no longer a student of letters, I was a writer, and writers can transgress all moral norms because they are justified. That night I could not sleep until dawn, because I too was torn between what my conscience dictated and what my ambition demanded, because it made no sense to have come that far and renounce what any other author would do in my place. After all, she had helped me get there herself, so why not accept the help of someone who would make your dream of becoming a writer come true? When we met that morning on campus, I had already made up my mind and she seemed to me an unacceptable intrusion on my freedom, but I didn't have the courage to let her know, and tried to pretend that nothing had changed after the award and we would follow our future plans as we had dreamed. She must have been relieved by my attitude, but it was evident that my enthusiasm and joviality had changed. I was no longer paying attention to her readings or motivated to write new stories. She interpreted this as me being tired from my efforts to write my first novel, and she didn't reproach me. That same afternoon I went to the agent's office, with whom I had already arranged an interview that morning. Her office was located in her own home. A spacious apartment in a noble building, located in one of the most expensive avenues of the city. She met me herself at the elevator exit. I could hardly recognize her. She was now wearing tight jeans, which emphasized the soft shapes of her hips, and a loose blouse, with what looked like the logo of her agency. Her reception was extremely cordial. It was evident that she had a great interest in me, not only as a writer, but as a person. -My warmest congratulations on the award, but now you have to prevent them from forgetting about you in a couple of months, I can help you," he said as soon as I got out of the elevator. He introduced me into his office, a spacious and bright room soberly furnished with two comfortable black leather armchairs, a large work table and a large sofa of the same material as the armchairs. The only detail that indicated that we were in a working office were the dozens of photographs of their represented authors that hung on the walls. Some of their writers frequently topped the most prestigious book sections of newspapers and literary magazines. Soon mine would be there too. All this proved to me that I had chosen a good agent. We settled into the two armchairs. He offered me a sweet from a small basket on a glass table, and without wasting time on introductions, he asked me: -Do you want to become a fashionable author? What could my answer be: "No"? There was only one possible answer: -Yes! -Okay, so starting today we have to work on a program that may be hard and require all your dedication. Are you decided? I just nodded my head firmly. -My commission is five percent; the contract is for two years, and I have your exclusive representation for all media where it is published, including film, television, radio and the web. Are you happy? I again agreed with an energetic nod of my head. Well, then come back tomorrow at this same time and we'll sign the contract. In two years you'll be one of the most read and sought-after writers in the country! And that's how I signed the contract that would ruin my personal life and from which the professional writer would be born! The next day, as planned, I signed my condemnation. My new agent was more explicit and argued the reasons why she was sure of my success. -You represent the ideal of a talented young man, successful from his first work, who does not resort to pornography, nor to violence, nor to esoteric plots, nor to cloying romanticism, nor to philosophical detectives. That you write simple, but real and exemplary novels that everyone likes. That you also have enough physical attractiveness to appeal to young female readers. You write novels that can be read by the whole family, at all ages, and in all times... -But I've only written one novel! I must have guessed the answer. It was practically in the clauses of the contract that I didn't bother to read: -But you will write them, I will tell you how! 24. Seduction As I left my new agent's office, I realized what a grave mistake I had made in my haste and blindness. I blamed it on my lack of experience, but I was consoled by the fact that fortunately it was only two years, which passed quickly. Now I felt ashamed because I had thrown dirt on our noble concerns, our illusion of keeping ourselves pure, disinterested, away from the merchants of dreams, who lure us with siren songs, and end up dragging us into their dirty world of economic transactions, balance sheets, shareholders, investors, CEOs, bankers, unprincipled and unscrupulous traders and a whole host of individuals unable to value what does not have a price and can be sold on the market, such as honesty, generosity or illusion... They have no scruples in selling and buying souls, and auctioning them in their corrupt financial markets. I will be one of them. But, to tell the truth, before I entered this office I was already corrupted. That evening we had arranged to attend the premiere of a film on the life of Oscar Wilde. I was not in the mood to attend yet another crucifixion of an author, but I had to keep my relationship with my new agent a secret. I made the appointment, albeit somewhat belatedly, when the film had already begun. She waited patiently at the lonely cinema entrance. Despite my tardiness, she always justified my disloyalties, because she had not a shadow of a doubt about my fidelity. I need to pause. Alicia is as shocked as I am, but she has promised not to recriminate me, and she keeps her promise. I feel bad, because I cannot erase from my memories her frail figure, illuminated by the flickering billboard signs, arms folded, looking anxiously from one side of the street to the other, trying to justify my tardiness. It is likely that I would have waited much longer without losing faith in my fidelity. -When she saw me appear on the side of the street opposite to that on which she expected me to arrive, she had a moment's hesitation, but my vision overflowed any desire for reproach, and she received me with a smile that would try to wrest it from the sadness that a few minutes before had gripped her. I think for the first time I felt sorry for her, and perhaps had a sincere desire for repentance. I was tempted to fill her in on her situation, but her smile thwarted my desire. I hugged her, we kissed and I improvised an excuse. She believed me because she needed to believe me and urged me to get the tickets as soon as possible, because we would have time after the movie to clarify the details. It was not possible to wake up someone who was sleepwalking without the danger of causing her irreparable damage! There was no clarification. The film had had such an impact on us that when we left the cinema for a long time, we strolled through the now deserted streets without saying a word. She broke the silence with a comment that set my conscience on fire: -Why do geniuses have to pay such a high price just to be famous? Will we also have to pay such a high price? No, of course not; we won't make their mistake or lead double lives that could cause scandal! We will be a perfect writing couple without giving any reason for what happened to the unfortunate Oscar Wilde, won't we? What could I answer? At that moment I didn't have the courage to tell him the truth and undo the deception at once. No matter how much she suffered, it would not be compared to what she had to suffer afterwards. So much to justify her amnesia! Alicia indicates with a gesture of her arm that she wants to tell me something. -And that's the woman who will be sitting next to him tonight, at the same table? Of course, if she recovered her memory, she would have every reason to hate him. But go on, forgive my interruption! -The days that followed the signing of the contract were so intense that I didn't have a chance to think about her. My agent would invite me to her apartment, and, after a light dinner, we would sit in the armchairs of her office and discuss the plot of my next novel. Of course it would be a love story with a happy ending. Once in my apartment I would write a chapter or two and show it to her the next night. She would make corrections and suggest any changes she thought were necessary. I have to confess that we became well coordinated, because I did not dislike her arguments and ideas and it was easy for me to interpret and write them. As Naomi said in her first message: I just changed muse, and overrode any noble motivation. For the first few days her behavior was strictly professional, but as the days went by she became more familiar and intimate, and changed her clothes to a comfortable night gown, which left her attractive legs practically uncovered. She had a plan to seduce me, but she would not carry it out until I finished the novel. That would be the prize! My relations with the other woman who had become entangled in this drama remained superficial, as are the relations of those who hide their true feelings. Sometimes she dared to ask me the cause of my apathy, which made her suffer so much, and she herself came to the conclusion that the cause might lie in a lack of more sensual relations. Although it was not in her plans, she set out to seduce me and would consent to our lovemaking. Our relationship had been from the beginning an artistic affinity and we were unsure of our physical attraction. At that moment I was infinitely more attracted to the mature beauty and sensuality of my agent than to that of the poetess, who had not awakened from her dream of glory and fantasies. With the excuse of inviting me to dinner, she prepared the necessary atmosphere for my seduction. That night we gestated Naomi, but neither of us was satisfied with that relationship. No; we had not come together for carnal love, only for spiritual love! I cannot continue this story, because today, twenty years later, I still feel the shame of that hasty pleasure, of those frustrated relationships that were closer to prostitution than to love. -Excuse me Alicia, but I think it's time to go to our appointment with my daughter. -And with his mother! -Yes, and with his mother. This will be the last twist of fate, I don't want to think about anything else! Alicia is visibly dejected, I can see it in her sad and absent look, so different from the one at the beginning of this story. She gets up with a heavy heart, as if her legs were heavy, and helps me to get dressed. I leave my private refuge as if moved by a supernatural force, against which my own will is useless. It is already dark, the days are short in October. The cool breeze of the evening twilight suits me well. There is still a pale streak of red on the horizon. We have called a cab to pick us up at the door, but I ask the driver to drop us off two blocks before my daughter's house. Alicia approves of the idea. I want to finish my story before I face this difficult test. -Two weeks later I was putting an end to my second novel, although I would have to rewrite several chapters that were not to the liking of my demanding agent. But that was the day she had chosen to seduce me, and she prepared everything so that I would have no escape. But that same day I had arranged to meet the other unfortunate woman to see the film about Oscar Wilde again, because the previous time we had missed a good part of the beginning. The idea came from her and I couldn't refuse. But it was not only the interest in the film that made them want to see me, but apparently she had some important news to tell me, but she did not want to tell me what it was about. He wanted me to be there when he gave it to me. I assumed it must be something to do with his poetry, perhaps he had won a prize, or had found an important publisher to publish it. I went to my daily appointment with my agent, with the intention of leaving the manuscript for him to read and write down the corrections, but to my surprise, I found a table prepared with great care and detail for two people, illuminated pale by two artistic candles, on a side table there was a bottle of champagne set to cool, and in the center of the table a silver tray with canapés of caviar, salmon and other such delicacies. But what impressed me most, and of course turned me on, was the way she had dressed for the occasion. She was wearing a silk blouse of the same color as her skin, open almost to the waist, where part of her still firm breasts could be seen, and a tight black skirt that covered her above her knees. The outfit was extremely elegant, but above all, irresistibly attractive! I don't know if you know men well, Alicia, but there is no will capable of overcoming a temptation like that. It is for this very reason that mankind was condemned; it is the eternal sin that man has committed from the beginning: the irresistible attraction of Eve and her apple! This biblical drama was played out in that room: caviar, champagne and sex. After that, the grim reaper could take us into his darkness. I had to choose between the two women: one offered me fame. The other offered me spiritual affection, sincere friendship and, of course, loyalty. -Who would you have chosen, Alicia? The question has caught her off guard, but the answer is withering: -The second time, of course! -I didn't want to choose; I wanted things to stay as they were, I could continue to have both relationships and not hurt either, but my agent forced me to choose. In the end it was the champagne and its irresistible sex appeal that decided. To celebrate my betrayal, we began the evening in a cabaret where they staged sexual scenes of indecent bad taste, but it was part of their plan. At the entrance of the cinema, illuminated only by the flickering lights of the neon signs, with her arms crossed, and without ceasing to look anxiously from one side of the street to the other, she waited uselessly for the man who I now know wanted to tell me that he was going to be a father! Fortunately he lost his memory! 25. The reentry We approached Naomi's house. I have finished my painful story, and we quietly give ourselves to our own thoughts. Alicia must wonder if she hasn't been blinded by my popularity, because I don't deserve her affection; and I wonder if I can look the woman who is waiting for a visit from a perfect stranger in the face. Recent events are beyond my capacity for assimilation, and now I have to face a new mammoth test. A few steps away I am going to meet the woman from whom I have stolen the best years of her life. She may recognize me, in which case I don't know how I will be able to justify myself, and if she doesn't recognize me, I won't be able to justify myself either. All these years have only served me to understand that ambition without a noble cause does not bear noble fruits, but poisoned ones, with the poison of your own poisoned spirit. But there is something that worries and amazes me: Has all that time really elapsed? Are we not always at the same moment? How far does the boatman travel in his boat? None! And yet, the boat does travel a space and consumes a time, dragged by the current. I have also been dragged by the current, but I am still in the same boat; the same instant as always, and that will probably be eternal. The woman who must be in Naomi's apartment is the same woman I left at the door of a neighborhood cinema, but she continues, like me, to live in the same instant, for we have not passed through time, we have passed over time, like the boatman over the current of the river! But it is not the body that travels in the boat, but the soul, which is not affected by time. She will have the same soul she had the day she lost her memory, and it is that soul that has not aged and will surely recognize me. Now they meet again and they will ask themselves: what have we done with our lives that we had to separate? Only I have the answer: not having listened to her or followed her wishes. We are at the door of her apartment. Alicia gives me a pleading look. -Your great moment has come! Now you will have the only chance to save or damn your soul! She knocks and we hear some agile footsteps that must be those of my daughter Noemí. But it is not Naomi who opens the door, but she does! Alicia could not avoid an expressive gesture of surprise, and I feel as if I were plunging into an abyss of time, and I would have to travel through the past twenty years to land in the same place where I was the night of my betrayal: time has not passed for her! There is no trace of suffering on her face, still smooth and young. Her figure is the same. Her hair is still curly, but a little more faded, and what impresses me most is her serene and tender gaze, but as if lost in nothingness. I don't know what to say, but I am anxious about her possible reaction. Did she recognize me? I hear rapid footsteps, it's Naomi coming to greet us. But she has become paralyzed and anxiously contemplates the scene. Finally, her mother and I are face to face and neither of us is able to break the tension of the moment. Naomi watches her mother, but there is no reaction that could give her to understand that she has recognized me. She remains holding the doorknob, and seems relaxed, she is waiting for her daughter to come. -Are they your guests, Naomi? Naomi tries to hide her desolation, she didn't recognize me! -Yes, Mom, they are our guests. She exchanges a disconsolate glance with me. Alicia also feels the tension of the moment, and looks at me questioningly. Naomi's mother begs us to come in, lets us in and closes the door behind Alicia. She follows us into a small living room, where a table is already set for four guests. We take off our coats and Naomi hangs them on a coat rack. Her mother remains silent, rubbing her hands together, not knowing what to do with them. She gives us fleeting glances and smiles slightly. There is strangeness in her expression, it is evident that she considers us strangers, and she does not know what her behavior should be. I think he is waiting for his daughter to introduce them to him. Naomi expected some gesture in her mother's expression that would show some indication that she remembered me, but it is evident that this has not been the case. She seems resigned and introduces us to her indecisive mother. -Mom, these are my friends I told you about. They are both writers, like us. The mother seems to welcome our profession with pleasure, because she gave us a broad smile with a gesture of admiration. Naomi tries, without much hope, to provoke her mother's memory. -He's a very famous writer, I'm sure you've seen his picture in a newspaper or in literary magazines! But the mother flatly denies this with a nod of her head. We are all caught off guard by a question from her mother addressed to me: -And what do you write, novels or poetry...? I write poetry..., yes, I've written a lot of poetry... He loses his gaze on an indeterminate point in the room. I try not to show my deplorable mood and respond by forcing a friendly smile: -I write novels, stories of ordinary people. Nothing special... but I met an admirable poetess, who, unfortunately for her many admirers, never published them! She smiles back at me, but makes no comment. I get the feeling that something is disturbing her mind, because the smile is frozen on her lips. She seems to wander off and move somewhere else. Perhaps to our university campus. She is a helpless and vulnerable woman, the same as she was twenty years ago, but time and amnesia have made her extremely sensitive and emotional. I would love to read her poetry. Dare I suggest it: -Why doesn't one of them read us? She has been startled by my unexpected suggestion and seems embarrassed. -Oh, no, no; I write them for myself.... They are very personal... You wouldn't like them! Naomi listens to her mother and seems devastated. -Mom, these are my friends. Come on, cheer up and read us some of your poems! There's still some time before dinner is ready. Naomi wants to try everything. There may not be another chance. Her mother looks stunned. She looks at us as if to check our willingness to listen to her poems. Once again she seems to sink into faraway places. Naomi tries again and suggests to her mother that she read the first ones she wrote, but that she does not remember when and where she wrote them. There is no doubt that she is under great pressure. I feel sorry for her, but above all I feel even more miserable. This poor frightened woman, who writes romantic poems dedicated to a lover she cannot remember and who has him in front of her, does not deserve this suffering. She seems to be hesitating. We are all watching her decision. She looks at us again as if trying to read our thoughts. Alicia has been silent, she must realize that now she has a real rival. Now that I have seen her again, those happy, pure and generous days return to my mind with infinite nostalgia, and I begin to believe that if destiny has it in mind, they could come back, even if only for a short time. Neomi has managed to overcome her mother's fears and agrees to read us some of her poems. The three of us settle down on a small sofa while she nervously shuffles through several notebooks she keeps in a travel bag, and doesn't seem to know which one to choose. He finally decides on one with pink covers, where there is a caption that I can't read. He sits down on one of the dining room chairs, leafs through several pages, and finally seems to decide on one. She has the same tone of voice, the same slow cadence and intonation. It was a pleasant experience to listen to her recite, and I see it's still the same! IF YOU WERE... If your heart were foam, I would be ocean; If your soul were heaven, I would be cloud; If your gaze were rain, I would be a field; If your hands were water, I would be thirsty. For God's sake, that verse again! Why is fate playing cat and mouse? Why has it chosen this very poem? I think she has noticed my confusion. She gives me a strange look that could be one of interrogation, perhaps she is beginning to remember! Naomi has exchanged a look of astonishment with me, she seems to be asking herself the same question. Alicia hasn't reacted, but I suspect what she must be thinking: her stigma is haunting her! Naomi's mother has come out of her momentary impasse and continues reading. When she finishes, we have the feeling that she has made a great effort. She closes the notebook, leaves it on the table and drops relaxed on the chair. She doesn't want to read any more poems. Something is disturbing her mind again. Now I can read the notebook's caption: "Poems of love and oblivion. Spring 1997." But there is no indication of the place or name of its author. I congratulate her effusively, she thanks me with a kindly smile, but I notice her absent, troubled. Naomi is worried about her mother's despondency. She must think that we should not push her. To awaken her memory abruptly may cause her a new trauma. She does not insist. Dinner is ready. Alicia accompanies Noemí to the kitchen to help her set the table. My daughter has cooked and has surprised me, I didn't know she was such a good cook. Her mother has relaxed; she is calmer and we exchange comments about how wet this autumn is turning out to be and what she has seen during her stay in the city. -Did you like the opera "Madame Butterfly"? -Oh, yes; very much so! -Don't you find it a little sad? -Yes, you are right, it is a bit sad.... I have the impression that she is talking to me, but her thoughts are elsewhere. I would give anything to know where! Naomi intervenes in the conversation. -I have an idea," he turns to me, "why don't you take my mother to visit a museum? I can't miss school, but you might have time. I know she was looking forward to seeing the latest exhibition at the National Museum. His mother tries to protest. Sounds like a good idea to me. -I will be happy to accompany you. I was looking forward to seeing her too! Alicia remains in dramatic silence. Everything is conspiring against her. She has noticed that I am beginning to take a lively interest in Naomi's mother, and I think she even suspects that I may feel something more than compassion. The truth is that I feel a great longing for the times when we were two lovers of literature, but also two good friends, and friendship is less passionate than love, but more loyal and generous. On the other hand, I would like to repay her suffering with my affection. But I can do nothing for her unless she recovers her memory and remembers who I am. I think Naomi is of the same opinion. The dinner was delicious. I congratulate my daughter, who is very flattered. But my aches and pains threaten to return and I would like to be back in my apartment before this happens. Naomi brings us our coats and I notice in her mother's eyes that she senses our departure, I think she has taken a liking to me and has overcome her initial misgivings, possibly she vaguely remembers me. We agreed that I would pick her up here the next day and we would spend the morning visiting the exhibition. Then we would go to an Italian restaurant for lunch, as Noemi has filled me in on her mother's gastronomic tastes, and she loves Italian pasta. Yes, I remember! 26. Memory I have spent a night in intense pain. All these emotions may be detrimental to my health. The pains have been joined by uncertainty about Naomi's mother. It is very likely that had our past not mediated I would have been attracted to her; for her kindness and sensitivity, so rare in the environment in which I have lived these last twenty years. I have still found her attractive, but it is not an exclusively physical attraction, perhaps I cannot explain it in spite of being a writer, but it is a physical attraction that emanates from the spirit; a physical attraction proper to human beings and not to animals. It is the joy of pleasure when it is tempered by sensitivity and not only by sexuality. It is as if the soul gives you its blessing to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh without unconsciousness and bestiality. It's not sex, it's sensuality, if I can put it that way. Maybe that's why we had that frustrated relationship, because she tried to imitate a behavior that was not in her personality, and I wouldn't have known how to interpret it then either. I don't feel well, I'm down and my whole body aches, but I have to pull myself together and keep the promise I made to Naomi's mother. Another absence would be intolerable! The weather is with us. It is a sunny, almost summery day. The shower has cleared my head and I feel a little better. The prospect of spending a morning with someone who has loved you but is unable to recognize you fills me with uncertainty. I may not be up to the task and I may not know how to behave. After all we are two sick people, and sick people understand each other. A cab takes me to Naomi's house, I ask her to wait, because it will take us to the National Museum. Naomi's mother had been waiting for me dressed to go out for a long time. When she opens the door I notice enthusiasm in her expression. I greet her with a friendly kiss on the cheek and can't help but compliment her good looks, which she seems to appreciate. I suspect she has taken a liking to me and feels safe with me. What would happen if she knew who I really was? I don't know, but sooner or later she has to know. I find it hard to accept what is happening. I spend the morning next to a woman I have longed for for many years, and now that she is next to me I feel unable to openly show her my affection, and I continue to suffer from the same regrets as with the previous ones, but aggravated by the constant fear that she will recover her memory and realize that she is next to the man who has caused her the most harm. I would like her to end this nightmare; to recognize me and condemn or forgive me. If on many occasions I have wondered what would have become of me if I had not left her, now I don't need to imagine it. We would visit the latest exhibition at the National Museum, but we would be holding hands, and we would talk about the sales of my latest novel, which surely would not even reach the tenth position of the best sellers, but in exchange I would have a good number of educated and faithful readers, with whom I would exchange thoughts, concerns, ideas and comments about my novels, the message of the characters, about literature and art in general. Many of them I would know personally and I could consider them my friends, as well as faithful readers. But they would not flatter me, even if they felt admiration for my novels. I would not be an idol of young girls blinded by my popularity and the attractiveness of an experienced forty-year-old who considered me sexy, since I would have a companion that everyone would know and would know that I had always been faithful to her, as she herself said at the exit of the movie theater of such bitter memory and that resonate in my ears as if she had pronounced them yesterday: "We won't make mistakes or lead double lives that might cause scandal! We'll be a perfect writing couple, giving no reason why what happened to the unfortunate Oscar Wilde shouldn't happen, right?". How I wish it had been so! But we would also talk about the success of her last book of poems, because she would be much more popular and admired than me. Her books would indeed be at the top of the best sellers and most valued. And they would not be poems addressed to a ghost lover, but to all that multicolored spectrum that can be expressed through poetry. This is the dream that I have failed and that I cannot even turn into an exemplary novel, written with my heart and not my head, without studying the tastes and trends of the market, the number of potential readers and possible royalties, or wasting time in eternal photo shoots to publish the most commercial image, or begging for an interview on the most popular program in exchange for promoting a sponsor who is not interested in what you think about literature, so that future generations would receive that message of friendship, loyalty and generosity from the people of generations already gone. That would possibly have been my life with her. During the cab ride to the museum, she stares quizzically at what she sees as if she has never been here before. When something especially catches her eye, she exchanges a look of amazement with me, I respond with a smile of approval. At the museum she seems enthusiastic about the paintings on display. There is no doubt that she is an artist. She tells me about the ones that catch her attention. I have acquired for her as a souvenir of this visit an illustrated book about the painter in the exhibition, which she thanks me with a discreet kiss on the cheek. She is undoubtedly the same charming woman she was twenty years ago. It would be a memorable morning if I were not in constant pain. I try not to let her notice my suffering, because even if it is brief, today is probably one of the happiest days in recent years. What makes us most human is our ability to get affection and friends who just know us. A friendship without affection is like a black and white photograph: it lacks color. I'm finding the museum visit exhausting, but she seems immune to fatigue. I suggest we take a break and have a drink in the museum cafeteria. She thinks it's a good idea. The cafeteria brings back distant memories of the one at our university. Twenty years later she is standing in line in front of me again and she is also holding a book in one hand! As if this coincidence wasn't enough, they also have slices of strawberry cream pie! She has seen them and seems hesitant to put a slice on her tray. She gestures with the intention of taking a slice but pulls back. I think the sight of that cake has possibly awakened some area of his unconsciousness. I can't see the expression on his face, but he is unable to go on with just a cup of coffee. I get the impression that something is again disturbing his mind. There are several people behind us who are getting impatient, because she has become as if paralyzed in front of the tray of cakes. In a strange gesture, which seems to me more impulsive than voluntary, she finally takes one of the portions. I'm beginning to worry, I have a feeling that twenty years of amnesia may have a tragic end here. But I don't care, and I take one more step towards this abyss, offering to hold the book for him so that he can take the tray with both hands! She turns sharply toward me and I have the alarming feeling that her gaze is remotely familiar, the same one I remember when she turned to me in the faculty cafeteria. Maybe she is starting to remember that scene too, because she refuses my help again! I don't know if fortunately or unfortunately, but there has been no repeat of the accidental event that brought us together, and we managed to get to a table with no accidents! She must have noticed my confusion mixed with my pains, because her gaze shows a certain uneasiness, it seems as if she is looking at a stranger, who is not the same one she had kissed ten minutes before to thank her for the unexpected gift. The coffee and his slice of cake are on the table, and for some reason they remain untouched. It is as if they were witnesses to some important event and needed to be presented as damning evidence to an imaginary but exacting jury. I cannot look into her eyes without feeling uncovered, lost in a deep sense of guilt for which there is no redemption. If I could read her mind I'm sure my image appears blurred in a dense fog, but it is quickly making its way to clearer areas, where it will eventually become perfectly visible. I, too, am getting the feeling that this woman is being transfigured, and before long she may emerge from the mist and may, at last, know the identity of her betrayer! In the midst of this state of anguished transformation, I hear the familiar sound of cups and plates rolling on the floor. An elderly woman has lost her balance, and dropped her tray! Once again fate intrudes on our tormented lives! The woman sitting in front of me now has a twitching face, her eyes wild, her accusing gaze fixed on mine, which I feel unable to hold. She has risen so abruptly that she has caused our accusing coffee cups and cake slices to fall. He almost shouts at me: -You; it's you! PART TWO: THE REUNION "He who forgives sin, seeks affection; he who spreads it, drives away the friend." (Proverbs 17:9) 27. Rejection Naomi's mother has vanished in the cafeteria. I don't know to what extent her memory has returned, but it is clear that she recognized me. A museum security guard has spotted a doctor among the visitors, who is trying to revive her. He asked me what caused her to faint. I told him that she had suffered a shock. The doctor wants to know what caused the shock. I replied that the cause was the strong impression of recognizing a person she had forgotten for the last twenty years. -That's no cause for fainting. -She did not wish to recognize him. He seems to recover. He half-opens his eyes, contemplates me for a few moments and closes them again. -I want to go back to my daughter's house; call my daughter and have her come and get me...! She asks the attending physician. -The gentleman who accompanies you can take you there. -No, no; call my daughter! The doctor looks at me strangely. -It's me he didn't want to recognize. It's a long story; I wouldn't know how to explain it to you. The museum guard suggests we find a cab and tell the driver where to take her. She nods weakly. Someone of those watching the scene has recognized me, and the word spreads among the others watching the scene. I notice in their looks a veiled reproach. I think they know from what is published in the magazines of the heart that my relationships with women are tortuous, and that she may be another of my victims. Nothing causes more pleasure to admirers than to discover the weaknesses of their idols, because deep down they hate them. Their admiration enslaves them and this discovery is a liberation. A few anxious minutes pass, but finally a young man appears who must be the cab driver, because he is accompanied by the guard. I tell him where to take her. The young cab driver and the doctor accompany her, and they leave the cafeteria. I find myself terribly alone, surrounded by people who probably hate me for my alleged misconduct with the victim. It is possible that someone may have taken a photo with his cell phone and tomorrow the photo will be published in the tabloids and on the networks, and some unprincipled and unethical journalist will take advantage of the incident to climb the ladder by resorting to libel. He will make up a story claiming that I mistreat my colleagues, which will delight the readers. He knows perfectly well that I will not sue him, because he will certainly be a poor devil who will not get his miserable salary at the end of the month, and I could only pay for the damages at the taxpayers' expense, giving him shelter and food in one of our overcrowded prisons. But my image will deteriorate, and in these critical moments that is what I most wish to preserve. I don't give the people who witnessed the scene a chance to explain it to them, and I rush out of the museum. It is urgent that I call Naomi so that she is informed of the recovery of her mother's memory and the dramatic outcome, which unfortunately I had already feared. Her cell phone is disconnected, she must be in a class. I call the University secretary's office and ask them to send her my message, and to come to her house urgently. I don't know what else I can do. After making these calls, I stop to think about what has happened. And I don't need to make any great show of intelligence to understand that my life is now meaningless. I don't even have a daughter to hold on to in this life, because I have not been, am not and could not be, the father that any daughter needs. Meeting her was a mistake. It would have been better if we had never met. When I did not exist, all her affection was for her mother and I had no one to judge my behavior. Now I have intruded and she feels obliged to share it with me, and I feel obliged to account for my conduct. It is better for me to get out of her way as soon as possible, as if she had been a mirage, and to employ her noble sentiments on those who deserve them. I am strolling aimlessly along a busy avenue, but I doubt that they will notice my presence, because I already feel myself floating in a vague place, a prelude to my final journey, which I will not take long to undertake. Perhaps sooner than expected! Alicia; yes, Alicia will help me! I can trust her; she will do whatever I ask of her! I don't know the feeling of love and how far we can sacrifice ourselves for the loved one, but she must know because there is no more sublime sacrifice than to love without being reciprocated. And she has endured it with infinite generosity. Someone has to give me the push to get me on my way to a place where I can find peace. I'm startled by the alarm on my cell phone, it's Alicia! It's as if my previous thoughts had been a spell to summon her and she had heard my wishes to die sooner than expected. She has heard from Naomi that her mother has regained her memory and wants to know how she reacted to remembering me. Just a minute ago Alicia was little less than my exterminating angel, and now that I listen to her life is once again claiming her attention, and she manages to drive these gloomy thoughts from my mind. She is a woman and knows how women think and feel, so I knew she would reject me. She asks me how my mood is and I reply that I am like a lost child in a department store who is asked by adults not to cry because they will soon find their parents. I was also crying before his call because I felt lost and scared. She asks me if I want her to come to my apartment so that I can tell her what happened to make Naomi's mother's memory come back. -Thanks to a slice of strawberry cream pie! -I replied. Alicia has the road free, but she knows that I will remain inaccessible as long as I don't have the forgiveness of the woman who now knows who I am and where her enemy lives. Of course, I beg you to come. 28. Depression Despite Alicia's invaluable moral and spiritual help, I am deeply depressed. It must be one of those depressions that inevitably lead to suicide. If I have not committed it yet, it is out of cowardice and horror of physical pain, but there are many ways to end this suffering. If life is not supported by some incentive, it is not possible to live it. In human beings the defense of life is not instinctive, but mental; it is a reasoned and justified decision, but pressured by the irreversible lack of incentives. No animal commits suicide. I have consumed and wasted all my incentives, without the result being what I would have wished. But I must also admit that I have never known what I really wanted. Naomi called me. She is already in her apartment. Her mother is very upset and wants to go home tomorrow. She has completely recovered her memory and remembers the causes of her amnesia in detail as if it happened yesterday. Naomi has tried to make her see that I am deeply sorry, but she does not want them to talk about me. She thinks she will need some time to get over her resentment, but the one thing I don't have is time. She has not told her about my illness so that she does not think that she wants to blackmail her. She is deeply sorry for this situation, for having to divide her affections between two parents at odds. Her mother does not understand why she has forgiven me, when I am the main victim of this drama. Naomi fears that her mother will distance herself from her because she believes that she has not behaved as she expected. She thinks she should have been more consistent and not forgiven me, and I think maybe her mother is right. Alicia has just arrived. Not a day has gone by since the day we met that she hasn't worried about me and I remain stubbornly oblivious to her. Why does she insist on maintaining her loyalty to a doomed, hopeless man who can only inspire pity and sympathy? The answer must lie in those recesses of women's souls that I have failed to understand. 29. Alicia's plan (Narrator: Alicia) Today I found him in a deplorable state. I know that he had hoped that Naomi's mother would have given him the opportunity to express to her his regret and his own sufferings and remorse in twenty years of solitude. If she has lived those twenty years in darkness, he would have preferred to have lost his memory as well. We women are condemned to forgive men's infidelities, because they have created a world where it is not possible to avoid this sin. If it were the world of women, infidelity would not be possible because neither would ownership exist. Men would be as shared as food or work. No one would be anyone's property. This man is a victim of that world, where there is no other incentive than competition and the derisory pleasure of the winners. He is also an unhappy winner in a world made in his own image and likeness. We cannot change a world that has a male God. But we women would not have gods either, only energies, positive or negative. Energy has created the world, we are all energies. I know that in his desperation he is thinking of suicide, but he is a weak man, and to commit suicide it is necessary to have courage. Men feel strong if they have terrible weapons, we do not need those diabolical weapons, but if we set our minds to it, we could bring about the destruction of the world in the same time it took God to create it! God himself had to be begotten by a woman. I would like to make him understand that he is not guilty and that his remorse is unfounded. If there is a guilty party to be found, it is Naomi's mother, because her fantasy and her ignorance of human nature and of the reality in which she lives provoked this man's infidelity. The most serious sins are not committed by the intelligent, but by the ignorant, but they do not feel guilty because their ignorance serves as a mitigating factor. Her literary agent lived in the real world, it was a matter of competition and she had the best offer, that's why she was the winner and got the product. It would be necessary to completely revise our morality and adapt it also to the laws of supply and demand. If I love this man it is because, besides the physical attraction, for twenty years he has been consistent and has written what the market required, but his loneliness justifies his rejection. Only when death threatened him did he decide to put an end to this immorality, and say in public what he really felt and thought. For me he is a hero! He wonders why Naomi's mother won't listen to him and I suggest an idea that might help him: -Why don't you write a new novel with the story of your relations with her and how you have lived these last twenty years. She won't want to see you, but she might read the novel. I think this idea has been in his head for some time, but he doesn't feel strong enough to do something like this. -It's too late now, Alicia, I'm afraid my illness is getting worse and I won't even be able to count on those six months of respite. I have a feeling that I won't live to see the next spring bloom and that I won't be spared the cold winter of death! It is useless for me to encourage him, he knows better than anyone else when death will come, because it must be the most foreseen event. Yes, it is possible that he will not see the next spring bloom and that for him it will be too late, but not for me: I will write that novel in his name! 30. The first novel I had to help him change his clothes and make him comfortable. Maybe it's time to get to know him on a first-name basis. I think he has only me now. His daughter Naomi will only feel pity and compassion for him, but she will remain attached to her mother. She is young and idealistic now, and thinks she loves everyone, but soon she will be more selective, and will be more demanding in lavishing her affections. This is now a dead father, of whom only the memory will remain, but the mother will still be alive and demanding in her maternal affection, more as a family obligation than as a sincere moral sentiment. Now my poor friend is a loser, for with death he loses everything. I need him to tell me what his life has been like in these twenty years of unfounded remorse. -I'll fix you something to eat and then you can rest. While you sleep I will finish reading your first novel. But when you wake up, if you feel well, I want you to tell me what your life has been like during these twenty years. -Alicia, you called me by my first name! I was expecting this remark -Yes, I have called you by your first name; there is no longer any reason to keep our distance. Now we are closer to each other and share the same loneliness. You may not love me, but you need me as much as I need you. We are now traveling companions. You will get off before me, but my journey won't be very long either. I can only trust you and you can only trust me. I may be the only one to mourn your death. Now he rests and I return to the reading of his first book, which I now read with great attention. The one I write must have his style, because it must be his book. I do not know if I should inform him of my idea, it is possible that he felt frustrated at not being able to write it himself. I read a paragraph that strikes me: "The day is dark for the cursed poets, and the night is clear and welcoming for us; the light damages our eyes accustomed to darkness. In the darkness there are no visible paths, it is necessary to travel them with the imagination. During the day all the paths where you are forced to travel are visible. That is why only in the darkness we are free, while in the light of day we are slaves. I have chosen the darkness of death, because on the other side of the darkness there is always light. I will be reborn in a new world saturated with light, where I will live eternally." Will it really be like that? How can I know in life? My good friend will check it very soon, and I should arrange with him a spell to cross our dimension and inform me. Would it be possible? The short break was good for him. He has woken up in a good mood and agrees to tell me his story. I make coffee for both of us; I sit comfortably in the armchair and listen to him with great attention. -My agent knew I had betrayed the other woman, but he didn't feel guilty. He believed she was infinitely more beneficial to my career than my partner. As an agent, she prioritized the success of those she represented over her feelings. In just three months we managed to place my novel among the top 10 best sellers, and two months later, we reached first place. She had kept her promise! She knew all the levers to promote the novel of a perfect stranger. And sometimes those levers didn't move very ethically or morally. Our extra-professional relationship was not very satisfying for both of us. I was not a lover up to her demands. The truth is that for one reason or another I have never been a great lover. When he managed to place me on the cusp of popularity he stopped being interested in me. His passion was to bring young writers out of anonymity and share their triumphs in a very personal and physical way. For the first six months I did not have the courage to concern myself with the fate of the victim of my ambition, but not a day passed without the memory of her and my betrayal weighing on my conscience. I had promised myself that as soon as my career was consolidated and free from the bonds of my contract with my agent, I would seek her out and propose to her to resume our old dreams of glory, and we would once again become the writing couple she had imagined. I already had the means to make it happen. But I still had a year's commitment to my agent. No, that woman does not deserve this man's affection; and of course he is not guilty. If he is guilty, to live is sin! Nothing fundamental that we human beings do is righteous, because we are driven by necessity and not by will, but this is what living is all about. We have all inherited "original sin." -My agent didn't wait for our contract to end before finding a new lover. Another young writer, as ignorant and inexperienced as I was. Surely he would offer him the same fame and success as me, but he hadn't won any contests. He may not have been a better writer than me, but he was probably a better lover. By then I had not only risen to the top of the popularity charts, but I had created a saga that virtually assured the success of my future novels. That's why I decided that the time had come to repair the damage done, to meet her again, to try to get her to forgive me, and to make up for lost time, which had been very profitable for me. But there was no trace of her - he remains silent for a few moments, I think he realizes the desolation that awaited him if he did not manage to find the whereabouts of that woman -. She was hidden in a remote location that had little contact with the rest of the country, and no one knew with whom she was associated during her stay at the university. She never revealed the name of that town, which also did not coincide with her birthplace. Her father was the secretary of the Town Hall and had already made several transfers to that position in that small town. All my inquiries were useless. To make matters worse, she had adopted an artistic name to sign her poetry by which she was known, and not by her real name, which even I do not know! -So, is it true that you have exhausted all attempts to find her? -I ask him, although he has already given me the answer. -All the ones in my hands. I assumed that she had removed all traces of where she was so that I could not locate her. I didn't know I had lost my memory. I still let the year that was left in our contract go by, never for one day failing to try some other means of getting hold of her, but all my efforts proved futile. I finally came to the conclusion that she did not want to be located, because otherwise after two years there was no reason for her not to be the one to try to contact me. I did not believe her to be so spiteful, and I gave up looking for her. Two years of hard work, of having reached the pinnacle of popularity and having the necessary means to realize our dream, were meaningless and useless; in other words: they had gone to waste! -But she says the opposite: that you had no intention of tracking him down. -For her, I must have already been dead; there was no need to wait for me to suffer from this disease! -And how did you live the following years? -The following years I did not live; I survived! I had no other incentive than those commissioned novels, one every year, twenty thorns stuck in my mind! I had thousands of admirers, but not a single one to whom I could confide. When you write novels for ordinary people, don't expect to find a single one out of the ordinary. It's been such a lost few years for her, even though she has an excellent memory. 31. Confidences of a mother (Narrator Naomi) My father has not told me the whole story of his relationship with my mother. Now that he has regained his memory and I know the real story from my mother, I think maybe she is right and does not deserve my forgiveness. My mother could have prevented my birth by having me aborted, which she possibly would have done if my father had known of my gestation. If I was gestated it is because she believed she loved him and did not want to lose him, but he did not know how to value her sacrifice and abandoned her. She knew that she had accepted the representation of that vicious and heartless woman, and she was so naive that she thought she could compete with her. What else could she do to keep him by her side? It was of no use for her to write the best poems and dedicate them to him, because he had ceased to be interested in the poetess, and of course in the woman, but he did not have the courage to be honest with her. My poor mother has been crying practically since she has arrived at my house. It has been very painful to come face to face with a man who had shown so little courage in hiding his infidelity from her. -It's easy to regret when one senses death.... -she says to me between sobs-. You had to be the one to find him.... If he had put more effort years ago he would have found me, but success, and surely his many admirers, kept him very busy. I cannot reproach him for his resentment, twenty years lost in a few hours are not forgotten just because he suffers from an incurable disease. He is the cause of my mother also suffering from an incurable disease, but of the soul. But I am deeply saddened by this situation. I wish I could have found a justification for both of them, because deep down I believe they are both good people. They both have noble souls, and, if they have hurt each other there must be a powerful reason. My father blames his passion for literature and perhaps he is right. To create it is necessary to leave this world and contemplate it without an emotional relationship, otherwise it is not possible to understand it. I suppose that in order to create characters with different personalities, the author does not have to be emotionally linked to any of them. When my father was immersed in the creation of his novels, his relationship with the world around him, including my mother, must have changed and they were no longer people but characters. His life was a fiction and his relationship with my mother, the plot of some of his future novels. As it was. If I intend to follow in his footsteps and be as good a writer as he is, I must avoid creating emotional ties with anyone in this world, because, as he himself told me, and which I have not been able to forget, "If you dream of being an out-of-the-ordinary writer, your life will pass within that same out-of-the-ordinary dream, and you will never be able to live in reality." My mother also lived her out-of-the-ordinary dream, but she made the clumsy mistake of falling in love with one of her characters. I cannot expose this reflection to my mother because she might not be able to understand it. Although she has regained her memory, she still lives in her fictional world, and my father is a character of her imagination who has accidentally incarnated himself in the body of a lover. They should wake up from their respective dreams and contemplate each other as they are. Only then could they know how they really feel about each other, but how to wake up from a dream someone who doesn't know he is dreaming? I know it is useless, but I try to make my mother see this other point of view: -I understand that you are hurt, but perhaps your passion for literature played a trick on you, neither of you knew what the other was really like. Love is blind, and only sees what it imagines it sees. Maybe you were in love with someone who existed only in your imagination. My mother has reacted, and she looks at me confused and suspicious. She doesn't seem to have understood what I meant. I try to be more explicit: -What I mean is that both you and he needed each other as admirers of your respective works, which is what you really loved. When my father found another admirer, he no longer needed you, but you still needed him. I think he still doesn't understand my thoughts about his relationships. I'm afraid he thinks I'm trying to justify it. -Naomi, daughter, I don't know what you're trying to tell me! His guilt is evident, he took advantage of my innocence. I always tried to justify his lack of interest because I blindly believed that, in spite of everything, he was still faithful to me. It wasn't the first time that woman had made him late for our appointments, but that night I needed to see him and let him know that I was pregnant with your child, and I didn't know how he might react. He was not likely to want to be a father at this delicate time in his career. He needed to know as soon as possible, but I didn't think it was appropriate to tell him in writing or over the phone. I wanted to see his first reaction to know whether he would accept you or reject you. So, you can imagine my enormous frustration and anguish, because of his absence. In spite of the pain, I tried to believe that he had some powerful reason for not coming to the appointment, I was still blindly trusting in his fidelity! His expression has changed. She seems to be feeling the desolation and pain of that night. I can see it in the wrinkles on her forehead and in the wetness of her eyelids, she is about to cry again. -I was so distressed and helpless that after waiting uselessly for him for more than an hour, I did not return directly to my apartment. The night was warm and clear so I felt like taking a walk. I thought a long, relaxing walk would calm my anguish and I wandered through the busy streets, to mingle with the people and distract myself from my thoughts. I was confident that the next day we would have a chance to meet. And that's when I had the terrible shock that caused my amnesia. In one of these streets, there was a nightclub of ill fame, and I was contemplating the obscene photographs of the claim, when he descended from a cab, accompanied by that woman, who took him by the arm and they entered the club. They both seemed intoxicated. That image gave me a strong impact and I felt as if my head was going to explode. When I recovered from that terrible shock, I didn't know where I was, nor did I have the slightest idea how I had gotten there? -I didn't know where I lived, I didn't even remember my name! Near that place there was a small park, belonging to a parish in the neighborhood. Most of the benches were lined with homeless people. I was terrified, but I needed to rest, and I let myself fall exhausted on the only one that was free. Moments later a woman from the urban police patrolling the neighborhood was surprised by my appearance, which was not that of a beggar and wanted me to identify myself, but I could not answer any of her questions, so they understood that I was in a state of shock, and took me to the police station of the neighborhood... You know the rest... For God's sake! Why do I have to face this horrible dilemma? If I save one I condemn the other! Where is the justice? Which of the two is truly innocent and which is truly guilty? And why does one of them have to be guilty? Why can't they both be innocent? They each have their reasons for doing what they have done and I am unable to judge them. I suppose only God can judge them! My mother is packing her little travel bag, because she is about to take the first train of the morning. There will be no opportunity for reconciliation. She will probably not be at his bedside when he passes away. She does not want to return to this city that brings back such bad memories. She is determined to forget him, but now voluntarily. Who knows, now that she has regained her memory and can live a normal life, maybe she will meet another man with whom she can rebuild her traumatic life. And me, what should I do? I want her to give me the answer herself: -Mom, I understand that you resent him and want to forget about him, but what should I do? He's my father, and he's a dying man! Should I be at his bedside when he passes away? His answer plunges me deeper into my uncertainty: -My daughter, do what your conscience dictates, you are already an adult, you must decide for yourself.... Now I am the one who feels like crying. -I don't want to be an adult! 32. Naomi's mother (Narrator: Naomi's mother) It is not yet dawn and we are ready to head for the station. My train leaves in an hour and the station is not far, but we will take advantage of the time to have breakfast in the cafeteria. My daughter is not used to these early mornings and is still sleepy. She has insisted on accompanying me to the station, but now I can manage on my own perfectly well. The cab is waiting for us on the street and in less than twenty minutes it drops us off at the station. I look nostalgically at the cityscape of my youth that I will never see again. We have plenty of time to chat, but first we need a strong coffee to clear our heads. We sit at a separate table in the cafeteria and Naomi brings me coffees and two croissants that are still warm. We have breakfast in silence. She waits for me to tell her something about what my life will be like from now on in my small town. I tell her that nothing will change, but that I will now try to publish some of my poems. -Even if they are dedicated to my father? -Why not? A poem is a poem, and it doesn't matter to whom it is dedicated, what matters is that it moves feelings and emotions. -But he can read them. -He has not lost his memory; he has nothing to remember. -Will you ever come back to this city? -No, Naomi, my poor child, I will never set foot in this city again. He's been dead to me for twenty years! He took his own life the night he went to that notorious club on the arm of that woman. She dug her own grave, and then erased the epitaph on his grave, because she too forgot her victim. For me he has remained dead these twenty years, until he was momentarily resurrected to revive again his agony. I have written the last verse dedicated to him, which can serve as a panegyric: I die when I am still young; I die when I am still an adult; I resurrect when I am about to die; I die again when I was about to live. -This is my farewell gift until death wills to take me to his side as well. Then we will know which of us two has done justly. Literature will lose a writer with all his talent barely used and a poetess with all her talent barely remembered. No, Naomi, I don't want to force you to choose who to condemn or who to save. Your soul and mind do not belong to us, only your body. You have received your soul from God, and only you have the possibility of discovering what your true personality is. Don't try to imitate us and choose your own path, which may lead you to be a great writer, but you could also be an excellent doctor or a great soccer player. You owe us nothing. We begot you by our recklessness, without that being our desire, as most human beings are begotten. It is we who are indebted to you, but we do not have the means to compensate you for our mistakes. You were born free and you are free to choose who deserves your affection and your memory. Your mother will always welcome you with open arms, but live your life and do not feel pity or expect comfort from us. If you need comfort, learn to comfort yourself; if you need support, learn to lean on yourself; if you need compassion, learn to pity yourself and if you need love, learn to love yourself. It may not have been the advice a mother should give her daughter, but at least in this I agree with her father, people are only united by the affections that their works arouse; without works there can be no affections. -Your father and I were happy when we both admired each other's work, but when he stopped being interested in my poetry and I stopped admiring his, because he stopped writing short stories to devote himself to writing novels inspired by his perverse agent, we had no reason to love each other anymore. But I didn't want to accept that that talented young writer would let himself be handled by his agent, and I continued to admire the author of "Poetas sin cielo". Now I know how wrong I was! Only if he returned to being the writer I idolized could I forgive him. But perhaps for him it is already too late. That must be his destiny and this must be mine. The public address system at the station announces the imminent departure of my train. My poor daughter has felt it as if they were announcing the departure of a train to eternity with no return, because she looks at me in anguish and I know she is making great efforts to hold back her tears. -Mom, if I have to be an adult, I want to be like you. I love you very much... but also my wretched father... -I know, you have a generous heart because you are young. With age it shrinks and becomes more selfish, but more faithful and demanding. -No, we'll say goodbye here.... Take good care of yourself, and don't pout like when you were a child, or you'll make me cry too. Give me a farewell smile! Naomi tries to please me, but her smile is a cheerful way of crying. My heart breaks into a thousand pieces as I walk away from her dragging my small travel suitcase as if it were my coffin. When I finally step through the door onto the platform and she can no longer see me, I let my downtrodden soul vent freely and cry silently.... I can't help but feel guilty for having lived! 33. The second novel (Narrator: Alicia) I have read the manuscript of her first novel twice and I think I am ready to take on this important challenge. Of course I will alter some things, she has to understand the reasons for his abandonment and be able to justify it. This man cannot leave this world without a clear conscience and I will not be able to convince him that he is innocent. But I have little time, I have long sleepless nights ahead of me! I heard from Naomi that her mother has returned to her hometown and it seems she has no intention of ever going back. Fortunately Noemi still considers me a good friend she can trust. She has not told me expressly, but she is going through a very difficult time. We have arranged to meet at the coffee shop where I met her father, but he will not attend, because I will not inform him of our meeting. I want Naomi to have nothing that prevents her from opening her heart to me and telling me what conclusions she has drawn after what her mother has told me about her father's behavior. I need that information to finish getting an idea of the plot of this new novel. Now she knows the whole story, but according to her mother's version, I want her to know her father's version as well. I am taking advantage of the fact that she is spending the morning at the hospital to meet her. I am the first to arrive and I sit at the same table as that day. In front of the table there are some large mirrors where I see myself reflected and I can hardly believe that this woman is me. My gaze has become severe, or rather, cold and disenchanted. I no longer find myself neither ugly nor beautiful, just sober and adult. I don't need to attract anyone's attention either, because I already have someone to pay all my attention to, that's why I dress again with the same old-fashioned clothes I wore when I arrived from the provinces. I even notice that my movements are slower and my appearance in general suggests that of a simple social worker. I feel more like myself than in those provocative clothes. How little they esteem themselves who need to hide themselves in the way they dress! Naomi has just arrived. She has all the appearance of a helpless and confused creature. She stands hesitantly in the doorway, as if afraid of being discovered. She hasn't seen me, or perhaps hasn't recognized me in my new guise, and she motions to leave. I signal her with my arm, and as she recognizes me she seems to come back to life. She smiles as if I have saved her from some imaginary danger. She sits down across from me. She asks me about her father's health. -I don't want to deceive you Noemi, all these events have affected him... I don't think he will make it through this winter -his smile has turned into a bitter expression of deep sadness-. I think that what is worsening his health is his deep depression after your mother's rejection. Naomi lowers her gaze, as if she does not want me to notice the conflict of her divided feelings in her eyes. We keep a few moments of silence in memory of her dying father. She has nothing to say, I am the one who starts the conversation. -May I ask you why your mother does not want to hear your father's confession? She tells me the real cause and not the one we all believed. I'm afraid the mother has a powerful reason for her spiteful attitude. Even I would find it hard to forgive her if I were in her place. Betrayal now has a pornographic image, something simply intolerable for a sensitive poetess. In her delusions she must have imagined him as a satyr with the face of an angel. How can I justify that scene? Why did they go to that club after, in all probability, they had drunk to excess during the romantic private dinner? There must be a good reason that exculpates him. -Dear friend, sometimes I wonder, especially as a writer, what is the use of language if we cannot understand each other. Perhaps it would have been better to communicate with a few sounds to express our basic feelings, as animals do, because words, no matter how cultured, creative or realistic we may be, are not capable of expressing ourselves as clearly as those simple sounds. Your parents are two excellent people, and they would have understood each other with simple sounds, without using words. The use of words has confused and separated them. It is a biblical curse! The same words have different meanings depending on who pronounces them and how they are pronounced. The heart does not understand the meaning of words, but the tone with which they are pronounced. The meaning is the task of the mind, but the mind lacks feelings, it doesn't care about one word or another. Your mother only listens to what is said if it is poetic; but your father only pays attention to what is said if it resembles the dialogues of a novel. Neither listens to what the other really says! -Yes; they themselves admit that their passion for literature is what has separated them! -No, Noemí; it is not literature, but words. Literature is a noble attempt to give some emotional or intellectual meaning to words so that their messages are clear to the senses. But life is not a novel, we don't know who the characters are or what the plot is about or even know its author. We trust that words and their meanings are enough to go through the world with morality and a sense of justice, but all we do is invent moralities and justice with words that do not have the same meaning for everyone, so there can be no morality or justice as long as there are words. Naomi seems to ponder my thoughts. She has come to a wise conclusion: -So, do you think they are both guilty? -No doubt, but it is an inevitable sin, because we need words, not to understand each other, but to communicate. That is why literature that is born of this curse and tries to redeem itself is so necessary, but not literature that is born already cursed and rejoices in its evil, as a pig wallows in its excrement. We writers have only one mission: to free words from the flames of hell and make them reach heaven. We are the fallen angels in this hell, while we inhabit the Earth, and of heaven, when we leave it. -And what can I do to reconcile them? -Words will not reconcile them, unless they are spoken in such a way that the heart understands them. -What do you mean? -Your mother will only react if she receives the message in poetry! -And who will write this poetry? -The person who loves them the most... You will write it. It will be your debut in this magical world of Literature and you will pass with an A, because you have the main thing: a great motivation. I know she feels overwhelmed, but at the same time I notice in her eyes the spark of genius that demands her chance. -But my mother would only be reconciled if he proves to her with a new novel that he is the same one who wrote "Poets Without Heaven", and that she has unconsciously loved these twenty years.... -Your father will write it! I don't want to reveal to Naomi that I will be the one to write it, because unconsciously I might reveal it to her mother and all the work would be useless. -Alicia, you have never told me why you feel obliged to take care of my father, because you always address him as "you", which is not proper for a mistress.... Do you have anything to do with his publisher or his manager? I had always feared that Naomi would ask me this question. But I don't have a clear answer even if I ask it to myself. Only a month ago I was a woman in love with a famous writer, whom I was physically attracted to and admired for his talent, so I had no doubt about the causes. Now my feelings have gone beyond love and are in an unknown dimension, which is probably not of this world. Thanks to his illness we have found ourselves in a dimension that goes beyond the human and must have something to do with the divine, and that must be hidden in our astral personality. Only in extreme situations do we penetrate this dimension, which creates eternal bonds. It is as if I am helping this man to enter that dimension, which must be the myth of Paradise, where we will meet again and be lovers for all eternity, so we can spare no effort to achieve it. I am trying to secure the love of this man after his death, so I cannot feel jealous of his mother, who will only be able to love him with that earthly, temporary love of human beings, when I reserve for myself his eternal and divine love. But Naomi would not understand. -Your father and I are, in addition to professional colleagues, old friends. I feel obliged to help him die a good death. I would do the same for any of my friends and fellow writers. 34. The wording Today I started writing the novel. I have the strange feeling that I am fulfilling a divine mandate; the will comes to me from an unknown source. The salvation or damnation of a human soul depends on its outcome. It is as if I were donating blood to a badly wounded person. I begin with that terrifying phrase for all writers: "Chapter One. It is like opening the bonds of the imagination, in a perfect union with the mind. It is absolutely necessary that the first lines arouse in Naomi's mother the need to read the following remaining lines or failure is assured. These are my first lines: "The main characters of this story did not meet by chance, but by destiny. But for twenty years they put all their efforts into going against what was written in the stars. This is the story of two lovers united by literature, but separated by words." I think it's a good beginning, and only with a good beginning is a good ending possible. Now I have to create the author of the novel, because this novel will not be written by me but by my characters. Also in real life things work the same way. God has created man, and has endowed him with the necessary understanding so that he can decide for himself the plot of his story. I continue: "These characters are two young people with the defects and virtues of all young people: utopian, independent, rebellious, reckless, nonconformist, generous, innocent and unbelieving. Like all young people, they do not live in the present, but in the future; they have no history, only a great desire to make history. Nor do they have experience, only experiences. They are not wise, they only have the desire to know. They make the simple complicated, because they believe that the simple is for old people or children, but not for them. They are, in short, two young people of our time, but as young people have been in all times. She has a passion for the sensitivity of Garcilaso and he for the imagination of Cervantes; she adores Dante Alighieri, he Lope de Vega; she is a poet, he is a storyteller. She knows she has talent and is sure of herself; he doubts her talent, and has no confidence in himself. But she believes in him and decides to postpone temporarily his inevitable conquest of fame and glory in order to help the insecure young narrator, so that they can walk the road to glory together, without one overshadowing the other." Four exhausting weeks have already passed. The novel is progressing at the same rate as my strength is waning. I have reached the critical point of separation and I have no difficulty in exonerating my death row inmate of all guilt. Where can the writer find the source of his inspiration if not in real life? How can he describe a brothel, observe the deep sadness that encloses the false joy of the prostitutes; the eagerness to make even the smallest drop of pleasure received pay, if he has never been in a brothel? How can a writer with her wings intact and free to fly wherever she pleases, clip another writer's so that he does not stray too far from his nest? Poetry springs from the soul; narrative from life. The poet sees the world from a cloud; the storyteller from the sewers. Poetry is music; narrative is noise. Naomi's mother still sees the world from a cloud, and if she does not descend to dry land she will never know that clouds become rain, and rainwater runs in the gutters! I have used these notes in this decisive chapter : "It was no surprise to find a table set up in his unmistakable style for two diners. Champagne set to chill, caviar canapés and other delicacies. I even knew that he would choose the most provocative clothes, in other words, it was nothing more than a novel scenario that I was to describe in the novel I was writing at the time. It was my clever agent's peculiar form of collaboration. But there were still some complicated scenes to describe for which I lacked the necessary imagery and could easily fall into ridicule. I discussed it with my agent and he suggested we pay a visit to one of the less reputable clubs in town, where I would surely have the images I needed. But I remembered my appointment. It was a painful decision. I knew she would be outraged, but a woman who has a writer for a partner must be used to such rudeness. Would she be angry if I were a doctor who missed her appointment because she had to treat a sick person? With my novels, I also treat thousands of people who are sick with boredom and lack of entertainment. Tomorrow I'll excuse myself and she'll understand! Before that excursion to the most nauseating bowels of the city, we finished the champagne, because sober we would not have had the courage to enter that brothel." "Unfortunately it was a fatal coincidence that she, frustrated and hurt by my absence, strolled down the street where the club was located and surprised us as we got out of the cab and entered the club somewhat dizzy, so that my agent had to lean on my arm. If it was true that he had blind trust in my fidelity, he had to wait until the next day to see that, despite appearances condemning me, I was still faithful. But that misleading image exceeded all her capacity for tolerance, and wounded her deeply, causing her the fatal trauma that has kept us apart for these past twenty years!" If after reading this she doesn't forgive you, this woman has lost her soul! 35. Winter The slower you want time to pass the faster it insists on passing. I've been so busy this past month that I haven't been aware of the passage of time and it's already winter! After her interview with her mother, Naomi is less affectionate with her father. Whatever her mother may have told her about her relationship with her father has affected her noticeably. There is something that separates them, but Naomi does not want to discuss with him her encounter with her mother, and her version of what happened. If she hides it, it must be because it must be something very lurid and that she does not dare to comment on. She has also become accustomed to her father's illness, she even seems to be mentally prepared to accept his untimely death, and only visits him once a week. Her apology is that she is so busy with her exams that she can barely stay for an hour in his apartment, and doesn't even stay for dinner. Since her hasty return, we have heard nothing from the mother. She seems buried in absolute silence. At least Naomi does not mention her. Unfortunately, it is as if all our behavior has entered into an irresponsible routine, without us being truly aware of the seriousness of the moment. Your father has had to be admitted several times to the emergency room, because his illness is getting alarmingly worse. Every time I call an ambulance to transport him to the hospital, he begs me to let him die in his bed. He is horrified by hospitals, because he believes that everyone there is so familiar with death that they cause it themselves! The pains cloud his mind and in those critical moments he totally loses the will to live, but I cannot accede to his wishes, because I still need him to survive at least long enough to see my purpose through. The novel is practically finished, because it is not very long. Only a few corrections are missing. I had some difficulty in finding a good denouement, but I think I have solved it satisfactorily. Your publisher will have no knowledge of this novel, of which I will publish only a few copies, enough to fulfill its purpose and no more. About the poem to be written by Noemi, maybe I overestimated her talent, but I still trust her, she will surprise me any day. My plan is that by Christmas the reconciliation will be consummated, and, at last, I will also be able to reconcile with myself. Perhaps I will also take advantage of this painful experience to write my own novel with my own version of events, but most likely I will dedicate my next work to the memory of this great man. As I expected, Naomi has not let me down, and has written a touching poem that is sure to influence her mother's mood. In any case, I don't think he will follow in his parents' footsteps. She is too down-to-earth and too grounded. She would make a good researcher, or teacher. If her parents have problems it is because of her artistic, creative, fickle, unpredictable temperament. It is difficult to live with an artist. 36. The last winter (Narrator: the sick person) This will be, if medicine does not prevent it, my last winter. I would like to live it intensely, but life slips through my fingers like fine grains of sand on a beach. Soon I will have left this troubled world. With each passing day I feel more and more familiar with death. With each new dawn the sun rises darker for me, and its light grows dimmer. Slowly what was a nightmare becomes a dream. As life punishes me, death rewards me. Death seemed like a drama to me before I knew the true face of life. Now that I know it, death seems to me a comedy, and it causes me an irresistible desire to laugh. In the end I will end up turning my death into a great event and I will sit in the stalls with a real longing for the curtain to rise. I may be starting to lose my mind, but that must be the mind's strategy to elude suffering. Blessed is madness when sanity allies itself with pain so that you suffer it consciously! But I wish to be an exceptional witness to my own death, because it is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I am a writer. If I intend to describe death in my novels, I must have experienced it! I know it seems an absurd thought, but more absurd is to believe that our mind and spirit do not transcend beyond the threshold of death. I believe that everything we have come to conceive and imagine will somehow remain, and transcend our death, to be the foundations of the personality of a new life at the instant of its gestation, into whom we will transmigrate. I also know that this is a naive consolation, because no one has been able to prove such a theory. Others believe that their souls will ascend to heaven, remain in purgatory or descend to hell, where they will be reunited with other soul mates, virtuous or sinful. This is the most popular version. In my theory there are no heavens or hells, but there is overcoming or degradation. A wicked and depraved soul can transmigrate into the fetus of a beast. It is not the most popular, but I believe it must be so. Now I spend most of the day bedridden and my mind is only clear when the sedatives take effect and the pain disappears, more and more intensely. Alicia spends the day with me, but at night, after she leaves me sedated and I manage to fall asleep, she goes back to her apartment, only to return first thing in the morning. She must be exhausted, because sometimes she falls asleep on the couch and it is me who watches over her sleep. She has brought her laptop with her, on which she passes the time when I sleep. She says she is working on her new novel about the ballerina, but she doesn't want to read anything to me until it is finished. She has become very superstitious and thinks it brings bad luck. I find her getting worse and worse every day, even thinner. I fear that she may also fall ill. Today is one of the coldest days of the winter. A heavy snow is falling and the flakes seem to go crazy as they are pushed by a strong gusty wind, which is constantly changing direction. Like every morning, I hear the pleasant rattle of the lock as Alice arrives at my apartment. She is shivering with cold and completely soaked. I suggest she put on one of my robes and dry her clothes on the heating radiator. Many times I have held her body in my arms, but I had never seen her naked. This morning I finally had that opportunity. I see the body of an attractive but not provocative woman; sensual but not sexual. It is harmonious but not erotic. It's just a human being's body. It feels better already. As she prepares my breakfast, I inquire about her career situation, which she seems to have abandoned because of me. -Alicia, how are things going with my agent? Did he get you a contract? Alicia denies it with a slight nod of her head. -And has he given you any reason? -Publishers don't like novels where there is no sex, or at least something that excites their imagination, and my novels find them too intellectual or spiritual. -Yes, I think my first agent seduced me into having a firsthand sexual experience and being able to describe it in minute detail. That was also one of the keys to the success of my novels. Sexuality is not an invention of culture, it is a natural reality and there is no reason for it not to be part of a plot, but it should not be described as a simple sexual relationship, similar to that of animals, because what characterizes a human being is that from all his natural experiences he extracts a moral evaluation, which does not exist in animals. Among humans, sex cannot be exempt from this same morality. Most novels dispense with this necessary moral premise to describe it as a purely animal relationship and, therefore, immoral. It is not true that in war as in love anything goes. In war there are also rules of conduct, so why shouldn't there be in sexuality? Alicia listens attentively to my brief dissertation on sexuality and seems to agree, but qualifies a few details. -Morality is relative, and its values are not shared by all, that is why I believe that sexuality has to be based on other more realistic norms, that satisfies desire without incurring in prostitution.... -And what are these standards? -Of course, mutual consent, and respect for the sensitivity of each lover, provided that both are aware of the consequences of this relationship. That attitude is already sufficiently moral. No lover should be considered an object of pleasure, but pleasure should have an object, that of mutual satisfaction of the senses, without creating a bad conscience: the contrary would be prostitution! 37. Last Christmas (Narrator: Naomi's mother) Once again I am in this small and remote town. It has welcomed me with the first snowfall of this year and I feel that the snow is also falling on my soul. Now that I have recovered my memory, the last twenty years of blessed amnesia seem like a brief instant. Were it not for the wrinkles, those of the face and those of the soul, I would not know that time has passed. To remember for what; to recognize the cause of your amnesia; to see again that painful scene at the entrance of that brothel; to relive those dreams cut short by the ambition of a disloyal friend? For this it is better not to remember! Now I have to forget what I have remembered so that it does not continue to disturb me and to meet again with poetry, which is my only friend and confidant. The only one that is loyal and for no cause, justified or not, betrays you. We are only what we believe in and believe, the rest is a chimera, because it only exists in our imagination. I imagined him as I wished him to be, but he was not as I imagined him to be, because no one can penetrate the mind and soul of another person. They will always let us down! Now I have to follow the same advice I gave Naomi: If you need comfort, learn to comfort yourself; if you need support, learn to lean on yourself; if you need compassion, learn to pity yourself; and if you need love, learn to love yourself. What would have become of me if he hadn't won that untimely award? Would we still be together, would he have grown tired of me? We would probably be separated. I remember the night of the recital. He didn't say goodbye to me because he was jealous of my friends. But, on the other hand, only those who love feel jealous. And what would have become of his literary career if he had not met that woman? Naomi wants me to read her novels, but she herself assures me that they are well written and interesting, but lack motivation. They don't convey anything transcendental or human, they are novels to regale the ears of ordinary people, without ambition, conformist and resigned to their vulgarity. If I had helped him, he might not be so famous, but he would be better regarded and would have more incentive. He had the talent to write something more ambitious; something that deserved to go down to posterity. I just got an email from Naomi, I miss her so much! She should write to me more often. I open it, unable to contain my excitement: "Dear Mom, in two weeks it will be Christmas again and this year I don't know with whom of the two of you I am supposed to spend this lovely time of the year. You know how much I love you, but it hurts me that my father spends them alone, being so sick. My heart is still divided between the two of you, and I can't decide on either of you, because I wish I could spend them with both of you!" My poor daughter is in an unbearable emotional struggle. I should write to her and tell her that I won't mind if she doesn't come and spend it with her father. Someone has to sacrifice, because neither of us has done more to deserve her affection! "I have another important piece of news for you: Alicia has given me several copies of Dad's latest autobiographical novel. In spite of being very weak she has kept her promise. I've read it and I couldn't help crying with joy, but I won't tell you why, it's better if you read it and find out for yourself. Will you promise me you'll read it? I'll send you a copy by mail. I also enclose my first poem dedicated to the two of you. I already told you at the station that I wished I was like you. I hope you like it. A very strong hug from your daughter who loves you and misses you, Noemí." God knows that I would make any sacrifice so that Naomi would be happy and not have to suffer for our faults, but He asks the impossible of me! Betrayal has no redemption. Jesus would not have forgiven Judas either, nor does God forgive the devil. One betrayal is enough, now I cannot also betray myself. No, Naomi, my poor child, you cannot yet understand how the wounds of the heart hurt. Mine has bled for twenty years, and now it needs to heal its wound, it may happen tomorrow or never. Everything is written in destiny. Let it decide for us. She tells me that her father has published a new novel, and that it is autobiographical. I have a feeling that it must not leave me in a good place among his memories. Why is Naomi so keen for me to read it? I'm not spiteful. I, too, wish everything had happened differently. I also long for those happy campus days; that insecure young writer who needed my help; those dreams practically within our grasp. But he reneged on everything in exchange for thirty pieces of silver. God is just and has sent him the punishment he deserves! However, the paths of the Lord are inscrutable, thanks to my weakness this daughter of mine was born, who promises to surpass both of us and to be the comfort of both of us. Only God knows what is right and what is wrong. If I stand firm it will be His will and if he must die with regrets, so must he. Today has dawned with a dense blanket of snow that evens everything with the same whiteness. You can hardly walk through these steep alleys. I met the letter carrier on my way out of the bakery and he handed me the envelope with the book Noemi sent me. We all know each other here and there is no need for mailboxes. If I didn't know it also contained a poem by my daughter I wouldn't even open it, but I want to see if Noemí will become a great poet or if she is following the wrong path. I open it and am painfully struck by the title of the book: "Si tú fueras..., Memorias de dos amantes unidos por la literatura y separados por las palabras" (If you were..., Memoirs of two lovers united by literature and separated by words). What does he intend with this title? But I see Noemi's poem. It is not very long. I read it: "I WAS BORN OF FORGOTTEN PARENTS For love or lack of love, by charm or disenchantment, of two unknown lovers I was born of oblivion. As a baby I had no one to rock me, as a child I had no one to spoil me, as an adult I had no one to counsel me because I was born of forgotten parents I met my father when he was dying, I met my mother when I didn't remember, I knew myself when I cried, because we continue to be forgotten. I write you this simple poem to make you forget what you have remembered and remember what you have forgotten of the writer you had loved. Your loving daughter, Naomi." It is a poem worthy of my daughter. You could not have expressed her wishes better. It has touched the depths of my aching soul. I feel guilty that I have ignored my daughter's yearnings. Perhaps she has the right perspective on this drama and I am fixated on my revenge. Perhaps, after all, it is written in destiny that I must forgive her. But how do I know, who can advise me, should I turn to a priest, do they know more about the human soul than we do, have they been given the grace of faith by God himself, so that they are closer to virtue than other human beings? I have lost faith and trusted only in my own judgment, without waiting for the miracle of revelation, but after reading my daughter's moving poem I am beginning to doubt my moral certainties and the time may have come to ask for advice from one who is devoted to the salvation of souls, and mine must be at risk of damnation. If my daughter wishes, I think I should read this new novel. 38. The alarm (Narrator: Alicia) I have to warn Naomi, her father is dying! I know it's against his will, and it's the will of a dying man, but I'm going to call the hospital to have him admitted. He has to hang on to life for a few more days. I can't accept that this woman has no heart. She has to come and save him from the hell of his remorse or he will not rest in peace and we will not be able to meet in that place in the cosmos reserved for our souls. He is bedridden. He can hardly move anymore and has no desire to speak to me. But he follows my every movement with a dull, lifeless look, as if he could only move the girls in his eyes. But in that cloudy, dying look there must be a lucid mind, unaffected by the disease, and he must be thinking about his situation. I can almost read his thoughts. He accepts that his journey through this world has come to an end, and he awaits death with serenity and resignation. He will also dedicate some of his last thoughts to me. I know he hears me, I can see it in the flicker of his eyes, and I have to try to comfort him: -I know you can hear me," he blinks slightly, "You have not been a strong man, for geniuses are weaker the more wisdom they acquire, but illness has given you the strength to accept it without complaint or lamentation. Each day that passes and your end approaches, my love for you increases with the same proportion. At the moment of your death I will be the most in love woman in the universe. I know that this does not console you.... don't be sad, because she will come! But you have to keep a titanic pulse with death. Don't let it take you until it gives you its blessing! -I hold her trembling hand, which is now barely strong enough to know how she reacts. You must forgive me, but I have to call the hospital to prolong your life as long as possible. When she and Naomi arrive we will bring you back here and you can die as I know you wish: holding her hand until your last breath. Then our real life will begin. Then I will not be the ugly, clumsy, provincial girl, but a luminous soul who will meet yours and remain united for eternity. But if you die without his blessing, your soul will wander erratically from one universe to another eternally, never finding peace, and I will be alone for eternity. I know you will do this for me. I try to pull my hand away to dial the hospital phone, but I feel a slight pressure and his gaze seems to come alive. I think he's trying to tell me something. Maybe he wants me to keep shaking his hand. Yes, that must be it. -You don't want me to call the hospital, or stop shaking your hand, do you? -she confirms with a weak blink. Okay, I won't call the hospital, but you have to be strong and hold on until she and your daughter Naomi arrive. He closes his eyes and I get the feeling he's trying to tell me it's too late. Does this mean he could die at any moment? 39. A fatal destiny (Narrator: Naomi's mother) I have not been able to finish reading your latest novel. I think it's enough to make me feel close to hell, when I thought I was close to heaven! Why did fate set that monstrous trap for me? Why didn't I trust his loyalty? How is it possible that a deceitful image could have stolen the best twenty years of our lives? Who drove me to be in that place at that precise moment? The devil? The devil? What monstrous sin had I committed to deserve such a punishment? Poor man, all these years he could not tell me what had really happened! If he had known, of course I would have forgiven him! How could he write the novels I inspired in him if he has felt guilty all these years? I must write urgently to Naomi, telling her of my desire to return as soon as possible and show her father my repentance and my desire for reconciliation. There will probably be no happier person in this world than her when she receives my message! But I also feel as if my heart is no longer oppressed for the first time in twenty years, and is overflowing with joy, and I feel that it is beating again as strongly as when I was eighteen years old, the day I met this wretched writer over a slice of strawberry cream pie! That must be the happiness that forgiveness causes! Blessed be God who has enlightened me! I am desperate and on the verge of a new crisis: the latest snowstorm has left us incommunicado! There is no way to communicate with Naomi. I know from experience of other years that we will be cut off for several days, and he may die at any moment! Why, what evil force interferes with our destiny again and again? For God's sake, I hope it is not too late! No; I can't wait for the telephone lines to be repaired and the snow to be cleared from the road. I have to try to get to the railroad station, because the trains are still running. It's only five kilometers. In a week it's Christmas and I could be by his bedside, and spend the first Christmas together after twenty years of absences. Maybe the cab driver in town will want to take me. I'll go to his house right now. The cab driver is an elderly man, about to retire, and does not dare to drive in this blizzard. The road is narrow, with some very steep slopes. He suggests that we wait for the snowplows to pass, but he doesn't think they will clear the road until tomorrow or maybe the day after tomorrow. But neither tomorrow nor the day after tomorrow are there any trains connecting with the one to the capital. I have to catch the next one, which leaves at five o'clock in the morning. It has stopped snowing and I can walk this route. For this trip I don't need any luggage, whatever I can fit in my bag will be enough. I have to try! 40. The agony (Narrator: the dying man) Poor Alice, how can I tell her that my mind is clear and I am fully aware that I am about to die? How can I also tell her that I no longer have any regrets, because I have only done what destiny had planned for me. Our lives are written in the stars, and our spirit is a part of the destiny of the universe. Destiny that we do not know. Naomi's mother also had a destiny; which has already been fulfilled. I don't know how to tell her that I have sensed her death in some icy place, and that she will never be at the bedside of my deathbed. I once said that a dignified death is to die shaking the hand of the person who feels most affection for you, and that person is you, Alicia, besides your presence in this place makes it a home, so my conditions for a good death are more than fulfilled. Now I can die in peace. She has understood this and continues to hold my hand. I feel her life beating in it, already inert, and that contact makes me begin to feel an indescribable inner peace. It is her soul that pierces me and I feel it inside me, when I only have a few seconds left to live. Now appear the most emotional familiar images of my childhood that I kept in my subconscious. They follow one after the other with their sounds and sensations. I hear my own crying and my mother's voice rocking me in the cradle my grandparents gave her; I see my father pushing the swing in the park near our modest house on the outskirts of the city, when he must have been only two or three years old. He is young and vigorous, and he pushes the swing so hard it makes me cry from the excitement of the game. Many other images pass by, and from all of them I retain some impression. I see myself dressed in my admiral's costume from my first communion, and my parents, who take me by the hand almost on a cartwheel to the neighborhood church. There I see the little girl, with her virginal first communion dress, which made me feel the first passionate emotion of love. A multitude of family images follow, such as the photograph of the primary school, my father's first car, my first train ride, the first girl I went out with and the first kiss on the lips of a woman, and after many others, also the images of the university cafeteria and those that followed. But they all pass quickly and an indescribable emptiness remains after their ephemeral vision. It is as if they were being erased from my consciousness so that when death comes there is no trace left in my soul of what my life in this world has been. I sense that when I reach the last image I will die, and that moment is coming, because I see the image of my literary agent, that night that destroyed our lives. I see her in the half-open door of Naomi's apartment. My imagination has gone blank, and an immense peace comes over me. I no longer feel Alicia's hand. Now I see an intense, blinding light, I know that I am going to penetrate into that light where I will remain eternal... mind.... 41. Death (Narrator: Alicia) He has barely made a slight head movement leaning back against the pillow, and I feel no sign of life in his hand, I think he has died! But he seems to have fallen peacefully asleep. There is not on his face the slightest sign of pain. I withdraw my hand and his hand collapses. Yes, he is dead! The great love of my life lies dead before my eyes! From this instant death will do its work and his beautiful hands, his prodigious head, and his battered body will turn them to ashes. But the hateful reaper has not power enough to destroy the fruit of the one who now belongs to him. His work will survive, and his memory will not fade from my imagination until death takes me too. Now I should mourn him by evoking his memory, but he who has taken him from me will not have his way. Although my soul is broken in pieces, I will not shed a single tear, for I have already mourned him when he was alive. Now I have hardly any tears left, and I must save what tears I still have left for when I begin to miss him and feel his absence. He has been a lucky man, because he has lived doing the will of others, but he has died according to his own will. Only a privileged few have such a death; if it is difficult to live, it is much more difficult to die! 42. The two deaths (Narrator: the author) The two lovers of literature die on the same day and at the same time, because it was written in the stars. The frozen body of Noemi's mother was found by the driver of the snow-clearing vehicle, which would circulate that same morning, clearing the winding road of snow. Her body was not on the road, but in a small ravine, where it must have fallen given the darkness and the layer of snow that hid it. Her former lover died from fatal complications of his incurable disease. Naomi had sensed her mother's death when they said goodbye to each other at the railroad station. Unfortunately, she did not have to choose which of the two she would spend Christmas with, but which of the two she mourned. They were not buried together. She lay in the small local cemetery, and he had her body cremated and her ashes dumped on a nearby beach, as was his wish. Alice was deeply affected, for according to her beliefs, she would not be reunited with her beloved in that dimension she thought she had discovered in his astral personality. PART THREE: ASTRAL ENCOUNTER "Labor not for the meat which perishes, but for the meat which endures to eternal life." (John 6:27) 43. The farewell Death has taken him from me and death will give him back to me. I will look for you wherever you are and we will be together again, but for eternity! If you are in Hell I will rescue you; if you are in Purgatory, I will accompany you until we gain Heaven, and if you are already in Paradise, there we will meet, because love knows no barriers, neither human nor divine. This corpse lying on the bed has lost its soul, which must wander through the cosmos without a specific destination. No one but me will be able to find its whereabouts, because my astral body will be able to travel to every corner beyond the universe, and in some of these places I will find you. She condemned you to hell in one of your nightmares, and she has not come to free you from this curse. Now her presence is no longer necessary. I have to communicate this painful news to Naomi, because she, in spite of her mother's opposition, was very fond of her. She has died just hours before a new dawn. It is not worth waking Naomi so early. It is no longer necessary for her to hurry, her father no longer needs her. I will wait for the dawn. I feel as if I am the messenger of death, but of an expected death. No one will be surprised. Those who knew her diagnosis are already just waiting to read her obituary in the press or on the net, and will exclaim those phrases of condolence that they will have heard in other deaths of other famous people. "Poor thing, he died in the prime of his life and at the height of his popularity"; "He died when he had had everything but his health"; "This is how most of the great characters end their lives: always ahead of schedule"; "Artists live at an unhealthy pace and intensity, that's why they die early", etc. I think they are basically right. The soul is what gives life to the body and if we abuse our soul, we also abuse our body. In the end, the exhausted soul loses its defenses and so does the body, and the inevitable fatal disease ensues. My unfortunate friend was doomed, because he lived abusing his soul since he was aware of its existence. It is dawn, but this is not the same sun as yesterday, nor the same fading stars. It is not the same morning breeze, nor the same blue color of the sky. It is not the same city, nor the same street. Because tonight a writer has died, and when a writer dies something dies in the collective soul of the world, because we writers and artists are the soul of the world. With great pain in my heart I decide to call the unfortunate Naomi to tell her the sad news. She does not answer, but I receive a message from her cell phone answering machine: "Sorry, I am not available. I'm on my way to my mother's place. I just got word that she was found frozen to death on the road as she was walking to the train station. I am devastated and cannot talk. Leave me your message. I feel deeply affected and, at the same time, guilty because I judged this woman prematurely. I hope she forgives me! However, she took too long to forgive him. It is she who should have been shaking his hand when he expired. No doubt she has met her death when she was trying to answer the call of her fake novel, but when it was too late. Once again fate incomprehensibly turns against me, and she will again be my rival after her death, for the three of us will meet again beyond this tormented life. 44. The last trip The unhappy Naomi has had to attend two funerals in a few days. She attended her mother's funeral and barely had time to mourn her when she had to take care of her father's funeral. The hospital has taken care of his cremation and has given him the ashes. Now she has to carry out her father's last wishes and scatter them at sea. She has asked me to accompany her and we will leave for the coast first thing tomorrow morning. -How did my father die," Naomi asks me when we return in a cab to her apartment, unable to hide the sadness in her eyes and her delicate face disfigured by grief. -I think he was at peace, but I can't tell you more because he could hardly speak, I can only tell you that his countenance was serene and he seemed to have accepted death with resignation. -He didn't mention my mother? -He couldn't speak, but I'm sure he would have her in his last thoughts. -The local cab driver told me that she was trying to catch the first train in the morning to meet my father, and he didn't dare take her to the station, so she tried to get there on foot. -Why didn't you wait for the station road to be cleared? -I ask him, although I can guess the reason. -I don't know, but I found a short verse he wrote the night of his death: "Tonight there are no stars and it will not cease to be night Tonight there will be no moon, and it will never be daytime." She must have sensed his death, too, because she did not believe she could see my father alive. But she tried and it cost her her life too. Wherever they are, my parents will have been reconciled and will finally have the peace they deserve. I listen to Naomi and I can't help but feel an unjust wish that her hopes will not be fulfilled. She can't come between us even after she is dead! We are already in his father's apartment. I can't help but have the feeling of his presence, as if his soul has not yet left this room and cannot leave for some reason that only he must know. Naomi looks through everything that belonged to her father, and that now belongs to her, but she doesn't seem to be interested in it. She has gone to the bookshelf and selects one of his novels. She looks at the photograph of her father on the back cover, and cannot contain her tears. -Alicia, what was my father really like? You must have known him better than I did. -I believe that above all he was afraid of condemning himself, because he could never live according to his desires due to his constant remorse. He was a tormented soul who wrote novels to forget the cause of his torments. -Did you love him? -Yes, I loved him, but he never loved me back. -Then why didn't you leave him? -How can you abandon what is already a part of you? -And now, what will you do? -I will write a novel about your father's journey through the cosmos. His life after death! -But that's impossible! I suppose you can imagine, no one has ever been able to meet the dead! I do not want to alarm Naomi and explain to her that I can split my personality and separate my astral body from my physical body. I have experienced it once and I will achieve it a second time. The first time I barely moved a short distance from my physical body, but this new experience I have to take all the necessary precautions so that no one disturbs my concentration, because it will take me a long time to return. -Yes, of course I will imagine it. -Where do you think she is right now? -I can see in her eyes that she is uneasy and fearful, but she must get used to paranormal phenomena, because her parents will try to contact her through her dreams, and I must warn her. -I think he is here, because his soul has not yet been totally uprooted from the emotions transmitted to him by the objects with which he has had contact in life. -And do you think he's watching and listening to us? -he asks me, unable to hide his concern. -No, he neither sees us nor hears us. It can only contact us through our astral body, which happens during dreams. You have to be forewarned, because they are likely to appear in your dreams, and they will want to know what state of mind you are in. But it is likely that they will not make any reference to their deaths, but will appear in scenes that will not make any sense to you. In dreams we have no control over our imagination, time or space. I don't think I should have told her about this possibility. She seems really scared now and will be more so when the night comes and she faces the dreams. A foggy and unpleasant day dawns. It is not the most suitable to spread its ashes. We have arranged to meet at the railroad station, where we will take a train to a coastal town. Naomi is already waiting for me at the station entrance. We still have time for a hot tea, which will lift our spirits. We are sitting at the same table where she was last with her mother. She seems to have regained her composure. -Now I know why my poor mother gave me that sad advice. "Don't expect comfort from us. If you need comfort, learn to comfort yourself." I sensed her death. When she walked away from me, I had a feeling that was the last time I would see her alive! During the trip to the coast we barely exchanged a few words about the unpleasant weather. On the other side of the window, the landscape seems to share our deep sadness. A dense fog hangs over the small towns we are leaving behind. It is hard to believe that there can be happy people in such a depressing landscape. Sometimes the train runs alongside the road, and we can see the cars running at the same speed, occupied by people with obligations and responsibilities who do not think about death, but have no chance to think about life either. They live, that's all! 45. The ashes As we approach the coastal town we can smell the saltpeter. We leave the small railroad station and it is easy to orient ourselves and know where the sea is, because the freshness of the sea breeze clearly indicates the direction. The sky looks like an immense grayish mantle, and a cold and humid fog confuses the shapes of things. The cars drive with their lights on even though it is not yet noon. There are few people in the streets, it looks like a ghost town. We head for the promenade. It is not far. We can already hear the scandalous squawking of the seagulls. The station street leads directly to a simple promenade, as desolate as the rest. We can already hear the waves crashing against the promenade wall. From this promenade we can see the sea, but we can not see the horizon line, which is confused with the sky because of its grayish tone and the dense fog. On one side of the promenade there is a small breakwater, where a few fishing boats are moored, which probably have not gone to sea because of the storm. We chose that place to scatter the ashes. -It is very sad to end a long life of illusions, projects and ambitions," says Naomi, preparing to dump her father's remains in the sea, "in a handful of dust that will be carried by the currents to the bottom of the sea, and so ends his unfortunate story. -It is only his body, his soul will continue to exist, as his works will continue to exist. A group of hungry seagulls hover around, no doubt they must believe that the debris Naomi spreads on the water could be food. -His wish has been granted," he says to me, sobbing, "There will be no more deaths; we no longer need this urn! With an angry gesture, he throws the small urn into the sea. He wipes his tears with the back of his hand, grabs my arm energetically and we walk away from the place. -If you need consolation, learn to console yourself. Yes, Mom, I've already learned! Naomi has recovered her spirits. Life goes on and it is useless to mourn the dead. We have mourned them enough when they were alive. Of the dead, only the memory remains, and he has left a good memory. There is no reason to mourn. I am amazed at her fortitude, but in fact until a few months ago she has been an orphan since birth. Her behavior is not surprising. The return trip is as silent as the previous one. Naomi seems absent, or maybe she is thinking about her future as an orphan. Her gaze is lost in the misty landscape we are leaving behind. She seems to be reacting to some obsessive thought, because suddenly she turns to me and comments: -You were right, I dreamt about my parents tonight.... -He remains eloquently silent, as if wondering if he should unveil his dream to me. I was sitting on a park bench and my father suddenly appeared and sat next to me, but he was dead. I asked him why he had abandoned my mother, and suddenly she appeared sitting next to him, but she also appeared to be dead. They could not answer my question. Suddenly a policeman appeared, and addressing me, he said. "Excuse me, but the dead are not allowed in the park. Take them to the cemetery and bury them." I didn't know what to answer, I was terrified. But incomprehensibly, they both sat up, and turning to the policeman, my father said: "It is not necessary for her to bury us, we will bury ourselves. Goodbye Naomi, don't be late to join us...", and they disappeared, sinking to the ground of the park. At that moment I woke up -she keeps a sepulchral silence, she seems very affected by the dream-. What can this dream mean, Alicia? -That your parents miss you! -I answer without hesitation. -You mean they want me dead? -For them now you live in death, and they live in life. The roles have been changed, that's why they want you to join them. It is possible that this same dream will repeat itself again, although with a different argument, and they will insist again that you join them. You have to be strong and not let yourself be obsessed by what you hear from your parents during the dream. Although they happen in the astral dimension, they are disturbed by your own subconscious. -You mean I subconsciously want to die and join them? -she asks me in alarm. -Yes, but it's because of your current state of mind. You will get over it and your parents will only appear in your dreams when you miss them. Naomi seems comforted by my explanation. But she is still deep in thought, and once again loses her gaze in the misty landscape that we contemplate as the train passes by. Naomi seems to come out of her gloomy thoughts again, turns to me and confesses: -I'd like to be like you, Alicia: sure of who you are and what you want to do with your life. But who am I? The unwanted daughter of two dreamers who were lovers of literature, but who didn't understand the meaning of the word love, even though they wrote it hundreds of times. What should I do? I'm not sure I want to write anymore, with the example of my parents I've had enough! Maybe, as my mother said, I would make an excellent doctor. I'm not sure if I should encourage her to follow her parents' vocation, but precisely because they didn't know how to combine their worldly ambitions with their personal relationships, Naomi will learn from her parents' mistakes and could be an excellent writer without ruining her life. Yes, I think I should encourage her, it would be the best tribute she could pay to her ill-fated parents! -Naomi, in these times when no one believes in what they hear or see anymore, they can only believe in what they can imagine, and we writers can provide them with those images of the world they would like to hear or see! Sadly, most writers rejoice in recreating the nauseating images of what we can no longer believe and should no longer see. You can be a writer who enlightens readers! -But how do I know if I have the necessary talent to not remain in mediocrity? -My dear friend, that is what we all ask ourselves! You won't know the answer until you have overcome a few failures, because each failure will mean you have chosen a wrong path, and you must rectify until you find your own. Talent is about being yourself. The train is entering the central station. Naomi will not move into her father's apartment, because she does not want to live alone. She prefers to continue living with her classmates from college, but she has suggested that, if I wish, I can take it over. The idea is very attractive, because it makes my experience easier. I accept her offer, at least for the remainder of the course, and I will move in as soon as possible. 46. The preparation I am already provisionally installed in Naomi's father's apartment. It is a difficult sensation to describe, because all the objects in the apartment have something of him, and I still have the memory of his dead body on the bed where I am about to sleep. But I feel no fear, on the contrary, sleeping in the bed where the effluvium of the deceased is still there is the best way to communicate with him. I am aware of the risks and I do not know what may lie beyond this dimension. He may be trapped by some higher force and my energy will not be enough to free him. But you may also have reached some dimension that resembles Heaven, and my journey will be in vain. Either way, his destiny was written in the stars from the day of his birth, and it will have been fulfilled without possible appeal. Above all I have to make sure that no one will disturb my sleep while my spectrum is separated from my body. I have to disconnect everything that can ring, including the telephone and anything that creates magnetic fields, which I fear will be impossible to eliminate, and I don't know how it will affect me. After all, when I separate from the body I will only be energy and I don't know how other sources of energy that may be in the apartment may affect it. It is a risk I have to take. The other doubt is, in the case that our spectra meet, to know how we will communicate, because in the encounter we will only be able to communicate through our thoughts, for which we will have to ascend to the mental plane. If we manage to reach that dimension we will not be able to hide our thoughts, so it is impossible to lie or deceive, and everything must happen with total transparency. That must be the curse of material life: the possibility of deceiving and lying, the cause of all the disasters of this world! What will happen if I cannot return to my body? Will I die too? It would be suicide, which means going against my destiny written in the stars, and my soul would wander, without finding rest, until when? But how to have a notion of time where there is nothing but energy? It is all very confusing, and I know I am running a great risk. But what is the meaning of my existence in this world? I have given my heart to a deceased person and now I have no choice but to join him, whether he is in Heaven or in Hell! This weekend could be the appointed day for the meeting, because Noemí will travel to her mother's place to handle the formalities of her inheritance and there is no risk that she might show up unexpectedly. Nor do I expect unexpected visits, because in the last months of her life she had no other friend than her literary agent. His negative opinion of current writers caused him enmity with those with whom he had some relationship. Anyway I will leave a note on the door to make sure of any other eventuality. Tonight will be the big trip. I want to take advantage of these previous hours to write down what I intend to do, and I hope to be able to write also what might have happened on my return. To relax, I take a long walk through the same park where I declared my love. It is a walk full of nostalgia and deep sadness. Everything I see reminds me of his kind person, and sometimes I have the feeling that he is walking next to me and asking me new questions, but this time they are about the mysteries of life and death, for which I have no answers. I sit on a bench and remember Naomi's dream, I would like it to happen to me, but that only happens in dreams, reality is more stubborn, it refuses to change its rigid rules and everything happens as it is meant to happen. I'm back in the apartment and writing notes about tonight's experience. It is getting dark. It is a frigid late winter day. There is a chance of snow. For some reason snow depresses me. I don't like it, because it feels like it is falling on my soul. I like warm countries, because they are cozier and life is simpler. I listen to Bach's oratorios, because I think it is the music that should be heard in Paradise. I lie down on the bed and prepare myself for concentration. 47. Astral travel (Narrator: the deceased) I know I have passed away. I felt a strange vibration and what must be my soul is detached from my body. Alicia has already realized my demise and has let go of my hand, which now falls limp. I feel a force propelling me out of my apartment, and I pass through the wall without any difficulty. I am now traveling at breakneck speed, and I am heading towards the light I saw at the moment of my death. I have entered a strange dimension and I continue my journey through a semi-dark space. In this dimension I see a multitude of trapped specters, who implore me for help and try uselessly to hold me, because their twitching hands penetrate my specter without being able to grasp it. From their appearance and clothing I deduce that some of them have been in this darkness for thousands of years. I also believe that these are people who must have died a violent death, because their specters are horribly mutilated. Some are missing limbs, others heads, and most show wounds possibly caused by the wars or accidents, from which they must have died. But why do they remain in this darkness and not ascend to the luminous zone where I seem to be heading? I notice an important difference between them and me, where the explanation must be. My aura is absolutely resplendent, theirs are darkened. Perhaps when I died with a clear conscience and in peace, my aura was charged with positive energy, which gives it that glow. I have described this phenomenon in one of my novels, the fruit of my intuition, but which I now prove to be correct. For this reason my soul must be attracted directly to the source of light. It must be a simple effect of electromagnetic attraction. For this reason, I suppose that whoever dies with an uneasy conscience, suddenly or by accident, the soul must contain negative energy that obscures the spectrum, and in these conditions they must be attracted only to this dimension, which must be the astral, the first dimension of where those who have died are. These souls are suspended between what theologians call Heaven and Hell, which must be Purgatory. Their desperate attempt to cling to me must be for me to transfer to them the positive energy they need to enter a new dimension that will lead them to the light to which I am heading. But it does not seem that this transfer is possible between wraiths. Possibly that positive energy they need can be transferred to them from the physical world, with invocations, prayers or any other form that I do not know, directed especially to them and showing them your affection. I am still traveling at possibly the speed of light, but I have not yet left this dimension where there are possibly millions of souls in similar conditions. If this is Purgatory, where the souls are not enlightened enough to reach Heaven, those people who die and who have committed faults that have no redemption, their auras will be charged with negative energy, and they must appear absolutely dark, so they cannot rise and remain in the physical world, and this must be the Hell of the souls in pain of theology, and that for some cause that I do not know, they can appear as living dead, or zombies. I have no other explanation. I have crossed another cosmic plane and, at last, I am in the dimension of the blinding light that has irresistibly attracted me since the moment of my death. It has the same luminosity as my soul. No shadow to darken it. My journey through the dimensions of the cosmos seems to end here, because I have stopped moving at dizzying speeds. Here, too, there are perhaps millions of luminous souls like mine. They all seem to have the same youthful appearance, they must not be more than 18 or 20 years old, and they remain suspended in this immense luminous dimension. My specter moves slowly among them. They smile at me and seem to welcome me. I stop in front of a specter that amazingly looks like me when I was 18 or 20 years old, and still in college. He seems to be my double. Something extraordinary has happened: I feel a strange vibration and my double has merged, penetrating into my specter. Now I also have the same appearance as him. I feel confused, but at the same time I feel a great sense of indecipherable goodness. One of the souls who has watched my transformation approaches me and seems to want to communicate something to me. I try to read her thoughts, but I hear nothing. Moments later another even more resplendent soul approaches me, and, like the previous one, I think he is trying to make me listen to his thoughts. I hear him! -Welcome to the luminous dimension, because your soul has only positive energy, and it shines like the light that generates the source that illuminates and created the cosmos! An extraordinary source of positive energy, located in an even higher dimension, and its light is the creator of all the visible and invisible illusions of the cosmos. The more luminous our soul is, the closer we come to this extraordinary source of light. There are the souls of the most virtuous characters in history, such as Socrates, Jesus Christ or St. John of the Cross. I am also a higher luminous entity and I can communicate with any soul, but you can only communicate with those who have had contact in life and feel affection for you. You will be able to hear their thoughts, but they will not be able to read yours. -But what happened to me? Who was this double of mine? Where did he come from? -I hear your thoughts and will answer your questions. When we are gestated two spiritual entities are generated. One is in the form of the space we will come to occupy at the limit of our growth. That entity is composed of positive energy and remains in this dimension. Our destiny is written in it. The other spiritual entity remains in the embryo, which animates it. Its energy is variable and depends on the processes of its consciousness, which can generate positive or negative energy. Our destiny is fulfilled when we act in such a way that it is maintained with positive energy until the instant of our death. Otherwise we act against our destiny and at death we cannot merge with our energetic double and remain in an intermediate dimension or in the physical world, if our consciousness has no redemption. That double of yours has followed your personal development, and has been by your side whenever you invoked him. He was your guardian angel! -Yes, I now remember my experience in the little church park hours after I learned of my diagnosis, where I believed that an angel was sitting in my very pew. It must have been this double of mine, whom I had previously invoked. -You are now constituted as your destiny intended. There is no more duality in you, but an absolute energetic unity! My strange journey to this luminous dimension has ended when I reunite with my double personality. It is as if from this moment on a new eternal life has begun, but I cannot say that I am happy, because that would be to accept unhappiness, unknown in this dimension. It is a neutral state, indescribable, devoid of any anguish, fear or restlessness. Possibly the appropriate expression is "beatific". But fortunately I am not completely separated from my former physical reality, because I can indeed hear the thoughts of those who remember me and invoke me, albeit faintly, like a whisper. At this moment Alicia is invoking me and I faintly hear her thoughts. I fear that she is about to commit a grave imprudence, because she intends to join me in the astral plane, where I am not, and she will never be able to access this luminous dimension while she is alive. If Alice's astral body enters the dimension of the dead, she runs the risk of not being able to rejoin her physical body, and it is quite possible that she will also be trapped in the darkness of Purgatory, and she will no longer be able to join me, as was her wish! I have to find a way to communicate with her and make her see the risk she runs if she persists in her attempt. Now I am nothing more than a contingent of subtle energy that is invisible, but can move into the physical world. I run the risk of becoming infected with negative energy and not being able to return to this dimension, but I cannot allow Alicia to be condemned because of me. I have to try! 48. The return I have returned to the dimension of the physical world and I am at the foot of the bed where Alice is lying. She is approaching the state of concentration where the unfolding of her astral body can occur. If I provoke an energy discharge I may be able to turn on the lamp on the bedside table and interrupt her concentration. I get the lamp to flicker and fortunately Alice has abruptly snapped out of her concentration. She looks at the lamp quizzically, but does not associate it with my presence. She unplugs it and goes back to concentrating. I have to try again and hope she realizes that I'm trying to communicate with her, because my aura's energy wanes. I get her to blink weakly again, and Alice is startled. I think she has understood that it is me who provokes it. -Is that you? Are you here? I flicker the lamp again. Alicia has understood that this is my answer. -So, you haven't left your apartment, as I assumed! But you can't communicate with me. Be patient, I'll join you soon. Maybe this very night. I am trying to concentrate and manage to unfold my astral body, and then we can communicate and you can tell me where you are! I try to flicker the lamp again but it is useless. I will not be able to prevent her from unfolding and entering the dimension of the dead, and if she reaches that dimension and gets trapped I will not be able to rescue her. I only hope that her soul is not condemned and can no longer leave the physical world, which could happen if she dies, because suicide is a serious fault, and it would fill her soul with negative energy! -Alicia doesn't know that I can't hear when she speaks to me, but I can hear her thoughts, and my premonition of Naomi's mother's death is confirmed. But she is thinking that she trusts that we have not met, because she still considers her her rival, even after she is dead. If Noemi's mother is dead I should be able to communicate with her. Perhaps it is because she did not give me her forgiveness before she died that she is in Purgatory. But how do I know where she is? I should listen to her thoughts to know where to go, otherwise it is impossible for me to find her soul among millions of souls. Perhaps his thoughts do not mention me and he thinks only of the wretched Naomi. That would explain it. Alicia is again on the verge of her astral projection. If she succeeds, we will meet again, but it will be for a short time, because she must return to her physical world of the living and I to my energetic world of the dead. All her efforts are useless, our destinies meet neither in life nor in death. I feel truly sorry for this woman, but now I know that it is useless to fight against what is written in the stars. It must be the stigma she was telling me about. Alicia's body seems to shake. It is vibrating. She moves her head from side to side, as if something is trying to detach itself. Yes, it is succeeding, and the specter of her head is detached from her body, and the rest of her astral body as well. Her physical body has been left in absolute rest, no doubt sleeping deeply, while she dreams her splitting. Her first movements are imprecise, she rises slowly but keeps her eyes closed. A thin thread of energy holds her to life, I trust it will not break! Her ascent has stopped. She opens her eyes and gazes at me in amazement, but she cannot speak. Now she must read my thoughts and I must read hers. -Alicia, why did you do it? -He's here! I've done it! But he has changed his appearance, he is now a young man! -Alicia, what you have achieved is to put your life at risk! -He reproaches me for what I did, just for being by his side. -Alicia, I can hear your thoughts. Yes, I have to reproach you. Now you won't be able to join me. I'm dead and you're alive... -Then if my death can settle our differences, I will not return to my body! -You would achieve nothing, because it would be suicide, and you know that your soul would be condemned and could not be separated from the physical world. Give up this useless and dangerous love for both of you! -Haven't I been your faithful companion until your last breath? -Alicia, you are endangering my salvation as well. These reproaches, which I know are not fair, will cause my soul to become contaminated with negative energy, and may prevent me from returning to the dimension of light in which I had managed to ascend. For both our sakes, renounce! -I understand... my stigma haunts me here, too, among the dead. You wish to be with her for eternity, don't you? If I renounce, I'll be damned anyway... -But you will save my soul, and hers too! -She, with her unexpected death, has won! -No, Alicia, we haven't met. I don't know where he might be. Maybe we'll never meet. But where I am, time doesn't exist. I'll wait for you, but you have to die in peace with your conscience! Don't be afraid of old age, when you meet me you'll be eighteen again. -What about her? -Alice, where we will meet there is neither happiness nor misfortune, only goodness; there you can neither love me nor hate me; the three of us will be able to enjoy that infinite goodness eternally, and when its time comes, I trust that Naomi will also join us. -Are you asking me to let my life be consumed in the hope of eternally sharing with you the goodness of your Paradise? -Yes, I beg you! -I have no choice? -Hell now or Heaven when death wants to take you. -You give me the choice between two hells! -Yes, Alicia, but one can last for 30 or 40 years and the other for eternity? -I suppose I must resign and say goodbye until 30 or 40 years from now, and I can't even shake the hand I held at the moment of your death! -That's how it should be, Alicia... But I have to ask you something else.... It's about Naomi's mother. I fear that she is being held in a dark space, halfway between Heaven and Hell. For her to free herself from this dark dimension she needs the help of someone alive, who will transmit her the positive energy that will help her to ascend to a higher plane, and you can help her, and at the same time, help yourself to gain your salvation... -Are you asking me to save my rival? -He is no longer your rival, he is a soul, who, like you, deserves to ascend to the dimension of light and come out of the darkness where he may find himself. -And what can I do for her? -Pray for her! -I've never prayed; I wouldn't know how! -You only have to invoke his name and show him your affection. That will be enough to transmit positive energy to her. Also convey this wish to my daughter, Naomi, to pray also for her mother, and between the two of you you will save her. -How sad is my fate! -No, dear Alicia, in the world of the living there is no greater joy than to feel useful and necessary. Spend the rest of your life writing novels with plots that incite generosity and kindness, and you will live happily until your time comes and you join us. -I don't even have the consolation of crying! -Go back to the living and you can ease your heart with weeping. -Farewell then, until death do us part! -Farewell, my dear Alicia, I'll wait for you in Paradise.... His specter rejoins his body, which remains motionless. I cannot hear him, but I can tell from his sad expression that he must be on the verge of tears. Now he brings his hands to his face and must be sobbing bitterly. Poor Alice, no one but her deserves to enter Paradise! 49. In Purgatory (Narrator: Naomi's mother) Why am I locked in this darkness? Is this the fate of the dead? Where am I? I have seen my body frozen on the roadside as my soul ascended to this dark place. Yes, I must be dead, I have been imprudent, and I have paid for it with my life! What will become of my poor Naomi? I intended to save someone from his regrets, and I die with no one to save me from mine! This place is the Hell I deserve! I shall suffer this anguish forever! I think I see a small glow approaching me. Now I distinguish the spectre of a young man.... Oh, my God, it's him, he's dead too! But he is just as he was when I knew him twenty years ago! Yes, it's him; it's the same restless, ambitious young man who read my poems on our college campus; with the same teasing smile; the same charm in his gaze. I am ashamed that he finds me aging, though he is but a ghost. Perhaps he has heard my wailing, Death brings us together again! He approaches me and I can hear his thoughts: -My dear friend and admired poet, we meet again in strange circumstances. I learned of your sad death in the snow when you were about to watch over my deathbed. I do not know why you are in this dark place, but I will help you and I will repay you in death what you have suffered because of me in life. I needed your forgiveness to die with a clear conscience, but my sincere repentance and the help of our daughter and that extraordinary person, Alicia, saved me from hell. -I would have forgiven you, but death intervened. But, for God's sake, can you tell me where I am? -You are halfway between Heaven and Hell; in Purgatory. Your conscience should not have been at peace at the moment of death, and it became contaminated with negative energy, which prevents you from ascending to a new dimension, where I am. But fear not, your daughter Naomi and Alice will take you out of here and you will be able to join me. -I have never wronged anyone, why do I deserve this punishment? -I do not have the answer. Energy and its relation to consciousness has its own rule, but I suppose that the positive or negative energy that our soul accumulates depends on the state of our consciousness at the moment of death. -Then I deserve to be in this sinister place, because I was reckless.... but I had a good cause! -It would have been useless, because I died the same day. It was already too late! -But I did not know the reasons that led you to that brothel that night, and that you tell in your last novel. If I had known, I would have forgiven you from the first meeting. -I have not written a novel describing that unfortunate event! -Naomi sent me a copy that Alicia had given her.... -Alicia! She wrote that book and altered the facts so that you would come to my deathbed to co-sort me. I don't know what she told about that unfortunate event, but your impression was the true one: I betrayed you! -Is this deception also part of my tragic destiny? -Alicia was only trying to save my soul.... -At the cost of condemning mine! -He had set out to prolong my life until you arrived, but I prevented him from doing so. I am once again to blame! But it is too late for regrets. Our destinies are about to be fulfilled. Mine has already been fulfilled, and Alicia and Naomi will help you to fulfill yours as well. None of us deserves Purgatory, much less Hell. We were wrong because we were human, but for the same reason we repented, and we paid for our absolution with suffering. Now it only remains for us to gain Heaven and a whole eternity to immerse ourselves in a beatific calm in the dimension of light. -If this is also my destiny, I can only trust my daughter Naomi and join you in Paradise. Thus concludes a dramatic story that began one day in early spring, because of a strawberry and cream cakes. 50. Sentences (Narrator: Naomi) Alicia called me because she wants to see me about something related to my deceased parents. We will meet this afternoon and have dinner together at my father's apartment, just like in the old days. I have recovered my spirits and I am living a normal life. Fortunately my career takes up all my time and occupies my thoughts. Only in the evenings I feel the absence of my parents, but in reality I have always felt this absence. I am back in my late father's apartment. Alicia has not changed at all and her books, computer and all her personal belongings remain in the same place. She looks very worn out. It is as if she is suffering from some illness. Her gaze is languid and distant. Something is constantly distracting and disturbing her. She welcomes me with a slight smile. She is no longer the strong, self-confident woman. No doubt my father's death has affected her deeply. -Alicia, don't you feel well? You look tired, you look very unwell. -Yes, Naomi, I am not feeling well. I am depressed and sad. -It's because of my father's death! -Yes, that's why... He remains silent, as if he doesn't want to give me any other reasons for his depression. We sit at the table and Alicia serves me what she has cooked for dinner and we eat in silence. -I thought about your mother," he says in a pause, because he seems to have no appetite. I'm not a believer, but I think we should pray for the salvation of her soul.... -You mean his soul didn't deserve to go to Heaven, if it exists? -The circumstances of her death were not natural but accidental, and in these conditions she died without a companion to comfort her and help cleanse her soul of any remorse. She may be in a dimension where she needs our help. -Alicia, you make me uneasy! Are you suggesting that my mother may be in Hell? -If she were in Hell, she would no longer have salvation, but if she is in Purgatory, our prayers can help her to get out of there and go up to Heaven, which is where she deserves to be! -Alicia, you are talking like a believer. Do you really believe in hell, purgatory and heaven? My comment seems to have confused her, and I think she is mulling over her response. -Naomi, I don't know what I believe anymore! I beg you not to ask me any more questions, for I would not know what to answer. But I have a feeling that we must invoke her and show her our affection. You only need to think of her and show her your affection. Wherever she is, she will receive your message, and she will be closer to Heaven. -Alicia, I always thought you and my mother were rivals. -Dear Noemí, we do not compete with the dead. Outside of this world the heart no longer beats and there is no place for emotions like love. There is only goodness in Heaven and evil in Hell. Near Heaven and Hell there is only anxiety and doubts. Author's note Alicia died of sadness two months later. Her heart stopped because it was no longer useful. There was not an atom of negative energy in her soul and she ascended to the dimension of light without the slightest setback. FIN Foreword generated by artificial intelligence Jan Gosan doesn't just write stories; he maps the invisible terrain where ethics, faith, and social reality intersect. Firmly convinced that consciousness is the only force capable of fostering integral human development, Gosan uses narrative as a mirror of our own coherences and contradictions. For the author, politics and spirituality share the same horizon: the realization of the person. In his works, the "what" is dictated by consciousness, the force to act comes from Grace, and the will is the rudder that decides whether a soul is lit or extinguished. With a visually striking style and a philosophical depth that avoids complex treatises to focus on the truth of the individual, Jan Gosan invites the reader to stop being a passive spectator. His books are, ultimately, a call to action: a reminder that the weight of the world's problems dissipates when each person simply decides to listen to their own inner voice and act accordingly. 1. Diagnosis Five simple words were all it took for the whole fantastic universe I created with my novels and in which I have lived apart from this world to collapse: "You suffer from an incurable disease". I have just been told this by the specialist who treats my illness. The messenger waits for my reaction, but I am unable to get an idea of what I have just heard. There is a tense silence. It seems as if the doctor is afraid to go on describing my situation, but he felt he had to be clear so that I would not be under any illusions, and he warned me that I have no more than six months to live, or, in exceptional cases, and if I respond well to treatment, perhaps a year. I leave the hospital reneging on having allowed myself to be diagnosed with the cause of my discomfort. Of course I do not accept the diagnosis. After all, the pains are still bearable. It is a cool, damp morning, as autumn mornings are, but pleasant for a walk. To prove that the diagnosis is not acceptable, I will walk back to my apartment. Why me? Yes, I know many people who suffer from incurable diseases, but for some inexplicable reason I thought I was immune. Now I need some time to come to terms with my mistake. Even to my regret, I have to accept that I am as human as others, and I can suffer from their same diseases. I am tired and I still have more than half of the journey to go. I enter a small park next to the neighborhood church. On one of its benches a beggar is dozing, and when I approach him he looks at me with a clear expression of hatred, because he must feel humiliated by my appearance of a well-placed person. He cannot know that I had just been condemned to die prematurely; if he did, he would have no reason to envy me. I sit down on an adjoining bench, because my legs can't take another step. The beggar looks disgruntled and shuffles around in his rags, as if this were his house and I had entered without knocking. The doctor has created a stigma for me. I am no longer the me-self who just an hour before could do whatever I wanted, but me-self-and-death. From now on, my every thought or act will have to count on it. But I am not resigned. The doctors may be wrong. Perhaps my medical records have been misplaced and are those of another patient. Some inexperienced secretary may have made that terrible mistake. Nature cannot abandon me and life cannot be so irresponsible with me. Fate cannot go against my will, because it is my will that must create my destiny. This can't be happening to me. I still have many new things to admire, many fantastic stories to tell, and, why not, perhaps someone to love. Is this a divine punishment? Am I being condemned to a premature death for supposed sins committed, even though I cannot know the nature of my guilt? A sinner does not need to know the details of his guilt, it is enough for him to suffer the punishment to know that he has sinned. It is perfectly possible that this illness was written in the stars, or can be read in the palm of my hand, without that I should consider it a punishment. But the most reasonable thing is that it is the result of my long nights of voluntary insomnia, giving life to characters that in gratitude lead me to death. But I bear them no grudge. From the beginning I accepted that every work that deserves praise is because in it there is a little bit of our own humanity, and humanity must also have its limits. Perhaps that was my fault: to have created ghosts and presumed to be their god. But without me they would never have existed, so I must be right: I am their god, and therefore I do not deserve to be punished with such cruelty. ZIf that is divine justice, all artists will go to hell and imagination would be persecuted and severely punished. 2. The reaction The great impression and uneasiness that the diagnosis has caused me totally overrides my sense of time. I do not know how long I have been sitting on this bench. While I think of my desolation in some remote part of the universe, I am sure that someone, who already knows my fate, must be feeling sorry for me. It is probably an angel, the same one that appeared in the prayer cards we were given when we were kids in religion classes. Back then I wanted to be an angel too. I wanted to fly, to see the world from above, to migrate to warm lands, to be free like the birds, and, according to those bright pictures, only angels knew how to fly. That's why I wanted to be an angel. My hair stands on end, because I sense that this angel may now be sitting on this very bench, listening to my nostalgic thoughts, futilely trying to console me, because angels and humans, for some reason that only God must know, are incompatible. But I have returned to real time because of the murky, resigned look the beggar gives me from time to time, unable to understand what someone like me is doing sitting on this bench at this hour of the morning, reserved for the homeless. I would like to tell him that I don't know either, but it would be of no use to him. A cold, autumn sun shines, but clean and bright. A cool, damp breeze from a nearby sea moistens my hot face. There are still traces of the morning lightning on the cars and sidewalks. Winter will soon be here. It is inevitable that winter will come to all of us one day, but some of us will not live to see the next spring. The beggar has stood upright and looks at me in wonder. I think that despite his appearance, he must have the ability to read my thoughts. Yes, he knows what I am thinking, because those of us who suffer have the same rictus, the same languor in our eyes, the same curvature of the back, the same reddened eyes, and all that is easy to translate into common language: Desolation. For a few moments he seems undecided. Finally he makes up his mind, and with the gait of one whose muscles are numb, he comes to my bench, but does not sit down. He remains standing, hesitant, undecided. Finally he makes up his mind, and asks me for a cigarette, but unfortunately I don't smoke. I offer him some coins, but he incomprehensibly refuses. His gaze wanders to an indeterminate point, he seems to meditate whether to engage in conversation or return to his world. As if that encounter had not taken place and without making the slightest gesture, he walks again with the same clumsiness that short distance that separates our two worlds, and again wraps himself in his rags to continue dozing. He has no courage to come out of his poverty and I have no courage to accept mine. He has lost confidence in human beings, from whom he only asks for a cigarette; I have lost confidence in myself, from whom I only ask for courage to face my misfortune. The beggar has risen again and comes towards me. He asks me with a gesture of mock humility for the coins I offered him. I don't feel like taking any interest in his situation, I only have some interest in my own. Not even an hour has passed since I have known my condemnation and I have a feeling that before returning to my apartment I will have passed to the phase of rebellion, which is nothing more than the resource of kicking, previous step to the acceptance and submission without defenses or reservations. "Behold the slave of the Lord, be it done unto me according to thy word". The beggar gets impatient, he probably thinks I want to humiliate him and I notice more hatred in his stray look than in the previous one. I hand him the coins and he goes back to his bench without thanking me. He counts them and gives me a contemptuous and coarse look. No doubt I had hoped he would have been more generous. I can't stand his ragged presence any longer and resume my walk, but part of my body burns as if I were already in hell, and I find it hard to walk. Is there a hell? Is there a heaven? Is there a God, and his angels and cherubs? I am horrified to realize my rapid transformation. For the first time I have doubted my deep-rooted secular convictions. Until just a minute ago, hell, heaven and God were something anecdotal; a topic of conversation full of incongruities and fanaticism for the gullible and ignorant; of intellectual blindness and irrationality. And suddenly these theological questions arise again, but with renewed importance. I also sense that my mind will soon go blank, refusing to think, since I could not stop thinking about death and its intricate mysteries. I have to rediscover nothingness, and immerse myself in it until the day of my announced death. 3. It's three in the morning and I can't get to sleep. Just darkness and nothing else. Those figures that the lights of the cars project on the ceiling are the only thing that catches my attention, the rest seems to have vanished. Everything around me is silence, darkness, nothing. Whoever created this absurd word was thinking of me, I have given it its true meaning; its authentic meaning; its oppressive emptiness. At four o'clock in the morning I will still be thinking the same thoughts I am thinking now, and the next hours, the next days until the day of my death I will still have the same thoughts: nothing. I have nothing left to think about except nothingness, and, thinking about nothingness is like not thinking. I leave my mind blank to try to dissuade my brain from reliving bad memories, the good ones I have not forgotten. 824 there is nothing left of all that. It is time for my own final judgment. I have been ambitious, selfish and disloyal. If hell exists, no doubt I will be condemned. I have to admit it, these insistent pains, added to my regrets, have sapped the creativity of my imagination. My latest novel is mediocre, even pathetic. The characters are stillborn and act like real zombies. I think I have lost connection with reality and live in a parallel world. I see the new world but I don't feel it; I hear it but I don't understand it, and I no longer have anyone around me to comment on this chore of time; a confidant to whom you can tell a host of misfortunes without being rejected, ignored, or forgotten. I have crossed from one dimension to another without realizing it, entertained with my dreams of greatness, with the conviction that I would put the world at my feet and now I am its doormat. I have betrayed the only woman I have ever loved. I have despised my friends, and admired my enemies, because I preferred the encouragement of victory after a bitter war against my enemies to the sterile peace of friends. And now I have neither friends nor enemies. Some I have humiliated, and the others have ignored me and rejected my enmity, so that there is nothing left, neither of one nor of the other. I am prostrate on the bed trying to forget that I have a corrupted body, which threatens to destroy my soul and my mind as well. Tonight the sporadic lights of the cars that cross the roof seem to me like souls in pain that warn me that very soon I will be one of them and I will cross the roofs of other damned; that neither heaven 8 hell exist, only the unbearable nothingness. 4. The first sunrise 6 It's finally dawn. I have slept two or three refreshing hours. It is a relief to sleep; to be able to have the opportunity to meet with the dearest people, but not the real ones, but the ones that your mood needs, and that during wakefulness sleep in your imagination. Only in dreams things happen as we wish them to happen; without dreams the soul would have nowhere to take refuge, nowhere to nest and sing its song, it would be prey to the harsh and severe reality. I do not know who gave us the faculty to dream, but it must have been someone very understanding and well aware of the weaknesses of the human being. Maybe it was the God that religions talk about, but I cannot accept it, because I simply do not believe in anything. I have even stopped believing in myself. He who lives in nothingness cannot believe in anything. But it is dawn and it is my hour for optimism; the most awaited moment, because light must be the cause of all creation, while darkness is in charge of destroying it, of plunging creation into an abyss of no return, the same that must await us after death. I have thought a lot about death, especially about my death; about my irreversible and early death. I would like to believe in transmigration, because life is not destroyed, only transformed. It would be a comfort to be able to believe that moments after my last breath to be part of a new life, somewhere on Earth or in the Universe. After all, we come from it and we will return to it. But my room has been flooded with light and now I see things as they are and not as I dream them. I see on the shelf meticulously arranged by thickness, color and height my novels, on which I have spent, or perhaps worn out, all my life, and some photos of remote and unrecoverable times. The best novels I wrote when my mind and my imagination had wings, because they were young and free, and understood each other: what the imagination created my disciplined mind wrote. Most of my novels have been a resounding success, but the last one was tainted with my illness. On my desk, next to the window through which I look out on my part of the world, I see that the computer that in better days constantly provoked me, leaving me hardly any respite, no time for rest, remains inactive and silent. I could only hear the exciting and rapid sound of the keys describing on the illuminated screen the images that gushed like a spring of fresh water from my exuberant imagination. Then this machine was an extension of my mind and my spirit, now it is a common computer, like thousands of others, without soul and without activity, because I no longer have anything to tell. The keyboard seemed to me like a universe, with which one could express even the deepest philosophical thoughts, write the most passionate dialogues, or describe the most beautiful scenery. Everything was there, at sight, you just had to choose the right letters, in the right form and with the right rhythm. That was another life. Each character that came out of that now inert keyboard completely disrupted reality: they were the real ones, the rest was a dream. I felt them so alive that I often invoked them convinced that they would appear in my room, and we would discuss their future as a character in the novel. I always had the feeling that they were unhappy with their role, because I never got to know them as they really were, even though I had created them myself. But that was before the diagnosis; before my walking became clumsy and unsteady; long before the first symptoms of my illness made me lose consciousness because of an intense pain arising from some vague part of the inside of my body. But I had a premonition of my illness many years before. I may have had the presentiment from birth, so I lived with urgency, wrote with urgency and also grew old with the same urgency. Now I can rest and calm down, there is no longer any reason for urgency. 5. A dignified death I have discarded all hope. I know I am going to die, but against my will. I cannot accept that nature will decide for me. I have to anticipate its blind impulses; its irrational destruction. Only I can decide when and how I should die. It is a thought that horrifies me, but perhaps I must put an end to my life myself. Suicide? Would I be able to do it? But how? I don't want to die a violent death. By resorting to sedatives? But, knowing my situation, no doctor would prescribe them. I never thought it would be so difficult to attempt against one's own life. I envy those who are fortunate enough to die in their sleep, because the greatest difficulty for a suicidal person is to make the last decision of his life, because it is not possible to rectify it. Perhaps I could resort to euthanasia, but I do not want to die where the law allows it, nor do I want my death to be a commercial exchange. I would like to die by the sea, at the dusk of an autumn twilight, to take its beauty with me into eternity. Can't the wishes of a dying person be fulfilled? Why can't mine be fulfilled? But I am talking about me; planning my death by my own hands and by my own will. I intend to be myself the murderer who destroys everything I have created; to put an end to the fruit of my youthful illusions, my ambitions consummated after many years of loneliness and sadness, to my pleasant memories. At least if nature kills me, I will not be responsible for this homicide. No, I cannot attempt against myself. No tree would destroy its own fruit. But if I do not have enough courage to attempt against my body, I have to silence my conscience, limit the gloomy thoughts and close the eyes of imagination, the only one responsible for my sufferings, because we do not suffer if we do not imagine. So, do I have to let this terrible disease take its course? How will I bear this long agony? What stimulus will I count on? I can't imagine waiting impassively for death lying in a hospital bed, my mind dazed by painkillers and my vision blurred, foolishly fixed on some spot in the room. No, that is not a dignified way to die. There must be another, more humane and less painful way. Maybe the only worthy way to die is in that place you call home, and to be next to someone who feels true affection for you; that you can shake his hand until the last breath is lost, because it is through the hands that souls communicate and express their desires and feelings, so you can take his affection and his smile to eternity, although my eyes no longer see, my ears no longer hear and my body no longer feels anything. That is the only worthy way to die! A wise but useless reflection, because I don't have a home or anyone who feels so much affection for me. This apartment is not a home, because it lacks the essential: a woman. It is only a place of residence; a comfortable refuge; the right space for a writer; a gilded cage where to let the imagination run free. Only a woman can turn a station waiting room into a home, because she is the home. It is in her arms, in her bosom, in her feminine energy. Home is in the bed where a woman lies. As for someone who feels enough affection for me to watch over my agony and shake the weak hand of a dying man, unfortunately I haven't heard from her for many years. She was my first and only love, the person who stimulated my imagination and my creativity. To her I owe what I am and the memories that have inspired most of my novels. But back then my blind ambition was stronger than my feelings. We were united and separated by our passion for literature. We were both confident in our talents and had not the slightest doubt about our future successes. Our relationship inspired his best poems, for which I was flattered and transported to another world, but providence had a painful fate in store for him. The plot of my first novel was also the fruit of our relationship: the story of a failed poetess who describes her suicide in her last poem - a bitter paradox of fate! She helped me to correct my notable literary defects as a beginner, even typed the manuscript and suggested that I send it to a well-known literary contest for beginners. She shared my illusions and ambitions with generosity and without the slightest shadow of envy. He gave himself entirely to this work, which finally bore its unexpected fruits: I won the first prize! What followed is the cause of my regrets and I will never be able to forgive myself. A well-known literary agent was interested in me, and assured me that I had great literary talent and that in one or two years she would make me the most read and admired writer of that time. I was deeply flattered and accepted her bet. She suggested the theme of my second novel: a romantic story with a happy ending, and I had no difficulty in imagining the plot, I only had to add some new scenes to my own personal experiences. In this second novel it was she who revised and corrected the numerous stylistic flaws and grammatical errors of the first manuscript. We used to work in her own home, in an atmosphere of intimacy and familiarity, created to seduce me and make me literally fall into her arms. He had seen in me not only a talented writer, but also a lover. Unfortunately for my faithful companion, my agent was a woman with the appeal of mature yet beautiful women, with a young spirit and great experience in the arts of seduction, so it was impossible for me to resist. In a short time she managed to completely dominate my will. I spent my days in a frenetic program of promotion of my novel that barely allowed me to dedicate a few minutes to the memory of another woman who had to suffer in silence every time my image, with a studied smile of an arrogant winner, appeared in the media. The few moments I did not dedicate to my promotion I had to occupy them in satisfying her desires, always unsatisfied, not as my agent but as my lover. Although there were times when I was aware of my disloyal behavior, I could not give up the vain feeling of being above the common people; of dominating their wills, turning them into sycophants and my admirers. Since then there has been no peace for my spirit and I have known neither true friendship nor, much less, the passionate feeling of love. Now it is too late, because both friendship and love are like a beautiful plant, it needs time to bloom. 6. Memories Sometimes I wonder what would have become of me if I had not won that unexpected prize. I would possibly be married, have two or three children, a more prominent abdomen and could have found a good job in an insurance company, where I would have been promoted to assistant manager by now. We would live in a nice house with enough rooms for everyone, located in a quiet residential suburb. We would have two dogs, my wife's hysterical Yorkshire and a larger breed, plus a Siamese cat. Two of my children would already be going to university. The eldest would study law, and would already have secured a job in my company, and my middle daughter would study journalism, because she believed she had a vocation as a writer, and would have already published a book on the web with a romantic theme. The little one, because we would most probably have two females, would still be in high school and would wear a dental prosthesis to correct the deviation of her teeth. My wife would be president of some cultural association, and every first Saturday of the month our large living room would become a meeting room, where a dozen active mothers of families, and some retired widower, would discuss the details of an ambitious cultural program. We would have a good relationship with our neighbors. He might be a top executive of a multinational pet food company, and she would run a small, exclusive clothing boutique in our residential area, which in all likelihood would be a ruinous business. Every summer my wife, myself and our youngest daughter would spend two weeks in a popular seaside resort, where we would have an apartment booked every year on the 15th floor of a building on the third line of the sea, while our older children would take advantage of the summer to follow intensive English courses in London or New York. Is that what I missed? No; it's too conventional an assumption that I would never have accepted. But I don't want to think of my life with that woman as if it were the plot of one of my novels. She is a person and I must not confuse her with a character; our relationship was not a novel. Sometimes I don't know how to distinguish dream from reality, because memories eventually become dreams, and dreams eventually become reality. Everything could have been different if I had not been so blind and ambitious and had not fallen into the arms of my literary agent. But soon her eagerness to feel young and attractive no longer found sufficient stimulus in me, and she found herself a new lover, another ambitious young writer. I did not feel her betrayal at all, rather it was a liberation, because I also needed new stimuli to continue the meteoric rise of my popularity. Then I tried to recover my first love, but I lost track of her, it gave the impression that she had emigrated to another planet or had been swallowed up by the earth, because she had disappeared from all the means that could identify her whereabouts. Discouraged by the futile search, I tried to seek solace in one of my young female admirers. It was not difficult for me to seduce them, I could even choose among the many young girls who idolized me. I chose her not for her intelligence but for her body, because my capacity for love had been nullified by my betrayal. Unfortunately, despite her attractiveness, my constant remorse made me impotent and insensitive, so my relationship with my young lovers was brief and frustrating. My remorse led me to accept loneliness and I gave myself body and soul to my work. But the theme of my novels changed radically, the previous plots always had a happy ending, the new ones became unhappy, negative and with tragic endings, in which the protagonist of the story invariably died. But far from declining, my popularity continued to grow, because in our time there are hardly any relationships with a happy ending, and my readers identified better with the new dramatic twist of my tragic plots. 7. Ella Yes, despite all these years, I still keep her image alive, because she has been the one who has inspired my most beloved female characters. I have described her so many times that I could not forget her even if I tried. And if my memory should play a trick on me and erase her image, I only have to read again and again the novels where she is present to recover her intact, just as I have kept her for the last twenty years. But the years go by and leave their horrible mark. Maybe if I passed her in the street I wouldn't recognize her. What havoc has time done to her childish face and rosy cheeks? What color are her curly blond hair, always tousled, tangled between my fingers? And her breasts, small but sensual? What must not have changed is her sincere and tender look, nor the blue color of her eyes. How much I have longed for her in my long sleepless nights giving life to characters with her qualities! How much I would have given to feel her hands on my sore shoulders for those endless hours trying to recreate the world with the fantasies of my exhausted imagination! And how many mornings I woke up hugging my pillow, waking up from a dream in which I took her in my arms, and lying on a fragrant freshly cut lawn, we contemplated a pristine blue sky, which our eyes could barely contemplate a tiny part of its immensity. I met her in the faculty canteen one day in the early spring of 1997, the year Dario Fo won the Nobel Prize for literature, which I secretly aspired to win someday. She stood in front of me in the cafeteria line and pretended to hold her cup of coffee and a huge strawberry-cream cake with one hand, because the other was holding several books of poetry. I offered to hold the books for him, but he declined. Finally, as feared, the coffee cup, the cake and his precious books rolled on the floor. Then she did accept my help. While she cleaned up the pieces of cake that had smeared the books, I got a new cup of coffee and the last remaining slice of cake. But as fate would have it, that early spring morning she was left without her coffee and her delicious strawberry and cream cake, because I tripped over a misplaced chair and, once again, coffee and cake ended up on the floor. That coincidence in our clumsiness we interpreted it as a sign of destiny, that we were made for each other. The days and months that followed our eventful meeting were simply glorious. We discovered our respective vocations and ambitions, and agreed, sealed with a kiss, to walk together on the road to glory, which our youthful optimism considered conquered. We used to sit on the soft grass of our campus and exchange notes with our respective creations. I would read and appreciate her poetry and she would read my stories and we would discuss them in heated literary debates. Even today I still remember one of her poems, dedicated to me, of course: If your heart were foam, I would be ocean; If your soul were heaven, I would be cloud; If your gaze were rain, I would be a field; If your hands were water, I would be thirsty. We attended all cultural events related to literature, and we were considered "Les enfants terribles" of book presentations, because of our exhaustive questions. I think authors were afraid of us. We didn't miss any biographical film of writers. We made plans for the future, for when we were rich and famous. We agreed that we would spend half the year in Paris and the other half in Mallorca, in a small house on some cliff and that from the bedroom window we could watch the sunrise over the Mediterranean Sea. We had even decided to have our first child when I turned 30, and to have enough time to consolidate our respective literary careers. All those wonderful fantasies were happening before I won that damned prize. I realize now that I was sure of what my bright future would be like with all sorts of details, but I wasn't sure what I was like, and I barely endured the first test that fate put in my path. 8. The message I have barely had time to reflect and be fully aware of my pitiful fate and tomorrow I have to appear in public and make the presentation of my latest novel. I am the slave of my own success, a prisoner of the clauses of a draconian contract. I have long since ceased to be free and become an admired slave. I would give everything I own to go back and restart my life with her, and that I would never have had the clumsiness to submit my first novel and a literary contest, only to have the misfortune of winning it. But it's too late now. Now I will be back on the cover of specialized magazines, but to announce my inevitable death. They will write eulogies full of eulogies and virtues that I surely do not have, but the dead are extolled or sullied, but rarely respected. Surely the sales of my books will triple, so my untimely death is a magnificent business for my publishing house, for the printers and for the bookstores. They will mourn my death with crocodile tears. My agent will visit me repeatedly to secure his commission after my death. The publisher will also visit me, and with affected sadness, will make me sign a new contract to ensure the exclusivity of my books when I leave this world. I will receive thousands of condolences from my admirers, and they will be so hypocritical as to wish for my speedy recovery, but deep down my death is much more morbid and exciting for them. And what will become of my work? How long will it remain in the memory of my current admirers? A dead writer is only profitable as long as his funerals and tributes last, then other living writers will occupy my void, and they will surely be victims of my same disease. I am not likely to survive long. I have always had the feeling that I was writing what readers wanted to read not what I wanted to write. I will never know what kind of writer I am because I have never really tested myself. It has all come too easy to be important. There is no greater misfortune for a writer of vocation than to win a contest at a young age nor worse torture than to succeed at something you don't like. To write what your own intuition dictates, it is necessary not to think about readers at least until you are forty. I am one of those victims. I try to put these pathetic thoughts out of my mind by reading some of the numerous messages I receive every day. Today I don't want to read that chorus of praise from those who seem to be born to admire anyone who has their name printed somewhere other than on their ID card or in the mailbox. Most of them admire me only because I have hundreds of other admirers and followers, but they don't really know why they admire me. They all expect the same thing from me: a few words of response from the myth they are subjugated to in order to feel blessed by divine grace. Those of these unconditional admirers are a few short sentences that they must have saved in their computer memory to send to their favorite writers: "Very good your last novel", "I was hooked by your last novel", "I enjoyed your last novel", "I loved your last novel"; etc. And what can I answer? I could give them a huge thank you and have them divide it among themselves. But there is one message that catches my attention. It is that of a young woman. I can't explain it, but her image makes me uneasy and uneasy. Perhaps it is because there is something common in our features; or because of her haughty and provocative look, and yet, there is something of sweetness in her face. I have the impression that her arrogance hides a vulnerable personality. I almost don't dare to read her message, I have a feeling it will not be favorable and I don't have the day to endure criticism. After all, praise is a balm, it doesn't cure but it soothes; criticism is a bitter medicine, it tastes bad but it cures. I dare to read it: "Hi, I am an aspiring writer who has read all your novels and in my humble opinion there is only one that has a good motivation: the first one, the rest are acceptable, but lack this important quality. It seems as if after the first novel you have lost the motivation of the first one. As for your last novel, I am sorry to say that it seems as if you have lost both motivation and inspiration. Forgive me for being so frank, but that is my opinion. Naomi." Whoever you are, Naomi, you have discovered my best kept secret! I confess that this severe criticism from an arrogant and conceited young lady has affected me. I shouldn't worry, all the invitations for the presentation of my new novel have been booked for a week now, and the reviews have not been very effusive but not bad either, but what surprises me is the certainty of her judgments, which fully coincide with the reality of my literary career. It is true that the novels after the first one I wrote were influenced by my literary agent, not by a human being, and that they were not written by the artist but by the professional with a good style. And that face... that expression... those features so similar to mine; the clear forehead, the dimples in the cheeks and the slight droop of the eyelids... they are identical. But I wonder who is this mysterious Naomi? There is nothing in her profile that identifies her, not where she studied, not where she lives, no pictures, no blog; nothing! I answer: "Dear Noemí, your harsh criticism has hurt my self-esteem, but I appreciate your sincerity. I have no doubt that you will be a great writer. I am aware that none of my novels will deserve even a modest corner of posterity. If I wrote with posterity in mind, I would lose practically all my readers. In the times we live in, no writer can be above the intellectual level of his readers, because that would make them feel guilty and ignorant. If you appear half a dozen times on a TV channel with a large audience and you have some physical attraction, you automatically become the idol of thousands of people who were born to be followers. The media has so much power that if they had their way, they could win the Nobel Prize for the editor of the crime chronicles of a provincial newspaper. If the media have idealized you, you can write anything, because they won't stop admiring you. My latest novel is not brilliant, it is as normal and ordinary as the normal and ordinary readers who will enjoy reading it, because it speaks in their same language, it has their same vices and virtues. Anyway, that is the novel they would write themselves, but I have spared them that painful work. Most of us writers today are not chasing readers but journalists and image-makers, who are the ones who really rule the world. If you dream of being an out-of-the-ordinary writer, your life will be spent within that same out-of-the-ordinary dream, and you will never be able to live in reality. I look forward to your understanding. Kind regards" I send it. I find it a good rejoinder, but I have to admit that your criticism has merit. I don't owe my fame to my supposed talent but to the popularity that my first novel gave me, and that she inspired me, and the intelligent marketing of my protector. I have no more merit than to have been able to interpret her advice, her deep knowledge of the psychology of readers and her wise ideas, with my ability to write them in an acceptable style. But I am sure that there are hundreds of writers with much more talent than me who have not been as lucky as me. I just received a new message from Naomi. I wonder how she interpreted my reply. I could delete it. After all, it's just the opinion of an immature young girl, I don't have to take it into consideration. I have plenty of admirers and I am no longer worried about success or failure, because there will be no more novels to criticize. She is right: I lack muse and inspiration. But I am curious to know her opinion and I open it: "Yes, good novels need good readers, that's why they are so scarce. But good writers make good readers, and if you write mediocre novels you will always have mediocre readers. I look forward with great interest to hearing your views on the presentation of your new novel. Best regards and see you tomorrow. Noemí." It hurts me, but I accept it. You are absolutely right: each reader gets the author he or she deserves. No doubt I am one of those to blame for the mediocrity of the readers, because I have been satisfied with their compliments without worrying about whether or not they were well-founded. What can I say about the novel if I have never written a real novel? 9. Hallucinations Another endless sleepless night. I see mysterious shadows creeping stealthily around my bed. No doubt I suffer from hallucinations. I have had to hide all the pictures that decorated this room, because when I looked at them it seemed as if they were moving and coming out of their frames. Sometimes I look at my hands and it seems to me that they are someone else's and not mine. Any small object becomes an insect crawling on the shelves of my bookcase, or on my study table, I even see them moving on the quilt of my bed. I know they are simple hallucinations caused by my tired eyesight and depressed mood, but they distress me. I cannot bear this suffering until the day I die. I have to do something. I need her forgiveness. I have to find her even if I have to go to hell itself, from which I am only a step away. Why hasn't he contacted me in all these years? I am a public figure. She must have known how to contact me. A wound can't stay open for twenty years. They say that time heals everything, but they don't say what kind of wounds it heals. There are some for which, it seems, time does not pass, and probably some of them are disloyalty and betrayal. But she may also already be married with a family, and no longer feel any interest in me. Or, who knows, and I am distressed at the very thought, but she may already be dead. The ghosts keep haunting my bed. It seems as if all the spirits are conspiring against me to destroy what little judgment I have left, but I will resist; this is not a good time for madness. I have taken from the shelf my latest novel and read the passage in which the heroine discovers that her lover is cheating on her. It is an ordinary love story, and in real life cheating is also ordinary, and I have personal experiences to write these scenes realistically. Another dawn without any reason for optimism. I must have slept two or three hours, but I feel tired and sore, because the few hours I have slept have been occupied by a horrible nightmare. Fortunately I can only remember the final moments. I was bedridden in a hospital bed, but the room was painted red and a faceless nurse was injecting me with a dose of morphine. Scenes of a butcher butchering pigs could be seen in front of my bed. The pigs would talk and ask the butcher, "Why me?" But the butcher would not listen to their cries and would unload one after another of his deadly blows. Incomprehensibly it was my turn, and I asked him again the same anguished question, "Why me?" with the same result. And the butcher was preparing to settle his killing blow, when he suddenly transformed into her, smiling, just as I last saw her on campus. She stroked my dazed head. She gazed at me for a few moments, and barely as a whisper, she exclaimed: "Spreads his wings the angel of death, because he has an important assignment from Lucifer. When you are suspended by its deadly claws, I will not cry for you but for me, for I will not be able to accompany you to hell, as was my wish." And he vanished, transforming into the butcher, who again was about to lay his deadly blow when fortunately a call from my cell phone woke me up from this horrible dream. It is my current literary agent. -I'm sorry to call you at this hour, but I want you to know that I'm sorry; I'm really sorry! -His ambiguous message causes me great concern -I'm sorry about your diagnosis! -How do you know about my diagnosis? -Someone from the hospital has leaked the news of your incurable disease and it's circulating all over the social networks! I didn't know it was so serious! Believe me I'm sorry; I don't know what to say...! -My agent feels obliged to take charge of the situation and comments visibly affected: "If you are not feeling well, we can cancel the presentation. But this would mean breaching the contract with the publisher and would bring us a lot of headaches. Only death can be a legal justification. No, I have to make the presentation. Sooner or later they will know my state of health. A writer without a contract is free to do whatever he wants, because he has nothing published. On the other hand, a writer with a contract and who has published has something to justify his slavery. We write to have a reason to lose our freedom. That's how paradoxical the writer's world is. We arranged to have breakfast together in a café near my apartment. My agent was accompanied by a young woman who made a great impression on me. But not because of her beauty, but because of her appearance and curious attire. She wears a wide leather jacket of a striking scarlet color, which contrasts with her straight black hair, cropped at the nape of her neck, pale as snow. She wears tight black tights and a black skirt that covers a small part of her thighs. But the most striking thing is her huge military-style boots, which she laces up with red laces. As for her face, it seems vulgar to me, with nothing to highlight. I have the impression that with that flashy outfit she intends us not to pay attention to her face, which she herself must be aware of its lack of attractiveness or charm. However, her gaze and gestures are simple and frank. Just by her manner of greeting I deduce that she is cultured and intelligent. The young lady is the latest represented by my agent. According to him, she has talent. He wanted her to join us for our interview because she needs to be introduced to the world of literature, and he felt I was a good place to start. The young woman seems somewhat intimidated by my presence. She has spilled her coffee twice by shaking it too vigorously. She doesn't dare look at me straight on, and doesn't take her eyes off her shaken coffee cup. I wonder what he is thinking. He waits for me to speak to him, and the truth is, I don't know what we can talk about other than the weather. I break the silence by commenting that it's been a very wet autumn. The young woman nods slightly, but only out of politeness. My trivial remark confuses my agent, who doesn't want to waste time with such trifles. From a pocket of her jacket she pulls out a newspaper clipping and hands it to me. It is the latest published review of my novel. I ask him to summarize it for me, that's why I have an agent: -It's good," he says, not hiding the businessman's satisfaction, "even suggesting it could be the novel of the year. I don't discuss it with my agent, but I suspect this reviewer must collect a check every month from my publisher, and doesn't want to antagonize them. There are few honest critics left, or if they are, they are ignorant of the fundamentals of literature. For the sake of this millennial art I would have preferred a bad review, as this novel deserves. On another occasion I would have rejoiced, but now that I must give an account to my conscience for all my actions, it saddens me, because even now the wise phrase: "The hour of truth has come" makes sense. And the truth is that it is a bad novel. The young writer congratulates me and assures me that I deserve it, and seems to expect my thanks. I think she is trying to suggest some topic of conversation in which she can participate. -Forgive me for butting in," he finally decides to intervene, "but I think it's a good novel, too. I ask him what motivates his opinion. -It's well written and the characters are very well characterized," she answers a bit embarrassed, because she wasn't expecting my question. It has very well-drawn descriptions and the dialogues are very natural. Yes, I think your last novel is very good. It is evident that this young girl belongs to this generation in which ideals are rare, because she has omitted the fundamental: the plot. A poem does not need a plot, words are enough, but a novel cannot exist without a plot. The plot is what links fiction with reality, and a good novel must bear witness to the reality of its time through the plot; of the author's commitment to his time. If this linkage does not exist, it cannot transcend its immediacy, and instead of a novel we write a pamphlet of three hundred pages, decorated with a suggestive cover, and with an unjustified price. I don't put this idea to her because she probably doesn't feel committed to her times. I ask her what she thinks of the argument and she seems to mull over the answer: -It's a classic theme," he answers without much conviction. The betrayal of the one we love. It's a good argument. But it is rude of me not to show interest in your work. I am also interested in his idea of literature. I ask him which genre of literature he is most attracted to, and without barely letting me finish my sentence, he replies: -The novel, of course! It must be so, because her face has been transfigured with the charm of enthusiasm. She seems pleased by my interest; it is evident that she wished to communicate with me, but as a writer to a writer. She has succeeded. I ask her what is the reason for her enthusiasm for narrative, and her answer leaves no room for doubt: -Only a novel can tell a complex story that is a complete world. The short story is very brief and the tale can only tell a part of that world. No doubt this young woman knows what she wants. Now we'll see if she also knows why she wants it. I ask about her motivation. -My motivation? I've never asked myself this question, I think I was born already motivated by the love of literature! I have many reasons to be motivated," she answers with a sudden and astonishing self-confidence. But perhaps the main one is that through literature many values can be transmitted that can help each generation to be morally superior to the previous one. That's a good answer. I have been wrong about this young woman and I have underestimated her. I ask her the last question: -And what is literature for you? -Literature is a way of telling stories that provoke in the reader the feeling of the beauty of language, the creativity of the imagination and the understanding of the reality in which they come from or wish to live. When the words do not prevent the imagination from seeing, hearing or feeling what you are reading, because they are all in perfect harmony, with none missing or surplus. That is my opinion. I am impressed by her response, and I congratulate my agent on his wise choice. The young lady is out of the ordinary, but that doesn't mean she will have the success she undoubtedly deserves. 10. The walk I say goodbye to my agent and his young companion, to whom I give encouragement to continue because I believe he has the necessary talent for success, but I also warn him of the price he will have to pay for his passion. A useless warning, because passion overflows all attempts at restraint. He will go on his way without heeding my warnings. My agent asks me what I plan to do until the time of the presentation, and if I would like to have lunch together as well. Maybe he's thinking that it's not a day to leave me alone and he needs company. I tell her that I had thought about taking a long walk in the park, but I decline her invitation; I have never liked restaurants. The young woman also seems concerned about my mood and makes me a tempting offer: She would like to accompany me on my walk and then go to her apartment, where she will cook for me one of the specialties of her region. It sounds like a good program and I accept. I notice in his invitation the desire to communicate his concerns and show me his works to know my opinion, but also a sudden affection for me, which must have a large dose of compassion. It is cloudy and at intervals clearings open through which the sunlight penetrates, and all the foliage is illuminated as if it were a fresco painted by some genius of those who probably inhabit this park. My young companion seems to be happy that I have accepted his invitation, and walks beside me but in silence. I have the impression that he has already achieved his purpose and does not think he needs any more arguments or reasons to convince me. There is no doubt that he admires me, which makes me feel uncomfortable. No person is more admirable than another, what is admired are the results of his education, intuition or creativity, but not the human being himself. Since we all deserve the same respect and consideration, there cannot be some more admirable than others. I try to make him see it with a committed personal question: -I would love to know what idea you have formed about me; and why were you interested in meeting me personally? The question has caught her off guard. She meditates for a few moments on her answer, losing her gaze in an undefined point of the leafy walk, sketching a smile that must emerge from her thoughts. She turns to me, literally glares at me, and doesn't hesitate in her surprising answer: -Because I am in love with you! Now the surprised one is me, but the years have made me skeptical and limited my ability to feel affection for others. But there is another reason for me to reject her surprising statement: I have no other mission in my remaining life than to find the woman to whom I owe what this young woman admires. As long as I do not repay my debt my feelings are blocked. I let her know this in the least painful way possible: -Sometimes we writers live our fantasies as if they were reality. I'm sure you love a character in your novels who looks like me. But your answer surprises me even more than the first one: -I have told you that I am in love with you, but not that you are in love with me. You cannot prevent me from loving you, but neither can I prevent you from feeling no affection for me. I know you don't find me attractive, you may even consider me ugly, and you may not like the way I dress. I choose whom I love, but I don't pretend that you are also my lover. I am content to be able to walk beside him, and if he feels like it, to taste my casseroles, but he must know that I love him! Her generosity is sublime: she gives her feelings in exchange for accompanying the faltering step of a dying man, and having a guest at her table. No doubt this ungraceful young woman has an immense heart and can afford to squander her affections. I must not allow this waste, she may later need them for herself. -But you yourself have witnessed that you have fallen in love with a sick man who will soon leave this world! -I know, and I feel a great sadness, but you are a writer too, and you make people love each other who exist only in your imagination. Why can't I do the same? When the unfortunate day comes when you are gone, I will still have you in my imagination, and I will still love you as I love you now. It is inevitable that I will ask you this crucial question: -But what is so attractive about a dying curentón that awakens such a passion in you? -There are very few men who have been able to penetrate the soul of a woman. We admire the man who has brilliant ideas, but we love the man not for his intelligence but for being essentially a man, whereas we can fall madly in love with a gigolo, a greasy-handed mechanic or a smelly sewer man, as long as they are essentially men! If he is also intelligent and creative, then he is irresistible! -Do I belong to that category? He doesn't answer me, but his smile answers my question. 11. Lunch The apartment of my young lover is a museum of nostalgia, because it is full of objects that remind her of her place of origin, which she must miss deeply. It is a single room where a certain chaos reigns. His desk is next to the only window in the room, and it is full of pages with printed texts, which must be his writings, where his laptop appears. On the printer is a small stuffed panda bear, and on the window ledge, arranged in a row, is a veritable collection of assorted objects, possibly gifts or souvenirs from trips. His bed is a large convertible sofa, because there is not enough room for a regular bed. On the opposite side of the window there is a space separated by a wide curtain that must be your kitchen. And next to it a table where no more than two pieces of cutlery can fit, as long as you remove the huge bouquet of flowers that are beginning to wilt. The table is also occupied by the remains of a previous meal, such as unwashed dishes, half-full glasses or leftover bread. It is obvious that he was not expecting visitors, so he hastens to justify the mess: -Excuse this mess, but I wasn't expecting visitors, I'll tidy it up in a moment. Despite the clutter the set is intimate and cozy. I'd rather you didn't tidy it up. -Would you like to read some of my writings while I prepare lunch? I beg you not to address me as you, because we have already made enough confidences to be on a first-name basis. -I will read them with great interest. He tries to put order in the pages scattered on his desk until he has gathered about twenty pages. -It's the first pages of my new novel," she says with some embarrassment, "it's the love story between a young dancer and her choreographer... who is inspired by you. He insists on not calling me by my first name. I suppose his love for me includes this distant treatment. If he were to call me by my first name, some of his charm would be lost. I have to accept that. I like his style. I am particularly struck by this passage: "A talented dancer understands the language of music and translates it into the harmonious movements of her agile body. You no longer need a choreographer, but a lover who interprets the music that moves your body!" The meal was delicious and for her, moreover, a source of longing. I still have a few hours to go before the presentation. She suggests that I get some sleep to be clearer. I accept the idea. We unfold the bed and I lie down. She covers me with a light blanket, closes the window shade and locks herself in her tiny kitchen to do the dishes and the rest of the service. I hear the bustle of the kitchen almost in my sleep, and it brings back images of times gone by, when she also cooked for me. I am awakened by the sound of crying. It is the young woman crying. She is lying next to me, and hurries to wipe away her tears when she notices that I wake up. -Is something wrong, Alicia? I ask him in alarm. But his answer puzzles me: -Forgive me, I am a fool; I was crying with happiness to have you next to me, in my own bed! I could never have imagined that this young, scantily clad, strikingly dressed young woman was such an exceptional human being. No doubt that appearances can be deceiving. I feel the need to know more about her. I let her approach me, because I feel more paternal than passionate affection for her. I beg her to tell me something about her. She comes closer to me. I think she wants me to hold her in my arms. I cannot rebuff her and do her bidding. She smiles gratefully at me. -I'm just a provincial girl, ugly and clumsy," I try to protest, but she interrupts me. No, it's true, I'm ugly, that's why I dress in flashy clothes, although it doesn't do much good. The boys didn't like me, even though more than one tried to rape me. I grew up without the slightest affection and soon I had no other alternative to mitigate my loneliness than to invent lovers and friends. I felt real disgust for boys of my age, violent and rude. I fell in love for the first time with a mature, married man. He treated me gently and, although I would have allowed it, he never asked me to make love. It's my fate, he wasn't in love with me either, I think he felt pity. I had no choice but to leave my city, and I came here. Literature was my only friend. My novels were my only consolation. I managed to interest a modest publisher to publish one of my novels, although I had to pay for the edition out of my own pocket. That was almost two years ago. I sent the manuscript to several publishers, but all of them rejected it. Someone advised me to look for a literary agent, and I found his agent on the Internet. I sent him a copy of my novel, and the rest you know. I remain silent because I am impressed by her story, so different from mine! I have betrayed those who loved me; she has been faithful to those who did not love her. Her story makes me feel even more guilty. But she has omitted something and I can no longer accept that I am not interested: -But I am missing in your story! -Yes, of course; you're missing! I met him during the presentation of his previous novel. I was sitting in the last row. I looked like a normal young woman then, and you approached me several times, but you must have been invisible, because you didn't so much as glance at me and I didn't dare to catch your eye. I have always been somewhat shy and introverted, but that day I was out of this world. When I saw you on the rostrum, with your shirt unbuttoned, with your mocking and provocative gesture, so sure of yourself, something stirred in my whole body, and I immediately understood that I had fallen in love with you, but with the man, I didn't know the writer yet -he remains silent for a few moments, as if reliving that moment in his imagination, because I feel as if his body was shaking; he smiles as if now he finds his sudden passion for me funny-. When I left his presentation, I don't know how long I walked around aimlessly, trying to hold back tears. I had fallen in love with the most admired man in the literary world. I still ache from the applause of his brilliant speech. When he finished and came down from what for me was already a throne, for you were already my king, all the young women in the room surrounded him because they wanted to touch their idol. They were all beautiful and wore brand name clothes. I was a provincial girl, ugly, shy and clumsy, and I wore old-fashioned clothes. That night I stayed up all night, crying non-stop. When a woman falls in love, the lover is part of her flesh and soul, and his absence hurts as if both were torn away. We don't think we can survive these terrible wounds," she pauses again, but now she seems to be reliving those bitter moments. Unexpectedly she takes one of my hands and caresses it. That comforts her and she continues her story. I spent some anguished days, but I finally resigned myself and tried to put the fire that burned me down, but I didn't stop loving him, only to numb his memory. But I resolved to one day be on the same level as him, so that he would notice me. I changed my wardrobe and frantically wrote one novel after another in which somehow you were always the protagonist - he exchanges a meaningful glance with me and continues - You can't imagine the joy that invaded me when I saw your photograph in the office of the agent who had agreed to represent me! -Yes, I can imagine! -I interrupt her. -And now you are here, in my own bed, and you hold me in your arms. Have I no reason to weep for happiness? 12. The presentation The account of her generous love for me, which I certainly do not deserve, changes my affection for this sensitive young woman, who has the evocative name of Alicia. I no longer find her ugly, nor clumsy; I see not her face but her soul, and I find her beautiful. I would like to let her know this, but I fear I may change my mind when my remorse for my unforgivable betrayal returns. Only if I rid myself of them could I even reciprocate her love for me. But I cannot forget that I must not delude myself into enjoying the pleasures of life, for before my feelings can be free to love whomever I wish, I will have died. Alicia does not deserve this punishment. It's time to go to the presentation venue. My agent has called me on my cell phone, he is worried about my state of mind, but I reassure him, I feel strong enough to face the presentation. Even the story of this young woman has given me new arguments to defend the literature that arises from the deepest feelings and condemn the banal and entertaining. As expected, the room is packed to capacity. Most of them remain standing because there are not enough chairs for everyone. No doubt they know the news of my diagnosis. My agent is waiting for me in an adjoining room to bring me up to date with the most prominent attendees. The editors of several literary magazines have come, and most of the journalists from the culture sections of the newspapers. They must be interested in the story of the writer who dies, not the one who writes. Alicia has accompanied me here, but she got confused with the audience and I lost sight of her. The moderator and other guests are already on the podium. When I appear in the room there is a telltale murmur. Several photographers take snapshots of the panel, but mostly they point their cameras at me. They must think that these will be the last pictures they will take of me. The moderator introduces me and gives a brief summary of the novel I am going to present. The time has come for my speech. I look for Alicia in the crowd, and discover her at one end of the room, leaning against a column. She has felt my gaze and smiles at me. She wants to encourage me; her smile makes it easier for me to begin my speech. -Good afternoon. First of all I want to thank all of you for attending the presentation of my latest novel. I feel guilty that I have this comfortable chair when most of you have to stand. Had I known so many of you were coming we would have held this presentation at the Olympic Stadium -you laugh at my joke, but I'm sure most of you didn't expect me to still have a sense of humor under the circumstances-. I assume you have all read the reviews of my new novel. Most are favorable, but not all - I forgot to send the check to two or three reviewers! I also assume you must already know the news of my diagnosis. Yes, I have only a few months to live, and it's no laughing matter, but my health won't improve if I take it seriously," I'm interrupted by a loud murmur, but I beg for silence. I learned the diagnosis yesterday, and because of the leak I haven't been able to extend my life insurance premium. I am sorry for my cat, who is the beneficiary of the insurance, because as you must know, I have no offspring. I'm very fond of my cat, because she's the only one I understand - I gave up understanding humans years ago! But I guess you haven't come here to hear about my good understanding with my cat, but about my latest novel. Surprising as it may surprise you, this novel and the previous ones I could not have written without my cat. She has taught me to accept who feeds me without losing my dignity. She has also taught me that there is always a time to play, and despite my advanced age I have never stopped playing! For me writing is a game, but a serious game. To play it is necessary to know only these three basic rules: to have a good technique, to have one's own style and a solid motivation. Whoever knows these three rules well has every chance of winning. Writers have a solid training, and we know how to distinguish a past perfect from a pluperfect, we do not commit spelling mistakes and we know where to put a comma or semicolon. After all, they are just rules to memorize, so most of us have a good technique. But when we talk about style not everyone understands what its meaning is and how it is valued, although critics insist on pigeonholing us with this or that current, because style has no rules, but depends on our sensitivity and the value we give to the words. Each word, in addition to a meaning, has a tone and must be joined to other words perfectly tuned, which is not common in today's literature, the meaning prevails and not the intonation. And if we talk about motivation, we usually associate it with remuneration, and not with a commitment to the values of our time, which must somehow be reflected in the arguments of what we write. Artists also pay rent; for the tax authorities we are just one more and in supermarkets they don't give us credit, if we don't pay we don't eat. That's why the writer must be paid. But this should not be the motivation. And that is the incurable disease of art, because what is the patrimony of the spirit becomes a market product; what should not have a price becomes an accounting value; what should entertain and enlighten, only serves to entertain. Finally, the spirit has nothing to exercise itself with and atrophies by inactivity and the result is that we lose the sensibility to distinguish the beautiful from the ugly; the good from the bad; the transcendent from the inconsequential. And that is the deplorable state in which literature finds itself today, practically on a global level, because insensitivity to art has also become globalized. All the responsibility for this situation falls on fifty percent of the readers and another fifty percent on the authors, because each reader has the author he deserves, and each writer has the readers he deserves. About this last novel, I will not reveal the plot, just advance that it is the drama of two writers, she is a poet and he is a narrator, who are united by literature, but separated by words. We understand the people we imagine, but not the real ones we love. Finally, I would like to tell you a moving story that illustrates better than any complicated argument what Literature is and what it is for. The story I wish to tell you is that of a young writer from the provinces, who considers herself ugly and clumsy, rejected by everyone, and who learned to love generously through the characters in her novels. This young woman does not write for fame and money, but to feel loved, even if her lovers are fictional. But her extraordinary humanity and generosity has been rewarded, and the beloved protagonist of her fiction has become a reality. However, despite her fleeting happiness, the story does not have a happy ending, because the real character will die a few months later, and this young writer from the provinces, who, as I have said, considers herself ugly and clumsy, will again resort to the suggestive power of literature to keep him in her memory and keep the flame of her love alive forever. -I try to see what Alice's reaction to my mention is, but she is no longer standing by the column. She has disappeared! Perhaps I have offended her, but I have to go on. And it is this extraordinary power of literature that I wanted to tell you about in this presentation. Power that only literature that springs from inspiration and shapes a creative imagination has. There can be nothing more obscene than a stultified, uninspired, soulless literature. Thousands of words put together without harmony or humanity, telling us banal, dehumanized stories, with no other purpose than to entertain our boredom and distract us from our worries. Death scares me, as it does any human being, but in return it has given me something I would not have had without its terrible threat: freedom! Now I can speak my mind without fear of the consequences, and I think that the novel I present to you here today was not written by me, but by market demand, like practically all other novels published today. Only that young, ugly and clumsy provincial writer, and perhaps thousands more as provincial, ugly and clumsy as her, to whom no one will pay attention, write their novels for themselves, as their hearts and minds dictate, because they simply need to. Literature, written in capital letters, is a necessity, not a pastime; it not only entertains, but teaches; it not only calms, but heals; it is not only read, but lived. If I were to be born again, I would like it to be in a world where one could survive without the laws of the market; and where we were all provincial, ugly and clumsy. I have nothing more to add, but I will gladly answer your questions, as long as they are not too personal. Several hands were raised asking for their turn to ask questions. I answer the one from a journalist: -I am sorry about your illness, but I would like to know how you plan to spend your last days. I answer without hesitation: -Meditating on death. The next question is from a woman who must be my age: -What is it that you have wished for but have not been able to achieve? -Understand the world we live in! The third question has caused me an inexplicable emotion. It is from young Naomi, with whom I have exchanged several messages. The question puzzles me, for which I do not have a ready answer. -Do you regret not having started a family, and perhaps having had one or more children, who would now take care of you? I sense that there is some hidden meaning to your question. What can I answer? It is too late for regrets. -Your question is too personal and I have already warned that I would not answer such questions. The young woman seems very upset, and does not want to give up. She insists. -Who or what inspired you to write this novel and what was your motivation? I have not meditated my answer, it has come straight from my subconscious, where it should have been for many years: -All writers have an emotional conflict between what we create and where we get our inspiration. We usually make our imagination make real what is not possible in real life. I have been inspired by a real person whom I don't understand. As for my motivation, it is precisely to try to understand her. The young woman seems satisfied with my answer and does not insist. They applaud my intervention, but only the youngest seem to have understood my message. Utopia is no more than twenty years old. The pain returns with severe intensity. I ask the moderator to close the presentation. The attendees seem to understand the reasons and the room is becoming empty. Alicia met with me. She had rushed out of the room so she wouldn't be seen crying. Perhaps I had overdone it and should have been less dramatic. My agent tells me that outside the room a crowd is waiting for us to sign copies. I can't refuse. Most of them show me their sadness for my illness with some words of comfort. I don't know how many books I have signed but I am exhausted. I beg Alice to let me lean on her shoulder and we return to the hall to collect our coats. I feel the pain blurring my vision and I am so weak that if I didn't lean on her I would have collapsed by now. In this deplorable state I am unable to recognize young Naomi, who remains in her seat, because she is waiting for me. My agent has spoken to her and conveys her desire to talk to me, but has not revealed the reason. But I am not in the mood to hold literary talks with my female admirers. I ask her to excuse herself, and to contact me by mail. My agent communicates my message to her, but the young woman insists on talking to me. It's not about literature, apparently it's personal. Alicia helps me into an armchair in the next room, and the pain seems to subside. I ask my agent to call the young woman - I hope it's not another platonic love! 13. Noemi For the first time my illness has prevented me from fulfilling my editorial commitments. It is evident that my health is getting worse with each passing day. It has been a blessing that I met Alicia at this crucial time. For the first time I am unable to fend for myself and I need help. I am beginning to feel the painful preambles of death. I am anxious about the interview with young Naomi. There is something familiar about her, as if I had known her in a previous life. But, on the other hand, I sense that she brings with her serious events that may alter what little life I have left. Alicia seems to share my concern. She may be a rival with an advantage, because Naomi is a very graceful young woman. She is of a medium build, her long hair, of an elegant brown color and her harmonious forms, make her a very attractive young woman. She enters the room accompanied by my agent. She seems uneasy or perhaps nervous. She contemplates me prostrate on the couch. She must understand the inappropriateness of this interview. As she approaches, I feel a deep pity in her eyes. She seems to feel my illness as if we already knew each other. I beg him to sit in the next armchair. -So, Naomi, what is this important thing you have to tell me? She makes a gesture to sit down, but again she remains upright, something is bothering her. She exchanges a glance with my agent and with Alicia, who remains next to me, leaning on one of the arms of the wide sofa: -Could we be alone for a few minutes," she asks me, visibly nervous, "what I have to tell you is very personal. My agent exchanges a questioning glance with me, and Alicia becomes uneasy, because she must believe that the young woman is definitely a feared rival. If I beg you to leave us alone, you'll think I don't trust you, but now I'm keenly interested in what this young woman wants to tell me. I beg you to leave us alone. Alicia can't help exchanging a sad and doubtful look with me, but she respects my wish. The two leave the room without reproach. Naomi follows them with her eyes and seems relieved when she closes the door behind her. For a few moments, during which she seems to gather her thoughts and calm down, she does not take her eyes off an indeterminate point on the floor. Then she looks up and, visibly excited, asks me: -Do you remember who wrote this verse? If your heart were foam, I would be ocean; If your soul were heaven, I would be cloud; If your gaze were rain, I would be a field; If your hands were water, I would be thirsty. It's as if a bolt of lightning crosses my mind. I have a powerful intuition, but I refuse to acknowledge it. How did that poem come to this young woman? I don't answer, but it is I who asks the next question, and I feel my breathing become labored and my old heart flutter: -Who wrote it? She looks at me and I feel a deep anxiety in her eyes. She is on the verge of tears. -My mother wrote it twenty years ago...! She breaks into silent tears and covers her face with her hands. She doesn't dare look at me. I am stunned, and I don't know how to react. I ask myself the question I anxiously await an answer to: Is this young woman my daughter? If so, how could all these years have passed without her mother telling me? Yes, it is possible; we made love a few weeks before my betrayal, and we took no precautions. But how should I behave towards her? I cannot feel sudden parental affection for someone I do not know, even if she is my own daughter. We will need some time to get to know each other and maintain a normal father-daughter relationship. On the one hand the news fills me with joy, but on the other hand it saddens me, because for twenty years I have ignored its existence and when I learn of it I have only a few months to live. I have managed to regain my composure, I have to act sensibly. I hope she will also regain her composure and clear up my many doubts. Where is her mother? Why has she kept my daughter away from me all these years? My so-called daughter has calmed down and stops crying. She turns to me with a pleading look on her face, because she expects me to somehow prove to her that I have adopted her. But I need some answers: -Dear Naomi, you must understand that this situation is very confusing. I can't behave like a father in a few moments. Calm down and tell me why you haven't contacted me before. Where is your mother? But let my agent and Alicia come, they are absolutely trustworthy and can be present. I must not show them mistrust. My supposed daughter nods slightly as she wipes her tears and tries to regain her composure. I call my agent and Alicia and update them on the new situation. They are both perplexed and don't know what to say. Alicia approaches Naomi and tries to comfort her by stroking her long silky hair. Naomi thanks her with a smile. She seems to be calm now. I hope she can clear all my doubts. 14. Naomi's story -I didn't know you were my father until just a month ago, when I needed a novel for a paper on current literature and I found one of your novels in the faculty library. When I saw your photograph I was struck by our physical resemblance, but I didn't pay any more attention to it, but when I read the description of the female character, I realized that you were describing my mother. I read all her novels and in all of them, with minor changes, she was still the same description of my mother. But I was missing one of her books: the first one, which won a well-known literary contest of that time, and I could have the definitive proof. But they had no copy in the library. The book was out of print and a bookseller informed me that you had not authorized its reprinting. So I went to all the used bookstores in town, with no success. When I had already lost all hope of finding that book, I received a call from a classmate of mine to give me the good news that she had a copy of the book I was looking for. When I read it, all my doubts were dispelled. Your novel was titled "Poetas sin cielo" (Poets Without Heaven), after a poem written by my mother, which is the plot of your novel. Certain that you were my father, I booked an invitation to the presentation of your new novel. But I didn't want you to know until I was sure what kind of person my father was, because I had formed a very negative idea of who had abandoned my mother. When I found out about her illness, I changed my attitude, but when I listened to her today I felt enormously proud to be her daughter, and I want to believe that she will have some powerful reason that could justify her abandoning her when she was pregnant with me. Unfortunately my mother doesn't have the answer. You don't know this, but so great was the trauma of the separation that she suffered a bout of severe amnesia, from which she has not yet recovered. She still has no memory of her relationship with you. I grew up with my grandparents in a small northern town, but they were not aware of their daughter's relationship with you either. My mother was a free and independent woman, always doing what she wanted, until she lost her memory. My grandparents took her in and she still lives there, but now she is alone, because both my grandparents have died and I have enrolled in the university in this city, the same one where you and my mother met, twenty years ago! It is true that reality surpasses fiction! I am desolate, my soul hurts me more than my body, but for this evil they don't sell painkillers in pharmacies, they can only be found in hell. I do not deserve the affection of this ignored daughter; I do not deserve the affection of anyone and I doubt very much that I can avoid my damnation. I almost wish it as a deserved punishment! 15. Repentance There is a sepulchral silence. I notice in the expressions of my agent and Alicia a veiled reproach. Naomi looks exhausted, indecisive, waiting for my reaction. Now I should give her a justification for my behavior, but I have none and she must know it. I do not expect her forgiveness, but at least she will not live deceived. She must know who her father is, and if in spite of everything she believes she deserves his affection and understanding. -No, dear Naomi, I have no justification, your father is a scoundrel! -Alicia wants to protest, she can't understand how I could have behaved that way, but I beg you to let me finish, I need to confess my guilt. Naomi cannot blame her mother; I am the only one to blame. When we are young and ambitious, everything seems valid and we believe that wounds heal easily. I knew your mother would suffer for my betrayal, but I assumed she would soon get over it. Perhaps she would find another young man and soon forget about me. I could never imagine that her love for me would be so deep, and my betrayal so painful. I also didn't know she was pregnant, because after I left her I didn't have enough courage to take an interest in her, and I never saw her again. I know that Naomi must be disappointed with my statement of guilt. I can see the dismay and confusion in her expression. It is unfortunate, but I still believe that youth heals wounds quickly. Naomi must also soon heal this wound. In my desperation I can only think of a remote justification: -Literature brought us together and literature itself drove us apart. I believed that my literary career was above feelings; as if I had been born to fulfill a mission, and I could not put anything, including people and their feelings, before this blind ambition. My only love was literature, there was no room for anyone or anything else! When I received your first message I understood my mistake, and why my novels lacked motivation and humanity, because there can be no humanity in a novel if it is not inspired by love for people, from which the characters arise. Alicia has proved my mistake: she knows what literature is and what it is for. She has not had the misfortune of finding a literary agent with the ability to promote an author's works; someone who knows the tastes of ordinary readers and knows what they like to read. An agent who uses your talent for her commercial purposes. Who makes you the idol of ordinary people and the monster of yourself. My agent has reacted. He seems to wonder if he's not doing the same thing to me. I don't want him to feel guilty too. -When you agreed to represent me, I had already adopted the bad habit and all my novels suffered from the same lack of motivation, but they were guaranteed success. I only began to worry after this last novel, it was the result of all these years of denying myself; the writer who wrote "Poetas sin cielo", the only novel fruit of my love for a person, and not of marketing and the market. Noemi reminded me when it was too late to redeem my sin: I will never write again because I do not deserve to be loved and I cannot love anyone! Alicia does not admit my resignation. She protests and wants to give her opinion: -I don't agree; your father is not totally guilty! Whoever has the courage to acknowledge his guilt deserves forgiveness; the holiest were the most sinful. It is not the saint who needs compassion, but the sinner! Naomi, you have to forgive him, not because he is your father and even if in the past he has behaved like a scoundrel, but a repentant human being who recognizes his faults, deserves your compassion and your forgiveness. Forgiveness is what makes us human beings; resentment turns us into soulless beasts, only with memory. My daughter is on the verge of crying again. She is under great emotional pressure and looks so vulnerable! She looks at me and I can see in her eyes her desire to forgive me. Alicia takes one of her hands and places it on mine. Her hand is burning and trembling. It has been the prodigy of a true writer who has performed the miracle of forgiveness. Naomi hugs me and cries silently. I think I hear a whisper: -Dad, I love you! I feel like crying too, but now I have a daughter who needs a father who is strong! 16. Reconciliation It's been two days since the eventful launch of my latest novel. It's not long to assume that I am now the father of a lovely young woman. I have been taught a hard lesson, but it is only the beginning of my redemption. I have lived twenty years of loneliness and isolation and now it is hard for me to assume that I have to spend some of my time thinking about others. I don't know what the responsibilities of a parent are. Naomi is as independent as her mother and doesn't need anyone to tell her what to do or how to do it, and it doesn't create big responsibilities for me. She will continue to live in the apartment she shares with two college roommates, but we will do our best to have dinner together two or three times a week at my apartment. Alicia has offered to be our cook, and she will delight us with her delicious local stews. Naomi confesses that she is not very skilled in the kitchen, she is a young woman devoted to her career. I think she has inherited my passion for literature and her mother's sensitivity for poetry. I can't say whether or not he has talent, he hasn't had the time or opportunity to test himself yet. He hasn't written anything important. But I have always believed that talent is not inherited, but born with it. It is not in the genes; it is in the mind and in the soul and we must acquire it at the very moment of our gestation. It may come to us from the cosmos or from someone who died at that very moment. I believe in transmigration, because the spirit, like energy, is not destroyed, it is transformed. From the beginning of time there is a universal spirit, which believers call God, from which all animate beings come. The obvious proof of transmigration is that in my family there are no artists or writers, only normal people, concerned about normal things. There may have been some among my remote ancestors, but I do not know it. My illness continues its diabolical course and does not leave me much free time without pain. I often have to go to the hospital for painful treatment. In exchange for putting up with all this discomfort, I am assured that I will be able to prolong the time I have left to live, which I need to put my conscience in order. As expected, my latest novel has tripled the sales of the previous ones. Death is an extraordinary attraction. My publisher cannot hide his satisfaction, even if he is sympathetic. The media hound me and I have had to change my phone number. The messages of condolence are overwhelming, I find it impossible to read them all. But fortunately they are still unaware of my unexpected paternity, they must believe that the young woman who accompanies me is my latest conquest. As for Alicia, I cannot deny that I feel a deep affection for her, but it cannot be called love, because in these critical moments I do not know the meaning of this beautiful word. She seems resigned and I believe that, in spite of everything, she is happy just to be by my side and to be of help to me. Yes, it must be her fate that she is not reciprocated. She has been unlucky in her choice of lovers. She and Naomi seem to understand each other well, and share the same concerns. I think they have become good friends. But this fleeting happiness has a dark shadow: her mother! I have talked to Naomi about her, it is not an easy subject. Naomi thinks my presence might help her regain her memory. But I wonder if it might not be better for her to keep her amnesia. It must not be pleasant for her to remember my betrayal. If she regains her memory she may be able to forgive me, but it may also increase her resentment towards me. Because of me she has wasted twenty precious years of her existence, there is no penance great enough to compensate for her suffering. I know it would make Naomi enormously happy to see us together again. As if time had not passed, and to reconstruct the past at the moment when we were happiest. When she wrote that short and passionate poem to tell me, with four rhymes, how much she loved me, and which has marked our lives. Today we will have dinner at my apartment. My two wives will be arriving any minute and I have to tidy up a bit. I don't feel very well, despite the painkillers that wreak havoc on my stomach, a constant pain persists that manages to make me lose my temper and sour my good nature. It is amazing and sadly paradoxical that during the last twenty years in which I have enjoyed excellent health I don't think I have had even five minutes of happiness, and when my health has broken down I am not able to manage so many moments of happiness, I have met an extraordinary woman and I have recovered an ignored daughter! Living is a game that consists in doing the opposite of what we consider reasonable. The first to arrive was Alicia. She has come a little early so that when Noemi arrives, dinner will be ready. She is interested in my health. She suggests that given the state I am in I should have someone to take care of me 24 hours a day and she is probably right, but I insist that the time has not yet come. -And when will that time come, when he is dead? It was a spontaneous reaction, but she regrets having told me. She is deeply sorry. -Forgive me; I didn't mean to...! -There's nothing to forgive," I interrupt her, "you're right and I know you'd be happy to do it yourself, but I can't accept your help. I have to finish paying my debts first. Naomi's mother needs more help than I do, and she believes that my presence can help her recover her memory. But I don't know how she would react if she remembers our relationship. Alicia has understood what I dare not say. Now her rival is Naomi's mother, because if she agreed to forgive me she would be the one to take care of me until the day I die. -I understand, once again my sad destiny is fulfilled: I will never be reciprocated by the people I love. All my efforts to live this moment have been of no use to me. I am always the last in line, and when I arrive I have finished what they were giving away. Alicia has returned to delight me with her casseroles, but Naomi does not seem to have enjoyed her dinner. She has remained absent and with her thoughts far away from here. Before coming she spoke to her mother on the phone and believes she is deeply depressed and disoriented. -He's afraid to forget about me too," she says in anguish, "He sent me a verse that reflects his confusion and pitiful state of mind. We have to make a decision tonight. Today I dreamed that I dreamed, that you were not who you were, that time had no time, and that death had died. I can't help but compare this verse with the one from twenty years ago. Despite all those forgotten years, she is still a great poet. 17. Amnesia I beg Naomi to tell me everything she remembers about her mother after her bout of amnesia. -What I know of the early years, of which I have only a blurry picture, was told to me by my grandparents. Naomi doesn't seem to be very enthusiastic about my suggestion. They must be sad memories. Memories of a child raised by two old men and a mother with no past, unable to tell her daughter how it came about, by whom and where. Without her being able to even mention the name of her possible father. Not only has she not had an unknown father, but a forgotten one. But I beg you to try to overcome your sadness and go on. Before we meet I need to know how all these years of oblivion have passed. -We don't know anything about how the separation happened," she continued, overcoming the sadness of reliving her childhood, "but it must have been very painful because she didn't remember anything about what happened and she didn't even remember who her parents were or where she lived. A policewoman found her dozing in a park and fortunately they were able to identify her thanks to a prescription for a medicine against morning sickness, because she had no official identity document. But they couldn't leave her alone in that state, so they found my grandparents, who took her in. And that's all we know about the first days of her amnesia. Naomi has exchanged several uneasy glances with me. Possibly she is still wondering if I deserve her forgiveness after all. I remain pathetically silent, not daring to say anything in my defense. I only know the story from one Sunday when we had agreed to attend a screening of an Oscar Wilde film, but I never showed up... while she waited uselessly at the cinema doors, I was in my seductive agent's bed! Will I have the courage to confess it? If I don't confess it my conscience will never be clear! I'll wait to know the whole story. I beg you to tell me what happened during the following years. My poor daughter is recalling a part of her life that she may also wish to forget, but she gets over it and goes on: -My mother moved to live in the small northern town of her parents, my maternal grandparents, and all efforts to get her memory back were futile. She was apparently able to lead a normal life, but she had to learn to recognize her own name, her parents' names, and all the other circumstances following her amnesia. When I was born I was already fully aware of everything, except her stay in this town and her relations with you," she addresses me with the same expression of veiled reproach. My grandfather was a civil servant at the City Hall and got a small pension for my mother, because she had frequent memory lapses and was unable to do any work. My grandfather died when I was ten years old, his health began to deteriorate from the day he learned of my mother's amnesia, and my grandmother died a few months before I enrolled in college. The poor thing was very unhappy about all these events, but she never reproached my mother. We had a maid for several years before I was born, the same age as my mother, who is with her at the moment. I could not give up the University, because I got a scholarship, with which I am surviving at the moment. She never stopped writing poems, she must have written enough to fill a dozen volumes, but she has refused to publish them. I always suspected that she dedicated them to you, but it must have been only a faint intuition, which did not access her conscience. Perhaps that is why she lived tormented by the inability to conceive the image of one who had only an intuition. That is all I can tell you about my mother. Alicia has made us coffee, which she serves us while we keep a thoughtful silence. I try to imagine her mother twenty years later, the woman I will soon have to meet again and account for my unforgivable behavior. I have the impression that she will horrify me, because I think I see on her aged face the indelible mark of suffering, for which I am guilty. Alicia breaks this tense silence: -Perhaps if she receives a strong stimulus to remember the person she seems to still love, she will recover her memory. Alicia has put her finger on the sore spot. It is not enough for her to be reunited with me, but with her lover, as if my betrayal had never happened. Alicia seems deeply affected, I think she regrets her suggestion. But my redemption requires some sacrifice, and Alicia will understand and eventually accept it. Twenty years later I have to try again to seduce the same woman I betrayed. Fate wants to put me to the test and I cannot let it down. 18. Preamble Is it possible to heal a wounded heart? Can time erase forgotten wounds? Can an old man with an exhausted heart love? Can a sick man heal another sick man? I ask myself these anguished questions to still feel like a human being, but I know I don't have the answer.Naomi and Alicia left a little over an hour ago, and they have left an immense void. I have never felt so essentially alone. It is an abysmal loneliness, bottomless, without the slightest glimmer of light. My soul has been left in utter darkness. The body has abandoned it; joy has migrated to other, warmer and more welcoming lands. Pleasure has been transformed into intense pain and happiness, which until only an hour ago was brimming over all its edges, has gone with them, I am unable to keep it with me for long. One more endless night I strive uselessly to be absent from myself. I search with real desperation for a state of mind close to nothingness, no uncontrolled thoughts, no movements of any kind. I try to exercise myself to prepare for my death without last minute shocks, but it is totally useless. The mind does not sleep, it only disconnects temporarily from consciousness. It stops thinking about what it sees to think about what it imagines. It does not tire, it does not exhaust itself, it does not give up, because it has no flesh that can make it sick, nor a skeleton to sustain it; it has no eyes, no mouth, no ears, it does not eat, drink, see or hear, it only thinks without rest because it is eternal and already existed before it was my mind. Naomi believes that, despite the visible traces of my illness, I am still an attractive man and that I can seduce her mother again. Alicia has not given me her opinion, which I already know. She is an unfortunate woman, but at some time and somewhere she will have her reward. But time is pressing, the illness is getting worse and my spirits are failing. I am not sure I can see this plan through to the end. We have agreed that Naomi will invite her mother to spend a few days with her in the city. Our meeting will take place during a welcome dinner at Naomi's apartment. Naomi just called me, her mother has accepted the invitation and will come this weekend and Saturday will be the big day of the test. I have to go back twenty years and try to understand the reasons for my betrayal. It is not enough to blame ambition, vanity or selfishness. There has to be a reasonable explanation to justify that behavior, because we humans always have a good reason to justify our behavior. I have thought it on countless occasions that to discover means to destroy what was hidden. The sun shines at the cost of destroying its hydrogen reserves. Imagination creates at the cost of destroying what has not yet been imagined. In the end there will be nothing left to imagine because we will have destroyed the reserves of images, death. It was inevitable to destroy the causes that had provoked my creativity, and that cause was the woman who had inspired them. If I wanted to continue creating I had to look for new sources for my inspiration, to destroy them again, and so on until death. I am not entirely to blame. We should never have invented literature because it feeds on the souls of humans. Every novel, every story, every tale or every poem has devoured its insatiable ration of humanity. I am no exception, I have my victims too, but otherwise there would be no literature or art or any other expression of the human soul that needs to feed on the human soul. No one will understand these reasons, only our creator knows our weaknesses, our spiritual cannibalism, our revenge for being human. I cannot argue these reasons for my exculpation, only those who are victims of inspiration understand them, through which this evil is contagious. Ordinary people are immunized against this disease of the spirit. Now there is no longer the slightest doubt in my mind that this was the cause of my bodily illness. My harmful spirit has entered my body and will not cease until it dies. There are no heavens reserved for writers, but there are no hells either, there are only purgatories: near heaven, near hell. If I had the strength and the necessary time to live, I would write a novel with this title, which would be the great novel of my life, but I might write it after I am dead, and it might be the great novel of my death. But why write; why stir the still waters of unconsciousness; why bring out the faults and virtues, the passions and disenchantments or the loyalties or betrayals of human beings? Why tell so many lies; so many stories that have never happened and never will happen? Why this sick eagerness to perpetuate our memory after we have lost our memory? No, even if I had a hundred more years to live, I would never write another novel. Someone has to take the first step to rid humanity of this scourge. I have the impression that I am delirious and think things that make no sense. There is no justification for someone who causes harm to a human being without a reason that is also human. A doctor can cause you some harm to heal a wound, but a writer cannot claim his sources of inspiration to cause harm. If I were to put on a scale the pleasure my novels may have caused and the harm caused by writing them, on which side would the scale tip? And who can have the answer? I have no way out. I have no judge but my own conscience, and it keeps shouting at me that I am guilty. 19. The mother Today has dawned an unpleasant day that will influence my mood. Today is also the day Naomi's mother will arrive in town; the person on whom my salvation depends. I am not in the right frame of mind for the circumstances. I should get over myself and realize that I have returned to my college years; years when life was a blank sheet of paper, waiting to be written on both sides; years when the most important thing was to be young, not only to enjoy life but to live away from death; years when everything was allowed except nostalgia; when love was a working tool, when the wisdom of experience was considered an old mania and was worthless compared to the vitality of facts. Those years in which the people around you were samples for your laboratory or the lead of your flask, from which you hoped to obtain gold, following the magic formula invented by your excluding imagination. Years, in short, that I have always wished to forget and that now I have to recall. My memory has to erase without a trace what happened after I won the untimely literary prize, as if it had never happened. As if we had followed together our longed-for path to glory, and once we had achieved it, since it seemed inevitable given our genius, we would live six months a year in Pigalle, in Montmartre or in Saint-German-des-Prés, where I would write my novels in the heat of her inspiration, and she her passionate verses inspired by her love for me. As if every spring we would wake up in our little house in Majorca, next to the highest cliff of the coast, from where our view would be lost in a horizon as infinite as our desires to live; as beautiful as our soul mates, as mysterious as our intuition, or as cozy as our bed where we make love. When I was twenty years old I could not imagine myself at sixty, now that I am about to turn sixty I cannot imagine myself at twenty. Nevertheless, it had to happen, because time is the greatest swindle of human understanding, since it is an eternal instant, this instant in which I live, or better I will say, I live badly today, is the same in which I lived twenty years ago, what has changed is the perspective and the scenario, but the instant is the same! Noemí called me to tell me that she had picked up her mother at the train station, and that she found her very unwell and dazed. They are already in her apartment, and she has been able to rest and recover a little. She tells me that, if she feels better, they will go to the Opera, which is her mother's passion. They will perform "Madame Butterfly", which seems very appropriate for the circumstances. His mother does not remember seeing this opera before, but she had seen it twice because she still kept the tickets as a souvenir. She thinks it may help our plan. She has told him of her desire to have him accompany her to the college on Monday, the same one she attended, but insists that she does not remember ever attending a college in that city. It is evident that she remains obstinate in not allowing the images and feelings that she keeps in her subconscious to enter her consciousness. I also got a call from Alicia. She is concerned about my worsening health. She wants to know if I need help. I thank her, but I insist on fending for myself until I see how the test turns out. Alicia is confused and saddened, because she can't wish it to be a failure, but she can't wish it to be a success either. She would have been happy just to have the exclusivity of my care until the day I die. But Naomi's mother takes precedence. If only we were good friends, both women could watch over my agony, but she has committed the weakness of falling in love with me, and love is selfish and rigorously incomparable. She seems resigned but not defeated. I am the great love of her life and she is not willing to withdraw and give up. She will lurk around waiting for an opportunity. I have created many female characters, and I boasted of cooking them even better than they know themselves, but Alicia has shown me how laughable my smugness is: I still have many nooks and crannies of the female soul to discover. Perhaps my premature death will help me to discover them. What I have not been able to understand is how those who give life see death. Possibly they feel the same affection for both. Many women suffer more depression immediately after bringing a new life into the world than at the sight of a dying person. Life hurts them as much as death. 20. A bad day The weather continues to be unpleasant. On the glass of my large window, the drops of water from a weak but persistent rain drip down. The rain does not depress me, on the contrary, it enlivens me, the water brings life, it brightens everything it covers. The plants are invigorated and show all their splendor and beauty. But what pleases nature displeases humans. I see from my window disgruntled people. They resent everything they cannot dominate and control, and nature does not submit easily. That is why we are putting all our efforts into destroying it. We may succeed in destroying the rain as well. I lie in bed until almost noon because I don't know what I can do to justify being up. I have nothing to write, no event to attend, no visit to receive, nothing; but I have found an occupation: rereading my first novel, and perhaps I should also say that it is the only one I have written, because I think it meets the three basic conditions for it to be considered a novel: it has a motivation: a passionate plea in defense of poetry and poets. This argument is also the fruit of his imagination and not of mine. The novels that followed lacked motivation, they only had technique and style, that is why they were not of this world, but of a parallel and dehumanized world. Noemi is right. "It's the middle of the night. The city lights litter the sky and I can't see the stars. I have to imagine them. I also have to imagine the people on this deserted street. And the rose bushes, orchids and non-existent geraniums on the balconies of their uninhabited houses. I have to imagine the children playing in a ghost school, and the sparrows nesting in absent trees. This is my street, where I don't live, where I don't inhabit, where I only imagine that I live and inhabit." This is how it should be. Our life must pass in one of these deserted streets, where we do not live but imagine that we live, because when you least expect it your time runs out, and it seems to you that in reality you have not lived but have dreamed. On rereading this first novel I feel in all its crudeness the falseness in which I have lived all these years, and I wonder what kind of writer I would be today if I had remained true to myself. It would not have been strange if I had won the Nobel Prize! Now I have to be satisfied with the market prize, and with the thousands of followers of the consumption of entertaining literature with an expiration date. They have nothing to transmit about our way of understanding life and its values to future generations. I am not a redeemer, and I am overwhelmed by praise, but when an artist expresses himself in any discipline, he is sending a message in a bottle that will inevitably fall into the hands of people of other times, in other latitudes of the immense ocean of time; who will have other values, and who, thanks to those messages, will be able to place them in the general trunk of history. Given the brevity of our existence, the only solid thing we humans have to save us from the flood of the inevitable changes that sweep everything away is History. Today I have one of those days when I feel too insignificant to have great ambitions, because this great humanity that populates our planet, of which I am a tiny part, is not even a grain of sand in the desert compared to the immensity of the universe we inhabit. Powerful men believe themselves to be great because they reign over their tiny domains, while those who recognize that they are infinitely small inhabit the great domain of the immensity of the universe. Humans have an endless number of alternatives to choose the way we wish to consume our valuable time, but there is only one that corresponds to our personality. The reason for our existence is none other than to find it and be faithful to it until death. Only in this way each individual will be a person, and each person will be a world, and all the worlds together will form a universe, and many universes gathered into one will be the only idea we can have of something to call "God", so that only people and their worlds are in direct contact with God. I have lived in permanent contact with hell, because I renounced my personal world, so I have no access to heaven. I may still have time left to repair my great mistake, but I would have to write one last novel: the continuation of the first one, which would pave the way to my salvation, but for that I need not only time, but inspiration; I would not only have to meet again with the writer, but also with his lover. Could it happen tomorrow? I should think about tomorrow's dinner and my salvation, and I think I have an idea that would do both: write my last novel with the story of our relationship. To relive her memory day by day, kiss by kiss, caress by caress, with every detail, nuance, feeling, illusion, hope and project for the future. Yes, she would have the story that her conscience refuses to remember. It would undoubtedly be the great novel of my life, the one that would give me a good death. But will I have enough time left, and will I be able to face the challenge with the foresight and the right frame of mind to bring it up to the level of my first novel? Naomi sent me a message to let me know that her mother has recovered and is in good spirits. In the afternoon they will go to the Opera, as planned, and when they leave they will have dinner in a small Italian restaurant nearby. She says she misses me and it would have been a complete joy if the three of us could be together and united as a family. Poor Naomi! Even if your wishes were fulfilled, your happiness will be short-lived. It is better that you get used to my absence, even if you continue to miss me in your happy moments, maybe I will accompany you, even if you cannot see me. Tomorrow I will tell you my idea. 21. Waiting He has also invited Alicia to his mother's welcome home dinner, because he wants it to feel like a reunion of old friends, where his mother is not the focus of most of the attention. He wants to test whether she will recognize me. I haven't communicated my new idea to her yet, because I'm not sure she's in the condition and mood to do it. I call Alicia to tell her about Noemí's invitation. She accepts. -If it's okay with you, I can stop by your place now and prepare something to eat," he suggests, "then we can go to your daughter's apartment together. I notice from the tone of his voice that he has received the news with great joy. Now the scales of fate are tipped in her favor and against me, but I accept her offer. This woman is becoming a necessity, she is always where I need her. She is not an old dream of the past but a reality of the present, no history, no regrets, no need to recover the memory of what has not happened. She brings peace to my spirit and manages to make me forget my past, to recover the present, which I need so much in these difficult times. Alicia is already in my apartment and once again I hear the domestic sound and the pleasant memories of the hustle and bustle in the kitchen. This woman is leaving everywhere she goes the halo of the everyday, the simple, but that is what is truly endearing. She is not only preparing a delicious meal, but the homey atmosphere that is not only a warm feeling, but a necessity of any human being. -What will you do if you don't recognize him? He asks me with a nonchalant air, as if he is not affected by my answer, while he serves me what he has cooked. I ask her once again not to address me as you, because I am no longer the hero of her dreams, but the helpless and tortured man who needs her help. But Alicia knows that calling me "you" means taking a giant step in our brief relationship, and she does not want to change the deal until she is sure that she has conquered my soul and my will. In the meantime, she will continue with the same distant and respectful treatment. I need to rest and get some sleep so I can be presentable for dinner with my daughter, and Alicia makes up my bed, just as she did the first time in her tiny studio. As she fluffs the pillows she gives me several looks that I can easily interpret. She seems to want to tell me that this time I won't be woken up by her crying. She helps me to lie down and, just like the first time, goes back to the kitchen, and I hear again that very domestic and soothing sound of the bustle of the kitchen, with which I fall asleep. Alicia has veiled my dream by reading the manuscript of my first novel, which had been left on the coffee table in the living room. When I awoke, she read aloud one of the most tragic passages of the novel, moments before the suicide of the protagonist. "I was not born to live. I did not come into this world to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh. I am not alive to celebrate the wonders of nature. I do not feel part of life. No, I came into the world to sing it, to recite it, to turn it into a long poem, to dissolve it into beautiful words. So that it may be said of me when I die that I was just poetry, with nothing to stop me, not my body, not my mind; just poetry, nothing but poetry." -Who could have inspired these dramatic lines? -he asks me with a gesture of desolation or perhaps horror, "her? My mind is not yet clear enough to respond and I just smile. She understands, and continues reading, but silently. I see from her astonished expression that she is shocked by what she is reading, no wonder, they are the passages prior to the suicide of the poetess protagonist. She closes the book and leans back on the sofa. He doesn't wait for my answer because he already knows it. He exchanges a sad glance with me. I think he wants to give me his opinion: -You know, I think the suicide of your poetess protagonist is justified," she pauses and it seems as if what she says next is for herself. We are all born with a stigma engraved on our foreheads, which tells us who we are and what we have come to this world for; and what we can aspire to and what we are strictly forbidden. Your protagonist was born with the stigma of poetry in a world without poetry, he had no choice but to immolate himself with it -a new silence that he breaks with a heartfelt sigh, and continues-. I was also born with a stigma: that of ugliness. No doubt an accident of nature, because it is nothing like my soul. They must have been born each on their own, without agreeing. My soul fills me with good and noble feelings, while my face prevents me from taking advantage of them and showing them to others. Only when I write I am free to generously give those feelings to my characters, because they do not find me ugly and do not see my stigma. I have no doubt that she knows what she is talking about. I myself rejected her in the first moments because of her unattractive face. I wonder why we humans have created canons of beauty that ostracize and ostracize people like Alicia, or women and men in the prime of their lives, just because their backs are hunched, their hands go astray, and wrinkles appear on their foreheads, which are the price paid for their wise maturity, serenity, gentleness, balance and intelligence! No doubt we deserve every one of the torments to which this behavior leads. It is useless to try to console her by praising the beauty of her soul, because the soul cannot be seen, the face can. Unfortunately for people with these stigmas, rejection ends up infecting their souls with the same stigma. Alice is a glorious exception, but no doubt she owes it to literature. It seems that we are both immersed in our respective thoughts, and we remain in an eloquent silence. It is Alicia who breaks it with a question that reminds me of the idea of writing a new book: -We still have three hours left to meet your daughter, why don't you tell me about your affair with her mother? I think the idea is interesting, it can serve as an exercise for that last novel that's been on my mind. I agree and Alicia prepares some coffee, no doubt a long and interesting confession awaits! 22. Confession Alicia looks like a little girl whose grandmother is about to tell her a story of enchanted princes and princesses. She has taken off her shoes (since she has known me she has toned down her clothes, and above all she no longer wears those horrible military boots), she settles down in the armchair, gathering her legs also in the armchair, and waits with childish anxiety for my story. I don't know how to explain it, but she seems totally transfigured. I am unable to recognize the clumsy and ugly young woman, as she defines herself, and I see a young woman with a radiant expression, an intelligent gaze, at the same time curious as that of a cat, and a body brimming with vitality. Nature has been bad to her face, but generous to her body. I start by telling you the story of the coffee shop where we met. -After that funny event we each went to our corresponding classes. We were at the same university and had the same studies, but I was one class ahead of him, so our classes did not coincide. We didn't exchange anything to get back in touch. She seemed to distrust everyone, although I didn't know why at the time. She had been sexually assaulted several times by some of her classmates. That day neither of us could concentrate in class, something magical had happened. I think I fell in love with her when I offered to hold her books for her. She did not look at me with distrust, but as soon as she saw me, I noticed as if I was an old lover, whom she had not seen for a long time and was happy to see me again, but after that moment of pleasant surprise, her distrust returned, and she refused my help. If I had not suffered that terrible accident, everything would have ended like that, but destiny had foreseen it all. -That weekend our faculty had organized a meeting of young poets. I wouldn't have hesitated to attend if it had been for narrative, but for poetry I wasn't enthusiastic about the idea. But that Saturday I was deeply bored. It was the end of the month and my allowance was practically exhausted. The meeting was free, so it seemed like a good way to kill time. I arrived a little late, just at the time of the intervention of the young woman I met in the cafeteria. We passed each other in the center aisle of the hall, as I was entering and she was heading to the stage, and I think both her and my hearts skipped a beat, and we greeted each other with a telltale smile. When I saw her on the stage, completely in the dark, except for her, illuminated with a beam of light, she looked to me like an angel who had descended from heaven to announce the good news of her poetry. This was the verse she wrote after our first meeting: We barely looked at each other and we were already kissing. We barely knew each other and we already loved each other, We barely spoke to each other and we already understood each other. We were barely separated and we were already longing for each other. Alicia seems overwhelmed by the passion in these four lines. She is not passionate, she is sensitive, because passion blinds the understanding and Alicia is a thoughtful and reasonable person. She remains silent so as not to distract me from my confession. -At the end of the event I hurried to congratulate her on the reading of her poems, which was very well received by the audience, mostly fellow faculty members. As she left the hall I found her surrounded by her friends and admirers, who besieged her with questions and congratulations. I had barely exchanged a few glances and smiles and already I thought I had the right to have her all to myself. I was so upset that I did not feel like saying goodbye to her, and I grumpily left the auditorium. Once again it seemed as if fate was against us. But as soon as I was out of the auditorium I realized that I had acted in anger and without justification, and I returned hastily, just as she was leaving accompanied by one of her friends. When she saw me, I could again see her expression of joy reflected on her face, and this time she did not hesitate to call my attention. -Why did you leave without saying goodbye? Didn't you like my poems? I'd like to know your opinion! The friend understood the situation and excused herself, leaving us alone. -I loved them! I did not dare confess to him that I had been jealous. I told him that I also wrote, but narrative, I was not born with the grace of poetry, but with the necessary imagination to write novels. We walked for a while, talking about our works, the importance of poetry, the mediocrity of the novels that were published, the excessive commercialization of art. We seemed to have found the ideal interlocutor to unburden ourselves of our artistic concerns. We generally agreed on everything. We agreed to meet the next day in the park. I would show her my stories and she would show me her latest poems. That night I practically stayed up all night, because I wasn't satisfied with any of the stories I had written and I didn't want to disappoint my new friend. I was a complete unknown at the time, while she was well known among the students of the faculty and other local poetry circles. All the reviews were favorable and predicted a brilliant literary career for her. Undoubtedly her beneficial friendship influenced my inspiration, and that night I wrote my first truly literary work, the previous ones were simple stories, almost all autobiographical, lacking the main thing: a motivation. When I met her she was 18 years old. Like you, she had come from the provinces, with a fixed idea, which she carried more in her heart than in her mind: to triumph as a poetess! She didn't need praise, she considered herself great, and she wasn't wrong. All of us who knew her had formed the same opinion. To me her genius was her best attraction. I was more attracted to her as a poet than as a woman, because neither of us lived in this world, but in those two sister worlds: she in that of poetry and I in that of the novel. And that was the cause of our separation! We lived with too much intensity the unreal and we forgot the real. We met in the park on a day that could have been painted by Botticelli or Velazquez. It was early spring, when the tone of the new leaves is intense green. The sky is an inimitable blue, decorated with white clouds of whimsical and imaginative shapes. It smells of the sap of the rejuvenated stems and the perfumed resins given off by the linden trees. New birds flutter in their nests, impatient to fly and get to know what will be their world. In this magical atmosphere and in a secluded and lonely corner of the park, I read her my first story written thanks to her and for her. At that very moment our separation began to take shape. Our relationship became more intimate every day, but always sustained by our common passion for literature. Our euphoria grew at the same pace and intensity as the quality of her poetry or of my stories and tales, because at that time I still felt incapable of tackling the novel. We never seriously thought of our relationship as a simple couple in love, but in love with the poetess and the writer. At no time did it cross our minds to live together, because that would mean depriving us of the solitude necessary to create; we had enough with our daily encounters, during which we would load each other with brilliant phrases, passionate poems, fantastic stories and a moderate dose of sensuality. We didn't make love until after the six months that our relationship lasted, and it was in that one relationship that Noemí was born! Alicia seems to be meditating on everything I have told her so far, because her gaze is lost in some point of the street that can be seen through my windows. She has reacted and looks at me with a certain air of reproach. -So, he didn't love that woman, he was just using her. -Yes, you can put it that way. -And she, do you think she also used him? -No, she didn't use me; she didn't need encouragement, I told you she was fully confident of her talent; it was me who needed it to discover mine. A month after our meeting, when I had already written a dozen stories and tales that she thought were great, she suggested I write a novel. I took her advice and tried to find a plot that would motivate me. They all revolved, in one way or another, around her and our strange relationships. I put my ideas to her, but she didn't find them original enough. It was then that she read me her poem about the suicide of a poetess, and suggested that this could be a good argument, in which she could collaborate with her poetry. I was delighted to accept her proposal and began to work on the plot. During the time it took me to write it, only two months, our meetings focused on the progress of my novel. She checked every chapter, every paragraph and every word I wrote daily, and corrected my many flaws and typos, until she felt that the syntax, spelling, rhythm and style were perfect. It seemed as if she was writing it herself. When my novel was practically finished, she suggested that I submit it to a popular literary contest for new authors. I couldn't refuse, because it wasn't just my novel, it was our novel. Alicia interrupts me. -Now I understand why he suffered that terrible attack of amnesia. His betrayal was double, because he betrayed the lover and the writer! -No doubt it was a double betrayal, but then I didn't take it into consideration! Not only did she collaborate in its writing, but she took the trouble to type up the original and send it herself to the contest. -Why do you think she would do that? Was she really so in love with you that she sacrificed herself to help you in your career? -Although it pains me to admit it, it must have been. The days leading up to the contest judging were really nerve-wracking for me, but not for her. She knew perfectly well that we had submitted one of the possible winning novels, so much so that she had confidence in herself and in her judgments about literature. But she was also aware that among beginners there is little chance of good novels being submitted. Most suffer from an excess of passion, nonsensical styles, defects of structure and syntax, and unoriginal plots. In fact, the vast majority are simply imitations of their idols, or of fashionable writers. She knew we would win, and we did! She was also the first to know the news of the award, because she received the message with the result and the invitation to the awards ceremony that same weekend at a well-known hotel in the city. When we met at the faculty, she recited to me the famous sentence of Julius Caesar: "Vini, vidi, vici", which I understood immediately. I confess that moments after hearing the news, I considered myself a superior being, I had killed the undecided and modest writer to feel like a new member of the cultural elites of the country. And that image blinded me from the first moment. She never suspected my arrogance, and she was as happy as if she had been the awardee. During the award ceremony, she must have felt like the mother who attends the presentation of the diploma of honor to her son at the university: without envy or professional jealousy. But I was already very distant from her. I saw my books piled up in bookstores, with the mention of that award. I saw myself signing copies for my gawking admirers, but above all, I felt superior and dominant. Alicia has reacted, stands up and gives me a questioning look. -I think you're making up the story! I know you well enough by now not to believe that you would behave that way! -You meet a repentant demon twenty years later. But I wouldn't have committed that sin if I hadn't met the real culprit. During the cocktail party hosted by the sponsors, many guests approached me to congratulate me. She seemed proud of my sudden popularity. From the first day she learned of my vocation as a writer, she wanted me to become more self-confident, so that we could pursue our ambitious careers at the same level. I took it for granted that we would achieve our ambitious project of fame and glory without one overshadowing the other. When, fatigued by so many emotions and hustle and bustle, we were about to leave the meeting, we were approached by a middle-aged, elegant-looking woman, dressed in a sober suit jacket, her hair half-haired, blonde and slightly curly, and addressing me, as if the presence of my companion had not been perceived, and without ceasing to fix her deep and insinuating gaze on mine, she handed me a business card, which must have been perfumed with the fragrances of hell, because when I read it the perfume evoked in me an abyss into which I would not take long to fall -You will need a good agent. Call me tomorrow and we'll talk about your future. That was all she said, and she went back to join a group of guests. That look disturbed me so much that for a moment I too forgot about her presence. She must have sensed my betrayal at that moment! I beg Alicia's forgiveness, but I do not wish to continue. What follows is the most painful part for me, and the memory of it has haunted me all these years. Alicia seems to wake up from a dream, or maybe it's a nightmare. The coffee is finished. She picks up the coffee pot and cups and takes them to the kitchen. She remains silent but her mind must be replaying the story I just told her. He returns from the kitchen, exchanges a sad look with me, sits back down and, finally, I know what he is thinking. -Poor woman, I would not have liked to be in her place. I would have lost my memory too. No, I would have lost my head! Your comment makes me feel guiltier. Those who have no remorse cannot know how much it hurts to be reminded of our sins. -Forgive me. I know you are deeply sorry, and if I were that woman, I would probably forgive you, but that doesn't repair the damage done. Perhaps it would be better if she did not recover her memory! If she does not recover her memory and I do not have her forgiveness, I will be hopelessly condemned! 23. End of confession It has been a time of great emotional tension. Alicia is torn between her heightened sense of justice, her solidarity with other women, her mercy and her love for me. Mercy and love have finally won out, but that doesn't mean she considers me redeemed. She thinks that somehow I must repay that woman. But she doesn't know how. Neither do I. -Even if it brings back bad memories, I think you'll feel better if you tell me the end of the story. I promise I won't hold it against you! Maybe Alicia is right. Hiding my guilt only causes it to become entrenched in my conscience, it is healthier to air them. -All right, I'll tell you the rest of this sorry story. Neither I nor she felt the way we were supposed to feel after the awards ceremony. I still hadn't gotten over the shock of that woman's insinuating stare, and she seemed to want to ask me what I was thinking, because I think she was reading my thoughts. In an almost pleading tone of voice, she begged me not to accept that woman as my agent, because there would be others who would be happy to represent me. I assumed she was jealous of her, but I did not have the courage to confess to her that, despite her fears, I would call her and we would meet to find out her plans for my promotion as a writer. What was happening was that the woman was living in the new world I thought I had entered after the award, while she belonged to one that was already outdated and without incentives for an ambitious writer. I was no longer a student of letters, I was a writer, and writers can transgress all moral norms because they are justified. That night I could not sleep until dawn, because I too was torn between what my conscience dictated and what my ambition demanded, because it made no sense to have come that far and renounce what any other author would do in my place. After all, she had helped me get there herself, so why not accept the help of someone who would make your dream of becoming a writer come true? When we met that morning on campus, I had already made up my mind and she seemed to me an unacceptable intrusion on my freedom, but I didn't have the courage to let her know, and tried to pretend that nothing had changed after the award and we would follow our future plans as we had dreamed. She must have been relieved by my attitude, but it was evident that my enthusiasm and joviality had changed. I was no longer paying attention to her readings or motivated to write new stories. She interpreted this as me being tired from my efforts to write my first novel, and she didn't reproach me. That same afternoon I went to the agent's office, with whom I had already arranged an interview that morning. Her office was located in her own home. A spacious apartment in a noble building, located in one of the most expensive avenues of the city. She met me herself at the elevator exit. I could hardly recognize her. She was now wearing tight jeans, which emphasized the soft shapes of her hips, and a loose blouse, with what looked like the logo of her agency. Her reception was extremely cordial. It was evident that she had a great interest in me, not only as a writer, but as a person. -My warmest congratulations on the award, but now you have to prevent them from forgetting about you in a couple of months, I can help you," he said as soon as I got out of the elevator. He introduced me into his office, a spacious and bright room soberly furnished with two comfortable black leather armchairs, a large work table and a large sofa of the same material as the armchairs. The only detail that indicated that we were in a working office were the dozens of photographs of their represented authors that hung on the walls. Some of their writers frequently topped the most prestigious book sections of newspapers and literary magazines. Soon mine would be there too. All this proved to me that I had chosen a good agent. We settled into the two armchairs. He offered me a sweet from a small basket on a glass table, and without wasting time on introductions, he asked me: -Do you want to become a fashionable author? What could my answer be: "No"? There was only one possible answer: -Yes! -Okay, so starting today we have to work on a program that may be hard and require all your dedication. Are you decided? I just nodded my head firmly. -My commission is five percent; the contract is for two years, and I have your exclusive representation for all media where it is published, including film, television, radio and the web. Are you happy? I again agreed with an energetic nod of my head. Well, then come back tomorrow at this same time and we'll sign the contract. In two years you'll be one of the most read and sought-after writers in the country! And that's how I signed the contract that would ruin my personal life and from which the professional writer would be born! The next day, as planned, I signed my condemnation. My new agent was more explicit and argued the reasons why she was sure of my success. -You represent the ideal of a talented young man, successful from his first work, who does not resort to pornography, nor to violence, nor to esoteric plots, nor to cloying romanticism, nor to philosophical detectives. That you write simple, but real and exemplary novels that everyone likes. That you also have enough physical attractiveness to appeal to young female readers. You write novels that can be read by the whole family, at all ages, and in all times... -But I've only written one novel! I must have guessed the answer. It was practically in the clauses of the contract that I didn't bother to read: -But you will write them, I will tell you how! 24. Seduction As I left my new agent's office, I realized what a grave mistake I had made in my haste and blindness. I blamed it on my lack of experience, but I was consoled by the fact that fortunately it was only two years, which passed quickly. Now I felt ashamed because I had thrown dirt on our noble concerns, our illusion of keeping ourselves pure, disinterested, away from the merchants of dreams, who lure us with siren songs, and end up dragging us into their dirty world of economic transactions, balance sheets, shareholders, investors, CEOs, bankers, unprincipled and unscrupulous traders and a whole host of individuals unable to value what does not have a price and can be sold on the market, such as honesty, generosity or illusion... They have no scruples in selling and buying souls, and auctioning them in their corrupt financial markets. I will be one of them. But, to tell the truth, before I entered this office I was already corrupted. That evening we had arranged to attend the premiere of a film on the life of Oscar Wilde. I was not in the mood to attend yet another crucifixion of an author, but I had to keep my relationship with my new agent a secret. I made the appointment, albeit somewhat belatedly, when the film had already begun. She waited patiently at the lonely cinema entrance. Despite my tardiness, she always justified my disloyalties, because she had not a shadow of a doubt about my fidelity. I need to pause. Alicia is as shocked as I am, but she has promised not to recriminate me, and she keeps her promise. I feel bad, because I cannot erase from my memories her frail figure, illuminated by the flickering billboard signs, arms folded, looking anxiously from one side of the street to the other, trying to justify my tardiness. It is likely that I would have waited much longer without losing faith in my fidelity. -When she saw me appear on the side of the street opposite to that on which she expected me to arrive, she had a moment's hesitation, but my vision overflowed any desire for reproach, and she received me with a smile that would try to wrest it from the sadness that a few minutes before had gripped her. I think for the first time I felt sorry for her, and perhaps had a sincere desire for repentance. I was tempted to fill her in on her situation, but her smile thwarted my desire. I hugged her, we kissed and I improvised an excuse. She believed me because she needed to believe me and urged me to get the tickets as soon as possible, because we would have time after the movie to clarify the details. It was not possible to wake up someone who was sleepwalking without the danger of causing her irreparable damage! There was no clarification. The film had had such an impact on us that when we left the cinema for a long time, we strolled through the now deserted streets without saying a word. She broke the silence with a comment that set my conscience on fire: -Why do geniuses have to pay such a high price just to be famous? Will we also have to pay such a high price? No, of course not; we won't make their mistake or lead double lives that could cause scandal! We will be a perfect writing couple without giving any reason for what happened to the unfortunate Oscar Wilde, won't we? What could I answer? At that moment I didn't have the courage to tell him the truth and undo the deception at once. No matter how much she suffered, it would not be compared to what she had to suffer afterwards. So much to justify her amnesia! Alicia indicates with a gesture of her arm that she wants to tell me something. -And that's the woman who will be sitting next to him tonight, at the same table? Of course, if she recovered her memory, she would have every reason to hate him. But go on, forgive my interruption! -The days that followed the signing of the contract were so intense that I didn't have a chance to think about her. My agent would invite me to her apartment, and, after a light dinner, we would sit in the armchairs of her office and discuss the plot of my next novel. Of course it would be a love story with a happy ending. Once in my apartment I would write a chapter or two and show it to her the next night. She would make corrections and suggest any changes she thought were necessary. I have to confess that we became well coordinated, because I did not dislike her arguments and ideas and it was easy for me to interpret and write them. As Naomi said in her first message: I just changed muse, and overrode any noble motivation. For the first few days her behavior was strictly professional, but as the days went by she became more familiar and intimate, and changed her clothes to a comfortable night gown, which left her attractive legs practically uncovered. She had a plan to seduce me, but she would not carry it out until I finished the novel. That would be the prize! My relations with the other woman who had become entangled in this drama remained superficial, as are the relations of those who hide their true feelings. Sometimes she dared to ask me the cause of my apathy, which made her suffer so much, and she herself came to the conclusion that the cause might lie in a lack of more sensual relations. Although it was not in her plans, she set out to seduce me and would consent to our lovemaking. Our relationship had been from the beginning an artistic affinity and we were unsure of our physical attraction. At that moment I was infinitely more attracted to the mature beauty and sensuality of my agent than to that of the poetess, who had not awakened from her dream of glory and fantasies. With the excuse of inviting me to dinner, she prepared the necessary atmosphere for my seduction. That night we gestated Naomi, but neither of us was satisfied with that relationship. No; we had not come together for carnal love, only for spiritual love! I cannot continue this story, because today, twenty years later, I still feel the shame of that hasty pleasure, of those frustrated relationships that were closer to prostitution than to love. -Excuse me Alicia, but I think it's time to go to our appointment with my daughter. -And with his mother! -Yes, and with his mother. This will be the last twist of fate, I don't want to think about anything else! Alicia is visibly dejected, I can see it in her sad and absent look, so different from the one at the beginning of this story. She gets up with a heavy heart, as if her legs were heavy, and helps me to get dressed. I leave my private refuge as if moved by a supernatural force, against which my own will is useless. It is already dark, the days are short in October. The cool breeze of the evening twilight suits me well. There is still a pale streak of red on the horizon. We have called a cab to pick us up at the door, but I ask the driver to drop us off two blocks before my daughter's house. Alicia approves of the idea. I want to finish my story before I face this difficult test. -Two weeks later I was putting an end to my second novel, although I would have to rewrite several chapters that were not to the liking of my demanding agent. But that was the day she had chosen to seduce me, and she prepared everything so that I would have no escape. But that same day I had arranged to meet the other unfortunate woman to see the film about Oscar Wilde again, because the previous time we had missed a good part of the beginning. The idea came from her and I couldn't refuse. But it was not only the interest in the film that made them want to see me, but apparently she had some important news to tell me, but she did not want to tell me what it was about. He wanted me to be there when he gave it to me. I assumed it must be something to do with his poetry, perhaps he had won a prize, or had found an important publisher to publish it. I went to my daily appointment with my agent, with the intention of leaving the manuscript for him to read and write down the corrections, but to my surprise, I found a table prepared with great care and detail for two people, illuminated pale by two artistic candles, on a side table there was a bottle of champagne set to cool, and in the center of the table a silver tray with canapés of caviar, salmon and other such delicacies. But what impressed me most, and of course turned me on, was the way she had dressed for the occasion. She was wearing a silk blouse of the same color as her skin, open almost to the waist, where part of her still firm breasts could be seen, and a tight black skirt that covered her above her knees. The outfit was extremely elegant, but above all, irresistibly attractive! I don't know if you know men well, Alicia, but there is no will capable of overcoming a temptation like that. It is for this very reason that mankind was condemned; it is the eternal sin that man has committed from the beginning: the irresistible attraction of Eve and her apple! This biblical drama was played out in that room: caviar, champagne and sex. After that, the grim reaper could take us into his darkness. I had to choose between the two women: one offered me fame. The other offered me spiritual affection, sincere friendship and, of course, loyalty. -Who would you have chosen, Alicia? The question has caught her off guard, but the answer is withering: -The second time, of course! -I didn't want to choose; I wanted things to stay as they were, I could continue to have both relationships and not hurt either, but my agent forced me to choose. In the end it was the champagne and its irresistible sex appeal that decided. To celebrate my betrayal, we began the evening in a cabaret where they staged sexual scenes of indecent bad taste, but it was part of their plan. At the entrance of the cinema, illuminated only by the flickering lights of the neon signs, with her arms crossed, and without ceasing to look anxiously from one side of the street to the other, she waited uselessly for the man who I now know wanted to tell me that he was going to be a father! Fortunately he lost his memory! 25. The reentry We approached Naomi's house. I have finished my painful story, and we quietly give ourselves to our own thoughts. Alicia must wonder if she hasn't been blinded by my popularity, because I don't deserve her affection; and I wonder if I can look the woman who is waiting for a visit from a perfect stranger in the face. Recent events are beyond my capacity for assimilation, and now I have to face a new mammoth test. A few steps away I am going to meet the woman from whom I have stolen the best years of her life. She may recognize me, in which case I don't know how I will be able to justify myself, and if she doesn't recognize me, I won't be able to justify myself either. All these years have only served me to understand that ambition without a noble cause does not bear noble fruits, but poisoned ones, with the poison of your own poisoned spirit. But there is something that worries and amazes me: Has all that time really elapsed? Are we not always at the same moment? How far does the boatman travel in his boat? None! And yet, the boat does travel a space and consumes a time, dragged by the current. I have also been dragged by the current, but I am still in the same boat; the same instant as always, and that will probably be eternal. The woman who must be in Naomi's apartment is the same woman I left at the door of a neighborhood cinema, but she continues, like me, to live in the same instant, for we have not passed through time, we have passed over time, like the boatman over the current of the river! But it is not the body that travels in the boat, but the soul, which is not affected by time. She will have the same soul she had the day she lost her memory, and it is that soul that has not aged and will surely recognize me. Now they meet again and they will ask themselves: what have we done with our lives that we had to separate? Only I have the answer: not having listened to her or followed her wishes. We are at the door of her apartment. Alicia gives me a pleading look. -Your great moment has come! Now you will have the only chance to save or damn your soul! She knocks and we hear some agile footsteps that must be those of my daughter Noemí. But it is not Naomi who opens the door, but she does! Alicia could not avoid an expressive gesture of surprise, and I feel as if I were plunging into an abyss of time, and I would have to travel through the past twenty years to land in the same place where I was the night of my betrayal: time has not passed for her! There is no trace of suffering on her face, still smooth and young. Her figure is the same. Her hair is still curly, but a little more faded, and what impresses me most is her serene and tender gaze, but as if lost in nothingness. I don't know what to say, but I am anxious about her possible reaction. Did she recognize me? I hear rapid footsteps, it's Naomi coming to greet us. But she has become paralyzed and anxiously contemplates the scene. Finally, her mother and I are face to face and neither of us is able to break the tension of the moment. Naomi watches her mother, but there is no reaction that could give her to understand that she has recognized me. She remains holding the doorknob, and seems relaxed, she is waiting for her daughter to come. -Are they your guests, Naomi? Naomi tries to hide her desolation, she didn't recognize me! -Yes, Mom, they are our guests. She exchanges a disconsolate glance with me. Alicia also feels the tension of the moment, and looks at me questioningly. Naomi's mother begs us to come in, lets us in and closes the door behind Alicia. She follows us into a small living room, where a table is already set for four guests. We take off our coats and Naomi hangs them on a coat rack. Her mother remains silent, rubbing her hands together, not knowing what to do with them. She gives us fleeting glances and smiles slightly. There is strangeness in her expression, it is evident that she considers us strangers, and she does not know what her behavior should be. I think he is waiting for his daughter to introduce them to him. Naomi expected some gesture in her mother's expression that would show some indication that she remembered me, but it is evident that this has not been the case. She seems resigned and introduces us to her indecisive mother. -Mom, these are my friends I told you about. They are both writers, like us. The mother seems to welcome our profession with pleasure, because she gave us a broad smile with a gesture of admiration. Naomi tries, without much hope, to provoke her mother's memory. -He's a very famous writer, I'm sure you've seen his picture in a newspaper or in literary magazines! But the mother flatly denies this with a nod of her head. We are all caught off guard by a question from her mother addressed to me: -And what do you write, novels or poetry...? I write poetry..., yes, I've written a lot of poetry... He loses his gaze on an indeterminate point in the room. I try not to show my deplorable mood and respond by forcing a friendly smile: -I write novels, stories of ordinary people. Nothing special... but I met an admirable poetess, who, unfortunately for her many admirers, never published them! She smiles back at me, but makes no comment. I get the feeling that something is disturbing her mind, because the smile is frozen on her lips. She seems to wander off and move somewhere else. Perhaps to our university campus. She is a helpless and vulnerable woman, the same as she was twenty years ago, but time and amnesia have made her extremely sensitive and emotional. I would love to read her poetry. Dare I suggest it: -Why doesn't one of them read us? She has been startled by my unexpected suggestion and seems embarrassed. -Oh, no, no; I write them for myself.... They are very personal... You wouldn't like them! Naomi listens to her mother and seems devastated. -Mom, these are my friends. Come on, cheer up and read us some of your poems! There's still some time before dinner is ready. Naomi wants to try everything. There may not be another chance. Her mother looks stunned. She looks at us as if to check our willingness to listen to her poems. Once again she seems to sink into faraway places. Naomi tries again and suggests to her mother that she read the first ones she wrote, but that she does not remember when and where she wrote them. There is no doubt that she is under great pressure. I feel sorry for her, but above all I feel even more miserable. This poor frightened woman, who writes romantic poems dedicated to a lover she cannot remember and who has him in front of her, does not deserve this suffering. She seems to be hesitating. We are all watching her decision. She looks at us again as if trying to read our thoughts. Alicia has been silent, she must realize that now she has a real rival. Now that I have seen her again, those happy, pure and generous days return to my mind with infinite nostalgia, and I begin to believe that if destiny has it in mind, they could come back, even if only for a short time. Neomi has managed to overcome her mother's fears and agrees to read us some of her poems. The three of us settle down on a small sofa while she nervously shuffles through several notebooks she keeps in a travel bag, and doesn't seem to know which one to choose. He finally decides on one with pink covers, where there is a caption that I can't read. He sits down on one of the dining room chairs, leafs through several pages, and finally seems to decide on one. She has the same tone of voice, the same slow cadence and intonation. It was a pleasant experience to listen to her recite, and I see it's still the same! IF YOU WERE... If your heart were foam, I would be ocean; If your soul were heaven, I would be cloud; If your gaze were rain, I would be a field; If your hands were water, I would be thirsty. For God's sake, that verse again! Why is fate playing cat and mouse? Why has it chosen this very poem? I think she has noticed my confusion. She gives me a strange look that could be one of interrogation, perhaps she is beginning to remember! Naomi has exchanged a look of astonishment with me, she seems to be asking herself the same question. Alicia hasn't reacted, but I suspect what she must be thinking: her stigma is haunting her! Naomi's mother has come out of her momentary impasse and continues reading. When she finishes, we have the feeling that she has made a great effort. She closes the notebook, leaves it on the table and drops relaxed on the chair. She doesn't want to read any more poems. Something is disturbing her mind again. Now I can read the notebook's caption: "Poems of love and oblivion. Spring 1997." But there is no indication of the place or name of its author. I congratulate her effusively, she thanks me with a kindly smile, but I notice her absent, troubled. Naomi is worried about her mother's despondency. She must think that we should not push her. To awaken her memory abruptly may cause her a new trauma. She does not insist. Dinner is ready. Alicia accompanies Noemí to the kitchen to help her set the table. My daughter has cooked and has surprised me, I didn't know she was such a good cook. Her mother has relaxed; she is calmer and we exchange comments about how wet this autumn is turning out to be and what she has seen during her stay in the city. -Did you like the opera "Madame Butterfly"? -Oh, yes; very much so! -Don't you find it a little sad? -Yes, you are right, it is a bit sad.... I have the impression that she is talking to me, but her thoughts are elsewhere. I would give anything to know where! Naomi intervenes in the conversation. -I have an idea," he turns to me, "why don't you take my mother to visit a museum? I can't miss school, but you might have time. I know she was looking forward to seeing the latest exhibition at the National Museum. His mother tries to protest. Sounds like a good idea to me. -I will be happy to accompany you. I was looking forward to seeing her too! Alicia remains in dramatic silence. Everything is conspiring against her. She has noticed that I am beginning to take a lively interest in Naomi's mother, and I think she even suspects that I may feel something more than compassion. The truth is that I feel a great longing for the times when we were two lovers of literature, but also two good friends, and friendship is less passionate than love, but more loyal and generous. On the other hand, I would like to repay her suffering with my affection. But I can do nothing for her unless she recovers her memory and remembers who I am. I think Naomi is of the same opinion. The dinner was delicious. I congratulate my daughter, who is very flattered. But my aches and pains threaten to return and I would like to be back in my apartment before this happens. Naomi brings us our coats and I notice in her mother's eyes that she senses our departure, I think she has taken a liking to me and has overcome her initial misgivings, possibly she vaguely remembers me. We agreed that I would pick her up here the next day and we would spend the morning visiting the exhibition. Then we would go to an Italian restaurant for lunch, as Noemi has filled me in on her mother's gastronomic tastes, and she loves Italian pasta. Yes, I remember! 26. Memory I have spent a night in intense pain. All these emotions may be detrimental to my health. The pains have been joined by uncertainty about Naomi's mother. It is very likely that had our past not mediated I would have been attracted to her; for her kindness and sensitivity, so rare in the environment in which I have lived these last twenty years. I have still found her attractive, but it is not an exclusively physical attraction, perhaps I cannot explain it in spite of being a writer, but it is a physical attraction that emanates from the spirit; a physical attraction proper to human beings and not to animals. It is the joy of pleasure when it is tempered by sensitivity and not only by sexuality. It is as if the soul gives you its blessing to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh without unconsciousness and bestiality. It's not sex, it's sensuality, if I can put it that way. Maybe that's why we had that frustrated relationship, because she tried to imitate a behavior that was not in her personality, and I wouldn't have known how to interpret it then either. I don't feel well, I'm down and my whole body aches, but I have to pull myself together and keep the promise I made to Naomi's mother. Another absence would be intolerable! The weather is with us. It is a sunny, almost summery day. The shower has cleared my head and I feel a little better. The prospect of spending a morning with someone who has loved you but is unable to recognize you fills me with uncertainty. I may not be up to the task and I may not know how to behave. After all we are two sick people, and sick people understand each other. A cab takes me to Naomi's house, I ask her to wait, because it will take us to the National Museum. Naomi's mother had been waiting for me dressed to go out for a long time. When she opens the door I notice enthusiasm in her expression. I greet her with a friendly kiss on the cheek and can't help but compliment her good looks, which she seems to appreciate. I suspect she has taken a liking to me and feels safe with me. What would happen if she knew who I really was? I don't know, but sooner or later she has to know. I find it hard to accept what is happening. I spend the morning next to a woman I have longed for for many years, and now that she is next to me I feel unable to openly show her my affection, and I continue to suffer from the same regrets as with the previous ones, but aggravated by the constant fear that she will recover her memory and realize that she is next to the man who has caused her the most harm. I would like her to end this nightmare; to recognize me and condemn or forgive me. If on many occasions I have wondered what would have become of me if I had not left her, now I don't need to imagine it. We would visit the latest exhibition at the National Museum, but we would be holding hands, and we would talk about the sales of my latest novel, which surely would not even reach the tenth position of the best sellers, but in exchange I would have a good number of educated and faithful readers, with whom I would exchange thoughts, concerns, ideas and comments about my novels, the message of the characters, about literature and art in general. Many of them I would know personally and I could consider them my friends, as well as faithful readers. But they would not flatter me, even if they felt admiration for my novels. I would not be an idol of young girls blinded by my popularity and the attractiveness of an experienced forty-year-old who considered me sexy, since I would have a companion that everyone would know and would know that I had always been faithful to her, as she herself said at the exit of the movie theater of such bitter memory and that resonate in my ears as if she had pronounced them yesterday: "We won't make mistakes or lead double lives that might cause scandal! We'll be a perfect writing couple, giving no reason why what happened to the unfortunate Oscar Wilde shouldn't happen, right?". How I wish it had been so! But we would also talk about the success of her last book of poems, because she would be much more popular and admired than me. Her books would indeed be at the top of the best sellers and most valued. And they would not be poems addressed to a ghost lover, but to all that multicolored spectrum that can be expressed through poetry. This is the dream that I have failed and that I cannot even turn into an exemplary novel, written with my heart and not my head, without studying the tastes and trends of the market, the number of potential readers and possible royalties, or wasting time in eternal photo shoots to publish the most commercial image, or begging for an interview on the most popular program in exchange for promoting a sponsor who is not interested in what you think about literature, so that future generations would receive that message of friendship, loyalty and generosity from the people of generations already gone. That would possibly have been my life with her. During the cab ride to the museum, she stares quizzically at what she sees as if she has never been here before. When something especially catches her eye, she exchanges a look of amazement with me, I respond with a smile of approval. At the museum she seems enthusiastic about the paintings on display. There is no doubt that she is an artist. She tells me about the ones that catch her attention. I have acquired for her as a souvenir of this visit an illustrated book about the painter in the exhibition, which she thanks me with a discreet kiss on the cheek. She is undoubtedly the same charming woman she was twenty years ago. It would be a memorable morning if I were not in constant pain. I try not to let her notice my suffering, because even if it is brief, today is probably one of the happiest days in recent years. What makes us most human is our ability to get affection and friends who just know us. A friendship without affection is like a black and white photograph: it lacks color. I'm finding the museum visit exhausting, but she seems immune to fatigue. I suggest we take a break and have a drink in the museum cafeteria. She thinks it's a good idea. The cafeteria brings back distant memories of the one at our university. Twenty years later she is standing in line in front of me again and she is also holding a book in one hand! As if this coincidence wasn't enough, they also have slices of strawberry cream pie! She has seen them and seems hesitant to put a slice on her tray. She gestures with the intention of taking a slice but pulls back. I think the sight of that cake has possibly awakened some area of his unconsciousness. I can't see the expression on his face, but he is unable to go on with just a cup of coffee. I get the impression that something is again disturbing his mind. There are several people behind us who are getting impatient, because she has become as if paralyzed in front of the tray of cakes. In a strange gesture, which seems to me more impulsive than voluntary, she finally takes one of the portions. I'm beginning to worry, I have a feeling that twenty years of amnesia may have a tragic end here. But I don't care, and I take one more step towards this abyss, offering to hold the book for him so that he can take the tray with both hands! She turns sharply toward me and I have the alarming feeling that her gaze is remotely familiar, the same one I remember when she turned to me in the faculty cafeteria. Maybe she is starting to remember that scene too, because she refuses my help again! I don't know if fortunately or unfortunately, but there has been no repeat of the accidental event that brought us together, and we managed to get to a table with no accidents! She must have noticed my confusion mixed with my pains, because her gaze shows a certain uneasiness, it seems as if she is looking at a stranger, who is not the same one she had kissed ten minutes before to thank her for the unexpected gift. The coffee and his slice of cake are on the table, and for some reason they remain untouched. It is as if they were witnesses to some important event and needed to be presented as damning evidence to an imaginary but exacting jury. I cannot look into her eyes without feeling uncovered, lost in a deep sense of guilt for which there is no redemption. If I could read her mind I'm sure my image appears blurred in a dense fog, but it is quickly making its way to clearer areas, where it will eventually become perfectly visible. I, too, am getting the feeling that this woman is being transfigured, and before long she may emerge from the mist and may, at last, know the identity of her betrayer! In the midst of this state of anguished transformation, I hear the familiar sound of cups and plates rolling on the floor. An elderly woman has lost her balance, and dropped her tray! Once again fate intrudes on our tormented lives! The woman sitting in front of me now has a twitching face, her eyes wild, her accusing gaze fixed on mine, which I feel unable to hold. She has risen so abruptly that she has caused our accusing coffee cups and cake slices to fall. He almost shouts at me: -You; it's you! PART TWO: THE REUNION "He who forgives sin, seeks affection; he who spreads it, drives away the friend." (Proverbs 17:9) 27. Rejection Naomi's mother has vanished in the cafeteria. I don't know to what extent her memory has returned, but it is clear that she recognized me. A museum security guard has spotted a doctor among the visitors, who is trying to revive her. He asked me what caused her to faint. I told him that she had suffered a shock. The doctor wants to know what caused the shock. I replied that the cause was the strong impression of recognizing a person she had forgotten for the last twenty years. -That's no cause for fainting. -She did not wish to recognize him. He seems to recover. He half-opens his eyes, contemplates me for a few moments and closes them again. -I want to go back to my daughter's house; call my daughter and have her come and get me...! She asks the attending physician. -The gentleman who accompanies you can take you there. -No, no; call my daughter! The doctor looks at me strangely. -It's me he didn't want to recognize. It's a long story; I wouldn't know how to explain it to you. The museum guard suggests we find a cab and tell the driver where to take her. She nods weakly. Someone of those watching the scene has recognized me, and the word spreads among the others watching the scene. I notice in their looks a veiled reproach. I think they know from what is published in the magazines of the heart that my relationships with women are tortuous, and that she may be another of my victims. Nothing causes more pleasure to admirers than to discover the weaknesses of their idols, because deep down they hate them. Their admiration enslaves them and this discovery is a liberation. A few anxious minutes pass, but finally a young man appears who must be the cab driver, because he is accompanied by the guard. I tell him where to take her. The young cab driver and the doctor accompany her, and they leave the cafeteria. I find myself terribly alone, surrounded by people who probably hate me for my alleged misconduct with the victim. It is possible that someone may have taken a photo with his cell phone and tomorrow the photo will be published in the tabloids and on the networks, and some unprincipled and unethical journalist will take advantage of the incident to climb the ladder by resorting to libel. He will make up a story claiming that I mistreat my colleagues, which will delight the readers. He knows perfectly well that I will not sue him, because he will certainly be a poor devil who will not get his miserable salary at the end of the month, and I could only pay for the damages at the taxpayers' expense, giving him shelter and food in one of our overcrowded prisons. But my image will deteriorate, and in these critical moments that is what I most wish to preserve. I don't give the people who witnessed the scene a chance to explain it to them, and I rush out of the museum. It is urgent that I call Naomi so that she is informed of the recovery of her mother's memory and the dramatic outcome, which unfortunately I had already feared. Her cell phone is disconnected, she must be in a class. I call the University secretary's office and ask them to send her my message, and to come to her house urgently. I don't know what else I can do. After making these calls, I stop to think about what has happened. And I don't need to make any great show of intelligence to understand that my life is now meaningless. I don't even have a daughter to hold on to in this life, because I have not been, am not and could not be, the father that any daughter needs. Meeting her was a mistake. It would have been better if we had never met. When I did not exist, all her affection was for her mother and I had no one to judge my behavior. Now I have intruded and she feels obliged to share it with me, and I feel obliged to account for my conduct. It is better for me to get out of her way as soon as possible, as if she had been a mirage, and to employ her noble sentiments on those who deserve them. I am strolling aimlessly along a busy avenue, but I doubt that they will notice my presence, because I already feel myself floating in a vague place, a prelude to my final journey, which I will not take long to undertake. Perhaps sooner than expected! Alicia; yes, Alicia will help me! I can trust her; she will do whatever I ask of her! I don't know the feeling of love and how far we can sacrifice ourselves for the loved one, but she must know because there is no more sublime sacrifice than to love without being reciprocated. And she has endured it with infinite generosity. Someone has to give me the push to get me on my way to a place where I can find peace. I'm startled by the alarm on my cell phone, it's Alicia! It's as if my previous thoughts had been a spell to summon her and she had heard my wishes to die sooner than expected. She has heard from Naomi that her mother has regained her memory and wants to know how she reacted to remembering me. Just a minute ago Alicia was little less than my exterminating angel, and now that I listen to her life is once again claiming her attention, and she manages to drive these gloomy thoughts from my mind. She is a woman and knows how women think and feel, so I knew she would reject me. She asks me how my mood is and I reply that I am like a lost child in a department store who is asked by adults not to cry because they will soon find their parents. I was also crying before his call because I felt lost and scared. She asks me if I want her to come to my apartment so that I can tell her what happened to make Naomi's mother's memory come back. -Thanks to a slice of strawberry cream pie! -I replied. Alicia has the road free, but she knows that I will remain inaccessible as long as I don't have the forgiveness of the woman who now knows who I am and where her enemy lives. Of course, I beg you to come. 28. Depression Despite Alicia's invaluable moral and spiritual help, I am deeply depressed. It must be one of those depressions that inevitably lead to suicide. If I have not committed it yet, it is out of cowardice and horror of physical pain, but there are many ways to end this suffering. If life is not supported by some incentive, it is not possible to live it. In human beings the defense of life is not instinctive, but mental; it is a reasoned and justified decision, but pressured by the irreversible lack of incentives. No animal commits suicide. I have consumed and wasted all my incentives, without the result being what I would have wished. But I must also admit that I have never known what I really wanted. Naomi called me. She is already in her apartment. Her mother is very upset and wants to go home tomorrow. She has completely recovered her memory and remembers the causes of her amnesia in detail as if it happened yesterday. Naomi has tried to make her see that I am deeply sorry, but she does not want them to talk about me. She thinks she will need some time to get over her resentment, but the one thing I don't have is time. She has not told her about my illness so that she does not think that she wants to blackmail her. She is deeply sorry for this situation, for having to divide her affections between two parents at odds. Her mother does not understand why she has forgiven me, when I am the main victim of this drama. Naomi fears that her mother will distance herself from her because she believes that she has not behaved as she expected. She thinks she should have been more consistent and not forgiven me, and I think maybe her mother is right. Alicia has just arrived. Not a day has gone by since the day we met that she hasn't worried about me and I remain stubbornly oblivious to her. Why does she insist on maintaining her loyalty to a doomed, hopeless man who can only inspire pity and sympathy? The answer must lie in those recesses of women's souls that I have failed to understand. 29. Alicia's plan (Narrator: Alicia) Today I found him in a deplorable state. I know that he had hoped that Naomi's mother would have given him the opportunity to express to her his regret and his own sufferings and remorse in twenty years of solitude. If she has lived those twenty years in darkness, he would have preferred to have lost his memory as well. We women are condemned to forgive men's infidelities, because they have created a world where it is not possible to avoid this sin. If it were the world of women, infidelity would not be possible because neither would ownership exist. Men would be as shared as food or work. No one would be anyone's property. This man is a victim of that world, where there is no other incentive than competition and the derisory pleasure of the winners. He is also an unhappy winner in a world made in his own image and likeness. We cannot change a world that has a male God. But we women would not have gods either, only energies, positive or negative. Energy has created the world, we are all energies. I know that in his desperation he is thinking of suicide, but he is a weak man, and to commit suicide it is necessary to have courage. Men feel strong if they have terrible weapons, we do not need those diabolical weapons, but if we set our minds to it, we could bring about the destruction of the world in the same time it took God to create it! God himself had to be begotten by a woman. I would like to make him understand that he is not guilty and that his remorse is unfounded. If there is a guilty party to be found, it is Naomi's mother, because her fantasy and her ignorance of human nature and of the reality in which she lives provoked this man's infidelity. The most serious sins are not committed by the intelligent, but by the ignorant, but they do not feel guilty because their ignorance serves as a mitigating factor. Her literary agent lived in the real world, it was a matter of competition and she had the best offer, that's why she was the winner and got the product. It would be necessary to completely revise our morality and adapt it also to the laws of supply and demand. If I love this man it is because, besides the physical attraction, for twenty years he has been consistent and has written what the market required, but his loneliness justifies his rejection. Only when death threatened him did he decide to put an end to this immorality, and say in public what he really felt and thought. For me he is a hero! He wonders why Naomi's mother won't listen to him and I suggest an idea that might help him: -Why don't you write a new novel with the story of your relations with her and how you have lived these last twenty years. She won't want to see you, but she might read the novel. I think this idea has been in his head for some time, but he doesn't feel strong enough to do something like this. -It's too late now, Alicia, I'm afraid my illness is getting worse and I won't even be able to count on those six months of respite. I have a feeling that I won't live to see the next spring bloom and that I won't be spared the cold winter of death! It is useless for me to encourage him, he knows better than anyone else when death will come, because it must be the most foreseen event. Yes, it is possible that he will not see the next spring bloom and that for him it will be too late, but not for me: I will write that novel in his name! 30. The first novel I had to help him change his clothes and make him comfortable. Maybe it's time to get to know him on a first-name basis. I think he has only me now. His daughter Naomi will only feel pity and compassion for him, but she will remain attached to her mother. She is young and idealistic now, and thinks she loves everyone, but soon she will be more selective, and will be more demanding in lavishing her affections. This is now a dead father, of whom only the memory will remain, but the mother will still be alive and demanding in her maternal affection, more as a family obligation than as a sincere moral sentiment. Now my poor friend is a loser, for with death he loses everything. I need him to tell me what his life has been like in these twenty years of unfounded remorse. -I'll fix you something to eat and then you can rest. While you sleep I will finish reading your first novel. But when you wake up, if you feel well, I want you to tell me what your life has been like during these twenty years. -Alicia, you called me by my first name! I was expecting this remark -Yes, I have called you by your first name; there is no longer any reason to keep our distance. Now we are closer to each other and share the same loneliness. You may not love me, but you need me as much as I need you. We are now traveling companions. You will get off before me, but my journey won't be very long either. I can only trust you and you can only trust me. I may be the only one to mourn your death. Now he rests and I return to the reading of his first book, which I now read with great attention. The one I write must have his style, because it must be his book. I do not know if I should inform him of my idea, it is possible that he felt frustrated at not being able to write it himself. I read a paragraph that strikes me: "The day is dark for the cursed poets, and the night is clear and welcoming for us; the light damages our eyes accustomed to darkness. In the darkness there are no visible paths, it is necessary to travel them with the imagination. During the day all the paths where you are forced to travel are visible. That is why only in the darkness we are free, while in the light of day we are slaves. I have chosen the darkness of death, because on the other side of the darkness there is always light. I will be reborn in a new world saturated with light, where I will live eternally." Will it really be like that? How can I know in life? My good friend will check it very soon, and I should arrange with him a spell to cross our dimension and inform me. Would it be possible? The short break was good for him. He has woken up in a good mood and agrees to tell me his story. I make coffee for both of us; I sit comfortably in the armchair and listen to him with great attention. -My agent knew I had betrayed the other woman, but he didn't feel guilty. He believed she was infinitely more beneficial to my career than my partner. As an agent, she prioritized the success of those she represented over her feelings. In just three months we managed to place my novel among the top 10 best sellers, and two months later, we reached first place. She had kept her promise! She knew all the levers to promote the novel of a perfect stranger. And sometimes those levers didn't move very ethically or morally. Our extra-professional relationship was not very satisfying for both of us. I was not a lover up to her demands. The truth is that for one reason or another I have never been a great lover. When he managed to place me on the cusp of popularity he stopped being interested in me. His passion was to bring young writers out of anonymity and share their triumphs in a very personal and physical way. For the first six months I did not have the courage to concern myself with the fate of the victim of my ambition, but not a day passed without the memory of her and my betrayal weighing on my conscience. I had promised myself that as soon as my career was consolidated and free from the bonds of my contract with my agent, I would seek her out and propose to her to resume our old dreams of glory, and we would once again become the writing couple she had imagined. I already had the means to make it happen. But I still had a year's commitment to my agent. No, that woman does not deserve this man's affection; and of course he is not guilty. If he is guilty, to live is sin! Nothing fundamental that we human beings do is righteous, because we are driven by necessity and not by will, but this is what living is all about. We have all inherited "original sin." -My agent didn't wait for our contract to end before finding a new lover. Another young writer, as ignorant and inexperienced as I was. Surely he would offer him the same fame and success as me, but he hadn't won any contests. He may not have been a better writer than me, but he was probably a better lover. By then I had not only risen to the top of the popularity charts, but I had created a saga that virtually assured the success of my future novels. That's why I decided that the time had come to repair the damage done, to meet her again, to try to get her to forgive me, and to make up for lost time, which had been very profitable for me. But there was no trace of her - he remains silent for a few moments, I think he realizes the desolation that awaited him if he did not manage to find the whereabouts of that woman -. She was hidden in a remote location that had little contact with the rest of the country, and no one knew with whom she was associated during her stay at the university. She never revealed the name of that town, which also did not coincide with her birthplace. Her father was the secretary of the Town Hall and had already made several transfers to that position in that small town. All my inquiries were useless. To make matters worse, she had adopted an artistic name to sign her poetry by which she was known, and not by her real name, which even I do not know! -So, is it true that you have exhausted all attempts to find her? -I ask him, although he has already given me the answer. -All the ones in my hands. I assumed that she had removed all traces of where she was so that I could not locate her. I didn't know I had lost my memory. I still let the year that was left in our contract go by, never for one day failing to try some other means of getting hold of her, but all my efforts proved futile. I finally came to the conclusion that she did not want to be located, because otherwise after two years there was no reason for her not to be the one to try to contact me. I did not believe her to be so spiteful, and I gave up looking for her. Two years of hard work, of having reached the pinnacle of popularity and having the necessary means to realize our dream, were meaningless and useless; in other words: they had gone to waste! -But she says the opposite: that you had no intention of tracking him down. -For her, I must have already been dead; there was no need to wait for me to suffer from this disease! -And how did you live the following years? -The following years I did not live; I survived! I had no other incentive than those commissioned novels, one every year, twenty thorns stuck in my mind! I had thousands of admirers, but not a single one to whom I could confide. When you write novels for ordinary people, don't expect to find a single one out of the ordinary. It's been such a lost few years for her, even though she has an excellent memory. 31. Confidences of a mother (Narrator Naomi) My father has not told me the whole story of his relationship with my mother. Now that he has regained his memory and I know the real story from my mother, I think maybe she is right and does not deserve my forgiveness. My mother could have prevented my birth by having me aborted, which she possibly would have done if my father had known of my gestation. If I was gestated it is because she believed she loved him and did not want to lose him, but he did not know how to value her sacrifice and abandoned her. She knew that she had accepted the representation of that vicious and heartless woman, and she was so naive that she thought she could compete with her. What else could she do to keep him by her side? It was of no use for her to write the best poems and dedicate them to him, because he had ceased to be interested in the poetess, and of course in the woman, but he did not have the courage to be honest with her. My poor mother has been crying practically since she has arrived at my house. It has been very painful to come face to face with a man who had shown so little courage in hiding his infidelity from her. -It's easy to regret when one senses death.... -she says to me between sobs-. You had to be the one to find him.... If he had put more effort years ago he would have found me, but success, and surely his many admirers, kept him very busy. I cannot reproach him for his resentment, twenty years lost in a few hours are not forgotten just because he suffers from an incurable disease. He is the cause of my mother also suffering from an incurable disease, but of the soul. But I am deeply saddened by this situation. I wish I could have found a justification for both of them, because deep down I believe they are both good people. They both have noble souls, and, if they have hurt each other there must be a powerful reason. My father blames his passion for literature and perhaps he is right. To create it is necessary to leave this world and contemplate it without an emotional relationship, otherwise it is not possible to understand it. I suppose that in order to create characters with different personalities, the author does not have to be emotionally linked to any of them. When my father was immersed in the creation of his novels, his relationship with the world around him, including my mother, must have changed and they were no longer people but characters. His life was a fiction and his relationship with my mother, the plot of some of his future novels. As it was. If I intend to follow in his footsteps and be as good a writer as he is, I must avoid creating emotional ties with anyone in this world, because, as he himself told me, and which I have not been able to forget, "If you dream of being an out-of-the-ordinary writer, your life will pass within that same out-of-the-ordinary dream, and you will never be able to live in reality." My mother also lived her out-of-the-ordinary dream, but she made the clumsy mistake of falling in love with one of her characters. I cannot expose this reflection to my mother because she might not be able to understand it. Although she has regained her memory, she still lives in her fictional world, and my father is a character of her imagination who has accidentally incarnated himself in the body of a lover. They should wake up from their respective dreams and contemplate each other as they are. Only then could they know how they really feel about each other, but how to wake up from a dream someone who doesn't know he is dreaming? I know it is useless, but I try to make my mother see this other point of view: -I understand that you are hurt, but perhaps your passion for literature played a trick on you, neither of you knew what the other was really like. Love is blind, and only sees what it imagines it sees. Maybe you were in love with someone who existed only in your imagination. My mother has reacted, and she looks at me confused and suspicious. She doesn't seem to have understood what I meant. I try to be more explicit: -What I mean is that both you and he needed each other as admirers of your respective works, which is what you really loved. When my father found another admirer, he no longer needed you, but you still needed him. I think he still doesn't understand my thoughts about his relationships. I'm afraid he thinks I'm trying to justify it. -Naomi, daughter, I don't know what you're trying to tell me! His guilt is evident, he took advantage of my innocence. I always tried to justify his lack of interest because I blindly believed that, in spite of everything, he was still faithful to me. It wasn't the first time that woman had made him late for our appointments, but that night I needed to see him and let him know that I was pregnant with your child, and I didn't know how he might react. He was not likely to want to be a father at this delicate time in his career. He needed to know as soon as possible, but I didn't think it was appropriate to tell him in writing or over the phone. I wanted to see his first reaction to know whether he would accept you or reject you. So, you can imagine my enormous frustration and anguish, because of his absence. In spite of the pain, I tried to believe that he had some powerful reason for not coming to the appointment, I was still blindly trusting in his fidelity! His expression has changed. She seems to be feeling the desolation and pain of that night. I can see it in the wrinkles on her forehead and in the wetness of her eyelids, she is about to cry again. -I was so distressed and helpless that after waiting uselessly for him for more than an hour, I did not return directly to my apartment. The night was warm and clear so I felt like taking a walk. I thought a long, relaxing walk would calm my anguish and I wandered through the busy streets, to mingle with the people and distract myself from my thoughts. I was confident that the next day we would have a chance to meet. And that's when I had the terrible shock that caused my amnesia. In one of these streets, there was a nightclub of ill fame, and I was contemplating the obscene photographs of the claim, when he descended from a cab, accompanied by that woman, who took him by the arm and they entered the club. They both seemed intoxicated. That image gave me a strong impact and I felt as if my head was going to explode. When I recovered from that terrible shock, I didn't know where I was, nor did I have the slightest idea how I had gotten there? -I didn't know where I lived, I didn't even remember my name! Near that place there was a small park, belonging to a parish in the neighborhood. Most of the benches were lined with homeless people. I was terrified, but I needed to rest, and I let myself fall exhausted on the only one that was free. Moments later a woman from the urban police patrolling the neighborhood was surprised by my appearance, which was not that of a beggar and wanted me to identify myself, but I could not answer any of her questions, so they understood that I was in a state of shock, and took me to the police station of the neighborhood... You know the rest... For God's sake! Why do I have to face this horrible dilemma? If I save one I condemn the other! Where is the justice? Which of the two is truly innocent and which is truly guilty? And why does one of them have to be guilty? Why can't they both be innocent? They each have their reasons for doing what they have done and I am unable to judge them. I suppose only God can judge them! My mother is packing her little travel bag, because she is about to take the first train of the morning. There will be no opportunity for reconciliation. She will probably not be at his bedside when he passes away. She does not want to return to this city that brings back such bad memories. She is determined to forget him, but now voluntarily. Who knows, now that she has regained her memory and can live a normal life, maybe she will meet another man with whom she can rebuild her traumatic life. And me, what should I do? I want her to give me the answer herself: -Mom, I understand that you resent him and want to forget about him, but what should I do? He's my father, and he's a dying man! Should I be at his bedside when he passes away? His answer plunges me deeper into my uncertainty: -My daughter, do what your conscience dictates, you are already an adult, you must decide for yourself.... Now I am the one who feels like crying. -I don't want to be an adult! 32. Naomi's mother (Narrator: Naomi's mother) It is not yet dawn and we are ready to head for the station. My train leaves in an hour and the station is not far, but we will take advantage of the time to have breakfast in the cafeteria. My daughter is not used to these early mornings and is still sleepy. She has insisted on accompanying me to the station, but now I can manage on my own perfectly well. The cab is waiting for us on the street and in less than twenty minutes it drops us off at the station. I look nostalgically at the cityscape of my youth that I will never see again. We have plenty of time to chat, but first we need a strong coffee to clear our heads. We sit at a separate table in the cafeteria and Naomi brings me coffees and two croissants that are still warm. We have breakfast in silence. She waits for me to tell her something about what my life will be like from now on in my small town. I tell her that nothing will change, but that I will now try to publish some of my poems. -Even if they are dedicated to my father? -Why not? A poem is a poem, and it doesn't matter to whom it is dedicated, what matters is that it moves feelings and emotions. -But he can read them. -He has not lost his memory; he has nothing to remember. -Will you ever come back to this city? -No, Naomi, my poor child, I will never set foot in this city again. He's been dead to me for twenty years! He took his own life the night he went to that notorious club on the arm of that woman. She dug her own grave, and then erased the epitaph on his grave, because she too forgot her victim. For me he has remained dead these twenty years, until he was momentarily resurrected to revive again his agony. I have written the last verse dedicated to him, which can serve as a panegyric: I die when I am still young; I die when I am still an adult; I resurrect when I am about to die; I die again when I was about to live. -This is my farewell gift until death wills to take me to his side as well. Then we will know which of us two has done justly. Literature will lose a writer with all his talent barely used and a poetess with all her talent barely remembered. No, Naomi, I don't want to force you to choose who to condemn or who to save. Your soul and mind do not belong to us, only your body. You have received your soul from God, and only you have the possibility of discovering what your true personality is. Don't try to imitate us and choose your own path, which may lead you to be a great writer, but you could also be an excellent doctor or a great soccer player. You owe us nothing. We begot you by our recklessness, without that being our desire, as most human beings are begotten. It is we who are indebted to you, but we do not have the means to compensate you for our mistakes. You were born free and you are free to choose who deserves your affection and your memory. Your mother will always welcome you with open arms, but live your life and do not feel pity or expect comfort from us. If you need comfort, learn to comfort yourself; if you need support, learn to lean on yourself; if you need compassion, learn to pity yourself and if you need love, learn to love yourself. It may not have been the advice a mother should give her daughter, but at least in this I agree with her father, people are only united by the affections that their works arouse; without works there can be no affections. -Your father and I were happy when we both admired each other's work, but when he stopped being interested in my poetry and I stopped admiring his, because he stopped writing short stories to devote himself to writing novels inspired by his perverse agent, we had no reason to love each other anymore. But I didn't want to accept that that talented young writer would let himself be handled by his agent, and I continued to admire the author of "Poetas sin cielo". Now I know how wrong I was! Only if he returned to being the writer I idolized could I forgive him. But perhaps for him it is already too late. That must be his destiny and this must be mine. The public address system at the station announces the imminent departure of my train. My poor daughter has felt it as if they were announcing the departure of a train to eternity with no return, because she looks at me in anguish and I know she is making great efforts to hold back her tears. -Mom, if I have to be an adult, I want to be like you. I love you very much... but also my wretched father... -I know, you have a generous heart because you are young. With age it shrinks and becomes more selfish, but more faithful and demanding. -No, we'll say goodbye here.... Take good care of yourself, and don't pout like when you were a child, or you'll make me cry too. Give me a farewell smile! Naomi tries to please me, but her smile is a cheerful way of crying. My heart breaks into a thousand pieces as I walk away from her dragging my small travel suitcase as if it were my coffin. When I finally step through the door onto the platform and she can no longer see me, I let my downtrodden soul vent freely and cry silently.... I can't help but feel guilty for having lived! 33. The second novel (Narrator: Alicia) I have read the manuscript of her first novel twice and I think I am ready to take on this important challenge. Of course I will alter some things, she has to understand the reasons for his abandonment and be able to justify it. This man cannot leave this world without a clear conscience and I will not be able to convince him that he is innocent. But I have little time, I have long sleepless nights ahead of me! I heard from Naomi that her mother has returned to her hometown and it seems she has no intention of ever going back. Fortunately Noemi still considers me a good friend she can trust. She has not told me expressly, but she is going through a very difficult time. We have arranged to meet at the coffee shop where I met her father, but he will not attend, because I will not inform him of our meeting. I want Naomi to have nothing that prevents her from opening her heart to me and telling me what conclusions she has drawn after what her mother has told me about her father's behavior. I need that information to finish getting an idea of the plot of this new novel. Now she knows the whole story, but according to her mother's version, I want her to know her father's version as well. I am taking advantage of the fact that she is spending the morning at the hospital to meet her. I am the first to arrive and I sit at the same table as that day. In front of the table there are some large mirrors where I see myself reflected and I can hardly believe that this woman is me. My gaze has become severe, or rather, cold and disenchanted. I no longer find myself neither ugly nor beautiful, just sober and adult. I don't need to attract anyone's attention either, because I already have someone to pay all my attention to, that's why I dress again with the same old-fashioned clothes I wore when I arrived from the provinces. I even notice that my movements are slower and my appearance in general suggests that of a simple social worker. I feel more like myself than in those provocative clothes. How little they esteem themselves who need to hide themselves in the way they dress! Naomi has just arrived. She has all the appearance of a helpless and confused creature. She stands hesitantly in the doorway, as if afraid of being discovered. She hasn't seen me, or perhaps hasn't recognized me in my new guise, and she motions to leave. I signal her with my arm, and as she recognizes me she seems to come back to life. She smiles as if I have saved her from some imaginary danger. She sits down across from me. She asks me about her father's health. -I don't want to deceive you Noemi, all these events have affected him... I don't think he will make it through this winter -his smile has turned into a bitter expression of deep sadness-. I think that what is worsening his health is his deep depression after your mother's rejection. Naomi lowers her gaze, as if she does not want me to notice the conflict of her divided feelings in her eyes. We keep a few moments of silence in memory of her dying father. She has nothing to say, I am the one who starts the conversation. -May I ask you why your mother does not want to hear your father's confession? She tells me the real cause and not the one we all believed. I'm afraid the mother has a powerful reason for her spiteful attitude. Even I would find it hard to forgive her if I were in her place. Betrayal now has a pornographic image, something simply intolerable for a sensitive poetess. In her delusions she must have imagined him as a satyr with the face of an angel. How can I justify that scene? Why did they go to that club after, in all probability, they had drunk to excess during the romantic private dinner? There must be a good reason that exculpates him. -Dear friend, sometimes I wonder, especially as a writer, what is the use of language if we cannot understand each other. Perhaps it would have been better to communicate with a few sounds to express our basic feelings, as animals do, because words, no matter how cultured, creative or realistic we may be, are not capable of expressing ourselves as clearly as those simple sounds. Your parents are two excellent people, and they would have understood each other with simple sounds, without using words. The use of words has confused and separated them. It is a biblical curse! The same words have different meanings depending on who pronounces them and how they are pronounced. The heart does not understand the meaning of words, but the tone with which they are pronounced. The meaning is the task of the mind, but the mind lacks feelings, it doesn't care about one word or another. Your mother only listens to what is said if it is poetic; but your father only pays attention to what is said if it resembles the dialogues of a novel. Neither listens to what the other really says! -Yes; they themselves admit that their passion for literature is what has separated them! -No, Noemí; it is not literature, but words. Literature is a noble attempt to give some emotional or intellectual meaning to words so that their messages are clear to the senses. But life is not a novel, we don't know who the characters are or what the plot is about or even know its author. We trust that words and their meanings are enough to go through the world with morality and a sense of justice, but all we do is invent moralities and justice with words that do not have the same meaning for everyone, so there can be no morality or justice as long as there are words. Naomi seems to ponder my thoughts. She has come to a wise conclusion: -So, do you think they are both guilty? -No doubt, but it is an inevitable sin, because we need words, not to understand each other, but to communicate. That is why literature that is born of this curse and tries to redeem itself is so necessary, but not literature that is born already cursed and rejoices in its evil, as a pig wallows in its excrement. We writers have only one mission: to free words from the flames of hell and make them reach heaven. We are the fallen angels in this hell, while we inhabit the Earth, and of heaven, when we leave it. -And what can I do to reconcile them? -Words will not reconcile them, unless they are spoken in such a way that the heart understands them. -What do you mean? -Your mother will only react if she receives the message in poetry! -And who will write this poetry? -The person who loves them the most... You will write it. It will be your debut in this magical world of Literature and you will pass with an A, because you have the main thing: a great motivation. I know she feels overwhelmed, but at the same time I notice in her eyes the spark of genius that demands her chance. -But my mother would only be reconciled if he proves to her with a new novel that he is the same one who wrote "Poets Without Heaven", and that she has unconsciously loved these twenty years.... -Your father will write it! I don't want to reveal to Naomi that I will be the one to write it, because unconsciously I might reveal it to her mother and all the work would be useless. -Alicia, you have never told me why you feel obliged to take care of my father, because you always address him as "you", which is not proper for a mistress.... Do you have anything to do with his publisher or his manager? I had always feared that Naomi would ask me this question. But I don't have a clear answer even if I ask it to myself. Only a month ago I was a woman in love with a famous writer, whom I was physically attracted to and admired for his talent, so I had no doubt about the causes. Now my feelings have gone beyond love and are in an unknown dimension, which is probably not of this world. Thanks to his illness we have found ourselves in a dimension that goes beyond the human and must have something to do with the divine, and that must be hidden in our astral personality. Only in extreme situations do we penetrate this dimension, which creates eternal bonds. It is as if I am helping this man to enter that dimension, which must be the myth of Paradise, where we will meet again and be lovers for all eternity, so we can spare no effort to achieve it. I am trying to secure the love of this man after his death, so I cannot feel jealous of his mother, who will only be able to love him with that earthly, temporary love of human beings, when I reserve for myself his eternal and divine love. But Naomi would not understand. -Your father and I are, in addition to professional colleagues, old friends. I feel obliged to help him die a good death. I would do the same for any of my friends and fellow writers. 34. The wording Today I started writing the novel. I have the strange feeling that I am fulfilling a divine mandate; the will comes to me from an unknown source. The salvation or damnation of a human soul depends on its outcome. It is as if I were donating blood to a badly wounded person. I begin with that terrifying phrase for all writers: "Chapter One. It is like opening the bonds of the imagination, in a perfect union with the mind. It is absolutely necessary that the first lines arouse in Naomi's mother the need to read the following remaining lines or failure is assured. These are my first lines: "The main characters of this story did not meet by chance, but by destiny. But for twenty years they put all their efforts into going against what was written in the stars. This is the story of two lovers united by literature, but separated by words." I think it's a good beginning, and only with a good beginning is a good ending possible. Now I have to create the author of the novel, because this novel will not be written by me but by my characters. Also in real life things work the same way. God has created man, and has endowed him with the necessary understanding so that he can decide for himself the plot of his story. I continue: "These characters are two young people with the defects and virtues of all young people: utopian, independent, rebellious, reckless, nonconformist, generous, innocent and unbelieving. Like all young people, they do not live in the present, but in the future; they have no history, only a great desire to make history. Nor do they have experience, only experiences. They are not wise, they only have the desire to know. They make the simple complicated, because they believe that the simple is for old people or children, but not for them. They are, in short, two young people of our time, but as young people have been in all times. She has a passion for the sensitivity of Garcilaso and he for the imagination of Cervantes; she adores Dante Alighieri, he Lope de Vega; she is a poet, he is a storyteller. She knows she has talent and is sure of herself; he doubts her talent, and has no confidence in himself. But she believes in him and decides to postpone temporarily his inevitable conquest of fame and glory in order to help the insecure young narrator, so that they can walk the road to glory together, without one overshadowing the other." Four exhausting weeks have already passed. The novel is progressing at the same rate as my strength is waning. I have reached the critical point of separation and I have no difficulty in exonerating my death row inmate of all guilt. Where can the writer find the source of his inspiration if not in real life? How can he describe a brothel, observe the deep sadness that encloses the false joy of the prostitutes; the eagerness to make even the smallest drop of pleasure received pay, if he has never been in a brothel? How can a writer with her wings intact and free to fly wherever she pleases, clip another writer's so that he does not stray too far from his nest? Poetry springs from the soul; narrative from life. The poet sees the world from a cloud; the storyteller from the sewers. Poetry is music; narrative is noise. Naomi's mother still sees the world from a cloud, and if she does not descend to dry land she will never know that clouds become rain, and rainwater runs in the gutters! I have used these notes in this decisive chapter : "It was no surprise to find a table set up in his unmistakable style for two diners. Champagne set to chill, caviar canapés and other delicacies. I even knew that he would choose the most provocative clothes, in other words, it was nothing more than a novel scenario that I was to describe in the novel I was writing at the time. It was my clever agent's peculiar form of collaboration. But there were still some complicated scenes to describe for which I lacked the necessary imagery and could easily fall into ridicule. I discussed it with my agent and he suggested we pay a visit to one of the less reputable clubs in town, where I would surely have the images I needed. But I remembered my appointment. It was a painful decision. I knew she would be outraged, but a woman who has a writer for a partner must be used to such rudeness. Would she be angry if I were a doctor who missed her appointment because she had to treat a sick person? With my novels, I also treat thousands of people who are sick with boredom and lack of entertainment. Tomorrow I'll excuse myself and she'll understand! Before that excursion to the most nauseating bowels of the city, we finished the champagne, because sober we would not have had the courage to enter that brothel." "Unfortunately it was a fatal coincidence that she, frustrated and hurt by my absence, strolled down the street where the club was located and surprised us as we got out of the cab and entered the club somewhat dizzy, so that my agent had to lean on my arm. If it was true that he had blind trust in my fidelity, he had to wait until the next day to see that, despite appearances condemning me, I was still faithful. But that misleading image exceeded all her capacity for tolerance, and wounded her deeply, causing her the fatal trauma that has kept us apart for these past twenty years!" If after reading this she doesn't forgive you, this woman has lost her soul! 35. Winter The slower you want time to pass the faster it insists on passing. I've been so busy this past month that I haven't been aware of the passage of time and it's already winter! After her interview with her mother, Naomi is less affectionate with her father. Whatever her mother may have told her about her relationship with her father has affected her noticeably. There is something that separates them, but Naomi does not want to discuss with him her encounter with her mother, and her version of what happened. If she hides it, it must be because it must be something very lurid and that she does not dare to comment on. She has also become accustomed to her father's illness, she even seems to be mentally prepared to accept his untimely death, and only visits him once a week. Her apology is that she is so busy with her exams that she can barely stay for an hour in his apartment, and doesn't even stay for dinner. Since her hasty return, we have heard nothing from the mother. She seems buried in absolute silence. At least Naomi does not mention her. Unfortunately, it is as if all our behavior has entered into an irresponsible routine, without us being truly aware of the seriousness of the moment. Your father has had to be admitted several times to the emergency room, because his illness is getting alarmingly worse. Every time I call an ambulance to transport him to the hospital, he begs me to let him die in his bed. He is horrified by hospitals, because he believes that everyone there is so familiar with death that they cause it themselves! The pains cloud his mind and in those critical moments he totally loses the will to live, but I cannot accede to his wishes, because I still need him to survive at least long enough to see my purpose through. The novel is practically finished, because it is not very long. Only a few corrections are missing. I had some difficulty in finding a good denouement, but I think I have solved it satisfactorily. Your publisher will have no knowledge of this novel, of which I will publish only a few copies, enough to fulfill its purpose and no more. About the poem to be written by Noemi, maybe I overestimated her talent, but I still trust her, she will surprise me any day. My plan is that by Christmas the reconciliation will be consummated, and, at last, I will also be able to reconcile with myself. Perhaps I will also take advantage of this painful experience to write my own novel with my own version of events, but most likely I will dedicate my next work to the memory of this great man. As I expected, Naomi has not let me down, and has written a touching poem that is sure to influence her mother's mood. In any case, I don't think he will follow in his parents' footsteps. She is too down-to-earth and too grounded. She would make a good researcher, or teacher. If her parents have problems it is because of her artistic, creative, fickle, unpredictable temperament. It is difficult to live with an artist. 36. The last winter (Narrator: the sick person) This will be, if medicine does not prevent it, my last winter. I would like to live it intensely, but life slips through my fingers like fine grains of sand on a beach. Soon I will have left this troubled world. With each passing day I feel more and more familiar with death. With each new dawn the sun rises darker for me, and its light grows dimmer. Slowly what was a nightmare becomes a dream. As life punishes me, death rewards me. Death seemed like a drama to me before I knew the true face of life. Now that I know it, death seems to me a comedy, and it causes me an irresistible desire to laugh. In the end I will end up turning my death into a great event and I will sit in the stalls with a real longing for the curtain to rise. I may be starting to lose my mind, but that must be the mind's strategy to elude suffering. Blessed is madness when sanity allies itself with pain so that you suffer it consciously! But I wish to be an exceptional witness to my own death, because it is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I am a writer. If I intend to describe death in my novels, I must have experienced it! I know it seems an absurd thought, but more absurd is to believe that our mind and spirit do not transcend beyond the threshold of death. I believe that everything we have come to conceive and imagine will somehow remain, and transcend our death, to be the foundations of the personality of a new life at the instant of its gestation, into whom we will transmigrate. I also know that this is a naive consolation, because no one has been able to prove such a theory. Others believe that their souls will ascend to heaven, remain in purgatory or descend to hell, where they will be reunited with other soul mates, virtuous or sinful. This is the most popular version. In my theory there are no heavens or hells, but there is overcoming or degradation. A wicked and depraved soul can transmigrate into the fetus of a beast. It is not the most popular, but I believe it must be so. Now I spend most of the day bedridden and my mind is only clear when the sedatives take effect and the pain disappears, more and more intensely. Alicia spends the day with me, but at night, after she leaves me sedated and I manage to fall asleep, she goes back to her apartment, only to return first thing in the morning. She must be exhausted, because sometimes she falls asleep on the couch and it is me who watches over her sleep. She has brought her laptop with her, on which she passes the time when I sleep. She says she is working on her new novel about the ballerina, but she doesn't want to read anything to me until it is finished. She has become very superstitious and thinks it brings bad luck. I find her getting worse and worse every day, even thinner. I fear that she may also fall ill. Today is one of the coldest days of the winter. A heavy snow is falling and the flakes seem to go crazy as they are pushed by a strong gusty wind, which is constantly changing direction. Like every morning, I hear the pleasant rattle of the lock as Alice arrives at my apartment. She is shivering with cold and completely soaked. I suggest she put on one of my robes and dry her clothes on the heating radiator. Many times I have held her body in my arms, but I had never seen her naked. This morning I finally had that opportunity. I see the body of an attractive but not provocative woman; sensual but not sexual. It is harmonious but not erotic. It's just a human being's body. It feels better already. As she prepares my breakfast, I inquire about her career situation, which she seems to have abandoned because of me. -Alicia, how are things going with my agent? Did he get you a contract? Alicia denies it with a slight nod of her head. -And has he given you any reason? -Publishers don't like novels where there is no sex, or at least something that excites their imagination, and my novels find them too intellectual or spiritual. -Yes, I think my first agent seduced me into having a firsthand sexual experience and being able to describe it in minute detail. That was also one of the keys to the success of my novels. Sexuality is not an invention of culture, it is a natural reality and there is no reason for it not to be part of a plot, but it should not be described as a simple sexual relationship, similar to that of animals, because what characterizes a human being is that from all his natural experiences he extracts a moral evaluation, which does not exist in animals. Among humans, sex cannot be exempt from this same morality. Most novels dispense with this necessary moral premise to describe it as a purely animal relationship and, therefore, immoral. It is not true that in war as in love anything goes. In war there are also rules of conduct, so why shouldn't there be in sexuality? Alicia listens attentively to my brief dissertation on sexuality and seems to agree, but qualifies a few details. -Morality is relative, and its values are not shared by all, that is why I believe that sexuality has to be based on other more realistic norms, that satisfies desire without incurring in prostitution.... -And what are these standards? -Of course, mutual consent, and respect for the sensitivity of each lover, provided that both are aware of the consequences of this relationship. That attitude is already sufficiently moral. No lover should be considered an object of pleasure, but pleasure should have an object, that of mutual satisfaction of the senses, without creating a bad conscience: the contrary would be prostitution! 37. Last Christmas (Narrator: Naomi's mother) Once again I am in this small and remote town. It has welcomed me with the first snowfall of this year and I feel that the snow is also falling on my soul. Now that I have recovered my memory, the last twenty years of blessed amnesia seem like a brief instant. Were it not for the wrinkles, those of the face and those of the soul, I would not know that time has passed. To remember for what; to recognize the cause of your amnesia; to see again that painful scene at the entrance of that brothel; to relive those dreams cut short by the ambition of a disloyal friend? For this it is better not to remember! Now I have to forget what I have remembered so that it does not continue to disturb me and to meet again with poetry, which is my only friend and confidant. The only one that is loyal and for no cause, justified or not, betrays you. We are only what we believe in and believe, the rest is a chimera, because it only exists in our imagination. I imagined him as I wished him to be, but he was not as I imagined him to be, because no one can penetrate the mind and soul of another person. They will always let us down! Now I have to follow the same advice I gave Naomi: If you need comfort, learn to comfort yourself; if you need support, learn to lean on yourself; if you need compassion, learn to pity yourself; and if you need love, learn to love yourself. What would have become of me if he hadn't won that untimely award? Would we still be together, would he have grown tired of me? We would probably be separated. I remember the night of the recital. He didn't say goodbye to me because he was jealous of my friends. But, on the other hand, only those who love feel jealous. And what would have become of his literary career if he had not met that woman? Naomi wants me to read her novels, but she herself assures me that they are well written and interesting, but lack motivation. They don't convey anything transcendental or human, they are novels to regale the ears of ordinary people, without ambition, conformist and resigned to their vulgarity. If I had helped him, he might not be so famous, but he would be better regarded and would have more incentive. He had the talent to write something more ambitious; something that deserved to go down to posterity. I just got an email from Naomi, I miss her so much! She should write to me more often. I open it, unable to contain my excitement: "Dear Mom, in two weeks it will be Christmas again and this year I don't know with whom of the two of you I am supposed to spend this lovely time of the year. You know how much I love you, but it hurts me that my father spends them alone, being so sick. My heart is still divided between the two of you, and I can't decide on either of you, because I wish I could spend them with both of you!" My poor daughter is in an unbearable emotional struggle. I should write to her and tell her that I won't mind if she doesn't come and spend it with her father. Someone has to sacrifice, because neither of us has done more to deserve her affection! "I have another important piece of news for you: Alicia has given me several copies of Dad's latest autobiographical novel. In spite of being very weak she has kept her promise. I've read it and I couldn't help crying with joy, but I won't tell you why, it's better if you read it and find out for yourself. Will you promise me you'll read it? I'll send you a copy by mail. I also enclose my first poem dedicated to the two of you. I already told you at the station that I wished I was like you. I hope you like it. A very strong hug from your daughter who loves you and misses you, Noemí." God knows that I would make any sacrifice so that Naomi would be happy and not have to suffer for our faults, but He asks the impossible of me! Betrayal has no redemption. Jesus would not have forgiven Judas either, nor does God forgive the devil. One betrayal is enough, now I cannot also betray myself. No, Naomi, my poor child, you cannot yet understand how the wounds of the heart hurt. Mine has bled for twenty years, and now it needs to heal its wound, it may happen tomorrow or never. Everything is written in destiny. Let it decide for us. She tells me that her father has published a new novel, and that it is autobiographical. I have a feeling that it must not leave me in a good place among his memories. Why is Naomi so keen for me to read it? I'm not spiteful. I, too, wish everything had happened differently. I also long for those happy campus days; that insecure young writer who needed my help; those dreams practically within our grasp. But he reneged on everything in exchange for thirty pieces of silver. God is just and has sent him the punishment he deserves! However, the paths of the Lord are inscrutable, thanks to my weakness this daughter of mine was born, who promises to surpass both of us and to be the comfort of both of us. Only God knows what is right and what is wrong. If I stand firm it will be His will and if he must die with regrets, so must he. Today has dawned with a dense blanket of snow that evens everything with the same whiteness. You can hardly walk through these steep alleys. I met the letter carrier on my way out of the bakery and he handed me the envelope with the book Noemi sent me. We all know each other here and there is no need for mailboxes. If I didn't know it also contained a poem by my daughter I wouldn't even open it, but I want to see if Noemí will become a great poet or if she is following the wrong path. I open it and am painfully struck by the title of the book: "Si tú fueras..., Memorias de dos amantes unidos por la literatura y separados por las palabras" (If you were..., Memoirs of two lovers united by literature and separated by words). What does he intend with this title? But I see Noemi's poem. It is not very long. I read it: "I WAS BORN OF FORGOTTEN PARENTS For love or lack of love, by charm or disenchantment, of two unknown lovers I was born of oblivion. As a baby I had no one to rock me, as a child I had no one to spoil me, as an adult I had no one to counsel me because I was born of forgotten parents I met my father when he was dying, I met my mother when I didn't remember, I knew myself when I cried, because we continue to be forgotten. I write you this simple poem to make you forget what you have remembered and remember what you have forgotten of the writer you had loved. Your loving daughter, Naomi." It is a poem worthy of my daughter. You could not have expressed her wishes better. It has touched the depths of my aching soul. I feel guilty that I have ignored my daughter's yearnings. Perhaps she has the right perspective on this drama and I am fixated on my revenge. Perhaps, after all, it is written in destiny that I must forgive her. But how do I know, who can advise me, should I turn to a priest, do they know more about the human soul than we do, have they been given the grace of faith by God himself, so that they are closer to virtue than other human beings? I have lost faith and trusted only in my own judgment, without waiting for the miracle of revelation, but after reading my daughter's moving poem I am beginning to doubt my moral certainties and the time may have come to ask for advice from one who is devoted to the salvation of souls, and mine must be at risk of damnation. If my daughter wishes, I think I should read this new novel. 38. The alarm (Narrator: Alicia) I have to warn Naomi, her father is dying! I know it's against his will, and it's the will of a dying man, but I'm going to call the hospital to have him admitted. He has to hang on to life for a few more days. I can't accept that this woman has no heart. She has to come and save him from the hell of his remorse or he will not rest in peace and we will not be able to meet in that place in the cosmos reserved for our souls. He is bedridden. He can hardly move anymore and has no desire to speak to me. But he follows my every movement with a dull, lifeless look, as if he could only move the girls in his eyes. But in that cloudy, dying look there must be a lucid mind, unaffected by the disease, and he must be thinking about his situation. I can almost read his thoughts. He accepts that his journey through this world has come to an end, and he awaits death with serenity and resignation. He will also dedicate some of his last thoughts to me. I know he hears me, I can see it in the flicker of his eyes, and I have to try to comfort him: -I know you can hear me," he blinks slightly, "You have not been a strong man, for geniuses are weaker the more wisdom they acquire, but illness has given you the strength to accept it without complaint or lamentation. Each day that passes and your end approaches, my love for you increases with the same proportion. At the moment of your death I will be the most in love woman in the universe. I know that this does not console you.... don't be sad, because she will come! But you have to keep a titanic pulse with death. Don't let it take you until it gives you its blessing! -I hold her trembling hand, which is now barely strong enough to know how she reacts. You must forgive me, but I have to call the hospital to prolong your life as long as possible. When she and Naomi arrive we will bring you back here and you can die as I know you wish: holding her hand until your last breath. Then our real life will begin. Then I will not be the ugly, clumsy, provincial girl, but a luminous soul who will meet yours and remain united for eternity. But if you die without his blessing, your soul will wander erratically from one universe to another eternally, never finding peace, and I will be alone for eternity. I know you will do this for me. I try to pull my hand away to dial the hospital phone, but I feel a slight pressure and his gaze seems to come alive. I think he's trying to tell me something. Maybe he wants me to keep shaking his hand. Yes, that must be it. -You don't want me to call the hospital, or stop shaking your hand, do you? -she confirms with a weak blink. Okay, I won't call the hospital, but you have to be strong and hold on until she and your daughter Naomi arrive. He closes his eyes and I get the feeling he's trying to tell me it's too late. Does this mean he could die at any moment? 39. A fatal destiny (Narrator: Naomi's mother) I have not been able to finish reading your latest novel. I think it's enough to make me feel close to hell, when I thought I was close to heaven! Why did fate set that monstrous trap for me? Why didn't I trust his loyalty? How is it possible that a deceitful image could have stolen the best twenty years of our lives? Who drove me to be in that place at that precise moment? The devil? The devil? What monstrous sin had I committed to deserve such a punishment? Poor man, all these years he could not tell me what had really happened! If he had known, of course I would have forgiven him! How could he write the novels I inspired in him if he has felt guilty all these years? I must write urgently to Naomi, telling her of my desire to return as soon as possible and show her father my repentance and my desire for reconciliation. There will probably be no happier person in this world than her when she receives my message! But I also feel as if my heart is no longer oppressed for the first time in twenty years, and is overflowing with joy, and I feel that it is beating again as strongly as when I was eighteen years old, the day I met this wretched writer over a slice of strawberry cream pie! That must be the happiness that forgiveness causes! Blessed be God who has enlightened me! I am desperate and on the verge of a new crisis: the latest snowstorm has left us incommunicado! There is no way to communicate with Naomi. I know from experience of other years that we will be cut off for several days, and he may die at any moment! Why, what evil force interferes with our destiny again and again? For God's sake, I hope it is not too late! No; I can't wait for the telephone lines to be repaired and the snow to be cleared from the road. I have to try to get to the railroad station, because the trains are still running. It's only five kilometers. In a week it's Christmas and I could be by his bedside, and spend the first Christmas together after twenty years of absences. Maybe the cab driver in town will want to take me. I'll go to his house right now. The cab driver is an elderly man, about to retire, and does not dare to drive in this blizzard. The road is narrow, with some very steep slopes. He suggests that we wait for the snowplows to pass, but he doesn't think they will clear the road until tomorrow or maybe the day after tomorrow. But neither tomorrow nor the day after tomorrow are there any trains connecting with the one to the capital. I have to catch the next one, which leaves at five o'clock in the morning. It has stopped snowing and I can walk this route. For this trip I don't need any luggage, whatever I can fit in my bag will be enough. I have to try! 40. The agony (Narrator: the dying man) Poor Alice, how can I tell her that my mind is clear and I am fully aware that I am about to die? How can I also tell her that I no longer have any regrets, because I have only done what destiny had planned for me. Our lives are written in the stars, and our spirit is a part of the destiny of the universe. Destiny that we do not know. Naomi's mother also had a destiny; which has already been fulfilled. I don't know how to tell her that I have sensed her death in some icy place, and that she will never be at the bedside of my deathbed. I once said that a dignified death is to die shaking the hand of the person who feels most affection for you, and that person is you, Alicia, besides your presence in this place makes it a home, so my conditions for a good death are more than fulfilled. Now I can die in peace. She has understood this and continues to hold my hand. I feel her life beating in it, already inert, and that contact makes me begin to feel an indescribable inner peace. It is her soul that pierces me and I feel it inside me, when I only have a few seconds left to live. Now appear the most emotional familiar images of my childhood that I kept in my subconscious. They follow one after the other with their sounds and sensations. I hear my own crying and my mother's voice rocking me in the cradle my grandparents gave her; I see my father pushing the swing in the park near our modest house on the outskirts of the city, when he must have been only two or three years old. He is young and vigorous, and he pushes the swing so hard it makes me cry from the excitement of the game. Many other images pass by, and from all of them I retain some impression. I see myself dressed in my admiral's costume from my first communion, and my parents, who take me by the hand almost on a cartwheel to the neighborhood church. There I see the little girl, with her virginal first communion dress, which made me feel the first passionate emotion of love. A multitude of family images follow, such as the photograph of the primary school, my father's first car, my first train ride, the first girl I went out with and the first kiss on the lips of a woman, and after many others, also the images of the university cafeteria and those that followed. But they all pass quickly and an indescribable emptiness remains after their ephemeral vision. It is as if they were being erased from my consciousness so that when death comes there is no trace left in my soul of what my life in this world has been. I sense that when I reach the last image I will die, and that moment is coming, because I see the image of my literary agent, that night that destroyed our lives. I see her in the half-open door of Naomi's apartment. My imagination has gone blank, and an immense peace comes over me. I no longer feel Alicia's hand. Now I see an intense, blinding light, I know that I am going to penetrate into that light where I will remain eternal... mind.... 41. Death (Narrator: Alicia) He has barely made a slight head movement leaning back against the pillow, and I feel no sign of life in his hand, I think he has died! But he seems to have fallen peacefully asleep. There is not on his face the slightest sign of pain. I withdraw my hand and his hand collapses. Yes, he is dead! The great love of my life lies dead before my eyes! From this instant death will do its work and his beautiful hands, his prodigious head, and his battered body will turn them to ashes. But the hateful reaper has not power enough to destroy the fruit of the one who now belongs to him. His work will survive, and his memory will not fade from my imagination until death takes me too. Now I should mourn him by evoking his memory, but he who has taken him from me will not have his way. Although my soul is broken in pieces, I will not shed a single tear, for I have already mourned him when he was alive. Now I have hardly any tears left, and I must save what tears I still have left for when I begin to miss him and feel his absence. He has been a lucky man, because he has lived doing the will of others, but he has died according to his own will. Only a privileged few have such a death; if it is difficult to live, it is much more difficult to die! 42. The two deaths (Narrator: the author) The two lovers of literature die on the same day and at the same time, because it was written in the stars. The frozen body of Noemi's mother was found by the driver of the snow-clearing vehicle, which would circulate that same morning, clearing the winding road of snow. Her body was not on the road, but in a small ravine, where it must have fallen given the darkness and the layer of snow that hid it. Her former lover died from fatal complications of his incurable disease. Naomi had sensed her mother's death when they said goodbye to each other at the railroad station. Unfortunately, she did not have to choose which of the two she would spend Christmas with, but which of the two she mourned. They were not buried together. She lay in the small local cemetery, and he had her body cremated and her ashes dumped on a nearby beach, as was his wish. Alice was deeply affected, for according to her beliefs, she would not be reunited with her beloved in that dimension she thought she had discovered in his astral personality. PART THREE: ASTRAL ENCOUNTER "Labor not for the meat which perishes, but for the meat which endures to eternal life." (John 6:27) 43. The farewell Death has taken him from me and death will give him back to me. I will look for you wherever you are and we will be together again, but for eternity! If you are in Hell I will rescue you; if you are in Purgatory, I will accompany you until we gain Heaven, and if you are already in Paradise, there we will meet, because love knows no barriers, neither human nor divine. This corpse lying on the bed has lost its soul, which must wander through the cosmos without a specific destination. No one but me will be able to find its whereabouts, because my astral body will be able to travel to every corner beyond the universe, and in some of these places I will find you. She condemned you to hell in one of your nightmares, and she has not come to free you from this curse. Now her presence is no longer necessary. I have to communicate this painful news to Naomi, because she, in spite of her mother's opposition, was very fond of her. She has died just hours before a new dawn. It is not worth waking Naomi so early. It is no longer necessary for her to hurry, her father no longer needs her. I will wait for the dawn. I feel as if I am the messenger of death, but of an expected death. No one will be surprised. Those who knew her diagnosis are already just waiting to read her obituary in the press or on the net, and will exclaim those phrases of condolence that they will have heard in other deaths of other famous people. "Poor thing, he died in the prime of his life and at the height of his popularity"; "He died when he had had everything but his health"; "This is how most of the great characters end their lives: always ahead of schedule"; "Artists live at an unhealthy pace and intensity, that's why they die early", etc. I think they are basically right. The soul is what gives life to the body and if we abuse our soul, we also abuse our body. In the end, the exhausted soul loses its defenses and so does the body, and the inevitable fatal disease ensues. My unfortunate friend was doomed, because he lived abusing his soul since he was aware of its existence. It is dawn, but this is not the same sun as yesterday, nor the same fading stars. It is not the same morning breeze, nor the same blue color of the sky. It is not the same city, nor the same street. Because tonight a writer has died, and when a writer dies something dies in the collective soul of the world, because we writers and artists are the soul of the world. With great pain in my heart I decide to call the unfortunate Naomi to tell her the sad news. She does not answer, but I receive a message from her cell phone answering machine: "Sorry, I am not available. I'm on my way to my mother's place. I just got word that she was found frozen to death on the road as she was walking to the train station. I am devastated and cannot talk. Leave me your message. I feel deeply affected and, at the same time, guilty because I judged this woman prematurely. I hope she forgives me! However, she took too long to forgive him. It is she who should have been shaking his hand when he expired. No doubt she has met her death when she was trying to answer the call of her fake novel, but when it was too late. Once again fate incomprehensibly turns against me, and she will again be my rival after her death, for the three of us will meet again beyond this tormented life. 44. The last trip The unhappy Naomi has had to attend two funerals in a few days. She attended her mother's funeral and barely had time to mourn her when she had to take care of her father's funeral. The hospital has taken care of his cremation and has given him the ashes. Now she has to carry out her father's last wishes and scatter them at sea. She has asked me to accompany her and we will leave for the coast first thing tomorrow morning. -How did my father die," Naomi asks me when we return in a cab to her apartment, unable to hide the sadness in her eyes and her delicate face disfigured by grief. -I think he was at peace, but I can't tell you more because he could hardly speak, I can only tell you that his countenance was serene and he seemed to have accepted death with resignation. -He didn't mention my mother? -He couldn't speak, but I'm sure he would have her in his last thoughts. -The local cab driver told me that she was trying to catch the first train in the morning to meet my father, and he didn't dare take her to the station, so she tried to get there on foot. -Why didn't you wait for the station road to be cleared? -I ask him, although I can guess the reason. -I don't know, but I found a short verse he wrote the night of his death: "Tonight there are no stars and it will not cease to be night Tonight there will be no moon, and it will never be daytime." She must have sensed his death, too, because she did not believe she could see my father alive. But she tried and it cost her her life too. Wherever they are, my parents will have been reconciled and will finally have the peace they deserve. I listen to Naomi and I can't help but feel an unjust wish that her hopes will not be fulfilled. She can't come between us even after she is dead! We are already in his father's apartment. I can't help but have the feeling of his presence, as if his soul has not yet left this room and cannot leave for some reason that only he must know. Naomi looks through everything that belonged to her father, and that now belongs to her, but she doesn't seem to be interested in it. She has gone to the bookshelf and selects one of his novels. She looks at the photograph of her father on the back cover, and cannot contain her tears. -Alicia, what was my father really like? You must have known him better than I did. -I believe that above all he was afraid of condemning himself, because he could never live according to his desires due to his constant remorse. He was a tormented soul who wrote novels to forget the cause of his torments. -Did you love him? -Yes, I loved him, but he never loved me back. -Then why didn't you leave him? -How can you abandon what is already a part of you? -And now, what will you do? -I will write a novel about your father's journey through the cosmos. His life after death! -But that's impossible! I suppose you can imagine, no one has ever been able to meet the dead! I do not want to alarm Naomi and explain to her that I can split my personality and separate my astral body from my physical body. I have experienced it once and I will achieve it a second time. The first time I barely moved a short distance from my physical body, but this new experience I have to take all the necessary precautions so that no one disturbs my concentration, because it will take me a long time to return. -Yes, of course I will imagine it. -Where do you think she is right now? -I can see in her eyes that she is uneasy and fearful, but she must get used to paranormal phenomena, because her parents will try to contact her through her dreams, and I must warn her. -I think he is here, because his soul has not yet been totally uprooted from the emotions transmitted to him by the objects with which he has had contact in life. -And do you think he's watching and listening to us? -he asks me, unable to hide his concern. -No, he neither sees us nor hears us. It can only contact us through our astral body, which happens during dreams. You have to be forewarned, because they are likely to appear in your dreams, and they will want to know what state of mind you are in. But it is likely that they will not make any reference to their deaths, but will appear in scenes that will not make any sense to you. In dreams we have no control over our imagination, time or space. I don't think I should have told her about this possibility. She seems really scared now and will be more so when the night comes and she faces the dreams. A foggy and unpleasant day dawns. It is not the most suitable to spread its ashes. We have arranged to meet at the railroad station, where we will take a train to a coastal town. Naomi is already waiting for me at the station entrance. We still have time for a hot tea, which will lift our spirits. We are sitting at the same table where she was last with her mother. She seems to have regained her composure. -Now I know why my poor mother gave me that sad advice. "Don't expect comfort from us. If you need comfort, learn to comfort yourself." I sensed her death. When she walked away from me, I had a feeling that was the last time I would see her alive! During the trip to the coast we barely exchanged a few words about the unpleasant weather. On the other side of the window, the landscape seems to share our deep sadness. A dense fog hangs over the small towns we are leaving behind. It is hard to believe that there can be happy people in such a depressing landscape. Sometimes the train runs alongside the road, and we can see the cars running at the same speed, occupied by people with obligations and responsibilities who do not think about death, but have no chance to think about life either. They live, that's all! 45. The ashes As we approach the coastal town we can smell the saltpeter. We leave the small railroad station and it is easy to orient ourselves and know where the sea is, because the freshness of the sea breeze clearly indicates the direction. The sky looks like an immense grayish mantle, and a cold and humid fog confuses the shapes of things. The cars drive with their lights on even though it is not yet noon. There are few people in the streets, it looks like a ghost town. We head for the promenade. It is not far. We can already hear the scandalous squawking of the seagulls. The station street leads directly to a simple promenade, as desolate as the rest. We can already hear the waves crashing against the promenade wall. From this promenade we can see the sea, but we can not see the horizon line, which is confused with the sky because of its grayish tone and the dense fog. On one side of the promenade there is a small breakwater, where a few fishing boats are moored, which probably have not gone to sea because of the storm. We chose that place to scatter the ashes. -It is very sad to end a long life of illusions, projects and ambitions," says Naomi, preparing to dump her father's remains in the sea, "in a handful of dust that will be carried by the currents to the bottom of the sea, and so ends his unfortunate story. -It is only his body, his soul will continue to exist, as his works will continue to exist. A group of hungry seagulls hover around, no doubt they must believe that the debris Naomi spreads on the water could be food. -His wish has been granted," he says to me, sobbing, "There will be no more deaths; we no longer need this urn! With an angry gesture, he throws the small urn into the sea. He wipes his tears with the back of his hand, grabs my arm energetically and we walk away from the place. -If you need consolation, learn to console yourself. Yes, Mom, I've already learned! Naomi has recovered her spirits. Life goes on and it is useless to mourn the dead. We have mourned them enough when they were alive. Of the dead, only the memory remains, and he has left a good memory. There is no reason to mourn. I am amazed at her fortitude, but in fact until a few months ago she has been an orphan since birth. Her behavior is not surprising. The return trip is as silent as the previous one. Naomi seems absent, or maybe she is thinking about her future as an orphan. Her gaze is lost in the misty landscape we are leaving behind. She seems to be reacting to some obsessive thought, because suddenly she turns to me and comments: -You were right, I dreamt about my parents tonight.... -He remains eloquently silent, as if wondering if he should unveil his dream to me. I was sitting on a park bench and my father suddenly appeared and sat next to me, but he was dead. I asked him why he had abandoned my mother, and suddenly she appeared sitting next to him, but she also appeared to be dead. They could not answer my question. Suddenly a policeman appeared, and addressing me, he said. "Excuse me, but the dead are not allowed in the park. Take them to the cemetery and bury them." I didn't know what to answer, I was terrified. But incomprehensibly, they both sat up, and turning to the policeman, my father said: "It is not necessary for her to bury us, we will bury ourselves. Goodbye Naomi, don't be late to join us...", and they disappeared, sinking to the ground of the park. At that moment I woke up -she keeps a sepulchral silence, she seems very affected by the dream-. What can this dream mean, Alicia? -That your parents miss you! -I answer without hesitation. -You mean they want me dead? -For them now you live in death, and they live in life. The roles have been changed, that's why they want you to join them. It is possible that this same dream will repeat itself again, although with a different argument, and they will insist again that you join them. You have to be strong and not let yourself be obsessed by what you hear from your parents during the dream. Although they happen in the astral dimension, they are disturbed by your own subconscious. -You mean I subconsciously want to die and join them? -she asks me in alarm. -Yes, but it's because of your current state of mind. You will get over it and your parents will only appear in your dreams when you miss them. Naomi seems comforted by my explanation. But she is still deep in thought, and once again loses her gaze in the misty landscape that we contemplate as the train passes by. Naomi seems to come out of her gloomy thoughts again, turns to me and confesses: -I'd like to be like you, Alicia: sure of who you are and what you want to do with your life. But who am I? The unwanted daughter of two dreamers who were lovers of literature, but who didn't understand the meaning of the word love, even though they wrote it hundreds of times. What should I do? I'm not sure I want to write anymore, with the example of my parents I've had enough! Maybe, as my mother said, I would make an excellent doctor. I'm not sure if I should encourage her to follow her parents' vocation, but precisely because they didn't know how to combine their worldly ambitions with their personal relationships, Naomi will learn from her parents' mistakes and could be an excellent writer without ruining her life. Yes, I think I should encourage her, it would be the best tribute she could pay to her ill-fated parents! -Naomi, in these times when no one believes in what they hear or see anymore, they can only believe in what they can imagine, and we writers can provide them with those images of the world they would like to hear or see! Sadly, most writers rejoice in recreating the nauseating images of what we can no longer believe and should no longer see. You can be a writer who enlightens readers! -But how do I know if I have the necessary talent to not remain in mediocrity? -My dear friend, that is what we all ask ourselves! You won't know the answer until you have overcome a few failures, because each failure will mean you have chosen a wrong path, and you must rectify until you find your own. Talent is about being yourself. The train is entering the central station. Naomi will not move into her father's apartment, because she does not want to live alone. She prefers to continue living with her classmates from college, but she has suggested that, if I wish, I can take it over. The idea is very attractive, because it makes my experience easier. I accept her offer, at least for the remainder of the course, and I will move in as soon as possible. 46. The preparation I am already provisionally installed in Naomi's father's apartment. It is a difficult sensation to describe, because all the objects in the apartment have something of him, and I still have the memory of his dead body on the bed where I am about to sleep. But I feel no fear, on the contrary, sleeping in the bed where the effluvium of the deceased is still there is the best way to communicate with him. I am aware of the risks and I do not know what may lie beyond this dimension. He may be trapped by some higher force and my energy will not be enough to free him. But you may also have reached some dimension that resembles Heaven, and my journey will be in vain. Either way, his destiny was written in the stars from the day of his birth, and it will have been fulfilled without possible appeal. Above all I have to make sure that no one will disturb my sleep while my spectrum is separated from my body. I have to disconnect everything that can ring, including the telephone and anything that creates magnetic fields, which I fear will be impossible to eliminate, and I don't know how it will affect me. After all, when I separate from the body I will only be energy and I don't know how other sources of energy that may be in the apartment may affect it. It is a risk I have to take. The other doubt is, in the case that our spectra meet, to know how we will communicate, because in the encounter we will only be able to communicate through our thoughts, for which we will have to ascend to the mental plane. If we manage to reach that dimension we will not be able to hide our thoughts, so it is impossible to lie or deceive, and everything must happen with total transparency. That must be the curse of material life: the possibility of deceiving and lying, the cause of all the disasters of this world! What will happen if I cannot return to my body? Will I die too? It would be suicide, which means going against my destiny written in the stars, and my soul would wander, without finding rest, until when? But how to have a notion of time where there is nothing but energy? It is all very confusing, and I know I am running a great risk. But what is the meaning of my existence in this world? I have given my heart to a deceased person and now I have no choice but to join him, whether he is in Heaven or in Hell! This weekend could be the appointed day for the meeting, because Noemí will travel to her mother's place to handle the formalities of her inheritance and there is no risk that she might show up unexpectedly. Nor do I expect unexpected visits, because in the last months of her life she had no other friend than her literary agent. His negative opinion of current writers caused him enmity with those with whom he had some relationship. Anyway I will leave a note on the door to make sure of any other eventuality. Tonight will be the big trip. I want to take advantage of these previous hours to write down what I intend to do, and I hope to be able to write also what might have happened on my return. To relax, I take a long walk through the same park where I declared my love. It is a walk full of nostalgia and deep sadness. Everything I see reminds me of his kind person, and sometimes I have the feeling that he is walking next to me and asking me new questions, but this time they are about the mysteries of life and death, for which I have no answers. I sit on a bench and remember Naomi's dream, I would like it to happen to me, but that only happens in dreams, reality is more stubborn, it refuses to change its rigid rules and everything happens as it is meant to happen. I'm back in the apartment and writing notes about tonight's experience. It is getting dark. It is a frigid late winter day. There is a chance of snow. For some reason snow depresses me. I don't like it, because it feels like it is falling on my soul. I like warm countries, because they are cozier and life is simpler. I listen to Bach's oratorios, because I think it is the music that should be heard in Paradise. I lie down on the bed and prepare myself for concentration. 47. Astral travel (Narrator: the deceased) I know I have passed away. I felt a strange vibration and what must be my soul is detached from my body. Alicia has already realized my demise and has let go of my hand, which now falls limp. I feel a force propelling me out of my apartment, and I pass through the wall without any difficulty. I am now traveling at breakneck speed, and I am heading towards the light I saw at the moment of my death. I have entered a strange dimension and I continue my journey through a semi-dark space. In this dimension I see a multitude of trapped specters, who implore me for help and try uselessly to hold me, because their twitching hands penetrate my specter without being able to grasp it. From their appearance and clothing I deduce that some of them have been in this darkness for thousands of years. I also believe that these are people who must have died a violent death, because their specters are horribly mutilated. Some are missing limbs, others heads, and most show wounds possibly caused by the wars or accidents, from which they must have died. But why do they remain in this darkness and not ascend to the luminous zone where I seem to be heading? I notice an important difference between them and me, where the explanation must be. My aura is absolutely resplendent, theirs are darkened. Perhaps when I died with a clear conscience and in peace, my aura was charged with positive energy, which gives it that glow. I have described this phenomenon in one of my novels, the fruit of my intuition, but which I now prove to be correct. For this reason my soul must be attracted directly to the source of light. It must be a simple effect of electromagnetic attraction. For this reason, I suppose that whoever dies with an uneasy conscience, suddenly or by accident, the soul must contain negative energy that obscures the spectrum, and in these conditions they must be attracted only to this dimension, which must be the astral, the first dimension of where those who have died are. These souls are suspended between what theologians call Heaven and Hell, which must be Purgatory. Their desperate attempt to cling to me must be for me to transfer to them the positive energy they need to enter a new dimension that will lead them to the light to which I am heading. But it does not seem that this transfer is possible between wraiths. Possibly that positive energy they need can be transferred to them from the physical world, with invocations, prayers or any other form that I do not know, directed especially to them and showing them your affection. I am still traveling at possibly the speed of light, but I have not yet left this dimension where there are possibly millions of souls in similar conditions. If this is Purgatory, where the souls are not enlightened enough to reach Heaven, those people who die and who have committed faults that have no redemption, their auras will be charged with negative energy, and they must appear absolutely dark, so they cannot rise and remain in the physical world, and this must be the Hell of the souls in pain of theology, and that for some cause that I do not know, they can appear as living dead, or zombies. I have no other explanation. I have crossed another cosmic plane and, at last, I am in the dimension of the blinding light that has irresistibly attracted me since the moment of my death. It has the same luminosity as my soul. No shadow to darken it. My journey through the dimensions of the cosmos seems to end here, because I have stopped moving at dizzying speeds. Here, too, there are perhaps millions of luminous souls like mine. They all seem to have the same youthful appearance, they must not be more than 18 or 20 years old, and they remain suspended in this immense luminous dimension. My specter moves slowly among them. They smile at me and seem to welcome me. I stop in front of a specter that amazingly looks like me when I was 18 or 20 years old, and still in college. He seems to be my double. Something extraordinary has happened: I feel a strange vibration and my double has merged, penetrating into my specter. Now I also have the same appearance as him. I feel confused, but at the same time I feel a great sense of indecipherable goodness. One of the souls who has watched my transformation approaches me and seems to want to communicate something to me. I try to read her thoughts, but I hear nothing. Moments later another even more resplendent soul approaches me, and, like the previous one, I think he is trying to make me listen to his thoughts. I hear him! -Welcome to the luminous dimension, because your soul has only positive energy, and it shines like the light that generates the source that illuminates and created the cosmos! An extraordinary source of positive energy, located in an even higher dimension, and its light is the creator of all the visible and invisible illusions of the cosmos. The more luminous our soul is, the closer we come to this extraordinary source of light. There are the souls of the most virtuous characters in history, such as Socrates, Jesus Christ or St. John of the Cross. I am also a higher luminous entity and I can communicate with any soul, but you can only communicate with those who have had contact in life and feel affection for you. You will be able to hear their thoughts, but they will not be able to read yours. -But what happened to me? Who was this double of mine? Where did he come from? -I hear your thoughts and will answer your questions. When we are gestated two spiritual entities are generated. One is in the form of the space we will come to occupy at the limit of our growth. That entity is composed of positive energy and remains in this dimension. Our destiny is written in it. The other spiritual entity remains in the embryo, which animates it. Its energy is variable and depends on the processes of its consciousness, which can generate positive or negative energy. Our destiny is fulfilled when we act in such a way that it is maintained with positive energy until the instant of our death. Otherwise we act against our destiny and at death we cannot merge with our energetic double and remain in an intermediate dimension or in the physical world, if our consciousness has no redemption. That double of yours has followed your personal development, and has been by your side whenever you invoked him. He was your guardian angel! -Yes, I now remember my experience in the little church park hours after I learned of my diagnosis, where I believed that an angel was sitting in my very pew. It must have been this double of mine, whom I had previously invoked. -You are now constituted as your destiny intended. There is no more duality in you, but an absolute energetic unity! My strange journey to this luminous dimension has ended when I reunite with my double personality. It is as if from this moment on a new eternal life has begun, but I cannot say that I am happy, because that would be to accept unhappiness, unknown in this dimension. It is a neutral state, indescribable, devoid of any anguish, fear or restlessness. Possibly the appropriate expression is "beatific". But fortunately I am not completely separated from my former physical reality, because I can indeed hear the thoughts of those who remember me and invoke me, albeit faintly, like a whisper. At this moment Alicia is invoking me and I faintly hear her thoughts. I fear that she is about to commit a grave imprudence, because she intends to join me in the astral plane, where I am not, and she will never be able to access this luminous dimension while she is alive. If Alice's astral body enters the dimension of the dead, she runs the risk of not being able to rejoin her physical body, and it is quite possible that she will also be trapped in the darkness of Purgatory, and she will no longer be able to join me, as was her wish! I have to find a way to communicate with her and make her see the risk she runs if she persists in her attempt. Now I am nothing more than a contingent of subtle energy that is invisible, but can move into the physical world. I run the risk of becoming infected with negative energy and not being able to return to this dimension, but I cannot allow Alicia to be condemned because of me. I have to try! 48. The return I have returned to the dimension of the physical world and I am at the foot of the bed where Alice is lying. She is approaching the state of concentration where the unfolding of her astral body can occur. If I provoke an energy discharge I may be able to turn on the lamp on the bedside table and interrupt her concentration. I get the lamp to flicker and fortunately Alice has abruptly snapped out of her concentration. She looks at the lamp quizzically, but does not associate it with my presence. She unplugs it and goes back to concentrating. I have to try again and hope she realizes that I'm trying to communicate with her, because my aura's energy wanes. I get her to blink weakly again, and Alice is startled. I think she has understood that it is me who provokes it. -Is that you? Are you here? I flicker the lamp again. Alicia has understood that this is my answer. -So, you haven't left your apartment, as I assumed! But you can't communicate with me. Be patient, I'll join you soon. Maybe this very night. I am trying to concentrate and manage to unfold my astral body, and then we can communicate and you can tell me where you are! I try to flicker the lamp again but it is useless. I will not be able to prevent her from unfolding and entering the dimension of the dead, and if she reaches that dimension and gets trapped I will not be able to rescue her. I only hope that her soul is not condemned and can no longer leave the physical world, which could happen if she dies, because suicide is a serious fault, and it would fill her soul with negative energy! -Alicia doesn't know that I can't hear when she speaks to me, but I can hear her thoughts, and my premonition of Naomi's mother's death is confirmed. But she is thinking that she trusts that we have not met, because she still considers her her rival, even after she is dead. If Noemi's mother is dead I should be able to communicate with her. Perhaps it is because she did not give me her forgiveness before she died that she is in Purgatory. But how do I know where she is? I should listen to her thoughts to know where to go, otherwise it is impossible for me to find her soul among millions of souls. Perhaps his thoughts do not mention me and he thinks only of the wretched Naomi. That would explain it. Alicia is again on the verge of her astral projection. If she succeeds, we will meet again, but it will be for a short time, because she must return to her physical world of the living and I to my energetic world of the dead. All her efforts are useless, our destinies meet neither in life nor in death. I feel truly sorry for this woman, but now I know that it is useless to fight against what is written in the stars. It must be the stigma she was telling me about. Alicia's body seems to shake. It is vibrating. She moves her head from side to side, as if something is trying to detach itself. Yes, it is succeeding, and the specter of her head is detached from her body, and the rest of her astral body as well. Her physical body has been left in absolute rest, no doubt sleeping deeply, while she dreams her splitting. Her first movements are imprecise, she rises slowly but keeps her eyes closed. A thin thread of energy holds her to life, I trust it will not break! Her ascent has stopped. She opens her eyes and gazes at me in amazement, but she cannot speak. Now she must read my thoughts and I must read hers. -Alicia, why did you do it? -He's here! I've done it! But he has changed his appearance, he is now a young man! -Alicia, what you have achieved is to put your life at risk! -He reproaches me for what I did, just for being by his side. -Alicia, I can hear your thoughts. Yes, I have to reproach you. Now you won't be able to join me. I'm dead and you're alive... -Then if my death can settle our differences, I will not return to my body! -You would achieve nothing, because it would be suicide, and you know that your soul would be condemned and could not be separated from the physical world. Give up this useless and dangerous love for both of you! -Haven't I been your faithful companion until your last breath? -Alicia, you are endangering my salvation as well. These reproaches, which I know are not fair, will cause my soul to become contaminated with negative energy, and may prevent me from returning to the dimension of light in which I had managed to ascend. For both our sakes, renounce! -I understand... my stigma haunts me here, too, among the dead. You wish to be with her for eternity, don't you? If I renounce, I'll be damned anyway... -But you will save my soul, and hers too! -She, with her unexpected death, has won! -No, Alicia, we haven't met. I don't know where he might be. Maybe we'll never meet. But where I am, time doesn't exist. I'll wait for you, but you have to die in peace with your conscience! Don't be afraid of old age, when you meet me you'll be eighteen again. -What about her? -Alice, where we will meet there is neither happiness nor misfortune, only goodness; there you can neither love me nor hate me; the three of us will be able to enjoy that infinite goodness eternally, and when its time comes, I trust that Naomi will also join us. -Are you asking me to let my life be consumed in the hope of eternally sharing with you the goodness of your Paradise? -Yes, I beg you! -I have no choice? -Hell now or Heaven when death wants to take you. -You give me the choice between two hells! -Yes, Alicia, but one can last for 30 or 40 years and the other for eternity? -I suppose I must resign and say goodbye until 30 or 40 years from now, and I can't even shake the hand I held at the moment of your death! -That's how it should be, Alicia... But I have to ask you something else.... It's about Naomi's mother. I fear that she is being held in a dark space, halfway between Heaven and Hell. For her to free herself from this dark dimension she needs the help of someone alive, who will transmit her the positive energy that will help her to ascend to a higher plane, and you can help her, and at the same time, help yourself to gain your salvation... -Are you asking me to save my rival? -He is no longer your rival, he is a soul, who, like you, deserves to ascend to the dimension of light and come out of the darkness where he may find himself. -And what can I do for her? -Pray for her! -I've never prayed; I wouldn't know how! -You only have to invoke his name and show him your affection. That will be enough to transmit positive energy to her. Also convey this wish to my daughter, Naomi, to pray also for her mother, and between the two of you you will save her. -How sad is my fate! -No, dear Alicia, in the world of the living there is no greater joy than to feel useful and necessary. Spend the rest of your life writing novels with plots that incite generosity and kindness, and you will live happily until your time comes and you join us. -I don't even have the consolation of crying! -Go back to the living and you can ease your heart with weeping. -Farewell then, until death do us part! -Farewell, my dear Alicia, I'll wait for you in Paradise.... His specter rejoins his body, which remains motionless. I cannot hear him, but I can tell from his sad expression that he must be on the verge of tears. Now he brings his hands to his face and must be sobbing bitterly. Poor Alice, no one but her deserves to enter Paradise! 49. In Purgatory (Narrator: Naomi's mother) Why am I locked in this darkness? Is this the fate of the dead? Where am I? I have seen my body frozen on the roadside as my soul ascended to this dark place. Yes, I must be dead, I have been imprudent, and I have paid for it with my life! What will become of my poor Naomi? I intended to save someone from his regrets, and I die with no one to save me from mine! This place is the Hell I deserve! I shall suffer this anguish forever! I think I see a small glow approaching me. Now I distinguish the spectre of a young man.... Oh, my God, it's him, he's dead too! But he is just as he was when I knew him twenty years ago! Yes, it's him; it's the same restless, ambitious young man who read my poems on our college campus; with the same teasing smile; the same charm in his gaze. I am ashamed that he finds me aging, though he is but a ghost. Perhaps he has heard my wailing, Death brings us together again! He approaches me and I can hear his thoughts: -My dear friend and admired poet, we meet again in strange circumstances. I learned of your sad death in the snow when you were about to watch over my deathbed. I do not know why you are in this dark place, but I will help you and I will repay you in death what you have suffered because of me in life. I needed your forgiveness to die with a clear conscience, but my sincere repentance and the help of our daughter and that extraordinary person, Alicia, saved me from hell. -I would have forgiven you, but death intervened. But, for God's sake, can you tell me where I am? -You are halfway between Heaven and Hell; in Purgatory. Your conscience should not have been at peace at the moment of death, and it became contaminated with negative energy, which prevents you from ascending to a new dimension, where I am. But fear not, your daughter Naomi and Alice will take you out of here and you will be able to join me. -I have never wronged anyone, why do I deserve this punishment? -I do not have the answer. Energy and its relation to consciousness has its own rule, but I suppose that the positive or negative energy that our soul accumulates depends on the state of our consciousness at the moment of death. -Then I deserve to be in this sinister place, because I was reckless.... but I had a good cause! -It would have been useless, because I died the same day. It was already too late! -But I did not know the reasons that led you to that brothel that night, and that you tell in your last novel. If I had known, I would have forgiven you from the first meeting. -I have not written a novel describing that unfortunate event! -Naomi sent me a copy that Alicia had given her.... -Alicia! She wrote that book and altered the facts so that you would come to my deathbed to co-sort me. I don't know what she told about that unfortunate event, but your impression was the true one: I betrayed you! -Is this deception also part of my tragic destiny? -Alicia was only trying to save my soul.... -At the cost of condemning mine! -He had set out to prolong my life until you arrived, but I prevented him from doing so. I am once again to blame! But it is too late for regrets. Our destinies are about to be fulfilled. Mine has already been fulfilled, and Alicia and Naomi will help you to fulfill yours as well. None of us deserves Purgatory, much less Hell. We were wrong because we were human, but for the same reason we repented, and we paid for our absolution with suffering. Now it only remains for us to gain Heaven and a whole eternity to immerse ourselves in a beatific calm in the dimension of light. -If this is also my destiny, I can only trust my daughter Naomi and join you in Paradise. Thus concludes a dramatic story that began one day in early spring, because of a strawberry and cream cakes. 50. Sentences (Narrator: Naomi) Alicia called me because she wants to see me about something related to my deceased parents. We will meet this afternoon and have dinner together at my father's apartment, just like in the old days. I have recovered my spirits and I am living a normal life. Fortunately my career takes up all my time and occupies my thoughts. Only in the evenings I feel the absence of my parents, but in reality I have always felt this absence. I am back in my late father's apartment. Alicia has not changed at all and her books, computer and all her personal belongings remain in the same place. She looks very worn out. It is as if she is suffering from some illness. Her gaze is languid and distant. Something is constantly distracting and disturbing her. She welcomes me with a slight smile. She is no longer the strong, self-confident woman. No doubt my father's death has affected her deeply. -Alicia, don't you feel well? You look tired, you look very unwell. -Yes, Naomi, I am not feeling well. I am depressed and sad. -It's because of my father's death! -Yes, that's why... He remains silent, as if he doesn't want to give me any other reasons for his depression. We sit at the table and Alicia serves me what she has cooked for dinner and we eat in silence. -I thought about your mother," he says in a pause, because he seems to have no appetite. I'm not a believer, but I think we should pray for the salvation of her soul.... -You mean his soul didn't deserve to go to Heaven, if it exists? -The circumstances of her death were not natural but accidental, and in these conditions she died without a companion to comfort her and help cleanse her soul of any remorse. She may be in a dimension where she needs our help. -Alicia, you make me uneasy! Are you suggesting that my mother may be in Hell? -If she were in Hell, she would no longer have salvation, but if she is in Purgatory, our prayers can help her to get out of there and go up to Heaven, which is where she deserves to be! -Alicia, you are talking like a believer. Do you really believe in hell, purgatory and heaven? My comment seems to have confused her, and I think she is mulling over her response. -Naomi, I don't know what I believe anymore! I beg you not to ask me any more questions, for I would not know what to answer. But I have a feeling that we must invoke her and show her our affection. You only need to think of her and show her your affection. Wherever she is, she will receive your message, and she will be closer to Heaven. -Alicia, I always thought you and my mother were rivals. -Dear Noemí, we do not compete with the dead. Outside of this world the heart no longer beats and there is no place for emotions like love. There is only goodness in Heaven and evil in Hell. Near Heaven and Hell there is only anxiety and doubts. Author's note Alicia died of sadness two months later. Her heart stopped because it was no longer useful. There was not an atom of negative energy in her soul and she ascended to the dimension of light without the slightest setback. FIN 1. Diagnosis Five simple words were all it took for the whole fantastic universe I created with my novels and in which I have lived apart from this world to collapse: "You suffer from an incurable disease". I have just been told this by the specialist who treats my illness. The messenger waits for my reaction, but I am unable to get an idea of what I have just heard. There is a tense silence. It seems as if the doctor is afraid to go on describing my situation, but he felt he had to be clear so that I would not be under any illusions, and he warned me that I have no more than six months to live, or, in exceptional cases, and if I respond well to treatment, perhaps a year. I leave the hospital reneging on having allowed myself to be diagnosed with the cause of my discomfort. Of course I do not accept the diagnosis. After all, the pains are still bearable. It is a cool, damp morning, as autumn mornings are, but pleasant for a walk. To prove that the diagnosis is not acceptable, I will walk back to my apartment. Why me? Yes, I know many people who suffer from incurable diseases, but for some inexplicable reason I thought I was immune. Now I need some time to come to terms with my mistake. Even to my regret, I have to accept that I am as human as others, and I can suffer from their same diseases. I am tired and I still have more than half of the journey to go. I enter a small park next to the neighborhood church. On one of its benches a beggar is dozing, and when I approach him he looks at me with a clear expression of hatred, because he must feel humiliated by my appearance of a well-placed person. He cannot know that I had just been condemned to die prematurely; if he did, he would have no reason to envy me. I sit down on an adjoining bench, because my legs can't take another step. The beggar looks disgruntled and shuffles around in his rags, as if this were his house and I had entered without knocking. The doctor has created a stigma for me. I am no longer the me-self who just an hour before could do whatever I wanted, but me-self-and-death. From now on, my every thought or act will have to count on it. But I am not resigned. The doctors may be wrong. Perhaps my medical records have been misplaced and are those of another patient. Some inexperienced secretary may have made that terrible mistake. Nature cannot abandon me and life cannot be so irresponsible with me. Fate cannot go against my will, because it is my will that must create my destiny. This can't be happening to me. I still have many new things to admire, many fantastic stories to tell, and, why not, perhaps someone to love. Is this a divine punishment? Am I being condemned to a premature death for supposed sins committed, even though I cannot know the nature of my guilt? A sinner does not need to know the details of his guilt, it is enough for him to suffer the punishment to know that he has sinned. It is perfectly possible that this illness was written in the stars, or can be read in the palm of my hand, without that I should consider it a punishment. But the most reasonable thing is that it is the result of my long nights of voluntary insomnia, giving life to characters that in gratitude lead me to death. But I bear them no grudge. From the beginning I accepted that every work that deserves praise is because in it there is a little bit of our own humanity, and humanity must also have its limits. Perhaps that was my fault: to have created ghosts and presumed to be their god. But without me they would never have existed, so I must be right: I am their god, and therefore I do not deserve to be punished with such cruelty. ZIf that is divine justice, all artists will go to hell and imagination would be persecuted and severely punished. 2. The reaction The great impression and uneasiness that the diagnosis has caused me totally overrides my sense of time. I do not know how long I have been sitting on this bench. While I think of my desolation in some remote part of the universe, I am sure that someone, who already knows my fate, must be feeling sorry for me. It is probably an angel, the same one that appeared in the prayer cards we were given when we were kids in religion classes. Back then I wanted to be an angel too. I wanted to fly, to see the world from above, to migrate to warm lands, to be free like the birds, and, according to those bright pictures, only angels knew how to fly. That's why I wanted to be an angel. My hair stands on end, because I sense that this angel may now be sitting on this very bench, listening to my nostalgic thoughts, futilely trying to console me, because angels and humans, for some reason that only God must know, are incompatible. But I have returned to real time because of the murky, resigned look the beggar gives me from time to time, unable to understand what someone like me is doing sitting on this bench at this hour of the morning, reserved for the homeless. I would like to tell him that I don't know either, but it would be of no use to him. A cold, autumn sun shines, but clean and bright. A cool, damp breeze from a nearby sea moistens my hot face. There are still traces of the morning lightning on the cars and sidewalks. Winter will soon be here. It is inevitable that winter will come to all of us one day, but some of us will not live to see the next spring. The beggar has stood upright and looks at me in wonder. I think that despite his appearance, he must have the ability to read my thoughts. Yes, he knows what I am thinking, because those of us who suffer have the same rictus, the same languor in our eyes, the same curvature of the back, the same reddened eyes, and all that is easy to translate into common language: Desolation. For a few moments he seems undecided. Finally he makes up his mind, and with the gait of one whose muscles are numb, he comes to my bench, but does not sit down. He remains standing, hesitant, undecided. Finally he makes up his mind, and asks me for a cigarette, but unfortunately I don't smoke. I offer him some coins, but he incomprehensibly refuses. His gaze wanders to an indeterminate point, he seems to meditate whether to engage in conversation or return to his world. As if that encounter had not taken place and without making the slightest gesture, he walks again with the same clumsiness that short distance that separates our two worlds, and again wraps himself in his rags to continue dozing. He has no courage to come out of his poverty and I have no courage to accept mine. He has lost confidence in human beings, from whom he only asks for a cigarette; I have lost confidence in myself, from whom I only ask for courage to face my misfortune. The beggar has risen again and comes towards me. He asks me with a gesture of mock humility for the coins I offered him. I don't feel like taking any interest in his situation, I only have some interest in my own. Not even an hour has passed since I have known my condemnation and I have a feeling that before returning to my apartment I will have passed to the phase of rebellion, which is nothing more than the resource of kicking, previous step to the acceptance and submission without defenses or reservations. "Behold the slave of the Lord, be it done unto me according to thy word". The beggar gets impatient, he probably thinks I want to humiliate him and I notice more hatred in his stray look than in the previous one. I hand him the coins and he goes back to his bench without thanking me. He counts them and gives me a contemptuous and coarse look. No doubt I had hoped he would have been more generous. I can't stand his ragged presence any longer and resume my walk, but part of my body burns as if I were already in hell, and I find it hard to walk. Is there a hell? Is there a heaven? Is there a God, and his angels and cherubs? I am horrified to realize my rapid transformation. For the first time I have doubted my deep-rooted secular convictions. Until just a minute ago, hell, heaven and God were something anecdotal; a topic of conversation full of incongruities and fanaticism for the gullible and ignorant; of intellectual blindness and irrationality. And suddenly these theological questions arise again, but with renewed importance. I also sense that my mind will soon go blank, refusing to think, since I could not stop thinking about death and its intricate mysteries. I have to rediscover nothingness, and immerse myself in it until the day of my announced death. 3. It's three in the morning and I can't get to sleep. Just darkness and nothing else. Those figures that the lights of the cars project on the ceiling are the only thing that catches my attention, the rest seems to have vanished. Everything around me is silence, darkness, nothing. Whoever created this absurd word was thinking of me, I have given it its true meaning; its authentic meaning; its oppressive emptiness. At four o'clock in the morning I will still be thinking the same thoughts I am thinking now, and the next hours, the next days until the day of my death I will still have the same thoughts: nothing. I have nothing left to think about except nothingness, and, thinking about nothingness is like not thinking. I leave my mind blank to try to dissuade my brain from reliving bad memories, the good ones I have not forgotten. 824 there is nothing left of all that. It is time for my own final judgment. I have been ambitious, selfish and disloyal. If hell exists, no doubt I will be condemned. I have to admit it, these insistent pains, added to my regrets, have sapped the creativity of my imagination. My latest novel is mediocre, even pathetic. The characters are stillborn and act like real zombies. I think I have lost connection with reality and live in a parallel world. I see the new world but I don't feel it; I hear it but I don't understand it, and I no longer have anyone around me to comment on this chore of time; a confidant to whom you can tell a host of misfortunes without being rejected, ignored, or forgotten. I have crossed from one dimension to another without realizing it, entertained with my dreams of greatness, with the conviction that I would put the world at my feet and now I am its doormat. I have betrayed the only woman I have ever loved. I have despised my friends, and admired my enemies, because I preferred the encouragement of victory after a bitter war against my enemies to the sterile peace of friends. And now I have neither friends nor enemies. Some I have humiliated, and the others have ignored me and rejected my enmity, so that there is nothing left, neither of one nor of the other. I am prostrate on the bed trying to forget that I have a corrupted body, which threatens to destroy my soul and my mind as well. Tonight the sporadic lights of the cars that cross the roof seem to me like souls in pain that warn me that very soon I will be one of them and I will cross the roofs of other damned; that neither heaven 8 hell exist, only the unbearable nothingness. 4. The first sunrise 6 It's finally dawn. I have slept two or three refreshing hours. It is a relief to sleep; to be able to have the opportunity to meet with the dearest people, but not the real ones, but the ones that your mood needs, and that during wakefulness sleep in your imagination. Only in dreams things happen as we wish them to happen; without dreams the soul would have nowhere to take refuge, nowhere to nest and sing its song, it would be prey to the harsh and severe reality. I do not know who gave us the faculty to dream, but it must have been someone very understanding and well aware of the weaknesses of the human being. Maybe it was the God that religions talk about, but I cannot accept it, because I simply do not believe in anything. I have even stopped believing in myself. He who lives in nothingness cannot believe in anything. But it is dawn and it is my hour for optimism; the most awaited moment, because light must be the cause of all creation, while darkness is in charge of destroying it, of plunging creation into an abyss of no return, the same that must await us after death. I have thought a lot about death, especially about my death; about my irreversible and early death. I would like to believe in transmigration, because life is not destroyed, only transformed. It would be a comfort to be able to believe that moments after my last breath to be part of a new life, somewhere on Earth or in the Universe. After all, we come from it and we will return to it. But my room has been flooded with light and now I see things as they are and not as I dream them. I see on the shelf meticulously arranged by thickness, color and height my novels, on which I have spent, or perhaps worn out, all my life, and some photos of remote and unrecoverable times. The best novels I wrote when my mind and my imagination had wings, because they were young and free, and understood each other: what the imagination created my disciplined mind wrote. Most of my novels have been a resounding success, but the last one was tainted with my illness. On my desk, next to the window through which I look out on my part of the world, I see that the computer that in better days constantly provoked me, leaving me hardly any respite, no time for rest, remains inactive and silent. I could only hear the exciting and rapid sound of the keys describing on the illuminated screen the images that gushed like a spring of fresh water from my exuberant imagination. Then this machine was an extension of my mind and my spirit, now it is a common computer, like thousands of others, without soul and without activity, because I no longer have anything to tell. The keyboard seemed to me like a universe, with which one could express even the deepest philosophical thoughts, write the most passionate dialogues, or describe the most beautiful scenery. Everything was there, at sight, you just had to choose the right letters, in the right form and with the right rhythm. That was another life. Each character that came out of that now inert keyboard completely disrupted reality: they were the real ones, the rest was a dream. I felt them so alive that I often invoked them convinced that they would appear in my room, and we would discuss their future as a character in the novel. I always had the feeling that they were unhappy with their role, because I never got to know them as they really were, even though I had created them myself. But that was before the diagnosis; before my walking became clumsy and unsteady; long before the first symptoms of my illness made me lose consciousness because of an intense pain arising from some vague part of the inside of my body. But I had a premonition of my illness many years before. I may have had the presentiment from birth, so I lived with urgency, wrote with urgency and also grew old with the same urgency. Now I can rest and calm down, there is no longer any reason for urgency. 5. A dignified death I have discarded all hope. I know I am going to die, but against my will. I cannot accept that nature will decide for me. I have to anticipate its blind impulses; its irrational destruction. Only I can decide when and how I should die. It is a thought that horrifies me, but perhaps I must put an end to my life myself. Suicide? Would I be able to do it? But how? I don't want to die a violent death. By resorting to sedatives? But, knowing my situation, no doctor would prescribe them. I never thought it would be so difficult to attempt against one's own life. I envy those who are fortunate enough to die in their sleep, because the greatest difficulty for a suicidal person is to make the last decision of his life, because it is not possible to rectify it. Perhaps I could resort to euthanasia, but I do not want to die where the law allows it, nor do I want my death to be a commercial exchange. I would like to die by the sea, at the dusk of an autumn twilight, to take its beauty with me into eternity. Can't the wishes of a dying person be fulfilled? Why can't mine be fulfilled? But I am talking about me; planning my death by my own hands and by my own will. I intend to be myself the murderer who destroys everything I have created; to put an end to the fruit of my youthful illusions, my ambitions consummated after many years of loneliness and sadness, to my pleasant memories. At least if nature kills me, I will not be responsible for this homicide. No, I cannot attempt against myself. No tree would destroy its own fruit. But if I do not have enough courage to attempt against my body, I have to silence my conscience, limit the gloomy thoughts and close the eyes of imagination, the only one responsible for my sufferings, because we do not suffer if we do not imagine. So, do I have to let this terrible disease take its course? How will I bear this long agony? What stimulus will I count on? I can't imagine waiting impassively for death lying in a hospital bed, my mind dazed by painkillers and my vision blurred, foolishly fixed on some spot in the room. No, that is not a dignified way to die. There must be another, more humane and less painful way. Maybe the only worthy way to die is in that place you call home, and to be next to someone who feels true affection for you; that you can shake his hand until the last breath is lost, because it is through the hands that souls communicate and express their desires and feelings, so you can take his affection and his smile to eternity, although my eyes no longer see, my ears no longer hear and my body no longer feels anything. That is the only worthy way to die! A wise but useless reflection, because I don't have a home or anyone who feels so much affection for me. This apartment is not a home, because it lacks the essential: a woman. It is only a place of residence; a comfortable refuge; the right space for a writer; a gilded cage where to let the imagination run free. Only a woman can turn a station waiting room into a home, because she is the home. It is in her arms, in her bosom, in her feminine energy. Home is in the bed where a woman lies. As for someone who feels enough affection for me to watch over my agony and shake the weak hand of a dying man, unfortunately I haven't heard from her for many years. She was my first and only love, the person who stimulated my imagination and my creativity. To her I owe what I am and the memories that have inspired most of my novels. But back then my blind ambition was stronger than my feelings. We were united and separated by our passion for literature. We were both confident in our talents and had not the slightest doubt about our future successes. Our relationship inspired his best poems, for which I was flattered and transported to another world, but providence had a painful fate in store for him. The plot of my first novel was also the fruit of our relationship: the story of a failed poetess who describes her suicide in her last poem - a bitter paradox of fate! She helped me to correct my notable literary defects as a beginner, even typed the manuscript and suggested that I send it to a well-known literary contest for beginners. She shared my illusions and ambitions with generosity and without the slightest shadow of envy. He gave himself entirely to this work, which finally bore its unexpected fruits: I won the first prize! What followed is the cause of my regrets and I will never be able to forgive myself. A well-known literary agent was interested in me, and assured me that I had great literary talent and that in one or two years she would make me the most read and admired writer of that time. I was deeply flattered and accepted her bet. She suggested the theme of my second novel: a romantic story with a happy ending, and I had no difficulty in imagining the plot, I only had to add some new scenes to my own personal experiences. In this second novel it was she who revised and corrected the numerous stylistic flaws and grammatical errors of the first manuscript. We used to work in her own home, in an atmosphere of intimacy and familiarity, created to seduce me and make me literally fall into her arms. He had seen in me not only a talented writer, but also a lover. Unfortunately for my faithful companion, my agent was a woman with the appeal of mature yet beautiful women, with a young spirit and great experience in the arts of seduction, so it was impossible for me to resist. In a short time she managed to completely dominate my will. I spent my days in a frenetic program of promotion of my novel that barely allowed me to dedicate a few minutes to the memory of another woman who had to suffer in silence every time my image, with a studied smile of an arrogant winner, appeared in the media. The few moments I did not dedicate to my promotion I had to occupy them in satisfying her desires, always unsatisfied, not as my agent but as my lover. Although there were times when I was aware of my disloyal behavior, I could not give up the vain feeling of being above the common people; of dominating their wills, turning them into sycophants and my admirers. Since then there has been no peace for my spirit and I have known neither true friendship nor, much less, the passionate feeling of love. Now it is too late, because both friendship and love are like a beautiful plant, it needs time to bloom. 6. Memories Sometimes I wonder what would have become of me if I had not won that unexpected prize. I would possibly be married, have two or three children, a more prominent abdomen and could have found a good job in an insurance company, where I would have been promoted to assistant manager by now. We would live in a nice house with enough rooms for everyone, located in a quiet residential suburb. We would have two dogs, my wife's hysterical Yorkshire and a larger breed, plus a Siamese cat. Two of my children would already be going to university. The eldest would study law, and would already have secured a job in my company, and my middle daughter would study journalism, because she believed she had a vocation as a writer, and would have already published a book on the web with a romantic theme. The little one, because we would most probably have two females, would still be in high school and would wear a dental prosthesis to correct the deviation of her teeth. My wife would be president of some cultural association, and every first Saturday of the month our large living room would become a meeting room, where a dozen active mothers of families, and some retired widower, would discuss the details of an ambitious cultural program. We would have a good relationship with our neighbors. He might be a top executive of a multinational pet food company, and she would run a small, exclusive clothing boutique in our residential area, which in all likelihood would be a ruinous business. Every summer my wife, myself and our youngest daughter would spend two weeks in a popular seaside resort, where we would have an apartment booked every year on the 15th floor of a building on the third line of the sea, while our older children would take advantage of the summer to follow intensive English courses in London or New York. Is that what I missed? No; it's too conventional an assumption that I would never have accepted. But I don't want to think of my life with that woman as if it were the plot of one of my novels. She is a person and I must not confuse her with a character; our relationship was not a novel. Sometimes I don't know how to distinguish dream from reality, because memories eventually become dreams, and dreams eventually become reality. Everything could have been different if I had not been so blind and ambitious and had not fallen into the arms of my literary agent. But soon her eagerness to feel young and attractive no longer found sufficient stimulus in me, and she found herself a new lover, another ambitious young writer. I did not feel her betrayal at all, rather it was a liberation, because I also needed new stimuli to continue the meteoric rise of my popularity. Then I tried to recover my first love, but I lost track of her, it gave the impression that she had emigrated to another planet or had been swallowed up by the earth, because she had disappeared from all the means that could identify her whereabouts. Discouraged by the futile search, I tried to seek solace in one of my young female admirers. It was not difficult for me to seduce them, I could even choose among the many young girls who idolized me. I chose her not for her intelligence but for her body, because my capacity for love had been nullified by my betrayal. Unfortunately, despite her attractiveness, my constant remorse made me impotent and insensitive, so my relationship with my young lovers was brief and frustrating. My remorse led me to accept loneliness and I gave myself body and soul to my work. But the theme of my novels changed radically, the previous plots always had a happy ending, the new ones became unhappy, negative and with tragic endings, in which the protagonist of the story invariably died. But far from declining, my popularity continued to grow, because in our time there are hardly any relationships with a happy ending, and my readers identified better with the new dramatic twist of my tragic plots. 7. Ella Yes, despite all these years, I still keep her image alive, because she has been the one who has inspired my most beloved female characters. I have described her so many times that I could not forget her even if I tried. And if my memory should play a trick on me and erase her image, I only have to read again and again the novels where she is present to recover her intact, just as I have kept her for the last twenty years. But the years go by and leave their horrible mark. Maybe if I passed her in the street I wouldn't recognize her. What havoc has time done to her childish face and rosy cheeks? What color are her curly blond hair, always tousled, tangled between my fingers? And her breasts, small but sensual? What must not have changed is her sincere and tender look, nor the blue color of her eyes. How much I have longed for her in my long sleepless nights giving life to characters with her qualities! How much I would have given to feel her hands on my sore shoulders for those endless hours trying to recreate the world with the fantasies of my exhausted imagination! And how many mornings I woke up hugging my pillow, waking up from a dream in which I took her in my arms, and lying on a fragrant freshly cut lawn, we contemplated a pristine blue sky, which our eyes could barely contemplate a tiny part of its immensity. I met her in the faculty canteen one day in the early spring of 1997, the year Dario Fo won the Nobel Prize for literature, which I secretly aspired to win someday. She stood in front of me in the cafeteria line and pretended to hold her cup of coffee and a huge strawberry-cream cake with one hand, because the other was holding several books of poetry. I offered to hold the books for him, but he declined. Finally, as feared, the coffee cup, the cake and his precious books rolled on the floor. Then she did accept my help. While she cleaned up the pieces of cake that had smeared the books, I got a new cup of coffee and the last remaining slice of cake. But as fate would have it, that early spring morning she was left without her coffee and her delicious strawberry and cream cake, because I tripped over a misplaced chair and, once again, coffee and cake ended up on the floor. That coincidence in our clumsiness we interpreted it as a sign of destiny, that we were made for each other. The days and months that followed our eventful meeting were simply glorious. We discovered our respective vocations and ambitions, and agreed, sealed with a kiss, to walk together on the road to glory, which our youthful optimism considered conquered. We used to sit on the soft grass of our campus and exchange notes with our respective creations. I would read and appreciate her poetry and she would read my stories and we would discuss them in heated literary debates. Even today I still remember one of her poems, dedicated to me, of course: If your heart were foam, I would be ocean; If your soul were heaven, I would be cloud; If your gaze were rain, I would be a field; If your hands were water, I would be thirsty. We attended all cultural events related to literature, and we were considered "Les enfants terribles" of book presentations, because of our exhaustive questions. I think authors were afraid of us. We didn't miss any biographical film of writers. We made plans for the future, for when we were rich and famous. We agreed that we would spend half the year in Paris and the other half in Mallorca, in a small house on some cliff and that from the bedroom window we could watch the sunrise over the Mediterranean Sea. We had even decided to have our first child when I turned 30, and to have enough time to consolidate our respective literary careers. All those wonderful fantasies were happening before I won that damned prize. I realize now that I was sure of what my bright future would be like with all sorts of details, but I wasn't sure what I was like, and I barely endured the first test that fate put in my path. 8. The message I have barely had time to reflect and be fully aware of my pitiful fate and tomorrow I have to appear in public and make the presentation of my latest novel. I am the slave of my own success, a prisoner of the clauses of a draconian contract. I have long since ceased to be free and become an admired slave. I would give everything I own to go back and restart my life with her, and that I would never have had the clumsiness to submit my first novel and a literary contest, only to have the misfortune of winning it. But it's too late now. Now I will be back on the cover of specialized magazines, but to announce my inevitable death. They will write eulogies full of eulogies and virtues that I surely do not have, but the dead are extolled or sullied, but rarely respected. Surely the sales of my books will triple, so my untimely death is a magnificent business for my publishing house, for the printers and for the bookstores. They will mourn my death with crocodile tears. My agent will visit me repeatedly to secure his commission after my death. The publisher will also visit me, and with affected sadness, will make me sign a new contract to ensure the exclusivity of my books when I leave this world. I will receive thousands of condolences from my admirers, and they will be so hypocritical as to wish for my speedy recovery, but deep down my death is much more morbid and exciting for them. And what will become of my work? How long will it remain in the memory of my current admirers? A dead writer is only profitable as long as his funerals and tributes last, then other living writers will occupy my void, and they will surely be victims of my same disease. I am not likely to survive long. I have always had the feeling that I was writing what readers wanted to read not what I wanted to write. I will never know what kind of writer I am because I have never really tested myself. It has all come too easy to be important. There is no greater misfortune for a writer of vocation than to win a contest at a young age nor worse torture than to succeed at something you don't like. To write what your own intuition dictates, it is necessary not to think about readers at least until you are forty. I am one of those victims. I try to put these pathetic thoughts out of my mind by reading some of the numerous messages I receive every day. Today I don't want to read that chorus of praise from those who seem to be born to admire anyone who has their name printed somewhere other than on their ID card or in the mailbox. Most of them admire me only because I have hundreds of other admirers and followers, but they don't really know why they admire me. They all expect the same thing from me: a few words of response from the myth they are subjugated to in order to feel blessed by divine grace. Those of these unconditional admirers are a few short sentences that they must have saved in their computer memory to send to their favorite writers: "Very good your last novel", "I was hooked by your last novel", "I enjoyed your last novel", "I loved your last novel"; etc. And what can I answer? I could give them a huge thank you and have them divide it among themselves. But there is one message that catches my attention. It is that of a young woman. I can't explain it, but her image makes me uneasy and uneasy. Perhaps it is because there is something common in our features; or because of her haughty and provocative look, and yet, there is something of sweetness in her face. I have the impression that her arrogance hides a vulnerable personality. I almost don't dare to read her message, I have a feeling it will not be favorable and I don't have the day to endure criticism. After all, praise is a balm, it doesn't cure but it soothes; criticism is a bitter medicine, it tastes bad but it cures. I dare to read it: "Hi, I am an aspiring writer who has read all your novels and in my humble opinion there is only one that has a good motivation: the first one, the rest are acceptable, but lack this important quality. It seems as if after the first novel you have lost the motivation of the first one. As for your last novel, I am sorry to say that it seems as if you have lost both motivation and inspiration. Forgive me for being so frank, but that is my opinion. Naomi." Whoever you are, Naomi, you have discovered my best kept secret! I confess that this severe criticism from an arrogant and conceited young lady has affected me. I shouldn't worry, all the invitations for the presentation of my new novel have been booked for a week now, and the reviews have not been very effusive but not bad either, but what surprises me is the certainty of her judgments, which fully coincide with the reality of my literary career. It is true that the novels after the first one I wrote were influenced by my literary agent, not by a human being, and that they were not written by the artist but by the professional with a good style. And that face... that expression... those features so similar to mine; the clear forehead, the dimples in the cheeks and the slight droop of the eyelids... they are identical. But I wonder who is this mysterious Naomi? There is nothing in her profile that identifies her, not where she studied, not where she lives, no pictures, no blog; nothing! I answer: "Dear Noemí, your harsh criticism has hurt my self-esteem, but I appreciate your sincerity. I have no doubt that you will be a great writer. I am aware that none of my novels will deserve even a modest corner of posterity. If I wrote with posterity in mind, I would lose practically all my readers. In the times we live in, no writer can be above the intellectual level of his readers, because that would make them feel guilty and ignorant. If you appear half a dozen times on a TV channel with a large audience and you have some physical attraction, you automatically become the idol of thousands of people who were born to be followers. The media has so much power that if they had their way, they could win the Nobel Prize for the editor of the crime chronicles of a provincial newspaper. If the media have idealized you, you can write anything, because they won't stop admiring you. My latest novel is not brilliant, it is as normal and ordinary as the normal and ordinary readers who will enjoy reading it, because it speaks in their same language, it has their same vices and virtues. Anyway, that is the novel they would write themselves, but I have spared them that painful work. Most of us writers today are not chasing readers but journalists and image-makers, who are the ones who really rule the world. If you dream of being an out-of-the-ordinary writer, your life will be spent within that same out-of-the-ordinary dream, and you will never be able to live in reality. I look forward to your understanding. Kind regards" I send it. I find it a good rejoinder, but I have to admit that your criticism has merit. I don't owe my fame to my supposed talent but to the popularity that my first novel gave me, and that she inspired me, and the intelligent marketing of my protector. I have no more merit than to have been able to interpret her advice, her deep knowledge of the psychology of readers and her wise ideas, with my ability to write them in an acceptable style. But I am sure that there are hundreds of writers with much more talent than me who have not been as lucky as me. I just received a new message from Naomi. I wonder how she interpreted my reply. I could delete it. After all, it's just the opinion of an immature young girl, I don't have to take it into consideration. I have plenty of admirers and I am no longer worried about success or failure, because there will be no more novels to criticize. She is right: I lack muse and inspiration. But I am curious to know her opinion and I open it: "Yes, good novels need good readers, that's why they are so scarce. But good writers make good readers, and if you write mediocre novels you will always have mediocre readers. I look forward with great interest to hearing your views on the presentation of your new novel. Best regards and see you tomorrow. Noemí." It hurts me, but I accept it. You are absolutely right: each reader gets the author he or she deserves. No doubt I am one of those to blame for the mediocrity of the readers, because I have been satisfied with their compliments without worrying about whether or not they were well-founded. What can I say about the novel if I have never written a real novel? 9. Hallucinations Another endless sleepless night. I see mysterious shadows creeping stealthily around my bed. No doubt I suffer from hallucinations. I have had to hide all the pictures that decorated this room, because when I looked at them it seemed as if they were moving and coming out of their frames. Sometimes I look at my hands and it seems to me that they are someone else's and not mine. Any small object becomes an insect crawling on the shelves of my bookcase, or on my study table, I even see them moving on the quilt of my bed. I know they are simple hallucinations caused by my tired eyesight and depressed mood, but they distress me. I cannot bear this suffering until the day I die. I have to do something. I need her forgiveness. I have to find her even if I have to go to hell itself, from which I am only a step away. Why hasn't he contacted me in all these years? I am a public figure. She must have known how to contact me. A wound can't stay open for twenty years. They say that time heals everything, but they don't say what kind of wounds it heals. There are some for which, it seems, time does not pass, and probably some of them are disloyalty and betrayal. But she may also already be married with a family, and no longer feel any interest in me. Or, who knows, and I am distressed at the very thought, but she may already be dead. The ghosts keep haunting my bed. It seems as if all the spirits are conspiring against me to destroy what little judgment I have left, but I will resist; this is not a good time for madness. I have taken from the shelf my latest novel and read the passage in which the heroine discovers that her lover is cheating on her. It is an ordinary love story, and in real life cheating is also ordinary, and I have personal experiences to write these scenes realistically. Another dawn without any reason for optimism. I must have slept two or three hours, but I feel tired and sore, because the few hours I have slept have been occupied by a horrible nightmare. Fortunately I can only remember the final moments. I was bedridden in a hospital bed, but the room was painted red and a faceless nurse was injecting me with a dose of morphine. Scenes of a butcher butchering pigs could be seen in front of my bed. The pigs would talk and ask the butcher, "Why me?" But the butcher would not listen to their cries and would unload one after another of his deadly blows. Incomprehensibly it was my turn, and I asked him again the same anguished question, "Why me?" with the same result. And the butcher was preparing to settle his killing blow, when he suddenly transformed into her, smiling, just as I last saw her on campus. She stroked my dazed head. She gazed at me for a few moments, and barely as a whisper, she exclaimed: "Spreads his wings the angel of death, because he has an important assignment from Lucifer. When you are suspended by its deadly claws, I will not cry for you but for me, for I will not be able to accompany you to hell, as was my wish." And he vanished, transforming into the butcher, who again was about to lay his deadly blow when fortunately a call from my cell phone woke me up from this horrible dream. It is my current literary agent. -I'm sorry to call you at this hour, but I want you to know that I'm sorry; I'm really sorry! -His ambiguous message causes me great concern -I'm sorry about your diagnosis! -How do you know about my diagnosis? -Someone from the hospital has leaked the news of your incurable disease and it's circulating all over the social networks! I didn't know it was so serious! Believe me I'm sorry; I don't know what to say...! -My agent feels obliged to take charge of the situation and comments visibly affected: "If you are not feeling well, we can cancel the presentation. But this would mean breaching the contract with the publisher and would bring us a lot of headaches. Only death can be a legal justification. No, I have to make the presentation. Sooner or later they will know my state of health. A writer without a contract is free to do whatever he wants, because he has nothing published. On the other hand, a writer with a contract and who has published has something to justify his slavery. We write to have a reason to lose our freedom. That's how paradoxical the writer's world is. We arranged to have breakfast together in a café near my apartment. My agent was accompanied by a young woman who made a great impression on me. But not because of her beauty, but because of her appearance and curious attire. She wears a wide leather jacket of a striking scarlet color, which contrasts with her straight black hair, cropped at the nape of her neck, pale as snow. She wears tight black tights and a black skirt that covers a small part of her thighs. But the most striking thing is her huge military-style boots, which she laces up with red laces. As for her face, it seems vulgar to me, with nothing to highlight. I have the impression that with that flashy outfit she intends us not to pay attention to her face, which she herself must be aware of its lack of attractiveness or charm. However, her gaze and gestures are simple and frank. Just by her manner of greeting I deduce that she is cultured and intelligent. The young lady is the latest represented by my agent. According to him, she has talent. He wanted her to join us for our interview because she needs to be introduced to the world of literature, and he felt I was a good place to start. The young woman seems somewhat intimidated by my presence. She has spilled her coffee twice by shaking it too vigorously. She doesn't dare look at me straight on, and doesn't take her eyes off her shaken coffee cup. I wonder what he is thinking. He waits for me to speak to him, and the truth is, I don't know what we can talk about other than the weather. I break the silence by commenting that it's been a very wet autumn. The young woman nods slightly, but only out of politeness. My trivial remark confuses my agent, who doesn't want to waste time with such trifles. From a pocket of her jacket she pulls out a newspaper clipping and hands it to me. It is the latest published review of my novel. I ask him to summarize it for me, that's why I have an agent: -It's good," he says, not hiding the businessman's satisfaction, "even suggesting it could be the novel of the year. I don't discuss it with my agent, but I suspect this reviewer must collect a check every month from my publisher, and doesn't want to antagonize them. There are few honest critics left, or if they are, they are ignorant of the fundamentals of literature. For the sake of this millennial art I would have preferred a bad review, as this novel deserves. On another occasion I would have rejoiced, but now that I must give an account to my conscience for all my actions, it saddens me, because even now the wise phrase: "The hour of truth has come" makes sense. And the truth is that it is a bad novel. The young writer congratulates me and assures me that I deserve it, and seems to expect my thanks. I think she is trying to suggest some topic of conversation in which she can participate. -Forgive me for butting in," he finally decides to intervene, "but I think it's a good novel, too. I ask him what motivates his opinion. -It's well written and the characters are very well characterized," she answers a bit embarrassed, because she wasn't expecting my question. It has very well-drawn descriptions and the dialogues are very natural. Yes, I think your last novel is very good. It is evident that this young girl belongs to this generation in which ideals are rare, because she has omitted the fundamental: the plot. A poem does not need a plot, words are enough, but a novel cannot exist without a plot. The plot is what links fiction with reality, and a good novel must bear witness to the reality of its time through the plot; of the author's commitment to his time. If this linkage does not exist, it cannot transcend its immediacy, and instead of a novel we write a pamphlet of three hundred pages, decorated with a suggestive cover, and with an unjustified price. I don't put this idea to her because she probably doesn't feel committed to her times. I ask her what she thinks of the argument and she seems to mull over the answer: -It's a classic theme," he answers without much conviction. The betrayal of the one we love. It's a good argument. But it is rude of me not to show interest in your work. I am also interested in his idea of literature. I ask him which genre of literature he is most attracted to, and without barely letting me finish my sentence, he replies: -The novel, of course! It must be so, because her face has been transfigured with the charm of enthusiasm. She seems pleased by my interest; it is evident that she wished to communicate with me, but as a writer to a writer. She has succeeded. I ask her what is the reason for her enthusiasm for narrative, and her answer leaves no room for doubt: -Only a novel can tell a complex story that is a complete world. The short story is very brief and the tale can only tell a part of that world. No doubt this young woman knows what she wants. Now we'll see if she also knows why she wants it. I ask about her motivation. -My motivation? I've never asked myself this question, I think I was born already motivated by the love of literature! I have many reasons to be motivated," she answers with a sudden and astonishing self-confidence. But perhaps the main one is that through literature many values can be transmitted that can help each generation to be morally superior to the previous one. That's a good answer. I have been wrong about this young woman and I have underestimated her. I ask her the last question: -And what is literature for you? -Literature is a way of telling stories that provoke in the reader the feeling of the beauty of language, the creativity of the imagination and the understanding of the reality in which they come from or wish to live. When the words do not prevent the imagination from seeing, hearing or feeling what you are reading, because they are all in perfect harmony, with none missing or surplus. That is my opinion. I am impressed by her response, and I congratulate my agent on his wise choice. The young lady is out of the ordinary, but that doesn't mean she will have the success she undoubtedly deserves. 10. The walk I say goodbye to my agent and his young companion, to whom I give encouragement to continue because I believe he has the necessary talent for success, but I also warn him of the price he will have to pay for his passion. A useless warning, because passion overflows all attempts at restraint. He will go on his way without heeding my warnings. My agent asks me what I plan to do until the time of the presentation, and if I would like to have lunch together as well. Maybe he's thinking that it's not a day to leave me alone and he needs company. I tell her that I had thought about taking a long walk in the park, but I decline her invitation; I have never liked restaurants. The young woman also seems concerned about my mood and makes me a tempting offer: She would like to accompany me on my walk and then go to her apartment, where she will cook for me one of the specialties of her region. It sounds like a good program and I accept. I notice in his invitation the desire to communicate his concerns and show me his works to know my opinion, but also a sudden affection for me, which must have a large dose of compassion. It is cloudy and at intervals clearings open through which the sunlight penetrates, and all the foliage is illuminated as if it were a fresco painted by some genius of those who probably inhabit this park. My young companion seems to be happy that I have accepted his invitation, and walks beside me but in silence. I have the impression that he has already achieved his purpose and does not think he needs any more arguments or reasons to convince me. There is no doubt that he admires me, which makes me feel uncomfortable. No person is more admirable than another, what is admired are the results of his education, intuition or creativity, but not the human being himself. Since we all deserve the same respect and consideration, there cannot be some more admirable than others. I try to make him see it with a committed personal question: -I would love to know what idea you have formed about me; and why were you interested in meeting me personally? The question has caught her off guard. She meditates for a few moments on her answer, losing her gaze in an undefined point of the leafy walk, sketching a smile that must emerge from her thoughts. She turns to me, literally glares at me, and doesn't hesitate in her surprising answer: -Because I am in love with you! Now the surprised one is me, but the years have made me skeptical and limited my ability to feel affection for others. But there is another reason for me to reject her surprising statement: I have no other mission in my remaining life than to find the woman to whom I owe what this young woman admires. As long as I do not repay my debt my feelings are blocked. I let her know this in the least painful way possible: -Sometimes we writers live our fantasies as if they were reality. I'm sure you love a character in your novels who looks like me. But your answer surprises me even more than the first one: -I have told you that I am in love with you, but not that you are in love with me. You cannot prevent me from loving you, but neither can I prevent you from feeling no affection for me. I know you don't find me attractive, you may even consider me ugly, and you may not like the way I dress. I choose whom I love, but I don't pretend that you are also my lover. I am content to be able to walk beside him, and if he feels like it, to taste my casseroles, but he must know that I love him! Her generosity is sublime: she gives her feelings in exchange for accompanying the faltering step of a dying man, and having a guest at her table. No doubt this ungraceful young woman has an immense heart and can afford to squander her affections. I must not allow this waste, she may later need them for herself. -But you yourself have witnessed that you have fallen in love with a sick man who will soon leave this world! -I know, and I feel a great sadness, but you are a writer too, and you make people love each other who exist only in your imagination. Why can't I do the same? When the unfortunate day comes when you are gone, I will still have you in my imagination, and I will still love you as I love you now. It is inevitable that I will ask you this crucial question: -But what is so attractive about a dying curentón that awakens such a passion in you? -There are very few men who have been able to penetrate the soul of a woman. We admire the man who has brilliant ideas, but we love the man not for his intelligence but for being essentially a man, whereas we can fall madly in love with a gigolo, a greasy-handed mechanic or a smelly sewer man, as long as they are essentially men! If he is also intelligent and creative, then he is irresistible! -Do I belong to that category? He doesn't answer me, but his smile answers my question. 11. Lunch The apartment of my young lover is a museum of nostalgia, because it is full of objects that remind her of her place of origin, which she must miss deeply. It is a single room where a certain chaos reigns. His desk is next to the only window in the room, and it is full of pages with printed texts, which must be his writings, where his laptop appears. On the printer is a small stuffed panda bear, and on the window ledge, arranged in a row, is a veritable collection of assorted objects, possibly gifts or souvenirs from trips. His bed is a large convertible sofa, because there is not enough room for a regular bed. On the opposite side of the window there is a space separated by a wide curtain that must be your kitchen. And next to it a table where no more than two pieces of cutlery can fit, as long as you remove the huge bouquet of flowers that are beginning to wilt. The table is also occupied by the remains of a previous meal, such as unwashed dishes, half-full glasses or leftover bread. It is obvious that he was not expecting visitors, so he hastens to justify the mess: -Excuse this mess, but I wasn't expecting visitors, I'll tidy it up in a moment. Despite the clutter the set is intimate and cozy. I'd rather you didn't tidy it up. -Would you like to read some of my writings while I prepare lunch? I beg you not to address me as you, because we have already made enough confidences to be on a first-name basis. -I will read them with great interest. He tries to put order in the pages scattered on his desk until he has gathered about twenty pages. -It's the first pages of my new novel," she says with some embarrassment, "it's the love story between a young dancer and her choreographer... who is inspired by you. He insists on not calling me by my first name. I suppose his love for me includes this distant treatment. If he were to call me by my first name, some of his charm would be lost. I have to accept that. I like his style. I am particularly struck by this passage: "A talented dancer understands the language of music and translates it into the harmonious movements of her agile body. You no longer need a choreographer, but a lover who interprets the music that moves your body!" The meal was delicious and for her, moreover, a source of longing. I still have a few hours to go before the presentation. She suggests that I get some sleep to be clearer. I accept the idea. We unfold the bed and I lie down. She covers me with a light blanket, closes the window shade and locks herself in her tiny kitchen to do the dishes and the rest of the service. I hear the bustle of the kitchen almost in my sleep, and it brings back images of times gone by, when she also cooked for me. I am awakened by the sound of crying. It is the young woman crying. She is lying next to me, and hurries to wipe away her tears when she notices that I wake up. -Is something wrong, Alicia? I ask him in alarm. But his answer puzzles me: -Forgive me, I am a fool; I was crying with happiness to have you next to me, in my own bed! I could never have imagined that this young, scantily clad, strikingly dressed young woman was such an exceptional human being. No doubt that appearances can be deceiving. I feel the need to know more about her. I let her approach me, because I feel more paternal than passionate affection for her. I beg her to tell me something about her. She comes closer to me. I think she wants me to hold her in my arms. I cannot rebuff her and do her bidding. She smiles gratefully at me. -I'm just a provincial girl, ugly and clumsy," I try to protest, but she interrupts me. No, it's true, I'm ugly, that's why I dress in flashy clothes, although it doesn't do much good. The boys didn't like me, even though more than one tried to rape me. I grew up without the slightest affection and soon I had no other alternative to mitigate my loneliness than to invent lovers and friends. I felt real disgust for boys of my age, violent and rude. I fell in love for the first time with a mature, married man. He treated me gently and, although I would have allowed it, he never asked me to make love. It's my fate, he wasn't in love with me either, I think he felt pity. I had no choice but to leave my city, and I came here. Literature was my only friend. My novels were my only consolation. I managed to interest a modest publisher to publish one of my novels, although I had to pay for the edition out of my own pocket. That was almost two years ago. I sent the manuscript to several publishers, but all of them rejected it. Someone advised me to look for a literary agent, and I found his agent on the Internet. I sent him a copy of my novel, and the rest you know. I remain silent because I am impressed by her story, so different from mine! I have betrayed those who loved me; she has been faithful to those who did not love her. Her story makes me feel even more guilty. But she has omitted something and I can no longer accept that I am not interested: -But I am missing in your story! -Yes, of course; you're missing! I met him during the presentation of his previous novel. I was sitting in the last row. I looked like a normal young woman then, and you approached me several times, but you must have been invisible, because you didn't so much as glance at me and I didn't dare to catch your eye. I have always been somewhat shy and introverted, but that day I was out of this world. When I saw you on the rostrum, with your shirt unbuttoned, with your mocking and provocative gesture, so sure of yourself, something stirred in my whole body, and I immediately understood that I had fallen in love with you, but with the man, I didn't know the writer yet -he remains silent for a few moments, as if reliving that moment in his imagination, because I feel as if his body was shaking; he smiles as if now he finds his sudden passion for me funny-. When I left his presentation, I don't know how long I walked around aimlessly, trying to hold back tears. I had fallen in love with the most admired man in the literary world. I still ache from the applause of his brilliant speech. When he finished and came down from what for me was already a throne, for you were already my king, all the young women in the room surrounded him because they wanted to touch their idol. They were all beautiful and wore brand name clothes. I was a provincial girl, ugly, shy and clumsy, and I wore old-fashioned clothes. That night I stayed up all night, crying non-stop. When a woman falls in love, the lover is part of her flesh and soul, and his absence hurts as if both were torn away. We don't think we can survive these terrible wounds," she pauses again, but now she seems to be reliving those bitter moments. Unexpectedly she takes one of my hands and caresses it. That comforts her and she continues her story. I spent some anguished days, but I finally resigned myself and tried to put the fire that burned me down, but I didn't stop loving him, only to numb his memory. But I resolved to one day be on the same level as him, so that he would notice me. I changed my wardrobe and frantically wrote one novel after another in which somehow you were always the protagonist - he exchanges a meaningful glance with me and continues - You can't imagine the joy that invaded me when I saw your photograph in the office of the agent who had agreed to represent me! -Yes, I can imagine! -I interrupt her. -And now you are here, in my own bed, and you hold me in your arms. Have I no reason to weep for happiness? 12. The presentation The account of her generous love for me, which I certainly do not deserve, changes my affection for this sensitive young woman, who has the evocative name of Alicia. I no longer find her ugly, nor clumsy; I see not her face but her soul, and I find her beautiful. I would like to let her know this, but I fear I may change my mind when my remorse for my unforgivable betrayal returns. Only if I rid myself of them could I even reciprocate her love for me. But I cannot forget that I must not delude myself into enjoying the pleasures of life, for before my feelings can be free to love whomever I wish, I will have died. Alicia does not deserve this punishment. It's time to go to the presentation venue. My agent has called me on my cell phone, he is worried about my state of mind, but I reassure him, I feel strong enough to face the presentation. Even the story of this young woman has given me new arguments to defend the literature that arises from the deepest feelings and condemn the banal and entertaining. As expected, the room is packed to capacity. Most of them remain standing because there are not enough chairs for everyone. No doubt they know the news of my diagnosis. My agent is waiting for me in an adjoining room to bring me up to date with the most prominent attendees. The editors of several literary magazines have come, and most of the journalists from the culture sections of the newspapers. They must be interested in the story of the writer who dies, not the one who writes. Alicia has accompanied me here, but she got confused with the audience and I lost sight of her. The moderator and other guests are already on the podium. When I appear in the room there is a telltale murmur. Several photographers take snapshots of the panel, but mostly they point their cameras at me. They must think that these will be the last pictures they will take of me. The moderator introduces me and gives a brief summary of the novel I am going to present. The time has come for my speech. I look for Alicia in the crowd, and discover her at one end of the room, leaning against a column. She has felt my gaze and smiles at me. She wants to encourage me; her smile makes it easier for me to begin my speech. -Good afternoon. First of all I want to thank all of you for attending the presentation of my latest novel. I feel guilty that I have this comfortable chair when most of you have to stand. Had I known so many of you were coming we would have held this presentation at the Olympic Stadium -you laugh at my joke, but I'm sure most of you didn't expect me to still have a sense of humor under the circumstances-. I assume you have all read the reviews of my new novel. Most are favorable, but not all - I forgot to send the check to two or three reviewers! I also assume you must already know the news of my diagnosis. Yes, I have only a few months to live, and it's no laughing matter, but my health won't improve if I take it seriously," I'm interrupted by a loud murmur, but I beg for silence. I learned the diagnosis yesterday, and because of the leak I haven't been able to extend my life insurance premium. I am sorry for my cat, who is the beneficiary of the insurance, because as you must know, I have no offspring. I'm very fond of my cat, because she's the only one I understand - I gave up understanding humans years ago! But I guess you haven't come here to hear about my good understanding with my cat, but about my latest novel. Surprising as it may surprise you, this novel and the previous ones I could not have written without my cat. She has taught me to accept who feeds me without losing my dignity. She has also taught me that there is always a time to play, and despite my advanced age I have never stopped playing! For me writing is a game, but a serious game. To play it is necessary to know only these three basic rules: to have a good technique, to have one's own style and a solid motivation. Whoever knows these three rules well has every chance of winning. Writers have a solid training, and we know how to distinguish a past perfect from a pluperfect, we do not commit spelling mistakes and we know where to put a comma or semicolon. After all, they are just rules to memorize, so most of us have a good technique. But when we talk about style not everyone understands what its meaning is and how it is valued, although critics insist on pigeonholing us with this or that current, because style has no rules, but depends on our sensitivity and the value we give to the words. Each word, in addition to a meaning, has a tone and must be joined to other words perfectly tuned, which is not common in today's literature, the meaning prevails and not the intonation. And if we talk about motivation, we usually associate it with remuneration, and not with a commitment to the values of our time, which must somehow be reflected in the arguments of what we write. Artists also pay rent; for the tax authorities we are just one more and in supermarkets they don't give us credit, if we don't pay we don't eat. That's why the writer must be paid. But this should not be the motivation. And that is the incurable disease of art, because what is the patrimony of the spirit becomes a market product; what should not have a price becomes an accounting value; what should entertain and enlighten, only serves to entertain. Finally, the spirit has nothing to exercise itself with and atrophies by inactivity and the result is that we lose the sensibility to distinguish the beautiful from the ugly; the good from the bad; the transcendent from the inconsequential. And that is the deplorable state in which literature finds itself today, practically on a global level, because insensitivity to art has also become globalized. All the responsibility for this situation falls on fifty percent of the readers and another fifty percent on the authors, because each reader has the author he deserves, and each writer has the readers he deserves. About this last novel, I will not reveal the plot, just advance that it is the drama of two writers, she is a poet and he is a narrator, who are united by literature, but separated by words. We understand the people we imagine, but not the real ones we love. Finally, I would like to tell you a moving story that illustrates better than any complicated argument what Literature is and what it is for. The story I wish to tell you is that of a young writer from the provinces, who considers herself ugly and clumsy, rejected by everyone, and who learned to love generously through the characters in her novels. This young woman does not write for fame and money, but to feel loved, even if her lovers are fictional. But her extraordinary humanity and generosity has been rewarded, and the beloved protagonist of her fiction has become a reality. However, despite her fleeting happiness, the story does not have a happy ending, because the real character will die a few months later, and this young writer from the provinces, who, as I have said, considers herself ugly and clumsy, will again resort to the suggestive power of literature to keep him in her memory and keep the flame of her love alive forever. -I try to see what Alice's reaction to my mention is, but she is no longer standing by the column. She has disappeared! Perhaps I have offended her, but I have to go on. And it is this extraordinary power of literature that I wanted to tell you about in this presentation. Power that only literature that springs from inspiration and shapes a creative imagination has. There can be nothing more obscene than a stultified, uninspired, soulless literature. Thousands of words put together without harmony or humanity, telling us banal, dehumanized stories, with no other purpose than to entertain our boredom and distract us from our worries. Death scares me, as it does any human being, but in return it has given me something I would not have had without its terrible threat: freedom! Now I can speak my mind without fear of the consequences, and I think that the novel I present to you here today was not written by me, but by market demand, like practically all other novels published today. Only that young, ugly and clumsy provincial writer, and perhaps thousands more as provincial, ugly and clumsy as her, to whom no one will pay attention, write their novels for themselves, as their hearts and minds dictate, because they simply need to. Literature, written in capital letters, is a necessity, not a pastime; it not only entertains, but teaches; it not only calms, but heals; it is not only read, but lived. If I were to be born again, I would like it to be in a world where one could survive without the laws of the market; and where we were all provincial, ugly and clumsy. I have nothing more to add, but I will gladly answer your questions, as long as they are not too personal. Several hands were raised asking for their turn to ask questions. I answer the one from a journalist: -I am sorry about your illness, but I would like to know how you plan to spend your last days. I answer without hesitation: -Meditating on death. The next question is from a woman who must be my age: -What is it that you have wished for but have not been able to achieve? -Understand the world we live in! The third question has caused me an inexplicable emotion. It is from young Naomi, with whom I have exchanged several messages. The question puzzles me, for which I do not have a ready answer. -Do you regret not having started a family, and perhaps having had one or more children, who would now take care of you? I sense that there is some hidden meaning to your question. What can I answer? It is too late for regrets. -Your question is too personal and I have already warned that I would not answer such questions. The young woman seems very upset, and does not want to give up. She insists. -Who or what inspired you to write this novel and what was your motivation? I have not meditated my answer, it has come straight from my subconscious, where it should have been for many years: -All writers have an emotional conflict between what we create and where we get our inspiration. We usually make our imagination make real what is not possible in real life. I have been inspired by a real person whom I don't understand. As for my motivation, it is precisely to try to understand her. The young woman seems satisfied with my answer and does not insist. They applaud my intervention, but only the youngest seem to have understood my message. Utopia is no more than twenty years old. The pain returns with severe intensity. I ask the moderator to close the presentation. The attendees seem to understand the reasons and the room is becoming empty. Alicia met with me. She had rushed out of the room so she wouldn't be seen crying. Perhaps I had overdone it and should have been less dramatic. My agent tells me that outside the room a crowd is waiting for us to sign copies. I can't refuse. Most of them show me their sadness for my illness with some words of comfort. I don't know how many books I have signed but I am exhausted. I beg Alice to let me lean on her shoulder and we return to the hall to collect our coats. I feel the pain blurring my vision and I am so weak that if I didn't lean on her I would have collapsed by now. In this deplorable state I am unable to recognize young Naomi, who remains in her seat, because she is waiting for me. My agent has spoken to her and conveys her desire to talk to me, but has not revealed the reason. But I am not in the mood to hold literary talks with my female admirers. I ask her to excuse herself, and to contact me by mail. My agent communicates my message to her, but the young woman insists on talking to me. It's not about literature, apparently it's personal. Alicia helps me into an armchair in the next room, and the pain seems to subside. I ask my agent to call the young woman - I hope it's not another platonic love! 13. Noemi For the first time my illness has prevented me from fulfilling my editorial commitments. It is evident that my health is getting worse with each passing day. It has been a blessing that I met Alicia at this crucial time. For the first time I am unable to fend for myself and I need help. I am beginning to feel the painful preambles of death. I am anxious about the interview with young Naomi. There is something familiar about her, as if I had known her in a previous life. But, on the other hand, I sense that she brings with her serious events that may alter what little life I have left. Alicia seems to share my concern. She may be a rival with an advantage, because Naomi is a very graceful young woman. She is of a medium build, her long hair, of an elegant brown color and her harmonious forms, make her a very attractive young woman. She enters the room accompanied by my agent. She seems uneasy or perhaps nervous. She contemplates me prostrate on the couch. She must understand the inappropriateness of this interview. As she approaches, I feel a deep pity in her eyes. She seems to feel my illness as if we already knew each other. I beg him to sit in the next armchair. -So, Naomi, what is this important thing you have to tell me? She makes a gesture to sit down, but again she remains upright, something is bothering her. She exchanges a glance with my agent and with Alicia, who remains next to me, leaning on one of the arms of the wide sofa: -Could we be alone for a few minutes," she asks me, visibly nervous, "what I have to tell you is very personal. My agent exchanges a questioning glance with me, and Alicia becomes uneasy, because she must believe that the young woman is definitely a feared rival. If I beg you to leave us alone, you'll think I don't trust you, but now I'm keenly interested in what this young woman wants to tell me. I beg you to leave us alone. Alicia can't help exchanging a sad and doubtful look with me, but she respects my wish. The two leave the room without reproach. Naomi follows them with her eyes and seems relieved when she closes the door behind her. For a few moments, during which she seems to gather her thoughts and calm down, she does not take her eyes off an indeterminate point on the floor. Then she looks up and, visibly excited, asks me: -Do you remember who wrote this verse? If your heart were foam, I would be ocean; If your soul were heaven, I would be cloud; If your gaze were rain, I would be a field; If your hands were water, I would be thirsty. It's as if a bolt of lightning crosses my mind. I have a powerful intuition, but I refuse to acknowledge it. How did that poem come to this young woman? I don't answer, but it is I who asks the next question, and I feel my breathing become labored and my old heart flutter: -Who wrote it? She looks at me and I feel a deep anxiety in her eyes. She is on the verge of tears. -My mother wrote it twenty years ago...! She breaks into silent tears and covers her face with her hands. She doesn't dare look at me. I am stunned, and I don't know how to react. I ask myself the question I anxiously await an answer to: Is this young woman my daughter? If so, how could all these years have passed without her mother telling me? Yes, it is possible; we made love a few weeks before my betrayal, and we took no precautions. But how should I behave towards her? I cannot feel sudden parental affection for someone I do not know, even if she is my own daughter. We will need some time to get to know each other and maintain a normal father-daughter relationship. On the one hand the news fills me with joy, but on the other hand it saddens me, because for twenty years I have ignored its existence and when I learn of it I have only a few months to live. I have managed to regain my composure, I have to act sensibly. I hope she will also regain her composure and clear up my many doubts. Where is her mother? Why has she kept my daughter away from me all these years? My so-called daughter has calmed down and stops crying. She turns to me with a pleading look on her face, because she expects me to somehow prove to her that I have adopted her. But I need some answers: -Dear Naomi, you must understand that this situation is very confusing. I can't behave like a father in a few moments. Calm down and tell me why you haven't contacted me before. Where is your mother? But let my agent and Alicia come, they are absolutely trustworthy and can be present. I must not show them mistrust. My supposed daughter nods slightly as she wipes her tears and tries to regain her composure. I call my agent and Alicia and update them on the new situation. They are both perplexed and don't know what to say. Alicia approaches Naomi and tries to comfort her by stroking her long silky hair. Naomi thanks her with a smile. She seems to be calm now. I hope she can clear all my doubts. 14. Naomi's story -I didn't know you were my father until just a month ago, when I needed a novel for a paper on current literature and I found one of your novels in the faculty library. When I saw your photograph I was struck by our physical resemblance, but I didn't pay any more attention to it, but when I read the description of the female character, I realized that you were describing my mother. I read all her novels and in all of them, with minor changes, she was still the same description of my mother. But I was missing one of her books: the first one, which won a well-known literary contest of that time, and I could have the definitive proof. But they had no copy in the library. The book was out of print and a bookseller informed me that you had not authorized its reprinting. So I went to all the used bookstores in town, with no success. When I had already lost all hope of finding that book, I received a call from a classmate of mine to give me the good news that she had a copy of the book I was looking for. When I read it, all my doubts were dispelled. Your novel was titled "Poetas sin cielo" (Poets Without Heaven), after a poem written by my mother, which is the plot of your novel. Certain that you were my father, I booked an invitation to the presentation of your new novel. But I didn't want you to know until I was sure what kind of person my father was, because I had formed a very negative idea of who had abandoned my mother. When I found out about her illness, I changed my attitude, but when I listened to her today I felt enormously proud to be her daughter, and I want to believe that she will have some powerful reason that could justify her abandoning her when she was pregnant with me. Unfortunately my mother doesn't have the answer. You don't know this, but so great was the trauma of the separation that she suffered a bout of severe amnesia, from which she has not yet recovered. She still has no memory of her relationship with you. I grew up with my grandparents in a small northern town, but they were not aware of their daughter's relationship with you either. My mother was a free and independent woman, always doing what she wanted, until she lost her memory. My grandparents took her in and she still lives there, but now she is alone, because both my grandparents have died and I have enrolled in the university in this city, the same one where you and my mother met, twenty years ago! It is true that reality surpasses fiction! I am desolate, my soul hurts me more than my body, but for this evil they don't sell painkillers in pharmacies, they can only be found in hell. I do not deserve the affection of this ignored daughter; I do not deserve the affection of anyone and I doubt very much that I can avoid my damnation. I almost wish it as a deserved punishment! 15. Repentance There is a sepulchral silence. I notice in the expressions of my agent and Alicia a veiled reproach. Naomi looks exhausted, indecisive, waiting for my reaction. Now I should give her a justification for my behavior, but I have none and she must know it. I do not expect her forgiveness, but at least she will not live deceived. She must know who her father is, and if in spite of everything she believes she deserves his affection and understanding. -No, dear Naomi, I have no justification, your father is a scoundrel! -Alicia wants to protest, she can't understand how I could have behaved that way, but I beg you to let me finish, I need to confess my guilt. Naomi cannot blame her mother; I am the only one to blame. When we are young and ambitious, everything seems valid and we believe that wounds heal easily. I knew your mother would suffer for my betrayal, but I assumed she would soon get over it. Perhaps she would find another young man and soon forget about me. I could never imagine that her love for me would be so deep, and my betrayal so painful. I also didn't know she was pregnant, because after I left her I didn't have enough courage to take an interest in her, and I never saw her again. I know that Naomi must be disappointed with my statement of guilt. I can see the dismay and confusion in her expression. It is unfortunate, but I still believe that youth heals wounds quickly. Naomi must also soon heal this wound. In my desperation I can only think of a remote justification: -Literature brought us together and literature itself drove us apart. I believed that my literary career was above feelings; as if I had been born to fulfill a mission, and I could not put anything, including people and their feelings, before this blind ambition. My only love was literature, there was no room for anyone or anything else! When I received your first message I understood my mistake, and why my novels lacked motivation and humanity, because there can be no humanity in a novel if it is not inspired by love for people, from which the characters arise. Alicia has proved my mistake: she knows what literature is and what it is for. She has not had the misfortune of finding a literary agent with the ability to promote an author's works; someone who knows the tastes of ordinary readers and knows what they like to read. An agent who uses your talent for her commercial purposes. Who makes you the idol of ordinary people and the monster of yourself. My agent has reacted. He seems to wonder if he's not doing the same thing to me. I don't want him to feel guilty too. -When you agreed to represent me, I had already adopted the bad habit and all my novels suffered from the same lack of motivation, but they were guaranteed success. I only began to worry after this last novel, it was the result of all these years of denying myself; the writer who wrote "Poetas sin cielo", the only novel fruit of my love for a person, and not of marketing and the market. Noemi reminded me when it was too late to redeem my sin: I will never write again because I do not deserve to be loved and I cannot love anyone! Alicia does not admit my resignation. She protests and wants to give her opinion: -I don't agree; your father is not totally guilty! Whoever has the courage to acknowledge his guilt deserves forgiveness; the holiest were the most sinful. It is not the saint who needs compassion, but the sinner! Naomi, you have to forgive him, not because he is your father and even if in the past he has behaved like a scoundrel, but a repentant human being who recognizes his faults, deserves your compassion and your forgiveness. Forgiveness is what makes us human beings; resentment turns us into soulless beasts, only with memory. My daughter is on the verge of crying again. She is under great emotional pressure and looks so vulnerable! She looks at me and I can see in her eyes her desire to forgive me. Alicia takes one of her hands and places it on mine. Her hand is burning and trembling. It has been the prodigy of a true writer who has performed the miracle of forgiveness. Naomi hugs me and cries silently. I think I hear a whisper: -Dad, I love you! I feel like crying too, but now I have a daughter who needs a father who is strong! 16. Reconciliation It's been two days since the eventful launch of my latest novel. It's not long to assume that I am now the father of a lovely young woman. I have been taught a hard lesson, but it is only the beginning of my redemption. I have lived twenty years of loneliness and isolation and now it is hard for me to assume that I have to spend some of my time thinking about others. I don't know what the responsibilities of a parent are. Naomi is as independent as her mother and doesn't need anyone to tell her what to do or how to do it, and it doesn't create big responsibilities for me. She will continue to live in the apartment she shares with two college roommates, but we will do our best to have dinner together two or three times a week at my apartment. Alicia has offered to be our cook, and she will delight us with her delicious local stews. Naomi confesses that she is not very skilled in the kitchen, she is a young woman devoted to her career. I think she has inherited my passion for literature and her mother's sensitivity for poetry. I can't say whether or not he has talent, he hasn't had the time or opportunity to test himself yet. He hasn't written anything important. But I have always believed that talent is not inherited, but born with it. It is not in the genes; it is in the mind and in the soul and we must acquire it at the very moment of our gestation. It may come to us from the cosmos or from someone who died at that very moment. I believe in transmigration, because the spirit, like energy, is not destroyed, it is transformed. From the beginning of time there is a universal spirit, which believers call God, from which all animate beings come. The obvious proof of transmigration is that in my family there are no artists or writers, only normal people, concerned about normal things. There may have been some among my remote ancestors, but I do not know it. My illness continues its diabolical course and does not leave me much free time without pain. I often have to go to the hospital for painful treatment. In exchange for putting up with all this discomfort, I am assured that I will be able to prolong the time I have left to live, which I need to put my conscience in order. As expected, my latest novel has tripled the sales of the previous ones. Death is an extraordinary attraction. My publisher cannot hide his satisfaction, even if he is sympathetic. The media hound me and I have had to change my phone number. The messages of condolence are overwhelming, I find it impossible to read them all. But fortunately they are still unaware of my unexpected paternity, they must believe that the young woman who accompanies me is my latest conquest. As for Alicia, I cannot deny that I feel a deep affection for her, but it cannot be called love, because in these critical moments I do not know the meaning of this beautiful word. She seems resigned and I believe that, in spite of everything, she is happy just to be by my side and to be of help to me. Yes, it must be her fate that she is not reciprocated. She has been unlucky in her choice of lovers. She and Naomi seem to understand each other well, and share the same concerns. I think they have become good friends. But this fleeting happiness has a dark shadow: her mother! I have talked to Naomi about her, it is not an easy subject. Naomi thinks my presence might help her regain her memory. But I wonder if it might not be better for her to keep her amnesia. It must not be pleasant for her to remember my betrayal. If she regains her memory she may be able to forgive me, but it may also increase her resentment towards me. Because of me she has wasted twenty precious years of her existence, there is no penance great enough to compensate for her suffering. I know it would make Naomi enormously happy to see us together again. As if time had not passed, and to reconstruct the past at the moment when we were happiest. When she wrote that short and passionate poem to tell me, with four rhymes, how much she loved me, and which has marked our lives. Today we will have dinner at my apartment. My two wives will be arriving any minute and I have to tidy up a bit. I don't feel very well, despite the painkillers that wreak havoc on my stomach, a constant pain persists that manages to make me lose my temper and sour my good nature. It is amazing and sadly paradoxical that during the last twenty years in which I have enjoyed excellent health I don't think I have had even five minutes of happiness, and when my health has broken down I am not able to manage so many moments of happiness, I have met an extraordinary woman and I have recovered an ignored daughter! Living is a game that consists in doing the opposite of what we consider reasonable. The first to arrive was Alicia. She has come a little early so that when Noemi arrives, dinner will be ready. She is interested in my health. She suggests that given the state I am in I should have someone to take care of me 24 hours a day and she is probably right, but I insist that the time has not yet come. -And when will that time come, when he is dead? It was a spontaneous reaction, but she regrets having told me. She is deeply sorry. -Forgive me; I didn't mean to...! -There's nothing to forgive," I interrupt her, "you're right and I know you'd be happy to do it yourself, but I can't accept your help. I have to finish paying my debts first. Naomi's mother needs more help than I do, and she believes that my presence can help her recover her memory. But I don't know how she would react if she remembers our relationship. Alicia has understood what I dare not say. Now her rival is Naomi's mother, because if she agreed to forgive me she would be the one to take care of me until the day I die. -I understand, once again my sad destiny is fulfilled: I will never be reciprocated by the people I love. All my efforts to live this moment have been of no use to me. I am always the last in line, and when I arrive I have finished what they were giving away. Alicia has returned to delight me with her casseroles, but Naomi does not seem to have enjoyed her dinner. She has remained absent and with her thoughts far away from here. Before coming she spoke to her mother on the phone and believes she is deeply depressed and disoriented. -He's afraid to forget about me too," she says in anguish, "He sent me a verse that reflects his confusion and pitiful state of mind. We have to make a decision tonight. Today I dreamed that I dreamed, that you were not who you were, that time had no time, and that death had died. I can't help but compare this verse with the one from twenty years ago. Despite all those forgotten years, she is still a great poet. 17. Amnesia I beg Naomi to tell me everything she remembers about her mother after her bout of amnesia. -What I know of the early years, of which I have only a blurry picture, was told to me by my grandparents. Naomi doesn't seem to be very enthusiastic about my suggestion. They must be sad memories. Memories of a child raised by two old men and a mother with no past, unable to tell her daughter how it came about, by whom and where. Without her being able to even mention the name of her possible father. Not only has she not had an unknown father, but a forgotten one. But I beg you to try to overcome your sadness and go on. Before we meet I need to know how all these years of oblivion have passed. -We don't know anything about how the separation happened," she continued, overcoming the sadness of reliving her childhood, "but it must have been very painful because she didn't remember anything about what happened and she didn't even remember who her parents were or where she lived. A policewoman found her dozing in a park and fortunately they were able to identify her thanks to a prescription for a medicine against morning sickness, because she had no official identity document. But they couldn't leave her alone in that state, so they found my grandparents, who took her in. And that's all we know about the first days of her amnesia. Naomi has exchanged several uneasy glances with me. Possibly she is still wondering if I deserve her forgiveness after all. I remain pathetically silent, not daring to say anything in my defense. I only know the story from one Sunday when we had agreed to attend a screening of an Oscar Wilde film, but I never showed up... while she waited uselessly at the cinema doors, I was in my seductive agent's bed! Will I have the courage to confess it? If I don't confess it my conscience will never be clear! I'll wait to know the whole story. I beg you to tell me what happened during the following years. My poor daughter is recalling a part of her life that she may also wish to forget, but she gets over it and goes on: -My mother moved to live in the small northern town of her parents, my maternal grandparents, and all efforts to get her memory back were futile. She was apparently able to lead a normal life, but she had to learn to recognize her own name, her parents' names, and all the other circumstances following her amnesia. When I was born I was already fully aware of everything, except her stay in this town and her relations with you," she addresses me with the same expression of veiled reproach. My grandfather was a civil servant at the City Hall and got a small pension for my mother, because she had frequent memory lapses and was unable to do any work. My grandfather died when I was ten years old, his health began to deteriorate from the day he learned of my mother's amnesia, and my grandmother died a few months before I enrolled in college. The poor thing was very unhappy about all these events, but she never reproached my mother. We had a maid for several years before I was born, the same age as my mother, who is with her at the moment. I could not give up the University, because I got a scholarship, with which I am surviving at the moment. She never stopped writing poems, she must have written enough to fill a dozen volumes, but she has refused to publish them. I always suspected that she dedicated them to you, but it must have been only a faint intuition, which did not access her conscience. Perhaps that is why she lived tormented by the inability to conceive the image of one who had only an intuition. That is all I can tell you about my mother. Alicia has made us coffee, which she serves us while we keep a thoughtful silence. I try to imagine her mother twenty years later, the woman I will soon have to meet again and account for my unforgivable behavior. I have the impression that she will horrify me, because I think I see on her aged face the indelible mark of suffering, for which I am guilty. Alicia breaks this tense silence: -Perhaps if she receives a strong stimulus to remember the person she seems to still love, she will recover her memory. Alicia has put her finger on the sore spot. It is not enough for her to be reunited with me, but with her lover, as if my betrayal had never happened. Alicia seems deeply affected, I think she regrets her suggestion. But my redemption requires some sacrifice, and Alicia will understand and eventually accept it. Twenty years later I have to try again to seduce the same woman I betrayed. Fate wants to put me to the test and I cannot let it down. 18. Preamble Is it possible to heal a wounded heart? Can time erase forgotten wounds? Can an old man with an exhausted heart love? Can a sick man heal another sick man? I ask myself these anguished questions to still feel like a human being, but I know I don't have the answer.Naomi and Alicia left a little over an hour ago, and they have left an immense void. I have never felt so essentially alone. It is an abysmal loneliness, bottomless, without the slightest glimmer of light. My soul has been left in utter darkness. The body has abandoned it; joy has migrated to other, warmer and more welcoming lands. Pleasure has been transformed into intense pain and happiness, which until only an hour ago was brimming over all its edges, has gone with them, I am unable to keep it with me for long. One more endless night I strive uselessly to be absent from myself. I search with real desperation for a state of mind close to nothingness, no uncontrolled thoughts, no movements of any kind. I try to exercise myself to prepare for my death without last minute shocks, but it is totally useless. The mind does not sleep, it only disconnects temporarily from consciousness. It stops thinking about what it sees to think about what it imagines. It does not tire, it does not exhaust itself, it does not give up, because it has no flesh that can make it sick, nor a skeleton to sustain it; it has no eyes, no mouth, no ears, it does not eat, drink, see or hear, it only thinks without rest because it is eternal and already existed before it was my mind. Naomi believes that, despite the visible traces of my illness, I am still an attractive man and that I can seduce her mother again. Alicia has not given me her opinion, which I already know. She is an unfortunate woman, but at some time and somewhere she will have her reward. But time is pressing, the illness is getting worse and my spirits are failing. I am not sure I can see this plan through to the end. We have agreed that Naomi will invite her mother to spend a few days with her in the city. Our meeting will take place during a welcome dinner at Naomi's apartment. Naomi just called me, her mother has accepted the invitation and will come this weekend and Saturday will be the big day of the test. I have to go back twenty years and try to understand the reasons for my betrayal. It is not enough to blame ambition, vanity or selfishness. There has to be a reasonable explanation to justify that behavior, because we humans always have a good reason to justify our behavior. I have thought it on countless occasions that to discover means to destroy what was hidden. The sun shines at the cost of destroying its hydrogen reserves. Imagination creates at the cost of destroying what has not yet been imagined. In the end there will be nothing left to imagine because we will have destroyed the reserves of images, death. It was inevitable to destroy the causes that had provoked my creativity, and that cause was the woman who had inspired them. If I wanted to continue creating I had to look for new sources for my inspiration, to destroy them again, and so on until death. I am not entirely to blame. We should never have invented literature because it feeds on the souls of humans. Every novel, every story, every tale or every poem has devoured its insatiable ration of humanity. I am no exception, I have my victims too, but otherwise there would be no literature or art or any other expression of the human soul that needs to feed on the human soul. No one will understand these reasons, only our creator knows our weaknesses, our spiritual cannibalism, our revenge for being human. I cannot argue these reasons for my exculpation, only those who are victims of inspiration understand them, through which this evil is contagious. Ordinary people are immunized against this disease of the spirit. Now there is no longer the slightest doubt in my mind that this was the cause of my bodily illness. My harmful spirit has entered my body and will not cease until it dies. There are no heavens reserved for writers, but there are no hells either, there are only purgatories: near heaven, near hell. If I had the strength and the necessary time to live, I would write a novel with this title, which would be the great novel of my life, but I might write it after I am dead, and it might be the great novel of my death. But why write; why stir the still waters of unconsciousness; why bring out the faults and virtues, the passions and disenchantments or the loyalties or betrayals of human beings? Why tell so many lies; so many stories that have never happened and never will happen? Why this sick eagerness to perpetuate our memory after we have lost our memory? No, even if I had a hundred more years to live, I would never write another novel. Someone has to take the first step to rid humanity of this scourge. I have the impression that I am delirious and think things that make no sense. There is no justification for someone who causes harm to a human being without a reason that is also human. A doctor can cause you some harm to heal a wound, but a writer cannot claim his sources of inspiration to cause harm. If I were to put on a scale the pleasure my novels may have caused and the harm caused by writing them, on which side would the scale tip? And who can have the answer? I have no way out. I have no judge but my own conscience, and it keeps shouting at me that I am guilty. 19. The mother Today has dawned an unpleasant day that will influence my mood. Today is also the day Naomi's mother will arrive in town; the person on whom my salvation depends. I am not in the right frame of mind for the circumstances. I should get over myself and realize that I have returned to my college years; years when life was a blank sheet of paper, waiting to be written on both sides; years when the most important thing was to be young, not only to enjoy life but to live away from death; years when everything was allowed except nostalgia; when love was a working tool, when the wisdom of experience was considered an old mania and was worthless compared to the vitality of facts. Those years in which the people around you were samples for your laboratory or the lead of your flask, from which you hoped to obtain gold, following the magic formula invented by your excluding imagination. Years, in short, that I have always wished to forget and that now I have to recall. My memory has to erase without a trace what happened after I won the untimely literary prize, as if it had never happened. As if we had followed together our longed-for path to glory, and once we had achieved it, since it seemed inevitable given our genius, we would live six months a year in Pigalle, in Montmartre or in Saint-German-des-Prés, where I would write my novels in the heat of her inspiration, and she her passionate verses inspired by her love for me. As if every spring we would wake up in our little house in Majorca, next to the highest cliff of the coast, from where our view would be lost in a horizon as infinite as our desires to live; as beautiful as our soul mates, as mysterious as our intuition, or as cozy as our bed where we make love. When I was twenty years old I could not imagine myself at sixty, now that I am about to turn sixty I cannot imagine myself at twenty. Nevertheless, it had to happen, because time is the greatest swindle of human understanding, since it is an eternal instant, this instant in which I live, or better I will say, I live badly today, is the same in which I lived twenty years ago, what has changed is the perspective and the scenario, but the instant is the same! Noemí called me to tell me that she had picked up her mother at the train station, and that she found her very unwell and dazed. They are already in her apartment, and she has been able to rest and recover a little. She tells me that, if she feels better, they will go to the Opera, which is her mother's passion. They will perform "Madame Butterfly", which seems very appropriate for the circumstances. His mother does not remember seeing this opera before, but she had seen it twice because she still kept the tickets as a souvenir. She thinks it may help our plan. She has told him of her desire to have him accompany her to the college on Monday, the same one she attended, but insists that she does not remember ever attending a college in that city. It is evident that she remains obstinate in not allowing the images and feelings that she keeps in her subconscious to enter her consciousness. I also got a call from Alicia. She is concerned about my worsening health. She wants to know if I need help. I thank her, but I insist on fending for myself until I see how the test turns out. Alicia is confused and saddened, because she can't wish it to be a failure, but she can't wish it to be a success either. She would have been happy just to have the exclusivity of my care until the day I die. But Naomi's mother takes precedence. If only we were good friends, both women could watch over my agony, but she has committed the weakness of falling in love with me, and love is selfish and rigorously incomparable. She seems resigned but not defeated. I am the great love of her life and she is not willing to withdraw and give up. She will lurk around waiting for an opportunity. I have created many female characters, and I boasted of cooking them even better than they know themselves, but Alicia has shown me how laughable my smugness is: I still have many nooks and crannies of the female soul to discover. Perhaps my premature death will help me to discover them. What I have not been able to understand is how those who give life see death. Possibly they feel the same affection for both. Many women suffer more depression immediately after bringing a new life into the world than at the sight of a dying person. Life hurts them as much as death. 20. A bad day The weather continues to be unpleasant. On the glass of my large window, the drops of water from a weak but persistent rain drip down. The rain does not depress me, on the contrary, it enlivens me, the water brings life, it brightens everything it covers. The plants are invigorated and show all their splendor and beauty. But what pleases nature displeases humans. I see from my window disgruntled people. They resent everything they cannot dominate and control, and nature does not submit easily. That is why we are putting all our efforts into destroying it. We may succeed in destroying the rain as well. I lie in bed until almost noon because I don't know what I can do to justify being up. I have nothing to write, no event to attend, no visit to receive, nothing; but I have found an occupation: rereading my first novel, and perhaps I should also say that it is the only one I have written, because I think it meets the three basic conditions for it to be considered a novel: it has a motivation: a passionate plea in defense of poetry and poets. This argument is also the fruit of his imagination and not of mine. The novels that followed lacked motivation, they only had technique and style, that is why they were not of this world, but of a parallel and dehumanized world. Noemi is right. "It's the middle of the night. The city lights litter the sky and I can't see the stars. I have to imagine them. I also have to imagine the people on this deserted street. And the rose bushes, orchids and non-existent geraniums on the balconies of their uninhabited houses. I have to imagine the children playing in a ghost school, and the sparrows nesting in absent trees. This is my street, where I don't live, where I don't inhabit, where I only imagine that I live and inhabit." This is how it should be. Our life must pass in one of these deserted streets, where we do not live but imagine that we live, because when you least expect it your time runs out, and it seems to you that in reality you have not lived but have dreamed. On rereading this first novel I feel in all its crudeness the falseness in which I have lived all these years, and I wonder what kind of writer I would be today if I had remained true to myself. It would not have been strange if I had won the Nobel Prize! Now I have to be satisfied with the market prize, and with the thousands of followers of the consumption of entertaining literature with an expiration date. They have nothing to transmit about our way of understanding life and its values to future generations. I am not a redeemer, and I am overwhelmed by praise, but when an artist expresses himself in any discipline, he is sending a message in a bottle that will inevitably fall into the hands of people of other times, in other latitudes of the immense ocean of time; who will have other values, and who, thanks to those messages, will be able to place them in the general trunk of history. Given the brevity of our existence, the only solid thing we humans have to save us from the flood of the inevitable changes that sweep everything away is History. Today I have one of those days when I feel too insignificant to have great ambitions, because this great humanity that populates our planet, of which I am a tiny part, is not even a grain of sand in the desert compared to the immensity of the universe we inhabit. Powerful men believe themselves to be great because they reign over their tiny domains, while those who recognize that they are infinitely small inhabit the great domain of the immensity of the universe. Humans have an endless number of alternatives to choose the way we wish to consume our valuable time, but there is only one that corresponds to our personality. The reason for our existence is none other than to find it and be faithful to it until death. Only in this way each individual will be a person, and each person will be a world, and all the worlds together will form a universe, and many universes gathered into one will be the only idea we can have of something to call "God", so that only people and their worlds are in direct contact with God. I have lived in permanent contact with hell, because I renounced my personal world, so I have no access to heaven. I may still have time left to repair my great mistake, but I would have to write one last novel: the continuation of the first one, which would pave the way to my salvation, but for that I need not only time, but inspiration; I would not only have to meet again with the writer, but also with his lover. Could it happen tomorrow? I should think about tomorrow's dinner and my salvation, and I think I have an idea that would do both: write my last novel with the story of our relationship. To relive her memory day by day, kiss by kiss, caress by caress, with every detail, nuance, feeling, illusion, hope and project for the future. Yes, she would have the story that her conscience refuses to remember. It would undoubtedly be the great novel of my life, the one that would give me a good death. But will I have enough time left, and will I be able to face the challenge with the foresight and the right frame of mind to bring it up to the level of my first novel? Naomi sent me a message to let me know that her mother has recovered and is in good spirits. In the afternoon they will go to the Opera, as planned, and when they leave they will have dinner in a small Italian restaurant nearby. She says she misses me and it would have been a complete joy if the three of us could be together and united as a family. Poor Naomi! Even if your wishes were fulfilled, your happiness will be short-lived. It is better that you get used to my absence, even if you continue to miss me in your happy moments, maybe I will accompany you, even if you cannot see me. Tomorrow I will tell you my idea. 21. Waiting He has also invited Alicia to his mother's welcome home dinner, because he wants it to feel like a reunion of old friends, where his mother is not the focus of most of the attention. He wants to test whether she will recognize me. I haven't communicated my new idea to her yet, because I'm not sure she's in the condition and mood to do it. I call Alicia to tell her about Noemí's invitation. She accepts. -If it's okay with you, I can stop by your place now and prepare something to eat," he suggests, "then we can go to your daughter's apartment together. I notice from the tone of his voice that he has received the news with great joy. Now the scales of fate are tipped in her favor and against me, but I accept her offer. This woman is becoming a necessity, she is always where I need her. She is not an old dream of the past but a reality of the present, no history, no regrets, no need to recover the memory of what has not happened. She brings peace to my spirit and manages to make me forget my past, to recover the present, which I need so much in these difficult times. Alicia is already in my apartment and once again I hear the domestic sound and the pleasant memories of the hustle and bustle in the kitchen. This woman is leaving everywhere she goes the halo of the everyday, the simple, but that is what is truly endearing. She is not only preparing a delicious meal, but the homey atmosphere that is not only a warm feeling, but a necessity of any human being. -What will you do if you don't recognize him? He asks me with a nonchalant air, as if he is not affected by my answer, while he serves me what he has cooked. I ask her once again not to address me as you, because I am no longer the hero of her dreams, but the helpless and tortured man who needs her help. But Alicia knows that calling me "you" means taking a giant step in our brief relationship, and she does not want to change the deal until she is sure that she has conquered my soul and my will. In the meantime, she will continue with the same distant and respectful treatment. I need to rest and get some sleep so I can be presentable for dinner with my daughter, and Alicia makes up my bed, just as she did the first time in her tiny studio. As she fluffs the pillows she gives me several looks that I can easily interpret. She seems to want to tell me that this time I won't be woken up by her crying. She helps me to lie down and, just like the first time, goes back to the kitchen, and I hear again that very domestic and soothing sound of the bustle of the kitchen, with which I fall asleep. Alicia has veiled my dream by reading the manuscript of my first novel, which had been left on the coffee table in the living room. When I awoke, she read aloud one of the most tragic passages of the novel, moments before the suicide of the protagonist. "I was not born to live. I did not come into this world to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh. I am not alive to celebrate the wonders of nature. I do not feel part of life. No, I came into the world to sing it, to recite it, to turn it into a long poem, to dissolve it into beautiful words. So that it may be said of me when I die that I was just poetry, with nothing to stop me, not my body, not my mind; just poetry, nothing but poetry." -Who could have inspired these dramatic lines? -he asks me with a gesture of desolation or perhaps horror, "her? My mind is not yet clear enough to respond and I just smile. She understands, and continues reading, but silently. I see from her astonished expression that she is shocked by what she is reading, no wonder, they are the passages prior to the suicide of the poetess protagonist. She closes the book and leans back on the sofa. He doesn't wait for my answer because he already knows it. He exchanges a sad glance with me. I think he wants to give me his opinion: -You know, I think the suicide of your poetess protagonist is justified," she pauses and it seems as if what she says next is for herself. We are all born with a stigma engraved on our foreheads, which tells us who we are and what we have come to this world for; and what we can aspire to and what we are strictly forbidden. Your protagonist was born with the stigma of poetry in a world without poetry, he had no choice but to immolate himself with it -a new silence that he breaks with a heartfelt sigh, and continues-. I was also born with a stigma: that of ugliness. No doubt an accident of nature, because it is nothing like my soul. They must have been born each on their own, without agreeing. My soul fills me with good and noble feelings, while my face prevents me from taking advantage of them and showing them to others. Only when I write I am free to generously give those feelings to my characters, because they do not find me ugly and do not see my stigma. I have no doubt that she knows what she is talking about. I myself rejected her in the first moments because of her unattractive face. I wonder why we humans have created canons of beauty that ostracize and ostracize people like Alicia, or women and men in the prime of their lives, just because their backs are hunched, their hands go astray, and wrinkles appear on their foreheads, which are the price paid for their wise maturity, serenity, gentleness, balance and intelligence! No doubt we deserve every one of the torments to which this behavior leads. It is useless to try to console her by praising the beauty of her soul, because the soul cannot be seen, the face can. Unfortunately for people with these stigmas, rejection ends up infecting their souls with the same stigma. Alice is a glorious exception, but no doubt she owes it to literature. It seems that we are both immersed in our respective thoughts, and we remain in an eloquent silence. It is Alicia who breaks it with a question that reminds me of the idea of writing a new book: -We still have three hours left to meet your daughter, why don't you tell me about your affair with her mother? I think the idea is interesting, it can serve as an exercise for that last novel that's been on my mind. I agree and Alicia prepares some coffee, no doubt a long and interesting confession awaits! 22. Confession Alicia looks like a little girl whose grandmother is about to tell her a story of enchanted princes and princesses. She has taken off her shoes (since she has known me she has toned down her clothes, and above all she no longer wears those horrible military boots), she settles down in the armchair, gathering her legs also in the armchair, and waits with childish anxiety for my story. I don't know how to explain it, but she seems totally transfigured. I am unable to recognize the clumsy and ugly young woman, as she defines herself, and I see a young woman with a radiant expression, an intelligent gaze, at the same time curious as that of a cat, and a body brimming with vitality. Nature has been bad to her face, but generous to her body. I start by telling you the story of the coffee shop where we met. -After that funny event we each went to our corresponding classes. We were at the same university and had the same studies, but I was one class ahead of him, so our classes did not coincide. We didn't exchange anything to get back in touch. She seemed to distrust everyone, although I didn't know why at the time. She had been sexually assaulted several times by some of her classmates. That day neither of us could concentrate in class, something magical had happened. I think I fell in love with her when I offered to hold her books for her. She did not look at me with distrust, but as soon as she saw me, I noticed as if I was an old lover, whom she had not seen for a long time and was happy to see me again, but after that moment of pleasant surprise, her distrust returned, and she refused my help. If I had not suffered that terrible accident, everything would have ended like that, but destiny had foreseen it all. -That weekend our faculty had organized a meeting of young poets. I wouldn't have hesitated to attend if it had been for narrative, but for poetry I wasn't enthusiastic about the idea. But that Saturday I was deeply bored. It was the end of the month and my allowance was practically exhausted. The meeting was free, so it seemed like a good way to kill time. I arrived a little late, just at the time of the intervention of the young woman I met in the cafeteria. We passed each other in the center aisle of the hall, as I was entering and she was heading to the stage, and I think both her and my hearts skipped a beat, and we greeted each other with a telltale smile. When I saw her on the stage, completely in the dark, except for her, illuminated with a beam of light, she looked to me like an angel who had descended from heaven to announce the good news of her poetry. This was the verse she wrote after our first meeting: We barely looked at each other and we were already kissing. We barely knew each other and we already loved each other, We barely spoke to each other and we already understood each other. We were barely separated and we were already longing for each other. Alicia seems overwhelmed by the passion in these four lines. She is not passionate, she is sensitive, because passion blinds the understanding and Alicia is a thoughtful and reasonable person. She remains silent so as not to distract me from my confession. -At the end of the event I hurried to congratulate her on the reading of her poems, which was very well received by the audience, mostly fellow faculty members. As she left the hall I found her surrounded by her friends and admirers, who besieged her with questions and congratulations. I had barely exchanged a few glances and smiles and already I thought I had the right to have her all to myself. I was so upset that I did not feel like saying goodbye to her, and I grumpily left the auditorium. Once again it seemed as if fate was against us. But as soon as I was out of the auditorium I realized that I had acted in anger and without justification, and I returned hastily, just as she was leaving accompanied by one of her friends. When she saw me, I could again see her expression of joy reflected on her face, and this time she did not hesitate to call my attention. -Why did you leave without saying goodbye? Didn't you like my poems? I'd like to know your opinion! The friend understood the situation and excused herself, leaving us alone. -I loved them! I did not dare confess to him that I had been jealous. I told him that I also wrote, but narrative, I was not born with the grace of poetry, but with the necessary imagination to write novels. We walked for a while, talking about our works, the importance of poetry, the mediocrity of the novels that were published, the excessive commercialization of art. We seemed to have found the ideal interlocutor to unburden ourselves of our artistic concerns. We generally agreed on everything. We agreed to meet the next day in the park. I would show her my stories and she would show me her latest poems. That night I practically stayed up all night, because I wasn't satisfied with any of the stories I had written and I didn't want to disappoint my new friend. I was a complete unknown at the time, while she was well known among the students of the faculty and other local poetry circles. All the reviews were favorable and predicted a brilliant literary career for her. Undoubtedly her beneficial friendship influenced my inspiration, and that night I wrote my first truly literary work, the previous ones were simple stories, almost all autobiographical, lacking the main thing: a motivation. When I met her she was 18 years old. Like you, she had come from the provinces, with a fixed idea, which she carried more in her heart than in her mind: to triumph as a poetess! She didn't need praise, she considered herself great, and she wasn't wrong. All of us who knew her had formed the same opinion. To me her genius was her best attraction. I was more attracted to her as a poet than as a woman, because neither of us lived in this world, but in those two sister worlds: she in that of poetry and I in that of the novel. And that was the cause of our separation! We lived with too much intensity the unreal and we forgot the real. We met in the park on a day that could have been painted by Botticelli or Velazquez. It was early spring, when the tone of the new leaves is intense green. The sky is an inimitable blue, decorated with white clouds of whimsical and imaginative shapes. It smells of the sap of the rejuvenated stems and the perfumed resins given off by the linden trees. New birds flutter in their nests, impatient to fly and get to know what will be their world. In this magical atmosphere and in a secluded and lonely corner of the park, I read her my first story written thanks to her and for her. At that very moment our separation began to take shape. Our relationship became more intimate every day, but always sustained by our common passion for literature. Our euphoria grew at the same pace and intensity as the quality of her poetry or of my stories and tales, because at that time I still felt incapable of tackling the novel. We never seriously thought of our relationship as a simple couple in love, but in love with the poetess and the writer. At no time did it cross our minds to live together, because that would mean depriving us of the solitude necessary to create; we had enough with our daily encounters, during which we would load each other with brilliant phrases, passionate poems, fantastic stories and a moderate dose of sensuality. We didn't make love until after the six months that our relationship lasted, and it was in that one relationship that Noemí was born! Alicia seems to be meditating on everything I have told her so far, because her gaze is lost in some point of the street that can be seen through my windows. She has reacted and looks at me with a certain air of reproach. -So, he didn't love that woman, he was just using her. -Yes, you can put it that way. -And she, do you think she also used him? -No, she didn't use me; she didn't need encouragement, I told you she was fully confident of her talent; it was me who needed it to discover mine. A month after our meeting, when I had already written a dozen stories and tales that she thought were great, she suggested I write a novel. I took her advice and tried to find a plot that would motivate me. They all revolved, in one way or another, around her and our strange relationships. I put my ideas to her, but she didn't find them original enough. It was then that she read me her poem about the suicide of a poetess, and suggested that this could be a good argument, in which she could collaborate with her poetry. I was delighted to accept her proposal and began to work on the plot. During the time it took me to write it, only two months, our meetings focused on the progress of my novel. She checked every chapter, every paragraph and every word I wrote daily, and corrected my many flaws and typos, until she felt that the syntax, spelling, rhythm and style were perfect. It seemed as if she was writing it herself. When my novel was practically finished, she suggested that I submit it to a popular literary contest for new authors. I couldn't refuse, because it wasn't just my novel, it was our novel. Alicia interrupts me. -Now I understand why he suffered that terrible attack of amnesia. His betrayal was double, because he betrayed the lover and the writer! -No doubt it was a double betrayal, but then I didn't take it into consideration! Not only did she collaborate in its writing, but she took the trouble to type up the original and send it herself to the contest. -Why do you think she would do that? Was she really so in love with you that she sacrificed herself to help you in your career? -Although it pains me to admit it, it must have been. The days leading up to the contest judging were really nerve-wracking for me, but not for her. She knew perfectly well that we had submitted one of the possible winning novels, so much so that she had confidence in herself and in her judgments about literature. But she was also aware that among beginners there is little chance of good novels being submitted. Most suffer from an excess of passion, nonsensical styles, defects of structure and syntax, and unoriginal plots. In fact, the vast majority are simply imitations of their idols, or of fashionable writers. She knew we would win, and we did! She was also the first to know the news of the award, because she received the message with the result and the invitation to the awards ceremony that same weekend at a well-known hotel in the city. When we met at the faculty, she recited to me the famous sentence of Julius Caesar: "Vini, vidi, vici", which I understood immediately. I confess that moments after hearing the news, I considered myself a superior being, I had killed the undecided and modest writer to feel like a new member of the cultural elites of the country. And that image blinded me from the first moment. She never suspected my arrogance, and she was as happy as if she had been the awardee. During the award ceremony, she must have felt like the mother who attends the presentation of the diploma of honor to her son at the university: without envy or professional jealousy. But I was already very distant from her. I saw my books piled up in bookstores, with the mention of that award. I saw myself signing copies for my gawking admirers, but above all, I felt superior and dominant. Alicia has reacted, stands up and gives me a questioning look. -I think you're making up the story! I know you well enough by now not to believe that you would behave that way! -You meet a repentant demon twenty years later. But I wouldn't have committed that sin if I hadn't met the real culprit. During the cocktail party hosted by the sponsors, many guests approached me to congratulate me. She seemed proud of my sudden popularity. From the first day she learned of my vocation as a writer, she wanted me to become more self-confident, so that we could pursue our ambitious careers at the same level. I took it for granted that we would achieve our ambitious project of fame and glory without one overshadowing the other. When, fatigued by so many emotions and hustle and bustle, we were about to leave the meeting, we were approached by a middle-aged, elegant-looking woman, dressed in a sober suit jacket, her hair half-haired, blonde and slightly curly, and addressing me, as if the presence of my companion had not been perceived, and without ceasing to fix her deep and insinuating gaze on mine, she handed me a business card, which must have been perfumed with the fragrances of hell, because when I read it the perfume evoked in me an abyss into which I would not take long to fall -You will need a good agent. Call me tomorrow and we'll talk about your future. That was all she said, and she went back to join a group of guests. That look disturbed me so much that for a moment I too forgot about her presence. She must have sensed my betrayal at that moment! I beg Alicia's forgiveness, but I do not wish to continue. What follows is the most painful part for me, and the memory of it has haunted me all these years. Alicia seems to wake up from a dream, or maybe it's a nightmare. The coffee is finished. She picks up the coffee pot and cups and takes them to the kitchen. She remains silent but her mind must be replaying the story I just told her. He returns from the kitchen, exchanges a sad look with me, sits back down and, finally, I know what he is thinking. -Poor woman, I would not have liked to be in her place. I would have lost my memory too. No, I would have lost my head! Your comment makes me feel guiltier. Those who have no remorse cannot know how much it hurts to be reminded of our sins. -Forgive me. I know you are deeply sorry, and if I were that woman, I would probably forgive you, but that doesn't repair the damage done. Perhaps it would be better if she did not recover her memory! If she does not recover her memory and I do not have her forgiveness, I will be hopelessly condemned! 23. End of confession It has been a time of great emotional tension. Alicia is torn between her heightened sense of justice, her solidarity with other women, her mercy and her love for me. Mercy and love have finally won out, but that doesn't mean she considers me redeemed. She thinks that somehow I must repay that woman. But she doesn't know how. Neither do I. -Even if it brings back bad memories, I think you'll feel better if you tell me the end of the story. I promise I won't hold it against you! Maybe Alicia is right. Hiding my guilt only causes it to become entrenched in my conscience, it is healthier to air them. -All right, I'll tell you the rest of this sorry story. Neither I nor she felt the way we were supposed to feel after the awards ceremony. I still hadn't gotten over the shock of that woman's insinuating stare, and she seemed to want to ask me what I was thinking, because I think she was reading my thoughts. In an almost pleading tone of voice, she begged me not to accept that woman as my agent, because there would be others who would be happy to represent me. I assumed she was jealous of her, but I did not have the courage to confess to her that, despite her fears, I would call her and we would meet to find out her plans for my promotion as a writer. What was happening was that the woman was living in the new world I thought I had entered after the award, while she belonged to one that was already outdated and without incentives for an ambitious writer. I was no longer a student of letters, I was a writer, and writers can transgress all moral norms because they are justified. That night I could not sleep until dawn, because I too was torn between what my conscience dictated and what my ambition demanded, because it made no sense to have come that far and renounce what any other author would do in my place. After all, she had helped me get there herself, so why not accept the help of someone who would make your dream of becoming a writer come true? When we met that morning on campus, I had already made up my mind and she seemed to me an unacceptable intrusion on my freedom, but I didn't have the courage to let her know, and tried to pretend that nothing had changed after the award and we would follow our future plans as we had dreamed. She must have been relieved by my attitude, but it was evident that my enthusiasm and joviality had changed. I was no longer paying attention to her readings or motivated to write new stories. She interpreted this as me being tired from my efforts to write my first novel, and she didn't reproach me. That same afternoon I went to the agent's office, with whom I had already arranged an interview that morning. Her office was located in her own home. A spacious apartment in a noble building, located in one of the most expensive avenues of the city. She met me herself at the elevator exit. I could hardly recognize her. She was now wearing tight jeans, which emphasized the soft shapes of her hips, and a loose blouse, with what looked like the logo of her agency. Her reception was extremely cordial. It was evident that she had a great interest in me, not only as a writer, but as a person. -My warmest congratulations on the award, but now you have to prevent them from forgetting about you in a couple of months, I can help you," he said as soon as I got out of the elevator. He introduced me into his office, a spacious and bright room soberly furnished with two comfortable black leather armchairs, a large work table and a large sofa of the same material as the armchairs. The only detail that indicated that we were in a working office were the dozens of photographs of their represented authors that hung on the walls. Some of their writers frequently topped the most prestigious book sections of newspapers and literary magazines. Soon mine would be there too. All this proved to me that I had chosen a good agent. We settled into the two armchairs. He offered me a sweet from a small basket on a glass table, and without wasting time on introductions, he asked me: -Do you want to become a fashionable author? What could my answer be: "No"? There was only one possible answer: -Yes! -Okay, so starting today we have to work on a program that may be hard and require all your dedication. Are you decided? I just nodded my head firmly. -My commission is five percent; the contract is for two years, and I have your exclusive representation for all media where it is published, including film, television, radio and the web. Are you happy? I again agreed with an energetic nod of my head. Well, then come back tomorrow at this same time and we'll sign the contract. In two years you'll be one of the most read and sought-after writers in the country! And that's how I signed the contract that would ruin my personal life and from which the professional writer would be born! The next day, as planned, I signed my condemnation. My new agent was more explicit and argued the reasons why she was sure of my success. -You represent the ideal of a talented young man, successful from his first work, who does not resort to pornography, nor to violence, nor to esoteric plots, nor to cloying romanticism, nor to philosophical detectives. That you write simple, but real and exemplary novels that everyone likes. That you also have enough physical attractiveness to appeal to young female readers. You write novels that can be read by the whole family, at all ages, and in all times... -But I've only written one novel! I must have guessed the answer. It was practically in the clauses of the contract that I didn't bother to read: -But you will write them, I will tell you how! 24. Seduction As I left my new agent's office, I realized what a grave mistake I had made in my haste and blindness. I blamed it on my lack of experience, but I was consoled by the fact that fortunately it was only two years, which passed quickly. Now I felt ashamed because I had thrown dirt on our noble concerns, our illusion of keeping ourselves pure, disinterested, away from the merchants of dreams, who lure us with siren songs, and end up dragging us into their dirty world of economic transactions, balance sheets, shareholders, investors, CEOs, bankers, unprincipled and unscrupulous traders and a whole host of individuals unable to value what does not have a price and can be sold on the market, such as honesty, generosity or illusion... They have no scruples in selling and buying souls, and auctioning them in their corrupt financial markets. I will be one of them. But, to tell the truth, before I entered this office I was already corrupted. That evening we had arranged to attend the premiere of a film on the life of Oscar Wilde. I was not in the mood to attend yet another crucifixion of an author, but I had to keep my relationship with my new agent a secret. I made the appointment, albeit somewhat belatedly, when the film had already begun. She waited patiently at the lonely cinema entrance. Despite my tardiness, she always justified my disloyalties, because she had not a shadow of a doubt about my fidelity. I need to pause. Alicia is as shocked as I am, but she has promised not to recriminate me, and she keeps her promise. I feel bad, because I cannot erase from my memories her frail figure, illuminated by the flickering billboard signs, arms folded, looking anxiously from one side of the street to the other, trying to justify my tardiness. It is likely that I would have waited much longer without losing faith in my fidelity. -When she saw me appear on the side of the street opposite to that on which she expected me to arrive, she had a moment's hesitation, but my vision overflowed any desire for reproach, and she received me with a smile that would try to wrest it from the sadness that a few minutes before had gripped her. I think for the first time I felt sorry for her, and perhaps had a sincere desire for repentance. I was tempted to fill her in on her situation, but her smile thwarted my desire. I hugged her, we kissed and I improvised an excuse. She believed me because she needed to believe me and urged me to get the tickets as soon as possible, because we would have time after the movie to clarify the details. It was not possible to wake up someone who was sleepwalking without the danger of causing her irreparable damage! There was no clarification. The film had had such an impact on us that when we left the cinema for a long time, we strolled through the now deserted streets without saying a word. She broke the silence with a comment that set my conscience on fire: -Why do geniuses have to pay such a high price just to be famous? Will we also have to pay such a high price? No, of course not; we won't make their mistake or lead double lives that could cause scandal! We will be a perfect writing couple without giving any reason for what happened to the unfortunate Oscar Wilde, won't we? What could I answer? At that moment I didn't have the courage to tell him the truth and undo the deception at once. No matter how much she suffered, it would not be compared to what she had to suffer afterwards. So much to justify her amnesia! Alicia indicates with a gesture of her arm that she wants to tell me something. -And that's the woman who will be sitting next to him tonight, at the same table? Of course, if she recovered her memory, she would have every reason to hate him. But go on, forgive my interruption! -The days that followed the signing of the contract were so intense that I didn't have a chance to think about her. My agent would invite me to her apartment, and, after a light dinner, we would sit in the armchairs of her office and discuss the plot of my next novel. Of course it would be a love story with a happy ending. Once in my apartment I would write a chapter or two and show it to her the next night. She would make corrections and suggest any changes she thought were necessary. I have to confess that we became well coordinated, because I did not dislike her arguments and ideas and it was easy for me to interpret and write them. As Naomi said in her first message: I just changed muse, and overrode any noble motivation. For the first few days her behavior was strictly professional, but as the days went by she became more familiar and intimate, and changed her clothes to a comfortable night gown, which left her attractive legs practically uncovered. She had a plan to seduce me, but she would not carry it out until I finished the novel. That would be the prize! My relations with the other woman who had become entangled in this drama remained superficial, as are the relations of those who hide their true feelings. Sometimes she dared to ask me the cause of my apathy, which made her suffer so much, and she herself came to the conclusion that the cause might lie in a lack of more sensual relations. Although it was not in her plans, she set out to seduce me and would consent to our lovemaking. Our relationship had been from the beginning an artistic affinity and we were unsure of our physical attraction. At that moment I was infinitely more attracted to the mature beauty and sensuality of my agent than to that of the poetess, who had not awakened from her dream of glory and fantasies. With the excuse of inviting me to dinner, she prepared the necessary atmosphere for my seduction. That night we gestated Naomi, but neither of us was satisfied with that relationship. No; we had not come together for carnal love, only for spiritual love! I cannot continue this story, because today, twenty years later, I still feel the shame of that hasty pleasure, of those frustrated relationships that were closer to prostitution than to love. -Excuse me Alicia, but I think it's time to go to our appointment with my daughter. -And with his mother! -Yes, and with his mother. This will be the last twist of fate, I don't want to think about anything else! Alicia is visibly dejected, I can see it in her sad and absent look, so different from the one at the beginning of this story. She gets up with a heavy heart, as if her legs were heavy, and helps me to get dressed. I leave my private refuge as if moved by a supernatural force, against which my own will is useless. It is already dark, the days are short in October. The cool breeze of the evening twilight suits me well. There is still a pale streak of red on the horizon. We have called a cab to pick us up at the door, but I ask the driver to drop us off two blocks before my daughter's house. Alicia approves of the idea. I want to finish my story before I face this difficult test. -Two weeks later I was putting an end to my second novel, although I would have to rewrite several chapters that were not to the liking of my demanding agent. But that was the day she had chosen to seduce me, and she prepared everything so that I would have no escape. But that same day I had arranged to meet the other unfortunate woman to see the film about Oscar Wilde again, because the previous time we had missed a good part of the beginning. The idea came from her and I couldn't refuse. But it was not only the interest in the film that made them want to see me, but apparently she had some important news to tell me, but she did not want to tell me what it was about. He wanted me to be there when he gave it to me. I assumed it must be something to do with his poetry, perhaps he had won a prize, or had found an important publisher to publish it. I went to my daily appointment with my agent, with the intention of leaving the manuscript for him to read and write down the corrections, but to my surprise, I found a table prepared with great care and detail for two people, illuminated pale by two artistic candles, on a side table there was a bottle of champagne set to cool, and in the center of the table a silver tray with canapés of caviar, salmon and other such delicacies. But what impressed me most, and of course turned me on, was the way she had dressed for the occasion. She was wearing a silk blouse of the same color as her skin, open almost to the waist, where part of her still firm breasts could be seen, and a tight black skirt that covered her above her knees. The outfit was extremely elegant, but above all, irresistibly attractive! I don't know if you know men well, Alicia, but there is no will capable of overcoming a temptation like that. It is for this very reason that mankind was condemned; it is the eternal sin that man has committed from the beginning: the irresistible attraction of Eve and her apple! This biblical drama was played out in that room: caviar, champagne and sex. After that, the grim reaper could take us into his darkness. I had to choose between the two women: one offered me fame. The other offered me spiritual affection, sincere friendship and, of course, loyalty. -Who would you have chosen, Alicia? The question has caught her off guard, but the answer is withering: -The second time, of course! -I didn't want to choose; I wanted things to stay as they were, I could continue to have both relationships and not hurt either, but my agent forced me to choose. In the end it was the champagne and its irresistible sex appeal that decided. To celebrate my betrayal, we began the evening in a cabaret where they staged sexual scenes of indecent bad taste, but it was part of their plan. At the entrance of the cinema, illuminated only by the flickering lights of the neon signs, with her arms crossed, and without ceasing to look anxiously from one side of the street to the other, she waited uselessly for the man who I now know wanted to tell me that he was going to be a father! Fortunately he lost his memory! 25. The reentry We approached Naomi's house. I have finished my painful story, and we quietly give ourselves to our own thoughts. Alicia must wonder if she hasn't been blinded by my popularity, because I don't deserve her affection; and I wonder if I can look the woman who is waiting for a visit from a perfect stranger in the face. Recent events are beyond my capacity for assimilation, and now I have to face a new mammoth test. A few steps away I am going to meet the woman from whom I have stolen the best years of her life. She may recognize me, in which case I don't know how I will be able to justify myself, and if she doesn't recognize me, I won't be able to justify myself either. All these years have only served me to understand that ambition without a noble cause does not bear noble fruits, but poisoned ones, with the poison of your own poisoned spirit. But there is something that worries and amazes me: Has all that time really elapsed? Are we not always at the same moment? How far does the boatman travel in his boat? None! And yet, the boat does travel a space and consumes a time, dragged by the current. I have also been dragged by the current, but I am still in the same boat; the same instant as always, and that will probably be eternal. The woman who must be in Naomi's apartment is the same woman I left at the door of a neighborhood cinema, but she continues, like me, to live in the same instant, for we have not passed through time, we have passed over time, like the boatman over the current of the river! But it is not the body that travels in the boat, but the soul, which is not affected by time. She will have the same soul she had the day she lost her memory, and it is that soul that has not aged and will surely recognize me. Now they meet again and they will ask themselves: what have we done with our lives that we had to separate? Only I have the answer: not having listened to her or followed her wishes. We are at the door of her apartment. Alicia gives me a pleading look. -Your great moment has come! Now you will have the only chance to save or damn your soul! She knocks and we hear some agile footsteps that must be those of my daughter Noemí. But it is not Naomi who opens the door, but she does! Alicia could not avoid an expressive gesture of surprise, and I feel as if I were plunging into an abyss of time, and I would have to travel through the past twenty years to land in the same place where I was the night of my betrayal: time has not passed for her! There is no trace of suffering on her face, still smooth and young. Her figure is the same. Her hair is still curly, but a little more faded, and what impresses me most is her serene and tender gaze, but as if lost in nothingness. I don't know what to say, but I am anxious about her possible reaction. Did she recognize me? I hear rapid footsteps, it's Naomi coming to greet us. But she has become paralyzed and anxiously contemplates the scene. Finally, her mother and I are face to face and neither of us is able to break the tension of the moment. Naomi watches her mother, but there is no reaction that could give her to understand that she has recognized me. She remains holding the doorknob, and seems relaxed, she is waiting for her daughter to come. -Are they your guests, Naomi? Naomi tries to hide her desolation, she didn't recognize me! -Yes, Mom, they are our guests. She exchanges a disconsolate glance with me. Alicia also feels the tension of the moment, and looks at me questioningly. Naomi's mother begs us to come in, lets us in and closes the door behind Alicia. She follows us into a small living room, where a table is already set for four guests. We take off our coats and Naomi hangs them on a coat rack. Her mother remains silent, rubbing her hands together, not knowing what to do with them. She gives us fleeting glances and smiles slightly. There is strangeness in her expression, it is evident that she considers us strangers, and she does not know what her behavior should be. I think he is waiting for his daughter to introduce them to him. Naomi expected some gesture in her mother's expression that would show some indication that she remembered me, but it is evident that this has not been the case. She seems resigned and introduces us to her indecisive mother. -Mom, these are my friends I told you about. They are both writers, like us. The mother seems to welcome our profession with pleasure, because she gave us a broad smile with a gesture of admiration. Naomi tries, without much hope, to provoke her mother's memory. -He's a very famous writer, I'm sure you've seen his picture in a newspaper or in literary magazines! But the mother flatly denies this with a nod of her head. We are all caught off guard by a question from her mother addressed to me: -And what do you write, novels or poetry...? I write poetry..., yes, I've written a lot of poetry... He loses his gaze on an indeterminate point in the room. I try not to show my deplorable mood and respond by forcing a friendly smile: -I write novels, stories of ordinary people. Nothing special... but I met an admirable poetess, who, unfortunately for her many admirers, never published them! She smiles back at me, but makes no comment. I get the feeling that something is disturbing her mind, because the smile is frozen on her lips. She seems to wander off and move somewhere else. Perhaps to our university campus. She is a helpless and vulnerable woman, the same as she was twenty years ago, but time and amnesia have made her extremely sensitive and emotional. I would love to read her poetry. Dare I suggest it: -Why doesn't one of them read us? She has been startled by my unexpected suggestion and seems embarrassed. -Oh, no, no; I write them for myself.... They are very personal... You wouldn't like them! Naomi listens to her mother and seems devastated. -Mom, these are my friends. Come on, cheer up and read us some of your poems! There's still some time before dinner is ready. Naomi wants to try everything. There may not be another chance. Her mother looks stunned. She looks at us as if to check our willingness to listen to her poems. Once again she seems to sink into faraway places. Naomi tries again and suggests to her mother that she read the first ones she wrote, but that she does not remember when and where she wrote them. There is no doubt that she is under great pressure. I feel sorry for her, but above all I feel even more miserable. This poor frightened woman, who writes romantic poems dedicated to a lover she cannot remember and who has him in front of her, does not deserve this suffering. She seems to be hesitating. We are all watching her decision. She looks at us again as if trying to read our thoughts. Alicia has been silent, she must realize that now she has a real rival. Now that I have seen her again, those happy, pure and generous days return to my mind with infinite nostalgia, and I begin to believe that if destiny has it in mind, they could come back, even if only for a short time. Neomi has managed to overcome her mother's fears and agrees to read us some of her poems. The three of us settle down on a small sofa while she nervously shuffles through several notebooks she keeps in a travel bag, and doesn't seem to know which one to choose. He finally decides on one with pink covers, where there is a caption that I can't read. He sits down on one of the dining room chairs, leafs through several pages, and finally seems to decide on one. She has the same tone of voice, the same slow cadence and intonation. It was a pleasant experience to listen to her recite, and I see it's still the same! IF YOU WERE... If your heart were foam, I would be ocean; If your soul were heaven, I would be cloud; If your gaze were rain, I would be a field; If your hands were water, I would be thirsty. For God's sake, that verse again! Why is fate playing cat and mouse? Why has it chosen this very poem? I think she has noticed my confusion. She gives me a strange look that could be one of interrogation, perhaps she is beginning to remember! Naomi has exchanged a look of astonishment with me, she seems to be asking herself the same question. Alicia hasn't reacted, but I suspect what she must be thinking: her stigma is haunting her! Naomi's mother has come out of her momentary impasse and continues reading. When she finishes, we have the feeling that she has made a great effort. She closes the notebook, leaves it on the table and drops relaxed on the chair. She doesn't want to read any more poems. Something is disturbing her mind again. Now I can read the notebook's caption: "Poems of love and oblivion. Spring 1997." But there is no indication of the place or name of its author. I congratulate her effusively, she thanks me with a kindly smile, but I notice her absent, troubled. Naomi is worried about her mother's despondency. She must think that we should not push her. To awaken her memory abruptly may cause her a new trauma. She does not insist. Dinner is ready. Alicia accompanies Noemí to the kitchen to help her set the table. My daughter has cooked and has surprised me, I didn't know she was such a good cook. Her mother has relaxed; she is calmer and we exchange comments about how wet this autumn is turning out to be and what she has seen during her stay in the city. -Did you like the opera "Madame Butterfly"? -Oh, yes; very much so! -Don't you find it a little sad? -Yes, you are right, it is a bit sad.... I have the impression that she is talking to me, but her thoughts are elsewhere. I would give anything to know where! Naomi intervenes in the conversation. -I have an idea," he turns to me, "why don't you take my mother to visit a museum? I can't miss school, but you might have time. I know she was looking forward to seeing the latest exhibition at the National Museum. His mother tries to protest. Sounds like a good idea to me. -I will be happy to accompany you. I was looking forward to seeing her too! Alicia remains in dramatic silence. Everything is conspiring against her. She has noticed that I am beginning to take a lively interest in Naomi's mother, and I think she even suspects that I may feel something more than compassion. The truth is that I feel a great longing for the times when we were two lovers of literature, but also two good friends, and friendship is less passionate than love, but more loyal and generous. On the other hand, I would like to repay her suffering with my affection. But I can do nothing for her unless she recovers her memory and remembers who I am. I think Naomi is of the same opinion. The dinner was delicious. I congratulate my daughter, who is very flattered. But my aches and pains threaten to return and I would like to be back in my apartment before this happens. Naomi brings us our coats and I notice in her mother's eyes that she senses our departure, I think she has taken a liking to me and has overcome her initial misgivings, possibly she vaguely remembers me. We agreed that I would pick her up here the next day and we would spend the morning visiting the exhibition. Then we would go to an Italian restaurant for lunch, as Noemi has filled me in on her mother's gastronomic tastes, and she loves Italian pasta. Yes, I remember! 26. Memory I have spent a night in intense pain. All these emotions may be detrimental to my health. The pains have been joined by uncertainty about Naomi's mother. It is very likely that had our past not mediated I would have been attracted to her; for her kindness and sensitivity, so rare in the environment in which I have lived these last twenty years. I have still found her attractive, but it is not an exclusively physical attraction, perhaps I cannot explain it in spite of being a writer, but it is a physical attraction that emanates from the spirit; a physical attraction proper to human beings and not to animals. It is the joy of pleasure when it is tempered by sensitivity and not only by sexuality. It is as if the soul gives you its blessing to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh without unconsciousness and bestiality. It's not sex, it's sensuality, if I can put it that way. Maybe that's why we had that frustrated relationship, because she tried to imitate a behavior that was not in her personality, and I wouldn't have known how to interpret it then either. I don't feel well, I'm down and my whole body aches, but I have to pull myself together and keep the promise I made to Naomi's mother. Another absence would be intolerable! The weather is with us. It is a sunny, almost summery day. The shower has cleared my head and I feel a little better. The prospect of spending a morning with someone who has loved you but is unable to recognize you fills me with uncertainty. I may not be up to the task and I may not know how to behave. After all we are two sick people, and sick people understand each other. A cab takes me to Naomi's house, I ask her to wait, because it will take us to the National Museum. Naomi's mother had been waiting for me dressed to go out for a long time. When she opens the door I notice enthusiasm in her expression. I greet her with a friendly kiss on the cheek and can't help but compliment her good looks, which she seems to appreciate. I suspect she has taken a liking to me and feels safe with me. What would happen if she knew who I really was? I don't know, but sooner or later she has to know. I find it hard to accept what is happening. I spend the morning next to a woman I have longed for for many years, and now that she is next to me I feel unable to openly show her my affection, and I continue to suffer from the same regrets as with the previous ones, but aggravated by the constant fear that she will recover her memory and realize that she is next to the man who has caused her the most harm. I would like her to end this nightmare; to recognize me and condemn or forgive me. If on many occasions I have wondered what would have become of me if I had not left her, now I don't need to imagine it. We would visit the latest exhibition at the National Museum, but we would be holding hands, and we would talk about the sales of my latest novel, which surely would not even reach the tenth position of the best sellers, but in exchange I would have a good number of educated and faithful readers, with whom I would exchange thoughts, concerns, ideas and comments about my novels, the message of the characters, about literature and art in general. Many of them I would know personally and I could consider them my friends, as well as faithful readers. But they would not flatter me, even if they felt admiration for my novels. I would not be an idol of young girls blinded by my popularity and the attractiveness of an experienced forty-year-old who considered me sexy, since I would have a companion that everyone would know and would know that I had always been faithful to her, as she herself said at the exit of the movie theater of such bitter memory and that resonate in my ears as if she had pronounced them yesterday: "We won't make mistakes or lead double lives that might cause scandal! We'll be a perfect writing couple, giving no reason why what happened to the unfortunate Oscar Wilde shouldn't happen, right?". How I wish it had been so! But we would also talk about the success of her last book of poems, because she would be much more popular and admired than me. Her books would indeed be at the top of the best sellers and most valued. And they would not be poems addressed to a ghost lover, but to all that multicolored spectrum that can be expressed through poetry. This is the dream that I have failed and that I cannot even turn into an exemplary novel, written with my heart and not my head, without studying the tastes and trends of the market, the number of potential readers and possible royalties, or wasting time in eternal photo shoots to publish the most commercial image, or begging for an interview on the most popular program in exchange for promoting a sponsor who is not interested in what you think about literature, so that future generations would receive that message of friendship, loyalty and generosity from the people of generations already gone. That would possibly have been my life with her. During the cab ride to the museum, she stares quizzically at what she sees as if she has never been here before. When something especially catches her eye, she exchanges a look of amazement with me, I respond with a smile of approval. At the museum she seems enthusiastic about the paintings on display. There is no doubt that she is an artist. She tells me about the ones that catch her attention. I have acquired for her as a souvenir of this visit an illustrated book about the painter in the exhibition, which she thanks me with a discreet kiss on the cheek. She is undoubtedly the same charming woman she was twenty years ago. It would be a memorable morning if I were not in constant pain. I try not to let her notice my suffering, because even if it is brief, today is probably one of the happiest days in recent years. What makes us most human is our ability to get affection and friends who just know us. A friendship without affection is like a black and white photograph: it lacks color. I'm finding the museum visit exhausting, but she seems immune to fatigue. I suggest we take a break and have a drink in the museum cafeteria. She thinks it's a good idea. The cafeteria brings back distant memories of the one at our university. Twenty years later she is standing in line in front of me again and she is also holding a book in one hand! As if this coincidence wasn't enough, they also have slices of strawberry cream pie! She has seen them and seems hesitant to put a slice on her tray. She gestures with the intention of taking a slice but pulls back. I think the sight of that cake has possibly awakened some area of his unconsciousness. I can't see the expression on his face, but he is unable to go on with just a cup of coffee. I get the impression that something is again disturbing his mind. There are several people behind us who are getting impatient, because she has become as if paralyzed in front of the tray of cakes. In a strange gesture, which seems to me more impulsive than voluntary, she finally takes one of the portions. I'm beginning to worry, I have a feeling that twenty years of amnesia may have a tragic end here. But I don't care, and I take one more step towards this abyss, offering to hold the book for him so that he can take the tray with both hands! She turns sharply toward me and I have the alarming feeling that her gaze is remotely familiar, the same one I remember when she turned to me in the faculty cafeteria. Maybe she is starting to remember that scene too, because she refuses my help again! I don't know if fortunately or unfortunately, but there has been no repeat of the accidental event that brought us together, and we managed to get to a table with no accidents! She must have noticed my confusion mixed with my pains, because her gaze shows a certain uneasiness, it seems as if she is looking at a stranger, who is not the same one she had kissed ten minutes before to thank her for the unexpected gift. The coffee and his slice of cake are on the table, and for some reason they remain untouched. It is as if they were witnesses to some important event and needed to be presented as damning evidence to an imaginary but exacting jury. I cannot look into her eyes without feeling uncovered, lost in a deep sense of guilt for which there is no redemption. If I could read her mind I'm sure my image appears blurred in a dense fog, but it is quickly making its way to clearer areas, where it will eventually become perfectly visible. I, too, am getting the feeling that this woman is being transfigured, and before long she may emerge from the mist and may, at last, know the identity of her betrayer! In the midst of this state of anguished transformation, I hear the familiar sound of cups and plates rolling on the floor. An elderly woman has lost her balance, and dropped her tray! Once again fate intrudes on our tormented lives! The woman sitting in front of me now has a twitching face, her eyes wild, her accusing gaze fixed on mine, which I feel unable to hold. She has risen so abruptly that she has caused our accusing coffee cups and cake slices to fall. He almost shouts at me: -You; it's you! PART TWO: THE REUNION "He who forgives sin, seeks affection; he who spreads it, drives away the friend." (Proverbs 17:9) 27. Rejection Naomi's mother has vanished in the cafeteria. I don't know to what extent her memory has returned, but it is clear that she recognized me. A museum security guard has spotted a doctor among the visitors, who is trying to revive her. He asked me what caused her to faint. I told him that she had suffered a shock. The doctor wants to know what caused the shock. I replied that the cause was the strong impression of recognizing a person she had forgotten for the last twenty years. -That's no cause for fainting. -She did not wish to recognize him. He seems to recover. He half-opens his eyes, contemplates me for a few moments and closes them again. -I want to go back to my daughter's house; call my daughter and have her come and get me...! She asks the attending physician. -The gentleman who accompanies you can take you there. -No, no; call my daughter! The doctor looks at me strangely. -It's me he didn't want to recognize. It's a long story; I wouldn't know how to explain it to you. The museum guard suggests we find a cab and tell the driver where to take her. She nods weakly. Someone of those watching the scene has recognized me, and the word spreads among the others watching the scene. I notice in their looks a veiled reproach. I think they know from what is published in the magazines of the heart that my relationships with women are tortuous, and that she may be another of my victims. Nothing causes more pleasure to admirers than to discover the weaknesses of their idols, because deep down they hate them. Their admiration enslaves them and this discovery is a liberation. A few anxious minutes pass, but finally a young man appears who must be the cab driver, because he is accompanied by the guard. I tell him where to take her. The young cab driver and the doctor accompany her, and they leave the cafeteria. I find myself terribly alone, surrounded by people who probably hate me for my alleged misconduct with the victim. It is possible that someone may have taken a photo with his cell phone and tomorrow the photo will be published in the tabloids and on the networks, and some unprincipled and unethical journalist will take advantage of the incident to climb the ladder by resorting to libel. He will make up a story claiming that I mistreat my colleagues, which will delight the readers. He knows perfectly well that I will not sue him, because he will certainly be a poor devil who will not get his miserable salary at the end of the month, and I could only pay for the damages at the taxpayers' expense, giving him shelter and food in one of our overcrowded prisons. But my image will deteriorate, and in these critical moments that is what I most wish to preserve. I don't give the people who witnessed the scene a chance to explain it to them, and I rush out of the museum. It is urgent that I call Naomi so that she is informed of the recovery of her mother's memory and the dramatic outcome, which unfortunately I had already feared. Her cell phone is disconnected, she must be in a class. I call the University secretary's office and ask them to send her my message, and to come to her house urgently. I don't know what else I can do. After making these calls, I stop to think about what has happened. And I don't need to make any great show of intelligence to understand that my life is now meaningless. I don't even have a daughter to hold on to in this life, because I have not been, am not and could not be, the father that any daughter needs. Meeting her was a mistake. It would have been better if we had never met. When I did not exist, all her affection was for her mother and I had no one to judge my behavior. Now I have intruded and she feels obliged to share it with me, and I feel obliged to account for my conduct. It is better for me to get out of her way as soon as possible, as if she had been a mirage, and to employ her noble sentiments on those who deserve them. I am strolling aimlessly along a busy avenue, but I doubt that they will notice my presence, because I already feel myself floating in a vague place, a prelude to my final journey, which I will not take long to undertake. Perhaps sooner than expected! Alicia; yes, Alicia will help me! I can trust her; she will do whatever I ask of her! I don't know the feeling of love and how far we can sacrifice ourselves for the loved one, but she must know because there is no more sublime sacrifice than to love without being reciprocated. And she has endured it with infinite generosity. Someone has to give me the push to get me on my way to a place where I can find peace. I'm startled by the alarm on my cell phone, it's Alicia! It's as if my previous thoughts had been a spell to summon her and she had heard my wishes to die sooner than expected. She has heard from Naomi that her mother has regained her memory and wants to know how she reacted to remembering me. Just a minute ago Alicia was little less than my exterminating angel, and now that I listen to her life is once again claiming her attention, and she manages to drive these gloomy thoughts from my mind. She is a woman and knows how women think and feel, so I knew she would reject me. She asks me how my mood is and I reply that I am like a lost child in a department store who is asked by adults not to cry because they will soon find their parents. I was also crying before his call because I felt lost and scared. She asks me if I want her to come to my apartment so that I can tell her what happened to make Naomi's mother's memory come back. -Thanks to a slice of strawberry cream pie! -I replied. Alicia has the road free, but she knows that I will remain inaccessible as long as I don't have the forgiveness of the woman who now knows who I am and where her enemy lives. Of course, I beg you to come. 28. Depression Despite Alicia's invaluable moral and spiritual help, I am deeply depressed. It must be one of those depressions that inevitably lead to suicide. If I have not committed it yet, it is out of cowardice and horror of physical pain, but there are many ways to end this suffering. If life is not supported by some incentive, it is not possible to live it. In human beings the defense of life is not instinctive, but mental; it is a reasoned and justified decision, but pressured by the irreversible lack of incentives. No animal commits suicide. I have consumed and wasted all my incentives, without the result being what I would have wished. But I must also admit that I have never known what I really wanted. Naomi called me. She is already in her apartment. Her mother is very upset and wants to go home tomorrow. She has completely recovered her memory and remembers the causes of her amnesia in detail as if it happened yesterday. Naomi has tried to make her see that I am deeply sorry, but she does not want them to talk about me. She thinks she will need some time to get over her resentment, but the one thing I don't have is time. She has not told her about my illness so that she does not think that she wants to blackmail her. She is deeply sorry for this situation, for having to divide her affections between two parents at odds. Her mother does not understand why she has forgiven me, when I am the main victim of this drama. Naomi fears that her mother will distance herself from her because she believes that she has not behaved as she expected. She thinks she should have been more consistent and not forgiven me, and I think maybe her mother is right. Alicia has just arrived. Not a day has gone by since the day we met that she hasn't worried about me and I remain stubbornly oblivious to her. Why does she insist on maintaining her loyalty to a doomed, hopeless man who can only inspire pity and sympathy? The answer must lie in those recesses of women's souls that I have failed to understand. 29. Alicia's plan (Narrator: Alicia) Today I found him in a deplorable state. I know that he had hoped that Naomi's mother would have given him the opportunity to express to her his regret and his own sufferings and remorse in twenty years of solitude. If she has lived those twenty years in darkness, he would have preferred to have lost his memory as well. We women are condemned to forgive men's infidelities, because they have created a world where it is not possible to avoid this sin. If it were the world of women, infidelity would not be possible because neither would ownership exist. Men would be as shared as food or work. No one would be anyone's property. This man is a victim of that world, where there is no other incentive than competition and the derisory pleasure of the winners. He is also an unhappy winner in a world made in his own image and likeness. We cannot change a world that has a male God. But we women would not have gods either, only energies, positive or negative. Energy has created the world, we are all energies. I know that in his desperation he is thinking of suicide, but he is a weak man, and to commit suicide it is necessary to have courage. Men feel strong if they have terrible weapons, we do not need those diabolical weapons, but if we set our minds to it, we could bring about the destruction of the world in the same time it took God to create it! God himself had to be begotten by a woman. I would like to make him understand that he is not guilty and that his remorse is unfounded. If there is a guilty party to be found, it is Naomi's mother, because her fantasy and her ignorance of human nature and of the reality in which she lives provoked this man's infidelity. The most serious sins are not committed by the intelligent, but by the ignorant, but they do not feel guilty because their ignorance serves as a mitigating factor. Her literary agent lived in the real world, it was a matter of competition and she had the best offer, that's why she was the winner and got the product. It would be necessary to completely revise our morality and adapt it also to the laws of supply and demand. If I love this man it is because, besides the physical attraction, for twenty years he has been consistent and has written what the market required, but his loneliness justifies his rejection. Only when death threatened him did he decide to put an end to this immorality, and say in public what he really felt and thought. For me he is a hero! He wonders why Naomi's mother won't listen to him and I suggest an idea that might help him: -Why don't you write a new novel with the story of your relations with her and how you have lived these last twenty years. She won't want to see you, but she might read the novel. I think this idea has been in his head for some time, but he doesn't feel strong enough to do something like this. -It's too late now, Alicia, I'm afraid my illness is getting worse and I won't even be able to count on those six months of respite. I have a feeling that I won't live to see the next spring bloom and that I won't be spared the cold winter of death! It is useless for me to encourage him, he knows better than anyone else when death will come, because it must be the most foreseen event. Yes, it is possible that he will not see the next spring bloom and that for him it will be too late, but not for me: I will write that novel in his name! 30. The first novel I had to help him change his clothes and make him comfortable. Maybe it's time to get to know him on a first-name basis. I think he has only me now. His daughter Naomi will only feel pity and compassion for him, but she will remain attached to her mother. She is young and idealistic now, and thinks she loves everyone, but soon she will be more selective, and will be more demanding in lavishing her affections. This is now a dead father, of whom only the memory will remain, but the mother will still be alive and demanding in her maternal affection, more as a family obligation than as a sincere moral sentiment. Now my poor friend is a loser, for with death he loses everything. I need him to tell me what his life has been like in these twenty years of unfounded remorse. -I'll fix you something to eat and then you can rest. While you sleep I will finish reading your first novel. But when you wake up, if you feel well, I want you to tell me what your life has been like during these twenty years. -Alicia, you called me by my first name! I was expecting this remark -Yes, I have called you by your first name; there is no longer any reason to keep our distance. Now we are closer to each other and share the same loneliness. You may not love me, but you need me as much as I need you. We are now traveling companions. You will get off before me, but my journey won't be very long either. I can only trust you and you can only trust me. I may be the only one to mourn your death. Now he rests and I return to the reading of his first book, which I now read with great attention. The one I write must have his style, because it must be his book. I do not know if I should inform him of my idea, it is possible that he felt frustrated at not being able to write it himself. I read a paragraph that strikes me: "The day is dark for the cursed poets, and the night is clear and welcoming for us; the light damages our eyes accustomed to darkness. In the darkness there are no visible paths, it is necessary to travel them with the imagination. During the day all the paths where you are forced to travel are visible. That is why only in the darkness we are free, while in the light of day we are slaves. I have chosen the darkness of death, because on the other side of the darkness there is always light. I will be reborn in a new world saturated with light, where I will live eternally." Will it really be like that? How can I know in life? My good friend will check it very soon, and I should arrange with him a spell to cross our dimension and inform me. Would it be possible? The short break was good for him. He has woken up in a good mood and agrees to tell me his story. I make coffee for both of us; I sit comfortably in the armchair and listen to him with great attention. -My agent knew I had betrayed the other woman, but he didn't feel guilty. He believed she was infinitely more beneficial to my career than my partner. As an agent, she prioritized the success of those she represented over her feelings. In just three months we managed to place my novel among the top 10 best sellers, and two months later, we reached first place. She had kept her promise! She knew all the levers to promote the novel of a perfect stranger. And sometimes those levers didn't move very ethically or morally. Our extra-professional relationship was not very satisfying for both of us. I was not a lover up to her demands. The truth is that for one reason or another I have never been a great lover. When he managed to place me on the cusp of popularity he stopped being interested in me. His passion was to bring young writers out of anonymity and share their triumphs in a very personal and physical way. For the first six months I did not have the courage to concern myself with the fate of the victim of my ambition, but not a day passed without the memory of her and my betrayal weighing on my conscience. I had promised myself that as soon as my career was consolidated and free from the bonds of my contract with my agent, I would seek her out and propose to her to resume our old dreams of glory, and we would once again become the writing couple she had imagined. I already had the means to make it happen. But I still had a year's commitment to my agent. No, that woman does not deserve this man's affection; and of course he is not guilty. If he is guilty, to live is sin! Nothing fundamental that we human beings do is righteous, because we are driven by necessity and not by will, but this is what living is all about. We have all inherited "original sin." -My agent didn't wait for our contract to end before finding a new lover. Another young writer, as ignorant and inexperienced as I was. Surely he would offer him the same fame and success as me, but he hadn't won any contests. He may not have been a better writer than me, but he was probably a better lover. By then I had not only risen to the top of the popularity charts, but I had created a saga that virtually assured the success of my future novels. That's why I decided that the time had come to repair the damage done, to meet her again, to try to get her to forgive me, and to make up for lost time, which had been very profitable for me. But there was no trace of her - he remains silent for a few moments, I think he realizes the desolation that awaited him if he did not manage to find the whereabouts of that woman -. She was hidden in a remote location that had little contact with the rest of the country, and no one knew with whom she was associated during her stay at the university. She never revealed the name of that town, which also did not coincide with her birthplace. Her father was the secretary of the Town Hall and had already made several transfers to that position in that small town. All my inquiries were useless. To make matters worse, she had adopted an artistic name to sign her poetry by which she was known, and not by her real name, which even I do not know! -So, is it true that you have exhausted all attempts to find her? -I ask him, although he has already given me the answer. -All the ones in my hands. I assumed that she had removed all traces of where she was so that I could not locate her. I didn't know I had lost my memory. I still let the year that was left in our contract go by, never for one day failing to try some other means of getting hold of her, but all my efforts proved futile. I finally came to the conclusion that she did not want to be located, because otherwise after two years there was no reason for her not to be the one to try to contact me. I did not believe her to be so spiteful, and I gave up looking for her. Two years of hard work, of having reached the pinnacle of popularity and having the necessary means to realize our dream, were meaningless and useless; in other words: they had gone to waste! -But she says the opposite: that you had no intention of tracking him down. -For her, I must have already been dead; there was no need to wait for me to suffer from this disease! -And how did you live the following years? -The following years I did not live; I survived! I had no other incentive than those commissioned novels, one every year, twenty thorns stuck in my mind! I had thousands of admirers, but not a single one to whom I could confide. When you write novels for ordinary people, don't expect to find a single one out of the ordinary. It's been such a lost few years for her, even though she has an excellent memory. 31. Confidences of a mother (Narrator Naomi) My father has not told me the whole story of his relationship with my mother. Now that he has regained his memory and I know the real story from my mother, I think maybe she is right and does not deserve my forgiveness. My mother could have prevented my birth by having me aborted, which she possibly would have done if my father had known of my gestation. If I was gestated it is because she believed she loved him and did not want to lose him, but he did not know how to value her sacrifice and abandoned her. She knew that she had accepted the representation of that vicious and heartless woman, and she was so naive that she thought she could compete with her. What else could she do to keep him by her side? It was of no use for her to write the best poems and dedicate them to him, because he had ceased to be interested in the poetess, and of course in the woman, but he did not have the courage to be honest with her. My poor mother has been crying practically since she has arrived at my house. It has been very painful to come face to face with a man who had shown so little courage in hiding his infidelity from her. -It's easy to regret when one senses death.... -she says to me between sobs-. You had to be the one to find him.... If he had put more effort years ago he would have found me, but success, and surely his many admirers, kept him very busy. I cannot reproach him for his resentment, twenty years lost in a few hours are not forgotten just because he suffers from an incurable disease. He is the cause of my mother also suffering from an incurable disease, but of the soul. But I am deeply saddened by this situation. I wish I could have found a justification for both of them, because deep down I believe they are both good people. They both have noble souls, and, if they have hurt each other there must be a powerful reason. My father blames his passion for literature and perhaps he is right. To create it is necessary to leave this world and contemplate it without an emotional relationship, otherwise it is not possible to understand it. I suppose that in order to create characters with different personalities, the author does not have to be emotionally linked to any of them. When my father was immersed in the creation of his novels, his relationship with the world around him, including my mother, must have changed and they were no longer people but characters. His life was a fiction and his relationship with my mother, the plot of some of his future novels. As it was. If I intend to follow in his footsteps and be as good a writer as he is, I must avoid creating emotional ties with anyone in this world, because, as he himself told me, and which I have not been able to forget, "If you dream of being an out-of-the-ordinary writer, your life will pass within that same out-of-the-ordinary dream, and you will never be able to live in reality." My mother also lived her out-of-the-ordinary dream, but she made the clumsy mistake of falling in love with one of her characters. I cannot expose this reflection to my mother because she might not be able to understand it. Although she has regained her memory, she still lives in her fictional world, and my father is a character of her imagination who has accidentally incarnated himself in the body of a lover. They should wake up from their respective dreams and contemplate each other as they are. Only then could they know how they really feel about each other, but how to wake up from a dream someone who doesn't know he is dreaming? I know it is useless, but I try to make my mother see this other point of view: -I understand that you are hurt, but perhaps your passion for literature played a trick on you, neither of you knew what the other was really like. Love is blind, and only sees what it imagines it sees. Maybe you were in love with someone who existed only in your imagination. My mother has reacted, and she looks at me confused and suspicious. She doesn't seem to have understood what I meant. I try to be more explicit: -What I mean is that both you and he needed each other as admirers of your respective works, which is what you really loved. When my father found another admirer, he no longer needed you, but you still needed him. I think he still doesn't understand my thoughts about his relationships. I'm afraid he thinks I'm trying to justify it. -Naomi, daughter, I don't know what you're trying to tell me! His guilt is evident, he took advantage of my innocence. I always tried to justify his lack of interest because I blindly believed that, in spite of everything, he was still faithful to me. It wasn't the first time that woman had made him late for our appointments, but that night I needed to see him and let him know that I was pregnant with your child, and I didn't know how he might react. He was not likely to want to be a father at this delicate time in his career. He needed to know as soon as possible, but I didn't think it was appropriate to tell him in writing or over the phone. I wanted to see his first reaction to know whether he would accept you or reject you. So, you can imagine my enormous frustration and anguish, because of his absence. In spite of the pain, I tried to believe that he had some powerful reason for not coming to the appointment, I was still blindly trusting in his fidelity! His expression has changed. She seems to be feeling the desolation and pain of that night. I can see it in the wrinkles on her forehead and in the wetness of her eyelids, she is about to cry again. -I was so distressed and helpless that after waiting uselessly for him for more than an hour, I did not return directly to my apartment. The night was warm and clear so I felt like taking a walk. I thought a long, relaxing walk would calm my anguish and I wandered through the busy streets, to mingle with the people and distract myself from my thoughts. I was confident that the next day we would have a chance to meet. And that's when I had the terrible shock that caused my amnesia. In one of these streets, there was a nightclub of ill fame, and I was contemplating the obscene photographs of the claim, when he descended from a cab, accompanied by that woman, who took him by the arm and they entered the club. They both seemed intoxicated. That image gave me a strong impact and I felt as if my head was going to explode. When I recovered from that terrible shock, I didn't know where I was, nor did I have the slightest idea how I had gotten there? -I didn't know where I lived, I didn't even remember my name! Near that place there was a small park, belonging to a parish in the neighborhood. Most of the benches were lined with homeless people. I was terrified, but I needed to rest, and I let myself fall exhausted on the only one that was free. Moments later a woman from the urban police patrolling the neighborhood was surprised by my appearance, which was not that of a beggar and wanted me to identify myself, but I could not answer any of her questions, so they understood that I was in a state of shock, and took me to the police station of the neighborhood... You know the rest... For God's sake! Why do I have to face this horrible dilemma? If I save one I condemn the other! Where is the justice? Which of the two is truly innocent and which is truly guilty? And why does one of them have to be guilty? Why can't they both be innocent? They each have their reasons for doing what they have done and I am unable to judge them. I suppose only God can judge them! My mother is packing her little travel bag, because she is about to take the first train of the morning. There will be no opportunity for reconciliation. She will probably not be at his bedside when he passes away. She does not want to return to this city that brings back such bad memories. She is determined to forget him, but now voluntarily. Who knows, now that she has regained her memory and can live a normal life, maybe she will meet another man with whom she can rebuild her traumatic life. And me, what should I do? I want her to give me the answer herself: -Mom, I understand that you resent him and want to forget about him, but what should I do? He's my father, and he's a dying man! Should I be at his bedside when he passes away? His answer plunges me deeper into my uncertainty: -My daughter, do what your conscience dictates, you are already an adult, you must decide for yourself.... Now I am the one who feels like crying. -I don't want to be an adult! 32. Naomi's mother (Narrator: Naomi's mother) It is not yet dawn and we are ready to head for the station. My train leaves in an hour and the station is not far, but we will take advantage of the time to have breakfast in the cafeteria. My daughter is not used to these early mornings and is still sleepy. She has insisted on accompanying me to the station, but now I can manage on my own perfectly well. The cab is waiting for us on the street and in less than twenty minutes it drops us off at the station. I look nostalgically at the cityscape of my youth that I will never see again. We have plenty of time to chat, but first we need a strong coffee to clear our heads. We sit at a separate table in the cafeteria and Naomi brings me coffees and two croissants that are still warm. We have breakfast in silence. She waits for me to tell her something about what my life will be like from now on in my small town. I tell her that nothing will change, but that I will now try to publish some of my poems. -Even if they are dedicated to my father? -Why not? A poem is a poem, and it doesn't matter to whom it is dedicated, what matters is that it moves feelings and emotions. -But he can read them. -He has not lost his memory; he has nothing to remember. -Will you ever come back to this city? -No, Naomi, my poor child, I will never set foot in this city again. He's been dead to me for twenty years! He took his own life the night he went to that notorious club on the arm of that woman. She dug her own grave, and then erased the epitaph on his grave, because she too forgot her victim. For me he has remained dead these twenty years, until he was momentarily resurrected to revive again his agony. I have written the last verse dedicated to him, which can serve as a panegyric: I die when I am still young; I die when I am still an adult; I resurrect when I am about to die; I die again when I was about to live. -This is my farewell gift until death wills to take me to his side as well. Then we will know which of us two has done justly. Literature will lose a writer with all his talent barely used and a poetess with all her talent barely remembered. No, Naomi, I don't want to force you to choose who to condemn or who to save. Your soul and mind do not belong to us, only your body. You have received your soul from God, and only you have the possibility of discovering what your true personality is. Don't try to imitate us and choose your own path, which may lead you to be a great writer, but you could also be an excellent doctor or a great soccer player. You owe us nothing. We begot you by our recklessness, without that being our desire, as most human beings are begotten. It is we who are indebted to you, but we do not have the means to compensate you for our mistakes. You were born free and you are free to choose who deserves your affection and your memory. Your mother will always welcome you with open arms, but live your life and do not feel pity or expect comfort from us. If you need comfort, learn to comfort yourself; if you need support, learn to lean on yourself; if you need compassion, learn to pity yourself and if you need love, learn to love yourself. It may not have been the advice a mother should give her daughter, but at least in this I agree with her father, people are only united by the affections that their works arouse; without works there can be no affections. -Your father and I were happy when we both admired each other's work, but when he stopped being interested in my poetry and I stopped admiring his, because he stopped writing short stories to devote himself to writing novels inspired by his perverse agent, we had no reason to love each other anymore. But I didn't want to accept that that talented young writer would let himself be handled by his agent, and I continued to admire the author of "Poetas sin cielo". Now I know how wrong I was! Only if he returned to being the writer I idolized could I forgive him. But perhaps for him it is already too late. That must be his destiny and this must be mine. The public address system at the station announces the imminent departure of my train. My poor daughter has felt it as if they were announcing the departure of a train to eternity with no return, because she looks at me in anguish and I know she is making great efforts to hold back her tears. -Mom, if I have to be an adult, I want to be like you. I love you very much... but also my wretched father... -I know, you have a generous heart because you are young. With age it shrinks and becomes more selfish, but more faithful and demanding. -No, we'll say goodbye here.... Take good care of yourself, and don't pout like when you were a child, or you'll make me cry too. Give me a farewell smile! Naomi tries to please me, but her smile is a cheerful way of crying. My heart breaks into a thousand pieces as I walk away from her dragging my small travel suitcase as if it were my coffin. When I finally step through the door onto the platform and she can no longer see me, I let my downtrodden soul vent freely and cry silently.... I can't help but feel guilty for having lived! 33. The second novel (Narrator: Alicia) I have read the manuscript of her first novel twice and I think I am ready to take on this important challenge. Of course I will alter some things, she has to understand the reasons for his abandonment and be able to justify it. This man cannot leave this world without a clear conscience and I will not be able to convince him that he is innocent. But I have little time, I have long sleepless nights ahead of me! I heard from Naomi that her mother has returned to her hometown and it seems she has no intention of ever going back. Fortunately Noemi still considers me a good friend she can trust. She has not told me expressly, but she is going through a very difficult time. We have arranged to meet at the coffee shop where I met her father, but he will not attend, because I will not inform him of our meeting. I want Naomi to have nothing that prevents her from opening her heart to me and telling me what conclusions she has drawn after what her mother has told me about her father's behavior. I need that information to finish getting an idea of the plot of this new novel. Now she knows the whole story, but according to her mother's version, I want her to know her father's version as well. I am taking advantage of the fact that she is spending the morning at the hospital to meet her. I am the first to arrive and I sit at the same table as that day. In front of the table there are some large mirrors where I see myself reflected and I can hardly believe that this woman is me. My gaze has become severe, or rather, cold and disenchanted. I no longer find myself neither ugly nor beautiful, just sober and adult. I don't need to attract anyone's attention either, because I already have someone to pay all my attention to, that's why I dress again with the same old-fashioned clothes I wore when I arrived from the provinces. I even notice that my movements are slower and my appearance in general suggests that of a simple social worker. I feel more like myself than in those provocative clothes. How little they esteem themselves who need to hide themselves in the way they dress! Naomi has just arrived. She has all the appearance of a helpless and confused creature. She stands hesitantly in the doorway, as if afraid of being discovered. She hasn't seen me, or perhaps hasn't recognized me in my new guise, and she motions to leave. I signal her with my arm, and as she recognizes me she seems to come back to life. She smiles as if I have saved her from some imaginary danger. She sits down across from me. She asks me about her father's health. -I don't want to deceive you Noemi, all these events have affected him... I don't think he will make it through this winter -his smile has turned into a bitter expression of deep sadness-. I think that what is worsening his health is his deep depression after your mother's rejection. Naomi lowers her gaze, as if she does not want me to notice the conflict of her divided feelings in her eyes. We keep a few moments of silence in memory of her dying father. She has nothing to say, I am the one who starts the conversation. -May I ask you why your mother does not want to hear your father's confession? She tells me the real cause and not the one we all believed. I'm afraid the mother has a powerful reason for her spiteful attitude. Even I would find it hard to forgive her if I were in her place. Betrayal now has a pornographic image, something simply intolerable for a sensitive poetess. In her delusions she must have imagined him as a satyr with the face of an angel. How can I justify that scene? Why did they go to that club after, in all probability, they had drunk to excess during the romantic private dinner? There must be a good reason that exculpates him. -Dear friend, sometimes I wonder, especially as a writer, what is the use of language if we cannot understand each other. Perhaps it would have been better to communicate with a few sounds to express our basic feelings, as animals do, because words, no matter how cultured, creative or realistic we may be, are not capable of expressing ourselves as clearly as those simple sounds. Your parents are two excellent people, and they would have understood each other with simple sounds, without using words. The use of words has confused and separated them. It is a biblical curse! The same words have different meanings depending on who pronounces them and how they are pronounced. The heart does not understand the meaning of words, but the tone with which they are pronounced. The meaning is the task of the mind, but the mind lacks feelings, it doesn't care about one word or another. Your mother only listens to what is said if it is poetic; but your father only pays attention to what is said if it resembles the dialogues of a novel. Neither listens to what the other really says! -Yes; they themselves admit that their passion for literature is what has separated them! -No, Noemí; it is not literature, but words. Literature is a noble attempt to give some emotional or intellectual meaning to words so that their messages are clear to the senses. But life is not a novel, we don't know who the characters are or what the plot is about or even know its author. We trust that words and their meanings are enough to go through the world with morality and a sense of justice, but all we do is invent moralities and justice with words that do not have the same meaning for everyone, so there can be no morality or justice as long as there are words. Naomi seems to ponder my thoughts. She has come to a wise conclusion: -So, do you think they are both guilty? -No doubt, but it is an inevitable sin, because we need words, not to understand each other, but to communicate. That is why literature that is born of this curse and tries to redeem itself is so necessary, but not literature that is born already cursed and rejoices in its evil, as a pig wallows in its excrement. We writers have only one mission: to free words from the flames of hell and make them reach heaven. We are the fallen angels in this hell, while we inhabit the Earth, and of heaven, when we leave it. -And what can I do to reconcile them? -Words will not reconcile them, unless they are spoken in such a way that the heart understands them. -What do you mean? -Your mother will only react if she receives the message in poetry! -And who will write this poetry? -The person who loves them the most... You will write it. It will be your debut in this magical world of Literature and you will pass with an A, because you have the main thing: a great motivation. I know she feels overwhelmed, but at the same time I notice in her eyes the spark of genius that demands her chance. -But my mother would only be reconciled if he proves to her with a new novel that he is the same one who wrote "Poets Without Heaven", and that she has unconsciously loved these twenty years.... -Your father will write it! I don't want to reveal to Naomi that I will be the one to write it, because unconsciously I might reveal it to her mother and all the work would be useless. -Alicia, you have never told me why you feel obliged to take care of my father, because you always address him as "you", which is not proper for a mistress.... Do you have anything to do with his publisher or his manager? I had always feared that Naomi would ask me this question. But I don't have a clear answer even if I ask it to myself. Only a month ago I was a woman in love with a famous writer, whom I was physically attracted to and admired for his talent, so I had no doubt about the causes. Now my feelings have gone beyond love and are in an unknown dimension, which is probably not of this world. Thanks to his illness we have found ourselves in a dimension that goes beyond the human and must have something to do with the divine, and that must be hidden in our astral personality. Only in extreme situations do we penetrate this dimension, which creates eternal bonds. It is as if I am helping this man to enter that dimension, which must be the myth of Paradise, where we will meet again and be lovers for all eternity, so we can spare no effort to achieve it. I am trying to secure the love of this man after his death, so I cannot feel jealous of his mother, who will only be able to love him with that earthly, temporary love of human beings, when I reserve for myself his eternal and divine love. But Naomi would not understand. -Your father and I are, in addition to professional colleagues, old friends. I feel obliged to help him die a good death. I would do the same for any of my friends and fellow writers. 34. The wording Today I started writing the novel. I have the strange feeling that I am fulfilling a divine mandate; the will comes to me from an unknown source. The salvation or damnation of a human soul depends on its outcome. It is as if I were donating blood to a badly wounded person. I begin with that terrifying phrase for all writers: "Chapter One. It is like opening the bonds of the imagination, in a perfect union with the mind. It is absolutely necessary that the first lines arouse in Naomi's mother the need to read the following remaining lines or failure is assured. These are my first lines: "The main characters of this story did not meet by chance, but by destiny. But for twenty years they put all their efforts into going against what was written in the stars. This is the story of two lovers united by literature, but separated by words." I think it's a good beginning, and only with a good beginning is a good ending possible. Now I have to create the author of the novel, because this novel will not be written by me but by my characters. Also in real life things work the same way. God has created man, and has endowed him with the necessary understanding so that he can decide for himself the plot of his story. I continue: "These characters are two young people with the defects and virtues of all young people: utopian, independent, rebellious, reckless, nonconformist, generous, innocent and unbelieving. Like all young people, they do not live in the present, but in the future; they have no history, only a great desire to make history. Nor do they have experience, only experiences. They are not wise, they only have the desire to know. They make the simple complicated, because they believe that the simple is for old people or children, but not for them. They are, in short, two young people of our time, but as young people have been in all times. She has a passion for the sensitivity of Garcilaso and he for the imagination of Cervantes; she adores Dante Alighieri, he Lope de Vega; she is a poet, he is a storyteller. She knows she has talent and is sure of herself; he doubts her talent, and has no confidence in himself. But she believes in him and decides to postpone temporarily his inevitable conquest of fame and glory in order to help the insecure young narrator, so that they can walk the road to glory together, without one overshadowing the other." Four exhausting weeks have already passed. The novel is progressing at the same rate as my strength is waning. I have reached the critical point of separation and I have no difficulty in exonerating my death row inmate of all guilt. Where can the writer find the source of his inspiration if not in real life? How can he describe a brothel, observe the deep sadness that encloses the false joy of the prostitutes; the eagerness to make even the smallest drop of pleasure received pay, if he has never been in a brothel? How can a writer with her wings intact and free to fly wherever she pleases, clip another writer's so that he does not stray too far from his nest? Poetry springs from the soul; narrative from life. The poet sees the world from a cloud; the storyteller from the sewers. Poetry is music; narrative is noise. Naomi's mother still sees the world from a cloud, and if she does not descend to dry land she will never know that clouds become rain, and rainwater runs in the gutters! I have used these notes in this decisive chapter : "It was no surprise to find a table set up in his unmistakable style for two diners. Champagne set to chill, caviar canapés and other delicacies. I even knew that he would choose the most provocative clothes, in other words, it was nothing more than a novel scenario that I was to describe in the novel I was writing at the time. It was my clever agent's peculiar form of collaboration. But there were still some complicated scenes to describe for which I lacked the necessary imagery and could easily fall into ridicule. I discussed it with my agent and he suggested we pay a visit to one of the less reputable clubs in town, where I would surely have the images I needed. But I remembered my appointment. It was a painful decision. I knew she would be outraged, but a woman who has a writer for a partner must be used to such rudeness. Would she be angry if I were a doctor who missed her appointment because she had to treat a sick person? With my novels, I also treat thousands of people who are sick with boredom and lack of entertainment. Tomorrow I'll excuse myself and she'll understand! Before that excursion to the most nauseating bowels of the city, we finished the champagne, because sober we would not have had the courage to enter that brothel." "Unfortunately it was a fatal coincidence that she, frustrated and hurt by my absence, strolled down the street where the club was located and surprised us as we got out of the cab and entered the club somewhat dizzy, so that my agent had to lean on my arm. If it was true that he had blind trust in my fidelity, he had to wait until the next day to see that, despite appearances condemning me, I was still faithful. But that misleading image exceeded all her capacity for tolerance, and wounded her deeply, causing her the fatal trauma that has kept us apart for these past twenty years!" If after reading this she doesn't forgive you, this woman has lost her soul! 35. Winter The slower you want time to pass the faster it insists on passing. I've been so busy this past month that I haven't been aware of the passage of time and it's already winter! After her interview with her mother, Naomi is less affectionate with her father. Whatever her mother may have told her about her relationship with her father has affected her noticeably. There is something that separates them, but Naomi does not want to discuss with him her encounter with her mother, and her version of what happened. If she hides it, it must be because it must be something very lurid and that she does not dare to comment on. She has also become accustomed to her father's illness, she even seems to be mentally prepared to accept his untimely death, and only visits him once a week. Her apology is that she is so busy with her exams that she can barely stay for an hour in his apartment, and doesn't even stay for dinner. Since her hasty return, we have heard nothing from the mother. She seems buried in absolute silence. At least Naomi does not mention her. Unfortunately, it is as if all our behavior has entered into an irresponsible routine, without us being truly aware of the seriousness of the moment. Your father has had to be admitted several times to the emergency room, because his illness is getting alarmingly worse. Every time I call an ambulance to transport him to the hospital, he begs me to let him die in his bed. He is horrified by hospitals, because he believes that everyone there is so familiar with death that they cause it themselves! The pains cloud his mind and in those critical moments he totally loses the will to live, but I cannot accede to his wishes, because I still need him to survive at least long enough to see my purpose through. The novel is practically finished, because it is not very long. Only a few corrections are missing. I had some difficulty in finding a good denouement, but I think I have solved it satisfactorily. Your publisher will have no knowledge of this novel, of which I will publish only a few copies, enough to fulfill its purpose and no more. About the poem to be written by Noemi, maybe I overestimated her talent, but I still trust her, she will surprise me any day. My plan is that by Christmas the reconciliation will be consummated, and, at last, I will also be able to reconcile with myself. Perhaps I will also take advantage of this painful experience to write my own novel with my own version of events, but most likely I will dedicate my next work to the memory of this great man. As I expected, Naomi has not let me down, and has written a touching poem that is sure to influence her mother's mood. In any case, I don't think he will follow in his parents' footsteps. She is too down-to-earth and too grounded. She would make a good researcher, or teacher. If her parents have problems it is because of her artistic, creative, fickle, unpredictable temperament. It is difficult to live with an artist. 36. The last winter (Narrator: the sick person) This will be, if medicine does not prevent it, my last winter. I would like to live it intensely, but life slips through my fingers like fine grains of sand on a beach. Soon I will have left this troubled world. With each passing day I feel more and more familiar with death. With each new dawn the sun rises darker for me, and its light grows dimmer. Slowly what was a nightmare becomes a dream. As life punishes me, death rewards me. Death seemed like a drama to me before I knew the true face of life. Now that I know it, death seems to me a comedy, and it causes me an irresistible desire to laugh. In the end I will end up turning my death into a great event and I will sit in the stalls with a real longing for the curtain to rise. I may be starting to lose my mind, but that must be the mind's strategy to elude suffering. Blessed is madness when sanity allies itself with pain so that you suffer it consciously! But I wish to be an exceptional witness to my own death, because it is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I am a writer. If I intend to describe death in my novels, I must have experienced it! I know it seems an absurd thought, but more absurd is to believe that our mind and spirit do not transcend beyond the threshold of death. I believe that everything we have come to conceive and imagine will somehow remain, and transcend our death, to be the foundations of the personality of a new life at the instant of its gestation, into whom we will transmigrate. I also know that this is a naive consolation, because no one has been able to prove such a theory. Others believe that their souls will ascend to heaven, remain in purgatory or descend to hell, where they will be reunited with other soul mates, virtuous or sinful. This is the most popular version. In my theory there are no heavens or hells, but there is overcoming or degradation. A wicked and depraved soul can transmigrate into the fetus of a beast. It is not the most popular, but I believe it must be so. Now I spend most of the day bedridden and my mind is only clear when the sedatives take effect and the pain disappears, more and more intensely. Alicia spends the day with me, but at night, after she leaves me sedated and I manage to fall asleep, she goes back to her apartment, only to return first thing in the morning. She must be exhausted, because sometimes she falls asleep on the couch and it is me who watches over her sleep. She has brought her laptop with her, on which she passes the time when I sleep. She says she is working on her new novel about the ballerina, but she doesn't want to read anything to me until it is finished. She has become very superstitious and thinks it brings bad luck. I find her getting worse and worse every day, even thinner. I fear that she may also fall ill. Today is one of the coldest days of the winter. A heavy snow is falling and the flakes seem to go crazy as they are pushed by a strong gusty wind, which is constantly changing direction. Like every morning, I hear the pleasant rattle of the lock as Alice arrives at my apartment. She is shivering with cold and completely soaked. I suggest she put on one of my robes and dry her clothes on the heating radiator. Many times I have held her body in my arms, but I had never seen her naked. This morning I finally had that opportunity. I see the body of an attractive but not provocative woman; sensual but not sexual. It is harmonious but not erotic. It's just a human being's body. It feels better already. As she prepares my breakfast, I inquire about her career situation, which she seems to have abandoned because of me. -Alicia, how are things going with my agent? Did he get you a contract? Alicia denies it with a slight nod of her head. -And has he given you any reason? -Publishers don't like novels where there is no sex, or at least something that excites their imagination, and my novels find them too intellectual or spiritual. -Yes, I think my first agent seduced me into having a firsthand sexual experience and being able to describe it in minute detail. That was also one of the keys to the success of my novels. Sexuality is not an invention of culture, it is a natural reality and there is no reason for it not to be part of a plot, but it should not be described as a simple sexual relationship, similar to that of animals, because what characterizes a human being is that from all his natural experiences he extracts a moral evaluation, which does not exist in animals. Among humans, sex cannot be exempt from this same morality. Most novels dispense with this necessary moral premise to describe it as a purely animal relationship and, therefore, immoral. It is not true that in war as in love anything goes. In war there are also rules of conduct, so why shouldn't there be in sexuality? Alicia listens attentively to my brief dissertation on sexuality and seems to agree, but qualifies a few details. -Morality is relative, and its values are not shared by all, that is why I believe that sexuality has to be based on other more realistic norms, that satisfies desire without incurring in prostitution.... -And what are these standards? -Of course, mutual consent, and respect for the sensitivity of each lover, provided that both are aware of the consequences of this relationship. That attitude is already sufficiently moral. No lover should be considered an object of pleasure, but pleasure should have an object, that of mutual satisfaction of the senses, without creating a bad conscience: the contrary would be prostitution! 37. Last Christmas (Narrator: Naomi's mother) Once again I am in this small and remote town. It has welcomed me with the first snowfall of this year and I feel that the snow is also falling on my soul. Now that I have recovered my memory, the last twenty years of blessed amnesia seem like a brief instant. Were it not for the wrinkles, those of the face and those of the soul, I would not know that time has passed. To remember for what; to recognize the cause of your amnesia; to see again that painful scene at the entrance of that brothel; to relive those dreams cut short by the ambition of a disloyal friend? For this it is better not to remember! Now I have to forget what I have remembered so that it does not continue to disturb me and to meet again with poetry, which is my only friend and confidant. The only one that is loyal and for no cause, justified or not, betrays you. We are only what we believe in and believe, the rest is a chimera, because it only exists in our imagination. I imagined him as I wished him to be, but he was not as I imagined him to be, because no one can penetrate the mind and soul of another person. They will always let us down! Now I have to follow the same advice I gave Naomi: If you need comfort, learn to comfort yourself; if you need support, learn to lean on yourself; if you need compassion, learn to pity yourself; and if you need love, learn to love yourself. What would have become of me if he hadn't won that untimely award? Would we still be together, would he have grown tired of me? We would probably be separated. I remember the night of the recital. He didn't say goodbye to me because he was jealous of my friends. But, on the other hand, only those who love feel jealous. And what would have become of his literary career if he had not met that woman? Naomi wants me to read her novels, but she herself assures me that they are well written and interesting, but lack motivation. They don't convey anything transcendental or human, they are novels to regale the ears of ordinary people, without ambition, conformist and resigned to their vulgarity. If I had helped him, he might not be so famous, but he would be better regarded and would have more incentive. He had the talent to write something more ambitious; something that deserved to go down to posterity. I just got an email from Naomi, I miss her so much! She should write to me more often. I open it, unable to contain my excitement: "Dear Mom, in two weeks it will be Christmas again and this year I don't know with whom of the two of you I am supposed to spend this lovely time of the year. You know how much I love you, but it hurts me that my father spends them alone, being so sick. My heart is still divided between the two of you, and I can't decide on either of you, because I wish I could spend them with both of you!" My poor daughter is in an unbearable emotional struggle. I should write to her and tell her that I won't mind if she doesn't come and spend it with her father. Someone has to sacrifice, because neither of us has done more to deserve her affection! "I have another important piece of news for you: Alicia has given me several copies of Dad's latest autobiographical novel. In spite of being very weak she has kept her promise. I've read it and I couldn't help crying with joy, but I won't tell you why, it's better if you read it and find out for yourself. Will you promise me you'll read it? I'll send you a copy by mail. I also enclose my first poem dedicated to the two of you. I already told you at the station that I wished I was like you. I hope you like it. A very strong hug from your daughter who loves you and misses you, Noemí." God knows that I would make any sacrifice so that Naomi would be happy and not have to suffer for our faults, but He asks the impossible of me! Betrayal has no redemption. Jesus would not have forgiven Judas either, nor does God forgive the devil. One betrayal is enough, now I cannot also betray myself. No, Naomi, my poor child, you cannot yet understand how the wounds of the heart hurt. Mine has bled for twenty years, and now it needs to heal its wound, it may happen tomorrow or never. Everything is written in destiny. Let it decide for us. She tells me that her father has published a new novel, and that it is autobiographical. I have a feeling that it must not leave me in a good place among his memories. Why is Naomi so keen for me to read it? I'm not spiteful. I, too, wish everything had happened differently. I also long for those happy campus days; that insecure young writer who needed my help; those dreams practically within our grasp. But he reneged on everything in exchange for thirty pieces of silver. God is just and has sent him the punishment he deserves! However, the paths of the Lord are inscrutable, thanks to my weakness this daughter of mine was born, who promises to surpass both of us and to be the comfort of both of us. Only God knows what is right and what is wrong. If I stand firm it will be His will and if he must die with regrets, so must he. Today has dawned with a dense blanket of snow that evens everything with the same whiteness. You can hardly walk through these steep alleys. I met the letter carrier on my way out of the bakery and he handed me the envelope with the book Noemi sent me. We all know each other here and there is no need for mailboxes. If I didn't know it also contained a poem by my daughter I wouldn't even open it, but I want to see if Noemí will become a great poet or if she is following the wrong path. I open it and am painfully struck by the title of the book: "Si tú fueras..., Memorias de dos amantes unidos por la literatura y separados por las palabras" (If you were..., Memoirs of two lovers united by literature and separated by words). What does he intend with this title? But I see Noemi's poem. It is not very long. I read it: "I WAS BORN OF FORGOTTEN PARENTS For love or lack of love, by charm or disenchantment, of two unknown lovers I was born of oblivion. As a baby I had no one to rock me, as a child I had no one to spoil me, as an adult I had no one to counsel me because I was born of forgotten parents I met my father when he was dying, I met my mother when I didn't remember, I knew myself when I cried, because we continue to be forgotten. I write you this simple poem to make you forget what you have remembered and remember what you have forgotten of the writer you had loved. Your loving daughter, Naomi." It is a poem worthy of my daughter. You could not have expressed her wishes better. It has touched the depths of my aching soul. I feel guilty that I have ignored my daughter's yearnings. Perhaps she has the right perspective on this drama and I am fixated on my revenge. Perhaps, after all, it is written in destiny that I must forgive her. But how do I know, who can advise me, should I turn to a priest, do they know more about the human soul than we do, have they been given the grace of faith by God himself, so that they are closer to virtue than other human beings? I have lost faith and trusted only in my own judgment, without waiting for the miracle of revelation, but after reading my daughter's moving poem I am beginning to doubt my moral certainties and the time may have come to ask for advice from one who is devoted to the salvation of souls, and mine must be at risk of damnation. If my daughter wishes, I think I should read this new novel. 38. The alarm (Narrator: Alicia) I have to warn Naomi, her father is dying! I know it's against his will, and it's the will of a dying man, but I'm going to call the hospital to have him admitted. He has to hang on to life for a few more days. I can't accept that this woman has no heart. She has to come and save him from the hell of his remorse or he will not rest in peace and we will not be able to meet in that place in the cosmos reserved for our souls. He is bedridden. He can hardly move anymore and has no desire to speak to me. But he follows my every movement with a dull, lifeless look, as if he could only move the girls in his eyes. But in that cloudy, dying look there must be a lucid mind, unaffected by the disease, and he must be thinking about his situation. I can almost read his thoughts. He accepts that his journey through this world has come to an end, and he awaits death with serenity and resignation. He will also dedicate some of his last thoughts to me. I know he hears me, I can see it in the flicker of his eyes, and I have to try to comfort him: -I know you can hear me," he blinks slightly, "You have not been a strong man, for geniuses are weaker the more wisdom they acquire, but illness has given you the strength to accept it without complaint or lamentation. Each day that passes and your end approaches, my love for you increases with the same proportion. At the moment of your death I will be the most in love woman in the universe. I know that this does not console you.... don't be sad, because she will come! But you have to keep a titanic pulse with death. Don't let it take you until it gives you its blessing! -I hold her trembling hand, which is now barely strong enough to know how she reacts. You must forgive me, but I have to call the hospital to prolong your life as long as possible. When she and Naomi arrive we will bring you back here and you can die as I know you wish: holding her hand until your last breath. Then our real life will begin. Then I will not be the ugly, clumsy, provincial girl, but a luminous soul who will meet yours and remain united for eternity. But if you die without his blessing, your soul will wander erratically from one universe to another eternally, never finding peace, and I will be alone for eternity. I know you will do this for me. I try to pull my hand away to dial the hospital phone, but I feel a slight pressure and his gaze seems to come alive. I think he's trying to tell me something. Maybe he wants me to keep shaking his hand. Yes, that must be it. -You don't want me to call the hospital, or stop shaking your hand, do you? -she confirms with a weak blink. Okay, I won't call the hospital, but you have to be strong and hold on until she and your daughter Naomi arrive. He closes his eyes and I get the feeling he's trying to tell me it's too late. Does this mean he could die at any moment? 39. A fatal destiny (Narrator: Naomi's mother) I have not been able to finish reading your latest novel. I think it's enough to make me feel close to hell, when I thought I was close to heaven! Why did fate set that monstrous trap for me? Why didn't I trust his loyalty? How is it possible that a deceitful image could have stolen the best twenty years of our lives? Who drove me to be in that place at that precise moment? The devil? The devil? What monstrous sin had I committed to deserve such a punishment? Poor man, all these years he could not tell me what had really happened! If he had known, of course I would have forgiven him! How could he write the novels I inspired in him if he has felt guilty all these years? I must write urgently to Naomi, telling her of my desire to return as soon as possible and show her father my repentance and my desire for reconciliation. There will probably be no happier person in this world than her when she receives my message! But I also feel as if my heart is no longer oppressed for the first time in twenty years, and is overflowing with joy, and I feel that it is beating again as strongly as when I was eighteen years old, the day I met this wretched writer over a slice of strawberry cream pie! That must be the happiness that forgiveness causes! Blessed be God who has enlightened me! I am desperate and on the verge of a new crisis: the latest snowstorm has left us incommunicado! There is no way to communicate with Naomi. I know from experience of other years that we will be cut off for several days, and he may die at any moment! Why, what evil force interferes with our destiny again and again? For God's sake, I hope it is not too late! No; I can't wait for the telephone lines to be repaired and the snow to be cleared from the road. I have to try to get to the railroad station, because the trains are still running. It's only five kilometers. In a week it's Christmas and I could be by his bedside, and spend the first Christmas together after twenty years of absences. Maybe the cab driver in town will want to take me. I'll go to his house right now. The cab driver is an elderly man, about to retire, and does not dare to drive in this blizzard. The road is narrow, with some very steep slopes. He suggests that we wait for the snowplows to pass, but he doesn't think they will clear the road until tomorrow or maybe the day after tomorrow. But neither tomorrow nor the day after tomorrow are there any trains connecting with the one to the capital. I have to catch the next one, which leaves at five o'clock in the morning. It has stopped snowing and I can walk this route. For this trip I don't need any luggage, whatever I can fit in my bag will be enough. I have to try! 40. The agony (Narrator: the dying man) Poor Alice, how can I tell her that my mind is clear and I am fully aware that I am about to die? How can I also tell her that I no longer have any regrets, because I have only done what destiny had planned for me. Our lives are written in the stars, and our spirit is a part of the destiny of the universe. Destiny that we do not know. Naomi's mother also had a destiny; which has already been fulfilled. I don't know how to tell her that I have sensed her death in some icy place, and that she will never be at the bedside of my deathbed. I once said that a dignified death is to die shaking the hand of the person who feels most affection for you, and that person is you, Alicia, besides your presence in this place makes it a home, so my conditions for a good death are more than fulfilled. Now I can die in peace. She has understood this and continues to hold my hand. I feel her life beating in it, already inert, and that contact makes me begin to feel an indescribable inner peace. It is her soul that pierces me and I feel it inside me, when I only have a few seconds left to live. Now appear the most emotional familiar images of my childhood that I kept in my subconscious. They follow one after the other with their sounds and sensations. I hear my own crying and my mother's voice rocking me in the cradle my grandparents gave her; I see my father pushing the swing in the park near our modest house on the outskirts of the city, when he must have been only two or three years old. He is young and vigorous, and he pushes the swing so hard it makes me cry from the excitement of the game. Many other images pass by, and from all of them I retain some impression. I see myself dressed in my admiral's costume from my first communion, and my parents, who take me by the hand almost on a cartwheel to the neighborhood church. There I see the little girl, with her virginal first communion dress, which made me feel the first passionate emotion of love. A multitude of family images follow, such as the photograph of the primary school, my father's first car, my first train ride, the first girl I went out with and the first kiss on the lips of a woman, and after many others, also the images of the university cafeteria and those that followed. But they all pass quickly and an indescribable emptiness remains after their ephemeral vision. It is as if they were being erased from my consciousness so that when death comes there is no trace left in my soul of what my life in this world has been. I sense that when I reach the last image I will die, and that moment is coming, because I see the image of my literary agent, that night that destroyed our lives. I see her in the half-open door of Naomi's apartment. My imagination has gone blank, and an immense peace comes over me. I no longer feel Alicia's hand. Now I see an intense, blinding light, I know that I am going to penetrate into that light where I will remain eternal... mind.... 41. Death (Narrator: Alicia) He has barely made a slight head movement leaning back against the pillow, and I feel no sign of life in his hand, I think he has died! But he seems to have fallen peacefully asleep. There is not on his face the slightest sign of pain. I withdraw my hand and his hand collapses. Yes, he is dead! The great love of my life lies dead before my eyes! From this instant death will do its work and his beautiful hands, his prodigious head, and his battered body will turn them to ashes. But the hateful reaper has not power enough to destroy the fruit of the one who now belongs to him. His work will survive, and his memory will not fade from my imagination until death takes me too. Now I should mourn him by evoking his memory, but he who has taken him from me will not have his way. Although my soul is broken in pieces, I will not shed a single tear, for I have already mourned him when he was alive. Now I have hardly any tears left, and I must save what tears I still have left for when I begin to miss him and feel his absence. He has been a lucky man, because he has lived doing the will of others, but he has died according to his own will. Only a privileged few have such a death; if it is difficult to live, it is much more difficult to die! 42. The two deaths (Narrator: the author) The two lovers of literature die on the same day and at the same time, because it was written in the stars. The frozen body of Noemi's mother was found by the driver of the snow-clearing vehicle, which would circulate that same morning, clearing the winding road of snow. Her body was not on the road, but in a small ravine, where it must have fallen given the darkness and the layer of snow that hid it. Her former lover died from fatal complications of his incurable disease. Naomi had sensed her mother's death when they said goodbye to each other at the railroad station. Unfortunately, she did not have to choose which of the two she would spend Christmas with, but which of the two she mourned. They were not buried together. She lay in the small local cemetery, and he had her body cremated and her ashes dumped on a nearby beach, as was his wish. Alice was deeply affected, for according to her beliefs, she would not be reunited with her beloved in that dimension she thought she had discovered in his astral personality. PART THREE: ASTRAL ENCOUNTER "Labor not for the meat which perishes, but for the meat which endures to eternal life." (John 6:27) 43. The farewell Death has taken him from me and death will give him back to me. I will look for you wherever you are and we will be together again, but for eternity! If you are in Hell I will rescue you; if you are in Purgatory, I will accompany you until we gain Heaven, and if you are already in Paradise, there we will meet, because love knows no barriers, neither human nor divine. This corpse lying on the bed has lost its soul, which must wander through the cosmos without a specific destination. No one but me will be able to find its whereabouts, because my astral body will be able to travel to every corner beyond the universe, and in some of these places I will find you. She condemned you to hell in one of your nightmares, and she has not come to free you from this curse. Now her presence is no longer necessary. I have to communicate this painful news to Naomi, because she, in spite of her mother's opposition, was very fond of her. She has died just hours before a new dawn. It is not worth waking Naomi so early. It is no longer necessary for her to hurry, her father no longer needs her. I will wait for the dawn. I feel as if I am the messenger of death, but of an expected death. No one will be surprised. Those who knew her diagnosis are already just waiting to read her obituary in the press or on the net, and will exclaim those phrases of condolence that they will have heard in other deaths of other famous people. "Poor thing, he died in the prime of his life and at the height of his popularity"; "He died when he had had everything but his health"; "This is how most of the great characters end their lives: always ahead of schedule"; "Artists live at an unhealthy pace and intensity, that's why they die early", etc. I think they are basically right. The soul is what gives life to the body and if we abuse our soul, we also abuse our body. In the end, the exhausted soul loses its defenses and so does the body, and the inevitable fatal disease ensues. My unfortunate friend was doomed, because he lived abusing his soul since he was aware of its existence. It is dawn, but this is not the same sun as yesterday, nor the same fading stars. It is not the same morning breeze, nor the same blue color of the sky. It is not the same city, nor the same street. Because tonight a writer has died, and when a writer dies something dies in the collective soul of the world, because we writers and artists are the soul of the world. With great pain in my heart I decide to call the unfortunate Naomi to tell her the sad news. She does not answer, but I receive a message from her cell phone answering machine: "Sorry, I am not available. I'm on my way to my mother's place. I just got word that she was found frozen to death on the road as she was walking to the train station. I am devastated and cannot talk. Leave me your message. I feel deeply affected and, at the same time, guilty because I judged this woman prematurely. I hope she forgives me! However, she took too long to forgive him. It is she who should have been shaking his hand when he expired. No doubt she has met her death when she was trying to answer the call of her fake novel, but when it was too late. Once again fate incomprehensibly turns against me, and she will again be my rival after her death, for the three of us will meet again beyond this tormented life. 44. The last trip The unhappy Naomi has had to attend two funerals in a few days. She attended her mother's funeral and barely had time to mourn her when she had to take care of her father's funeral. The hospital has taken care of his cremation and has given him the ashes. Now she has to carry out her father's last wishes and scatter them at sea. She has asked me to accompany her and we will leave for the coast first thing tomorrow morning. -How did my father die," Naomi asks me when we return in a cab to her apartment, unable to hide the sadness in her eyes and her delicate face disfigured by grief. -I think he was at peace, but I can't tell you more because he could hardly speak, I can only tell you that his countenance was serene and he seemed to have accepted death with resignation. -He didn't mention my mother? -He couldn't speak, but I'm sure he would have her in his last thoughts. -The local cab driver told me that she was trying to catch the first train in the morning to meet my father, and he didn't dare take her to the station, so she tried to get there on foot. -Why didn't you wait for the station road to be cleared? -I ask him, although I can guess the reason. -I don't know, but I found a short verse he wrote the night of his death: "Tonight there are no stars and it will not cease to be night Tonight there will be no moon, and it will never be daytime." She must have sensed his death, too, because she did not believe she could see my father alive. But she tried and it cost her her life too. Wherever they are, my parents will have been reconciled and will finally have the peace they deserve. I listen to Naomi and I can't help but feel an unjust wish that her hopes will not be fulfilled. She can't come between us even after she is dead! We are already in his father's apartment. I can't help but have the feeling of his presence, as if his soul has not yet left this room and cannot leave for some reason that only he must know. Naomi looks through everything that belonged to her father, and that now belongs to her, but she doesn't seem to be interested in it. She has gone to the bookshelf and selects one of his novels. She looks at the photograph of her father on the back cover, and cannot contain her tears. -Alicia, what was my father really like? You must have known him better than I did. -I believe that above all he was afraid of condemning himself, because he could never live according to his desires due to his constant remorse. He was a tormented soul who wrote novels to forget the cause of his torments. -Did you love him? -Yes, I loved him, but he never loved me back. -Then why didn't you leave him? -How can you abandon what is already a part of you? -And now, what will you do? -I will write a novel about your father's journey through the cosmos. His life after death! -But that's impossible! I suppose you can imagine, no one has ever been able to meet the dead! I do not want to alarm Naomi and explain to her that I can split my personality and separate my astral body from my physical body. I have experienced it once and I will achieve it a second time. The first time I barely moved a short distance from my physical body, but this new experience I have to take all the necessary precautions so that no one disturbs my concentration, because it will take me a long time to return. -Yes, of course I will imagine it. -Where do you think she is right now? -I can see in her eyes that she is uneasy and fearful, but she must get used to paranormal phenomena, because her parents will try to contact her through her dreams, and I must warn her. -I think he is here, because his soul has not yet been totally uprooted from the emotions transmitted to him by the objects with which he has had contact in life. -And do you think he's watching and listening to us? -he asks me, unable to hide his concern. -No, he neither sees us nor hears us. It can only contact us through our astral body, which happens during dreams. You have to be forewarned, because they are likely to appear in your dreams, and they will want to know what state of mind you are in. But it is likely that they will not make any reference to their deaths, but will appear in scenes that will not make any sense to you. In dreams we have no control over our imagination, time or space. I don't think I should have told her about this possibility. She seems really scared now and will be more so when the night comes and she faces the dreams. A foggy and unpleasant day dawns. It is not the most suitable to spread its ashes. We have arranged to meet at the railroad station, where we will take a train to a coastal town. Naomi is already waiting for me at the station entrance. We still have time for a hot tea, which will lift our spirits. We are sitting at the same table where she was last with her mother. She seems to have regained her composure. -Now I know why my poor mother gave me that sad advice. "Don't expect comfort from us. If you need comfort, learn to comfort yourself." I sensed her death. When she walked away from me, I had a feeling that was the last time I would see her alive! During the trip to the coast we barely exchanged a few words about the unpleasant weather. On the other side of the window, the landscape seems to share our deep sadness. A dense fog hangs over the small towns we are leaving behind. It is hard to believe that there can be happy people in such a depressing landscape. Sometimes the train runs alongside the road, and we can see the cars running at the same speed, occupied by people with obligations and responsibilities who do not think about death, but have no chance to think about life either. They live, that's all! 45. The ashes As we approach the coastal town we can smell the saltpeter. We leave the small railroad station and it is easy to orient ourselves and know where the sea is, because the freshness of the sea breeze clearly indicates the direction. The sky looks like an immense grayish mantle, and a cold and humid fog confuses the shapes of things. The cars drive with their lights on even though it is not yet noon. There are few people in the streets, it looks like a ghost town. We head for the promenade. It is not far. We can already hear the scandalous squawking of the seagulls. The station street leads directly to a simple promenade, as desolate as the rest. We can already hear the waves crashing against the promenade wall. From this promenade we can see the sea, but we can not see the horizon line, which is confused with the sky because of its grayish tone and the dense fog. On one side of the promenade there is a small breakwater, where a few fishing boats are moored, which probably have not gone to sea because of the storm. We chose that place to scatter the ashes. -It is very sad to end a long life of illusions, projects and ambitions," says Naomi, preparing to dump her father's remains in the sea, "in a handful of dust that will be carried by the currents to the bottom of the sea, and so ends his unfortunate story. -It is only his body, his soul will continue to exist, as his works will continue to exist. A group of hungry seagulls hover around, no doubt they must believe that the debris Naomi spreads on the water could be food. -His wish has been granted," he says to me, sobbing, "There will be no more deaths; we no longer need this urn! With an angry gesture, he throws the small urn into the sea. He wipes his tears with the back of his hand, grabs my arm energetically and we walk away from the place. -If you need consolation, learn to console yourself. Yes, Mom, I've already learned! Naomi has recovered her spirits. Life goes on and it is useless to mourn the dead. We have mourned them enough when they were alive. Of the dead, only the memory remains, and he has left a good memory. There is no reason to mourn. I am amazed at her fortitude, but in fact until a few months ago she has been an orphan since birth. Her behavior is not surprising. The return trip is as silent as the previous one. Naomi seems absent, or maybe she is thinking about her future as an orphan. Her gaze is lost in the misty landscape we are leaving behind. She seems to be reacting to some obsessive thought, because suddenly she turns to me and comments: -You were right, I dreamt about my parents tonight.... -He remains eloquently silent, as if wondering if he should unveil his dream to me. I was sitting on a park bench and my father suddenly appeared and sat next to me, but he was dead. I asked him why he had abandoned my mother, and suddenly she appeared sitting next to him, but she also appeared to be dead. They could not answer my question. Suddenly a policeman appeared, and addressing me, he said. "Excuse me, but the dead are not allowed in the park. Take them to the cemetery and bury them." I didn't know what to answer, I was terrified. But incomprehensibly, they both sat up, and turning to the policeman, my father said: "It is not necessary for her to bury us, we will bury ourselves. Goodbye Naomi, don't be late to join us...", and they disappeared, sinking to the ground of the park. At that moment I woke up -she keeps a sepulchral silence, she seems very affected by the dream-. What can this dream mean, Alicia? -That your parents miss you! -I answer without hesitation. -You mean they want me dead? -For them now you live in death, and they live in life. The roles have been changed, that's why they want you to join them. It is possible that this same dream will repeat itself again, although with a different argument, and they will insist again that you join them. You have to be strong and not let yourself be obsessed by what you hear from your parents during the dream. Although they happen in the astral dimension, they are disturbed by your own subconscious. -You mean I subconsciously want to die and join them? -she asks me in alarm. -Yes, but it's because of your current state of mind. You will get over it and your parents will only appear in your dreams when you miss them. Naomi seems comforted by my explanation. But she is still deep in thought, and once again loses her gaze in the misty landscape that we contemplate as the train passes by. Naomi seems to come out of her gloomy thoughts again, turns to me and confesses: -I'd like to be like you, Alicia: sure of who you are and what you want to do with your life. But who am I? The unwanted daughter of two dreamers who were lovers of literature, but who didn't understand the meaning of the word love, even though they wrote it hundreds of times. What should I do? I'm not sure I want to write anymore, with the example of my parents I've had enough! Maybe, as my mother said, I would make an excellent doctor. I'm not sure if I should encourage her to follow her parents' vocation, but precisely because they didn't know how to combine their worldly ambitions with their personal relationships, Naomi will learn from her parents' mistakes and could be an excellent writer without ruining her life. Yes, I think I should encourage her, it would be the best tribute she could pay to her ill-fated parents! -Naomi, in these times when no one believes in what they hear or see anymore, they can only believe in what they can imagine, and we writers can provide them with those images of the world they would like to hear or see! Sadly, most writers rejoice in recreating the nauseating images of what we can no longer believe and should no longer see. You can be a writer who enlightens readers! -But how do I know if I have the necessary talent to not remain in mediocrity? -My dear friend, that is what we all ask ourselves! You won't know the answer until you have overcome a few failures, because each failure will mean you have chosen a wrong path, and you must rectify until you find your own. Talent is about being yourself. The train is entering the central station. Naomi will not move into her father's apartment, because she does not want to live alone. She prefers to continue living with her classmates from college, but she has suggested that, if I wish, I can take it over. The idea is very attractive, because it makes my experience easier. I accept her offer, at least for the remainder of the course, and I will move in as soon as possible. 46. The preparation I am already provisionally installed in Naomi's father's apartment. It is a difficult sensation to describe, because all the objects in the apartment have something of him, and I still have the memory of his dead body on the bed where I am about to sleep. But I feel no fear, on the contrary, sleeping in the bed where the effluvium of the deceased is still there is the best way to communicate with him. I am aware of the risks and I do not know what may lie beyond this dimension. He may be trapped by some higher force and my energy will not be enough to free him. But you may also have reached some dimension that resembles Heaven, and my journey will be in vain. Either way, his destiny was written in the stars from the day of his birth, and it will have been fulfilled without possible appeal. Above all I have to make sure that no one will disturb my sleep while my spectrum is separated from my body. I have to disconnect everything that can ring, including the telephone and anything that creates magnetic fields, which I fear will be impossible to eliminate, and I don't know how it will affect me. After all, when I separate from the body I will only be energy and I don't know how other sources of energy that may be in the apartment may affect it. It is a risk I have to take. The other doubt is, in the case that our spectra meet, to know how we will communicate, because in the encounter we will only be able to communicate through our thoughts, for which we will have to ascend to the mental plane. If we manage to reach that dimension we will not be able to hide our thoughts, so it is impossible to lie or deceive, and everything must happen with total transparency. That must be the curse of material life: the possibility of deceiving and lying, the cause of all the disasters of this world! What will happen if I cannot return to my body? Will I die too? It would be suicide, which means going against my destiny written in the stars, and my soul would wander, without finding rest, until when? But how to have a notion of time where there is nothing but energy? It is all very confusing, and I know I am running a great risk. But what is the meaning of my existence in this world? I have given my heart to a deceased person and now I have no choice but to join him, whether he is in Heaven or in Hell! This weekend could be the appointed day for the meeting, because Noemí will travel to her mother's place to handle the formalities of her inheritance and there is no risk that she might show up unexpectedly. Nor do I expect unexpected visits, because in the last months of her life she had no other friend than her literary agent. His negative opinion of current writers caused him enmity with those with whom he had some relationship. Anyway I will leave a note on the door to make sure of any other eventuality. Tonight will be the big trip. I want to take advantage of these previous hours to write down what I intend to do, and I hope to be able to write also what might have happened on my return. To relax, I take a long walk through the same park where I declared my love. It is a walk full of nostalgia and deep sadness. Everything I see reminds me of his kind person, and sometimes I have the feeling that he is walking next to me and asking me new questions, but this time they are about the mysteries of life and death, for which I have no answers. I sit on a bench and remember Naomi's dream, I would like it to happen to me, but that only happens in dreams, reality is more stubborn, it refuses to change its rigid rules and everything happens as it is meant to happen. I'm back in the apartment and writing notes about tonight's experience. It is getting dark. It is a frigid late winter day. There is a chance of snow. For some reason snow depresses me. I don't like it, because it feels like it is falling on my soul. I like warm countries, because they are cozier and life is simpler. I listen to Bach's oratorios, because I think it is the music that should be heard in Paradise. I lie down on the bed and prepare myself for concentration. 47. Astral travel (Narrator: the deceased) I know I have passed away. I felt a strange vibration and what must be my soul is detached from my body. Alicia has already realized my demise and has let go of my hand, which now falls limp. I feel a force propelling me out of my apartment, and I pass through the wall without any difficulty. I am now traveling at breakneck speed, and I am heading towards the light I saw at the moment of my death. I have entered a strange dimension and I continue my journey through a semi-dark space. In this dimension I see a multitude of trapped specters, who implore me for help and try uselessly to hold me, because their twitching hands penetrate my specter without being able to grasp it. From their appearance and clothing I deduce that some of them have been in this darkness for thousands of years. I also believe that these are people who must have died a violent death, because their specters are horribly mutilated. Some are missing limbs, others heads, and most show wounds possibly caused by the wars or accidents, from which they must have died. But why do they remain in this darkness and not ascend to the luminous zone where I seem to be heading? I notice an important difference between them and me, where the explanation must be. My aura is absolutely resplendent, theirs are darkened. Perhaps when I died with a clear conscience and in peace, my aura was charged with positive energy, which gives it that glow. I have described this phenomenon in one of my novels, the fruit of my intuition, but which I now prove to be correct. For this reason my soul must be attracted directly to the source of light. It must be a simple effect of electromagnetic attraction. For this reason, I suppose that whoever dies with an uneasy conscience, suddenly or by accident, the soul must contain negative energy that obscures the spectrum, and in these conditions they must be attracted only to this dimension, which must be the astral, the first dimension of where those who have died are. These souls are suspended between what theologians call Heaven and Hell, which must be Purgatory. Their desperate attempt to cling to me must be for me to transfer to them the positive energy they need to enter a new dimension that will lead them to the light to which I am heading. But it does not seem that this transfer is possible between wraiths. Possibly that positive energy they need can be transferred to them from the physical world, with invocations, prayers or any other form that I do not know, directed especially to them and showing them your affection. I am still traveling at possibly the speed of light, but I have not yet left this dimension where there are possibly millions of souls in similar conditions. If this is Purgatory, where the souls are not enlightened enough to reach Heaven, those people who die and who have committed faults that have no redemption, their auras will be charged with negative energy, and they must appear absolutely dark, so they cannot rise and remain in the physical world, and this must be the Hell of the souls in pain of theology, and that for some cause that I do not know, they can appear as living dead, or zombies. I have no other explanation. I have crossed another cosmic plane and, at last, I am in the dimension of the blinding light that has irresistibly attracted me since the moment of my death. It has the same luminosity as my soul. No shadow to darken it. My journey through the dimensions of the cosmos seems to end here, because I have stopped moving at dizzying speeds. Here, too, there are perhaps millions of luminous souls like mine. They all seem to have the same youthful appearance, they must not be more than 18 or 20 years old, and they remain suspended in this immense luminous dimension. My specter moves slowly among them. They smile at me and seem to welcome me. I stop in front of a specter that amazingly looks like me when I was 18 or 20 years old, and still in college. He seems to be my double. Something extraordinary has happened: I feel a strange vibration and my double has merged, penetrating into my specter. Now I also have the same appearance as him. I feel confused, but at the same time I feel a great sense of indecipherable goodness. One of the souls who has watched my transformation approaches me and seems to want to communicate something to me. I try to read her thoughts, but I hear nothing. Moments later another even more resplendent soul approaches me, and, like the previous one, I think he is trying to make me listen to his thoughts. I hear him! -Welcome to the luminous dimension, because your soul has only positive energy, and it shines like the light that generates the source that illuminates and created the cosmos! An extraordinary source of positive energy, located in an even higher dimension, and its light is the creator of all the visible and invisible illusions of the cosmos. The more luminous our soul is, the closer we come to this extraordinary source of light. There are the souls of the most virtuous characters in history, such as Socrates, Jesus Christ or St. John of the Cross. I am also a higher luminous entity and I can communicate with any soul, but you can only communicate with those who have had contact in life and feel affection for you. You will be able to hear their thoughts, but they will not be able to read yours. -But what happened to me? Who was this double of mine? Where did he come from? -I hear your thoughts and will answer your questions. When we are gestated two spiritual entities are generated. One is in the form of the space we will come to occupy at the limit of our growth. That entity is composed of positive energy and remains in this dimension. Our destiny is written in it. The other spiritual entity remains in the embryo, which animates it. Its energy is variable and depends on the processes of its consciousness, which can generate positive or negative energy. Our destiny is fulfilled when we act in such a way that it is maintained with positive energy until the instant of our death. Otherwise we act against our destiny and at death we cannot merge with our energetic double and remain in an intermediate dimension or in the physical world, if our consciousness has no redemption. That double of yours has followed your personal development, and has been by your side whenever you invoked him. He was your guardian angel! -Yes, I now remember my experience in the little church park hours after I learned of my diagnosis, where I believed that an angel was sitting in my very pew. It must have been this double of mine, whom I had previously invoked. -You are now constituted as your destiny intended. There is no more duality in you, but an absolute energetic unity! My strange journey to this luminous dimension has ended when I reunite with my double personality. It is as if from this moment on a new eternal life has begun, but I cannot say that I am happy, because that would be to accept unhappiness, unknown in this dimension. It is a neutral state, indescribable, devoid of any anguish, fear or restlessness. Possibly the appropriate expression is "beatific". But fortunately I am not completely separated from my former physical reality, because I can indeed hear the thoughts of those who remember me and invoke me, albeit faintly, like a whisper. At this moment Alicia is invoking me and I faintly hear her thoughts. I fear that she is about to commit a grave imprudence, because she intends to join me in the astral plane, where I am not, and she will never be able to access this luminous dimension while she is alive. If Alice's astral body enters the dimension of the dead, she runs the risk of not being able to rejoin her physical body, and it is quite possible that she will also be trapped in the darkness of Purgatory, and she will no longer be able to join me, as was her wish! I have to find a way to communicate with her and make her see the risk she runs if she persists in her attempt. Now I am nothing more than a contingent of subtle energy that is invisible, but can move into the physical world. I run the risk of becoming infected with negative energy and not being able to return to this dimension, but I cannot allow Alicia to be condemned because of me. I have to try! 48. The return I have returned to the dimension of the physical world and I am at the foot of the bed where Alice is lying. She is approaching the state of concentration where the unfolding of her astral body can occur. If I provoke an energy discharge I may be able to turn on the lamp on the bedside table and interrupt her concentration. I get the lamp to flicker and fortunately Alice has abruptly snapped out of her concentration. She looks at the lamp quizzically, but does not associate it with my presence. She unplugs it and goes back to concentrating. I have to try again and hope she realizes that I'm trying to communicate with her, because my aura's energy wanes. I get her to blink weakly again, and Alice is startled. I think she has understood that it is me who provokes it. -Is that you? Are you here? I flicker the lamp again. Alicia has understood that this is my answer. -So, you haven't left your apartment, as I assumed! But you can't communicate with me. Be patient, I'll join you soon. Maybe this very night. I am trying to concentrate and manage to unfold my astral body, and then we can communicate and you can tell me where you are! I try to flicker the lamp again but it is useless. I will not be able to prevent her from unfolding and entering the dimension of the dead, and if she reaches that dimension and gets trapped I will not be able to rescue her. I only hope that her soul is not condemned and can no longer leave the physical world, which could happen if she dies, because suicide is a serious fault, and it would fill her soul with negative energy! -Alicia doesn't know that I can't hear when she speaks to me, but I can hear her thoughts, and my premonition of Naomi's mother's death is confirmed. But she is thinking that she trusts that we have not met, because she still considers her her rival, even after she is dead. If Noemi's mother is dead I should be able to communicate with her. Perhaps it is because she did not give me her forgiveness before she died that she is in Purgatory. But how do I know where she is? I should listen to her thoughts to know where to go, otherwise it is impossible for me to find her soul among millions of souls. Perhaps his thoughts do not mention me and he thinks only of the wretched Naomi. That would explain it. Alicia is again on the verge of her astral projection. If she succeeds, we will meet again, but it will be for a short time, because she must return to her physical world of the living and I to my energetic world of the dead. All her efforts are useless, our destinies meet neither in life nor in death. I feel truly sorry for this woman, but now I know that it is useless to fight against what is written in the stars. It must be the stigma she was telling me about. Alicia's body seems to shake. It is vibrating. She moves her head from side to side, as if something is trying to detach itself. Yes, it is succeeding, and the specter of her head is detached from her body, and the rest of her astral body as well. Her physical body has been left in absolute rest, no doubt sleeping deeply, while she dreams her splitting. Her first movements are imprecise, she rises slowly but keeps her eyes closed. A thin thread of energy holds her to life, I trust it will not break! Her ascent has stopped. She opens her eyes and gazes at me in amazement, but she cannot speak. Now she must read my thoughts and I must read hers. -Alicia, why did you do it? -He's here! I've done it! But he has changed his appearance, he is now a young man! -Alicia, what you have achieved is to put your life at risk! -He reproaches me for what I did, just for being by his side. -Alicia, I can hear your thoughts. Yes, I have to reproach you. Now you won't be able to join me. I'm dead and you're alive... -Then if my death can settle our differences, I will not return to my body! -You would achieve nothing, because it would be suicide, and you know that your soul would be condemned and could not be separated from the physical world. Give up this useless and dangerous love for both of you! -Haven't I been your faithful companion until your last breath? -Alicia, you are endangering my salvation as well. These reproaches, which I know are not fair, will cause my soul to become contaminated with negative energy, and may prevent me from returning to the dimension of light in which I had managed to ascend. For both our sakes, renounce! -I understand... my stigma haunts me here, too, among the dead. You wish to be with her for eternity, don't you? If I renounce, I'll be damned anyway... -But you will save my soul, and hers too! -She, with her unexpected death, has won! -No, Alicia, we haven't met. I don't know where he might be. Maybe we'll never meet. But where I am, time doesn't exist. I'll wait for you, but you have to die in peace with your conscience! Don't be afraid of old age, when you meet me you'll be eighteen again. -What about her? -Alice, where we will meet there is neither happiness nor misfortune, only goodness; there you can neither love me nor hate me; the three of us will be able to enjoy that infinite goodness eternally, and when its time comes, I trust that Naomi will also join us. -Are you asking me to let my life be consumed in the hope of eternally sharing with you the goodness of your Paradise? -Yes, I beg you! -I have no choice? -Hell now or Heaven when death wants to take you. -You give me the choice between two hells! -Yes, Alicia, but one can last for 30 or 40 years and the other for eternity? -I suppose I must resign and say goodbye until 30 or 40 years from now, and I can't even shake the hand I held at the moment of your death! -That's how it should be, Alicia... But I have to ask you something else.... It's about Naomi's mother. I fear that she is being held in a dark space, halfway between Heaven and Hell. For her to free herself from this dark dimension she needs the help of someone alive, who will transmit her the positive energy that will help her to ascend to a higher plane, and you can help her, and at the same time, help yourself to gain your salvation... -Are you asking me to save my rival? -He is no longer your rival, he is a soul, who, like you, deserves to ascend to the dimension of light and come out of the darkness where he may find himself. -And what can I do for her? -Pray for her! -I've never prayed; I wouldn't know how! -You only have to invoke his name and show him your affection. That will be enough to transmit positive energy to her. Also convey this wish to my daughter, Naomi, to pray also for her mother, and between the two of you you will save her. -How sad is my fate! -No, dear Alicia, in the world of the living there is no greater joy than to feel useful and necessary. Spend the rest of your life writing novels with plots that incite generosity and kindness, and you will live happily until your time comes and you join us. -I don't even have the consolation of crying! -Go back to the living and you can ease your heart with weeping. -Farewell then, until death do us part! -Farewell, my dear Alicia, I'll wait for you in Paradise.... His specter rejoins his body, which remains motionless. I cannot hear him, but I can tell from his sad expression that he must be on the verge of tears. Now he brings his hands to his face and must be sobbing bitterly. Poor Alice, no one but her deserves to enter Paradise! 49. In Purgatory (Narrator: Naomi's mother) Why am I locked in this darkness? Is this the fate of the dead? Where am I? I have seen my body frozen on the roadside as my soul ascended to this dark place. Yes, I must be dead, I have been imprudent, and I have paid for it with my life! What will become of my poor Naomi? I intended to save someone from his regrets, and I die with no one to save me from mine! This place is the Hell I deserve! I shall suffer this anguish forever! I think I see a small glow approaching me. Now I distinguish the spectre of a young man.... Oh, my God, it's him, he's dead too! But he is just as he was when I knew him twenty years ago! Yes, it's him; it's the same restless, ambitious young man who read my poems on our college campus; with the same teasing smile; the same charm in his gaze. I am ashamed that he finds me aging, though he is but a ghost. Perhaps he has heard my wailing, Death brings us together again! He approaches me and I can hear his thoughts: -My dear friend and admired poet, we meet again in strange circumstances. I learned of your sad death in the snow when you were about to watch over my deathbed. I do not know why you are in this dark place, but I will help you and I will repay you in death what you have suffered because of me in life. I needed your forgiveness to die with a clear conscience, but my sincere repentance and the help of our daughter and that extraordinary person, Alicia, saved me from hell. -I would have forgiven you, but death intervened. But, for God's sake, can you tell me where I am? -You are halfway between Heaven and Hell; in Purgatory. Your conscience should not have been at peace at the moment of death, and it became contaminated with negative energy, which prevents you from ascending to a new dimension, where I am. But fear not, your daughter Naomi and Alice will take you out of here and you will be able to join me. -I have never wronged anyone, why do I deserve this punishment? -I do not have the answer. Energy and its relation to consciousness has its own rule, but I suppose that the positive or negative energy that our soul accumulates depends on the state of our consciousness at the moment of death. -Then I deserve to be in this sinister place, because I was reckless.... but I had a good cause! -It would have been useless, because I died the same day. It was already too late! -But I did not know the reasons that led you to that brothel that night, and that you tell in your last novel. If I had known, I would have forgiven you from the first meeting. -I have not written a novel describing that unfortunate event! -Naomi sent me a copy that Alicia had given her.... -Alicia! She wrote that book and altered the facts so that you would come to my deathbed to co-sort me. I don't know what she told about that unfortunate event, but your impression was the true one: I betrayed you! -Is this deception also part of my tragic destiny? -Alicia was only trying to save my soul.... -At the cost of condemning mine! -He had set out to prolong my life until you arrived, but I prevented him from doing so. I am once again to blame! But it is too late for regrets. Our destinies are about to be fulfilled. Mine has already been fulfilled, and Alicia and Naomi will help you to fulfill yours as well. None of us deserves Purgatory, much less Hell. We were wrong because we were human, but for the same reason we repented, and we paid for our absolution with suffering. Now it only remains for us to gain Heaven and a whole eternity to immerse ourselves in a beatific calm in the dimension of light. -If this is also my destiny, I can only trust my daughter Naomi and join you in Paradise. Thus concludes a dramatic story that began one day in early spring, because of a strawberry and cream cakes. 50. Sentences (Narrator: Naomi) Alicia called me because she wants to see me about something related to my deceased parents. We will meet this afternoon and have dinner together at my father's apartment, just like in the old days. I have recovered my spirits and I am living a normal life. Fortunately my career takes up all my time and occupies my thoughts. Only in the evenings I feel the absence of my parents, but in reality I have always felt this absence. I am back in my late father's apartment. Alicia has not changed at all and her books, computer and all her personal belongings remain in the same place. She looks very worn out. It is as if she is suffering from some illness. Her gaze is languid and distant. Something is constantly distracting and disturbing her. She welcomes me with a slight smile. She is no longer the strong, self-confident woman. No doubt my father's death has affected her deeply. -Alicia, don't you feel well? You look tired, you look very unwell. -Yes, Naomi, I am not feeling well. I am depressed and sad. -It's because of my father's death! -Yes, that's why... He remains silent, as if he doesn't want to give me any other reasons for his depression. We sit at the table and Alicia serves me what she has cooked for dinner and we eat in silence. -I thought about your mother," he says in a pause, because he seems to have no appetite. I'm not a believer, but I think we should pray for the salvation of her soul.... -You mean his soul didn't deserve to go to Heaven, if it exists? -The circumstances of her death were not natural but accidental, and in these conditions she died without a companion to comfort her and help cleanse her soul of any remorse. She may be in a dimension where she needs our help. -Alicia, you make me uneasy! Are you suggesting that my mother may be in Hell? -If she were in Hell, she would no longer have salvation, but if she is in Purgatory, our prayers can help her to get out of there and go up to Heaven, which is where she deserves to be! -Alicia, you are talking like a believer. Do you really believe in hell, purgatory and heaven? My comment seems to have confused her, and I think she is mulling over her response. -Naomi, I don't know what I believe anymore! I beg you not to ask me any more questions, for I would not know what to answer. But I have a feeling that we must invoke her and show her our affection. You only need to think of her and show her your affection. Wherever she is, she will receive your message, and she will be closer to Heaven. -Alicia, I always thought you and my mother were rivals. -Dear Noemí, we do not compete with the dead. Outside of this world the heart no longer beats and there is no place for emotions like love. There is only goodness in Heaven and evil in Hell. Near Heaven and Hell there is only anxiety and doubts. Author's note Alicia died of sadness two months later. Her heart stopped because it was no longer useful. There was not an atom of negative energy in her soul and she ascended to the dimension of light without the slightest setback. FIN Foreword generated by artificial intelligence Jan Gosan doesn't just write stories; he maps the invisible terrain where ethics, faith, and social reality intersect. Firmly convinced that consciousness is the only force capable of fostering integral human development, Gosan uses narrative as a mirror of our own coherences and contradictions. For the author, politics and spirituality share the same horizon: the realization of the person. In his works, the "what" is dictated by consciousness, the force to act comes from Grace, and the will is the rudder that decides whether a soul is lit or extinguished. With a visually striking style and a philosophical depth that avoids complex treatises to focus on the truth of the individual, Jan Gosan invites the reader to stop being a passive spectator. His books are, ultimately, a call to action: a reminder that the weight of the world's problems dissipates when each person simply decides to listen to their own inner voice and act accordingly. 1. Diagnosis Five simple words were all it took for the whole fantastic universe I created with my novels and in which I have lived apart from this world to collapse: "You suffer from an incurable disease". I have just been told this by the specialist who treats my illness. The messenger waits for my reaction, but I am unable to get an idea of what I have just heard. There is a tense silence. It seems as if the doctor is afraid to go on describing my situation, but he felt he had to be clear so that I would not be under any illusions, and he warned me that I have no more than six months to live, or, in exceptional cases, and if I respond well to treatment, perhaps a year. I leave the hospital reneging on having allowed myself to be diagnosed with the cause of my discomfort. Of course I do not accept the diagnosis. After all, the pains are still bearable. It is a cool, damp morning, as autumn mornings are, but pleasant for a walk. To prove that the diagnosis is not acceptable, I will walk back to my apartment. Why me? Yes, I know many people who suffer from incurable diseases, but for some inexplicable reason I thought I was immune. Now I need some time to come to terms with my mistake. Even to my regret, I have to accept that I am as human as others, and I can suffer from their same diseases. I am tired and I still have more than half of the journey to go. I enter a small park next to the neighborhood church. On one of its benches a beggar is dozing, and when I approach him he looks at me with a clear expression of hatred, because he must feel humiliated by my appearance of a well-placed person. He cannot know that I had just been condemned to die prematurely; if he did, he would have no reason to envy me. I sit down on an adjoining bench, because my legs can't take another step. The beggar looks disgruntled and shuffles around in his rags, as if this were his house and I had entered without knocking. The doctor has created a stigma for me. I am no longer the me-self who just an hour before could do whatever I wanted, but me-self-and-death. From now on, my every thought or act will have to count on it. But I am not resigned. The doctors may be wrong. Perhaps my medical records have been misplaced and are those of another patient. Some inexperienced secretary may have made that terrible mistake. Nature cannot abandon me and life cannot be so irresponsible with me. Fate cannot go against my will, because it is my will that must create my destiny. This can't be happening to me. I still have many new things to admire, many fantastic stories to tell, and, why not, perhaps someone to love. Is this a divine punishment? Am I being condemned to a premature death for supposed sins committed, even though I cannot know the nature of my guilt? A sinner does not need to know the details of his guilt, it is enough for him to suffer the punishment to know that he has sinned. It is perfectly possible that this illness was written in the stars, or can be read in the palm of my hand, without that I should consider it a punishment. But the most reasonable thing is that it is the result of my long nights of voluntary insomnia, giving life to characters that in gratitude lead me to death. But I bear them no grudge. From the beginning I accepted that every work that deserves praise is because in it there is a little bit of our own humanity, and humanity must also have its limits. Perhaps that was my fault: to have created ghosts and presumed to be their god. But without me they would never have existed, so I must be right: I am their god, and therefore I do not deserve to be punished with such cruelty. ZIf that is divine justice, all artists will go to hell and imagination would be persecuted and severely punished. 2. The reaction The great impression and uneasiness that the diagnosis has caused me totally overrides my sense of time. I do not know how long I have been sitting on this bench. While I think of my desolation in some remote part of the universe, I am sure that someone, who already knows my fate, must be feeling sorry for me. It is probably an angel, the same one that appeared in the prayer cards we were given when we were kids in religion classes. Back then I wanted to be an angel too. I wanted to fly, to see the world from above, to migrate to warm lands, to be free like the birds, and, according to those bright pictures, only angels knew how to fly. That's why I wanted to be an angel. My hair stands on end, because I sense that this angel may now be sitting on this very bench, listening to my nostalgic thoughts, futilely trying to console me, because angels and humans, for some reason that only God must know, are incompatible. But I have returned to real time because of the murky, resigned look the beggar gives me from time to time, unable to understand what someone like me is doing sitting on this bench at this hour of the morning, reserved for the homeless. I would like to tell him that I don't know either, but it would be of no use to him. A cold, autumn sun shines, but clean and bright. A cool, damp breeze from a nearby sea moistens my hot face. There are still traces of the morning lightning on the cars and sidewalks. Winter will soon be here. It is inevitable that winter will come to all of us one day, but some of us will not live to see the next spring. The beggar has stood upright and looks at me in wonder. I think that despite his appearance, he must have the ability to read my thoughts. Yes, he knows what I am thinking, because those of us who suffer have the same rictus, the same languor in our eyes, the same curvature of the back, the same reddened eyes, and all that is easy to translate into common language: Desolation. For a few moments he seems undecided. Finally he makes up his mind, and with the gait of one whose muscles are numb, he comes to my bench, but does not sit down. He remains standing, hesitant, undecided. Finally he makes up his mind, and asks me for a cigarette, but unfortunately I don't smoke. I offer him some coins, but he incomprehensibly refuses. His gaze wanders to an indeterminate point, he seems to meditate whether to engage in conversation or return to his world. As if that encounter had not taken place and without making the slightest gesture, he walks again with the same clumsiness that short distance that separates our two worlds, and again wraps himself in his rags to continue dozing. He has no courage to come out of his poverty and I have no courage to accept mine. He has lost confidence in human beings, from whom he only asks for a cigarette; I have lost confidence in myself, from whom I only ask for courage to face my misfortune. The beggar has risen again and comes towards me. He asks me with a gesture of mock humility for the coins I offered him. I don't feel like taking any interest in his situation, I only have some interest in my own. Not even an hour has passed since I have known my condemnation and I have a feeling that before returning to my apartment I will have passed to the phase of rebellion, which is nothing more than the resource of kicking, previous step to the acceptance and submission without defenses or reservations. "Behold the slave of the Lord, be it done unto me according to thy word". The beggar gets impatient, he probably thinks I want to humiliate him and I notice more hatred in his stray look than in the previous one. I hand him the coins and he goes back to his bench without thanking me. He counts them and gives me a contemptuous and coarse look. No doubt I had hoped he would have been more generous. I can't stand his ragged presence any longer and resume my walk, but part of my body burns as if I were already in hell, and I find it hard to walk. Is there a hell? Is there a heaven? Is there a God, and his angels and cherubs? I am horrified to realize my rapid transformation. For the first time I have doubted my deep-rooted secular convictions. Until just a minute ago, hell, heaven and God were something anecdotal; a topic of conversation full of incongruities and fanaticism for the gullible and ignorant; of intellectual blindness and irrationality. And suddenly these theological questions arise again, but with renewed importance. I also sense that my mind will soon go blank, refusing to think, since I could not stop thinking about death and its intricate mysteries. I have to rediscover nothingness, and immerse myself in it until the day of my announced death. 3. It's three in the morning and I can't get to sleep. Just darkness and nothing else. Those figures that the lights of the cars project on the ceiling are the only thing that catches my attention, the rest seems to have vanished. Everything around me is silence, darkness, nothing. Whoever created this absurd word was thinking of me, I have given it its true meaning; its authentic meaning; its oppressive emptiness. At four o'clock in the morning I will still be thinking the same thoughts I am thinking now, and the next hours, the next days until the day of my death I will still have the same thoughts: nothing. I have nothing left to think about except nothingness, and, thinking about nothingness is like not thinking. I leave my mind blank to try to dissuade my brain from reliving bad memories, the good ones I have not forgotten. 824 there is nothing left of all that. It is time for my own final judgment. I have been ambitious, selfish and disloyal. If hell exists, no doubt I will be condemned. I have to admit it, these insistent pains, added to my regrets, have sapped the creativity of my imagination. My latest novel is mediocre, even pathetic. The characters are stillborn and act like real zombies. I think I have lost connection with reality and live in a parallel world. I see the new world but I don't feel it; I hear it but I don't understand it, and I no longer have anyone around me to comment on this chore of time; a confidant to whom you can tell a host of misfortunes without being rejected, ignored, or forgotten. I have crossed from one dimension to another without realizing it, entertained with my dreams of greatness, with the conviction that I would put the world at my feet and now I am its doormat. I have betrayed the only woman I have ever loved. I have despised my friends, and admired my enemies, because I preferred the encouragement of victory after a bitter war against my enemies to the sterile peace of friends. And now I have neither friends nor enemies. Some I have humiliated, and the others have ignored me and rejected my enmity, so that there is nothing left, neither of one nor of the other. I am prostrate on the bed trying to forget that I have a corrupted body, which threatens to destroy my soul and my mind as well. Tonight the sporadic lights of the cars that cross the roof seem to me like souls in pain that warn me that very soon I will be one of them and I will cross the roofs of other damned; that neither heaven 8 hell exist, only the unbearable nothingness. 4. The first sunrise 6 It's finally dawn. I have slept two or three refreshing hours. It is a relief to sleep; to be able to have the opportunity to meet with the dearest people, but not the real ones, but the ones that your mood needs, and that during wakefulness sleep in your imagination. Only in dreams things happen as we wish them to happen; without dreams the soul would have nowhere to take refuge, nowhere to nest and sing its song, it would be prey to the harsh and severe reality. I do not know who gave us the faculty to dream, but it must have been someone very understanding and well aware of the weaknesses of the human being. Maybe it was the God that religions talk about, but I cannot accept it, because I simply do not believe in anything. I have even stopped believing in myself. He who lives in nothingness cannot believe in anything. But it is dawn and it is my hour for optimism; the most awaited moment, because light must be the cause of all creation, while darkness is in charge of destroying it, of plunging creation into an abyss of no return, the same that must await us after death. I have thought a lot about death, especially about my death; about my irreversible and early death. I would like to believe in transmigration, because life is not destroyed, only transformed. It would be a comfort to be able to believe that moments after my last breath to be part of a new life, somewhere on Earth or in the Universe. After all, we come from it and we will return to it. But my room has been flooded with light and now I see things as they are and not as I dream them. I see on the shelf meticulously arranged by thickness, color and height my novels, on which I have spent, or perhaps worn out, all my life, and some photos of remote and unrecoverable times. The best novels I wrote when my mind and my imagination had wings, because they were young and free, and understood each other: what the imagination created my disciplined mind wrote. Most of my novels have been a resounding success, but the last one was tainted with my illness. On my desk, next to the window through which I look out on my part of the world, I see that the computer that in better days constantly provoked me, leaving me hardly any respite, no time for rest, remains inactive and silent. I could only hear the exciting and rapid sound of the keys describing on the illuminated screen the images that gushed like a spring of fresh water from my exuberant imagination. Then this machine was an extension of my mind and my spirit, now it is a common computer, like thousands of others, without soul and without activity, because I no longer have anything to tell. The keyboard seemed to me like a universe, with which one could express even the deepest philosophical thoughts, write the most passionate dialogues, or describe the most beautiful scenery. Everything was there, at sight, you just had to choose the right letters, in the right form and with the right rhythm. That was another life. Each character that came out of that now inert keyboard completely disrupted reality: they were the real ones, the rest was a dream. I felt them so alive that I often invoked them convinced that they would appear in my room, and we would discuss their future as a character in the novel. I always had the feeling that they were unhappy with their role, because I never got to know them as they really were, even though I had created them myself. But that was before the diagnosis; before my walking became clumsy and unsteady; long before the first symptoms of my illness made me lose consciousness because of an intense pain arising from some vague part of the inside of my body. But I had a premonition of my illness many years before. I may have had the presentiment from birth, so I lived with urgency, wrote with urgency and also grew old with the same urgency. Now I can rest and calm down, there is no longer any reason for urgency. 5. A dignified death I have discarded all hope. I know I am going to die, but against my will. I cannot accept that nature will decide for me. I have to anticipate its blind impulses; its irrational destruction. Only I can decide when and how I should die. It is a thought that horrifies me, but perhaps I must put an end to my life myself. Suicide? Would I be able to do it? But how? I don't want to die a violent death. By resorting to sedatives? But, knowing my situation, no doctor would prescribe them. I never thought it would be so difficult to attempt against one's own life. I envy those who are fortunate enough to die in their sleep, because the greatest difficulty for a suicidal person is to make the last decision of his life, because it is not possible to rectify it. Perhaps I could resort to euthanasia, but I do not want to die where the law allows it, nor do I want my death to be a commercial exchange. I would like to die by the sea, at the dusk of an autumn twilight, to take its beauty with me into eternity. Can't the wishes of a dying person be fulfilled? Why can't mine be fulfilled? But I am talking about me; planning my death by my own hands and by my own will. I intend to be myself the murderer who destroys everything I have created; to put an end to the fruit of my youthful illusions, my ambitions consummated after many years of loneliness and sadness, to my pleasant memories. At least if nature kills me, I will not be responsible for this homicide. No, I cannot attempt against myself. No tree would destroy its own fruit. But if I do not have enough courage to attempt against my body, I have to silence my conscience, limit the gloomy thoughts and close the eyes of imagination, the only one responsible for my sufferings, because we do not suffer if we do not imagine. So, do I have to let this terrible disease take its course? How will I bear this long agony? What stimulus will I count on? I can't imagine waiting impassively for death lying in a hospital bed, my mind dazed by painkillers and my vision blurred, foolishly fixed on some spot in the room. No, that is not a dignified way to die. There must be another, more humane and less painful way. Maybe the only worthy way to die is in that place you call home, and to be next to someone who feels true affection for you; that you can shake his hand until the last breath is lost, because it is through the hands that souls communicate and express their desires and feelings, so you can take his affection and his smile to eternity, although my eyes no longer see, my ears no longer hear and my body no longer feels anything. That is the only worthy way to die! A wise but useless reflection, because I don't have a home or anyone who feels so much affection for me. This apartment is not a home, because it lacks the essential: a woman. It is only a place of residence; a comfortable refuge; the right space for a writer; a gilded cage where to let the imagination run free. Only a woman can turn a station waiting room into a home, because she is the home. It is in her arms, in her bosom, in her feminine energy. Home is in the bed where a woman lies. As for someone who feels enough affection for me to watch over my agony and shake the weak hand of a dying man, unfortunately I haven't heard from her for many years. She was my first and only love, the person who stimulated my imagination and my creativity. To her I owe what I am and the memories that have inspired most of my novels. But back then my blind ambition was stronger than my feelings. We were united and separated by our passion for literature. We were both confident in our talents and had not the slightest doubt about our future successes. Our relationship inspired his best poems, for which I was flattered and transported to another world, but providence had a painful fate in store for him. The plot of my first novel was also the fruit of our relationship: the story of a failed poetess who describes her suicide in her last poem - a bitter paradox of fate! She helped me to correct my notable literary defects as a beginner, even typed the manuscript and suggested that I send it to a well-known literary contest for beginners. She shared my illusions and ambitions with generosity and without the slightest shadow of envy. He gave himself entirely to this work, which finally bore its unexpected fruits: I won the first prize! What followed is the cause of my regrets and I will never be able to forgive myself. A well-known literary agent was interested in me, and assured me that I had great literary talent and that in one or two years she would make me the most read and admired writer of that time. I was deeply flattered and accepted her bet. She suggested the theme of my second novel: a romantic story with a happy ending, and I had no difficulty in imagining the plot, I only had to add some new scenes to my own personal experiences. In this second novel it was she who revised and corrected the numerous stylistic flaws and grammatical errors of the first manuscript. We used to work in her own home, in an atmosphere of intimacy and familiarity, created to seduce me and make me literally fall into her arms. He had seen in me not only a talented writer, but also a lover. Unfortunately for my faithful companion, my agent was a woman with the appeal of mature yet beautiful women, with a young spirit and great experience in the arts of seduction, so it was impossible for me to resist. In a short time she managed to completely dominate my will. I spent my days in a frenetic program of promotion of my novel that barely allowed me to dedicate a few minutes to the memory of another woman who had to suffer in silence every time my image, with a studied smile of an arrogant winner, appeared in the media. The few moments I did not dedicate to my promotion I had to occupy them in satisfying her desires, always unsatisfied, not as my agent but as my lover. Although there were times when I was aware of my disloyal behavior, I could not give up the vain feeling of being above the common people; of dominating their wills, turning them into sycophants and my admirers. Since then there has been no peace for my spirit and I have known neither true friendship nor, much less, the passionate feeling of love. Now it is too late, because both friendship and love are like a beautiful plant, it needs time to bloom. 6. Memories Sometimes I wonder what would have become of me if I had not won that unexpected prize. I would possibly be married, have two or three children, a more prominent abdomen and could have found a good job in an insurance company, where I would have been promoted to assistant manager by now. We would live in a nice house with enough rooms for everyone, located in a quiet residential suburb. We would have two dogs, my wife's hysterical Yorkshire and a larger breed, plus a Siamese cat. Two of my children would already be going to university. The eldest would study law, and would already have secured a job in my company, and my middle daughter would study journalism, because she believed she had a vocation as a writer, and would have already published a book on the web with a romantic theme. The little one, because we would most probably have two females, would still be in high school and would wear a dental prosthesis to correct the deviation of her teeth. My wife would be president of some cultural association, and every first Saturday of the month our large living room would become a meeting room, where a dozen active mothers of families, and some retired widower, would discuss the details of an ambitious cultural program. We would have a good relationship with our neighbors. He might be a top executive of a multinational pet food company, and she would run a small, exclusive clothing boutique in our residential area, which in all likelihood would be a ruinous business. Every summer my wife, myself and our youngest daughter would spend two weeks in a popular seaside resort, where we would have an apartment booked every year on the 15th floor of a building on the third line of the sea, while our older children would take advantage of the summer to follow intensive English courses in London or New York. Is that what I missed? No; it's too conventional an assumption that I would never have accepted. But I don't want to think of my life with that woman as if it were the plot of one of my novels. She is a person and I must not confuse her with a character; our relationship was not a novel. Sometimes I don't know how to distinguish dream from reality, because memories eventually become dreams, and dreams eventually become reality. Everything could have been different if I had not been so blind and ambitious and had not fallen into the arms of my literary agent. But soon her eagerness to feel young and attractive no longer found sufficient stimulus in me, and she found herself a new lover, another ambitious young writer. I did not feel her betrayal at all, rather it was a liberation, because I also needed new stimuli to continue the meteoric rise of my popularity. Then I tried to recover my first love, but I lost track of her, it gave the impression that she had emigrated to another planet or had been swallowed up by the earth, because she had disappeared from all the means that could identify her whereabouts. Discouraged by the futile search, I tried to seek solace in one of my young female admirers. It was not difficult for me to seduce them, I could even choose among the many young girls who idolized me. I chose her not for her intelligence but for her body, because my capacity for love had been nullified by my betrayal. Unfortunately, despite her attractiveness, my constant remorse made me impotent and insensitive, so my relationship with my young lovers was brief and frustrating. My remorse led me to accept loneliness and I gave myself body and soul to my work. But the theme of my novels changed radically, the previous plots always had a happy ending, the new ones became unhappy, negative and with tragic endings, in which the protagonist of the story invariably died. But far from declining, my popularity continued to grow, because in our time there are hardly any relationships with a happy ending, and my readers identified better with the new dramatic twist of my tragic plots. 7. Ella Yes, despite all these years, I still keep her image alive, because she has been the one who has inspired my most beloved female characters. I have described her so many times that I could not forget her even if I tried. And if my memory should play a trick on me and erase her image, I only have to read again and again the novels where she is present to recover her intact, just as I have kept her for the last twenty years. But the years go by and leave their horrible mark. Maybe if I passed her in the street I wouldn't recognize her. What havoc has time done to her childish face and rosy cheeks? What color are her curly blond hair, always tousled, tangled between my fingers? And her breasts, small but sensual? What must not have changed is her sincere and tender look, nor the blue color of her eyes. How much I have longed for her in my long sleepless nights giving life to characters with her qualities! How much I would have given to feel her hands on my sore shoulders for those endless hours trying to recreate the world with the fantasies of my exhausted imagination! And how many mornings I woke up hugging my pillow, waking up from a dream in which I took her in my arms, and lying on a fragrant freshly cut lawn, we contemplated a pristine blue sky, which our eyes could barely contemplate a tiny part of its immensity. I met her in the faculty canteen one day in the early spring of 1997, the year Dario Fo won the Nobel Prize for literature, which I secretly aspired to win someday. She stood in front of me in the cafeteria line and pretended to hold her cup of coffee and a huge strawberry-cream cake with one hand, because the other was holding several books of poetry. I offered to hold the books for him, but he declined. Finally, as feared, the coffee cup, the cake and his precious books rolled on the floor. Then she did accept my help. While she cleaned up the pieces of cake that had smeared the books, I got a new cup of coffee and the last remaining slice of cake. But as fate would have it, that early spring morning she was left without her coffee and her delicious strawberry and cream cake, because I tripped over a misplaced chair and, once again, coffee and cake ended up on the floor. That coincidence in our clumsiness we interpreted it as a sign of destiny, that we were made for each other. The days and months that followed our eventful meeting were simply glorious. We discovered our respective vocations and ambitions, and agreed, sealed with a kiss, to walk together on the road to glory, which our youthful optimism considered conquered. We used to sit on the soft grass of our campus and exchange notes with our respective creations. I would read and appreciate her poetry and she would read my stories and we would discuss them in heated literary debates. Even today I still remember one of her poems, dedicated to me, of course: If your heart were foam, I would be ocean; If your soul were heaven, I would be cloud; If your gaze were rain, I would be a field; If your hands were water, I would be thirsty. We attended all cultural events related to literature, and we were considered "Les enfants terribles" of book presentations, because of our exhaustive questions. I think authors were afraid of us. We didn't miss any biographical film of writers. We made plans for the future, for when we were rich and famous. We agreed that we would spend half the year in Paris and the other half in Mallorca, in a small house on some cliff and that from the bedroom window we could watch the sunrise over the Mediterranean Sea. We had even decided to have our first child when I turned 30, and to have enough time to consolidate our respective literary careers. All those wonderful fantasies were happening before I won that damned prize. I realize now that I was sure of what my bright future would be like with all sorts of details, but I wasn't sure what I was like, and I barely endured the first test that fate put in my path. 8. The message I have barely had time to reflect and be fully aware of my pitiful fate and tomorrow I have to appear in public and make the presentation of my latest novel. I am the slave of my own success, a prisoner of the clauses of a draconian contract. I have long since ceased to be free and become an admired slave. I would give everything I own to go back and restart my life with her, and that I would never have had the clumsiness to submit my first novel and a literary contest, only to have the misfortune of winning it. But it's too late now. Now I will be back on the cover of specialized magazines, but to announce my inevitable death. They will write eulogies full of eulogies and virtues that I surely do not have, but the dead are extolled or sullied, but rarely respected. Surely the sales of my books will triple, so my untimely death is a magnificent business for my publishing house, for the printers and for the bookstores. They will mourn my death with crocodile tears. My agent will visit me repeatedly to secure his commission after my death. The publisher will also visit me, and with affected sadness, will make me sign a new contract to ensure the exclusivity of my books when I leave this world. I will receive thousands of condolences from my admirers, and they will be so hypocritical as to wish for my speedy recovery, but deep down my death is much more morbid and exciting for them. And what will become of my work? How long will it remain in the memory of my current admirers? A dead writer is only profitable as long as his funerals and tributes last, then other living writers will occupy my void, and they will surely be victims of my same disease. I am not likely to survive long. I have always had the feeling that I was writing what readers wanted to read not what I wanted to write. I will never know what kind of writer I am because I have never really tested myself. It has all come too easy to be important. There is no greater misfortune for a writer of vocation than to win a contest at a young age nor worse torture than to succeed at something you don't like. To write what your own intuition dictates, it is necessary not to think about readers at least until you are forty. I am one of those victims. I try to put these pathetic thoughts out of my mind by reading some of the numerous messages I receive every day. Today I don't want to read that chorus of praise from those who seem to be born to admire anyone who has their name printed somewhere other than on their ID card or in the mailbox. Most of them admire me only because I have hundreds of other admirers and followers, but they don't really know why they admire me. They all expect the same thing from me: a few words of response from the myth they are subjugated to in order to feel blessed by divine grace. Those of these unconditional admirers are a few short sentences that they must have saved in their computer memory to send to their favorite writers: "Very good your last novel", "I was hooked by your last novel", "I enjoyed your last novel", "I loved your last novel"; etc. And what can I answer? I could give them a huge thank you and have them divide it among themselves. But there is one message that catches my attention. It is that of a young woman. I can't explain it, but her image makes me uneasy and uneasy. Perhaps it is because there is something common in our features; or because of her haughty and provocative look, and yet, there is something of sweetness in her face. I have the impression that her arrogance hides a vulnerable personality. I almost don't dare to read her message, I have a feeling it will not be favorable and I don't have the day to endure criticism. After all, praise is a balm, it doesn't cure but it soothes; criticism is a bitter medicine, it tastes bad but it cures. I dare to read it: "Hi, I am an aspiring writer who has read all your novels and in my humble opinion there is only one that has a good motivation: the first one, the rest are acceptable, but lack this important quality. It seems as if after the first novel you have lost the motivation of the first one. As for your last novel, I am sorry to say that it seems as if you have lost both motivation and inspiration. Forgive me for being so frank, but that is my opinion. Naomi." Whoever you are, Naomi, you have discovered my best kept secret! I confess that this severe criticism from an arrogant and conceited young lady has affected me. I shouldn't worry, all the invitations for the presentation of my new novel have been booked for a week now, and the reviews have not been very effusive but not bad either, but what surprises me is the certainty of her judgments, which fully coincide with the reality of my literary career. It is true that the novels after the first one I wrote were influenced by my literary agent, not by a human being, and that they were not written by the artist but by the professional with a good style. And that face... that expression... those features so similar to mine; the clear forehead, the dimples in the cheeks and the slight droop of the eyelids... they are identical. But I wonder who is this mysterious Naomi? There is nothing in her profile that identifies her, not where she studied, not where she lives, no pictures, no blog; nothing! I answer: "Dear Noemí, your harsh criticism has hurt my self-esteem, but I appreciate your sincerity. I have no doubt that you will be a great writer. I am aware that none of my novels will deserve even a modest corner of posterity. If I wrote with posterity in mind, I would lose practically all my readers. In the times we live in, no writer can be above the intellectual level of his readers, because that would make them feel guilty and ignorant. If you appear half a dozen times on a TV channel with a large audience and you have some physical attraction, you automatically become the idol of thousands of people who were born to be followers. The media has so much power that if they had their way, they could win the Nobel Prize for the editor of the crime chronicles of a provincial newspaper. If the media have idealized you, you can write anything, because they won't stop admiring you. My latest novel is not brilliant, it is as normal and ordinary as the normal and ordinary readers who will enjoy reading it, because it speaks in their same language, it has their same vices and virtues. Anyway, that is the novel they would write themselves, but I have spared them that painful work. Most of us writers today are not chasing readers but journalists and image-makers, who are the ones who really rule the world. If you dream of being an out-of-the-ordinary writer, your life will be spent within that same out-of-the-ordinary dream, and you will never be able to live in reality. I look forward to your understanding. Kind regards" I send it. I find it a good rejoinder, but I have to admit that your criticism has merit. I don't owe my fame to my supposed talent but to the popularity that my first novel gave me, and that she inspired me, and the intelligent marketing of my protector. I have no more merit than to have been able to interpret her advice, her deep knowledge of the psychology of readers and her wise ideas, with my ability to write them in an acceptable style. But I am sure that there are hundreds of writers with much more talent than me who have not been as lucky as me. I just received a new message from Naomi. I wonder how she interpreted my reply. I could delete it. After all, it's just the opinion of an immature young girl, I don't have to take it into consideration. I have plenty of admirers and I am no longer worried about success or failure, because there will be no more novels to criticize. She is right: I lack muse and inspiration. But I am curious to know her opinion and I open it: "Yes, good novels need good readers, that's why they are so scarce. But good writers make good readers, and if you write mediocre novels you will always have mediocre readers. I look forward with great interest to hearing your views on the presentation of your new novel. Best regards and see you tomorrow. Noemí." It hurts me, but I accept it. You are absolutely right: each reader gets the author he or she deserves. No doubt I am one of those to blame for the mediocrity of the readers, because I have been satisfied with their compliments without worrying about whether or not they were well-founded. What can I say about the novel if I have never written a real novel? 9. Hallucinations Another endless sleepless night. I see mysterious shadows creeping stealthily around my bed. No doubt I suffer from hallucinations. I have had to hide all the pictures that decorated this room, because when I looked at them it seemed as if they were moving and coming out of their frames. Sometimes I look at my hands and it seems to me that they are someone else's and not mine. Any small object becomes an insect crawling on the shelves of my bookcase, or on my study table, I even see them moving on the quilt of my bed. I know they are simple hallucinations caused by my tired eyesight and depressed mood, but they distress me. I cannot bear this suffering until the day I die. I have to do something. I need her forgiveness. I have to find her even if I have to go to hell itself, from which I am only a step away. Why hasn't he contacted me in all these years? I am a public figure. She must have known how to contact me. A wound can't stay open for twenty years. They say that time heals everything, but they don't say what kind of wounds it heals. There are some for which, it seems, time does not pass, and probably some of them are disloyalty and betrayal. But she may also already be married with a family, and no longer feel any interest in me. Or, who knows, and I am distressed at the very thought, but she may already be dead. The ghosts keep haunting my bed. It seems as if all the spirits are conspiring against me to destroy what little judgment I have left, but I will resist; this is not a good time for madness. I have taken from the shelf my latest novel and read the passage in which the heroine discovers that her lover is cheating on her. It is an ordinary love story, and in real life cheating is also ordinary, and I have personal experiences to write these scenes realistically. Another dawn without any reason for optimism. I must have slept two or three hours, but I feel tired and sore, because the few hours I have slept have been occupied by a horrible nightmare. Fortunately I can only remember the final moments. I was bedridden in a hospital bed, but the room was painted red and a faceless nurse was injecting me with a dose of morphine. Scenes of a butcher butchering pigs could be seen in front of my bed. The pigs would talk and ask the butcher, "Why me?" But the butcher would not listen to their cries and would unload one after another of his deadly blows. Incomprehensibly it was my turn, and I asked him again the same anguished question, "Why me?" with the same result. And the butcher was preparing to settle his killing blow, when he suddenly transformed into her, smiling, just as I last saw her on campus. She stroked my dazed head. She gazed at me for a few moments, and barely as a whisper, she exclaimed: "Spreads his wings the angel of death, because he has an important assignment from Lucifer. When you are suspended by its deadly claws, I will not cry for you but for me, for I will not be able to accompany you to hell, as was my wish." And he vanished, transforming into the butcher, who again was about to lay his deadly blow when fortunately a call from my cell phone woke me up from this horrible dream. It is my current literary agent. -I'm sorry to call you at this hour, but I want you to know that I'm sorry; I'm really sorry! -His ambiguous message causes me great concern -I'm sorry about your diagnosis! -How do you know about my diagnosis? -Someone from the hospital has leaked the news of your incurable disease and it's circulating all over the social networks! I didn't know it was so serious! Believe me I'm sorry; I don't know what to say...! -My agent feels obliged to take charge of the situation and comments visibly affected: "If you are not feeling well, we can cancel the presentation. But this would mean breaching the contract with the publisher and would bring us a lot of headaches. Only death can be a legal justification. No, I have to make the presentation. Sooner or later they will know my state of health. A writer without a contract is free to do whatever he wants, because he has nothing published. On the other hand, a writer with a contract and who has published has something to justify his slavery. We write to have a reason to lose our freedom. That's how paradoxical the writer's world is. We arranged to have breakfast together in a café near my apartment. My agent was accompanied by a young woman who made a great impression on me. But not because of her beauty, but because of her appearance and curious attire. She wears a wide leather jacket of a striking scarlet color, which contrasts with her straight black hair, cropped at the nape of her neck, pale as snow. She wears tight black tights and a black skirt that covers a small part of her thighs. But the most striking thing is her huge military-style boots, which she laces up with red laces. As for her face, it seems vulgar to me, with nothing to highlight. I have the impression that with that flashy outfit she intends us not to pay attention to her face, which she herself must be aware of its lack of attractiveness or charm. However, her gaze and gestures are simple and frank. Just by her manner of greeting I deduce that she is cultured and intelligent. The young lady is the latest represented by my agent. According to him, she has talent. He wanted her to join us for our interview because she needs to be introduced to the world of literature, and he felt I was a good place to start. The young woman seems somewhat intimidated by my presence. She has spilled her coffee twice by shaking it too vigorously. She doesn't dare look at me straight on, and doesn't take her eyes off her shaken coffee cup. I wonder what he is thinking. He waits for me to speak to him, and the truth is, I don't know what we can talk about other than the weather. I break the silence by commenting that it's been a very wet autumn. The young woman nods slightly, but only out of politeness. My trivial remark confuses my agent, who doesn't want to waste time with such trifles. From a pocket of her jacket she pulls out a newspaper clipping and hands it to me. It is the latest published review of my novel. I ask him to summarize it for me, that's why I have an agent: -It's good," he says, not hiding the businessman's satisfaction, "even suggesting it could be the novel of the year. I don't discuss it with my agent, but I suspect this reviewer must collect a check every month from my publisher, and doesn't want to antagonize them. There are few honest critics left, or if they are, they are ignorant of the fundamentals of literature. For the sake of this millennial art I would have preferred a bad review, as this novel deserves. On another occasion I would have rejoiced, but now that I must give an account to my conscience for all my actions, it saddens me, because even now the wise phrase: "The hour of truth has come" makes sense. And the truth is that it is a bad novel. The young writer congratulates me and assures me that I deserve it, and seems to expect my thanks. I think she is trying to suggest some topic of conversation in which she can participate. -Forgive me for butting in," he finally decides to intervene, "but I think it's a good novel, too. I ask him what motivates his opinion. -It's well written and the characters are very well characterized," she answers a bit embarrassed, because she wasn't expecting my question. It has very well-drawn descriptions and the dialogues are very natural. Yes, I think your last novel is very good. It is evident that this young girl belongs to this generation in which ideals are rare, because she has omitted the fundamental: the plot. A poem does not need a plot, words are enough, but a novel cannot exist without a plot. The plot is what links fiction with reality, and a good novel must bear witness to the reality of its time through the plot; of the author's commitment to his time. If this linkage does not exist, it cannot transcend its immediacy, and instead of a novel we write a pamphlet of three hundred pages, decorated with a suggestive cover, and with an unjustified price. I don't put this idea to her because she probably doesn't feel committed to her times. I ask her what she thinks of the argument and she seems to mull over the answer: -It's a classic theme," he answers without much conviction. The betrayal of the one we love. It's a good argument. But it is rude of me not to show interest in your work. I am also interested in his idea of literature. I ask him which genre of literature he is most attracted to, and without barely letting me finish my sentence, he replies: -The novel, of course! It must be so, because her face has been transfigured with the charm of enthusiasm. She seems pleased by my interest; it is evident that she wished to communicate with me, but as a writer to a writer. She has succeeded. I ask her what is the reason for her enthusiasm for narrative, and her answer leaves no room for doubt: -Only a novel can tell a complex story that is a complete world. The short story is very brief and the tale can only tell a part of that world. No doubt this young woman knows what she wants. Now we'll see if she also knows why she wants it. I ask about her motivation. -My motivation? I've never asked myself this question, I think I was born already motivated by the love of literature! I have many reasons to be motivated," she answers with a sudden and astonishing self-confidence. But perhaps the main one is that through literature many values can be transmitted that can help each generation to be morally superior to the previous one. That's a good answer. I have been wrong about this young woman and I have underestimated her. I ask her the last question: -And what is literature for you? -Literature is a way of telling stories that provoke in the reader the feeling of the beauty of language, the creativity of the imagination and the understanding of the reality in which they come from or wish to live. When the words do not prevent the imagination from seeing, hearing or feeling what you are reading, because they are all in perfect harmony, with none missing or surplus. That is my opinion. I am impressed by her response, and I congratulate my agent on his wise choice. The young lady is out of the ordinary, but that doesn't mean she will have the success she undoubtedly deserves. 10. The walk I say goodbye to my agent and his young companion, to whom I give encouragement to continue because I believe he has the necessary talent for success, but I also warn him of the price he will have to pay for his passion. A useless warning, because passion overflows all attempts at restraint. He will go on his way without heeding my warnings. My agent asks me what I plan to do until the time of the presentation, and if I would like to have lunch together as well. Maybe he's thinking that it's not a day to leave me alone and he needs company. I tell her that I had thought about taking a long walk in the park, but I decline her invitation; I have never liked restaurants. The young woman also seems concerned about my mood and makes me a tempting offer: She would like to accompany me on my walk and then go to her apartment, where she will cook for me one of the specialties of her region. It sounds like a good program and I accept. I notice in his invitation the desire to communicate his concerns and show me his works to know my opinion, but also a sudden affection for me, which must have a large dose of compassion. It is cloudy and at intervals clearings open through which the sunlight penetrates, and all the foliage is illuminated as if it were a fresco painted by some genius of those who probably inhabit this park. My young companion seems to be happy that I have accepted his invitation, and walks beside me but in silence. I have the impression that he has already achieved his purpose and does not think he needs any more arguments or reasons to convince me. There is no doubt that he admires me, which makes me feel uncomfortable. No person is more admirable than another, what is admired are the results of his education, intuition or creativity, but not the human being himself. Since we all deserve the same respect and consideration, there cannot be some more admirable than others. I try to make him see it with a committed personal question: -I would love to know what idea you have formed about me; and why were you interested in meeting me personally? The question has caught her off guard. She meditates for a few moments on her answer, losing her gaze in an undefined point of the leafy walk, sketching a smile that must emerge from her thoughts. She turns to me, literally glares at me, and doesn't hesitate in her surprising answer: -Because I am in love with you! Now the surprised one is me, but the years have made me skeptical and limited my ability to feel affection for others. But there is another reason for me to reject her surprising statement: I have no other mission in my remaining life than to find the woman to whom I owe what this young woman admires. As long as I do not repay my debt my feelings are blocked. I let her know this in the least painful way possible: -Sometimes we writers live our fantasies as if they were reality. I'm sure you love a character in your novels who looks like me. But your answer surprises me even more than the first one: -I have told you that I am in love with you, but not that you are in love with me. You cannot prevent me from loving you, but neither can I prevent you from feeling no affection for me. I know you don't find me attractive, you may even consider me ugly, and you may not like the way I dress. I choose whom I love, but I don't pretend that you are also my lover. I am content to be able to walk beside him, and if he feels like it, to taste my casseroles, but he must know that I love him! Her generosity is sublime: she gives her feelings in exchange for accompanying the faltering step of a dying man, and having a guest at her table. No doubt this ungraceful young woman has an immense heart and can afford to squander her affections. I must not allow this waste, she may later need them for herself. -But you yourself have witnessed that you have fallen in love with a sick man who will soon leave this world! -I know, and I feel a great sadness, but you are a writer too, and you make people love each other who exist only in your imagination. Why can't I do the same? When the unfortunate day comes when you are gone, I will still have you in my imagination, and I will still love you as I love you now. It is inevitable that I will ask you this crucial question: -But what is so attractive about a dying curentón that awakens such a passion in you? -There are very few men who have been able to penetrate the soul of a woman. We admire the man who has brilliant ideas, but we love the man not for his intelligence but for being essentially a man, whereas we can fall madly in love with a gigolo, a greasy-handed mechanic or a smelly sewer man, as long as they are essentially men! If he is also intelligent and creative, then he is irresistible! -Do I belong to that category? He doesn't answer me, but his smile answers my question. 11. Lunch The apartment of my young lover is a museum of nostalgia, because it is full of objects that remind her of her place of origin, which she must miss deeply. It is a single room where a certain chaos reigns. His desk is next to the only window in the room, and it is full of pages with printed texts, which must be his writings, where his laptop appears. On the printer is a small stuffed panda bear, and on the window ledge, arranged in a row, is a veritable collection of assorted objects, possibly gifts or souvenirs from trips. His bed is a large convertible sofa, because there is not enough room for a regular bed. On the opposite side of the window there is a space separated by a wide curtain that must be your kitchen. And next to it a table where no more than two pieces of cutlery can fit, as long as you remove the huge bouquet of flowers that are beginning to wilt. The table is also occupied by the remains of a previous meal, such as unwashed dishes, half-full glasses or leftover bread. It is obvious that he was not expecting visitors, so he hastens to justify the mess: -Excuse this mess, but I wasn't expecting visitors, I'll tidy it up in a moment. Despite the clutter the set is intimate and cozy. I'd rather you didn't tidy it up. -Would you like to read some of my writings while I prepare lunch? I beg you not to address me as you, because we have already made enough confidences to be on a first-name basis. -I will read them with great interest. He tries to put order in the pages scattered on his desk until he has gathered about twenty pages. -It's the first pages of my new novel," she says with some embarrassment, "it's the love story between a young dancer and her choreographer... who is inspired by you. He insists on not calling me by my first name. I suppose his love for me includes this distant treatment. If he were to call me by my first name, some of his charm would be lost. I have to accept that. I like his style. I am particularly struck by this passage: "A talented dancer understands the language of music and translates it into the harmonious movements of her agile body. You no longer need a choreographer, but a lover who interprets the music that moves your body!" The meal was delicious and for her, moreover, a source of longing. I still have a few hours to go before the presentation. She suggests that I get some sleep to be clearer. I accept the idea. We unfold the bed and I lie down. She covers me with a light blanket, closes the window shade and locks herself in her tiny kitchen to do the dishes and the rest of the service. I hear the bustle of the kitchen almost in my sleep, and it brings back images of times gone by, when she also cooked for me. I am awakened by the sound of crying. It is the young woman crying. She is lying next to me, and hurries to wipe away her tears when she notices that I wake up. -Is something wrong, Alicia? I ask him in alarm. But his answer puzzles me: -Forgive me, I am a fool; I was crying with happiness to have you next to me, in my own bed! I could never have imagined that this young, scantily clad, strikingly dressed young woman was such an exceptional human being. No doubt that appearances can be deceiving. I feel the need to know more about her. I let her approach me, because I feel more paternal than passionate affection for her. I beg her to tell me something about her. She comes closer to me. I think she wants me to hold her in my arms. I cannot rebuff her and do her bidding. She smiles gratefully at me. -I'm just a provincial girl, ugly and clumsy," I try to protest, but she interrupts me. No, it's true, I'm ugly, that's why I dress in flashy clothes, although it doesn't do much good. The boys didn't like me, even though more than one tried to rape me. I grew up without the slightest affection and soon I had no other alternative to mitigate my loneliness than to invent lovers and friends. I felt real disgust for boys of my age, violent and rude. I fell in love for the first time with a mature, married man. He treated me gently and, although I would have allowed it, he never asked me to make love. It's my fate, he wasn't in love with me either, I think he felt pity. I had no choice but to leave my city, and I came here. Literature was my only friend. My novels were my only consolation. I managed to interest a modest publisher to publish one of my novels, although I had to pay for the edition out of my own pocket. That was almost two years ago. I sent the manuscript to several publishers, but all of them rejected it. Someone advised me to look for a literary agent, and I found his agent on the Internet. I sent him a copy of my novel, and the rest you know. I remain silent because I am impressed by her story, so different from mine! I have betrayed those who loved me; she has been faithful to those who did not love her. Her story makes me feel even more guilty. But she has omitted something and I can no longer accept that I am not interested: -But I am missing in your story! -Yes, of course; you're missing! I met him during the presentation of his previous novel. I was sitting in the last row. I looked like a normal young woman then, and you approached me several times, but you must have been invisible, because you didn't so much as glance at me and I didn't dare to catch your eye. I have always been somewhat shy and introverted, but that day I was out of this world. When I saw you on the rostrum, with your shirt unbuttoned, with your mocking and provocative gesture, so sure of yourself, something stirred in my whole body, and I immediately understood that I had fallen in love with you, but with the man, I didn't know the writer yet -he remains silent for a few moments, as if reliving that moment in his imagination, because I feel as if his body was shaking; he smiles as if now he finds his sudden passion for me funny-. When I left his presentation, I don't know how long I walked around aimlessly, trying to hold back tears. I had fallen in love with the most admired man in the literary world. I still ache from the applause of his brilliant speech. When he finished and came down from what for me was already a throne, for you were already my king, all the young women in the room surrounded him because they wanted to touch their idol. They were all beautiful and wore brand name clothes. I was a provincial girl, ugly, shy and clumsy, and I wore old-fashioned clothes. That night I stayed up all night, crying non-stop. When a woman falls in love, the lover is part of her flesh and soul, and his absence hurts as if both were torn away. We don't think we can survive these terrible wounds," she pauses again, but now she seems to be reliving those bitter moments. Unexpectedly she takes one of my hands and caresses it. That comforts her and she continues her story. I spent some anguished days, but I finally resigned myself and tried to put the fire that burned me down, but I didn't stop loving him, only to numb his memory. But I resolved to one day be on the same level as him, so that he would notice me. I changed my wardrobe and frantically wrote one novel after another in which somehow you were always the protagonist - he exchanges a meaningful glance with me and continues - You can't imagine the joy that invaded me when I saw your photograph in the office of the agent who had agreed to represent me! -Yes, I can imagine! -I interrupt her. -And now you are here, in my own bed, and you hold me in your arms. Have I no reason to weep for happiness? 12. The presentation The account of her generous love for me, which I certainly do not deserve, changes my affection for this sensitive young woman, who has the evocative name of Alicia. I no longer find her ugly, nor clumsy; I see not her face but her soul, and I find her beautiful. I would like to let her know this, but I fear I may change my mind when my remorse for my unforgivable betrayal returns. Only if I rid myself of them could I even reciprocate her love for me. But I cannot forget that I must not delude myself into enjoying the pleasures of life, for before my feelings can be free to love whomever I wish, I will have died. Alicia does not deserve this punishment. It's time to go to the presentation venue. My agent has called me on my cell phone, he is worried about my state of mind, but I reassure him, I feel strong enough to face the presentation. Even the story of this young woman has given me new arguments to defend the literature that arises from the deepest feelings and condemn the banal and entertaining. As expected, the room is packed to capacity. Most of them remain standing because there are not enough chairs for everyone. No doubt they know the news of my diagnosis. My agent is waiting for me in an adjoining room to bring me up to date with the most prominent attendees. The editors of several literary magazines have come, and most of the journalists from the culture sections of the newspapers. They must be interested in the story of the writer who dies, not the one who writes. Alicia has accompanied me here, but she got confused with the audience and I lost sight of her. The moderator and other guests are already on the podium. When I appear in the room there is a telltale murmur. Several photographers take snapshots of the panel, but mostly they point their cameras at me. They must think that these will be the last pictures they will take of me. The moderator introduces me and gives a brief summary of the novel I am going to present. The time has come for my speech. I look for Alicia in the crowd, and discover her at one end of the room, leaning against a column. She has felt my gaze and smiles at me. She wants to encourage me; her smile makes it easier for me to begin my speech. -Good afternoon. First of all I want to thank all of you for attending the presentation of my latest novel. I feel guilty that I have this comfortable chair when most of you have to stand. Had I known so many of you were coming we would have held this presentation at the Olympic Stadium -you laugh at my joke, but I'm sure most of you didn't expect me to still have a sense of humor under the circumstances-. I assume you have all read the reviews of my new novel. Most are favorable, but not all - I forgot to send the check to two or three reviewers! I also assume you must already know the news of my diagnosis. Yes, I have only a few months to live, and it's no laughing matter, but my health won't improve if I take it seriously," I'm interrupted by a loud murmur, but I beg for silence. I learned the diagnosis yesterday, and because of the leak I haven't been able to extend my life insurance premium. I am sorry for my cat, who is the beneficiary of the insurance, because as you must know, I have no offspring. I'm very fond of my cat, because she's the only one I understand - I gave up understanding humans years ago! But I guess you haven't come here to hear about my good understanding with my cat, but about my latest novel. Surprising as it may surprise you, this novel and the previous ones I could not have written without my cat. She has taught me to accept who feeds me without losing my dignity. She has also taught me that there is always a time to play, and despite my advanced age I have never stopped playing! For me writing is a game, but a serious game. To play it is necessary to know only these three basic rules: to have a good technique, to have one's own style and a solid motivation. Whoever knows these three rules well has every chance of winning. Writers have a solid training, and we know how to distinguish a past perfect from a pluperfect, we do not commit spelling mistakes and we know where to put a comma or semicolon. After all, they are just rules to memorize, so most of us have a good technique. But when we talk about style not everyone understands what its meaning is and how it is valued, although critics insist on pigeonholing us with this or that current, because style has no rules, but depends on our sensitivity and the value we give to the words. Each word, in addition to a meaning, has a tone and must be joined to other words perfectly tuned, which is not common in today's literature, the meaning prevails and not the intonation. And if we talk about motivation, we usually associate it with remuneration, and not with a commitment to the values of our time, which must somehow be reflected in the arguments of what we write. Artists also pay rent; for the tax authorities we are just one more and in supermarkets they don't give us credit, if we don't pay we don't eat. That's why the writer must be paid. But this should not be the motivation. And that is the incurable disease of art, because what is the patrimony of the spirit becomes a market product; what should not have a price becomes an accounting value; what should entertain and enlighten, only serves to entertain. Finally, the spirit has nothing to exercise itself with and atrophies by inactivity and the result is that we lose the sensibility to distinguish the beautiful from the ugly; the good from the bad; the transcendent from the inconsequential. And that is the deplorable state in which literature finds itself today, practically on a global level, because insensitivity to art has also become globalized. All the responsibility for this situation falls on fifty percent of the readers and another fifty percent on the authors, because each reader has the author he deserves, and each writer has the readers he deserves. About this last novel, I will not reveal the plot, just advance that it is the drama of two writers, she is a poet and he is a narrator, who are united by literature, but separated by words. We understand the people we imagine, but not the real ones we love. Finally, I would like to tell you a moving story that illustrates better than any complicated argument what Literature is and what it is for. The story I wish to tell you is that of a young writer from the provinces, who considers herself ugly and clumsy, rejected by everyone, and who learned to love generously through the characters in her novels. This young woman does not write for fame and money, but to feel loved, even if her lovers are fictional. But her extraordinary humanity and generosity has been rewarded, and the beloved protagonist of her fiction has become a reality. However, despite her fleeting happiness, the story does not have a happy ending, because the real character will die a few months later, and this young writer from the provinces, who, as I have said, considers herself ugly and clumsy, will again resort to the suggestive power of literature to keep him in her memory and keep the flame of her love alive forever. -I try to see what Alice's reaction to my mention is, but she is no longer standing by the column. She has disappeared! Perhaps I have offended her, but I have to go on. And it is this extraordinary power of literature that I wanted to tell you about in this presentation. Power that only literature that springs from inspiration and shapes a creative imagination has. There can be nothing more obscene than a stultified, uninspired, soulless literature. Thousands of words put together without harmony or humanity, telling us banal, dehumanized stories, with no other purpose than to entertain our boredom and distract us from our worries. Death scares me, as it does any human being, but in return it has given me something I would not have had without its terrible threat: freedom! Now I can speak my mind without fear of the consequences, and I think that the novel I present to you here today was not written by me, but by market demand, like practically all other novels published today. Only that young, ugly and clumsy provincial writer, and perhaps thousands more as provincial, ugly and clumsy as her, to whom no one will pay attention, write their novels for themselves, as their hearts and minds dictate, because they simply need to. Literature, written in capital letters, is a necessity, not a pastime; it not only entertains, but teaches; it not only calms, but heals; it is not only read, but lived. If I were to be born again, I would like it to be in a world where one could survive without the laws of the market; and where we were all provincial, ugly and clumsy. I have nothing more to add, but I will gladly answer your questions, as long as they are not too personal. Several hands were raised asking for their turn to ask questions. I answer the one from a journalist: -I am sorry about your illness, but I would like to know how you plan to spend your last days. I answer without hesitation: -Meditating on death. The next question is from a woman who must be my age: -What is it that you have wished for but have not been able to achieve? -Understand the world we live in! The third question has caused me an inexplicable emotion. It is from young Naomi, with whom I have exchanged several messages. The question puzzles me, for which I do not have a ready answer. -Do you regret not having started a family, and perhaps having had one or more children, who would now take care of you? I sense that there is some hidden meaning to your question. What can I answer? It is too late for regrets. -Your question is too personal and I have already warned that I would not answer such questions. The young woman seems very upset, and does not want to give up. She insists. -Who or what inspired you to write this novel and what was your motivation? I have not meditated my answer, it has come straight from my subconscious, where it should have been for many years: -All writers have an emotional conflict between what we create and where we get our inspiration. We usually make our imagination make real what is not possible in real life. I have been inspired by a real person whom I don't understand. As for my motivation, it is precisely to try to understand her. The young woman seems satisfied with my answer and does not insist. They applaud my intervention, but only the youngest seem to have understood my message. Utopia is no more than twenty years old. The pain returns with severe intensity. I ask the moderator to close the presentation. The attendees seem to understand the reasons and the room is becoming empty. Alicia met with me. She had rushed out of the room so she wouldn't be seen crying. Perhaps I had overdone it and should have been less dramatic. My agent tells me that outside the room a crowd is waiting for us to sign copies. I can't refuse. Most of them show me their sadness for my illness with some words of comfort. I don't know how many books I have signed but I am exhausted. I beg Alice to let me lean on her shoulder and we return to the hall to collect our coats. I feel the pain blurring my vision and I am so weak that if I didn't lean on her I would have collapsed by now. In this deplorable state I am unable to recognize young Naomi, who remains in her seat, because she is waiting for me. My agent has spoken to her and conveys her desire to talk to me, but has not revealed the reason. But I am not in the mood to hold literary talks with my female admirers. I ask her to excuse herself, and to contact me by mail. My agent communicates my message to her, but the young woman insists on talking to me. It's not about literature, apparently it's personal. Alicia helps me into an armchair in the next room, and the pain seems to subside. I ask my agent to call the young woman - I hope it's not another platonic love! 13. Noemi For the first time my illness has prevented me from fulfilling my editorial commitments. It is evident that my health is getting worse with each passing day. It has been a blessing that I met Alicia at this crucial time. For the first time I am unable to fend for myself and I need help. I am beginning to feel the painful preambles of death. I am anxious about the interview with young Naomi. There is something familiar about her, as if I had known her in a previous life. But, on the other hand, I sense that she brings with her serious events that may alter what little life I have left. Alicia seems to share my concern. She may be a rival with an advantage, because Naomi is a very graceful young woman. She is of a medium build, her long hair, of an elegant brown color and her harmonious forms, make her a very attractive young woman. She enters the room accompanied by my agent. She seems uneasy or perhaps nervous. She contemplates me prostrate on the couch. She must understand the inappropriateness of this interview. As she approaches, I feel a deep pity in her eyes. She seems to feel my illness as if we already knew each other. I beg him to sit in the next armchair. -So, Naomi, what is this important thing you have to tell me? She makes a gesture to sit down, but again she remains upright, something is bothering her. She exchanges a glance with my agent and with Alicia, who remains next to me, leaning on one of the arms of the wide sofa: -Could we be alone for a few minutes," she asks me, visibly nervous, "what I have to tell you is very personal. My agent exchanges a questioning glance with me, and Alicia becomes uneasy, because she must believe that the young woman is definitely a feared rival. If I beg you to leave us alone, you'll think I don't trust you, but now I'm keenly interested in what this young woman wants to tell me. I beg you to leave us alone. Alicia can't help exchanging a sad and doubtful look with me, but she respects my wish. The two leave the room without reproach. Naomi follows them with her eyes and seems relieved when she closes the door behind her. For a few moments, during which she seems to gather her thoughts and calm down, she does not take her eyes off an indeterminate point on the floor. Then she looks up and, visibly excited, asks me: -Do you remember who wrote this verse? If your heart were foam, I would be ocean; If your soul were heaven, I would be cloud; If your gaze were rain, I would be a field; If your hands were water, I would be thirsty. It's as if a bolt of lightning crosses my mind. I have a powerful intuition, but I refuse to acknowledge it. How did that poem come to this young woman? I don't answer, but it is I who asks the next question, and I feel my breathing become labored and my old heart flutter: -Who wrote it? She looks at me and I feel a deep anxiety in her eyes. She is on the verge of tears. -My mother wrote it twenty years ago...! She breaks into silent tears and covers her face with her hands. She doesn't dare look at me. I am stunned, and I don't know how to react. I ask myself the question I anxiously await an answer to: Is this young woman my daughter? If so, how could all these years have passed without her mother telling me? Yes, it is possible; we made love a few weeks before my betrayal, and we took no precautions. But how should I behave towards her? I cannot feel sudden parental affection for someone I do not know, even if she is my own daughter. We will need some time to get to know each other and maintain a normal father-daughter relationship. On the one hand the news fills me with joy, but on the other hand it saddens me, because for twenty years I have ignored its existence and when I learn of it I have only a few months to live. I have managed to regain my composure, I have to act sensibly. I hope she will also regain her composure and clear up my many doubts. Where is her mother? Why has she kept my daughter away from me all these years? My so-called daughter has calmed down and stops crying. She turns to me with a pleading look on her face, because she expects me to somehow prove to her that I have adopted her. But I need some answers: -Dear Naomi, you must understand that this situation is very confusing. I can't behave like a father in a few moments. Calm down and tell me why you haven't contacted me before. Where is your mother? But let my agent and Alicia come, they are absolutely trustworthy and can be present. I must not show them mistrust. My supposed daughter nods slightly as she wipes her tears and tries to regain her composure. I call my agent and Alicia and update them on the new situation. They are both perplexed and don't know what to say. Alicia approaches Naomi and tries to comfort her by stroking her long silky hair. Naomi thanks her with a smile. She seems to be calm now. I hope she can clear all my doubts. 14. Naomi's story -I didn't know you were my father until just a month ago, when I needed a novel for a paper on current literature and I found one of your novels in the faculty library. When I saw your photograph I was struck by our physical resemblance, but I didn't pay any more attention to it, but when I read the description of the female character, I realized that you were describing my mother. I read all her novels and in all of them, with minor changes, she was still the same description of my mother. But I was missing one of her books: the first one, which won a well-known literary contest of that time, and I could have the definitive proof. But they had no copy in the library. The book was out of print and a bookseller informed me that you had not authorized its reprinting. So I went to all the used bookstores in town, with no success. When I had already lost all hope of finding that book, I received a call from a classmate of mine to give me the good news that she had a copy of the book I was looking for. When I read it, all my doubts were dispelled. Your novel was titled "Poetas sin cielo" (Poets Without Heaven), after a poem written by my mother, which is the plot of your novel. Certain that you were my father, I booked an invitation to the presentation of your new novel. But I didn't want you to know until I was sure what kind of person my father was, because I had formed a very negative idea of who had abandoned my mother. When I found out about her illness, I changed my attitude, but when I listened to her today I felt enormously proud to be her daughter, and I want to believe that she will have some powerful reason that could justify her abandoning her when she was pregnant with me. Unfortunately my mother doesn't have the answer. You don't know this, but so great was the trauma of the separation that she suffered a bout of severe amnesia, from which she has not yet recovered. She still has no memory of her relationship with you. I grew up with my grandparents in a small northern town, but they were not aware of their daughter's relationship with you either. My mother was a free and independent woman, always doing what she wanted, until she lost her memory. My grandparents took her in and she still lives there, but now she is alone, because both my grandparents have died and I have enrolled in the university in this city, the same one where you and my mother met, twenty years ago! It is true that reality surpasses fiction! I am desolate, my soul hurts me more than my body, but for this evil they don't sell painkillers in pharmacies, they can only be found in hell. I do not deserve the affection of this ignored daughter; I do not deserve the affection of anyone and I doubt very much that I can avoid my damnation. I almost wish it as a deserved punishment! 15. Repentance There is a sepulchral silence. I notice in the expressions of my agent and Alicia a veiled reproach. Naomi looks exhausted, indecisive, waiting for my reaction. Now I should give her a justification for my behavior, but I have none and she must know it. I do not expect her forgiveness, but at least she will not live deceived. She must know who her father is, and if in spite of everything she believes she deserves his affection and understanding. -No, dear Naomi, I have no justification, your father is a scoundrel! -Alicia wants to protest, she can't understand how I could have behaved that way, but I beg you to let me finish, I need to confess my guilt. Naomi cannot blame her mother; I am the only one to blame. When we are young and ambitious, everything seems valid and we believe that wounds heal easily. I knew your mother would suffer for my betrayal, but I assumed she would soon get over it. Perhaps she would find another young man and soon forget about me. I could never imagine that her love for me would be so deep, and my betrayal so painful. I also didn't know she was pregnant, because after I left her I didn't have enough courage to take an interest in her, and I never saw her again. I know that Naomi must be disappointed with my statement of guilt. I can see the dismay and confusion in her expression. It is unfortunate, but I still believe that youth heals wounds quickly. Naomi must also soon heal this wound. In my desperation I can only think of a remote justification: -Literature brought us together and literature itself drove us apart. I believed that my literary career was above feelings; as if I had been born to fulfill a mission, and I could not put anything, including people and their feelings, before this blind ambition. My only love was literature, there was no room for anyone or anything else! When I received your first message I understood my mistake, and why my novels lacked motivation and humanity, because there can be no humanity in a novel if it is not inspired by love for people, from which the characters arise. Alicia has proved my mistake: she knows what literature is and what it is for. She has not had the misfortune of finding a literary agent with the ability to promote an author's works; someone who knows the tastes of ordinary readers and knows what they like to read. An agent who uses your talent for her commercial purposes. Who makes you the idol of ordinary people and the monster of yourself. My agent has reacted. He seems to wonder if he's not doing the same thing to me. I don't want him to feel guilty too. -When you agreed to represent me, I had already adopted the bad habit and all my novels suffered from the same lack of motivation, but they were guaranteed success. I only began to worry after this last novel, it was the result of all these years of denying myself; the writer who wrote "Poetas sin cielo", the only novel fruit of my love for a person, and not of marketing and the market. Noemi reminded me when it was too late to redeem my sin: I will never write again because I do not deserve to be loved and I cannot love anyone! Alicia does not admit my resignation. She protests and wants to give her opinion: -I don't agree; your father is not totally guilty! Whoever has the courage to acknowledge his guilt deserves forgiveness; the holiest were the most sinful. It is not the saint who needs compassion, but the sinner! Naomi, you have to forgive him, not because he is your father and even if in the past he has behaved like a scoundrel, but a repentant human being who recognizes his faults, deserves your compassion and your forgiveness. Forgiveness is what makes us human beings; resentment turns us into soulless beasts, only with memory. My daughter is on the verge of crying again. She is under great emotional pressure and looks so vulnerable! She looks at me and I can see in her eyes her desire to forgive me. Alicia takes one of her hands and places it on mine. Her hand is burning and trembling. It has been the prodigy of a true writer who has performed the miracle of forgiveness. Naomi hugs me and cries silently. I think I hear a whisper: -Dad, I love you! I feel like crying too, but now I have a daughter who needs a father who is strong! 16. Reconciliation It's been two days since the eventful launch of my latest novel. It's not long to assume that I am now the father of a lovely young woman. I have been taught a hard lesson, but it is only the beginning of my redemption. I have lived twenty years of loneliness and isolation and now it is hard for me to assume that I have to spend some of my time thinking about others. I don't know what the responsibilities of a parent are. Naomi is as independent as her mother and doesn't need anyone to tell her what to do or how to do it, and it doesn't create big responsibilities for me. She will continue to live in the apartment she shares with two college roommates, but we will do our best to have dinner together two or three times a week at my apartment. Alicia has offered to be our cook, and she will delight us with her delicious local stews. Naomi confesses that she is not very skilled in the kitchen, she is a young woman devoted to her career. I think she has inherited my passion for literature and her mother's sensitivity for poetry. I can't say whether or not he has talent, he hasn't had the time or opportunity to test himself yet. He hasn't written anything important. But I have always believed that talent is not inherited, but born with it. It is not in the genes; it is in the mind and in the soul and we must acquire it at the very moment of our gestation. It may come to us from the cosmos or from someone who died at that very moment. I believe in transmigration, because the spirit, like energy, is not destroyed, it is transformed. From the beginning of time there is a universal spirit, which believers call God, from which all animate beings come. The obvious proof of transmigration is that in my family there are no artists or writers, only normal people, concerned about normal things. There may have been some among my remote ancestors, but I do not know it. My illness continues its diabolical course and does not leave me much free time without pain. I often have to go to the hospital for painful treatment. In exchange for putting up with all this discomfort, I am assured that I will be able to prolong the time I have left to live, which I need to put my conscience in order. As expected, my latest novel has tripled the sales of the previous ones. Death is an extraordinary attraction. My publisher cannot hide his satisfaction, even if he is sympathetic. The media hound me and I have had to change my phone number. The messages of condolence are overwhelming, I find it impossible to read them all. But fortunately they are still unaware of my unexpected paternity, they must believe that the young woman who accompanies me is my latest conquest. As for Alicia, I cannot deny that I feel a deep affection for her, but it cannot be called love, because in these critical moments I do not know the meaning of this beautiful word. She seems resigned and I believe that, in spite of everything, she is happy just to be by my side and to be of help to me. Yes, it must be her fate that she is not reciprocated. She has been unlucky in her choice of lovers. She and Naomi seem to understand each other well, and share the same concerns. I think they have become good friends. But this fleeting happiness has a dark shadow: her mother! I have talked to Naomi about her, it is not an easy subject. Naomi thinks my presence might help her regain her memory. But I wonder if it might not be better for her to keep her amnesia. It must not be pleasant for her to remember my betrayal. If she regains her memory she may be able to forgive me, but it may also increase her resentment towards me. Because of me she has wasted twenty precious years of her existence, there is no penance great enough to compensate for her suffering. I know it would make Naomi enormously happy to see us together again. As if time had not passed, and to reconstruct the past at the moment when we were happiest. When she wrote that short and passionate poem to tell me, with four rhymes, how much she loved me, and which has marked our lives. Today we will have dinner at my apartment. My two wives will be arriving any minute and I have to tidy up a bit. I don't feel very well, despite the painkillers that wreak havoc on my stomach, a constant pain persists that manages to make me lose my temper and sour my good nature. It is amazing and sadly paradoxical that during the last twenty years in which I have enjoyed excellent health I don't think I have had even five minutes of happiness, and when my health has broken down I am not able to manage so many moments of happiness, I have met an extraordinary woman and I have recovered an ignored daughter! Living is a game that consists in doing the opposite of what we consider reasonable. The first to arrive was Alicia. She has come a little early so that when Noemi arrives, dinner will be ready. She is interested in my health. She suggests that given the state I am in I should have someone to take care of me 24 hours a day and she is probably right, but I insist that the time has not yet come. -And when will that time come, when he is dead? It was a spontaneous reaction, but she regrets having told me. She is deeply sorry. -Forgive me; I didn't mean to...! -There's nothing to forgive," I interrupt her, "you're right and I know you'd be happy to do it yourself, but I can't accept your help. I have to finish paying my debts first. Naomi's mother needs more help than I do, and she believes that my presence can help her recover her memory. But I don't know how she would react if she remembers our relationship. Alicia has understood what I dare not say. Now her rival is Naomi's mother, because if she agreed to forgive me she would be the one to take care of me until the day I die. -I understand, once again my sad destiny is fulfilled: I will never be reciprocated by the people I love. All my efforts to live this moment have been of no use to me. I am always the last in line, and when I arrive I have finished what they were giving away. Alicia has returned to delight me with her casseroles, but Naomi does not seem to have enjoyed her dinner. She has remained absent and with her thoughts far away from here. Before coming she spoke to her mother on the phone and believes she is deeply depressed and disoriented. -He's afraid to forget about me too," she says in anguish, "He sent me a verse that reflects his confusion and pitiful state of mind. We have to make a decision tonight. Today I dreamed that I dreamed, that you were not who you were, that time had no time, and that death had died. I can't help but compare this verse with the one from twenty years ago. Despite all those forgotten years, she is still a great poet. 17. Amnesia I beg Naomi to tell me everything she remembers about her mother after her bout of amnesia. -What I know of the early years, of which I have only a blurry picture, was told to me by my grandparents. Naomi doesn't seem to be very enthusiastic about my suggestion. They must be sad memories. Memories of a child raised by two old men and a mother with no past, unable to tell her daughter how it came about, by whom and where. Without her being able to even mention the name of her possible father. Not only has she not had an unknown father, but a forgotten one. But I beg you to try to overcome your sadness and go on. Before we meet I need to know how all these years of oblivion have passed. -We don't know anything about how the separation happened," she continued, overcoming the sadness of reliving her childhood, "but it must have been very painful because she didn't remember anything about what happened and she didn't even remember who her parents were or where she lived. A policewoman found her dozing in a park and fortunately they were able to identify her thanks to a prescription for a medicine against morning sickness, because she had no official identity document. But they couldn't leave her alone in that state, so they found my grandparents, who took her in. And that's all we know about the first days of her amnesia. Naomi has exchanged several uneasy glances with me. Possibly she is still wondering if I deserve her forgiveness after all. I remain pathetically silent, not daring to say anything in my defense. I only know the story from one Sunday when we had agreed to attend a screening of an Oscar Wilde film, but I never showed up... while she waited uselessly at the cinema doors, I was in my seductive agent's bed! Will I have the courage to confess it? If I don't confess it my conscience will never be clear! I'll wait to know the whole story. I beg you to tell me what happened during the following years. My poor daughter is recalling a part of her life that she may also wish to forget, but she gets over it and goes on: -My mother moved to live in the small northern town of her parents, my maternal grandparents, and all efforts to get her memory back were futile. She was apparently able to lead a normal life, but she had to learn to recognize her own name, her parents' names, and all the other circumstances following her amnesia. When I was born I was already fully aware of everything, except her stay in this town and her relations with you," she addresses me with the same expression of veiled reproach. My grandfather was a civil servant at the City Hall and got a small pension for my mother, because she had frequent memory lapses and was unable to do any work. My grandfather died when I was ten years old, his health began to deteriorate from the day he learned of my mother's amnesia, and my grandmother died a few months before I enrolled in college. The poor thing was very unhappy about all these events, but she never reproached my mother. We had a maid for several years before I was born, the same age as my mother, who is with her at the moment. I could not give up the University, because I got a scholarship, with which I am surviving at the moment. She never stopped writing poems, she must have written enough to fill a dozen volumes, but she has refused to publish them. I always suspected that she dedicated them to you, but it must have been only a faint intuition, which did not access her conscience. Perhaps that is why she lived tormented by the inability to conceive the image of one who had only an intuition. That is all I can tell you about my mother. Alicia has made us coffee, which she serves us while we keep a thoughtful silence. I try to imagine her mother twenty years later, the woman I will soon have to meet again and account for my unforgivable behavior. I have the impression that she will horrify me, because I think I see on her aged face the indelible mark of suffering, for which I am guilty. Alicia breaks this tense silence: -Perhaps if she receives a strong stimulus to remember the person she seems to still love, she will recover her memory. Alicia has put her finger on the sore spot. It is not enough for her to be reunited with me, but with her lover, as if my betrayal had never happened. Alicia seems deeply affected, I think she regrets her suggestion. But my redemption requires some sacrifice, and Alicia will understand and eventually accept it. Twenty years later I have to try again to seduce the same woman I betrayed. Fate wants to put me to the test and I cannot let it down. 18. Preamble Is it possible to heal a wounded heart? Can time erase forgotten wounds? Can an old man with an exhausted heart love? Can a sick man heal another sick man? I ask myself these anguished questions to still feel like a human being, but I know I don't have the answer.Naomi and Alicia left a little over an hour ago, and they have left an immense void. I have never felt so essentially alone. It is an abysmal loneliness, bottomless, without the slightest glimmer of light. My soul has been left in utter darkness. The body has abandoned it; joy has migrated to other, warmer and more welcoming lands. Pleasure has been transformed into intense pain and happiness, which until only an hour ago was brimming over all its edges, has gone with them, I am unable to keep it with me for long. One more endless night I strive uselessly to be absent from myself. I search with real desperation for a state of mind close to nothingness, no uncontrolled thoughts, no movements of any kind. I try to exercise myself to prepare for my death without last minute shocks, but it is totally useless. The mind does not sleep, it only disconnects temporarily from consciousness. It stops thinking about what it sees to think about what it imagines. It does not tire, it does not exhaust itself, it does not give up, because it has no flesh that can make it sick, nor a skeleton to sustain it; it has no eyes, no mouth, no ears, it does not eat, drink, see or hear, it only thinks without rest because it is eternal and already existed before it was my mind. Naomi believes that, despite the visible traces of my illness, I am still an attractive man and that I can seduce her mother again. Alicia has not given me her opinion, which I already know. She is an unfortunate woman, but at some time and somewhere she will have her reward. But time is pressing, the illness is getting worse and my spirits are failing. I am not sure I can see this plan through to the end. We have agreed that Naomi will invite her mother to spend a few days with her in the city. Our meeting will take place during a welcome dinner at Naomi's apartment. Naomi just called me, her mother has accepted the invitation and will come this weekend and Saturday will be the big day of the test. I have to go back twenty years and try to understand the reasons for my betrayal. It is not enough to blame ambition, vanity or selfishness. There has to be a reasonable explanation to justify that behavior, because we humans always have a good reason to justify our behavior. I have thought it on countless occasions that to discover means to destroy what was hidden. The sun shines at the cost of destroying its hydrogen reserves. Imagination creates at the cost of destroying what has not yet been imagined. In the end there will be nothing left to imagine because we will have destroyed the reserves of images, death. It was inevitable to destroy the causes that had provoked my creativity, and that cause was the woman who had inspired them. If I wanted to continue creating I had to look for new sources for my inspiration, to destroy them again, and so on until death. I am not entirely to blame. We should never have invented literature because it feeds on the souls of humans. Every novel, every story, every tale or every poem has devoured its insatiable ration of humanity. I am no exception, I have my victims too, but otherwise there would be no literature or art or any other expression of the human soul that needs to feed on the human soul. No one will understand these reasons, only our creator knows our weaknesses, our spiritual cannibalism, our revenge for being human. I cannot argue these reasons for my exculpation, only those who are victims of inspiration understand them, through which this evil is contagious. Ordinary people are immunized against this disease of the spirit. Now there is no longer the slightest doubt in my mind that this was the cause of my bodily illness. My harmful spirit has entered my body and will not cease until it dies. There are no heavens reserved for writers, but there are no hells either, there are only purgatories: near heaven, near hell. If I had the strength and the necessary time to live, I would write a novel with this title, which would be the great novel of my life, but I might write it after I am dead, and it might be the great novel of my death. But why write; why stir the still waters of unconsciousness; why bring out the faults and virtues, the passions and disenchantments or the loyalties or betrayals of human beings? Why tell so many lies; so many stories that have never happened and never will happen? Why this sick eagerness to perpetuate our memory after we have lost our memory? No, even if I had a hundred more years to live, I would never write another novel. Someone has to take the first step to rid humanity of this scourge. I have the impression that I am delirious and think things that make no sense. There is no justification for someone who causes harm to a human being without a reason that is also human. A doctor can cause you some harm to heal a wound, but a writer cannot claim his sources of inspiration to cause harm. If I were to put on a scale the pleasure my novels may have caused and the harm caused by writing them, on which side would the scale tip? And who can have the answer? I have no way out. I have no judge but my own conscience, and it keeps shouting at me that I am guilty. 19. The mother Today has dawned an unpleasant day that will influence my mood. Today is also the day Naomi's mother will arrive in town; the person on whom my salvation depends. I am not in the right frame of mind for the circumstances. I should get over myself and realize that I have returned to my college years; years when life was a blank sheet of paper, waiting to be written on both sides; years when the most important thing was to be young, not only to enjoy life but to live away from death; years when everything was allowed except nostalgia; when love was a working tool, when the wisdom of experience was considered an old mania and was worthless compared to the vitality of facts. Those years in which the people around you were samples for your laboratory or the lead of your flask, from which you hoped to obtain gold, following the magic formula invented by your excluding imagination. Years, in short, that I have always wished to forget and that now I have to recall. My memory has to erase without a trace what happened after I won the untimely literary prize, as if it had never happened. As if we had followed together our longed-for path to glory, and once we had achieved it, since it seemed inevitable given our genius, we would live six months a year in Pigalle, in Montmartre or in Saint-German-des-Prés, where I would write my novels in the heat of her inspiration, and she her passionate verses inspired by her love for me. As if every spring we would wake up in our little house in Majorca, next to the highest cliff of the coast, from where our view would be lost in a horizon as infinite as our desires to live; as beautiful as our soul mates, as mysterious as our intuition, or as cozy as our bed where we make love. When I was twenty years old I could not imagine myself at sixty, now that I am about to turn sixty I cannot imagine myself at twenty. Nevertheless, it had to happen, because time is the greatest swindle of human understanding, since it is an eternal instant, this instant in which I live, or better I will say, I live badly today, is the same in which I lived twenty years ago, what has changed is the perspective and the scenario, but the instant is the same! Noemí called me to tell me that she had picked up her mother at the train station, and that she found her very unwell and dazed. They are already in her apartment, and she has been able to rest and recover a little. She tells me that, if she feels better, they will go to the Opera, which is her mother's passion. They will perform "Madame Butterfly", which seems very appropriate for the circumstances. His mother does not remember seeing this opera before, but she had seen it twice because she still kept the tickets as a souvenir. She thinks it may help our plan. She has told him of her desire to have him accompany her to the college on Monday, the same one she attended, but insists that she does not remember ever attending a college in that city. It is evident that she remains obstinate in not allowing the images and feelings that she keeps in her subconscious to enter her consciousness. I also got a call from Alicia. She is concerned about my worsening health. She wants to know if I need help. I thank her, but I insist on fending for myself until I see how the test turns out. Alicia is confused and saddened, because she can't wish it to be a failure, but she can't wish it to be a success either. She would have been happy just to have the exclusivity of my care until the day I die. But Naomi's mother takes precedence. If only we were good friends, both women could watch over my agony, but she has committed the weakness of falling in love with me, and love is selfish and rigorously incomparable. She seems resigned but not defeated. I am the great love of her life and she is not willing to withdraw and give up. She will lurk around waiting for an opportunity. I have created many female characters, and I boasted of cooking them even better than they know themselves, but Alicia has shown me how laughable my smugness is: I still have many nooks and crannies of the female soul to discover. Perhaps my premature death will help me to discover them. What I have not been able to understand is how those who give life see death. Possibly they feel the same affection for both. Many women suffer more depression immediately after bringing a new life into the world than at the sight of a dying person. Life hurts them as much as death. 20. A bad day The weather continues to be unpleasant. On the glass of my large window, the drops of water from a weak but persistent rain drip down. The rain does not depress me, on the contrary, it enlivens me, the water brings life, it brightens everything it covers. The plants are invigorated and show all their splendor and beauty. But what pleases nature displeases humans. I see from my window disgruntled people. They resent everything they cannot dominate and control, and nature does not submit easily. That is why we are putting all our efforts into destroying it. We may succeed in destroying the rain as well. I lie in bed until almost noon because I don't know what I can do to justify being up. I have nothing to write, no event to attend, no visit to receive, nothing; but I have found an occupation: rereading my first novel, and perhaps I should also say that it is the only one I have written, because I think it meets the three basic conditions for it to be considered a novel: it has a motivation: a passionate plea in defense of poetry and poets. This argument is also the fruit of his imagination and not of mine. The novels that followed lacked motivation, they only had technique and style, that is why they were not of this world, but of a parallel and dehumanized world. Noemi is right. "It's the middle of the night. The city lights litter the sky and I can't see the stars. I have to imagine them. I also have to imagine the people on this deserted street. And the rose bushes, orchids and non-existent geraniums on the balconies of their uninhabited houses. I have to imagine the children playing in a ghost school, and the sparrows nesting in absent trees. This is my street, where I don't live, where I don't inhabit, where I only imagine that I live and inhabit." This is how it should be. Our life must pass in one of these deserted streets, where we do not live but imagine that we live, because when you least expect it your time runs out, and it seems to you that in reality you have not lived but have dreamed. On rereading this first novel I feel in all its crudeness the falseness in which I have lived all these years, and I wonder what kind of writer I would be today if I had remained true to myself. It would not have been strange if I had won the Nobel Prize! Now I have to be satisfied with the market prize, and with the thousands of followers of the consumption of entertaining literature with an expiration date. They have nothing to transmit about our way of understanding life and its values to future generations. I am not a redeemer, and I am overwhelmed by praise, but when an artist expresses himself in any discipline, he is sending a message in a bottle that will inevitably fall into the hands of people of other times, in other latitudes of the immense ocean of time; who will have other values, and who, thanks to those messages, will be able to place them in the general trunk of history. Given the brevity of our existence, the only solid thing we humans have to save us from the flood of the inevitable changes that sweep everything away is History. Today I have one of those days when I feel too insignificant to have great ambitions, because this great humanity that populates our planet, of which I am a tiny part, is not even a grain of sand in the desert compared to the immensity of the universe we inhabit. Powerful men believe themselves to be great because they reign over their tiny domains, while those who recognize that they are infinitely small inhabit the great domain of the immensity of the universe. Humans have an endless number of alternatives to choose the way we wish to consume our valuable time, but there is only one that corresponds to our personality. The reason for our existence is none other than to find it and be faithful to it until death. Only in this way each individual will be a person, and each person will be a world, and all the worlds together will form a universe, and many universes gathered into one will be the only idea we can have of something to call "God", so that only people and their worlds are in direct contact with God. I have lived in permanent contact with hell, because I renounced my personal world, so I have no access to heaven. I may still have time left to repair my great mistake, but I would have to write one last novel: the continuation of the first one, which would pave the way to my salvation, but for that I need not only time, but inspiration; I would not only have to meet again with the writer, but also with his lover. Could it happen tomorrow? I should think about tomorrow's dinner and my salvation, and I think I have an idea that would do both: write my last novel with the story of our relationship. To relive her memory day by day, kiss by kiss, caress by caress, with every detail, nuance, feeling, illusion, hope and project for the future. Yes, she would have the story that her conscience refuses to remember. It would undoubtedly be the great novel of my life, the one that would give me a good death. But will I have enough time left, and will I be able to face the challenge with the foresight and the right frame of mind to bring it up to the level of my first novel? Naomi sent me a message to let me know that her mother has recovered and is in good spirits. In the afternoon they will go to the Opera, as planned, and when they leave they will have dinner in a small Italian restaurant nearby. She says she misses me and it would have been a complete joy if the three of us could be together and united as a family. Poor Naomi! Even if your wishes were fulfilled, your happiness will be short-lived. It is better that you get used to my absence, even if you continue to miss me in your happy moments, maybe I will accompany you, even if you cannot see me. Tomorrow I will tell you my idea. 21. Waiting He has also invited Alicia to his mother's welcome home dinner, because he wants it to feel like a reunion of old friends, where his mother is not the focus of most of the attention. He wants to test whether she will recognize me. I haven't communicated my new idea to her yet, because I'm not sure she's in the condition and mood to do it. I call Alicia to tell her about Noemí's invitation. She accepts. -If it's okay with you, I can stop by your place now and prepare something to eat," he suggests, "then we can go to your daughter's apartment together. I notice from the tone of his voice that he has received the news with great joy. Now the scales of fate are tipped in her favor and against me, but I accept her offer. This woman is becoming a necessity, she is always where I need her. She is not an old dream of the past but a reality of the present, no history, no regrets, no need to recover the memory of what has not happened. She brings peace to my spirit and manages to make me forget my past, to recover the present, which I need so much in these difficult times. Alicia is already in my apartment and once again I hear the domestic sound and the pleasant memories of the hustle and bustle in the kitchen. This woman is leaving everywhere she goes the halo of the everyday, the simple, but that is what is truly endearing. She is not only preparing a delicious meal, but the homey atmosphere that is not only a warm feeling, but a necessity of any human being. -What will you do if you don't recognize him? He asks me with a nonchalant air, as if he is not affected by my answer, while he serves me what he has cooked. I ask her once again not to address me as you, because I am no longer the hero of her dreams, but the helpless and tortured man who needs her help. But Alicia knows that calling me "you" means taking a giant step in our brief relationship, and she does not want to change the deal until she is sure that she has conquered my soul and my will. In the meantime, she will continue with the same distant and respectful treatment. I need to rest and get some sleep so I can be presentable for dinner with my daughter, and Alicia makes up my bed, just as she did the first time in her tiny studio. As she fluffs the pillows she gives me several looks that I can easily interpret. She seems to want to tell me that this time I won't be woken up by her crying. She helps me to lie down and, just like the first time, goes back to the kitchen, and I hear again that very domestic and soothing sound of the bustle of the kitchen, with which I fall asleep. Alicia has veiled my dream by reading the manuscript of my first novel, which had been left on the coffee table in the living room. When I awoke, she read aloud one of the most tragic passages of the novel, moments before the suicide of the protagonist. "I was not born to live. I did not come into this world to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh. I am not alive to celebrate the wonders of nature. I do not feel part of life. No, I came into the world to sing it, to recite it, to turn it into a long poem, to dissolve it into beautiful words. So that it may be said of me when I die that I was just poetry, with nothing to stop me, not my body, not my mind; just poetry, nothing but poetry." -Who could have inspired these dramatic lines? -he asks me with a gesture of desolation or perhaps horror, "her? My mind is not yet clear enough to respond and I just smile. She understands, and continues reading, but silently. I see from her astonished expression that she is shocked by what she is reading, no wonder, they are the passages prior to the suicide of the poetess protagonist. She closes the book and leans back on the sofa. He doesn't wait for my answer because he already knows it. He exchanges a sad glance with me. I think he wants to give me his opinion: -You know, I think the suicide of your poetess protagonist is justified," she pauses and it seems as if what she says next is for herself. We are all born with a stigma engraved on our foreheads, which tells us who we are and what we have come to this world for; and what we can aspire to and what we are strictly forbidden. Your protagonist was born with the stigma of poetry in a world without poetry, he had no choice but to immolate himself with it -a new silence that he breaks with a heartfelt sigh, and continues-. I was also born with a stigma: that of ugliness. No doubt an accident of nature, because it is nothing like my soul. They must have been born each on their own, without agreeing. My soul fills me with good and noble feelings, while my face prevents me from taking advantage of them and showing them to others. Only when I write I am free to generously give those feelings to my characters, because they do not find me ugly and do not see my stigma. I have no doubt that she knows what she is talking about. I myself rejected her in the first moments because of her unattractive face. I wonder why we humans have created canons of beauty that ostracize and ostracize people like Alicia, or women and men in the prime of their lives, just because their backs are hunched, their hands go astray, and wrinkles appear on their foreheads, which are the price paid for their wise maturity, serenity, gentleness, balance and intelligence! No doubt we deserve every one of the torments to which this behavior leads. It is useless to try to console her by praising the beauty of her soul, because the soul cannot be seen, the face can. Unfortunately for people with these stigmas, rejection ends up infecting their souls with the same stigma. Alice is a glorious exception, but no doubt she owes it to literature. It seems that we are both immersed in our respective thoughts, and we remain in an eloquent silence. It is Alicia who breaks it with a question that reminds me of the idea of writing a new book: -We still have three hours left to meet your daughter, why don't you tell me about your affair with her mother? I think the idea is interesting, it can serve as an exercise for that last novel that's been on my mind. I agree and Alicia prepares some coffee, no doubt a long and interesting confession awaits! 22. Confession Alicia looks like a little girl whose grandmother is about to tell her a story of enchanted princes and princesses. She has taken off her shoes (since she has known me she has toned down her clothes, and above all she no longer wears those horrible military boots), she settles down in the armchair, gathering her legs also in the armchair, and waits with childish anxiety for my story. I don't know how to explain it, but she seems totally transfigured. I am unable to recognize the clumsy and ugly young woman, as she defines herself, and I see a young woman with a radiant expression, an intelligent gaze, at the same time curious as that of a cat, and a body brimming with vitality. Nature has been bad to her face, but generous to her body. I start by telling you the story of the coffee shop where we met. -After that funny event we each went to our corresponding classes. We were at the same university and had the same studies, but I was one class ahead of him, so our classes did not coincide. We didn't exchange anything to get back in touch. She seemed to distrust everyone, although I didn't know why at the time. She had been sexually assaulted several times by some of her classmates. That day neither of us could concentrate in class, something magical had happened. I think I fell in love with her when I offered to hold her books for her. She did not look at me with distrust, but as soon as she saw me, I noticed as if I was an old lover, whom she had not seen for a long time and was happy to see me again, but after that moment of pleasant surprise, her distrust returned, and she refused my help. If I had not suffered that terrible accident, everything would have ended like that, but destiny had foreseen it all. -That weekend our faculty had organized a meeting of young poets. I wouldn't have hesitated to attend if it had been for narrative, but for poetry I wasn't enthusiastic about the idea. But that Saturday I was deeply bored. It was the end of the month and my allowance was practically exhausted. The meeting was free, so it seemed like a good way to kill time. I arrived a little late, just at the time of the intervention of the young woman I met in the cafeteria. We passed each other in the center aisle of the hall, as I was entering and she was heading to the stage, and I think both her and my hearts skipped a beat, and we greeted each other with a telltale smile. When I saw her on the stage, completely in the dark, except for her, illuminated with a beam of light, she looked to me like an angel who had descended from heaven to announce the good news of her poetry. This was the verse she wrote after our first meeting: We barely looked at each other and we were already kissing. We barely knew each other and we already loved each other, We barely spoke to each other and we already understood each other. We were barely separated and we were already longing for each other. Alicia seems overwhelmed by the passion in these four lines. She is not passionate, she is sensitive, because passion blinds the understanding and Alicia is a thoughtful and reasonable person. She remains silent so as not to distract me from my confession. -At the end of the event I hurried to congratulate her on the reading of her poems, which was very well received by the audience, mostly fellow faculty members. As she left the hall I found her surrounded by her friends and admirers, who besieged her with questions and congratulations. I had barely exchanged a few glances and smiles and already I thought I had the right to have her all to myself. I was so upset that I did not feel like saying goodbye to her, and I grumpily left the auditorium. Once again it seemed as if fate was against us. But as soon as I was out of the auditorium I realized that I had acted in anger and without justification, and I returned hastily, just as she was leaving accompanied by one of her friends. When she saw me, I could again see her expression of joy reflected on her face, and this time she did not hesitate to call my attention. -Why did you leave without saying goodbye? Didn't you like my poems? I'd like to know your opinion! The friend understood the situation and excused herself, leaving us alone. -I loved them! I did not dare confess to him that I had been jealous. I told him that I also wrote, but narrative, I was not born with the grace of poetry, but with the necessary imagination to write novels. We walked for a while, talking about our works, the importance of poetry, the mediocrity of the novels that were published, the excessive commercialization of art. We seemed to have found the ideal interlocutor to unburden ourselves of our artistic concerns. We generally agreed on everything. We agreed to meet the next day in the park. I would show her my stories and she would show me her latest poems. That night I practically stayed up all night, because I wasn't satisfied with any of the stories I had written and I didn't want to disappoint my new friend. I was a complete unknown at the time, while she was well known among the students of the faculty and other local poetry circles. All the reviews were favorable and predicted a brilliant literary career for her. Undoubtedly her beneficial friendship influenced my inspiration, and that night I wrote my first truly literary work, the previous ones were simple stories, almost all autobiographical, lacking the main thing: a motivation. When I met her she was 18 years old. Like you, she had come from the provinces, with a fixed idea, which she carried more in her heart than in her mind: to triumph as a poetess! She didn't need praise, she considered herself great, and she wasn't wrong. All of us who knew her had formed the same opinion. To me her genius was her best attraction. I was more attracted to her as a poet than as a woman, because neither of us lived in this world, but in those two sister worlds: she in that of poetry and I in that of the novel. And that was the cause of our separation! We lived with too much intensity the unreal and we forgot the real. We met in the park on a day that could have been painted by Botticelli or Velazquez. It was early spring, when the tone of the new leaves is intense green. The sky is an inimitable blue, decorated with white clouds of whimsical and imaginative shapes. It smells of the sap of the rejuvenated stems and the perfumed resins given off by the linden trees. New birds flutter in their nests, impatient to fly and get to know what will be their world. In this magical atmosphere and in a secluded and lonely corner of the park, I read her my first story written thanks to her and for her. At that very moment our separation began to take shape. Our relationship became more intimate every day, but always sustained by our common passion for literature. Our euphoria grew at the same pace and intensity as the quality of her poetry or of my stories and tales, because at that time I still felt incapable of tackling the novel. We never seriously thought of our relationship as a simple couple in love, but in love with the poetess and the writer. At no time did it cross our minds to live together, because that would mean depriving us of the solitude necessary to create; we had enough with our daily encounters, during which we would load each other with brilliant phrases, passionate poems, fantastic stories and a moderate dose of sensuality. We didn't make love until after the six months that our relationship lasted, and it was in that one relationship that Noemí was born! Alicia seems to be meditating on everything I have told her so far, because her gaze is lost in some point of the street that can be seen through my windows. She has reacted and looks at me with a certain air of reproach. -So, he didn't love that woman, he was just using her. -Yes, you can put it that way. -And she, do you think she also used him? -No, she didn't use me; she didn't need encouragement, I told you she was fully confident of her talent; it was me who needed it to discover mine. A month after our meeting, when I had already written a dozen stories and tales that she thought were great, she suggested I write a novel. I took her advice and tried to find a plot that would motivate me. They all revolved, in one way or another, around her and our strange relationships. I put my ideas to her, but she didn't find them original enough. It was then that she read me her poem about the suicide of a poetess, and suggested that this could be a good argument, in which she could collaborate with her poetry. I was delighted to accept her proposal and began to work on the plot. During the time it took me to write it, only two months, our meetings focused on the progress of my novel. She checked every chapter, every paragraph and every word I wrote daily, and corrected my many flaws and typos, until she felt that the syntax, spelling, rhythm and style were perfect. It seemed as if she was writing it herself. When my novel was practically finished, she suggested that I submit it to a popular literary contest for new authors. I couldn't refuse, because it wasn't just my novel, it was our novel. Alicia interrupts me. -Now I understand why he suffered that terrible attack of amnesia. His betrayal was double, because he betrayed the lover and the writer! -No doubt it was a double betrayal, but then I didn't take it into consideration! Not only did she collaborate in its writing, but she took the trouble to type up the original and send it herself to the contest. -Why do you think she would do that? Was she really so in love with you that she sacrificed herself to help you in your career? -Although it pains me to admit it, it must have been. The days leading up to the contest judging were really nerve-wracking for me, but not for her. She knew perfectly well that we had submitted one of the possible winning novels, so much so that she had confidence in herself and in her judgments about literature. But she was also aware that among beginners there is little chance of good novels being submitted. Most suffer from an excess of passion, nonsensical styles, defects of structure and syntax, and unoriginal plots. In fact, the vast majority are simply imitations of their idols, or of fashionable writers. She knew we would win, and we did! She was also the first to know the news of the award, because she received the message with the result and the invitation to the awards ceremony that same weekend at a well-known hotel in the city. When we met at the faculty, she recited to me the famous sentence of Julius Caesar: "Vini, vidi, vici", which I understood immediately. I confess that moments after hearing the news, I considered myself a superior being, I had killed the undecided and modest writer to feel like a new member of the cultural elites of the country. And that image blinded me from the first moment. She never suspected my arrogance, and she was as happy as if she had been the awardee. During the award ceremony, she must have felt like the mother who attends the presentation of the diploma of honor to her son at the university: without envy or professional jealousy. But I was already very distant from her. I saw my books piled up in bookstores, with the mention of that award. I saw myself signing copies for my gawking admirers, but above all, I felt superior and dominant. Alicia has reacted, stands up and gives me a questioning look. -I think you're making up the story! I know you well enough by now not to believe that you would behave that way! -You meet a repentant demon twenty years later. But I wouldn't have committed that sin if I hadn't met the real culprit. During the cocktail party hosted by the sponsors, many guests approached me to congratulate me. She seemed proud of my sudden popularity. From the first day she learned of my vocation as a writer, she wanted me to become more self-confident, so that we could pursue our ambitious careers at the same level. I took it for granted that we would achieve our ambitious project of fame and glory without one overshadowing the other. When, fatigued by so many emotions and hustle and bustle, we were about to leave the meeting, we were approached by a middle-aged, elegant-looking woman, dressed in a sober suit jacket, her hair half-haired, blonde and slightly curly, and addressing me, as if the presence of my companion had not been perceived, and without ceasing to fix her deep and insinuating gaze on mine, she handed me a business card, which must have been perfumed with the fragrances of hell, because when I read it the perfume evoked in me an abyss into which I would not take long to fall -You will need a good agent. Call me tomorrow and we'll talk about your future. That was all she said, and she went back to join a group of guests. That look disturbed me so much that for a moment I too forgot about her presence. She must have sensed my betrayal at that moment! I beg Alicia's forgiveness, but I do not wish to continue. What follows is the most painful part for me, and the memory of it has haunted me all these years. Alicia seems to wake up from a dream, or maybe it's a nightmare. The coffee is finished. She picks up the coffee pot and cups and takes them to the kitchen. She remains silent but her mind must be replaying the story I just told her. He returns from the kitchen, exchanges a sad look with me, sits back down and, finally, I know what he is thinking. -Poor woman, I would not have liked to be in her place. I would have lost my memory too. No, I would have lost my head! Your comment makes me feel guiltier. Those who have no remorse cannot know how much it hurts to be reminded of our sins. -Forgive me. I know you are deeply sorry, and if I were that woman, I would probably forgive you, but that doesn't repair the damage done. Perhaps it would be better if she did not recover her memory! If she does not recover her memory and I do not have her forgiveness, I will be hopelessly condemned! 23. End of confession It has been a time of great emotional tension. Alicia is torn between her heightened sense of justice, her solidarity with other women, her mercy and her love for me. Mercy and love have finally won out, but that doesn't mean she considers me redeemed. She thinks that somehow I must repay that woman. But she doesn't know how. Neither do I. -Even if it brings back bad memories, I think you'll feel better if you tell me the end of the story. I promise I won't hold it against you! Maybe Alicia is right. Hiding my guilt only causes it to become entrenched in my conscience, it is healthier to air them. -All right, I'll tell you the rest of this sorry story. Neither I nor she felt the way we were supposed to feel after the awards ceremony. I still hadn't gotten over the shock of that woman's insinuating stare, and she seemed to want to ask me what I was thinking, because I think she was reading my thoughts. In an almost pleading tone of voice, she begged me not to accept that woman as my agent, because there would be others who would be happy to represent me. I assumed she was jealous of her, but I did not have the courage to confess to her that, despite her fears, I would call her and we would meet to find out her plans for my promotion as a writer. What was happening was that the woman was living in the new world I thought I had entered after the award, while she belonged to one that was already outdated and without incentives for an ambitious writer. I was no longer a student of letters, I was a writer, and writers can transgress all moral norms because they are justified. That night I could not sleep until dawn, because I too was torn between what my conscience dictated and what my ambition demanded, because it made no sense to have come that far and renounce what any other author would do in my place. After all, she had helped me get there herself, so why not accept the help of someone who would make your dream of becoming a writer come true? When we met that morning on campus, I had already made up my mind and she seemed to me an unacceptable intrusion on my freedom, but I didn't have the courage to let her know, and tried to pretend that nothing had changed after the award and we would follow our future plans as we had dreamed. She must have been relieved by my attitude, but it was evident that my enthusiasm and joviality had changed. I was no longer paying attention to her readings or motivated to write new stories. She interpreted this as me being tired from my efforts to write my first novel, and she didn't reproach me. That same afternoon I went to the agent's office, with whom I had already arranged an interview that morning. Her office was located in her own home. A spacious apartment in a noble building, located in one of the most expensive avenues of the city. She met me herself at the elevator exit. I could hardly recognize her. She was now wearing tight jeans, which emphasized the soft shapes of her hips, and a loose blouse, with what looked like the logo of her agency. Her reception was extremely cordial. It was evident that she had a great interest in me, not only as a writer, but as a person. -My warmest congratulations on the award, but now you have to prevent them from forgetting about you in a couple of months, I can help you," he said as soon as I got out of the elevator. He introduced me into his office, a spacious and bright room soberly furnished with two comfortable black leather armchairs, a large work table and a large sofa of the same material as the armchairs. The only detail that indicated that we were in a working office were the dozens of photographs of their represented authors that hung on the walls. Some of their writers frequently topped the most prestigious book sections of newspapers and literary magazines. Soon mine would be there too. All this proved to me that I had chosen a good agent. We settled into the two armchairs. He offered me a sweet from a small basket on a glass table, and without wasting time on introductions, he asked me: -Do you want to become a fashionable author? What could my answer be: "No"? There was only one possible answer: -Yes! -Okay, so starting today we have to work on a program that may be hard and require all your dedication. Are you decided? I just nodded my head firmly. -My commission is five percent; the contract is for two years, and I have your exclusive representation for all media where it is published, including film, television, radio and the web. Are you happy? I again agreed with an energetic nod of my head. Well, then come back tomorrow at this same time and we'll sign the contract. In two years you'll be one of the most read and sought-after writers in the country! And that's how I signed the contract that would ruin my personal life and from which the professional writer would be born! The next day, as planned, I signed my condemnation. My new agent was more explicit and argued the reasons why she was sure of my success. -You represent the ideal of a talented young man, successful from his first work, who does not resort to pornography, nor to violence, nor to esoteric plots, nor to cloying romanticism, nor to philosophical detectives. That you write simple, but real and exemplary novels that everyone likes. That you also have enough physical attractiveness to appeal to young female readers. You write novels that can be read by the whole family, at all ages, and in all times... -But I've only written one novel! I must have guessed the answer. It was practically in the clauses of the contract that I didn't bother to read: -But you will write them, I will tell you how! 24. Seduction As I left my new agent's office, I realized what a grave mistake I had made in my haste and blindness. I blamed it on my lack of experience, but I was consoled by the fact that fortunately it was only two years, which passed quickly. Now I felt ashamed because I had thrown dirt on our noble concerns, our illusion of keeping ourselves pure, disinterested, away from the merchants of dreams, who lure us with siren songs, and end up dragging us into their dirty world of economic transactions, balance sheets, shareholders, investors, CEOs, bankers, unprincipled and unscrupulous traders and a whole host of individuals unable to value what does not have a price and can be sold on the market, such as honesty, generosity or illusion... They have no scruples in selling and buying souls, and auctioning them in their corrupt financial markets. I will be one of them. But, to tell the truth, before I entered this office I was already corrupted. That evening we had arranged to attend the premiere of a film on the life of Oscar Wilde. I was not in the mood to attend yet another crucifixion of an author, but I had to keep my relationship with my new agent a secret. I made the appointment, albeit somewhat belatedly, when the film had already begun. She waited patiently at the lonely cinema entrance. Despite my tardiness, she always justified my disloyalties, because she had not a shadow of a doubt about my fidelity. I need to pause. Alicia is as shocked as I am, but she has promised not to recriminate me, and she keeps her promise. I feel bad, because I cannot erase from my memories her frail figure, illuminated by the flickering billboard signs, arms folded, looking anxiously from one side of the street to the other, trying to justify my tardiness. It is likely that I would have waited much longer without losing faith in my fidelity. -When she saw me appear on the side of the street opposite to that on which she expected me to arrive, she had a moment's hesitation, but my vision overflowed any desire for reproach, and she received me with a smile that would try to wrest it from the sadness that a few minutes before had gripped her. I think for the first time I felt sorry for her, and perhaps had a sincere desire for repentance. I was tempted to fill her in on her situation, but her smile thwarted my desire. I hugged her, we kissed and I improvised an excuse. She believed me because she needed to believe me and urged me to get the tickets as soon as possible, because we would have time after the movie to clarify the details. It was not possible to wake up someone who was sleepwalking without the danger of causing her irreparable damage! There was no clarification. The film had had such an impact on us that when we left the cinema for a long time, we strolled through the now deserted streets without saying a word. She broke the silence with a comment that set my conscience on fire: -Why do geniuses have to pay such a high price just to be famous? Will we also have to pay such a high price? No, of course not; we won't make their mistake or lead double lives that could cause scandal! We will be a perfect writing couple without giving any reason for what happened to the unfortunate Oscar Wilde, won't we? What could I answer? At that moment I didn't have the courage to tell him the truth and undo the deception at once. No matter how much she suffered, it would not be compared to what she had to suffer afterwards. So much to justify her amnesia! Alicia indicates with a gesture of her arm that she wants to tell me something. -And that's the woman who will be sitting next to him tonight, at the same table? Of course, if she recovered her memory, she would have every reason to hate him. But go on, forgive my interruption! -The days that followed the signing of the contract were so intense that I didn't have a chance to think about her. My agent would invite me to her apartment, and, after a light dinner, we would sit in the armchairs of her office and discuss the plot of my next novel. Of course it would be a love story with a happy ending. Once in my apartment I would write a chapter or two and show it to her the next night. She would make corrections and suggest any changes she thought were necessary. I have to confess that we became well coordinated, because I did not dislike her arguments and ideas and it was easy for me to interpret and write them. As Naomi said in her first message: I just changed muse, and overrode any noble motivation. For the first few days her behavior was strictly professional, but as the days went by she became more familiar and intimate, and changed her clothes to a comfortable night gown, which left her attractive legs practically uncovered. She had a plan to seduce me, but she would not carry it out until I finished the novel. That would be the prize! My relations with the other woman who had become entangled in this drama remained superficial, as are the relations of those who hide their true feelings. Sometimes she dared to ask me the cause of my apathy, which made her suffer so much, and she herself came to the conclusion that the cause might lie in a lack of more sensual relations. Although it was not in her plans, she set out to seduce me and would consent to our lovemaking. Our relationship had been from the beginning an artistic affinity and we were unsure of our physical attraction. At that moment I was infinitely more attracted to the mature beauty and sensuality of my agent than to that of the poetess, who had not awakened from her dream of glory and fantasies. With the excuse of inviting me to dinner, she prepared the necessary atmosphere for my seduction. That night we gestated Naomi, but neither of us was satisfied with that relationship. No; we had not come together for carnal love, only for spiritual love! I cannot continue this story, because today, twenty years later, I still feel the shame of that hasty pleasure, of those frustrated relationships that were closer to prostitution than to love. -Excuse me Alicia, but I think it's time to go to our appointment with my daughter. -And with his mother! -Yes, and with his mother. This will be the last twist of fate, I don't want to think about anything else! Alicia is visibly dejected, I can see it in her sad and absent look, so different from the one at the beginning of this story. She gets up with a heavy heart, as if her legs were heavy, and helps me to get dressed. I leave my private refuge as if moved by a supernatural force, against which my own will is useless. It is already dark, the days are short in October. The cool breeze of the evening twilight suits me well. There is still a pale streak of red on the horizon. We have called a cab to pick us up at the door, but I ask the driver to drop us off two blocks before my daughter's house. Alicia approves of the idea. I want to finish my story before I face this difficult test. -Two weeks later I was putting an end to my second novel, although I would have to rewrite several chapters that were not to the liking of my demanding agent. But that was the day she had chosen to seduce me, and she prepared everything so that I would have no escape. But that same day I had arranged to meet the other unfortunate woman to see the film about Oscar Wilde again, because the previous time we had missed a good part of the beginning. The idea came from her and I couldn't refuse. But it was not only the interest in the film that made them want to see me, but apparently she had some important news to tell me, but she did not want to tell me what it was about. He wanted me to be there when he gave it to me. I assumed it must be something to do with his poetry, perhaps he had won a prize, or had found an important publisher to publish it. I went to my daily appointment with my agent, with the intention of leaving the manuscript for him to read and write down the corrections, but to my surprise, I found a table prepared with great care and detail for two people, illuminated pale by two artistic candles, on a side table there was a bottle of champagne set to cool, and in the center of the table a silver tray with canapés of caviar, salmon and other such delicacies. But what impressed me most, and of course turned me on, was the way she had dressed for the occasion. She was wearing a silk blouse of the same color as her skin, open almost to the waist, where part of her still firm breasts could be seen, and a tight black skirt that covered her above her knees. The outfit was extremely elegant, but above all, irresistibly attractive! I don't know if you know men well, Alicia, but there is no will capable of overcoming a temptation like that. It is for this very reason that mankind was condemned; it is the eternal sin that man has committed from the beginning: the irresistible attraction of Eve and her apple! This biblical drama was played out in that room: caviar, champagne and sex. After that, the grim reaper could take us into his darkness. I had to choose between the two women: one offered me fame. The other offered me spiritual affection, sincere friendship and, of course, loyalty. -Who would you have chosen, Alicia? The question has caught her off guard, but the answer is withering: -The second time, of course! -I didn't want to choose; I wanted things to stay as they were, I could continue to have both relationships and not hurt either, but my agent forced me to choose. In the end it was the champagne and its irresistible sex appeal that decided. To celebrate my betrayal, we began the evening in a cabaret where they staged sexual scenes of indecent bad taste, but it was part of their plan. At the entrance of the cinema, illuminated only by the flickering lights of the neon signs, with her arms crossed, and without ceasing to look anxiously from one side of the street to the other, she waited uselessly for the man who I now know wanted to tell me that he was going to be a father! Fortunately he lost his memory! 25. The reentry We approached Naomi's house. I have finished my painful story, and we quietly give ourselves to our own thoughts. Alicia must wonder if she hasn't been blinded by my popularity, because I don't deserve her affection; and I wonder if I can look the woman who is waiting for a visit from a perfect stranger in the face. Recent events are beyond my capacity for assimilation, and now I have to face a new mammoth test. A few steps away I am going to meet the woman from whom I have stolen the best years of her life. She may recognize me, in which case I don't know how I will be able to justify myself, and if she doesn't recognize me, I won't be able to justify myself either. All these years have only served me to understand that ambition without a noble cause does not bear noble fruits, but poisoned ones, with the poison of your own poisoned spirit. But there is something that worries and amazes me: Has all that time really elapsed? Are we not always at the same moment? How far does the boatman travel in his boat? None! And yet, the boat does travel a space and consumes a time, dragged by the current. I have also been dragged by the current, but I am still in the same boat; the same instant as always, and that will probably be eternal. The woman who must be in Naomi's apartment is the same woman I left at the door of a neighborhood cinema, but she continues, like me, to live in the same instant, for we have not passed through time, we have passed over time, like the boatman over the current of the river! But it is not the body that travels in the boat, but the soul, which is not affected by time. She will have the same soul she had the day she lost her memory, and it is that soul that has not aged and will surely recognize me. Now they meet again and they will ask themselves: what have we done with our lives that we had to separate? Only I have the answer: not having listened to her or followed her wishes. We are at the door of her apartment. Alicia gives me a pleading look. -Your great moment has come! Now you will have the only chance to save or damn your soul! She knocks and we hear some agile footsteps that must be those of my daughter Noemí. But it is not Naomi who opens the door, but she does! Alicia could not avoid an expressive gesture of surprise, and I feel as if I were plunging into an abyss of time, and I would have to travel through the past twenty years to land in the same place where I was the night of my betrayal: time has not passed for her! There is no trace of suffering on her face, still smooth and young. Her figure is the same. Her hair is still curly, but a little more faded, and what impresses me most is her serene and tender gaze, but as if lost in nothingness. I don't know what to say, but I am anxious about her possible reaction. Did she recognize me? I hear rapid footsteps, it's Naomi coming to greet us. But she has become paralyzed and anxiously contemplates the scene. Finally, her mother and I are face to face and neither of us is able to break the tension of the moment. Naomi watches her mother, but there is no reaction that could give her to understand that she has recognized me. She remains holding the doorknob, and seems relaxed, she is waiting for her daughter to come. -Are they your guests, Naomi? Naomi tries to hide her desolation, she didn't recognize me! -Yes, Mom, they are our guests. She exchanges a disconsolate glance with me. Alicia also feels the tension of the moment, and looks at me questioningly. Naomi's mother begs us to come in, lets us in and closes the door behind Alicia. She follows us into a small living room, where a table is already set for four guests. We take off our coats and Naomi hangs them on a coat rack. Her mother remains silent, rubbing her hands together, not knowing what to do with them. She gives us fleeting glances and smiles slightly. There is strangeness in her expression, it is evident that she considers us strangers, and she does not know what her behavior should be. I think he is waiting for his daughter to introduce them to him. Naomi expected some gesture in her mother's expression that would show some indication that she remembered me, but it is evident that this has not been the case. She seems resigned and introduces us to her indecisive mother. -Mom, these are my friends I told you about. They are both writers, like us. The mother seems to welcome our profession with pleasure, because she gave us a broad smile with a gesture of admiration. Naomi tries, without much hope, to provoke her mother's memory. -He's a very famous writer, I'm sure you've seen his picture in a newspaper or in literary magazines! But the mother flatly denies this with a nod of her head. We are all caught off guard by a question from her mother addressed to me: -And what do you write, novels or poetry...? I write poetry..., yes, I've written a lot of poetry... He loses his gaze on an indeterminate point in the room. I try not to show my deplorable mood and respond by forcing a friendly smile: -I write novels, stories of ordinary people. Nothing special... but I met an admirable poetess, who, unfortunately for her many admirers, never published them! She smiles back at me, but makes no comment. I get the feeling that something is disturbing her mind, because the smile is frozen on her lips. She seems to wander off and move somewhere else. Perhaps to our university campus. She is a helpless and vulnerable woman, the same as she was twenty years ago, but time and amnesia have made her extremely sensitive and emotional. I would love to read her poetry. Dare I suggest it: -Why doesn't one of them read us? She has been startled by my unexpected suggestion and seems embarrassed. -Oh, no, no; I write them for myself.... They are very personal... You wouldn't like them! Naomi listens to her mother and seems devastated. -Mom, these are my friends. Come on, cheer up and read us some of your poems! There's still some time before dinner is ready. Naomi wants to try everything. There may not be another chance. Her mother looks stunned. She looks at us as if to check our willingness to listen to her poems. Once again she seems to sink into faraway places. Naomi tries again and suggests to her mother that she read the first ones she wrote, but that she does not remember when and where she wrote them. There is no doubt that she is under great pressure. I feel sorry for her, but above all I feel even more miserable. This poor frightened woman, who writes romantic poems dedicated to a lover she cannot remember and who has him in front of her, does not deserve this suffering. She seems to be hesitating. We are all watching her decision. She looks at us again as if trying to read our thoughts. Alicia has been silent, she must realize that now she has a real rival. Now that I have seen her again, those happy, pure and generous days return to my mind with infinite nostalgia, and I begin to believe that if destiny has it in mind, they could come back, even if only for a short time. Neomi has managed to overcome her mother's fears and agrees to read us some of her poems. The three of us settle down on a small sofa while she nervously shuffles through several notebooks she keeps in a travel bag, and doesn't seem to know which one to choose. He finally decides on one with pink covers, where there is a caption that I can't read. He sits down on one of the dining room chairs, leafs through several pages, and finally seems to decide on one. She has the same tone of voice, the same slow cadence and intonation. It was a pleasant experience to listen to her recite, and I see it's still the same! IF YOU WERE... If your heart were foam, I would be ocean; If your soul were heaven, I would be cloud; If your gaze were rain, I would be a field; If your hands were water, I would be thirsty. For God's sake, that verse again! Why is fate playing cat and mouse? Why has it chosen this very poem? I think she has noticed my confusion. She gives me a strange look that could be one of interrogation, perhaps she is beginning to remember! Naomi has exchanged a look of astonishment with me, she seems to be asking herself the same question. Alicia hasn't reacted, but I suspect what she must be thinking: her stigma is haunting her! Naomi's mother has come out of her momentary impasse and continues reading. When she finishes, we have the feeling that she has made a great effort. She closes the notebook, leaves it on the table and drops relaxed on the chair. She doesn't want to read any more poems. Something is disturbing her mind again. Now I can read the notebook's caption: "Poems of love and oblivion. Spring 1997." But there is no indication of the place or name of its author. I congratulate her effusively, she thanks me with a kindly smile, but I notice her absent, troubled. Naomi is worried about her mother's despondency. She must think that we should not push her. To awaken her memory abruptly may cause her a new trauma. She does not insist. Dinner is ready. Alicia accompanies Noemí to the kitchen to help her set the table. My daughter has cooked and has surprised me, I didn't know she was such a good cook. Her mother has relaxed; she is calmer and we exchange comments about how wet this autumn is turning out to be and what she has seen during her stay in the city. -Did you like the opera "Madame Butterfly"? -Oh, yes; very much so! -Don't you find it a little sad? -Yes, you are right, it is a bit sad.... I have the impression that she is talking to me, but her thoughts are elsewhere. I would give anything to know where! Naomi intervenes in the conversation. -I have an idea," he turns to me, "why don't you take my mother to visit a museum? I can't miss school, but you might have time. I know she was looking forward to seeing the latest exhibition at the National Museum. His mother tries to protest. Sounds like a good idea to me. -I will be happy to accompany you. I was looking forward to seeing her too! Alicia remains in dramatic silence. Everything is conspiring against her. She has noticed that I am beginning to take a lively interest in Naomi's mother, and I think she even suspects that I may feel something more than compassion. The truth is that I feel a great longing for the times when we were two lovers of literature, but also two good friends, and friendship is less passionate than love, but more loyal and generous. On the other hand, I would like to repay her suffering with my affection. But I can do nothing for her unless she recovers her memory and remembers who I am. I think Naomi is of the same opinion. The dinner was delicious. I congratulate my daughter, who is very flattered. But my aches and pains threaten to return and I would like to be back in my apartment before this happens. Naomi brings us our coats and I notice in her mother's eyes that she senses our departure, I think she has taken a liking to me and has overcome her initial misgivings, possibly she vaguely remembers me. We agreed that I would pick her up here the next day and we would spend the morning visiting the exhibition. Then we would go to an Italian restaurant for lunch, as Noemi has filled me in on her mother's gastronomic tastes, and she loves Italian pasta. Yes, I remember! 26. Memory I have spent a night in intense pain. All these emotions may be detrimental to my health. The pains have been joined by uncertainty about Naomi's mother. It is very likely that had our past not mediated I would have been attracted to her; for her kindness and sensitivity, so rare in the environment in which I have lived these last twenty years. I have still found her attractive, but it is not an exclusively physical attraction, perhaps I cannot explain it in spite of being a writer, but it is a physical attraction that emanates from the spirit; a physical attraction proper to human beings and not to animals. It is the joy of pleasure when it is tempered by sensitivity and not only by sexuality. It is as if the soul gives you its blessing to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh without unconsciousness and bestiality. It's not sex, it's sensuality, if I can put it that way. Maybe that's why we had that frustrated relationship, because she tried to imitate a behavior that was not in her personality, and I wouldn't have known how to interpret it then either. I don't feel well, I'm down and my whole body aches, but I have to pull myself together and keep the promise I made to Naomi's mother. Another absence would be intolerable! The weather is with us. It is a sunny, almost summery day. The shower has cleared my head and I feel a little better. The prospect of spending a morning with someone who has loved you but is unable to recognize you fills me with uncertainty. I may not be up to the task and I may not know how to behave. After all we are two sick people, and sick people understand each other. A cab takes me to Naomi's house, I ask her to wait, because it will take us to the National Museum. Naomi's mother had been waiting for me dressed to go out for a long time. When she opens the door I notice enthusiasm in her expression. I greet her with a friendly kiss on the cheek and can't help but compliment her good looks, which she seems to appreciate. I suspect she has taken a liking to me and feels safe with me. What would happen if she knew who I really was? I don't know, but sooner or later she has to know. I find it hard to accept what is happening. I spend the morning next to a woman I have longed for for many years, and now that she is next to me I feel unable to openly show her my affection, and I continue to suffer from the same regrets as with the previous ones, but aggravated by the constant fear that she will recover her memory and realize that she is next to the man who has caused her the most harm. I would like her to end this nightmare; to recognize me and condemn or forgive me. If on many occasions I have wondered what would have become of me if I had not left her, now I don't need to imagine it. We would visit the latest exhibition at the National Museum, but we would be holding hands, and we would talk about the sales of my latest novel, which surely would not even reach the tenth position of the best sellers, but in exchange I would have a good number of educated and faithful readers, with whom I would exchange thoughts, concerns, ideas and comments about my novels, the message of the characters, about literature and art in general. Many of them I would know personally and I could consider them my friends, as well as faithful readers. But they would not flatter me, even if they felt admiration for my novels. I would not be an idol of young girls blinded by my popularity and the attractiveness of an experienced forty-year-old who considered me sexy, since I would have a companion that everyone would know and would know that I had always been faithful to her, as she herself said at the exit of the movie theater of such bitter memory and that resonate in my ears as if she had pronounced them yesterday: "We won't make mistakes or lead double lives that might cause scandal! We'll be a perfect writing couple, giving no reason why what happened to the unfortunate Oscar Wilde shouldn't happen, right?". How I wish it had been so! But we would also talk about the success of her last book of poems, because she would be much more popular and admired than me. Her books would indeed be at the top of the best sellers and most valued. And they would not be poems addressed to a ghost lover, but to all that multicolored spectrum that can be expressed through poetry. This is the dream that I have failed and that I cannot even turn into an exemplary novel, written with my heart and not my head, without studying the tastes and trends of the market, the number of potential readers and possible royalties, or wasting time in eternal photo shoots to publish the most commercial image, or begging for an interview on the most popular program in exchange for promoting a sponsor who is not interested in what you think about literature, so that future generations would receive that message of friendship, loyalty and generosity from the people of generations already gone. That would possibly have been my life with her. During the cab ride to the museum, she stares quizzically at what she sees as if she has never been here before. When something especially catches her eye, she exchanges a look of amazement with me, I respond with a smile of approval. At the museum she seems enthusiastic about the paintings on display. There is no doubt that she is an artist. She tells me about the ones that catch her attention. I have acquired for her as a souvenir of this visit an illustrated book about the painter in the exhibition, which she thanks me with a discreet kiss on the cheek. She is undoubtedly the same charming woman she was twenty years ago. It would be a memorable morning if I were not in constant pain. I try not to let her notice my suffering, because even if it is brief, today is probably one of the happiest days in recent years. What makes us most human is our ability to get affection and friends who just know us. A friendship without affection is like a black and white photograph: it lacks color. I'm finding the museum visit exhausting, but she seems immune to fatigue. I suggest we take a break and have a drink in the museum cafeteria. She thinks it's a good idea. The cafeteria brings back distant memories of the one at our university. Twenty years later she is standing in line in front of me again and she is also holding a book in one hand! As if this coincidence wasn't enough, they also have slices of strawberry cream pie! She has seen them and seems hesitant to put a slice on her tray. She gestures with the intention of taking a slice but pulls back. I think the sight of that cake has possibly awakened some area of his unconsciousness. I can't see the expression on his face, but he is unable to go on with just a cup of coffee. I get the impression that something is again disturbing his mind. There are several people behind us who are getting impatient, because she has become as if paralyzed in front of the tray of cakes. In a strange gesture, which seems to me more impulsive than voluntary, she finally takes one of the portions. I'm beginning to worry, I have a feeling that twenty years of amnesia may have a tragic end here. But I don't care, and I take one more step towards this abyss, offering to hold the book for him so that he can take the tray with both hands! She turns sharply toward me and I have the alarming feeling that her gaze is remotely familiar, the same one I remember when she turned to me in the faculty cafeteria. Maybe she is starting to remember that scene too, because she refuses my help again! I don't know if fortunately or unfortunately, but there has been no repeat of the accidental event that brought us together, and we managed to get to a table with no accidents! She must have noticed my confusion mixed with my pains, because her gaze shows a certain uneasiness, it seems as if she is looking at a stranger, who is not the same one she had kissed ten minutes before to thank her for the unexpected gift. The coffee and his slice of cake are on the table, and for some reason they remain untouched. It is as if they were witnesses to some important event and needed to be presented as damning evidence to an imaginary but exacting jury. I cannot look into her eyes without feeling uncovered, lost in a deep sense of guilt for which there is no redemption. If I could read her mind I'm sure my image appears blurred in a dense fog, but it is quickly making its way to clearer areas, where it will eventually become perfectly visible. I, too, am getting the feeling that this woman is being transfigured, and before long she may emerge from the mist and may, at last, know the identity of her betrayer! In the midst of this state of anguished transformation, I hear the familiar sound of cups and plates rolling on the floor. An elderly woman has lost her balance, and dropped her tray! Once again fate intrudes on our tormented lives! The woman sitting in front of me now has a twitching face, her eyes wild, her accusing gaze fixed on mine, which I feel unable to hold. She has risen so abruptly that she has caused our accusing coffee cups and cake slices to fall. He almost shouts at me: -You; it's you! PART TWO: THE REUNION "He who forgives sin, seeks affection; he who spreads it, drives away the friend." (Proverbs 17:9) 27. Rejection Naomi's mother has vanished in the cafeteria. I don't know to what extent her memory has returned, but it is clear that she recognized me. A museum security guard has spotted a doctor among the visitors, who is trying to revive her. He asked me what caused her to faint. I told him that she had suffered a shock. The doctor wants to know what caused the shock. I replied that the cause was the strong impression of recognizing a person she had forgotten for the last twenty years. -That's no cause for fainting. -She did not wish to recognize him. He seems to recover. He half-opens his eyes, contemplates me for a few moments and closes them again. -I want to go back to my daughter's house; call my daughter and have her come and get me...! She asks the attending physician. -The gentleman who accompanies you can take you there. -No, no; call my daughter! The doctor looks at me strangely. -It's me he didn't want to recognize. It's a long story; I wouldn't know how to explain it to you. The museum guard suggests we find a cab and tell the driver where to take her. She nods weakly. Someone of those watching the scene has recognized me, and the word spreads among the others watching the scene. I notice in their looks a veiled reproach. I think they know from what is published in the magazines of the heart that my relationships with women are tortuous, and that she may be another of my victims. Nothing causes more pleasure to admirers than to discover the weaknesses of their idols, because deep down they hate them. Their admiration enslaves them and this discovery is a liberation. A few anxious minutes pass, but finally a young man appears who must be the cab driver, because he is accompanied by the guard. I tell him where to take her. The young cab driver and the doctor accompany her, and they leave the cafeteria. I find myself terribly alone, surrounded by people who probably hate me for my alleged misconduct with the victim. It is possible that someone may have taken a photo with his cell phone and tomorrow the photo will be published in the tabloids and on the networks, and some unprincipled and unethical journalist will take advantage of the incident to climb the ladder by resorting to libel. He will make up a story claiming that I mistreat my colleagues, which will delight the readers. He knows perfectly well that I will not sue him, because he will certainly be a poor devil who will not get his miserable salary at the end of the month, and I could only pay for the damages at the taxpayers' expense, giving him shelter and food in one of our overcrowded prisons. But my image will deteriorate, and in these critical moments that is what I most wish to preserve. I don't give the people who witnessed the scene a chance to explain it to them, and I rush out of the museum. It is urgent that I call Naomi so that she is informed of the recovery of her mother's memory and the dramatic outcome, which unfortunately I had already feared. Her cell phone is disconnected, she must be in a class. I call the University secretary's office and ask them to send her my message, and to come to her house urgently. I don't know what else I can do. After making these calls, I stop to think about what has happened. And I don't need to make any great show of intelligence to understand that my life is now meaningless. I don't even have a daughter to hold on to in this life, because I have not been, am not and could not be, the father that any daughter needs. Meeting her was a mistake. It would have been better if we had never met. When I did not exist, all her affection was for her mother and I had no one to judge my behavior. Now I have intruded and she feels obliged to share it with me, and I feel obliged to account for my conduct. It is better for me to get out of her way as soon as possible, as if she had been a mirage, and to employ her noble sentiments on those who deserve them. I am strolling aimlessly along a busy avenue, but I doubt that they will notice my presence, because I already feel myself floating in a vague place, a prelude to my final journey, which I will not take long to undertake. Perhaps sooner than expected! Alicia; yes, Alicia will help me! I can trust her; she will do whatever I ask of her! I don't know the feeling of love and how far we can sacrifice ourselves for the loved one, but she must know because there is no more sublime sacrifice than to love without being reciprocated. And she has endured it with infinite generosity. Someone has to give me the push to get me on my way to a place where I can find peace. I'm startled by the alarm on my cell phone, it's Alicia! It's as if my previous thoughts had been a spell to summon her and she had heard my wishes to die sooner than expected. She has heard from Naomi that her mother has regained her memory and wants to know how she reacted to remembering me. Just a minute ago Alicia was little less than my exterminating angel, and now that I listen to her life is once again claiming her attention, and she manages to drive these gloomy thoughts from my mind. She is a woman and knows how women think and feel, so I knew she would reject me. She asks me how my mood is and I reply that I am like a lost child in a department store who is asked by adults not to cry because they will soon find their parents. I was also crying before his call because I felt lost and scared. She asks me if I want her to come to my apartment so that I can tell her what happened to make Naomi's mother's memory come back. -Thanks to a slice of strawberry cream pie! -I replied. Alicia has the road free, but she knows that I will remain inaccessible as long as I don't have the forgiveness of the woman who now knows who I am and where her enemy lives. Of course, I beg you to come. 28. Depression Despite Alicia's invaluable moral and spiritual help, I am deeply depressed. It must be one of those depressions that inevitably lead to suicide. If I have not committed it yet, it is out of cowardice and horror of physical pain, but there are many ways to end this suffering. If life is not supported by some incentive, it is not possible to live it. In human beings the defense of life is not instinctive, but mental; it is a reasoned and justified decision, but pressured by the irreversible lack of incentives. No animal commits suicide. I have consumed and wasted all my incentives, without the result being what I would have wished. But I must also admit that I have never known what I really wanted. Naomi called me. She is already in her apartment. Her mother is very upset and wants to go home tomorrow. She has completely recovered her memory and remembers the causes of her amnesia in detail as if it happened yesterday. Naomi has tried to make her see that I am deeply sorry, but she does not want them to talk about me. She thinks she will need some time to get over her resentment, but the one thing I don't have is time. She has not told her about my illness so that she does not think that she wants to blackmail her. She is deeply sorry for this situation, for having to divide her affections between two parents at odds. Her mother does not understand why she has forgiven me, when I am the main victim of this drama. Naomi fears that her mother will distance herself from her because she believes that she has not behaved as she expected. She thinks she should have been more consistent and not forgiven me, and I think maybe her mother is right. Alicia has just arrived. Not a day has gone by since the day we met that she hasn't worried about me and I remain stubbornly oblivious to her. Why does she insist on maintaining her loyalty to a doomed, hopeless man who can only inspire pity and sympathy? The answer must lie in those recesses of women's souls that I have failed to understand. 29. Alicia's plan (Narrator: Alicia) Today I found him in a deplorable state. I know that he had hoped that Naomi's mother would have given him the opportunity to express to her his regret and his own sufferings and remorse in twenty years of solitude. If she has lived those twenty years in darkness, he would have preferred to have lost his memory as well. We women are condemned to forgive men's infidelities, because they have created a world where it is not possible to avoid this sin. If it were the world of women, infidelity would not be possible because neither would ownership exist. Men would be as shared as food or work. No one would be anyone's property. This man is a victim of that world, where there is no other incentive than competition and the derisory pleasure of the winners. He is also an unhappy winner in a world made in his own image and likeness. We cannot change a world that has a male God. But we women would not have gods either, only energies, positive or negative. Energy has created the world, we are all energies. I know that in his desperation he is thinking of suicide, but he is a weak man, and to commit suicide it is necessary to have courage. Men feel strong if they have terrible weapons, we do not need those diabolical weapons, but if we set our minds to it, we could bring about the destruction of the world in the same time it took God to create it! God himself had to be begotten by a woman. I would like to make him understand that he is not guilty and that his remorse is unfounded. If there is a guilty party to be found, it is Naomi's mother, because her fantasy and her ignorance of human nature and of the reality in which she lives provoked this man's infidelity. The most serious sins are not committed by the intelligent, but by the ignorant, but they do not feel guilty because their ignorance serves as a mitigating factor. Her literary agent lived in the real world, it was a matter of competition and she had the best offer, that's why she was the winner and got the product. It would be necessary to completely revise our morality and adapt it also to the laws of supply and demand. If I love this man it is because, besides the physical attraction, for twenty years he has been consistent and has written what the market required, but his loneliness justifies his rejection. Only when death threatened him did he decide to put an end to this immorality, and say in public what he really felt and thought. For me he is a hero! He wonders why Naomi's mother won't listen to him and I suggest an idea that might help him: -Why don't you write a new novel with the story of your relations with her and how you have lived these last twenty years. She won't want to see you, but she might read the novel. I think this idea has been in his head for some time, but he doesn't feel strong enough to do something like this. -It's too late now, Alicia, I'm afraid my illness is getting worse and I won't even be able to count on those six months of respite. I have a feeling that I won't live to see the next spring bloom and that I won't be spared the cold winter of death! It is useless for me to encourage him, he knows better than anyone else when death will come, because it must be the most foreseen event. Yes, it is possible that he will not see the next spring bloom and that for him it will be too late, but not for me: I will write that novel in his name! 30. The first novel I had to help him change his clothes and make him comfortable. Maybe it's time to get to know him on a first-name basis. I think he has only me now. His daughter Naomi will only feel pity and compassion for him, but she will remain attached to her mother. She is young and idealistic now, and thinks she loves everyone, but soon she will be more selective, and will be more demanding in lavishing her affections. This is now a dead father, of whom only the memory will remain, but the mother will still be alive and demanding in her maternal affection, more as a family obligation than as a sincere moral sentiment. Now my poor friend is a loser, for with death he loses everything. I need him to tell me what his life has been like in these twenty years of unfounded remorse. -I'll fix you something to eat and then you can rest. While you sleep I will finish reading your first novel. But when you wake up, if you feel well, I want you to tell me what your life has been like during these twenty years. -Alicia, you called me by my first name! I was expecting this remark -Yes, I have called you by your first name; there is no longer any reason to keep our distance. Now we are closer to each other and share the same loneliness. You may not love me, but you need me as much as I need you. We are now traveling companions. You will get off before me, but my journey won't be very long either. I can only trust you and you can only trust me. I may be the only one to mourn your death. Now he rests and I return to the reading of his first book, which I now read with great attention. The one I write must have his style, because it must be his book. I do not know if I should inform him of my idea, it is possible that he felt frustrated at not being able to write it himself. I read a paragraph that strikes me: "The day is dark for the cursed poets, and the night is clear and welcoming for us; the light damages our eyes accustomed to darkness. In the darkness there are no visible paths, it is necessary to travel them with the imagination. During the day all the paths where you are forced to travel are visible. That is why only in the darkness we are free, while in the light of day we are slaves. I have chosen the darkness of death, because on the other side of the darkness there is always light. I will be reborn in a new world saturated with light, where I will live eternally." Will it really be like that? How can I know in life? My good friend will check it very soon, and I should arrange with him a spell to cross our dimension and inform me. Would it be possible? The short break was good for him. He has woken up in a good mood and agrees to tell me his story. I make coffee for both of us; I sit comfortably in the armchair and listen to him with great attention. -My agent knew I had betrayed the other woman, but he didn't feel guilty. He believed she was infinitely more beneficial to my career than my partner. As an agent, she prioritized the success of those she represented over her feelings. In just three months we managed to place my novel among the top 10 best sellers, and two months later, we reached first place. She had kept her promise! She knew all the levers to promote the novel of a perfect stranger. And sometimes those levers didn't move very ethically or morally. Our extra-professional relationship was not very satisfying for both of us. I was not a lover up to her demands. The truth is that for one reason or another I have never been a great lover. When he managed to place me on the cusp of popularity he stopped being interested in me. His passion was to bring young writers out of anonymity and share their triumphs in a very personal and physical way. For the first six months I did not have the courage to concern myself with the fate of the victim of my ambition, but not a day passed without the memory of her and my betrayal weighing on my conscience. I had promised myself that as soon as my career was consolidated and free from the bonds of my contract with my agent, I would seek her out and propose to her to resume our old dreams of glory, and we would once again become the writing couple she had imagined. I already had the means to make it happen. But I still had a year's commitment to my agent. No, that woman does not deserve this man's affection; and of course he is not guilty. If he is guilty, to live is sin! Nothing fundamental that we human beings do is righteous, because we are driven by necessity and not by will, but this is what living is all about. We have all inherited "original sin." -My agent didn't wait for our contract to end before finding a new lover. Another young writer, as ignorant and inexperienced as I was. Surely he would offer him the same fame and success as me, but he hadn't won any contests. He may not have been a better writer than me, but he was probably a better lover. By then I had not only risen to the top of the popularity charts, but I had created a saga that virtually assured the success of my future novels. That's why I decided that the time had come to repair the damage done, to meet her again, to try to get her to forgive me, and to make up for lost time, which had been very profitable for me. But there was no trace of her - he remains silent for a few moments, I think he realizes the desolation that awaited him if he did not manage to find the whereabouts of that woman -. She was hidden in a remote location that had little contact with the rest of the country, and no one knew with whom she was associated during her stay at the university. She never revealed the name of that town, which also did not coincide with her birthplace. Her father was the secretary of the Town Hall and had already made several transfers to that position in that small town. All my inquiries were useless. To make matters worse, she had adopted an artistic name to sign her poetry by which she was known, and not by her real name, which even I do not know! -So, is it true that you have exhausted all attempts to find her? -I ask him, although he has already given me the answer. -All the ones in my hands. I assumed that she had removed all traces of where she was so that I could not locate her. I didn't know I had lost my memory. I still let the year that was left in our contract go by, never for one day failing to try some other means of getting hold of her, but all my efforts proved futile. I finally came to the conclusion that she did not want to be located, because otherwise after two years there was no reason for her not to be the one to try to contact me. I did not believe her to be so spiteful, and I gave up looking for her. Two years of hard work, of having reached the pinnacle of popularity and having the necessary means to realize our dream, were meaningless and useless; in other words: they had gone to waste! -But she says the opposite: that you had no intention of tracking him down. -For her, I must have already been dead; there was no need to wait for me to suffer from this disease! -And how did you live the following years? -The following years I did not live; I survived! I had no other incentive than those commissioned novels, one every year, twenty thorns stuck in my mind! I had thousands of admirers, but not a single one to whom I could confide. When you write novels for ordinary people, don't expect to find a single one out of the ordinary. It's been such a lost few years for her, even though she has an excellent memory. 31. Confidences of a mother (Narrator Naomi) My father has not told me the whole story of his relationship with my mother. Now that he has regained his memory and I know the real story from my mother, I think maybe she is right and does not deserve my forgiveness. My mother could have prevented my birth by having me aborted, which she possibly would have done if my father had known of my gestation. If I was gestated it is because she believed she loved him and did not want to lose him, but he did not know how to value her sacrifice and abandoned her. She knew that she had accepted the representation of that vicious and heartless woman, and she was so naive that she thought she could compete with her. What else could she do to keep him by her side? It was of no use for her to write the best poems and dedicate them to him, because he had ceased to be interested in the poetess, and of course in the woman, but he did not have the courage to be honest with her. My poor mother has been crying practically since she has arrived at my house. It has been very painful to come face to face with a man who had shown so little courage in hiding his infidelity from her. -It's easy to regret when one senses death.... -she says to me between sobs-. You had to be the one to find him.... If he had put more effort years ago he would have found me, but success, and surely his many admirers, kept him very busy. I cannot reproach him for his resentment, twenty years lost in a few hours are not forgotten just because he suffers from an incurable disease. He is the cause of my mother also suffering from an incurable disease, but of the soul. But I am deeply saddened by this situation. I wish I could have found a justification for both of them, because deep down I believe they are both good people. They both have noble souls, and, if they have hurt each other there must be a powerful reason. My father blames his passion for literature and perhaps he is right. To create it is necessary to leave this world and contemplate it without an emotional relationship, otherwise it is not possible to understand it. I suppose that in order to create characters with different personalities, the author does not have to be emotionally linked to any of them. When my father was immersed in the creation of his novels, his relationship with the world around him, including my mother, must have changed and they were no longer people but characters. His life was a fiction and his relationship with my mother, the plot of some of his future novels. As it was. If I intend to follow in his footsteps and be as good a writer as he is, I must avoid creating emotional ties with anyone in this world, because, as he himself told me, and which I have not been able to forget, "If you dream of being an out-of-the-ordinary writer, your life will pass within that same out-of-the-ordinary dream, and you will never be able to live in reality." My mother also lived her out-of-the-ordinary dream, but she made the clumsy mistake of falling in love with one of her characters. I cannot expose this reflection to my mother because she might not be able to understand it. Although she has regained her memory, she still lives in her fictional world, and my father is a character of her imagination who has accidentally incarnated himself in the body of a lover. They should wake up from their respective dreams and contemplate each other as they are. Only then could they know how they really feel about each other, but how to wake up from a dream someone who doesn't know he is dreaming? I know it is useless, but I try to make my mother see this other point of view: -I understand that you are hurt, but perhaps your passion for literature played a trick on you, neither of you knew what the other was really like. Love is blind, and only sees what it imagines it sees. Maybe you were in love with someone who existed only in your imagination. My mother has reacted, and she looks at me confused and suspicious. She doesn't seem to have understood what I meant. I try to be more explicit: -What I mean is that both you and he needed each other as admirers of your respective works, which is what you really loved. When my father found another admirer, he no longer needed you, but you still needed him. I think he still doesn't understand my thoughts about his relationships. I'm afraid he thinks I'm trying to justify it. -Naomi, daughter, I don't know what you're trying to tell me! His guilt is evident, he took advantage of my innocence. I always tried to justify his lack of interest because I blindly believed that, in spite of everything, he was still faithful to me. It wasn't the first time that woman had made him late for our appointments, but that night I needed to see him and let him know that I was pregnant with your child, and I didn't know how he might react. He was not likely to want to be a father at this delicate time in his career. He needed to know as soon as possible, but I didn't think it was appropriate to tell him in writing or over the phone. I wanted to see his first reaction to know whether he would accept you or reject you. So, you can imagine my enormous frustration and anguish, because of his absence. In spite of the pain, I tried to believe that he had some powerful reason for not coming to the appointment, I was still blindly trusting in his fidelity! His expression has changed. She seems to be feeling the desolation and pain of that night. I can see it in the wrinkles on her forehead and in the wetness of her eyelids, she is about to cry again. -I was so distressed and helpless that after waiting uselessly for him for more than an hour, I did not return directly to my apartment. The night was warm and clear so I felt like taking a walk. I thought a long, relaxing walk would calm my anguish and I wandered through the busy streets, to mingle with the people and distract myself from my thoughts. I was confident that the next day we would have a chance to meet. And that's when I had the terrible shock that caused my amnesia. In one of these streets, there was a nightclub of ill fame, and I was contemplating the obscene photographs of the claim, when he descended from a cab, accompanied by that woman, who took him by the arm and they entered the club. They both seemed intoxicated. That image gave me a strong impact and I felt as if my head was going to explode. When I recovered from that terrible shock, I didn't know where I was, nor did I have the slightest idea how I had gotten there? -I didn't know where I lived, I didn't even remember my name! Near that place there was a small park, belonging to a parish in the neighborhood. Most of the benches were lined with homeless people. I was terrified, but I needed to rest, and I let myself fall exhausted on the only one that was free. Moments later a woman from the urban police patrolling the neighborhood was surprised by my appearance, which was not that of a beggar and wanted me to identify myself, but I could not answer any of her questions, so they understood that I was in a state of shock, and took me to the police station of the neighborhood... You know the rest... For God's sake! Why do I have to face this horrible dilemma? If I save one I condemn the other! Where is the justice? Which of the two is truly innocent and which is truly guilty? And why does one of them have to be guilty? Why can't they both be innocent? They each have their reasons for doing what they have done and I am unable to judge them. I suppose only God can judge them! My mother is packing her little travel bag, because she is about to take the first train of the morning. There will be no opportunity for reconciliation. She will probably not be at his bedside when he passes away. She does not want to return to this city that brings back such bad memories. She is determined to forget him, but now voluntarily. Who knows, now that she has regained her memory and can live a normal life, maybe she will meet another man with whom she can rebuild her traumatic life. And me, what should I do? I want her to give me the answer herself: -Mom, I understand that you resent him and want to forget about him, but what should I do? He's my father, and he's a dying man! Should I be at his bedside when he passes away? His answer plunges me deeper into my uncertainty: -My daughter, do what your conscience dictates, you are already an adult, you must decide for yourself.... Now I am the one who feels like crying. -I don't want to be an adult! 32. Naomi's mother (Narrator: Naomi's mother) It is not yet dawn and we are ready to head for the station. My train leaves in an hour and the station is not far, but we will take advantage of the time to have breakfast in the cafeteria. My daughter is not used to these early mornings and is still sleepy. She has insisted on accompanying me to the station, but now I can manage on my own perfectly well. The cab is waiting for us on the street and in less than twenty minutes it drops us off at the station. I look nostalgically at the cityscape of my youth that I will never see again. We have plenty of time to chat, but first we need a strong coffee to clear our heads. We sit at a separate table in the cafeteria and Naomi brings me coffees and two croissants that are still warm. We have breakfast in silence. She waits for me to tell her something about what my life will be like from now on in my small town. I tell her that nothing will change, but that I will now try to publish some of my poems. -Even if they are dedicated to my father? -Why not? A poem is a poem, and it doesn't matter to whom it is dedicated, what matters is that it moves feelings and emotions. -But he can read them. -He has not lost his memory; he has nothing to remember. -Will you ever come back to this city? -No, Naomi, my poor child, I will never set foot in this city again. He's been dead to me for twenty years! He took his own life the night he went to that notorious club on the arm of that woman. She dug her own grave, and then erased the epitaph on his grave, because she too forgot her victim. For me he has remained dead these twenty years, until he was momentarily resurrected to revive again his agony. I have written the last verse dedicated to him, which can serve as a panegyric: I die when I am still young; I die when I am still an adult; I resurrect when I am about to die; I die again when I was about to live. -This is my farewell gift until death wills to take me to his side as well. Then we will know which of us two has done justly. Literature will lose a writer with all his talent barely used and a poetess with all her talent barely remembered. No, Naomi, I don't want to force you to choose who to condemn or who to save. Your soul and mind do not belong to us, only your body. You have received your soul from God, and only you have the possibility of discovering what your true personality is. Don't try to imitate us and choose your own path, which may lead you to be a great writer, but you could also be an excellent doctor or a great soccer player. You owe us nothing. We begot you by our recklessness, without that being our desire, as most human beings are begotten. It is we who are indebted to you, but we do not have the means to compensate you for our mistakes. You were born free and you are free to choose who deserves your affection and your memory. Your mother will always welcome you with open arms, but live your life and do not feel pity or expect comfort from us. If you need comfort, learn to comfort yourself; if you need support, learn to lean on yourself; if you need compassion, learn to pity yourself and if you need love, learn to love yourself. It may not have been the advice a mother should give her daughter, but at least in this I agree with her father, people are only united by the affections that their works arouse; without works there can be no affections. -Your father and I were happy when we both admired each other's work, but when he stopped being interested in my poetry and I stopped admiring his, because he stopped writing short stories to devote himself to writing novels inspired by his perverse agent, we had no reason to love each other anymore. But I didn't want to accept that that talented young writer would let himself be handled by his agent, and I continued to admire the author of "Poetas sin cielo". Now I know how wrong I was! Only if he returned to being the writer I idolized could I forgive him. But perhaps for him it is already too late. That must be his destiny and this must be mine. The public address system at the station announces the imminent departure of my train. My poor daughter has felt it as if they were announcing the departure of a train to eternity with no return, because she looks at me in anguish and I know she is making great efforts to hold back her tears. -Mom, if I have to be an adult, I want to be like you. I love you very much... but also my wretched father... -I know, you have a generous heart because you are young. With age it shrinks and becomes more selfish, but more faithful and demanding. -No, we'll say goodbye here.... Take good care of yourself, and don't pout like when you were a child, or you'll make me cry too. Give me a farewell smile! Naomi tries to please me, but her smile is a cheerful way of crying. My heart breaks into a thousand pieces as I walk away from her dragging my small travel suitcase as if it were my coffin. When I finally step through the door onto the platform and she can no longer see me, I let my downtrodden soul vent freely and cry silently.... I can't help but feel guilty for having lived! 33. The second novel (Narrator: Alicia) I have read the manuscript of her first novel twice and I think I am ready to take on this important challenge. Of course I will alter some things, she has to understand the reasons for his abandonment and be able to justify it. This man cannot leave this world without a clear conscience and I will not be able to convince him that he is innocent. But I have little time, I have long sleepless nights ahead of me! I heard from Naomi that her mother has returned to her hometown and it seems she has no intention of ever going back. Fortunately Noemi still considers me a good friend she can trust. She has not told me expressly, but she is going through a very difficult time. We have arranged to meet at the coffee shop where I met her father, but he will not attend, because I will not inform him of our meeting. I want Naomi to have nothing that prevents her from opening her heart to me and telling me what conclusions she has drawn after what her mother has told me about her father's behavior. I need that information to finish getting an idea of the plot of this new novel. Now she knows the whole story, but according to her mother's version, I want her to know her father's version as well. I am taking advantage of the fact that she is spending the morning at the hospital to meet her. I am the first to arrive and I sit at the same table as that day. In front of the table there are some large mirrors where I see myself reflected and I can hardly believe that this woman is me. My gaze has become severe, or rather, cold and disenchanted. I no longer find myself neither ugly nor beautiful, just sober and adult. I don't need to attract anyone's attention either, because I already have someone to pay all my attention to, that's why I dress again with the same old-fashioned clothes I wore when I arrived from the provinces. I even notice that my movements are slower and my appearance in general suggests that of a simple social worker. I feel more like myself than in those provocative clothes. How little they esteem themselves who need to hide themselves in the way they dress! Naomi has just arrived. She has all the appearance of a helpless and confused creature. She stands hesitantly in the doorway, as if afraid of being discovered. She hasn't seen me, or perhaps hasn't recognized me in my new guise, and she motions to leave. I signal her with my arm, and as she recognizes me she seems to come back to life. She smiles as if I have saved her from some imaginary danger. She sits down across from me. She asks me about her father's health. -I don't want to deceive you Noemi, all these events have affected him... I don't think he will make it through this winter -his smile has turned into a bitter expression of deep sadness-. I think that what is worsening his health is his deep depression after your mother's rejection. Naomi lowers her gaze, as if she does not want me to notice the conflict of her divided feelings in her eyes. We keep a few moments of silence in memory of her dying father. She has nothing to say, I am the one who starts the conversation. -May I ask you why your mother does not want to hear your father's confession? She tells me the real cause and not the one we all believed. I'm afraid the mother has a powerful reason for her spiteful attitude. Even I would find it hard to forgive her if I were in her place. Betrayal now has a pornographic image, something simply intolerable for a sensitive poetess. In her delusions she must have imagined him as a satyr with the face of an angel. How can I justify that scene? Why did they go to that club after, in all probability, they had drunk to excess during the romantic private dinner? There must be a good reason that exculpates him. -Dear friend, sometimes I wonder, especially as a writer, what is the use of language if we cannot understand each other. Perhaps it would have been better to communicate with a few sounds to express our basic feelings, as animals do, because words, no matter how cultured, creative or realistic we may be, are not capable of expressing ourselves as clearly as those simple sounds. Your parents are two excellent people, and they would have understood each other with simple sounds, without using words. The use of words has confused and separated them. It is a biblical curse! The same words have different meanings depending on who pronounces them and how they are pronounced. The heart does not understand the meaning of words, but the tone with which they are pronounced. The meaning is the task of the mind, but the mind lacks feelings, it doesn't care about one word or another. Your mother only listens to what is said if it is poetic; but your father only pays attention to what is said if it resembles the dialogues of a novel. Neither listens to what the other really says! -Yes; they themselves admit that their passion for literature is what has separated them! -No, Noemí; it is not literature, but words. Literature is a noble attempt to give some emotional or intellectual meaning to words so that their messages are clear to the senses. But life is not a novel, we don't know who the characters are or what the plot is about or even know its author. We trust that words and their meanings are enough to go through the world with morality and a sense of justice, but all we do is invent moralities and justice with words that do not have the same meaning for everyone, so there can be no morality or justice as long as there are words. Naomi seems to ponder my thoughts. She has come to a wise conclusion: -So, do you think they are both guilty? -No doubt, but it is an inevitable sin, because we need words, not to understand each other, but to communicate. That is why literature that is born of this curse and tries to redeem itself is so necessary, but not literature that is born already cursed and rejoices in its evil, as a pig wallows in its excrement. We writers have only one mission: to free words from the flames of hell and make them reach heaven. We are the fallen angels in this hell, while we inhabit the Earth, and of heaven, when we leave it. -And what can I do to reconcile them? -Words will not reconcile them, unless they are spoken in such a way that the heart understands them. -What do you mean? -Your mother will only react if she receives the message in poetry! -And who will write this poetry? -The person who loves them the most... You will write it. It will be your debut in this magical world of Literature and you will pass with an A, because you have the main thing: a great motivation. I know she feels overwhelmed, but at the same time I notice in her eyes the spark of genius that demands her chance. -But my mother would only be reconciled if he proves to her with a new novel that he is the same one who wrote "Poets Without Heaven", and that she has unconsciously loved these twenty years.... -Your father will write it! I don't want to reveal to Naomi that I will be the one to write it, because unconsciously I might reveal it to her mother and all the work would be useless. -Alicia, you have never told me why you feel obliged to take care of my father, because you always address him as "you", which is not proper for a mistress.... Do you have anything to do with his publisher or his manager? I had always feared that Naomi would ask me this question. But I don't have a clear answer even if I ask it to myself. Only a month ago I was a woman in love with a famous writer, whom I was physically attracted to and admired for his talent, so I had no doubt about the causes. Now my feelings have gone beyond love and are in an unknown dimension, which is probably not of this world. Thanks to his illness we have found ourselves in a dimension that goes beyond the human and must have something to do with the divine, and that must be hidden in our astral personality. Only in extreme situations do we penetrate this dimension, which creates eternal bonds. It is as if I am helping this man to enter that dimension, which must be the myth of Paradise, where we will meet again and be lovers for all eternity, so we can spare no effort to achieve it. I am trying to secure the love of this man after his death, so I cannot feel jealous of his mother, who will only be able to love him with that earthly, temporary love of human beings, when I reserve for myself his eternal and divine love. But Naomi would not understand. -Your father and I are, in addition to professional colleagues, old friends. I feel obliged to help him die a good death. I would do the same for any of my friends and fellow writers. 34. The wording Today I started writing the novel. I have the strange feeling that I am fulfilling a divine mandate; the will comes to me from an unknown source. The salvation or damnation of a human soul depends on its outcome. It is as if I were donating blood to a badly wounded person. I begin with that terrifying phrase for all writers: "Chapter One. It is like opening the bonds of the imagination, in a perfect union with the mind. It is absolutely necessary that the first lines arouse in Naomi's mother the need to read the following remaining lines or failure is assured. These are my first lines: "The main characters of this story did not meet by chance, but by destiny. But for twenty years they put all their efforts into going against what was written in the stars. This is the story of two lovers united by literature, but separated by words." I think it's a good beginning, and only with a good beginning is a good ending possible. Now I have to create the author of the novel, because this novel will not be written by me but by my characters. Also in real life things work the same way. God has created man, and has endowed him with the necessary understanding so that he can decide for himself the plot of his story. I continue: "These characters are two young people with the defects and virtues of all young people: utopian, independent, rebellious, reckless, nonconformist, generous, innocent and unbelieving. Like all young people, they do not live in the present, but in the future; they have no history, only a great desire to make history. Nor do they have experience, only experiences. They are not wise, they only have the desire to know. They make the simple complicated, because they believe that the simple is for old people or children, but not for them. They are, in short, two young people of our time, but as young people have been in all times. She has a passion for the sensitivity of Garcilaso and he for the imagination of Cervantes; she adores Dante Alighieri, he Lope de Vega; she is a poet, he is a storyteller. She knows she has talent and is sure of herself; he doubts her talent, and has no confidence in himself. But she believes in him and decides to postpone temporarily his inevitable conquest of fame and glory in order to help the insecure young narrator, so that they can walk the road to glory together, without one overshadowing the other." Four exhausting weeks have already passed. The novel is progressing at the same rate as my strength is waning. I have reached the critical point of separation and I have no difficulty in exonerating my death row inmate of all guilt. Where can the writer find the source of his inspiration if not in real life? How can he describe a brothel, observe the deep sadness that encloses the false joy of the prostitutes; the eagerness to make even the smallest drop of pleasure received pay, if he has never been in a brothel? How can a writer with her wings intact and free to fly wherever she pleases, clip another writer's so that he does not stray too far from his nest? Poetry springs from the soul; narrative from life. The poet sees the world from a cloud; the storyteller from the sewers. Poetry is music; narrative is noise. Naomi's mother still sees the world from a cloud, and if she does not descend to dry land she will never know that clouds become rain, and rainwater runs in the gutters! I have used these notes in this decisive chapter : "It was no surprise to find a table set up in his unmistakable style for two diners. Champagne set to chill, caviar canapés and other delicacies. I even knew that he would choose the most provocative clothes, in other words, it was nothing more than a novel scenario that I was to describe in the novel I was writing at the time. It was my clever agent's peculiar form of collaboration. But there were still some complicated scenes to describe for which I lacked the necessary imagery and could easily fall into ridicule. I discussed it with my agent and he suggested we pay a visit to one of the less reputable clubs in town, where I would surely have the images I needed. But I remembered my appointment. It was a painful decision. I knew she would be outraged, but a woman who has a writer for a partner must be used to such rudeness. Would she be angry if I were a doctor who missed her appointment because she had to treat a sick person? With my novels, I also treat thousands of people who are sick with boredom and lack of entertainment. Tomorrow I'll excuse myself and she'll understand! Before that excursion to the most nauseating bowels of the city, we finished the champagne, because sober we would not have had the courage to enter that brothel." "Unfortunately it was a fatal coincidence that she, frustrated and hurt by my absence, strolled down the street where the club was located and surprised us as we got out of the cab and entered the club somewhat dizzy, so that my agent had to lean on my arm. If it was true that he had blind trust in my fidelity, he had to wait until the next day to see that, despite appearances condemning me, I was still faithful. But that misleading image exceeded all her capacity for tolerance, and wounded her deeply, causing her the fatal trauma that has kept us apart for these past twenty years!" If after reading this she doesn't forgive you, this woman has lost her soul! 35. Winter The slower you want time to pass the faster it insists on passing. I've been so busy this past month that I haven't been aware of the passage of time and it's already winter! After her interview with her mother, Naomi is less affectionate with her father. Whatever her mother may have told her about her relationship with her father has affected her noticeably. There is something that separates them, but Naomi does not want to discuss with him her encounter with her mother, and her version of what happened. If she hides it, it must be because it must be something very lurid and that she does not dare to comment on. She has also become accustomed to her father's illness, she even seems to be mentally prepared to accept his untimely death, and only visits him once a week. Her apology is that she is so busy with her exams that she can barely stay for an hour in his apartment, and doesn't even stay for dinner. Since her hasty return, we have heard nothing from the mother. She seems buried in absolute silence. At least Naomi does not mention her. Unfortunately, it is as if all our behavior has entered into an irresponsible routine, without us being truly aware of the seriousness of the moment. Your father has had to be admitted several times to the emergency room, because his illness is getting alarmingly worse. Every time I call an ambulance to transport him to the hospital, he begs me to let him die in his bed. He is horrified by hospitals, because he believes that everyone there is so familiar with death that they cause it themselves! The pains cloud his mind and in those critical moments he totally loses the will to live, but I cannot accede to his wishes, because I still need him to survive at least long enough to see my purpose through. The novel is practically finished, because it is not very long. Only a few corrections are missing. I had some difficulty in finding a good denouement, but I think I have solved it satisfactorily. Your publisher will have no knowledge of this novel, of which I will publish only a few copies, enough to fulfill its purpose and no more. About the poem to be written by Noemi, maybe I overestimated her talent, but I still trust her, she will surprise me any day. My plan is that by Christmas the reconciliation will be consummated, and, at last, I will also be able to reconcile with myself. Perhaps I will also take advantage of this painful experience to write my own novel with my own version of events, but most likely I will dedicate my next work to the memory of this great man. As I expected, Naomi has not let me down, and has written a touching poem that is sure to influence her mother's mood. In any case, I don't think he will follow in his parents' footsteps. She is too down-to-earth and too grounded. She would make a good researcher, or teacher. If her parents have problems it is because of her artistic, creative, fickle, unpredictable temperament. It is difficult to live with an artist. 36. The last winter (Narrator: the sick person) This will be, if medicine does not prevent it, my last winter. I would like to live it intensely, but life slips through my fingers like fine grains of sand on a beach. Soon I will have left this troubled world. With each passing day I feel more and more familiar with death. With each new dawn the sun rises darker for me, and its light grows dimmer. Slowly what was a nightmare becomes a dream. As life punishes me, death rewards me. Death seemed like a drama to me before I knew the true face of life. Now that I know it, death seems to me a comedy, and it causes me an irresistible desire to laugh. In the end I will end up turning my death into a great event and I will sit in the stalls with a real longing for the curtain to rise. I may be starting to lose my mind, but that must be the mind's strategy to elude suffering. Blessed is madness when sanity allies itself with pain so that you suffer it consciously! But I wish to be an exceptional witness to my own death, because it is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I am a writer. If I intend to describe death in my novels, I must have experienced it! I know it seems an absurd thought, but more absurd is to believe that our mind and spirit do not transcend beyond the threshold of death. I believe that everything we have come to conceive and imagine will somehow remain, and transcend our death, to be the foundations of the personality of a new life at the instant of its gestation, into whom we will transmigrate. I also know that this is a naive consolation, because no one has been able to prove such a theory. Others believe that their souls will ascend to heaven, remain in purgatory or descend to hell, where they will be reunited with other soul mates, virtuous or sinful. This is the most popular version. In my theory there are no heavens or hells, but there is overcoming or degradation. A wicked and depraved soul can transmigrate into the fetus of a beast. It is not the most popular, but I believe it must be so. Now I spend most of the day bedridden and my mind is only clear when the sedatives take effect and the pain disappears, more and more intensely. Alicia spends the day with me, but at night, after she leaves me sedated and I manage to fall asleep, she goes back to her apartment, only to return first thing in the morning. She must be exhausted, because sometimes she falls asleep on the couch and it is me who watches over her sleep. She has brought her laptop with her, on which she passes the time when I sleep. She says she is working on her new novel about the ballerina, but she doesn't want to read anything to me until it is finished. She has become very superstitious and thinks it brings bad luck. I find her getting worse and worse every day, even thinner. I fear that she may also fall ill. Today is one of the coldest days of the winter. A heavy snow is falling and the flakes seem to go crazy as they are pushed by a strong gusty wind, which is constantly changing direction. Like every morning, I hear the pleasant rattle of the lock as Alice arrives at my apartment. She is shivering with cold and completely soaked. I suggest she put on one of my robes and dry her clothes on the heating radiator. Many times I have held her body in my arms, but I had never seen her naked. This morning I finally had that opportunity. I see the body of an attractive but not provocative woman; sensual but not sexual. It is harmonious but not erotic. It's just a human being's body. It feels better already. As she prepares my breakfast, I inquire about her career situation, which she seems to have abandoned because of me. -Alicia, how are things going with my agent? Did he get you a contract? Alicia denies it with a slight nod of her head. -And has he given you any reason? -Publishers don't like novels where there is no sex, or at least something that excites their imagination, and my novels find them too intellectual or spiritual. -Yes, I think my first agent seduced me into having a firsthand sexual experience and being able to describe it in minute detail. That was also one of the keys to the success of my novels. Sexuality is not an invention of culture, it is a natural reality and there is no reason for it not to be part of a plot, but it should not be described as a simple sexual relationship, similar to that of animals, because what characterizes a human being is that from all his natural experiences he extracts a moral evaluation, which does not exist in animals. Among humans, sex cannot be exempt from this same morality. Most novels dispense with this necessary moral premise to describe it as a purely animal relationship and, therefore, immoral. It is not true that in war as in love anything goes. In war there are also rules of conduct, so why shouldn't there be in sexuality? Alicia listens attentively to my brief dissertation on sexuality and seems to agree, but qualifies a few details. -Morality is relative, and its values are not shared by all, that is why I believe that sexuality has to be based on other more realistic norms, that satisfies desire without incurring in prostitution.... -And what are these standards? -Of course, mutual consent, and respect for the sensitivity of each lover, provided that both are aware of the consequences of this relationship. That attitude is already sufficiently moral. No lover should be considered an object of pleasure, but pleasure should have an object, that of mutual satisfaction of the senses, without creating a bad conscience: the contrary would be prostitution! 37. Last Christmas (Narrator: Naomi's mother) Once again I am in this small and remote town. It has welcomed me with the first snowfall of this year and I feel that the snow is also falling on my soul. Now that I have recovered my memory, the last twenty years of blessed amnesia seem like a brief instant. Were it not for the wrinkles, those of the face and those of the soul, I would not know that time has passed. To remember for what; to recognize the cause of your amnesia; to see again that painful scene at the entrance of that brothel; to relive those dreams cut short by the ambition of a disloyal friend? For this it is better not to remember! Now I have to forget what I have remembered so that it does not continue to disturb me and to meet again with poetry, which is my only friend and confidant. The only one that is loyal and for no cause, justified or not, betrays you. We are only what we believe in and believe, the rest is a chimera, because it only exists in our imagination. I imagined him as I wished him to be, but he was not as I imagined him to be, because no one can penetrate the mind and soul of another person. They will always let us down! Now I have to follow the same advice I gave Naomi: If you need comfort, learn to comfort yourself; if you need support, learn to lean on yourself; if you need compassion, learn to pity yourself; and if you need love, learn to love yourself. What would have become of me if he hadn't won that untimely award? Would we still be together, would he have grown tired of me? We would probably be separated. I remember the night of the recital. He didn't say goodbye to me because he was jealous of my friends. But, on the other hand, only those who love feel jealous. And what would have become of his literary career if he had not met that woman? Naomi wants me to read her novels, but she herself assures me that they are well written and interesting, but lack motivation. They don't convey anything transcendental or human, they are novels to regale the ears of ordinary people, without ambition, conformist and resigned to their vulgarity. If I had helped him, he might not be so famous, but he would be better regarded and would have more incentive. He had the talent to write something more ambitious; something that deserved to go down to posterity. I just got an email from Naomi, I miss her so much! She should write to me more often. I open it, unable to contain my excitement: "Dear Mom, in two weeks it will be Christmas again and this year I don't know with whom of the two of you I am supposed to spend this lovely time of the year. You know how much I love you, but it hurts me that my father spends them alone, being so sick. My heart is still divided between the two of you, and I can't decide on either of you, because I wish I could spend them with both of you!" My poor daughter is in an unbearable emotional struggle. I should write to her and tell her that I won't mind if she doesn't come and spend it with her father. Someone has to sacrifice, because neither of us has done more to deserve her affection! "I have another important piece of news for you: Alicia has given me several copies of Dad's latest autobiographical novel. In spite of being very weak she has kept her promise. I've read it and I couldn't help crying with joy, but I won't tell you why, it's better if you read it and find out for yourself. Will you promise me you'll read it? I'll send you a copy by mail. I also enclose my first poem dedicated to the two of you. I already told you at the station that I wished I was like you. I hope you like it. A very strong hug from your daughter who loves you and misses you, Noemí." God knows that I would make any sacrifice so that Naomi would be happy and not have to suffer for our faults, but He asks the impossible of me! Betrayal has no redemption. Jesus would not have forgiven Judas either, nor does God forgive the devil. One betrayal is enough, now I cannot also betray myself. No, Naomi, my poor child, you cannot yet understand how the wounds of the heart hurt. Mine has bled for twenty years, and now it needs to heal its wound, it may happen tomorrow or never. Everything is written in destiny. Let it decide for us. She tells me that her father has published a new novel, and that it is autobiographical. I have a feeling that it must not leave me in a good place among his memories. Why is Naomi so keen for me to read it? I'm not spiteful. I, too, wish everything had happened differently. I also long for those happy campus days; that insecure young writer who needed my help; those dreams practically within our grasp. But he reneged on everything in exchange for thirty pieces of silver. God is just and has sent him the punishment he deserves! However, the paths of the Lord are inscrutable, thanks to my weakness this daughter of mine was born, who promises to surpass both of us and to be the comfort of both of us. Only God knows what is right and what is wrong. If I stand firm it will be His will and if he must die with regrets, so must he. Today has dawned with a dense blanket of snow that evens everything with the same whiteness. You can hardly walk through these steep alleys. I met the letter carrier on my way out of the bakery and he handed me the envelope with the book Noemi sent me. We all know each other here and there is no need for mailboxes. If I didn't know it also contained a poem by my daughter I wouldn't even open it, but I want to see if Noemí will become a great poet or if she is following the wrong path. I open it and am painfully struck by the title of the book: "Si tú fueras..., Memorias de dos amantes unidos por la literatura y separados por las palabras" (If you were..., Memoirs of two lovers united by literature and separated by words). What does he intend with this title? But I see Noemi's poem. It is not very long. I read it: "I WAS BORN OF FORGOTTEN PARENTS For love or lack of love, by charm or disenchantment, of two unknown lovers I was born of oblivion. As a baby I had no one to rock me, as a child I had no one to spoil me, as an adult I had no one to counsel me because I was born of forgotten parents I met my father when he was dying, I met my mother when I didn't remember, I knew myself when I cried, because we continue to be forgotten. I write you this simple poem to make you forget what you have remembered and remember what you have forgotten of the writer you had loved. Your loving daughter, Naomi." It is a poem worthy of my daughter. You could not have expressed her wishes better. It has touched the depths of my aching soul. I feel guilty that I have ignored my daughter's yearnings. Perhaps she has the right perspective on this drama and I am fixated on my revenge. Perhaps, after all, it is written in destiny that I must forgive her. But how do I know, who can advise me, should I turn to a priest, do they know more about the human soul than we do, have they been given the grace of faith by God himself, so that they are closer to virtue than other human beings? I have lost faith and trusted only in my own judgment, without waiting for the miracle of revelation, but after reading my daughter's moving poem I am beginning to doubt my moral certainties and the time may have come to ask for advice from one who is devoted to the salvation of souls, and mine must be at risk of damnation. If my daughter wishes, I think I should read this new novel. 38. The alarm (Narrator: Alicia) I have to warn Naomi, her father is dying! I know it's against his will, and it's the will of a dying man, but I'm going to call the hospital to have him admitted. He has to hang on to life for a few more days. I can't accept that this woman has no heart. She has to come and save him from the hell of his remorse or he will not rest in peace and we will not be able to meet in that place in the cosmos reserved for our souls. He is bedridden. He can hardly move anymore and has no desire to speak to me. But he follows my every movement with a dull, lifeless look, as if he could only move the girls in his eyes. But in that cloudy, dying look there must be a lucid mind, unaffected by the disease, and he must be thinking about his situation. I can almost read his thoughts. He accepts that his journey through this world has come to an end, and he awaits death with serenity and resignation. He will also dedicate some of his last thoughts to me. I know he hears me, I can see it in the flicker of his eyes, and I have to try to comfort him: -I know you can hear me," he blinks slightly, "You have not been a strong man, for geniuses are weaker the more wisdom they acquire, but illness has given you the strength to accept it without complaint or lamentation. Each day that passes and your end approaches, my love for you increases with the same proportion. At the moment of your death I will be the most in love woman in the universe. I know that this does not console you.... don't be sad, because she will come! But you have to keep a titanic pulse with death. Don't let it take you until it gives you its blessing! -I hold her trembling hand, which is now barely strong enough to know how she reacts. You must forgive me, but I have to call the hospital to prolong your life as long as possible. When she and Naomi arrive we will bring you back here and you can die as I know you wish: holding her hand until your last breath. Then our real life will begin. Then I will not be the ugly, clumsy, provincial girl, but a luminous soul who will meet yours and remain united for eternity. But if you die without his blessing, your soul will wander erratically from one universe to another eternally, never finding peace, and I will be alone for eternity. I know you will do this for me. I try to pull my hand away to dial the hospital phone, but I feel a slight pressure and his gaze seems to come alive. I think he's trying to tell me something. Maybe he wants me to keep shaking his hand. Yes, that must be it. -You don't want me to call the hospital, or stop shaking your hand, do you? -she confirms with a weak blink. Okay, I won't call the hospital, but you have to be strong and hold on until she and your daughter Naomi arrive. He closes his eyes and I get the feeling he's trying to tell me it's too late. Does this mean he could die at any moment? 39. A fatal destiny (Narrator: Naomi's mother) I have not been able to finish reading your latest novel. I think it's enough to make me feel close to hell, when I thought I was close to heaven! Why did fate set that monstrous trap for me? Why didn't I trust his loyalty? How is it possible that a deceitful image could have stolen the best twenty years of our lives? Who drove me to be in that place at that precise moment? The devil? The devil? What monstrous sin had I committed to deserve such a punishment? Poor man, all these years he could not tell me what had really happened! If he had known, of course I would have forgiven him! How could he write the novels I inspired in him if he has felt guilty all these years? I must write urgently to Naomi, telling her of my desire to return as soon as possible and show her father my repentance and my desire for reconciliation. There will probably be no happier person in this world than her when she receives my message! But I also feel as if my heart is no longer oppressed for the first time in twenty years, and is overflowing with joy, and I feel that it is beating again as strongly as when I was eighteen years old, the day I met this wretched writer over a slice of strawberry cream pie! That must be the happiness that forgiveness causes! Blessed be God who has enlightened me! I am desperate and on the verge of a new crisis: the latest snowstorm has left us incommunicado! There is no way to communicate with Naomi. I know from experience of other years that we will be cut off for several days, and he may die at any moment! Why, what evil force interferes with our destiny again and again? For God's sake, I hope it is not too late! No; I can't wait for the telephone lines to be repaired and the snow to be cleared from the road. I have to try to get to the railroad station, because the trains are still running. It's only five kilometers. In a week it's Christmas and I could be by his bedside, and spend the first Christmas together after twenty years of absences. Maybe the cab driver in town will want to take me. I'll go to his house right now. The cab driver is an elderly man, about to retire, and does not dare to drive in this blizzard. The road is narrow, with some very steep slopes. He suggests that we wait for the snowplows to pass, but he doesn't think they will clear the road until tomorrow or maybe the day after tomorrow. But neither tomorrow nor the day after tomorrow are there any trains connecting with the one to the capital. I have to catch the next one, which leaves at five o'clock in the morning. It has stopped snowing and I can walk this route. For this trip I don't need any luggage, whatever I can fit in my bag will be enough. I have to try! 40. The agony (Narrator: the dying man) Poor Alice, how can I tell her that my mind is clear and I am fully aware that I am about to die? How can I also tell her that I no longer have any regrets, because I have only done what destiny had planned for me. Our lives are written in the stars, and our spirit is a part of the destiny of the universe. Destiny that we do not know. Naomi's mother also had a destiny; which has already been fulfilled. I don't know how to tell her that I have sensed her death in some icy place, and that she will never be at the bedside of my deathbed. I once said that a dignified death is to die shaking the hand of the person who feels most affection for you, and that person is you, Alicia, besides your presence in this place makes it a home, so my conditions for a good death are more than fulfilled. Now I can die in peace. She has understood this and continues to hold my hand. I feel her life beating in it, already inert, and that contact makes me begin to feel an indescribable inner peace. It is her soul that pierces me and I feel it inside me, when I only have a few seconds left to live. Now appear the most emotional familiar images of my childhood that I kept in my subconscious. They follow one after the other with their sounds and sensations. I hear my own crying and my mother's voice rocking me in the cradle my grandparents gave her; I see my father pushing the swing in the park near our modest house on the outskirts of the city, when he must have been only two or three years old. He is young and vigorous, and he pushes the swing so hard it makes me cry from the excitement of the game. Many other images pass by, and from all of them I retain some impression. I see myself dressed in my admiral's costume from my first communion, and my parents, who take me by the hand almost on a cartwheel to the neighborhood church. There I see the little girl, with her virginal first communion dress, which made me feel the first passionate emotion of love. A multitude of family images follow, such as the photograph of the primary school, my father's first car, my first train ride, the first girl I went out with and the first kiss on the lips of a woman, and after many others, also the images of the university cafeteria and those that followed. But they all pass quickly and an indescribable emptiness remains after their ephemeral vision. It is as if they were being erased from my consciousness so that when death comes there is no trace left in my soul of what my life in this world has been. I sense that when I reach the last image I will die, and that moment is coming, because I see the image of my literary agent, that night that destroyed our lives. I see her in the half-open door of Naomi's apartment. My imagination has gone blank, and an immense peace comes over me. I no longer feel Alicia's hand. Now I see an intense, blinding light, I know that I am going to penetrate into that light where I will remain eternal... mind.... 41. Death (Narrator: Alicia) He has barely made a slight head movement leaning back against the pillow, and I feel no sign of life in his hand, I think he has died! But he seems to have fallen peacefully asleep. There is not on his face the slightest sign of pain. I withdraw my hand and his hand collapses. Yes, he is dead! The great love of my life lies dead before my eyes! From this instant death will do its work and his beautiful hands, his prodigious head, and his battered body will turn them to ashes. But the hateful reaper has not power enough to destroy the fruit of the one who now belongs to him. His work will survive, and his memory will not fade from my imagination until death takes me too. Now I should mourn him by evoking his memory, but he who has taken him from me will not have his way. Although my soul is broken in pieces, I will not shed a single tear, for I have already mourned him when he was alive. Now I have hardly any tears left, and I must save what tears I still have left for when I begin to miss him and feel his absence. He has been a lucky man, because he has lived doing the will of others, but he has died according to his own will. Only a privileged few have such a death; if it is difficult to live, it is much more difficult to die! 42. The two deaths (Narrator: the author) The two lovers of literature die on the same day and at the same time, because it was written in the stars. The frozen body of Noemi's mother was found by the driver of the snow-clearing vehicle, which would circulate that same morning, clearing the winding road of snow. Her body was not on the road, but in a small ravine, where it must have fallen given the darkness and the layer of snow that hid it. Her former lover died from fatal complications of his incurable disease. Naomi had sensed her mother's death when they said goodbye to each other at the railroad station. Unfortunately, she did not have to choose which of the two she would spend Christmas with, but which of the two she mourned. They were not buried together. She lay in the small local cemetery, and he had her body cremated and her ashes dumped on a nearby beach, as was his wish. Alice was deeply affected, for according to her beliefs, she would not be reunited with her beloved in that dimension she thought she had discovered in his astral personality. PART THREE: ASTRAL ENCOUNTER "Labor not for the meat which perishes, but for the meat which endures to eternal life." (John 6:27) 43. The farewell Death has taken him from me and death will give him back to me. I will look for you wherever you are and we will be together again, but for eternity! If you are in Hell I will rescue you; if you are in Purgatory, I will accompany you until we gain Heaven, and if you are already in Paradise, there we will meet, because love knows no barriers, neither human nor divine. This corpse lying on the bed has lost its soul, which must wander through the cosmos without a specific destination. No one but me will be able to find its whereabouts, because my astral body will be able to travel to every corner beyond the universe, and in some of these places I will find you. She condemned you to hell in one of your nightmares, and she has not come to free you from this curse. Now her presence is no longer necessary. I have to communicate this painful news to Naomi, because she, in spite of her mother's opposition, was very fond of her. She has died just hours before a new dawn. It is not worth waking Naomi so early. It is no longer necessary for her to hurry, her father no longer needs her. I will wait for the dawn. I feel as if I am the messenger of death, but of an expected death. No one will be surprised. Those who knew her diagnosis are already just waiting to read her obituary in the press or on the net, and will exclaim those phrases of condolence that they will have heard in other deaths of other famous people. "Poor thing, he died in the prime of his life and at the height of his popularity"; "He died when he had had everything but his health"; "This is how most of the great characters end their lives: always ahead of schedule"; "Artists live at an unhealthy pace and intensity, that's why they die early", etc. I think they are basically right. The soul is what gives life to the body and if we abuse our soul, we also abuse our body. In the end, the exhausted soul loses its defenses and so does the body, and the inevitable fatal disease ensues. My unfortunate friend was doomed, because he lived abusing his soul since he was aware of its existence. It is dawn, but this is not the same sun as yesterday, nor the same fading stars. It is not the same morning breeze, nor the same blue color of the sky. It is not the same city, nor the same street. Because tonight a writer has died, and when a writer dies something dies in the collective soul of the world, because we writers and artists are the soul of the world. With great pain in my heart I decide to call the unfortunate Naomi to tell her the sad news. She does not answer, but I receive a message from her cell phone answering machine: "Sorry, I am not available. I'm on my way to my mother's place. I just got word that she was found frozen to death on the road as she was walking to the train station. I am devastated and cannot talk. Leave me your message. I feel deeply affected and, at the same time, guilty because I judged this woman prematurely. I hope she forgives me! However, she took too long to forgive him. It is she who should have been shaking his hand when he expired. No doubt she has met her death when she was trying to answer the call of her fake novel, but when it was too late. Once again fate incomprehensibly turns against me, and she will again be my rival after her death, for the three of us will meet again beyond this tormented life. 44. The last trip The unhappy Naomi has had to attend two funerals in a few days. She attended her mother's funeral and barely had time to mourn her when she had to take care of her father's funeral. The hospital has taken care of his cremation and has given him the ashes. Now she has to carry out her father's last wishes and scatter them at sea. She has asked me to accompany her and we will leave for the coast first thing tomorrow morning. -How did my father die," Naomi asks me when we return in a cab to her apartment, unable to hide the sadness in her eyes and her delicate face disfigured by grief. -I think he was at peace, but I can't tell you more because he could hardly speak, I can only tell you that his countenance was serene and he seemed to have accepted death with resignation. -He didn't mention my mother? -He couldn't speak, but I'm sure he would have her in his last thoughts. -The local cab driver told me that she was trying to catch the first train in the morning to meet my father, and he didn't dare take her to the station, so she tried to get there on foot. -Why didn't you wait for the station road to be cleared? -I ask him, although I can guess the reason. -I don't know, but I found a short verse he wrote the night of his death: "Tonight there are no stars and it will not cease to be night Tonight there will be no moon, and it will never be daytime." She must have sensed his death, too, because she did not believe she could see my father alive. But she tried and it cost her her life too. Wherever they are, my parents will have been reconciled and will finally have the peace they deserve. I listen to Naomi and I can't help but feel an unjust wish that her hopes will not be fulfilled. She can't come between us even after she is dead! We are already in his father's apartment. I can't help but have the feeling of his presence, as if his soul has not yet left this room and cannot leave for some reason that only he must know. Naomi looks through everything that belonged to her father, and that now belongs to her, but she doesn't seem to be interested in it. She has gone to the bookshelf and selects one of his novels. She looks at the photograph of her father on the back cover, and cannot contain her tears. -Alicia, what was my father really like? You must have known him better than I did. -I believe that above all he was afraid of condemning himself, because he could never live according to his desires due to his constant remorse. He was a tormented soul who wrote novels to forget the cause of his torments. -Did you love him? -Yes, I loved him, but he never loved me back. -Then why didn't you leave him? -How can you abandon what is already a part of you? -And now, what will you do? -I will write a novel about your father's journey through the cosmos. His life after death! -But that's impossible! I suppose you can imagine, no one has ever been able to meet the dead! I do not want to alarm Naomi and explain to her that I can split my personality and separate my astral body from my physical body. I have experienced it once and I will achieve it a second time. The first time I barely moved a short distance from my physical body, but this new experience I have to take all the necessary precautions so that no one disturbs my concentration, because it will take me a long time to return. -Yes, of course I will imagine it. -Where do you think she is right now? -I can see in her eyes that she is uneasy and fearful, but she must get used to paranormal phenomena, because her parents will try to contact her through her dreams, and I must warn her. -I think he is here, because his soul has not yet been totally uprooted from the emotions transmitted to him by the objects with which he has had contact in life. -And do you think he's watching and listening to us? -he asks me, unable to hide his concern. -No, he neither sees us nor hears us. It can only contact us through our astral body, which happens during dreams. You have to be forewarned, because they are likely to appear in your dreams, and they will want to know what state of mind you are in. But it is likely that they will not make any reference to their deaths, but will appear in scenes that will not make any sense to you. In dreams we have no control over our imagination, time or space. I don't think I should have told her about this possibility. She seems really scared now and will be more so when the night comes and she faces the dreams. A foggy and unpleasant day dawns. It is not the most suitable to spread its ashes. We have arranged to meet at the railroad station, where we will take a train to a coastal town. Naomi is already waiting for me at the station entrance. We still have time for a hot tea, which will lift our spirits. We are sitting at the same table where she was last with her mother. She seems to have regained her composure. -Now I know why my poor mother gave me that sad advice. "Don't expect comfort from us. If you need comfort, learn to comfort yourself." I sensed her death. When she walked away from me, I had a feeling that was the last time I would see her alive! During the trip to the coast we barely exchanged a few words about the unpleasant weather. On the other side of the window, the landscape seems to share our deep sadness. A dense fog hangs over the small towns we are leaving behind. It is hard to believe that there can be happy people in such a depressing landscape. Sometimes the train runs alongside the road, and we can see the cars running at the same speed, occupied by people with obligations and responsibilities who do not think about death, but have no chance to think about life either. They live, that's all! 45. The ashes As we approach the coastal town we can smell the saltpeter. We leave the small railroad station and it is easy to orient ourselves and know where the sea is, because the freshness of the sea breeze clearly indicates the direction. The sky looks like an immense grayish mantle, and a cold and humid fog confuses the shapes of things. The cars drive with their lights on even though it is not yet noon. There are few people in the streets, it looks like a ghost town. We head for the promenade. It is not far. We can already hear the scandalous squawking of the seagulls. The station street leads directly to a simple promenade, as desolate as the rest. We can already hear the waves crashing against the promenade wall. From this promenade we can see the sea, but we can not see the horizon line, which is confused with the sky because of its grayish tone and the dense fog. On one side of the promenade there is a small breakwater, where a few fishing boats are moored, which probably have not gone to sea because of the storm. We chose that place to scatter the ashes. -It is very sad to end a long life of illusions, projects and ambitions," says Naomi, preparing to dump her father's remains in the sea, "in a handful of dust that will be carried by the currents to the bottom of the sea, and so ends his unfortunate story. -It is only his body, his soul will continue to exist, as his works will continue to exist. A group of hungry seagulls hover around, no doubt they must believe that the debris Naomi spreads on the water could be food. -His wish has been granted," he says to me, sobbing, "There will be no more deaths; we no longer need this urn! With an angry gesture, he throws the small urn into the sea. He wipes his tears with the back of his hand, grabs my arm energetically and we walk away from the place. -If you need consolation, learn to console yourself. Yes, Mom, I've already learned! Naomi has recovered her spirits. Life goes on and it is useless to mourn the dead. We have mourned them enough when they were alive. Of the dead, only the memory remains, and he has left a good memory. There is no reason to mourn. I am amazed at her fortitude, but in fact until a few months ago she has been an orphan since birth. Her behavior is not surprising. The return trip is as silent as the previous one. Naomi seems absent, or maybe she is thinking about her future as an orphan. Her gaze is lost in the misty landscape we are leaving behind. She seems to be reacting to some obsessive thought, because suddenly she turns to me and comments: -You were right, I dreamt about my parents tonight.... -He remains eloquently silent, as if wondering if he should unveil his dream to me. I was sitting on a park bench and my father suddenly appeared and sat next to me, but he was dead. I asked him why he had abandoned my mother, and suddenly she appeared sitting next to him, but she also appeared to be dead. They could not answer my question. Suddenly a policeman appeared, and addressing me, he said. "Excuse me, but the dead are not allowed in the park. Take them to the cemetery and bury them." I didn't know what to answer, I was terrified. But incomprehensibly, they both sat up, and turning to the policeman, my father said: "It is not necessary for her to bury us, we will bury ourselves. Goodbye Naomi, don't be late to join us...", and they disappeared, sinking to the ground of the park. At that moment I woke up -she keeps a sepulchral silence, she seems very affected by the dream-. What can this dream mean, Alicia? -That your parents miss you! -I answer without hesitation. -You mean they want me dead? -For them now you live in death, and they live in life. The roles have been changed, that's why they want you to join them. It is possible that this same dream will repeat itself again, although with a different argument, and they will insist again that you join them. You have to be strong and not let yourself be obsessed by what you hear from your parents during the dream. Although they happen in the astral dimension, they are disturbed by your own subconscious. -You mean I subconsciously want to die and join them? -she asks me in alarm. -Yes, but it's because of your current state of mind. You will get over it and your parents will only appear in your dreams when you miss them. Naomi seems comforted by my explanation. But she is still deep in thought, and once again loses her gaze in the misty landscape that we contemplate as the train passes by. Naomi seems to come out of her gloomy thoughts again, turns to me and confesses: -I'd like to be like you, Alicia: sure of who you are and what you want to do with your life. But who am I? The unwanted daughter of two dreamers who were lovers of literature, but who didn't understand the meaning of the word love, even though they wrote it hundreds of times. What should I do? I'm not sure I want to write anymore, with the example of my parents I've had enough! Maybe, as my mother said, I would make an excellent doctor. I'm not sure if I should encourage her to follow her parents' vocation, but precisely because they didn't know how to combine their worldly ambitions with their personal relationships, Naomi will learn from her parents' mistakes and could be an excellent writer without ruining her life. Yes, I think I should encourage her, it would be the best tribute she could pay to her ill-fated parents! -Naomi, in these times when no one believes in what they hear or see anymore, they can only believe in what they can imagine, and we writers can provide them with those images of the world they would like to hear or see! Sadly, most writers rejoice in recreating the nauseating images of what we can no longer believe and should no longer see. You can be a writer who enlightens readers! -But how do I know if I have the necessary talent to not remain in mediocrity? -My dear friend, that is what we all ask ourselves! You won't know the answer until you have overcome a few failures, because each failure will mean you have chosen a wrong path, and you must rectify until you find your own. Talent is about being yourself. The train is entering the central station. Naomi will not move into her father's apartment, because she does not want to live alone. She prefers to continue living with her classmates from college, but she has suggested that, if I wish, I can take it over. The idea is very attractive, because it makes my experience easier. I accept her offer, at least for the remainder of the course, and I will move in as soon as possible. 46. The preparation I am already provisionally installed in Naomi's father's apartment. It is a difficult sensation to describe, because all the objects in the apartment have something of him, and I still have the memory of his dead body on the bed where I am about to sleep. But I feel no fear, on the contrary, sleeping in the bed where the effluvium of the deceased is still there is the best way to communicate with him. I am aware of the risks and I do not know what may lie beyond this dimension. He may be trapped by some higher force and my energy will not be enough to free him. But you may also have reached some dimension that resembles Heaven, and my journey will be in vain. Either way, his destiny was written in the stars from the day of his birth, and it will have been fulfilled without possible appeal. Above all I have to make sure that no one will disturb my sleep while my spectrum is separated from my body. I have to disconnect everything that can ring, including the telephone and anything that creates magnetic fields, which I fear will be impossible to eliminate, and I don't know how it will affect me. After all, when I separate from the body I will only be energy and I don't know how other sources of energy that may be in the apartment may affect it. It is a risk I have to take. The other doubt is, in the case that our spectra meet, to know how we will communicate, because in the encounter we will only be able to communicate through our thoughts, for which we will have to ascend to the mental plane. If we manage to reach that dimension we will not be able to hide our thoughts, so it is impossible to lie or deceive, and everything must happen with total transparency. That must be the curse of material life: the possibility of deceiving and lying, the cause of all the disasters of this world! What will happen if I cannot return to my body? Will I die too? It would be suicide, which means going against my destiny written in the stars, and my soul would wander, without finding rest, until when? But how to have a notion of time where there is nothing but energy? It is all very confusing, and I know I am running a great risk. But what is the meaning of my existence in this world? I have given my heart to a deceased person and now I have no choice but to join him, whether he is in Heaven or in Hell! This weekend could be the appointed day for the meeting, because Noemí will travel to her mother's place to handle the formalities of her inheritance and there is no risk that she might show up unexpectedly. Nor do I expect unexpected visits, because in the last months of her life she had no other friend than her literary agent. His negative opinion of current writers caused him enmity with those with whom he had some relationship. Anyway I will leave a note on the door to make sure of any other eventuality. Tonight will be the big trip. I want to take advantage of these previous hours to write down what I intend to do, and I hope to be able to write also what might have happened on my return. To relax, I take a long walk through the same park where I declared my love. It is a walk full of nostalgia and deep sadness. Everything I see reminds me of his kind person, and sometimes I have the feeling that he is walking next to me and asking me new questions, but this time they are about the mysteries of life and death, for which I have no answers. I sit on a bench and remember Naomi's dream, I would like it to happen to me, but that only happens in dreams, reality is more stubborn, it refuses to change its rigid rules and everything happens as it is meant to happen. I'm back in the apartment and writing notes about tonight's experience. It is getting dark. It is a frigid late winter day. There is a chance of snow. For some reason snow depresses me. I don't like it, because it feels like it is falling on my soul. I like warm countries, because they are cozier and life is simpler. I listen to Bach's oratorios, because I think it is the music that should be heard in Paradise. I lie down on the bed and prepare myself for concentration. 47. Astral travel (Narrator: the deceased) I know I have passed away. I felt a strange vibration and what must be my soul is detached from my body. Alicia has already realized my demise and has let go of my hand, which now falls limp. I feel a force propelling me out of my apartment, and I pass through the wall without any difficulty. I am now traveling at breakneck speed, and I am heading towards the light I saw at the moment of my death. I have entered a strange dimension and I continue my journey through a semi-dark space. In this dimension I see a multitude of trapped specters, who implore me for help and try uselessly to hold me, because their twitching hands penetrate my specter without being able to grasp it. From their appearance and clothing I deduce that some of them have been in this darkness for thousands of years. I also believe that these are people who must have died a violent death, because their specters are horribly mutilated. Some are missing limbs, others heads, and most show wounds possibly caused by the wars or accidents, from which they must have died. But why do they remain in this darkness and not ascend to the luminous zone where I seem to be heading? I notice an important difference between them and me, where the explanation must be. My aura is absolutely resplendent, theirs are darkened. Perhaps when I died with a clear conscience and in peace, my aura was charged with positive energy, which gives it that glow. I have described this phenomenon in one of my novels, the fruit of my intuition, but which I now prove to be correct. For this reason my soul must be attracted directly to the source of light. It must be a simple effect of electromagnetic attraction. For this reason, I suppose that whoever dies with an uneasy conscience, suddenly or by accident, the soul must contain negative energy that obscures the spectrum, and in these conditions they must be attracted only to this dimension, which must be the astral, the first dimension of where those who have died are. These souls are suspended between what theologians call Heaven and Hell, which must be Purgatory. Their desperate attempt to cling to me must be for me to transfer to them the positive energy they need to enter a new dimension that will lead them to the light to which I am heading. But it does not seem that this transfer is possible between wraiths. Possibly that positive energy they need can be transferred to them from the physical world, with invocations, prayers or any other form that I do not know, directed especially to them and showing them your affection. I am still traveling at possibly the speed of light, but I have not yet left this dimension where there are possibly millions of souls in similar conditions. If this is Purgatory, where the souls are not enlightened enough to reach Heaven, those people who die and who have committed faults that have no redemption, their auras will be charged with negative energy, and they must appear absolutely dark, so they cannot rise and remain in the physical world, and this must be the Hell of the souls in pain of theology, and that for some cause that I do not know, they can appear as living dead, or zombies. I have no other explanation. I have crossed another cosmic plane and, at last, I am in the dimension of the blinding light that has irresistibly attracted me since the moment of my death. It has the same luminosity as my soul. No shadow to darken it. My journey through the dimensions of the cosmos seems to end here, because I have stopped moving at dizzying speeds. Here, too, there are perhaps millions of luminous souls like mine. They all seem to have the same youthful appearance, they must not be more than 18 or 20 years old, and they remain suspended in this immense luminous dimension. My specter moves slowly among them. They smile at me and seem to welcome me. I stop in front of a specter that amazingly looks like me when I was 18 or 20 years old, and still in college. He seems to be my double. Something extraordinary has happened: I feel a strange vibration and my double has merged, penetrating into my specter. Now I also have the same appearance as him. I feel confused, but at the same time I feel a great sense of indecipherable goodness. One of the souls who has watched my transformation approaches me and seems to want to communicate something to me. I try to read her thoughts, but I hear nothing. Moments later another even more resplendent soul approaches me, and, like the previous one, I think he is trying to make me listen to his thoughts. I hear him! -Welcome to the luminous dimension, because your soul has only positive energy, and it shines like the light that generates the source that illuminates and created the cosmos! An extraordinary source of positive energy, located in an even higher dimension, and its light is the creator of all the visible and invisible illusions of the cosmos. The more luminous our soul is, the closer we come to this extraordinary source of light. There are the souls of the most virtuous characters in history, such as Socrates, Jesus Christ or St. John of the Cross. I am also a higher luminous entity and I can communicate with any soul, but you can only communicate with those who have had contact in life and feel affection for you. You will be able to hear their thoughts, but they will not be able to read yours. -But what happened to me? Who was this double of mine? Where did he come from? -I hear your thoughts and will answer your questions. When we are gestated two spiritual entities are generated. One is in the form of the space we will come to occupy at the limit of our growth. That entity is composed of positive energy and remains in this dimension. Our destiny is written in it. The other spiritual entity remains in the embryo, which animates it. Its energy is variable and depends on the processes of its consciousness, which can generate positive or negative energy. Our destiny is fulfilled when we act in such a way that it is maintained with positive energy until the instant of our death. Otherwise we act against our destiny and at death we cannot merge with our energetic double and remain in an intermediate dimension or in the physical world, if our consciousness has no redemption. That double of yours has followed your personal development, and has been by your side whenever you invoked him. He was your guardian angel! -Yes, I now remember my experience in the little church park hours after I learned of my diagnosis, where I believed that an angel was sitting in my very pew. It must have been this double of mine, whom I had previously invoked. -You are now constituted as your destiny intended. There is no more duality in you, but an absolute energetic unity! My strange journey to this luminous dimension has ended when I reunite with my double personality. It is as if from this moment on a new eternal life has begun, but I cannot say that I am happy, because that would be to accept unhappiness, unknown in this dimension. It is a neutral state, indescribable, devoid of any anguish, fear or restlessness. Possibly the appropriate expression is "beatific". But fortunately I am not completely separated from my former physical reality, because I can indeed hear the thoughts of those who remember me and invoke me, albeit faintly, like a whisper. At this moment Alicia is invoking me and I faintly hear her thoughts. I fear that she is about to commit a grave imprudence, because she intends to join me in the astral plane, where I am not, and she will never be able to access this luminous dimension while she is alive. If Alice's astral body enters the dimension of the dead, she runs the risk of not being able to rejoin her physical body, and it is quite possible that she will also be trapped in the darkness of Purgatory, and she will no longer be able to join me, as was her wish! I have to find a way to communicate with her and make her see the risk she runs if she persists in her attempt. Now I am nothing more than a contingent of subtle energy that is invisible, but can move into the physical world. I run the risk of becoming infected with negative energy and not being able to return to this dimension, but I cannot allow Alicia to be condemned because of me. I have to try! 48. The return I have returned to the dimension of the physical world and I am at the foot of the bed where Alice is lying. She is approaching the state of concentration where the unfolding of her astral body can occur. If I provoke an energy discharge I may be able to turn on the lamp on the bedside table and interrupt her concentration. I get the lamp to flicker and fortunately Alice has abruptly snapped out of her concentration. She looks at the lamp quizzically, but does not associate it with my presence. She unplugs it and goes back to concentrating. I have to try again and hope she realizes that I'm trying to communicate with her, because my aura's energy wanes. I get her to blink weakly again, and Alice is startled. I think she has understood that it is me who provokes it. -Is that you? Are you here? I flicker the lamp again. Alicia has understood that this is my answer. -So, you haven't left your apartment, as I assumed! But you can't communicate with me. Be patient, I'll join you soon. Maybe this very night. I am trying to concentrate and manage to unfold my astral body, and then we can communicate and you can tell me where you are! I try to flicker the lamp again but it is useless. I will not be able to prevent her from unfolding and entering the dimension of the dead, and if she reaches that dimension and gets trapped I will not be able to rescue her. I only hope that her soul is not condemned and can no longer leave the physical world, which could happen if she dies, because suicide is a serious fault, and it would fill her soul with negative energy! -Alicia doesn't know that I can't hear when she speaks to me, but I can hear her thoughts, and my premonition of Naomi's mother's death is confirmed. But she is thinking that she trusts that we have not met, because she still considers her her rival, even after she is dead. If Noemi's mother is dead I should be able to communicate with her. Perhaps it is because she did not give me her forgiveness before she died that she is in Purgatory. But how do I know where she is? I should listen to her thoughts to know where to go, otherwise it is impossible for me to find her soul among millions of souls. Perhaps his thoughts do not mention me and he thinks only of the wretched Naomi. That would explain it. Alicia is again on the verge of her astral projection. If she succeeds, we will meet again, but it will be for a short time, because she must return to her physical world of the living and I to my energetic world of the dead. All her efforts are useless, our destinies meet neither in life nor in death. I feel truly sorry for this woman, but now I know that it is useless to fight against what is written in the stars. It must be the stigma she was telling me about. Alicia's body seems to shake. It is vibrating. She moves her head from side to side, as if something is trying to detach itself. Yes, it is succeeding, and the specter of her head is detached from her body, and the rest of her astral body as well. Her physical body has been left in absolute rest, no doubt sleeping deeply, while she dreams her splitting. Her first movements are imprecise, she rises slowly but keeps her eyes closed. A thin thread of energy holds her to life, I trust it will not break! Her ascent has stopped. She opens her eyes and gazes at me in amazement, but she cannot speak. Now she must read my thoughts and I must read hers. -Alicia, why did you do it? -He's here! I've done it! But he has changed his appearance, he is now a young man! -Alicia, what you have achieved is to put your life at risk! -He reproaches me for what I did, just for being by his side. -Alicia, I can hear your thoughts. Yes, I have to reproach you. Now you won't be able to join me. I'm dead and you're alive... -Then if my death can settle our differences, I will not return to my body! -You would achieve nothing, because it would be suicide, and you know that your soul would be condemned and could not be separated from the physical world. Give up this useless and dangerous love for both of you! -Haven't I been your faithful companion until your last breath? -Alicia, you are endangering my salvation as well. These reproaches, which I know are not fair, will cause my soul to become contaminated with negative energy, and may prevent me from returning to the dimension of light in which I had managed to ascend. For both our sakes, renounce! -I understand... my stigma haunts me here, too, among the dead. You wish to be with her for eternity, don't you? If I renounce, I'll be damned anyway... -But you will save my soul, and hers too! -She, with her unexpected death, has won! -No, Alicia, we haven't met. I don't know where he might be. Maybe we'll never meet. But where I am, time doesn't exist. I'll wait for you, but you have to die in peace with your conscience! Don't be afraid of old age, when you meet me you'll be eighteen again. -What about her? -Alice, where we will meet there is neither happiness nor misfortune, only goodness; there you can neither love me nor hate me; the three of us will be able to enjoy that infinite goodness eternally, and when its time comes, I trust that Naomi will also join us. -Are you asking me to let my life be consumed in the hope of eternally sharing with you the goodness of your Paradise? -Yes, I beg you! -I have no choice? -Hell now or Heaven when death wants to take you. -You give me the choice between two hells! -Yes, Alicia, but one can last for 30 or 40 years and the other for eternity? -I suppose I must resign and say goodbye until 30 or 40 years from now, and I can't even shake the hand I held at the moment of your death! -That's how it should be, Alicia... But I have to ask you something else.... It's about Naomi's mother. I fear that she is being held in a dark space, halfway between Heaven and Hell. For her to free herself from this dark dimension she needs the help of someone alive, who will transmit her the positive energy that will help her to ascend to a higher plane, and you can help her, and at the same time, help yourself to gain your salvation... -Are you asking me to save my rival? -He is no longer your rival, he is a soul, who, like you, deserves to ascend to the dimension of light and come out of the darkness where he may find himself. -And what can I do for her? -Pray for her! -I've never prayed; I wouldn't know how! -You only have to invoke his name and show him your affection. That will be enough to transmit positive energy to her. Also convey this wish to my daughter, Naomi, to pray also for her mother, and between the two of you you will save her. -How sad is my fate! -No, dear Alicia, in the world of the living there is no greater joy than to feel useful and necessary. Spend the rest of your life writing novels with plots that incite generosity and kindness, and you will live happily until your time comes and you join us. -I don't even have the consolation of crying! -Go back to the living and you can ease your heart with weeping. -Farewell then, until death do us part! -Farewell, my dear Alicia, I'll wait for you in Paradise.... His specter rejoins his body, which remains motionless. I cannot hear him, but I can tell from his sad expression that he must be on the verge of tears. Now he brings his hands to his face and must be sobbing bitterly. Poor Alice, no one but her deserves to enter Paradise! 49. In Purgatory (Narrator: Naomi's mother) Why am I locked in this darkness? Is this the fate of the dead? Where am I? I have seen my body frozen on the roadside as my soul ascended to this dark place. Yes, I must be dead, I have been imprudent, and I have paid for it with my life! What will become of my poor Naomi? I intended to save someone from his regrets, and I die with no one to save me from mine! This place is the Hell I deserve! I shall suffer this anguish forever! I think I see a small glow approaching me. Now I distinguish the spectre of a young man.... Oh, my God, it's him, he's dead too! But he is just as he was when I knew him twenty years ago! Yes, it's him; it's the same restless, ambitious young man who read my poems on our college campus; with the same teasing smile; the same charm in his gaze. I am ashamed that he finds me aging, though he is but a ghost. Perhaps he has heard my wailing, Death brings us together again! He approaches me and I can hear his thoughts: -My dear friend and admired poet, we meet again in strange circumstances. I learned of your sad death in the snow when you were about to watch over my deathbed. I do not know why you are in this dark place, but I will help you and I will repay you in death what you have suffered because of me in life. I needed your forgiveness to die with a clear conscience, but my sincere repentance and the help of our daughter and that extraordinary person, Alicia, saved me from hell. -I would have forgiven you, but death intervened. But, for God's sake, can you tell me where I am? -You are halfway between Heaven and Hell; in Purgatory. Your conscience should not have been at peace at the moment of death, and it became contaminated with negative energy, which prevents you from ascending to a new dimension, where I am. But fear not, your daughter Naomi and Alice will take you out of here and you will be able to join me. -I have never wronged anyone, why do I deserve this punishment? -I do not have the answer. Energy and its relation to consciousness has its own rule, but I suppose that the positive or negative energy that our soul accumulates depends on the state of our consciousness at the moment of death. -Then I deserve to be in this sinister place, because I was reckless.... but I had a good cause! -It would have been useless, because I died the same day. It was already too late! -But I did not know the reasons that led you to that brothel that night, and that you tell in your last novel. If I had known, I would have forgiven you from the first meeting. -I have not written a novel describing that unfortunate event! -Naomi sent me a copy that Alicia had given her.... -Alicia! She wrote that book and altered the facts so that you would come to my deathbed to co-sort me. I don't know what she told about that unfortunate event, but your impression was the true one: I betrayed you! -Is this deception also part of my tragic destiny? -Alicia was only trying to save my soul.... -At the cost of condemning mine! -He had set out to prolong my life until you arrived, but I prevented him from doing so. I am once again to blame! But it is too late for regrets. Our destinies are about to be fulfilled. Mine has already been fulfilled, and Alicia and Naomi will help you to fulfill yours as well. None of us deserves Purgatory, much less Hell. We were wrong because we were human, but for the same reason we repented, and we paid for our absolution with suffering. Now it only remains for us to gain Heaven and a whole eternity to immerse ourselves in a beatific calm in the dimension of light. -If this is also my destiny, I can only trust my daughter Naomi and join you in Paradise. Thus concludes a dramatic story that began one day in early spring, because of a strawberry and cream cakes. 50. Sentences (Narrator: Naomi) Alicia called me because she wants to see me about something related to my deceased parents. We will meet this afternoon and have dinner together at my father's apartment, just like in the old days. I have recovered my spirits and I am living a normal life. Fortunately my career takes up all my time and occupies my thoughts. Only in the evenings I feel the absence of my parents, but in reality I have always felt this absence. I am back in my late father's apartment. Alicia has not changed at all and her books, computer and all her personal belongings remain in the same place. She looks very worn out. It is as if she is suffering from some illness. Her gaze is languid and distant. Something is constantly distracting and disturbing her. She welcomes me with a slight smile. She is no longer the strong, self-confident woman. No doubt my father's death has affected her deeply. -Alicia, don't you feel well? You look tired, you look very unwell. -Yes, Naomi, I am not feeling well. I am depressed and sad. -It's because of my father's death! -Yes, that's why... He remains silent, as if he doesn't want to give me any other reasons for his depression. We sit at the table and Alicia serves me what she has cooked for dinner and we eat in silence. -I thought about your mother," he says in a pause, because he seems to have no appetite. I'm not a believer, but I think we should pray for the salvation of her soul.... -You mean his soul didn't deserve to go to Heaven, if it exists? -The circumstances of her death were not natural but accidental, and in these conditions she died without a companion to comfort her and help cleanse her soul of any remorse. She may be in a dimension where she needs our help. -Alicia, you make me uneasy! Are you suggesting that my mother may be in Hell? -If she were in Hell, she would no longer have salvation, but if she is in Purgatory, our prayers can help her to get out of there and go up to Heaven, which is where she deserves to be! -Alicia, you are talking like a believer. Do you really believe in hell, purgatory and heaven? My comment seems to have confused her, and I think she is mulling over her response. -Naomi, I don't know what I believe anymore! I beg you not to ask me any more questions, for I would not know what to answer. But I have a feeling that we must invoke her and show her our affection. You only need to think of her and show her your affection. Wherever she is, she will receive your message, and she will be closer to Heaven. -Alicia, I always thought you and my mother were rivals. -Dear Noemí, we do not compete with the dead. Outside of this world the heart no longer beats and there is no place for emotions like love. There is only goodness in Heaven and evil in Hell. Near Heaven and Hell there is only anxiety and doubts. Author's note Alicia died of sadness two months later. Her heart stopped because it was no longer useful. There was not an atom of negative energy in her soul and she ascended to the dimension of light without the slightest setback. FIN 1. Diagnosis Five simple words were all it took for the whole fantastic universe I created with my novels and in which I have lived apart from this world to collapse: "You suffer from an incurable disease". I have just been told this by the specialist who treats my illness. The messenger waits for my reaction, but I am unable to get an idea of what I have just heard. There is a tense silence. It seems as if the doctor is afraid to go on describing my situation, but he felt he had to be clear so that I would not be under any illusions, and he warned me that I have no more than six months to live, or, in exceptional cases, and if I respond well to treatment, perhaps a year. I leave the hospital reneging on having allowed myself to be diagnosed with the cause of my discomfort. Of course I do not accept the diagnosis. After all, the pains are still bearable. It is a cool, damp morning, as autumn mornings are, but pleasant for a walk. To prove that the diagnosis is not acceptable, I will walk back to my apartment. Why me? Yes, I know many people who suffer from incurable diseases, but for some inexplicable reason I thought I was immune. Now I need some time to come to terms with my mistake. Even to my regret, I have to accept that I am as human as others, and I can suffer from their same diseases. I am tired and I still have more than half of the journey to go. I enter a small park next to the neighborhood church. On one of its benches a beggar is dozing, and when I approach him he looks at me with a clear expression of hatred, because he must feel humiliated by my appearance of a well-placed person. He cannot know that I had just been condemned to die prematurely; if he did, he would have no reason to envy me. I sit down on an adjoining bench, because my legs can't take another step. The beggar looks disgruntled and shuffles around in his rags, as if this were his house and I had entered without knocking. The doctor has created a stigma for me. I am no longer the me-self who just an hour before could do whatever I wanted, but me-self-and-death. From now on, my every thought or act will have to count on it. But I am not resigned. The doctors may be wrong. Perhaps my medical records have been misplaced and are those of another patient. Some inexperienced secretary may have made that terrible mistake. Nature cannot abandon me and life cannot be so irresponsible with me. Fate cannot go against my will, because it is my will that must create my destiny. This can't be happening to me. I still have many new things to admire, many fantastic stories to tell, and, why not, perhaps someone to love. Is this a divine punishment? Am I being condemned to a premature death for supposed sins committed, even though I cannot know the nature of my guilt? A sinner does not need to know the details of his guilt, it is enough for him to suffer the punishment to know that he has sinned. It is perfectly possible that this illness was written in the stars, or can be read in the palm of my hand, without that I should consider it a punishment. But the most reasonable thing is that it is the result of my long nights of voluntary insomnia, giving life to characters that in gratitude lead me to death. But I bear them no grudge. From the beginning I accepted that every work that deserves praise is because in it there is a little bit of our own humanity, and humanity must also have its limits. Perhaps that was my fault: to have created ghosts and presumed to be their god. But without me they would never have existed, so I must be right: I am their god, and therefore I do not deserve to be punished with such cruelty. ZIf that is divine justice, all artists will go to hell and imagination would be persecuted and severely punished. 2. The reaction The great impression and uneasiness that the diagnosis has caused me totally overrides my sense of time. I do not know how long I have been sitting on this bench. While I think of my desolation in some remote part of the universe, I am sure that someone, who already knows my fate, must be feeling sorry for me. It is probably an angel, the same one that appeared in the prayer cards we were given when we were kids in religion classes. Back then I wanted to be an angel too. I wanted to fly, to see the world from above, to migrate to warm lands, to be free like the birds, and, according to those bright pictures, only angels knew how to fly. That's why I wanted to be an angel. My hair stands on end, because I sense that this angel may now be sitting on this very bench, listening to my nostalgic thoughts, futilely trying to console me, because angels and humans, for some reason that only God must know, are incompatible. But I have returned to real time because of the murky, resigned look the beggar gives me from time to time, unable to understand what someone like me is doing sitting on this bench at this hour of the morning, reserved for the homeless. I would like to tell him that I don't know either, but it would be of no use to him. A cold, autumn sun shines, but clean and bright. A cool, damp breeze from a nearby sea moistens my hot face. There are still traces of the morning lightning on the cars and sidewalks. Winter will soon be here. It is inevitable that winter will come to all of us one day, but some of us will not live to see the next spring. The beggar has stood upright and looks at me in wonder. I think that despite his appearance, he must have the ability to read my thoughts. Yes, he knows what I am thinking, because those of us who suffer have the same rictus, the same languor in our eyes, the same curvature of the back, the same reddened eyes, and all that is easy to translate into common language: Desolation. For a few moments he seems undecided. Finally he makes up his mind, and with the gait of one whose muscles are numb, he comes to my bench, but does not sit down. He remains standing, hesitant, undecided. Finally he makes up his mind, and asks me for a cigarette, but unfortunately I don't smoke. I offer him some coins, but he incomprehensibly refuses. His gaze wanders to an indeterminate point, he seems to meditate whether to engage in conversation or return to his world. As if that encounter had not taken place and without making the slightest gesture, he walks again with the same clumsiness that short distance that separates our two worlds, and again wraps himself in his rags to continue dozing. He has no courage to come out of his poverty and I have no courage to accept mine. He has lost confidence in human beings, from whom he only asks for a cigarette; I have lost confidence in myself, from whom I only ask for courage to face my misfortune. The beggar has risen again and comes towards me. He asks me with a gesture of mock humility for the coins I offered him. I don't feel like taking any interest in his situation, I only have some interest in my own. Not even an hour has passed since I have known my condemnation and I have a feeling that before returning to my apartment I will have passed to the phase of rebellion, which is nothing more than the resource of kicking, previous step to the acceptance and submission without defenses or reservations. "Behold the slave of the Lord, be it done unto me according to thy word". The beggar gets impatient, he probably thinks I want to humiliate him and I notice more hatred in his stray look than in the previous one. I hand him the coins and he goes back to his bench without thanking me. He counts them and gives me a contemptuous and coarse look. No doubt I had hoped he would have been more generous. I can't stand his ragged presence any longer and resume my walk, but part of my body burns as if I were already in hell, and I find it hard to walk. Is there a hell? Is there a heaven? Is there a God, and his angels and cherubs? I am horrified to realize my rapid transformation. For the first time I have doubted my deep-rooted secular convictions. Until just a minute ago, hell, heaven and God were something anecdotal; a topic of conversation full of incongruities and fanaticism for the gullible and ignorant; of intellectual blindness and irrationality. And suddenly these theological questions arise again, but with renewed importance. I also sense that my mind will soon go blank, refusing to think, since I could not stop thinking about death and its intricate mysteries. I have to rediscover nothingness, and immerse myself in it until the day of my announced death. 3. It's three in the morning and I can't get to sleep. Just darkness and nothing else. Those figures that the lights of the cars project on the ceiling are the only thing that catches my attention, the rest seems to have vanished. Everything around me is silence, darkness, nothing. Whoever created this absurd word was thinking of me, I have given it its true meaning; its authentic meaning; its oppressive emptiness. At four o'clock in the morning I will still be thinking the same thoughts I am thinking now, and the next hours, the next days until the day of my death I will still have the same thoughts: nothing. I have nothing left to think about except nothingness, and, thinking about nothingness is like not thinking. I leave my mind blank to try to dissuade my brain from reliving bad memories, the good ones I have not forgotten. 824 there is nothing left of all that. It is time for my own final judgment. I have been ambitious, selfish and disloyal. If hell exists, no doubt I will be condemned. I have to admit it, these insistent pains, added to my regrets, have sapped the creativity of my imagination. My latest novel is mediocre, even pathetic. The characters are stillborn and act like real zombies. I think I have lost connection with reality and live in a parallel world. I see the new world but I don't feel it; I hear it but I don't understand it, and I no longer have anyone around me to comment on this chore of time; a confidant to whom you can tell a host of misfortunes without being rejected, ignored, or forgotten. I have crossed from one dimension to another without realizing it, entertained with my dreams of greatness, with the conviction that I would put the world at my feet and now I am its doormat. I have betrayed the only woman I have ever loved. I have despised my friends, and admired my enemies, because I preferred the encouragement of victory after a bitter war against my enemies to the sterile peace of friends. And now I have neither friends nor enemies. Some I have humiliated, and the others have ignored me and rejected my enmity, so that there is nothing left, neither of one nor of the other. I am prostrate on the bed trying to forget that I have a corrupted body, which threatens to destroy my soul and my mind as well. Tonight the sporadic lights of the cars that cross the roof seem to me like souls in pain that warn me that very soon I will be one of them and I will cross the roofs of other damned; that neither heaven 8 hell exist, only the unbearable nothingness. 4. The first sunrise 6 It's finally dawn. I have slept two or three refreshing hours. It is a relief to sleep; to be able to have the opportunity to meet with the dearest people, but not the real ones, but the ones that your mood needs, and that during wakefulness sleep in your imagination. Only in dreams things happen as we wish them to happen; without dreams the soul would have nowhere to take refuge, nowhere to nest and sing its song, it would be prey to the harsh and severe reality. I do not know who gave us the faculty to dream, but it must have been someone very understanding and well aware of the weaknesses of the human being. Maybe it was the God that religions talk about, but I cannot accept it, because I simply do not believe in anything. I have even stopped believing in myself. He who lives in nothingness cannot believe in anything. But it is dawn and it is my hour for optimism; the most awaited moment, because light must be the cause of all creation, while darkness is in charge of destroying it, of plunging creation into an abyss of no return, the same that must await us after death. I have thought a lot about death, especially about my death; about my irreversible and early death. I would like to believe in transmigration, because life is not destroyed, only transformed. It would be a comfort to be able to believe that moments after my last breath to be part of a new life, somewhere on Earth or in the Universe. After all, we come from it and we will return to it. But my room has been flooded with light and now I see things as they are and not as I dream them. I see on the shelf meticulously arranged by thickness, color and height my novels, on which I have spent, or perhaps worn out, all my life, and some photos of remote and unrecoverable times. The best novels I wrote when my mind and my imagination had wings, because they were young and free, and understood each other: what the imagination created my disciplined mind wrote. Most of my novels have been a resounding success, but the last one was tainted with my illness. On my desk, next to the window through which I look out on my part of the world, I see that the computer that in better days constantly provoked me, leaving me hardly any respite, no time for rest, remains inactive and silent. I could only hear the exciting and rapid sound of the keys describing on the illuminated screen the images that gushed like a spring of fresh water from my exuberant imagination. Then this machine was an extension of my mind and my spirit, now it is a common computer, like thousands of others, without soul and without activity, because I no longer have anything to tell. The keyboard seemed to me like a universe, with which one could express even the deepest philosophical thoughts, write the most passionate dialogues, or describe the most beautiful scenery. Everything was there, at sight, you just had to choose the right letters, in the right form and with the right rhythm. That was another life. Each character that came out of that now inert keyboard completely disrupted reality: they were the real ones, the rest was a dream. I felt them so alive that I often invoked them convinced that they would appear in my room, and we would discuss their future as a character in the novel. I always had the feeling that they were unhappy with their role, because I never got to know them as they really were, even though I had created them myself. But that was before the diagnosis; before my walking became clumsy and unsteady; long before the first symptoms of my illness made me lose consciousness because of an intense pain arising from some vague part of the inside of my body. But I had a premonition of my illness many years before. I may have had the presentiment from birth, so I lived with urgency, wrote with urgency and also grew old with the same urgency. Now I can rest and calm down, there is no longer any reason for urgency. 5. A dignified death I have discarded all hope. I know I am going to die, but against my will. I cannot accept that nature will decide for me. I have to anticipate its blind impulses; its irrational destruction. Only I can decide when and how I should die. It is a thought that horrifies me, but perhaps I must put an end to my life myself. Suicide? Would I be able to do it? But how? I don't want to die a violent death. By resorting to sedatives? But, knowing my situation, no doctor would prescribe them. I never thought it would be so difficult to attempt against one's own life. I envy those who are fortunate enough to die in their sleep, because the greatest difficulty for a suicidal person is to make the last decision of his life, because it is not possible to rectify it. Perhaps I could resort to euthanasia, but I do not want to die where the law allows it, nor do I want my death to be a commercial exchange. I would like to die by the sea, at the dusk of an autumn twilight, to take its beauty with me into eternity. Can't the wishes of a dying person be fulfilled? Why can't mine be fulfilled? But I am talking about me; planning my death by my own hands and by my own will. I intend to be myself the murderer who destroys everything I have created; to put an end to the fruit of my youthful illusions, my ambitions consummated after many years of loneliness and sadness, to my pleasant memories. At least if nature kills me, I will not be responsible for this homicide. No, I cannot attempt against myself. No tree would destroy its own fruit. But if I do not have enough courage to attempt against my body, I have to silence my conscience, limit the gloomy thoughts and close the eyes of imagination, the only one responsible for my sufferings, because we do not suffer if we do not imagine. So, do I have to let this terrible disease take its course? How will I bear this long agony? What stimulus will I count on? I can't imagine waiting impassively for death lying in a hospital bed, my mind dazed by painkillers and my vision blurred, foolishly fixed on some spot in the room. No, that is not a dignified way to die. There must be another, more humane and less painful way. Maybe the only worthy way to die is in that place you call home, and to be next to someone who feels true affection for you; that you can shake his hand until the last breath is lost, because it is through the hands that souls communicate and express their desires and feelings, so you can take his affection and his smile to eternity, although my eyes no longer see, my ears no longer hear and my body no longer feels anything. That is the only worthy way to die! A wise but useless reflection, because I don't have a home or anyone who feels so much affection for me. This apartment is not a home, because it lacks the essential: a woman. It is only a place of residence; a comfortable refuge; the right space for a writer; a gilded cage where to let the imagination run free. Only a woman can turn a station waiting room into a home, because she is the home. It is in her arms, in her bosom, in her feminine energy. Home is in the bed where a woman lies. As for someone who feels enough affection for me to watch over my agony and shake the weak hand of a dying man, unfortunately I haven't heard from her for many years. She was my first and only love, the person who stimulated my imagination and my creativity. To her I owe what I am and the memories that have inspired most of my novels. But back then my blind ambition was stronger than my feelings. We were united and separated by our passion for literature. We were both confident in our talents and had not the slightest doubt about our future successes. Our relationship inspired his best poems, for which I was flattered and transported to another world, but providence had a painful fate in store for him. The plot of my first novel was also the fruit of our relationship: the story of a failed poetess who describes her suicide in her last poem - a bitter paradox of fate! She helped me to correct my notable literary defects as a beginner, even typed the manuscript and suggested that I send it to a well-known literary contest for beginners. She shared my illusions and ambitions with generosity and without the slightest shadow of envy. He gave himself entirely to this work, which finally bore its unexpected fruits: I won the first prize! What followed is the cause of my regrets and I will never be able to forgive myself. A well-known literary agent was interested in me, and assured me that I had great literary talent and that in one or two years she would make me the most read and admired writer of that time. I was deeply flattered and accepted her bet. She suggested the theme of my second novel: a romantic story with a happy ending, and I had no difficulty in imagining the plot, I only had to add some new scenes to my own personal experiences. In this second novel it was she who revised and corrected the numerous stylistic flaws and grammatical errors of the first manuscript. We used to work in her own home, in an atmosphere of intimacy and familiarity, created to seduce me and make me literally fall into her arms. He had seen in me not only a talented writer, but also a lover. Unfortunately for my faithful companion, my agent was a woman with the appeal of mature yet beautiful women, with a young spirit and great experience in the arts of seduction, so it was impossible for me to resist. In a short time she managed to completely dominate my will. I spent my days in a frenetic program of promotion of my novel that barely allowed me to dedicate a few minutes to the memory of another woman who had to suffer in silence every time my image, with a studied smile of an arrogant winner, appeared in the media. The few moments I did not dedicate to my promotion I had to occupy them in satisfying her desires, always unsatisfied, not as my agent but as my lover. Although there were times when I was aware of my disloyal behavior, I could not give up the vain feeling of being above the common people; of dominating their wills, turning them into sycophants and my admirers. Since then there has been no peace for my spirit and I have known neither true friendship nor, much less, the passionate feeling of love. Now it is too late, because both friendship and love are like a beautiful plant, it needs time to bloom. 6. Memories Sometimes I wonder what would have become of me if I had not won that unexpected prize. I would possibly be married, have two or three children, a more prominent abdomen and could have found a good job in an insurance company, where I would have been promoted to assistant manager by now. We would live in a nice house with enough rooms for everyone, located in a quiet residential suburb. We would have two dogs, my wife's hysterical Yorkshire and a larger breed, plus a Siamese cat. Two of my children would already be going to university. The eldest would study law, and would already have secured a job in my company, and my middle daughter would study journalism, because she believed she had a vocation as a writer, and would have already published a book on the web with a romantic theme. The little one, because we would most probably have two females, would still be in high school and would wear a dental prosthesis to correct the deviation of her teeth. My wife would be president of some cultural association, and every first Saturday of the month our large living room would become a meeting room, where a dozen active mothers of families, and some retired widower, would discuss the details of an ambitious cultural program. We would have a good relationship with our neighbors. He might be a top executive of a multinational pet food company, and she would run a small, exclusive clothing boutique in our residential area, which in all likelihood would be a ruinous business. Every summer my wife, myself and our youngest daughter would spend two weeks in a popular seaside resort, where we would have an apartment booked every year on the 15th floor of a building on the third line of the sea, while our older children would take advantage of the summer to follow intensive English courses in London or New York. Is that what I missed? No; it's too conventional an assumption that I would never have accepted. But I don't want to think of my life with that woman as if it were the plot of one of my novels. She is a person and I must not confuse her with a character; our relationship was not a novel. Sometimes I don't know how to distinguish dream from reality, because memories eventually become dreams, and dreams eventually become reality. Everything could have been different if I had not been so blind and ambitious and had not fallen into the arms of my literary agent. But soon her eagerness to feel young and attractive no longer found sufficient stimulus in me, and she found herself a new lover, another ambitious young writer. I did not feel her betrayal at all, rather it was a liberation, because I also needed new stimuli to continue the meteoric rise of my popularity. Then I tried to recover my first love, but I lost track of her, it gave the impression that she had emigrated to another planet or had been swallowed up by the earth, because she had disappeared from all the means that could identify her whereabouts. Discouraged by the futile search, I tried to seek solace in one of my young female admirers. It was not difficult for me to seduce them, I could even choose among the many young girls who idolized me. I chose her not for her intelligence but for her body, because my capacity for love had been nullified by my betrayal. Unfortunately, despite her attractiveness, my constant remorse made me impotent and insensitive, so my relationship with my young lovers was brief and frustrating. My remorse led me to accept loneliness and I gave myself body and soul to my work. But the theme of my novels changed radically, the previous plots always had a happy ending, the new ones became unhappy, negative and with tragic endings, in which the protagonist of the story invariably died. But far from declining, my popularity continued to grow, because in our time there are hardly any relationships with a happy ending, and my readers identified better with the new dramatic twist of my tragic plots. 7. Ella Yes, despite all these years, I still keep her image alive, because she has been the one who has inspired my most beloved female characters. I have described her so many times that I could not forget her even if I tried. And if my memory should play a trick on me and erase her image, I only have to read again and again the novels where she is present to recover her intact, just as I have kept her for the last twenty years. But the years go by and leave their horrible mark. Maybe if I passed her in the street I wouldn't recognize her. What havoc has time done to her childish face and rosy cheeks? What color are her curly blond hair, always tousled, tangled between my fingers? And her breasts, small but sensual? What must not have changed is her sincere and tender look, nor the blue color of her eyes. How much I have longed for her in my long sleepless nights giving life to characters with her qualities! How much I would have given to feel her hands on my sore shoulders for those endless hours trying to recreate the world with the fantasies of my exhausted imagination! And how many mornings I woke up hugging my pillow, waking up from a dream in which I took her in my arms, and lying on a fragrant freshly cut lawn, we contemplated a pristine blue sky, which our eyes could barely contemplate a tiny part of its immensity. I met her in the faculty canteen one day in the early spring of 1997, the year Dario Fo won the Nobel Prize for literature, which I secretly aspired to win someday. She stood in front of me in the cafeteria line and pretended to hold her cup of coffee and a huge strawberry-cream cake with one hand, because the other was holding several books of poetry. I offered to hold the books for him, but he declined. Finally, as feared, the coffee cup, the cake and his precious books rolled on the floor. Then she did accept my help. While she cleaned up the pieces of cake that had smeared the books, I got a new cup of coffee and the last remaining slice of cake. But as fate would have it, that early spring morning she was left without her coffee and her delicious strawberry and cream cake, because I tripped over a misplaced chair and, once again, coffee and cake ended up on the floor. That coincidence in our clumsiness we interpreted it as a sign of destiny, that we were made for each other. The days and months that followed our eventful meeting were simply glorious. We discovered our respective vocations and ambitions, and agreed, sealed with a kiss, to walk together on the road to glory, which our youthful optimism considered conquered. We used to sit on the soft grass of our campus and exchange notes with our respective creations. I would read and appreciate her poetry and she would read my stories and we would discuss them in heated literary debates. Even today I still remember one of her poems, dedicated to me, of course: If your heart were foam, I would be ocean; If your soul were heaven, I would be cloud; If your gaze were rain, I would be a field; If your hands were water, I would be thirsty. We attended all cultural events related to literature, and we were considered "Les enfants terribles" of book presentations, because of our exhaustive questions. I think authors were afraid of us. We didn't miss any biographical film of writers. We made plans for the future, for when we were rich and famous. We agreed that we would spend half the year in Paris and the other half in Mallorca, in a small house on some cliff and that from the bedroom window we could watch the sunrise over the Mediterranean Sea. We had even decided to have our first child when I turned 30, and to have enough time to consolidate our respective literary careers. All those wonderful fantasies were happening before I won that damned prize. I realize now that I was sure of what my bright future would be like with all sorts of details, but I wasn't sure what I was like, and I barely endured the first test that fate put in my path. 8. The message I have barely had time to reflect and be fully aware of my pitiful fate and tomorrow I have to appear in public and make the presentation of my latest novel. I am the slave of my own success, a prisoner of the clauses of a draconian contract. I have long since ceased to be free and become an admired slave. I would give everything I own to go back and restart my life with her, and that I would never have had the clumsiness to submit my first novel and a literary contest, only to have the misfortune of winning it. But it's too late now. Now I will be back on the cover of specialized magazines, but to announce my inevitable death. They will write eulogies full of eulogies and virtues that I surely do not have, but the dead are extolled or sullied, but rarely respected. Surely the sales of my books will triple, so my untimely death is a magnificent business for my publishing house, for the printers and for the bookstores. They will mourn my death with crocodile tears. My agent will visit me repeatedly to secure his commission after my death. The publisher will also visit me, and with affected sadness, will make me sign a new contract to ensure the exclusivity of my books when I leave this world. I will receive thousands of condolences from my admirers, and they will be so hypocritical as to wish for my speedy recovery, but deep down my death is much more morbid and exciting for them. And what will become of my work? How long will it remain in the memory of my current admirers? A dead writer is only profitable as long as his funerals and tributes last, then other living writers will occupy my void, and they will surely be victims of my same disease. I am not likely to survive long. I have always had the feeling that I was writing what readers wanted to read not what I wanted to write. I will never know what kind of writer I am because I have never really tested myself. It has all come too easy to be important. There is no greater misfortune for a writer of vocation than to win a contest at a young age nor worse torture than to succeed at something you don't like. To write what your own intuition dictates, it is necessary not to think about readers at least until you are forty. I am one of those victims. I try to put these pathetic thoughts out of my mind by reading some of the numerous messages I receive every day. Today I don't want to read that chorus of praise from those who seem to be born to admire anyone who has their name printed somewhere other than on their ID card or in the mailbox. Most of them admire me only because I have hundreds of other admirers and followers, but they don't really know why they admire me. They all expect the same thing from me: a few words of response from the myth they are subjugated to in order to feel blessed by divine grace. Those of these unconditional admirers are a few short sentences that they must have saved in their computer memory to send to their favorite writers: "Very good your last novel", "I was hooked by your last novel", "I enjoyed your last novel", "I loved your last novel"; etc. And what can I answer? I could give them a huge thank you and have them divide it among themselves. But there is one message that catches my attention. It is that of a young woman. I can't explain it, but her image makes me uneasy and uneasy. Perhaps it is because there is something common in our features; or because of her haughty and provocative look, and yet, there is something of sweetness in her face. I have the impression that her arrogance hides a vulnerable personality. I almost don't dare to read her message, I have a feeling it will not be favorable and I don't have the day to endure criticism. After all, praise is a balm, it doesn't cure but it soothes; criticism is a bitter medicine, it tastes bad but it cures. I dare to read it: "Hi, I am an aspiring writer who has read all your novels and in my humble opinion there is only one that has a good motivation: the first one, the rest are acceptable, but lack this important quality. It seems as if after the first novel you have lost the motivation of the first one. As for your last novel, I am sorry to say that it seems as if you have lost both motivation and inspiration. Forgive me for being so frank, but that is my opinion. Naomi." Whoever you are, Naomi, you have discovered my best kept secret! I confess that this severe criticism from an arrogant and conceited young lady has affected me. I shouldn't worry, all the invitations for the presentation of my new novel have been booked for a week now, and the reviews have not been very effusive but not bad either, but what surprises me is the certainty of her judgments, which fully coincide with the reality of my literary career. It is true that the novels after the first one I wrote were influenced by my literary agent, not by a human being, and that they were not written by the artist but by the professional with a good style. And that face... that expression... those features so similar to mine; the clear forehead, the dimples in the cheeks and the slight droop of the eyelids... they are identical. But I wonder who is this mysterious Naomi? There is nothing in her profile that identifies her, not where she studied, not where she lives, no pictures, no blog; nothing! I answer: "Dear Noemí, your harsh criticism has hurt my self-esteem, but I appreciate your sincerity. I have no doubt that you will be a great writer. I am aware that none of my novels will deserve even a modest corner of posterity. If I wrote with posterity in mind, I would lose practically all my readers. In the times we live in, no writer can be above the intellectual level of his readers, because that would make them feel guilty and ignorant. If you appear half a dozen times on a TV channel with a large audience and you have some physical attraction, you automatically become the idol of thousands of people who were born to be followers. The media has so much power that if they had their way, they could win the Nobel Prize for the editor of the crime chronicles of a provincial newspaper. If the media have idealized you, you can write anything, because they won't stop admiring you. My latest novel is not brilliant, it is as normal and ordinary as the normal and ordinary readers who will enjoy reading it, because it speaks in their same language, it has their same vices and virtues. Anyway, that is the novel they would write themselves, but I have spared them that painful work. Most of us writers today are not chasing readers but journalists and image-makers, who are the ones who really rule the world. If you dream of being an out-of-the-ordinary writer, your life will be spent within that same out-of-the-ordinary dream, and you will never be able to live in reality. I look forward to your understanding. Kind regards" I send it. I find it a good rejoinder, but I have to admit that your criticism has merit. I don't owe my fame to my supposed talent but to the popularity that my first novel gave me, and that she inspired me, and the intelligent marketing of my protector. I have no more merit than to have been able to interpret her advice, her deep knowledge of the psychology of readers and her wise ideas, with my ability to write them in an acceptable style. But I am sure that there are hundreds of writers with much more talent than me who have not been as lucky as me. I just received a new message from Naomi. I wonder how she interpreted my reply. I could delete it. After all, it's just the opinion of an immature young girl, I don't have to take it into consideration. I have plenty of admirers and I am no longer worried about success or failure, because there will be no more novels to criticize. She is right: I lack muse and inspiration. But I am curious to know her opinion and I open it: "Yes, good novels need good readers, that's why they are so scarce. But good writers make good readers, and if you write mediocre novels you will always have mediocre readers. I look forward with great interest to hearing your views on the presentation of your new novel. Best regards and see you tomorrow. Noemí." It hurts me, but I accept it. You are absolutely right: each reader gets the author he or she deserves. No doubt I am one of those to blame for the mediocrity of the readers, because I have been satisfied with their compliments without worrying about whether or not they were well-founded. What can I say about the novel if I have never written a real novel? 9. Hallucinations Another endless sleepless night. I see mysterious shadows creeping stealthily around my bed. No doubt I suffer from hallucinations. I have had to hide all the pictures that decorated this room, because when I looked at them it seemed as if they were moving and coming out of their frames. Sometimes I look at my hands and it seems to me that they are someone else's and not mine. Any small object becomes an insect crawling on the shelves of my bookcase, or on my study table, I even see them moving on the quilt of my bed. I know they are simple hallucinations caused by my tired eyesight and depressed mood, but they distress me. I cannot bear this suffering until the day I die. I have to do something. I need her forgiveness. I have to find her even if I have to go to hell itself, from which I am only a step away. Why hasn't he contacted me in all these years? I am a public figure. She must have known how to contact me. A wound can't stay open for twenty years. They say that time heals everything, but they don't say what kind of wounds it heals. There are some for which, it seems, time does not pass, and probably some of them are disloyalty and betrayal. But she may also already be married with a family, and no longer feel any interest in me. Or, who knows, and I am distressed at the very thought, but she may already be dead. The ghosts keep haunting my bed. It seems as if all the spirits are conspiring against me to destroy what little judgment I have left, but I will resist; this is not a good time for madness. I have taken from the shelf my latest novel and read the passage in which the heroine discovers that her lover is cheating on her. It is an ordinary love story, and in real life cheating is also ordinary, and I have personal experiences to write these scenes realistically. Another dawn without any reason for optimism. I must have slept two or three hours, but I feel tired and sore, because the few hours I have slept have been occupied by a horrible nightmare. Fortunately I can only remember the final moments. I was bedridden in a hospital bed, but the room was painted red and a faceless nurse was injecting me with a dose of morphine. Scenes of a butcher butchering pigs could be seen in front of my bed. The pigs would talk and ask the butcher, "Why me?" But the butcher would not listen to their cries and would unload one after another of his deadly blows. Incomprehensibly it was my turn, and I asked him again the same anguished question, "Why me?" with the same result. And the butcher was preparing to settle his killing blow, when he suddenly transformed into her, smiling, just as I last saw her on campus. She stroked my dazed head. She gazed at me for a few moments, and barely as a whisper, she exclaimed: "Spreads his wings the angel of death, because he has an important assignment from Lucifer. When you are suspended by its deadly claws, I will not cry for you but for me, for I will not be able to accompany you to hell, as was my wish." And he vanished, transforming into the butcher, who again was about to lay his deadly blow when fortunately a call from my cell phone woke me up from this horrible dream. It is my current literary agent. -I'm sorry to call you at this hour, but I want you to know that I'm sorry; I'm really sorry! -His ambiguous message causes me great concern -I'm sorry about your diagnosis! -How do you know about my diagnosis? -Someone from the hospital has leaked the news of your incurable disease and it's circulating all over the social networks! I didn't know it was so serious! Believe me I'm sorry; I don't know what to say...! -My agent feels obliged to take charge of the situation and comments visibly affected: "If you are not feeling well, we can cancel the presentation. But this would mean breaching the contract with the publisher and would bring us a lot of headaches. Only death can be a legal justification. No, I have to make the presentation. Sooner or later they will know my state of health. A writer without a contract is free to do whatever he wants, because he has nothing published. On the other hand, a writer with a contract and who has published has something to justify his slavery. We write to have a reason to lose our freedom. That's how paradoxical the writer's world is. We arranged to have breakfast together in a café near my apartment. My agent was accompanied by a young woman who made a great impression on me. But not because of her beauty, but because of her appearance and curious attire. She wears a wide leather jacket of a striking scarlet color, which contrasts with her straight black hair, cropped at the nape of her neck, pale as snow. She wears tight black tights and a black skirt that covers a small part of her thighs. But the most striking thing is her huge military-style boots, which she laces up with red laces. As for her face, it seems vulgar to me, with nothing to highlight. I have the impression that with that flashy outfit she intends us not to pay attention to her face, which she herself must be aware of its lack of attractiveness or charm. However, her gaze and gestures are simple and frank. Just by her manner of greeting I deduce that she is cultured and intelligent. The young lady is the latest represented by my agent. According to him, she has talent. He wanted her to join us for our interview because she needs to be introduced to the world of literature, and he felt I was a good place to start. The young woman seems somewhat intimidated by my presence. She has spilled her coffee twice by shaking it too vigorously. She doesn't dare look at me straight on, and doesn't take her eyes off her shaken coffee cup. I wonder what he is thinking. He waits for me to speak to him, and the truth is, I don't know what we can talk about other than the weather. I break the silence by commenting that it's been a very wet autumn. The young woman nods slightly, but only out of politeness. My trivial remark confuses my agent, who doesn't want to waste time with such trifles. From a pocket of her jacket she pulls out a newspaper clipping and hands it to me. It is the latest published review of my novel. I ask him to summarize it for me, that's why I have an agent: -It's good," he says, not hiding the businessman's satisfaction, "even suggesting it could be the novel of the year. I don't discuss it with my agent, but I suspect this reviewer must collect a check every month from my publisher, and doesn't want to antagonize them. There are few honest critics left, or if they are, they are ignorant of the fundamentals of literature. For the sake of this millennial art I would have preferred a bad review, as this novel deserves. On another occasion I would have rejoiced, but now that I must give an account to my conscience for all my actions, it saddens me, because even now the wise phrase: "The hour of truth has come" makes sense. And the truth is that it is a bad novel. The young writer congratulates me and assures me that I deserve it, and seems to expect my thanks. I think she is trying to suggest some topic of conversation in which she can participate. -Forgive me for butting in," he finally decides to intervene, "but I think it's a good novel, too. I ask him what motivates his opinion. -It's well written and the characters are very well characterized," she answers a bit embarrassed, because she wasn't expecting my question. It has very well-drawn descriptions and the dialogues are very natural. Yes, I think your last novel is very good. It is evident that this young girl belongs to this generation in which ideals are rare, because she has omitted the fundamental: the plot. A poem does not need a plot, words are enough, but a novel cannot exist without a plot. The plot is what links fiction with reality, and a good novel must bear witness to the reality of its time through the plot; of the author's commitment to his time. If this linkage does not exist, it cannot transcend its immediacy, and instead of a novel we write a pamphlet of three hundred pages, decorated with a suggestive cover, and with an unjustified price. I don't put this idea to her because she probably doesn't feel committed to her times. I ask her what she thinks of the argument and she seems to mull over the answer: -It's a classic theme," he answers without much conviction. The betrayal of the one we love. It's a good argument. But it is rude of me not to show interest in your work. I am also interested in his idea of literature. I ask him which genre of literature he is most attracted to, and without barely letting me finish my sentence, he replies: -The novel, of course! It must be so, because her face has been transfigured with the charm of enthusiasm. She seems pleased by my interest; it is evident that she wished to communicate with me, but as a writer to a writer. She has succeeded. I ask her what is the reason for her enthusiasm for narrative, and her answer leaves no room for doubt: -Only a novel can tell a complex story that is a complete world. The short story is very brief and the tale can only tell a part of that world. No doubt this young woman knows what she wants. Now we'll see if she also knows why she wants it. I ask about her motivation. -My motivation? I've never asked myself this question, I think I was born already motivated by the love of literature! I have many reasons to be motivated," she answers with a sudden and astonishing self-confidence. But perhaps the main one is that through literature many values can be transmitted that can help each generation to be morally superior to the previous one. That's a good answer. I have been wrong about this young woman and I have underestimated her. I ask her the last question: -And what is literature for you? -Literature is a way of telling stories that provoke in the reader the feeling of the beauty of language, the creativity of the imagination and the understanding of the reality in which they come from or wish to live. When the words do not prevent the imagination from seeing, hearing or feeling what you are reading, because they are all in perfect harmony, with none missing or surplus. That is my opinion. I am impressed by her response, and I congratulate my agent on his wise choice. The young lady is out of the ordinary, but that doesn't mean she will have the success she undoubtedly deserves. 10. The walk I say goodbye to my agent and his young companion, to whom I give encouragement to continue because I believe he has the necessary talent for success, but I also warn him of the price he will have to pay for his passion. A useless warning, because passion overflows all attempts at restraint. He will go on his way without heeding my warnings. My agent asks me what I plan to do until the time of the presentation, and if I would like to have lunch together as well. Maybe he's thinking that it's not a day to leave me alone and he needs company. I tell her that I had thought about taking a long walk in the park, but I decline her invitation; I have never liked restaurants. The young woman also seems concerned about my mood and makes me a tempting offer: She would like to accompany me on my walk and then go to her apartment, where she will cook for me one of the specialties of her region. It sounds like a good program and I accept. I notice in his invitation the desire to communicate his concerns and show me his works to know my opinion, but also a sudden affection for me, which must have a large dose of compassion. It is cloudy and at intervals clearings open through which the sunlight penetrates, and all the foliage is illuminated as if it were a fresco painted by some genius of those who probably inhabit this park. My young companion seems to be happy that I have accepted his invitation, and walks beside me but in silence. I have the impression that he has already achieved his purpose and does not think he needs any more arguments or reasons to convince me. There is no doubt that he admires me, which makes me feel uncomfortable. No person is more admirable than another, what is admired are the results of his education, intuition or creativity, but not the human being himself. Since we all deserve the same respect and consideration, there cannot be some more admirable than others. I try to make him see it with a committed personal question: -I would love to know what idea you have formed about me; and why were you interested in meeting me personally? The question has caught her off guard. She meditates for a few moments on her answer, losing her gaze in an undefined point of the leafy walk, sketching a smile that must emerge from her thoughts. She turns to me, literally glares at me, and doesn't hesitate in her surprising answer: -Because I am in love with you! Now the surprised one is me, but the years have made me skeptical and limited my ability to feel affection for others. But there is another reason for me to reject her surprising statement: I have no other mission in my remaining life than to find the woman to whom I owe what this young woman admires. As long as I do not repay my debt my feelings are blocked. I let her know this in the least painful way possible: -Sometimes we writers live our fantasies as if they were reality. I'm sure you love a character in your novels who looks like me. But your answer surprises me even more than the first one: -I have told you that I am in love with you, but not that you are in love with me. You cannot prevent me from loving you, but neither can I prevent you from feeling no affection for me. I know you don't find me attractive, you may even consider me ugly, and you may not like the way I dress. I choose whom I love, but I don't pretend that you are also my lover. I am content to be able to walk beside him, and if he feels like it, to taste my casseroles, but he must know that I love him! Her generosity is sublime: she gives her feelings in exchange for accompanying the faltering step of a dying man, and having a guest at her table. No doubt this ungraceful young woman has an immense heart and can afford to squander her affections. I must not allow this waste, she may later need them for herself. -But you yourself have witnessed that you have fallen in love with a sick man who will soon leave this world! -I know, and I feel a great sadness, but you are a writer too, and you make people love each other who exist only in your imagination. Why can't I do the same? When the unfortunate day comes when you are gone, I will still have you in my imagination, and I will still love you as I love you now. It is inevitable that I will ask you this crucial question: -But what is so attractive about a dying curentón that awakens such a passion in you? -There are very few men who have been able to penetrate the soul of a woman. We admire the man who has brilliant ideas, but we love the man not for his intelligence but for being essentially a man, whereas we can fall madly in love with a gigolo, a greasy-handed mechanic or a smelly sewer man, as long as they are essentially men! If he is also intelligent and creative, then he is irresistible! -Do I belong to that category? He doesn't answer me, but his smile answers my question. 11. Lunch The apartment of my young lover is a museum of nostalgia, because it is full of objects that remind her of her place of origin, which she must miss deeply. It is a single room where a certain chaos reigns. His desk is next to the only window in the room, and it is full of pages with printed texts, which must be his writings, where his laptop appears. On the printer is a small stuffed panda bear, and on the window ledge, arranged in a row, is a veritable collection of assorted objects, possibly gifts or souvenirs from trips. His bed is a large convertible sofa, because there is not enough room for a regular bed. On the opposite side of the window there is a space separated by a wide curtain that must be your kitchen. And next to it a table where no more than two pieces of cutlery can fit, as long as you remove the huge bouquet of flowers that are beginning to wilt. The table is also occupied by the remains of a previous meal, such as unwashed dishes, half-full glasses or leftover bread. It is obvious that he was not expecting visitors, so he hastens to justify the mess: -Excuse this mess, but I wasn't expecting visitors, I'll tidy it up in a moment. Despite the clutter the set is intimate and cozy. I'd rather you didn't tidy it up. -Would you like to read some of my writings while I prepare lunch? I beg you not to address me as you, because we have already made enough confidences to be on a first-name basis. -I will read them with great interest. He tries to put order in the pages scattered on his desk until he has gathered about twenty pages. -It's the first pages of my new novel," she says with some embarrassment, "it's the love story between a young dancer and her choreographer... who is inspired by you. He insists on not calling me by my first name. I suppose his love for me includes this distant treatment. If he were to call me by my first name, some of his charm would be lost. I have to accept that. I like his style. I am particularly struck by this passage: "A talented dancer understands the language of music and translates it into the harmonious movements of her agile body. You no longer need a choreographer, but a lover who interprets the music that moves your body!" The meal was delicious and for her, moreover, a source of longing. I still have a few hours to go before the presentation. She suggests that I get some sleep to be clearer. I accept the idea. We unfold the bed and I lie down. She covers me with a light blanket, closes the window shade and locks herself in her tiny kitchen to do the dishes and the rest of the service. I hear the bustle of the kitchen almost in my sleep, and it brings back images of times gone by, when she also cooked for me. I am awakened by the sound of crying. It is the young woman crying. She is lying next to me, and hurries to wipe away her tears when she notices that I wake up. -Is something wrong, Alicia? I ask him in alarm. But his answer puzzles me: -Forgive me, I am a fool; I was crying with happiness to have you next to me, in my own bed! I could never have imagined that this young, scantily clad, strikingly dressed young woman was such an exceptional human being. No doubt that appearances can be deceiving. I feel the need to know more about her. I let her approach me, because I feel more paternal than passionate affection for her. I beg her to tell me something about her. She comes closer to me. I think she wants me to hold her in my arms. I cannot rebuff her and do her bidding. She smiles gratefully at me. -I'm just a provincial girl, ugly and clumsy," I try to protest, but she interrupts me. No, it's true, I'm ugly, that's why I dress in flashy clothes, although it doesn't do much good. The boys didn't like me, even though more than one tried to rape me. I grew up without the slightest affection and soon I had no other alternative to mitigate my loneliness than to invent lovers and friends. I felt real disgust for boys of my age, violent and rude. I fell in love for the first time with a mature, married man. He treated me gently and, although I would have allowed it, he never asked me to make love. It's my fate, he wasn't in love with me either, I think he felt pity. I had no choice but to leave my city, and I came here. Literature was my only friend. My novels were my only consolation. I managed to interest a modest publisher to publish one of my novels, although I had to pay for the edition out of my own pocket. That was almost two years ago. I sent the manuscript to several publishers, but all of them rejected it. Someone advised me to look for a literary agent, and I found his agent on the Internet. I sent him a copy of my novel, and the rest you know. I remain silent because I am impressed by her story, so different from mine! I have betrayed those who loved me; she has been faithful to those who did not love her. Her story makes me feel even more guilty. But she has omitted something and I can no longer accept that I am not interested: -But I am missing in your story! -Yes, of course; you're missing! I met him during the presentation of his previous novel. I was sitting in the last row. I looked like a normal young woman then, and you approached me several times, but you must have been invisible, because you didn't so much as glance at me and I didn't dare to catch your eye. I have always been somewhat shy and introverted, but that day I was out of this world. When I saw you on the rostrum, with your shirt unbuttoned, with your mocking and provocative gesture, so sure of yourself, something stirred in my whole body, and I immediately understood that I had fallen in love with you, but with the man, I didn't know the writer yet -he remains silent for a few moments, as if reliving that moment in his imagination, because I feel as if his body was shaking; he smiles as if now he finds his sudden passion for me funny-. When I left his presentation, I don't know how long I walked around aimlessly, trying to hold back tears. I had fallen in love with the most admired man in the literary world. I still ache from the applause of his brilliant speech. When he finished and came down from what for me was already a throne, for you were already my king, all the young women in the room surrounded him because they wanted to touch their idol. They were all beautiful and wore brand name clothes. I was a provincial girl, ugly, shy and clumsy, and I wore old-fashioned clothes. That night I stayed up all night, crying non-stop. When a woman falls in love, the lover is part of her flesh and soul, and his absence hurts as if both were torn away. We don't think we can survive these terrible wounds," she pauses again, but now she seems to be reliving those bitter moments. Unexpectedly she takes one of my hands and caresses it. That comforts her and she continues her story. I spent some anguished days, but I finally resigned myself and tried to put the fire that burned me down, but I didn't stop loving him, only to numb his memory. But I resolved to one day be on the same level as him, so that he would notice me. I changed my wardrobe and frantically wrote one novel after another in which somehow you were always the protagonist - he exchanges a meaningful glance with me and continues - You can't imagine the joy that invaded me when I saw your photograph in the office of the agent who had agreed to represent me! -Yes, I can imagine! -I interrupt her. -And now you are here, in my own bed, and you hold me in your arms. Have I no reason to weep for happiness? 12. The presentation The account of her generous love for me, which I certainly do not deserve, changes my affection for this sensitive young woman, who has the evocative name of Alicia. I no longer find her ugly, nor clumsy; I see not her face but her soul, and I find her beautiful. I would like to let her know this, but I fear I may change my mind when my remorse for my unforgivable betrayal returns. Only if I rid myself of them could I even reciprocate her love for me. But I cannot forget that I must not delude myself into enjoying the pleasures of life, for before my feelings can be free to love whomever I wish, I will have died. Alicia does not deserve this punishment. It's time to go to the presentation venue. My agent has called me on my cell phone, he is worried about my state of mind, but I reassure him, I feel strong enough to face the presentation. Even the story of this young woman has given me new arguments to defend the literature that arises from the deepest feelings and condemn the banal and entertaining. As expected, the room is packed to capacity. Most of them remain standing because there are not enough chairs for everyone. No doubt they know the news of my diagnosis. My agent is waiting for me in an adjoining room to bring me up to date with the most prominent attendees. The editors of several literary magazines have come, and most of the journalists from the culture sections of the newspapers. They must be interested in the story of the writer who dies, not the one who writes. Alicia has accompanied me here, but she got confused with the audience and I lost sight of her. The moderator and other guests are already on the podium. When I appear in the room there is a telltale murmur. Several photographers take snapshots of the panel, but mostly they point their cameras at me. They must think that these will be the last pictures they will take of me. The moderator introduces me and gives a brief summary of the novel I am going to present. The time has come for my speech. I look for Alicia in the crowd, and discover her at one end of the room, leaning against a column. She has felt my gaze and smiles at me. She wants to encourage me; her smile makes it easier for me to begin my speech. -Good afternoon. First of all I want to thank all of you for attending the presentation of my latest novel. I feel guilty that I have this comfortable chair when most of you have to stand. Had I known so many of you were coming we would have held this presentation at the Olympic Stadium -you laugh at my joke, but I'm sure most of you didn't expect me to still have a sense of humor under the circumstances-. I assume you have all read the reviews of my new novel. Most are favorable, but not all - I forgot to send the check to two or three reviewers! I also assume you must already know the news of my diagnosis. Yes, I have only a few months to live, and it's no laughing matter, but my health won't improve if I take it seriously," I'm interrupted by a loud murmur, but I beg for silence. I learned the diagnosis yesterday, and because of the leak I haven't been able to extend my life insurance premium. I am sorry for my cat, who is the beneficiary of the insurance, because as you must know, I have no offspring. I'm very fond of my cat, because she's the only one I understand - I gave up understanding humans years ago! But I guess you haven't come here to hear about my good understanding with my cat, but about my latest novel. Surprising as it may surprise you, this novel and the previous ones I could not have written without my cat. She has taught me to accept who feeds me without losing my dignity. She has also taught me that there is always a time to play, and despite my advanced age I have never stopped playing! For me writing is a game, but a serious game. To play it is necessary to know only these three basic rules: to have a good technique, to have one's own style and a solid motivation. Whoever knows these three rules well has every chance of winning. Writers have a solid training, and we know how to distinguish a past perfect from a pluperfect, we do not commit spelling mistakes and we know where to put a comma or semicolon. After all, they are just rules to memorize, so most of us have a good technique. But when we talk about style not everyone understands what its meaning is and how it is valued, although critics insist on pigeonholing us with this or that current, because style has no rules, but depends on our sensitivity and the value we give to the words. Each word, in addition to a meaning, has a tone and must be joined to other words perfectly tuned, which is not common in today's literature, the meaning prevails and not the intonation. And if we talk about motivation, we usually associate it with remuneration, and not with a commitment to the values of our time, which must somehow be reflected in the arguments of what we write. Artists also pay rent; for the tax authorities we are just one more and in supermarkets they don't give us credit, if we don't pay we don't eat. That's why the writer must be paid. But this should not be the motivation. And that is the incurable disease of art, because what is the patrimony of the spirit becomes a market product; what should not have a price becomes an accounting value; what should entertain and enlighten, only serves to entertain. Finally, the spirit has nothing to exercise itself with and atrophies by inactivity and the result is that we lose the sensibility to distinguish the beautiful from the ugly; the good from the bad; the transcendent from the inconsequential. And that is the deplorable state in which literature finds itself today, practically on a global level, because insensitivity to art has also become globalized. All the responsibility for this situation falls on fifty percent of the readers and another fifty percent on the authors, because each reader has the author he deserves, and each writer has the readers he deserves. About this last novel, I will not reveal the plot, just advance that it is the drama of two writers, she is a poet and he is a narrator, who are united by literature, but separated by words. We understand the people we imagine, but not the real ones we love. Finally, I would like to tell you a moving story that illustrates better than any complicated argument what Literature is and what it is for. The story I wish to tell you is that of a young writer from the provinces, who considers herself ugly and clumsy, rejected by everyone, and who learned to love generously through the characters in her novels. This young woman does not write for fame and money, but to feel loved, even if her lovers are fictional. But her extraordinary humanity and generosity has been rewarded, and the beloved protagonist of her fiction has become a reality. However, despite her fleeting happiness, the story does not have a happy ending, because the real character will die a few months later, and this young writer from the provinces, who, as I have said, considers herself ugly and clumsy, will again resort to the suggestive power of literature to keep him in her memory and keep the flame of her love alive forever. -I try to see what Alice's reaction to my mention is, but she is no longer standing by the column. She has disappeared! Perhaps I have offended her, but I have to go on. And it is this extraordinary power of literature that I wanted to tell you about in this presentation. Power that only literature that springs from inspiration and shapes a creative imagination has. There can be nothing more obscene than a stultified, uninspired, soulless literature. Thousands of words put together without harmony or humanity, telling us banal, dehumanized stories, with no other purpose than to entertain our boredom and distract us from our worries. Death scares me, as it does any human being, but in return it has given me something I would not have had without its terrible threat: freedom! Now I can speak my mind without fear of the consequences, and I think that the novel I present to you here today was not written by me, but by market demand, like practically all other novels published today. Only that young, ugly and clumsy provincial writer, and perhaps thousands more as provincial, ugly and clumsy as her, to whom no one will pay attention, write their novels for themselves, as their hearts and minds dictate, because they simply need to. Literature, written in capital letters, is a necessity, not a pastime; it not only entertains, but teaches; it not only calms, but heals; it is not only read, but lived. If I were to be born again, I would like it to be in a world where one could survive without the laws of the market; and where we were all provincial, ugly and clumsy. I have nothing more to add, but I will gladly answer your questions, as long as they are not too personal. Several hands were raised asking for their turn to ask questions. I answer the one from a journalist: -I am sorry about your illness, but I would like to know how you plan to spend your last days. I answer without hesitation: -Meditating on death. The next question is from a woman who must be my age: -What is it that you have wished for but have not been able to achieve? -Understand the world we live in! The third question has caused me an inexplicable emotion. It is from young Naomi, with whom I have exchanged several messages. The question puzzles me, for which I do not have a ready answer. -Do you regret not having started a family, and perhaps having had one or more children, who would now take care of you? I sense that there is some hidden meaning to your question. What can I answer? It is too late for regrets. -Your question is too personal and I have already warned that I would not answer such questions. The young woman seems very upset, and does not want to give up. She insists. -Who or what inspired you to write this novel and what was your motivation? I have not meditated my answer, it has come straight from my subconscious, where it should have been for many years: -All writers have an emotional conflict between what we create and where we get our inspiration. We usually make our imagination make real what is not possible in real life. I have been inspired by a real person whom I don't understand. As for my motivation, it is precisely to try to understand her. The young woman seems satisfied with my answer and does not insist. They applaud my intervention, but only the youngest seem to have understood my message. Utopia is no more than twenty years old. The pain returns with severe intensity. I ask the moderator to close the presentation. The attendees seem to understand the reasons and the room is becoming empty. Alicia met with me. She had rushed out of the room so she wouldn't be seen crying. Perhaps I had overdone it and should have been less dramatic. My agent tells me that outside the room a crowd is waiting for us to sign copies. I can't refuse. Most of them show me their sadness for my illness with some words of comfort. I don't know how many books I have signed but I am exhausted. I beg Alice to let me lean on her shoulder and we return to the hall to collect our coats. I feel the pain blurring my vision and I am so weak that if I didn't lean on her I would have collapsed by now. In this deplorable state I am unable to recognize young Naomi, who remains in her seat, because she is waiting for me. My agent has spoken to her and conveys her desire to talk to me, but has not revealed the reason. But I am not in the mood to hold literary talks with my female admirers. I ask her to excuse herself, and to contact me by mail. My agent communicates my message to her, but the young woman insists on talking to me. It's not about literature, apparently it's personal. Alicia helps me into an armchair in the next room, and the pain seems to subside. I ask my agent to call the young woman - I hope it's not another platonic love! 13. Noemi For the first time my illness has prevented me from fulfilling my editorial commitments. It is evident that my health is getting worse with each passing day. It has been a blessing that I met Alicia at this crucial time. For the first time I am unable to fend for myself and I need help. I am beginning to feel the painful preambles of death. I am anxious about the interview with young Naomi. There is something familiar about her, as if I had known her in a previous life. But, on the other hand, I sense that she brings with her serious events that may alter what little life I have left. Alicia seems to share my concern. She may be a rival with an advantage, because Naomi is a very graceful young woman. She is of a medium build, her long hair, of an elegant brown color and her harmonious forms, make her a very attractive young woman. She enters the room accompanied by my agent. She seems uneasy or perhaps nervous. She contemplates me prostrate on the couch. She must understand the inappropriateness of this interview. As she approaches, I feel a deep pity in her eyes. She seems to feel my illness as if we already knew each other. I beg him to sit in the next armchair. -So, Naomi, what is this important thing you have to tell me? She makes a gesture to sit down, but again she remains upright, something is bothering her. She exchanges a glance with my agent and with Alicia, who remains next to me, leaning on one of the arms of the wide sofa: -Could we be alone for a few minutes," she asks me, visibly nervous, "what I have to tell you is very personal. My agent exchanges a questioning glance with me, and Alicia becomes uneasy, because she must believe that the young woman is definitely a feared rival. If I beg you to leave us alone, you'll think I don't trust you, but now I'm keenly interested in what this young woman wants to tell me. I beg you to leave us alone. Alicia can't help exchanging a sad and doubtful look with me, but she respects my wish. The two leave the room without reproach. Naomi follows them with her eyes and seems relieved when she closes the door behind her. For a few moments, during which she seems to gather her thoughts and calm down, she does not take her eyes off an indeterminate point on the floor. Then she looks up and, visibly excited, asks me: -Do you remember who wrote this verse? If your heart were foam, I would be ocean; If your soul were heaven, I would be cloud; If your gaze were rain, I would be a field; If your hands were water, I would be thirsty. It's as if a bolt of lightning crosses my mind. I have a powerful intuition, but I refuse to acknowledge it. How did that poem come to this young woman? I don't answer, but it is I who asks the next question, and I feel my breathing become labored and my old heart flutter: -Who wrote it? She looks at me and I feel a deep anxiety in her eyes. She is on the verge of tears. -My mother wrote it twenty years ago...! She breaks into silent tears and covers her face with her hands. She doesn't dare look at me. I am stunned, and I don't know how to react. I ask myself the question I anxiously await an answer to: Is this young woman my daughter? If so, how could all these years have passed without her mother telling me? Yes, it is possible; we made love a few weeks before my betrayal, and we took no precautions. But how should I behave towards her? I cannot feel sudden parental affection for someone I do not know, even if she is my own daughter. We will need some time to get to know each other and maintain a normal father-daughter relationship. On the one hand the news fills me with joy, but on the other hand it saddens me, because for twenty years I have ignored its existence and when I learn of it I have only a few months to live. I have managed to regain my composure, I have to act sensibly. I hope she will also regain her composure and clear up my many doubts. Where is her mother? Why has she kept my daughter away from me all these years? My so-called daughter has calmed down and stops crying. She turns to me with a pleading look on her face, because she expects me to somehow prove to her that I have adopted her. But I need some answers: -Dear Naomi, you must understand that this situation is very confusing. I can't behave like a father in a few moments. Calm down and tell me why you haven't contacted me before. Where is your mother? But let my agent and Alicia come, they are absolutely trustworthy and can be present. I must not show them mistrust. My supposed daughter nods slightly as she wipes her tears and tries to regain her composure. I call my agent and Alicia and update them on the new situation. They are both perplexed and don't know what to say. Alicia approaches Naomi and tries to comfort her by stroking her long silky hair. Naomi thanks her with a smile. She seems to be calm now. I hope she can clear all my doubts. 14. Naomi's story -I didn't know you were my father until just a month ago, when I needed a novel for a paper on current literature and I found one of your novels in the faculty library. When I saw your photograph I was struck by our physical resemblance, but I didn't pay any more attention to it, but when I read the description of the female character, I realized that you were describing my mother. I read all her novels and in all of them, with minor changes, she was still the same description of my mother. But I was missing one of her books: the first one, which won a well-known literary contest of that time, and I could have the definitive proof. But they had no copy in the library. The book was out of print and a bookseller informed me that you had not authorized its reprinting. So I went to all the used bookstores in town, with no success. When I had already lost all hope of finding that book, I received a call from a classmate of mine to give me the good news that she had a copy of the book I was looking for. When I read it, all my doubts were dispelled. Your novel was titled "Poetas sin cielo" (Poets Without Heaven), after a poem written by my mother, which is the plot of your novel. Certain that you were my father, I booked an invitation to the presentation of your new novel. But I didn't want you to know until I was sure what kind of person my father was, because I had formed a very negative idea of who had abandoned my mother. When I found out about her illness, I changed my attitude, but when I listened to her today I felt enormously proud to be her daughter, and I want to believe that she will have some powerful reason that could justify her abandoning her when she was pregnant with me. Unfortunately my mother doesn't have the answer. You don't know this, but so great was the trauma of the separation that she suffered a bout of severe amnesia, from which she has not yet recovered. She still has no memory of her relationship with you. I grew up with my grandparents in a small northern town, but they were not aware of their daughter's relationship with you either. My mother was a free and independent woman, always doing what she wanted, until she lost her memory. My grandparents took her in and she still lives there, but now she is alone, because both my grandparents have died and I have enrolled in the university in this city, the same one where you and my mother met, twenty years ago! It is true that reality surpasses fiction! I am desolate, my soul hurts me more than my body, but for this evil they don't sell painkillers in pharmacies, they can only be found in hell. I do not deserve the affection of this ignored daughter; I do not deserve the affection of anyone and I doubt very much that I can avoid my damnation. I almost wish it as a deserved punishment! 15. Repentance There is a sepulchral silence. I notice in the expressions of my agent and Alicia a veiled reproach. Naomi looks exhausted, indecisive, waiting for my reaction. Now I should give her a justification for my behavior, but I have none and she must know it. I do not expect her forgiveness, but at least she will not live deceived. She must know who her father is, and if in spite of everything she believes she deserves his affection and understanding. -No, dear Naomi, I have no justification, your father is a scoundrel! -Alicia wants to protest, she can't understand how I could have behaved that way, but I beg you to let me finish, I need to confess my guilt. Naomi cannot blame her mother; I am the only one to blame. When we are young and ambitious, everything seems valid and we believe that wounds heal easily. I knew your mother would suffer for my betrayal, but I assumed she would soon get over it. Perhaps she would find another young man and soon forget about me. I could never imagine that her love for me would be so deep, and my betrayal so painful. I also didn't know she was pregnant, because after I left her I didn't have enough courage to take an interest in her, and I never saw her again. I know that Naomi must be disappointed with my statement of guilt. I can see the dismay and confusion in her expression. It is unfortunate, but I still believe that youth heals wounds quickly. Naomi must also soon heal this wound. In my desperation I can only think of a remote justification: -Literature brought us together and literature itself drove us apart. I believed that my literary career was above feelings; as if I had been born to fulfill a mission, and I could not put anything, including people and their feelings, before this blind ambition. My only love was literature, there was no room for anyone or anything else! When I received your first message I understood my mistake, and why my novels lacked motivation and humanity, because there can be no humanity in a novel if it is not inspired by love for people, from which the characters arise. Alicia has proved my mistake: she knows what literature is and what it is for. She has not had the misfortune of finding a literary agent with the ability to promote an author's works; someone who knows the tastes of ordinary readers and knows what they like to read. An agent who uses your talent for her commercial purposes. Who makes you the idol of ordinary people and the monster of yourself. My agent has reacted. He seems to wonder if he's not doing the same thing to me. I don't want him to feel guilty too. -When you agreed to represent me, I had already adopted the bad habit and all my novels suffered from the same lack of motivation, but they were guaranteed success. I only began to worry after this last novel, it was the result of all these years of denying myself; the writer who wrote "Poetas sin cielo", the only novel fruit of my love for a person, and not of marketing and the market. Noemi reminded me when it was too late to redeem my sin: I will never write again because I do not deserve to be loved and I cannot love anyone! Alicia does not admit my resignation. She protests and wants to give her opinion: -I don't agree; your father is not totally guilty! Whoever has the courage to acknowledge his guilt deserves forgiveness; the holiest were the most sinful. It is not the saint who needs compassion, but the sinner! Naomi, you have to forgive him, not because he is your father and even if in the past he has behaved like a scoundrel, but a repentant human being who recognizes his faults, deserves your compassion and your forgiveness. Forgiveness is what makes us human beings; resentment turns us into soulless beasts, only with memory. My daughter is on the verge of crying again. She is under great emotional pressure and looks so vulnerable! She looks at me and I can see in her eyes her desire to forgive me. Alicia takes one of her hands and places it on mine. Her hand is burning and trembling. It has been the prodigy of a true writer who has performed the miracle of forgiveness. Naomi hugs me and cries silently. I think I hear a whisper: -Dad, I love you! I feel like crying too, but now I have a daughter who needs a father who is strong! 16. Reconciliation It's been two days since the eventful launch of my latest novel. It's not long to assume that I am now the father of a lovely young woman. I have been taught a hard lesson, but it is only the beginning of my redemption. I have lived twenty years of loneliness and isolation and now it is hard for me to assume that I have to spend some of my time thinking about others. I don't know what the responsibilities of a parent are. Naomi is as independent as her mother and doesn't need anyone to tell her what to do or how to do it, and it doesn't create big responsibilities for me. She will continue to live in the apartment she shares with two college roommates, but we will do our best to have dinner together two or three times a week at my apartment. Alicia has offered to be our cook, and she will delight us with her delicious local stews. Naomi confesses that she is not very skilled in the kitchen, she is a young woman devoted to her career. I think she has inherited my passion for literature and her mother's sensitivity for poetry. I can't say whether or not he has talent, he hasn't had the time or opportunity to test himself yet. He hasn't written anything important. But I have always believed that talent is not inherited, but born with it. It is not in the genes; it is in the mind and in the soul and we must acquire it at the very moment of our gestation. It may come to us from the cosmos or from someone who died at that very moment. I believe in transmigration, because the spirit, like energy, is not destroyed, it is transformed. From the beginning of time there is a universal spirit, which believers call God, from which all animate beings come. The obvious proof of transmigration is that in my family there are no artists or writers, only normal people, concerned about normal things. There may have been some among my remote ancestors, but I do not know it. My illness continues its diabolical course and does not leave me much free time without pain. I often have to go to the hospital for painful treatment. In exchange for putting up with all this discomfort, I am assured that I will be able to prolong the time I have left to live, which I need to put my conscience in order. As expected, my latest novel has tripled the sales of the previous ones. Death is an extraordinary attraction. My publisher cannot hide his satisfaction, even if he is sympathetic. The media hound me and I have had to change my phone number. The messages of condolence are overwhelming, I find it impossible to read them all. But fortunately they are still unaware of my unexpected paternity, they must believe that the young woman who accompanies me is my latest conquest. As for Alicia, I cannot deny that I feel a deep affection for her, but it cannot be called love, because in these critical moments I do not know the meaning of this beautiful word. She seems resigned and I believe that, in spite of everything, she is happy just to be by my side and to be of help to me. Yes, it must be her fate that she is not reciprocated. She has been unlucky in her choice of lovers. She and Naomi seem to understand each other well, and share the same concerns. I think they have become good friends. But this fleeting happiness has a dark shadow: her mother! I have talked to Naomi about her, it is not an easy subject. Naomi thinks my presence might help her regain her memory. But I wonder if it might not be better for her to keep her amnesia. It must not be pleasant for her to remember my betrayal. If she regains her memory she may be able to forgive me, but it may also increase her resentment towards me. Because of me she has wasted twenty precious years of her existence, there is no penance great enough to compensate for her suffering. I know it would make Naomi enormously happy to see us together again. As if time had not passed, and to reconstruct the past at the moment when we were happiest. When she wrote that short and passionate poem to tell me, with four rhymes, how much she loved me, and which has marked our lives. Today we will have dinner at my apartment. My two wives will be arriving any minute and I have to tidy up a bit. I don't feel very well, despite the painkillers that wreak havoc on my stomach, a constant pain persists that manages to make me lose my temper and sour my good nature. It is amazing and sadly paradoxical that during the last twenty years in which I have enjoyed excellent health I don't think I have had even five minutes of happiness, and when my health has broken down I am not able to manage so many moments of happiness, I have met an extraordinary woman and I have recovered an ignored daughter! Living is a game that consists in doing the opposite of what we consider reasonable. The first to arrive was Alicia. She has come a little early so that when Noemi arrives, dinner will be ready. She is interested in my health. She suggests that given the state I am in I should have someone to take care of me 24 hours a day and she is probably right, but I insist that the time has not yet come. -And when will that time come, when he is dead? It was a spontaneous reaction, but she regrets having told me. She is deeply sorry. -Forgive me; I didn't mean to...! -There's nothing to forgive," I interrupt her, "you're right and I know you'd be happy to do it yourself, but I can't accept your help. I have to finish paying my debts first. Naomi's mother needs more help than I do, and she believes that my presence can help her recover her memory. But I don't know how she would react if she remembers our relationship. Alicia has understood what I dare not say. Now her rival is Naomi's mother, because if she agreed to forgive me she would be the one to take care of me until the day I die. -I understand, once again my sad destiny is fulfilled: I will never be reciprocated by the people I love. All my efforts to live this moment have been of no use to me. I am always the last in line, and when I arrive I have finished what they were giving away. Alicia has returned to delight me with her casseroles, but Naomi does not seem to have enjoyed her dinner. She has remained absent and with her thoughts far away from here. Before coming she spoke to her mother on the phone and believes she is deeply depressed and disoriented. -He's afraid to forget about me too," she says in anguish, "He sent me a verse that reflects his confusion and pitiful state of mind. We have to make a decision tonight. Today I dreamed that I dreamed, that you were not who you were, that time had no time, and that death had died. I can't help but compare this verse with the one from twenty years ago. Despite all those forgotten years, she is still a great poet. 17. Amnesia I beg Naomi to tell me everything she remembers about her mother after her bout of amnesia. -What I know of the early years, of which I have only a blurry picture, was told to me by my grandparents. Naomi doesn't seem to be very enthusiastic about my suggestion. They must be sad memories. Memories of a child raised by two old men and a mother with no past, unable to tell her daughter how it came about, by whom and where. Without her being able to even mention the name of her possible father. Not only has she not had an unknown father, but a forgotten one. But I beg you to try to overcome your sadness and go on. Before we meet I need to know how all these years of oblivion have passed. -We don't know anything about how the separation happened," she continued, overcoming the sadness of reliving her childhood, "but it must have been very painful because she didn't remember anything about what happened and she didn't even remember who her parents were or where she lived. A policewoman found her dozing in a park and fortunately they were able to identify her thanks to a prescription for a medicine against morning sickness, because she had no official identity document. But they couldn't leave her alone in that state, so they found my grandparents, who took her in. And that's all we know about the first days of her amnesia. Naomi has exchanged several uneasy glances with me. Possibly she is still wondering if I deserve her forgiveness after all. I remain pathetically silent, not daring to say anything in my defense. I only know the story from one Sunday when we had agreed to attend a screening of an Oscar Wilde film, but I never showed up... while she waited uselessly at the cinema doors, I was in my seductive agent's bed! Will I have the courage to confess it? If I don't confess it my conscience will never be clear! I'll wait to know the whole story. I beg you to tell me what happened during the following years. My poor daughter is recalling a part of her life that she may also wish to forget, but she gets over it and goes on: -My mother moved to live in the small northern town of her parents, my maternal grandparents, and all efforts to get her memory back were futile. She was apparently able to lead a normal life, but she had to learn to recognize her own name, her parents' names, and all the other circumstances following her amnesia. When I was born I was already fully aware of everything, except her stay in this town and her relations with you," she addresses me with the same expression of veiled reproach. My grandfather was a civil servant at the City Hall and got a small pension for my mother, because she had frequent memory lapses and was unable to do any work. My grandfather died when I was ten years old, his health began to deteriorate from the day he learned of my mother's amnesia, and my grandmother died a few months before I enrolled in college. The poor thing was very unhappy about all these events, but she never reproached my mother. We had a maid for several years before I was born, the same age as my mother, who is with her at the moment. I could not give up the University, because I got a scholarship, with which I am surviving at the moment. She never stopped writing poems, she must have written enough to fill a dozen volumes, but she has refused to publish them. I always suspected that she dedicated them to you, but it must have been only a faint intuition, which did not access her conscience. Perhaps that is why she lived tormented by the inability to conceive the image of one who had only an intuition. That is all I can tell you about my mother. Alicia has made us coffee, which she serves us while we keep a thoughtful silence. I try to imagine her mother twenty years later, the woman I will soon have to meet again and account for my unforgivable behavior. I have the impression that she will horrify me, because I think I see on her aged face the indelible mark of suffering, for which I am guilty. Alicia breaks this tense silence: -Perhaps if she receives a strong stimulus to remember the person she seems to still love, she will recover her memory. Alicia has put her finger on the sore spot. It is not enough for her to be reunited with me, but with her lover, as if my betrayal had never happened. Alicia seems deeply affected, I think she regrets her suggestion. But my redemption requires some sacrifice, and Alicia will understand and eventually accept it. Twenty years later I have to try again to seduce the same woman I betrayed. Fate wants to put me to the test and I cannot let it down. 18. Preamble Is it possible to heal a wounded heart? Can time erase forgotten wounds? Can an old man with an exhausted heart love? Can a sick man heal another sick man? I ask myself these anguished questions to still feel like a human being, but I know I don't have the answer.Naomi and Alicia left a little over an hour ago, and they have left an immense void. I have never felt so essentially alone. It is an abysmal loneliness, bottomless, without the slightest glimmer of light. My soul has been left in utter darkness. The body has abandoned it; joy has migrated to other, warmer and more welcoming lands. Pleasure has been transformed into intense pain and happiness, which until only an hour ago was brimming over all its edges, has gone with them, I am unable to keep it with me for long. One more endless night I strive uselessly to be absent from myself. I search with real desperation for a state of mind close to nothingness, no uncontrolled thoughts, no movements of any kind. I try to exercise myself to prepare for my death without last minute shocks, but it is totally useless. The mind does not sleep, it only disconnects temporarily from consciousness. It stops thinking about what it sees to think about what it imagines. It does not tire, it does not exhaust itself, it does not give up, because it has no flesh that can make it sick, nor a skeleton to sustain it; it has no eyes, no mouth, no ears, it does not eat, drink, see or hear, it only thinks without rest because it is eternal and already existed before it was my mind. Naomi believes that, despite the visible traces of my illness, I am still an attractive man and that I can seduce her mother again. Alicia has not given me her opinion, which I already know. She is an unfortunate woman, but at some time and somewhere she will have her reward. But time is pressing, the illness is getting worse and my spirits are failing. I am not sure I can see this plan through to the end. We have agreed that Naomi will invite her mother to spend a few days with her in the city. Our meeting will take place during a welcome dinner at Naomi's apartment. Naomi just called me, her mother has accepted the invitation and will come this weekend and Saturday will be the big day of the test. I have to go back twenty years and try to understand the reasons for my betrayal. It is not enough to blame ambition, vanity or selfishness. There has to be a reasonable explanation to justify that behavior, because we humans always have a good reason to justify our behavior. I have thought it on countless occasions that to discover means to destroy what was hidden. The sun shines at the cost of destroying its hydrogen reserves. Imagination creates at the cost of destroying what has not yet been imagined. In the end there will be nothing left to imagine because we will have destroyed the reserves of images, death. It was inevitable to destroy the causes that had provoked my creativity, and that cause was the woman who had inspired them. If I wanted to continue creating I had to look for new sources for my inspiration, to destroy them again, and so on until death. I am not entirely to blame. We should never have invented literature because it feeds on the souls of humans. Every novel, every story, every tale or every poem has devoured its insatiable ration of humanity. I am no exception, I have my victims too, but otherwise there would be no literature or art or any other expression of the human soul that needs to feed on the human soul. No one will understand these reasons, only our creator knows our weaknesses, our spiritual cannibalism, our revenge for being human. I cannot argue these reasons for my exculpation, only those who are victims of inspiration understand them, through which this evil is contagious. Ordinary people are immunized against this disease of the spirit. Now there is no longer the slightest doubt in my mind that this was the cause of my bodily illness. My harmful spirit has entered my body and will not cease until it dies. There are no heavens reserved for writers, but there are no hells either, there are only purgatories: near heaven, near hell. If I had the strength and the necessary time to live, I would write a novel with this title, which would be the great novel of my life, but I might write it after I am dead, and it might be the great novel of my death. But why write; why stir the still waters of unconsciousness; why bring out the faults and virtues, the passions and disenchantments or the loyalties or betrayals of human beings? Why tell so many lies; so many stories that have never happened and never will happen? Why this sick eagerness to perpetuate our memory after we have lost our memory? No, even if I had a hundred more years to live, I would never write another novel. Someone has to take the first step to rid humanity of this scourge. I have the impression that I am delirious and think things that make no sense. There is no justification for someone who causes harm to a human being without a reason that is also human. A doctor can cause you some harm to heal a wound, but a writer cannot claim his sources of inspiration to cause harm. If I were to put on a scale the pleasure my novels may have caused and the harm caused by writing them, on which side would the scale tip? And who can have the answer? I have no way out. I have no judge but my own conscience, and it keeps shouting at me that I am guilty. 19. The mother Today has dawned an unpleasant day that will influence my mood. Today is also the day Naomi's mother will arrive in town; the person on whom my salvation depends. I am not in the right frame of mind for the circumstances. I should get over myself and realize that I have returned to my college years; years when life was a blank sheet of paper, waiting to be written on both sides; years when the most important thing was to be young, not only to enjoy life but to live away from death; years when everything was allowed except nostalgia; when love was a working tool, when the wisdom of experience was considered an old mania and was worthless compared to the vitality of facts. Those years in which the people around you were samples for your laboratory or the lead of your flask, from which you hoped to obtain gold, following the magic formula invented by your excluding imagination. Years, in short, that I have always wished to forget and that now I have to recall. My memory has to erase without a trace what happened after I won the untimely literary prize, as if it had never happened. As if we had followed together our longed-for path to glory, and once we had achieved it, since it seemed inevitable given our genius, we would live six months a year in Pigalle, in Montmartre or in Saint-German-des-Prés, where I would write my novels in the heat of her inspiration, and she her passionate verses inspired by her love for me. As if every spring we would wake up in our little house in Majorca, next to the highest cliff of the coast, from where our view would be lost in a horizon as infinite as our desires to live; as beautiful as our soul mates, as mysterious as our intuition, or as cozy as our bed where we make love. When I was twenty years old I could not imagine myself at sixty, now that I am about to turn sixty I cannot imagine myself at twenty. Nevertheless, it had to happen, because time is the greatest swindle of human understanding, since it is an eternal instant, this instant in which I live, or better I will say, I live badly today, is the same in which I lived twenty years ago, what has changed is the perspective and the scenario, but the instant is the same! Noemí called me to tell me that she had picked up her mother at the train station, and that she found her very unwell and dazed. They are already in her apartment, and she has been able to rest and recover a little. She tells me that, if she feels better, they will go to the Opera, which is her mother's passion. They will perform "Madame Butterfly", which seems very appropriate for the circumstances. His mother does not remember seeing this opera before, but she had seen it twice because she still kept the tickets as a souvenir. She thinks it may help our plan. She has told him of her desire to have him accompany her to the college on Monday, the same one she attended, but insists that she does not remember ever attending a college in that city. It is evident that she remains obstinate in not allowing the images and feelings that she keeps in her subconscious to enter her consciousness. I also got a call from Alicia. She is concerned about my worsening health. She wants to know if I need help. I thank her, but I insist on fending for myself until I see how the test turns out. Alicia is confused and saddened, because she can't wish it to be a failure, but she can't wish it to be a success either. She would have been happy just to have the exclusivity of my care until the day I die. But Naomi's mother takes precedence. If only we were good friends, both women could watch over my agony, but she has committed the weakness of falling in love with me, and love is selfish and rigorously incomparable. She seems resigned but not defeated. I am the great love of her life and she is not willing to withdraw and give up. She will lurk around waiting for an opportunity. I have created many female characters, and I boasted of cooking them even better than they know themselves, but Alicia has shown me how laughable my smugness is: I still have many nooks and crannies of the female soul to discover. Perhaps my premature death will help me to discover them. What I have not been able to understand is how those who give life see death. Possibly they feel the same affection for both. Many women suffer more depression immediately after bringing a new life into the world than at the sight of a dying person. Life hurts them as much as death. 20. A bad day The weather continues to be unpleasant. On the glass of my large window, the drops of water from a weak but persistent rain drip down. The rain does not depress me, on the contrary, it enlivens me, the water brings life, it brightens everything it covers. The plants are invigorated and show all their splendor and beauty. But what pleases nature displeases humans. I see from my window disgruntled people. They resent everything they cannot dominate and control, and nature does not submit easily. That is why we are putting all our efforts into destroying it. We may succeed in destroying the rain as well. I lie in bed until almost noon because I don't know what I can do to justify being up. I have nothing to write, no event to attend, no visit to receive, nothing; but I have found an occupation: rereading my first novel, and perhaps I should also say that it is the only one I have written, because I think it meets the three basic conditions for it to be considered a novel: it has a motivation: a passionate plea in defense of poetry and poets. This argument is also the fruit of his imagination and not of mine. The novels that followed lacked motivation, they only had technique and style, that is why they were not of this world, but of a parallel and dehumanized world. Noemi is right. "It's the middle of the night. The city lights litter the sky and I can't see the stars. I have to imagine them. I also have to imagine the people on this deserted street. And the rose bushes, orchids and non-existent geraniums on the balconies of their uninhabited houses. I have to imagine the children playing in a ghost school, and the sparrows nesting in absent trees. This is my street, where I don't live, where I don't inhabit, where I only imagine that I live and inhabit." This is how it should be. Our life must pass in one of these deserted streets, where we do not live but imagine that we live, because when you least expect it your time runs out, and it seems to you that in reality you have not lived but have dreamed. On rereading this first novel I feel in all its crudeness the falseness in which I have lived all these years, and I wonder what kind of writer I would be today if I had remained true to myself. It would not have been strange if I had won the Nobel Prize! Now I have to be satisfied with the market prize, and with the thousands of followers of the consumption of entertaining literature with an expiration date. They have nothing to transmit about our way of understanding life and its values to future generations. I am not a redeemer, and I am overwhelmed by praise, but when an artist expresses himself in any discipline, he is sending a message in a bottle that will inevitably fall into the hands of people of other times, in other latitudes of the immense ocean of time; who will have other values, and who, thanks to those messages, will be able to place them in the general trunk of history. Given the brevity of our existence, the only solid thing we humans have to save us from the flood of the inevitable changes that sweep everything away is History. Today I have one of those days when I feel too insignificant to have great ambitions, because this great humanity that populates our planet, of which I am a tiny part, is not even a grain of sand in the desert compared to the immensity of the universe we inhabit. Powerful men believe themselves to be great because they reign over their tiny domains, while those who recognize that they are infinitely small inhabit the great domain of the immensity of the universe. Humans have an endless number of alternatives to choose the way we wish to consume our valuable time, but there is only one that corresponds to our personality. The reason for our existence is none other than to find it and be faithful to it until death. Only in this way each individual will be a person, and each person will be a world, and all the worlds together will form a universe, and many universes gathered into one will be the only idea we can have of something to call "God", so that only people and their worlds are in direct contact with God. I have lived in permanent contact with hell, because I renounced my personal world, so I have no access to heaven. I may still have time left to repair my great mistake, but I would have to write one last novel: the continuation of the first one, which would pave the way to my salvation, but for that I need not only time, but inspiration; I would not only have to meet again with the writer, but also with his lover. Could it happen tomorrow? I should think about tomorrow's dinner and my salvation, and I think I have an idea that would do both: write my last novel with the story of our relationship. To relive her memory day by day, kiss by kiss, caress by caress, with every detail, nuance, feeling, illusion, hope and project for the future. Yes, she would have the story that her conscience refuses to remember. It would undoubtedly be the great novel of my life, the one that would give me a good death. But will I have enough time left, and will I be able to face the challenge with the foresight and the right frame of mind to bring it up to the level of my first novel? Naomi sent me a message to let me know that her mother has recovered and is in good spirits. In the afternoon they will go to the Opera, as planned, and when they leave they will have dinner in a small Italian restaurant nearby. She says she misses me and it would have been a complete joy if the three of us could be together and united as a family. Poor Naomi! Even if your wishes were fulfilled, your happiness will be short-lived. It is better that you get used to my absence, even if you continue to miss me in your happy moments, maybe I will accompany you, even if you cannot see me. Tomorrow I will tell you my idea. 21. Waiting He has also invited Alicia to his mother's welcome home dinner, because he wants it to feel like a reunion of old friends, where his mother is not the focus of most of the attention. He wants to test whether she will recognize me. I haven't communicated my new idea to her yet, because I'm not sure she's in the condition and mood to do it. I call Alicia to tell her about Noemí's invitation. She accepts. -If it's okay with you, I can stop by your place now and prepare something to eat," he suggests, "then we can go to your daughter's apartment together. I notice from the tone of his voice that he has received the news with great joy. Now the scales of fate are tipped in her favor and against me, but I accept her offer. This woman is becoming a necessity, she is always where I need her. She is not an old dream of the past but a reality of the present, no history, no regrets, no need to recover the memory of what has not happened. She brings peace to my spirit and manages to make me forget my past, to recover the present, which I need so much in these difficult times. Alicia is already in my apartment and once again I hear the domestic sound and the pleasant memories of the hustle and bustle in the kitchen. This woman is leaving everywhere she goes the halo of the everyday, the simple, but that is what is truly endearing. She is not only preparing a delicious meal, but the homey atmosphere that is not only a warm feeling, but a necessity of any human being. -What will you do if you don't recognize him? He asks me with a nonchalant air, as if he is not affected by my answer, while he serves me what he has cooked. I ask her once again not to address me as you, because I am no longer the hero of her dreams, but the helpless and tortured man who needs her help. But Alicia knows that calling me "you" means taking a giant step in our brief relationship, and she does not want to change the deal until she is sure that she has conquered my soul and my will. In the meantime, she will continue with the same distant and respectful treatment. I need to rest and get some sleep so I can be presentable for dinner with my daughter, and Alicia makes up my bed, just as she did the first time in her tiny studio. As she fluffs the pillows she gives me several looks that I can easily interpret. She seems to want to tell me that this time I won't be woken up by her crying. She helps me to lie down and, just like the first time, goes back to the kitchen, and I hear again that very domestic and soothing sound of the bustle of the kitchen, with which I fall asleep. Alicia has veiled my dream by reading the manuscript of my first novel, which had been left on the coffee table in the living room. When I awoke, she read aloud one of the most tragic passages of the novel, moments before the suicide of the protagonist. "I was not born to live. I did not come into this world to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh. I am not alive to celebrate the wonders of nature. I do not feel part of life. No, I came into the world to sing it, to recite it, to turn it into a long poem, to dissolve it into beautiful words. So that it may be said of me when I die that I was just poetry, with nothing to stop me, not my body, not my mind; just poetry, nothing but poetry." -Who could have inspired these dramatic lines? -he asks me with a gesture of desolation or perhaps horror, "her? My mind is not yet clear enough to respond and I just smile. She understands, and continues reading, but silently. I see from her astonished expression that she is shocked by what she is reading, no wonder, they are the passages prior to the suicide of the poetess protagonist. She closes the book and leans back on the sofa. He doesn't wait for my answer because he already knows it. He exchanges a sad glance with me. I think he wants to give me his opinion: -You know, I think the suicide of your poetess protagonist is justified," she pauses and it seems as if what she says next is for herself. We are all born with a stigma engraved on our foreheads, which tells us who we are and what we have come to this world for; and what we can aspire to and what we are strictly forbidden. Your protagonist was born with the stigma of poetry in a world without poetry, he had no choice but to immolate himself with it -a new silence that he breaks with a heartfelt sigh, and continues-. I was also born with a stigma: that of ugliness. No doubt an accident of nature, because it is nothing like my soul. They must have been born each on their own, without agreeing. My soul fills me with good and noble feelings, while my face prevents me from taking advantage of them and showing them to others. Only when I write I am free to generously give those feelings to my characters, because they do not find me ugly and do not see my stigma. I have no doubt that she knows what she is talking about. I myself rejected her in the first moments because of her unattractive face. I wonder why we humans have created canons of beauty that ostracize and ostracize people like Alicia, or women and men in the prime of their lives, just because their backs are hunched, their hands go astray, and wrinkles appear on their foreheads, which are the price paid for their wise maturity, serenity, gentleness, balance and intelligence! No doubt we deserve every one of the torments to which this behavior leads. It is useless to try to console her by praising the beauty of her soul, because the soul cannot be seen, the face can. Unfortunately for people with these stigmas, rejection ends up infecting their souls with the same stigma. Alice is a glorious exception, but no doubt she owes it to literature. It seems that we are both immersed in our respective thoughts, and we remain in an eloquent silence. It is Alicia who breaks it with a question that reminds me of the idea of writing a new book: -We still have three hours left to meet your daughter, why don't you tell me about your affair with her mother? I think the idea is interesting, it can serve as an exercise for that last novel that's been on my mind. I agree and Alicia prepares some coffee, no doubt a long and interesting confession awaits! 22. Confession Alicia looks like a little girl whose grandmother is about to tell her a story of enchanted princes and princesses. She has taken off her shoes (since she has known me she has toned down her clothes, and above all she no longer wears those horrible military boots), she settles down in the armchair, gathering her legs also in the armchair, and waits with childish anxiety for my story. I don't know how to explain it, but she seems totally transfigured. I am unable to recognize the clumsy and ugly young woman, as she defines herself, and I see a young woman with a radiant expression, an intelligent gaze, at the same time curious as that of a cat, and a body brimming with vitality. Nature has been bad to her face, but generous to her body. I start by telling you the story of the coffee shop where we met. -After that funny event we each went to our corresponding classes. We were at the same university and had the same studies, but I was one class ahead of him, so our classes did not coincide. We didn't exchange anything to get back in touch. She seemed to distrust everyone, although I didn't know why at the time. She had been sexually assaulted several times by some of her classmates. That day neither of us could concentrate in class, something magical had happened. I think I fell in love with her when I offered to hold her books for her. She did not look at me with distrust, but as soon as she saw me, I noticed as if I was an old lover, whom she had not seen for a long time and was happy to see me again, but after that moment of pleasant surprise, her distrust returned, and she refused my help. If I had not suffered that terrible accident, everything would have ended like that, but destiny had foreseen it all. -That weekend our faculty had organized a meeting of young poets. I wouldn't have hesitated to attend if it had been for narrative, but for poetry I wasn't enthusiastic about the idea. But that Saturday I was deeply bored. It was the end of the month and my allowance was practically exhausted. The meeting was free, so it seemed like a good way to kill time. I arrived a little late, just at the time of the intervention of the young woman I met in the cafeteria. We passed each other in the center aisle of the hall, as I was entering and she was heading to the stage, and I think both her and my hearts skipped a beat, and we greeted each other with a telltale smile. When I saw her on the stage, completely in the dark, except for her, illuminated with a beam of light, she looked to me like an angel who had descended from heaven to announce the good news of her poetry. This was the verse she wrote after our first meeting: We barely looked at each other and we were already kissing. We barely knew each other and we already loved each other, We barely spoke to each other and we already understood each other. We were barely separated and we were already longing for each other. Alicia seems overwhelmed by the passion in these four lines. She is not passionate, she is sensitive, because passion blinds the understanding and Alicia is a thoughtful and reasonable person. She remains silent so as not to distract me from my confession. -At the end of the event I hurried to congratulate her on the reading of her poems, which was very well received by the audience, mostly fellow faculty members. As she left the hall I found her surrounded by her friends and admirers, who besieged her with questions and congratulations. I had barely exchanged a few glances and smiles and already I thought I had the right to have her all to myself. I was so upset that I did not feel like saying goodbye to her, and I grumpily left the auditorium. Once again it seemed as if fate was against us. But as soon as I was out of the auditorium I realized that I had acted in anger and without justification, and I returned hastily, just as she was leaving accompanied by one of her friends. When she saw me, I could again see her expression of joy reflected on her face, and this time she did not hesitate to call my attention. -Why did you leave without saying goodbye? Didn't you like my poems? I'd like to know your opinion! The friend understood the situation and excused herself, leaving us alone. -I loved them! I did not dare confess to him that I had been jealous. I told him that I also wrote, but narrative, I was not born with the grace of poetry, but with the necessary imagination to write novels. We walked for a while, talking about our works, the importance of poetry, the mediocrity of the novels that were published, the excessive commercialization of art. We seemed to have found the ideal interlocutor to unburden ourselves of our artistic concerns. We generally agreed on everything. We agreed to meet the next day in the park. I would show her my stories and she would show me her latest poems. That night I practically stayed up all night, because I wasn't satisfied with any of the stories I had written and I didn't want to disappoint my new friend. I was a complete unknown at the time, while she was well known among the students of the faculty and other local poetry circles. All the reviews were favorable and predicted a brilliant literary career for her. Undoubtedly her beneficial friendship influenced my inspiration, and that night I wrote my first truly literary work, the previous ones were simple stories, almost all autobiographical, lacking the main thing: a motivation. When I met her she was 18 years old. Like you, she had come from the provinces, with a fixed idea, which she carried more in her heart than in her mind: to triumph as a poetess! She didn't need praise, she considered herself great, and she wasn't wrong. All of us who knew her had formed the same opinion. To me her genius was her best attraction. I was more attracted to her as a poet than as a woman, because neither of us lived in this world, but in those two sister worlds: she in that of poetry and I in that of the novel. And that was the cause of our separation! We lived with too much intensity the unreal and we forgot the real. We met in the park on a day that could have been painted by Botticelli or Velazquez. It was early spring, when the tone of the new leaves is intense green. The sky is an inimitable blue, decorated with white clouds of whimsical and imaginative shapes. It smells of the sap of the rejuvenated stems and the perfumed resins given off by the linden trees. New birds flutter in their nests, impatient to fly and get to know what will be their world. In this magical atmosphere and in a secluded and lonely corner of the park, I read her my first story written thanks to her and for her. At that very moment our separation began to take shape. Our relationship became more intimate every day, but always sustained by our common passion for literature. Our euphoria grew at the same pace and intensity as the quality of her poetry or of my stories and tales, because at that time I still felt incapable of tackling the novel. We never seriously thought of our relationship as a simple couple in love, but in love with the poetess and the writer. At no time did it cross our minds to live together, because that would mean depriving us of the solitude necessary to create; we had enough with our daily encounters, during which we would load each other with brilliant phrases, passionate poems, fantastic stories and a moderate dose of sensuality. We didn't make love until after the six months that our relationship lasted, and it was in that one relationship that Noemí was born! Alicia seems to be meditating on everything I have told her so far, because her gaze is lost in some point of the street that can be seen through my windows. She has reacted and looks at me with a certain air of reproach. -So, he didn't love that woman, he was just using her. -Yes, you can put it that way. -And she, do you think she also used him? -No, she didn't use me; she didn't need encouragement, I told you she was fully confident of her talent; it was me who needed it to discover mine. A month after our meeting, when I had already written a dozen stories and tales that she thought were great, she suggested I write a novel. I took her advice and tried to find a plot that would motivate me. They all revolved, in one way or another, around her and our strange relationships. I put my ideas to her, but she didn't find them original enough. It was then that she read me her poem about the suicide of a poetess, and suggested that this could be a good argument, in which she could collaborate with her poetry. I was delighted to accept her proposal and began to work on the plot. During the time it took me to write it, only two months, our meetings focused on the progress of my novel. She checked every chapter, every paragraph and every word I wrote daily, and corrected my many flaws and typos, until she felt that the syntax, spelling, rhythm and style were perfect. It seemed as if she was writing it herself. When my novel was practically finished, she suggested that I submit it to a popular literary contest for new authors. I couldn't refuse, because it wasn't just my novel, it was our novel. Alicia interrupts me. -Now I understand why he suffered that terrible attack of amnesia. His betrayal was double, because he betrayed the lover and the writer! -No doubt it was a double betrayal, but then I didn't take it into consideration! Not only did she collaborate in its writing, but she took the trouble to type up the original and send it herself to the contest. -Why do you think she would do that? Was she really so in love with you that she sacrificed herself to help you in your career? -Although it pains me to admit it, it must have been. The days leading up to the contest judging were really nerve-wracking for me, but not for her. She knew perfectly well that we had submitted one of the possible winning novels, so much so that she had confidence in herself and in her judgments about literature. But she was also aware that among beginners there is little chance of good novels being submitted. Most suffer from an excess of passion, nonsensical styles, defects of structure and syntax, and unoriginal plots. In fact, the vast majority are simply imitations of their idols, or of fashionable writers. She knew we would win, and we did! She was also the first to know the news of the award, because she received the message with the result and the invitation to the awards ceremony that same weekend at a well-known hotel in the city. When we met at the faculty, she recited to me the famous sentence of Julius Caesar: "Vini, vidi, vici", which I understood immediately. I confess that moments after hearing the news, I considered myself a superior being, I had killed the undecided and modest writer to feel like a new member of the cultural elites of the country. And that image blinded me from the first moment. She never suspected my arrogance, and she was as happy as if she had been the awardee. During the award ceremony, she must have felt like the mother who attends the presentation of the diploma of honor to her son at the university: without envy or professional jealousy. But I was already very distant from her. I saw my books piled up in bookstores, with the mention of that award. I saw myself signing copies for my gawking admirers, but above all, I felt superior and dominant. Alicia has reacted, stands up and gives me a questioning look. -I think you're making up the story! I know you well enough by now not to believe that you would behave that way! -You meet a repentant demon twenty years later. But I wouldn't have committed that sin if I hadn't met the real culprit. During the cocktail party hosted by the sponsors, many guests approached me to congratulate me. She seemed proud of my sudden popularity. From the first day she learned of my vocation as a writer, she wanted me to become more self-confident, so that we could pursue our ambitious careers at the same level. I took it for granted that we would achieve our ambitious project of fame and glory without one overshadowing the other. When, fatigued by so many emotions and hustle and bustle, we were about to leave the meeting, we were approached by a middle-aged, elegant-looking woman, dressed in a sober suit jacket, her hair half-haired, blonde and slightly curly, and addressing me, as if the presence of my companion had not been perceived, and without ceasing to fix her deep and insinuating gaze on mine, she handed me a business card, which must have been perfumed with the fragrances of hell, because when I read it the perfume evoked in me an abyss into which I would not take long to fall -You will need a good agent. Call me tomorrow and we'll talk about your future. That was all she said, and she went back to join a group of guests. That look disturbed me so much that for a moment I too forgot about her presence. She must have sensed my betrayal at that moment! I beg Alicia's forgiveness, but I do not wish to continue. What follows is the most painful part for me, and the memory of it has haunted me all these years. Alicia seems to wake up from a dream, or maybe it's a nightmare. The coffee is finished. She picks up the coffee pot and cups and takes them to the kitchen. She remains silent but her mind must be replaying the story I just told her. He returns from the kitchen, exchanges a sad look with me, sits back down and, finally, I know what he is thinking. -Poor woman, I would not have liked to be in her place. I would have lost my memory too. No, I would have lost my head! Your comment makes me feel guiltier. Those who have no remorse cannot know how much it hurts to be reminded of our sins. -Forgive me. I know you are deeply sorry, and if I were that woman, I would probably forgive you, but that doesn't repair the damage done. Perhaps it would be better if she did not recover her memory! If she does not recover her memory and I do not have her forgiveness, I will be hopelessly condemned! 23. End of confession It has been a time of great emotional tension. Alicia is torn between her heightened sense of justice, her solidarity with other women, her mercy and her love for me. Mercy and love have finally won out, but that doesn't mean she considers me redeemed. She thinks that somehow I must repay that woman. But she doesn't know how. Neither do I. -Even if it brings back bad memories, I think you'll feel better if you tell me the end of the story. I promise I won't hold it against you! Maybe Alicia is right. Hiding my guilt only causes it to become entrenched in my conscience, it is healthier to air them. -All right, I'll tell you the rest of this sorry story. Neither I nor she felt the way we were supposed to feel after the awards ceremony. I still hadn't gotten over the shock of that woman's insinuating stare, and she seemed to want to ask me what I was thinking, because I think she was reading my thoughts. In an almost pleading tone of voice, she begged me not to accept that woman as my agent, because there would be others who would be happy to represent me. I assumed she was jealous of her, but I did not have the courage to confess to her that, despite her fears, I would call her and we would meet to find out her plans for my promotion as a writer. What was happening was that the woman was living in the new world I thought I had entered after the award, while she belonged to one that was already outdated and without incentives for an ambitious writer. I was no longer a student of letters, I was a writer, and writers can transgress all moral norms because they are justified. That night I could not sleep until dawn, because I too was torn between what my conscience dictated and what my ambition demanded, because it made no sense to have come that far and renounce what any other author would do in my place. After all, she had helped me get there herself, so why not accept the help of someone who would make your dream of becoming a writer come true? When we met that morning on campus, I had already made up my mind and she seemed to me an unacceptable intrusion on my freedom, but I didn't have the courage to let her know, and tried to pretend that nothing had changed after the award and we would follow our future plans as we had dreamed. She must have been relieved by my attitude, but it was evident that my enthusiasm and joviality had changed. I was no longer paying attention to her readings or motivated to write new stories. She interpreted this as me being tired from my efforts to write my first novel, and she didn't reproach me. That same afternoon I went to the agent's office, with whom I had already arranged an interview that morning. Her office was located in her own home. A spacious apartment in a noble building, located in one of the most expensive avenues of the city. She met me herself at the elevator exit. I could hardly recognize her. She was now wearing tight jeans, which emphasized the soft shapes of her hips, and a loose blouse, with what looked like the logo of her agency. Her reception was extremely cordial. It was evident that she had a great interest in me, not only as a writer, but as a person. -My warmest congratulations on the award, but now you have to prevent them from forgetting about you in a couple of months, I can help you," he said as soon as I got out of the elevator. He introduced me into his office, a spacious and bright room soberly furnished with two comfortable black leather armchairs, a large work table and a large sofa of the same material as the armchairs. The only detail that indicated that we were in a working office were the dozens of photographs of their represented authors that hung on the walls. Some of their writers frequently topped the most prestigious book sections of newspapers and literary magazines. Soon mine would be there too. All this proved to me that I had chosen a good agent. We settled into the two armchairs. He offered me a sweet from a small basket on a glass table, and without wasting time on introductions, he asked me: -Do you want to become a fashionable author? What could my answer be: "No"? There was only one possible answer: -Yes! -Okay, so starting today we have to work on a program that may be hard and require all your dedication. Are you decided? I just nodded my head firmly. -My commission is five percent; the contract is for two years, and I have your exclusive representation for all media where it is published, including film, television, radio and the web. Are you happy? I again agreed with an energetic nod of my head. Well, then come back tomorrow at this same time and we'll sign the contract. In two years you'll be one of the most read and sought-after writers in the country! And that's how I signed the contract that would ruin my personal life and from which the professional writer would be born! The next day, as planned, I signed my condemnation. My new agent was more explicit and argued the reasons why she was sure of my success. -You represent the ideal of a talented young man, successful from his first work, who does not resort to pornography, nor to violence, nor to esoteric plots, nor to cloying romanticism, nor to philosophical detectives. That you write simple, but real and exemplary novels that everyone likes. That you also have enough physical attractiveness to appeal to young female readers. You write novels that can be read by the whole family, at all ages, and in all times... -But I've only written one novel! I must have guessed the answer. It was practically in the clauses of the contract that I didn't bother to read: -But you will write them, I will tell you how! 24. Seduction As I left my new agent's office, I realized what a grave mistake I had made in my haste and blindness. I blamed it on my lack of experience, but I was consoled by the fact that fortunately it was only two years, which passed quickly. Now I felt ashamed because I had thrown dirt on our noble concerns, our illusion of keeping ourselves pure, disinterested, away from the merchants of dreams, who lure us with siren songs, and end up dragging us into their dirty world of economic transactions, balance sheets, shareholders, investors, CEOs, bankers, unprincipled and unscrupulous traders and a whole host of individuals unable to value what does not have a price and can be sold on the market, such as honesty, generosity or illusion... They have no scruples in selling and buying souls, and auctioning them in their corrupt financial markets. I will be one of them. But, to tell the truth, before I entered this office I was already corrupted. That evening we had arranged to attend the premiere of a film on the life of Oscar Wilde. I was not in the mood to attend yet another crucifixion of an author, but I had to keep my relationship with my new agent a secret. I made the appointment, albeit somewhat belatedly, when the film had already begun. She waited patiently at the lonely cinema entrance. Despite my tardiness, she always justified my disloyalties, because she had not a shadow of a doubt about my fidelity. I need to pause. Alicia is as shocked as I am, but she has promised not to recriminate me, and she keeps her promise. I feel bad, because I cannot erase from my memories her frail figure, illuminated by the flickering billboard signs, arms folded, looking anxiously from one side of the street to the other, trying to justify my tardiness. It is likely that I would have waited much longer without losing faith in my fidelity. -When she saw me appear on the side of the street opposite to that on which she expected me to arrive, she had a moment's hesitation, but my vision overflowed any desire for reproach, and she received me with a smile that would try to wrest it from the sadness that a few minutes before had gripped her. I think for the first time I felt sorry for her, and perhaps had a sincere desire for repentance. I was tempted to fill her in on her situation, but her smile thwarted my desire. I hugged her, we kissed and I improvised an excuse. She believed me because she needed to believe me and urged me to get the tickets as soon as possible, because we would have time after the movie to clarify the details. It was not possible to wake up someone who was sleepwalking without the danger of causing her irreparable damage! There was no clarification. The film had had such an impact on us that when we left the cinema for a long time, we strolled through the now deserted streets without saying a word. She broke the silence with a comment that set my conscience on fire: -Why do geniuses have to pay such a high price just to be famous? Will we also have to pay such a high price? No, of course not; we won't make their mistake or lead double lives that could cause scandal! We will be a perfect writing couple without giving any reason for what happened to the unfortunate Oscar Wilde, won't we? What could I answer? At that moment I didn't have the courage to tell him the truth and undo the deception at once. No matter how much she suffered, it would not be compared to what she had to suffer afterwards. So much to justify her amnesia! Alicia indicates with a gesture of her arm that she wants to tell me something. -And that's the woman who will be sitting next to him tonight, at the same table? Of course, if she recovered her memory, she would have every reason to hate him. But go on, forgive my interruption! -The days that followed the signing of the contract were so intense that I didn't have a chance to think about her. My agent would invite me to her apartment, and, after a light dinner, we would sit in the armchairs of her office and discuss the plot of my next novel. Of course it would be a love story with a happy ending. Once in my apartment I would write a chapter or two and show it to her the next night. She would make corrections and suggest any changes she thought were necessary. I have to confess that we became well coordinated, because I did not dislike her arguments and ideas and it was easy for me to interpret and write them. As Naomi said in her first message: I just changed muse, and overrode any noble motivation. For the first few days her behavior was strictly professional, but as the days went by she became more familiar and intimate, and changed her clothes to a comfortable night gown, which left her attractive legs practically uncovered. She had a plan to seduce me, but she would not carry it out until I finished the novel. That would be the prize! My relations with the other woman who had become entangled in this drama remained superficial, as are the relations of those who hide their true feelings. Sometimes she dared to ask me the cause of my apathy, which made her suffer so much, and she herself came to the conclusion that the cause might lie in a lack of more sensual relations. Although it was not in her plans, she set out to seduce me and would consent to our lovemaking. Our relationship had been from the beginning an artistic affinity and we were unsure of our physical attraction. At that moment I was infinitely more attracted to the mature beauty and sensuality of my agent than to that of the poetess, who had not awakened from her dream of glory and fantasies. With the excuse of inviting me to dinner, she prepared the necessary atmosphere for my seduction. That night we gestated Naomi, but neither of us was satisfied with that relationship. No; we had not come together for carnal love, only for spiritual love! I cannot continue this story, because today, twenty years later, I still feel the shame of that hasty pleasure, of those frustrated relationships that were closer to prostitution than to love. -Excuse me Alicia, but I think it's time to go to our appointment with my daughter. -And with his mother! -Yes, and with his mother. This will be the last twist of fate, I don't want to think about anything else! Alicia is visibly dejected, I can see it in her sad and absent look, so different from the one at the beginning of this story. She gets up with a heavy heart, as if her legs were heavy, and helps me to get dressed. I leave my private refuge as if moved by a supernatural force, against which my own will is useless. It is already dark, the days are short in October. The cool breeze of the evening twilight suits me well. There is still a pale streak of red on the horizon. We have called a cab to pick us up at the door, but I ask the driver to drop us off two blocks before my daughter's house. Alicia approves of the idea. I want to finish my story before I face this difficult test. -Two weeks later I was putting an end to my second novel, although I would have to rewrite several chapters that were not to the liking of my demanding agent. But that was the day she had chosen to seduce me, and she prepared everything so that I would have no escape. But that same day I had arranged to meet the other unfortunate woman to see the film about Oscar Wilde again, because the previous time we had missed a good part of the beginning. The idea came from her and I couldn't refuse. But it was not only the interest in the film that made them want to see me, but apparently she had some important news to tell me, but she did not want to tell me what it was about. He wanted me to be there when he gave it to me. I assumed it must be something to do with his poetry, perhaps he had won a prize, or had found an important publisher to publish it. I went to my daily appointment with my agent, with the intention of leaving the manuscript for him to read and write down the corrections, but to my surprise, I found a table prepared with great care and detail for two people, illuminated pale by two artistic candles, on a side table there was a bottle of champagne set to cool, and in the center of the table a silver tray with canapés of caviar, salmon and other such delicacies. But what impressed me most, and of course turned me on, was the way she had dressed for the occasion. She was wearing a silk blouse of the same color as her skin, open almost to the waist, where part of her still firm breasts could be seen, and a tight black skirt that covered her above her knees. The outfit was extremely elegant, but above all, irresistibly attractive! I don't know if you know men well, Alicia, but there is no will capable of overcoming a temptation like that. It is for this very reason that mankind was condemned; it is the eternal sin that man has committed from the beginning: the irresistible attraction of Eve and her apple! This biblical drama was played out in that room: caviar, champagne and sex. After that, the grim reaper could take us into his darkness. I had to choose between the two women: one offered me fame. The other offered me spiritual affection, sincere friendship and, of course, loyalty. -Who would you have chosen, Alicia? The question has caught her off guard, but the answer is withering: -The second time, of course! -I didn't want to choose; I wanted things to stay as they were, I could continue to have both relationships and not hurt either, but my agent forced me to choose. In the end it was the champagne and its irresistible sex appeal that decided. To celebrate my betrayal, we began the evening in a cabaret where they staged sexual scenes of indecent bad taste, but it was part of their plan. At the entrance of the cinema, illuminated only by the flickering lights of the neon signs, with her arms crossed, and without ceasing to look anxiously from one side of the street to the other, she waited uselessly for the man who I now know wanted to tell me that he was going to be a father! Fortunately he lost his memory! 25. The reentry We approached Naomi's house. I have finished my painful story, and we quietly give ourselves to our own thoughts. Alicia must wonder if she hasn't been blinded by my popularity, because I don't deserve her affection; and I wonder if I can look the woman who is waiting for a visit from a perfect stranger in the face. Recent events are beyond my capacity for assimilation, and now I have to face a new mammoth test. A few steps away I am going to meet the woman from whom I have stolen the best years of her life. She may recognize me, in which case I don't know how I will be able to justify myself, and if she doesn't recognize me, I won't be able to justify myself either. All these years have only served me to understand that ambition without a noble cause does not bear noble fruits, but poisoned ones, with the poison of your own poisoned spirit. But there is something that worries and amazes me: Has all that time really elapsed? Are we not always at the same moment? How far does the boatman travel in his boat? None! And yet, the boat does travel a space and consumes a time, dragged by the current. I have also been dragged by the current, but I am still in the same boat; the same instant as always, and that will probably be eternal. The woman who must be in Naomi's apartment is the same woman I left at the door of a neighborhood cinema, but she continues, like me, to live in the same instant, for we have not passed through time, we have passed over time, like the boatman over the current of the river! But it is not the body that travels in the boat, but the soul, which is not affected by time. She will have the same soul she had the day she lost her memory, and it is that soul that has not aged and will surely recognize me. Now they meet again and they will ask themselves: what have we done with our lives that we had to separate? Only I have the answer: not having listened to her or followed her wishes. We are at the door of her apartment. Alicia gives me a pleading look. -Your great moment has come! Now you will have the only chance to save or damn your soul! She knocks and we hear some agile footsteps that must be those of my daughter Noemí. But it is not Naomi who opens the door, but she does! Alicia could not avoid an expressive gesture of surprise, and I feel as if I were plunging into an abyss of time, and I would have to travel through the past twenty years to land in the same place where I was the night of my betrayal: time has not passed for her! There is no trace of suffering on her face, still smooth and young. Her figure is the same. Her hair is still curly, but a little more faded, and what impresses me most is her serene and tender gaze, but as if lost in nothingness. I don't know what to say, but I am anxious about her possible reaction. Did she recognize me? I hear rapid footsteps, it's Naomi coming to greet us. But she has become paralyzed and anxiously contemplates the scene. Finally, her mother and I are face to face and neither of us is able to break the tension of the moment. Naomi watches her mother, but there is no reaction that could give her to understand that she has recognized me. She remains holding the doorknob, and seems relaxed, she is waiting for her daughter to come. -Are they your guests, Naomi? Naomi tries to hide her desolation, she didn't recognize me! -Yes, Mom, they are our guests. She exchanges a disconsolate glance with me. Alicia also feels the tension of the moment, and looks at me questioningly. Naomi's mother begs us to come in, lets us in and closes the door behind Alicia. She follows us into a small living room, where a table is already set for four guests. We take off our coats and Naomi hangs them on a coat rack. Her mother remains silent, rubbing her hands together, not knowing what to do with them. She gives us fleeting glances and smiles slightly. There is strangeness in her expression, it is evident that she considers us strangers, and she does not know what her behavior should be. I think he is waiting for his daughter to introduce them to him. Naomi expected some gesture in her mother's expression that would show some indication that she remembered me, but it is evident that this has not been the case. She seems resigned and introduces us to her indecisive mother. -Mom, these are my friends I told you about. They are both writers, like us. The mother seems to welcome our profession with pleasure, because she gave us a broad smile with a gesture of admiration. Naomi tries, without much hope, to provoke her mother's memory. -He's a very famous writer, I'm sure you've seen his picture in a newspaper or in literary magazines! But the mother flatly denies this with a nod of her head. We are all caught off guard by a question from her mother addressed to me: -And what do you write, novels or poetry...? I write poetry..., yes, I've written a lot of poetry... He loses his gaze on an indeterminate point in the room. I try not to show my deplorable mood and respond by forcing a friendly smile: -I write novels, stories of ordinary people. Nothing special... but I met an admirable poetess, who, unfortunately for her many admirers, never published them! She smiles back at me, but makes no comment. I get the feeling that something is disturbing her mind, because the smile is frozen on her lips. She seems to wander off and move somewhere else. Perhaps to our university campus. She is a helpless and vulnerable woman, the same as she was twenty years ago, but time and amnesia have made her extremely sensitive and emotional. I would love to read her poetry. Dare I suggest it: -Why doesn't one of them read us? She has been startled by my unexpected suggestion and seems embarrassed. -Oh, no, no; I write them for myself.... They are very personal... You wouldn't like them! Naomi listens to her mother and seems devastated. -Mom, these are my friends. Come on, cheer up and read us some of your poems! There's still some time before dinner is ready. Naomi wants to try everything. There may not be another chance. Her mother looks stunned. She looks at us as if to check our willingness to listen to her poems. Once again she seems to sink into faraway places. Naomi tries again and suggests to her mother that she read the first ones she wrote, but that she does not remember when and where she wrote them. There is no doubt that she is under great pressure. I feel sorry for her, but above all I feel even more miserable. This poor frightened woman, who writes romantic poems dedicated to a lover she cannot remember and who has him in front of her, does not deserve this suffering. She seems to be hesitating. We are all watching her decision. She looks at us again as if trying to read our thoughts. Alicia has been silent, she must realize that now she has a real rival. Now that I have seen her again, those happy, pure and generous days return to my mind with infinite nostalgia, and I begin to believe that if destiny has it in mind, they could come back, even if only for a short time. Neomi has managed to overcome her mother's fears and agrees to read us some of her poems. The three of us settle down on a small sofa while she nervously shuffles through several notebooks she keeps in a travel bag, and doesn't seem to know which one to choose. He finally decides on one with pink covers, where there is a caption that I can't read. He sits down on one of the dining room chairs, leafs through several pages, and finally seems to decide on one. She has the same tone of voice, the same slow cadence and intonation. It was a pleasant experience to listen to her recite, and I see it's still the same! IF YOU WERE... If your heart were foam, I would be ocean; If your soul were heaven, I would be cloud; If your gaze were rain, I would be a field; If your hands were water, I would be thirsty. For God's sake, that verse again! Why is fate playing cat and mouse? Why has it chosen this very poem? I think she has noticed my confusion. She gives me a strange look that could be one of interrogation, perhaps she is beginning to remember! Naomi has exchanged a look of astonishment with me, she seems to be asking herself the same question. Alicia hasn't reacted, but I suspect what she must be thinking: her stigma is haunting her! Naomi's mother has come out of her momentary impasse and continues reading. When she finishes, we have the feeling that she has made a great effort. She closes the notebook, leaves it on the table and drops relaxed on the chair. She doesn't want to read any more poems. Something is disturbing her mind again. Now I can read the notebook's caption: "Poems of love and oblivion. Spring 1997." But there is no indication of the place or name of its author. I congratulate her effusively, she thanks me with a kindly smile, but I notice her absent, troubled. Naomi is worried about her mother's despondency. She must think that we should not push her. To awaken her memory abruptly may cause her a new trauma. She does not insist. Dinner is ready. Alicia accompanies Noemí to the kitchen to help her set the table. My daughter has cooked and has surprised me, I didn't know she was such a good cook. Her mother has relaxed; she is calmer and we exchange comments about how wet this autumn is turning out to be and what she has seen during her stay in the city. -Did you like the opera "Madame Butterfly"? -Oh, yes; very much so! -Don't you find it a little sad? -Yes, you are right, it is a bit sad.... I have the impression that she is talking to me, but her thoughts are elsewhere. I would give anything to know where! Naomi intervenes in the conversation. -I have an idea," he turns to me, "why don't you take my mother to visit a museum? I can't miss school, but you might have time. I know she was looking forward to seeing the latest exhibition at the National Museum. His mother tries to protest. Sounds like a good idea to me. -I will be happy to accompany you. I was looking forward to seeing her too! Alicia remains in dramatic silence. Everything is conspiring against her. She has noticed that I am beginning to take a lively interest in Naomi's mother, and I think she even suspects that I may feel something more than compassion. The truth is that I feel a great longing for the times when we were two lovers of literature, but also two good friends, and friendship is less passionate than love, but more loyal and generous. On the other hand, I would like to repay her suffering with my affection. But I can do nothing for her unless she recovers her memory and remembers who I am. I think Naomi is of the same opinion. The dinner was delicious. I congratulate my daughter, who is very flattered. But my aches and pains threaten to return and I would like to be back in my apartment before this happens. Naomi brings us our coats and I notice in her mother's eyes that she senses our departure, I think she has taken a liking to me and has overcome her initial misgivings, possibly she vaguely remembers me. We agreed that I would pick her up here the next day and we would spend the morning visiting the exhibition. Then we would go to an Italian restaurant for lunch, as Noemi has filled me in on her mother's gastronomic tastes, and she loves Italian pasta. Yes, I remember! 26. Memory I have spent a night in intense pain. All these emotions may be detrimental to my health. The pains have been joined by uncertainty about Naomi's mother. It is very likely that had our past not mediated I would have been attracted to her; for her kindness and sensitivity, so rare in the environment in which I have lived these last twenty years. I have still found her attractive, but it is not an exclusively physical attraction, perhaps I cannot explain it in spite of being a writer, but it is a physical attraction that emanates from the spirit; a physical attraction proper to human beings and not to animals. It is the joy of pleasure when it is tempered by sensitivity and not only by sexuality. It is as if the soul gives you its blessing to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh without unconsciousness and bestiality. It's not sex, it's sensuality, if I can put it that way. Maybe that's why we had that frustrated relationship, because she tried to imitate a behavior that was not in her personality, and I wouldn't have known how to interpret it then either. I don't feel well, I'm down and my whole body aches, but I have to pull myself together and keep the promise I made to Naomi's mother. Another absence would be intolerable! The weather is with us. It is a sunny, almost summery day. The shower has cleared my head and I feel a little better. The prospect of spending a morning with someone who has loved you but is unable to recognize you fills me with uncertainty. I may not be up to the task and I may not know how to behave. After all we are two sick people, and sick people understand each other. A cab takes me to Naomi's house, I ask her to wait, because it will take us to the National Museum. Naomi's mother had been waiting for me dressed to go out for a long time. When she opens the door I notice enthusiasm in her expression. I greet her with a friendly kiss on the cheek and can't help but compliment her good looks, which she seems to appreciate. I suspect she has taken a liking to me and feels safe with me. What would happen if she knew who I really was? I don't know, but sooner or later she has to know. I find it hard to accept what is happening. I spend the morning next to a woman I have longed for for many years, and now that she is next to me I feel unable to openly show her my affection, and I continue to suffer from the same regrets as with the previous ones, but aggravated by the constant fear that she will recover her memory and realize that she is next to the man who has caused her the most harm. I would like her to end this nightmare; to recognize me and condemn or forgive me. If on many occasions I have wondered what would have become of me if I had not left her, now I don't need to imagine it. We would visit the latest exhibition at the National Museum, but we would be holding hands, and we would talk about the sales of my latest novel, which surely would not even reach the tenth position of the best sellers, but in exchange I would have a good number of educated and faithful readers, with whom I would exchange thoughts, concerns, ideas and comments about my novels, the message of the characters, about literature and art in general. Many of them I would know personally and I could consider them my friends, as well as faithful readers. But they would not flatter me, even if they felt admiration for my novels. I would not be an idol of young girls blinded by my popularity and the attractiveness of an experienced forty-year-old who considered me sexy, since I would have a companion that everyone would know and would know that I had always been faithful to her, as she herself said at the exit of the movie theater of such bitter memory and that resonate in my ears as if she had pronounced them yesterday: "We won't make mistakes or lead double lives that might cause scandal! We'll be a perfect writing couple, giving no reason why what happened to the unfortunate Oscar Wilde shouldn't happen, right?". How I wish it had been so! But we would also talk about the success of her last book of poems, because she would be much more popular and admired than me. Her books would indeed be at the top of the best sellers and most valued. And they would not be poems addressed to a ghost lover, but to all that multicolored spectrum that can be expressed through poetry. This is the dream that I have failed and that I cannot even turn into an exemplary novel, written with my heart and not my head, without studying the tastes and trends of the market, the number of potential readers and possible royalties, or wasting time in eternal photo shoots to publish the most commercial image, or begging for an interview on the most popular program in exchange for promoting a sponsor who is not interested in what you think about literature, so that future generations would receive that message of friendship, loyalty and generosity from the people of generations already gone. That would possibly have been my life with her. During the cab ride to the museum, she stares quizzically at what she sees as if she has never been here before. When something especially catches her eye, she exchanges a look of amazement with me, I respond with a smile of approval. At the museum she seems enthusiastic about the paintings on display. There is no doubt that she is an artist. She tells me about the ones that catch her attention. I have acquired for her as a souvenir of this visit an illustrated book about the painter in the exhibition, which she thanks me with a discreet kiss on the cheek. She is undoubtedly the same charming woman she was twenty years ago. It would be a memorable morning if I were not in constant pain. I try not to let her notice my suffering, because even if it is brief, today is probably one of the happiest days in recent years. What makes us most human is our ability to get affection and friends who just know us. A friendship without affection is like a black and white photograph: it lacks color. I'm finding the museum visit exhausting, but she seems immune to fatigue. I suggest we take a break and have a drink in the museum cafeteria. She thinks it's a good idea. The cafeteria brings back distant memories of the one at our university. Twenty years later she is standing in line in front of me again and she is also holding a book in one hand! As if this coincidence wasn't enough, they also have slices of strawberry cream pie! She has seen them and seems hesitant to put a slice on her tray. She gestures with the intention of taking a slice but pulls back. I think the sight of that cake has possibly awakened some area of his unconsciousness. I can't see the expression on his face, but he is unable to go on with just a cup of coffee. I get the impression that something is again disturbing his mind. There are several people behind us who are getting impatient, because she has become as if paralyzed in front of the tray of cakes. In a strange gesture, which seems to me more impulsive than voluntary, she finally takes one of the portions. I'm beginning to worry, I have a feeling that twenty years of amnesia may have a tragic end here. But I don't care, and I take one more step towards this abyss, offering to hold the book for him so that he can take the tray with both hands! She turns sharply toward me and I have the alarming feeling that her gaze is remotely familiar, the same one I remember when she turned to me in the faculty cafeteria. Maybe she is starting to remember that scene too, because she refuses my help again! I don't know if fortunately or unfortunately, but there has been no repeat of the accidental event that brought us together, and we managed to get to a table with no accidents! She must have noticed my confusion mixed with my pains, because her gaze shows a certain uneasiness, it seems as if she is looking at a stranger, who is not the same one she had kissed ten minutes before to thank her for the unexpected gift. The coffee and his slice of cake are on the table, and for some reason they remain untouched. It is as if they were witnesses to some important event and needed to be presented as damning evidence to an imaginary but exacting jury. I cannot look into her eyes without feeling uncovered, lost in a deep sense of guilt for which there is no redemption. If I could read her mind I'm sure my image appears blurred in a dense fog, but it is quickly making its way to clearer areas, where it will eventually become perfectly visible. I, too, am getting the feeling that this woman is being transfigured, and before long she may emerge from the mist and may, at last, know the identity of her betrayer! In the midst of this state of anguished transformation, I hear the familiar sound of cups and plates rolling on the floor. An elderly woman has lost her balance, and dropped her tray! Once again fate intrudes on our tormented lives! The woman sitting in front of me now has a twitching face, her eyes wild, her accusing gaze fixed on mine, which I feel unable to hold. She has risen so abruptly that she has caused our accusing coffee cups and cake slices to fall. He almost shouts at me: -You; it's you! PART TWO: THE REUNION "He who forgives sin, seeks affection; he who spreads it, drives away the friend." (Proverbs 17:9) 27. Rejection Naomi's mother has vanished in the cafeteria. I don't know to what extent her memory has returned, but it is clear that she recognized me. A museum security guard has spotted a doctor among the visitors, who is trying to revive her. He asked me what caused her to faint. I told him that she had suffered a shock. The doctor wants to know what caused the shock. I replied that the cause was the strong impression of recognizing a person she had forgotten for the last twenty years. -That's no cause for fainting. -She did not wish to recognize him. He seems to recover. He half-opens his eyes, contemplates me for a few moments and closes them again. -I want to go back to my daughter's house; call my daughter and have her come and get me...! She asks the attending physician. -The gentleman who accompanies you can take you there. -No, no; call my daughter! The doctor looks at me strangely. -It's me he didn't want to recognize. It's a long story; I wouldn't know how to explain it to you. The museum guard suggests we find a cab and tell the driver where to take her. She nods weakly. Someone of those watching the scene has recognized me, and the word spreads among the others watching the scene. I notice in their looks a veiled reproach. I think they know from what is published in the magazines of the heart that my relationships with women are tortuous, and that she may be another of my victims. Nothing causes more pleasure to admirers than to discover the weaknesses of their idols, because deep down they hate them. Their admiration enslaves them and this discovery is a liberation. A few anxious minutes pass, but finally a young man appears who must be the cab driver, because he is accompanied by the guard. I tell him where to take her. The young cab driver and the doctor accompany her, and they leave the cafeteria. I find myself terribly alone, surrounded by people who probably hate me for my alleged misconduct with the victim. It is possible that someone may have taken a photo with his cell phone and tomorrow the photo will be published in the tabloids and on the networks, and some unprincipled and unethical journalist will take advantage of the incident to climb the ladder by resorting to libel. He will make up a story claiming that I mistreat my colleagues, which will delight the readers. He knows perfectly well that I will not sue him, because he will certainly be a poor devil who will not get his miserable salary at the end of the month, and I could only pay for the damages at the taxpayers' expense, giving him shelter and food in one of our overcrowded prisons. But my image will deteriorate, and in these critical moments that is what I most wish to preserve. I don't give the people who witnessed the scene a chance to explain it to them, and I rush out of the museum. It is urgent that I call Naomi so that she is informed of the recovery of her mother's memory and the dramatic outcome, which unfortunately I had already feared. Her cell phone is disconnected, she must be in a class. I call the University secretary's office and ask them to send her my message, and to come to her house urgently. I don't know what else I can do. After making these calls, I stop to think about what has happened. And I don't need to make any great show of intelligence to understand that my life is now meaningless. I don't even have a daughter to hold on to in this life, because I have not been, am not and could not be, the father that any daughter needs. Meeting her was a mistake. It would have been better if we had never met. When I did not exist, all her affection was for her mother and I had no one to judge my behavior. Now I have intruded and she feels obliged to share it with me, and I feel obliged to account for my conduct. It is better for me to get out of her way as soon as possible, as if she had been a mirage, and to employ her noble sentiments on those who deserve them. I am strolling aimlessly along a busy avenue, but I doubt that they will notice my presence, because I already feel myself floating in a vague place, a prelude to my final journey, which I will not take long to undertake. Perhaps sooner than expected! Alicia; yes, Alicia will help me! I can trust her; she will do whatever I ask of her! I don't know the feeling of love and how far we can sacrifice ourselves for the loved one, but she must know because there is no more sublime sacrifice than to love without being reciprocated. And she has endured it with infinite generosity. Someone has to give me the push to get me on my way to a place where I can find peace. I'm startled by the alarm on my cell phone, it's Alicia! It's as if my previous thoughts had been a spell to summon her and she had heard my wishes to die sooner than expected. She has heard from Naomi that her mother has regained her memory and wants to know how she reacted to remembering me. Just a minute ago Alicia was little less than my exterminating angel, and now that I listen to her life is once again claiming her attention, and she manages to drive these gloomy thoughts from my mind. She is a woman and knows how women think and feel, so I knew she would reject me. She asks me how my mood is and I reply that I am like a lost child in a department store who is asked by adults not to cry because they will soon find their parents. I was also crying before his call because I felt lost and scared. She asks me if I want her to come to my apartment so that I can tell her what happened to make Naomi's mother's memory come back. -Thanks to a slice of strawberry cream pie! -I replied. Alicia has the road free, but she knows that I will remain inaccessible as long as I don't have the forgiveness of the woman who now knows who I am and where her enemy lives. Of course, I beg you to come. 28. Depression Despite Alicia's invaluable moral and spiritual help, I am deeply depressed. It must be one of those depressions that inevitably lead to suicide. If I have not committed it yet, it is out of cowardice and horror of physical pain, but there are many ways to end this suffering. If life is not supported by some incentive, it is not possible to live it. In human beings the defense of life is not instinctive, but mental; it is a reasoned and justified decision, but pressured by the irreversible lack of incentives. No animal commits suicide. I have consumed and wasted all my incentives, without the result being what I would have wished. But I must also admit that I have never known what I really wanted. Naomi called me. She is already in her apartment. Her mother is very upset and wants to go home tomorrow. She has completely recovered her memory and remembers the causes of her amnesia in detail as if it happened yesterday. Naomi has tried to make her see that I am deeply sorry, but she does not want them to talk about me. She thinks she will need some time to get over her resentment, but the one thing I don't have is time. She has not told her about my illness so that she does not think that she wants to blackmail her. She is deeply sorry for this situation, for having to divide her affections between two parents at odds. Her mother does not understand why she has forgiven me, when I am the main victim of this drama. Naomi fears that her mother will distance herself from her because she believes that she has not behaved as she expected. She thinks she should have been more consistent and not forgiven me, and I think maybe her mother is right. Alicia has just arrived. Not a day has gone by since the day we met that she hasn't worried about me and I remain stubbornly oblivious to her. Why does she insist on maintaining her loyalty to a doomed, hopeless man who can only inspire pity and sympathy? The answer must lie in those recesses of women's souls that I have failed to understand. 29. Alicia's plan (Narrator: Alicia) Today I found him in a deplorable state. I know that he had hoped that Naomi's mother would have given him the opportunity to express to her his regret and his own sufferings and remorse in twenty years of solitude. If she has lived those twenty years in darkness, he would have preferred to have lost his memory as well. We women are condemned to forgive men's infidelities, because they have created a world where it is not possible to avoid this sin. If it were the world of women, infidelity would not be possible because neither would ownership exist. Men would be as shared as food or work. No one would be anyone's property. This man is a victim of that world, where there is no other incentive than competition and the derisory pleasure of the winners. He is also an unhappy winner in a world made in his own image and likeness. We cannot change a world that has a male God. But we women would not have gods either, only energies, positive or negative. Energy has created the world, we are all energies. I know that in his desperation he is thinking of suicide, but he is a weak man, and to commit suicide it is necessary to have courage. Men feel strong if they have terrible weapons, we do not need those diabolical weapons, but if we set our minds to it, we could bring about the destruction of the world in the same time it took God to create it! God himself had to be begotten by a woman. I would like to make him understand that he is not guilty and that his remorse is unfounded. If there is a guilty party to be found, it is Naomi's mother, because her fantasy and her ignorance of human nature and of the reality in which she lives provoked this man's infidelity. The most serious sins are not committed by the intelligent, but by the ignorant, but they do not feel guilty because their ignorance serves as a mitigating factor. Her literary agent lived in the real world, it was a matter of competition and she had the best offer, that's why she was the winner and got the product. It would be necessary to completely revise our morality and adapt it also to the laws of supply and demand. If I love this man it is because, besides the physical attraction, for twenty years he has been consistent and has written what the market required, but his loneliness justifies his rejection. Only when death threatened him did he decide to put an end to this immorality, and say in public what he really felt and thought. For me he is a hero! He wonders why Naomi's mother won't listen to him and I suggest an idea that might help him: -Why don't you write a new novel with the story of your relations with her and how you have lived these last twenty years. She won't want to see you, but she might read the novel. I think this idea has been in his head for some time, but he doesn't feel strong enough to do something like this. -It's too late now, Alicia, I'm afraid my illness is getting worse and I won't even be able to count on those six months of respite. I have a feeling that I won't live to see the next spring bloom and that I won't be spared the cold winter of death! It is useless for me to encourage him, he knows better than anyone else when death will come, because it must be the most foreseen event. Yes, it is possible that he will not see the next spring bloom and that for him it will be too late, but not for me: I will write that novel in his name! 30. The first novel I had to help him change his clothes and make him comfortable. Maybe it's time to get to know him on a first-name basis. I think he has only me now. His daughter Naomi will only feel pity and compassion for him, but she will remain attached to her mother. She is young and idealistic now, and thinks she loves everyone, but soon she will be more selective, and will be more demanding in lavishing her affections. This is now a dead father, of whom only the memory will remain, but the mother will still be alive and demanding in her maternal affection, more as a family obligation than as a sincere moral sentiment. Now my poor friend is a loser, for with death he loses everything. I need him to tell me what his life has been like in these twenty years of unfounded remorse. -I'll fix you something to eat and then you can rest. While you sleep I will finish reading your first novel. But when you wake up, if you feel well, I want you to tell me what your life has been like during these twenty years. -Alicia, you called me by my first name! I was expecting this remark -Yes, I have called you by your first name; there is no longer any reason to keep our distance. Now we are closer to each other and share the same loneliness. You may not love me, but you need me as much as I need you. We are now traveling companions. You will get off before me, but my journey won't be very long either. I can only trust you and you can only trust me. I may be the only one to mourn your death. Now he rests and I return to the reading of his first book, which I now read with great attention. The one I write must have his style, because it must be his book. I do not know if I should inform him of my idea, it is possible that he felt frustrated at not being able to write it himself. I read a paragraph that strikes me: "The day is dark for the cursed poets, and the night is clear and welcoming for us; the light damages our eyes accustomed to darkness. In the darkness there are no visible paths, it is necessary to travel them with the imagination. During the day all the paths where you are forced to travel are visible. That is why only in the darkness we are free, while in the light of day we are slaves. I have chosen the darkness of death, because on the other side of the darkness there is always light. I will be reborn in a new world saturated with light, where I will live eternally." Will it really be like that? How can I know in life? My good friend will check it very soon, and I should arrange with him a spell to cross our dimension and inform me. Would it be possible? The short break was good for him. He has woken up in a good mood and agrees to tell me his story. I make coffee for both of us; I sit comfortably in the armchair and listen to him with great attention. -My agent knew I had betrayed the other woman, but he didn't feel guilty. He believed she was infinitely more beneficial to my career than my partner. As an agent, she prioritized the success of those she represented over her feelings. In just three months we managed to place my novel among the top 10 best sellers, and two months later, we reached first place. She had kept her promise! She knew all the levers to promote the novel of a perfect stranger. And sometimes those levers didn't move very ethically or morally. Our extra-professional relationship was not very satisfying for both of us. I was not a lover up to her demands. The truth is that for one reason or another I have never been a great lover. When he managed to place me on the cusp of popularity he stopped being interested in me. His passion was to bring young writers out of anonymity and share their triumphs in a very personal and physical way. For the first six months I did not have the courage to concern myself with the fate of the victim of my ambition, but not a day passed without the memory of her and my betrayal weighing on my conscience. I had promised myself that as soon as my career was consolidated and free from the bonds of my contract with my agent, I would seek her out and propose to her to resume our old dreams of glory, and we would once again become the writing couple she had imagined. I already had the means to make it happen. But I still had a year's commitment to my agent. No, that woman does not deserve this man's affection; and of course he is not guilty. If he is guilty, to live is sin! Nothing fundamental that we human beings do is righteous, because we are driven by necessity and not by will, but this is what living is all about. We have all inherited "original sin." -My agent didn't wait for our contract to end before finding a new lover. Another young writer, as ignorant and inexperienced as I was. Surely he would offer him the same fame and success as me, but he hadn't won any contests. He may not have been a better writer than me, but he was probably a better lover. By then I had not only risen to the top of the popularity charts, but I had created a saga that virtually assured the success of my future novels. That's why I decided that the time had come to repair the damage done, to meet her again, to try to get her to forgive me, and to make up for lost time, which had been very profitable for me. But there was no trace of her - he remains silent for a few moments, I think he realizes the desolation that awaited him if he did not manage to find the whereabouts of that woman -. She was hidden in a remote location that had little contact with the rest of the country, and no one knew with whom she was associated during her stay at the university. She never revealed the name of that town, which also did not coincide with her birthplace. Her father was the secretary of the Town Hall and had already made several transfers to that position in that small town. All my inquiries were useless. To make matters worse, she had adopted an artistic name to sign her poetry by which she was known, and not by her real name, which even I do not know! -So, is it true that you have exhausted all attempts to find her? -I ask him, although he has already given me the answer. -All the ones in my hands. I assumed that she had removed all traces of where she was so that I could not locate her. I didn't know I had lost my memory. I still let the year that was left in our contract go by, never for one day failing to try some other means of getting hold of her, but all my efforts proved futile. I finally came to the conclusion that she did not want to be located, because otherwise after two years there was no reason for her not to be the one to try to contact me. I did not believe her to be so spiteful, and I gave up looking for her. Two years of hard work, of having reached the pinnacle of popularity and having the necessary means to realize our dream, were meaningless and useless; in other words: they had gone to waste! -But she says the opposite: that you had no intention of tracking him down. -For her, I must have already been dead; there was no need to wait for me to suffer from this disease! -And how did you live the following years? -The following years I did not live; I survived! I had no other incentive than those commissioned novels, one every year, twenty thorns stuck in my mind! I had thousands of admirers, but not a single one to whom I could confide. When you write novels for ordinary people, don't expect to find a single one out of the ordinary. It's been such a lost few years for her, even though she has an excellent memory. 31. Confidences of a mother (Narrator Naomi) My father has not told me the whole story of his relationship with my mother. Now that he has regained his memory and I know the real story from my mother, I think maybe she is right and does not deserve my forgiveness. My mother could have prevented my birth by having me aborted, which she possibly would have done if my father had known of my gestation. If I was gestated it is because she believed she loved him and did not want to lose him, but he did not know how to value her sacrifice and abandoned her. She knew that she had accepted the representation of that vicious and heartless woman, and she was so naive that she thought she could compete with her. What else could she do to keep him by her side? It was of no use for her to write the best poems and dedicate them to him, because he had ceased to be interested in the poetess, and of course in the woman, but he did not have the courage to be honest with her. My poor mother has been crying practically since she has arrived at my house. It has been very painful to come face to face with a man who had shown so little courage in hiding his infidelity from her. -It's easy to regret when one senses death.... -she says to me between sobs-. You had to be the one to find him.... If he had put more effort years ago he would have found me, but success, and surely his many admirers, kept him very busy. I cannot reproach him for his resentment, twenty years lost in a few hours are not forgotten just because he suffers from an incurable disease. He is the cause of my mother also suffering from an incurable disease, but of the soul. But I am deeply saddened by this situation. I wish I could have found a justification for both of them, because deep down I believe they are both good people. They both have noble souls, and, if they have hurt each other there must be a powerful reason. My father blames his passion for literature and perhaps he is right. To create it is necessary to leave this world and contemplate it without an emotional relationship, otherwise it is not possible to understand it. I suppose that in order to create characters with different personalities, the author does not have to be emotionally linked to any of them. When my father was immersed in the creation of his novels, his relationship with the world around him, including my mother, must have changed and they were no longer people but characters. His life was a fiction and his relationship with my mother, the plot of some of his future novels. As it was. If I intend to follow in his footsteps and be as good a writer as he is, I must avoid creating emotional ties with anyone in this world, because, as he himself told me, and which I have not been able to forget, "If you dream of being an out-of-the-ordinary writer, your life will pass within that same out-of-the-ordinary dream, and you will never be able to live in reality." My mother also lived her out-of-the-ordinary dream, but she made the clumsy mistake of falling in love with one of her characters. I cannot expose this reflection to my mother because she might not be able to understand it. Although she has regained her memory, she still lives in her fictional world, and my father is a character of her imagination who has accidentally incarnated himself in the body of a lover. They should wake up from their respective dreams and contemplate each other as they are. Only then could they know how they really feel about each other, but how to wake up from a dream someone who doesn't know he is dreaming? I know it is useless, but I try to make my mother see this other point of view: -I understand that you are hurt, but perhaps your passion for literature played a trick on you, neither of you knew what the other was really like. Love is blind, and only sees what it imagines it sees. Maybe you were in love with someone who existed only in your imagination. My mother has reacted, and she looks at me confused and suspicious. She doesn't seem to have understood what I meant. I try to be more explicit: -What I mean is that both you and he needed each other as admirers of your respective works, which is what you really loved. When my father found another admirer, he no longer needed you, but you still needed him. I think he still doesn't understand my thoughts about his relationships. I'm afraid he thinks I'm trying to justify it. -Naomi, daughter, I don't know what you're trying to tell me! His guilt is evident, he took advantage of my innocence. I always tried to justify his lack of interest because I blindly believed that, in spite of everything, he was still faithful to me. It wasn't the first time that woman had made him late for our appointments, but that night I needed to see him and let him know that I was pregnant with your child, and I didn't know how he might react. He was not likely to want to be a father at this delicate time in his career. He needed to know as soon as possible, but I didn't think it was appropriate to tell him in writing or over the phone. I wanted to see his first reaction to know whether he would accept you or reject you. So, you can imagine my enormous frustration and anguish, because of his absence. In spite of the pain, I tried to believe that he had some powerful reason for not coming to the appointment, I was still blindly trusting in his fidelity! His expression has changed. She seems to be feeling the desolation and pain of that night. I can see it in the wrinkles on her forehead and in the wetness of her eyelids, she is about to cry again. -I was so distressed and helpless that after waiting uselessly for him for more than an hour, I did not return directly to my apartment. The night was warm and clear so I felt like taking a walk. I thought a long, relaxing walk would calm my anguish and I wandered through the busy streets, to mingle with the people and distract myself from my thoughts. I was confident that the next day we would have a chance to meet. And that's when I had the terrible shock that caused my amnesia. In one of these streets, there was a nightclub of ill fame, and I was contemplating the obscene photographs of the claim, when he descended from a cab, accompanied by that woman, who took him by the arm and they entered the club. They both seemed intoxicated. That image gave me a strong impact and I felt as if my head was going to explode. When I recovered from that terrible shock, I didn't know where I was, nor did I have the slightest idea how I had gotten there? -I didn't know where I lived, I didn't even remember my name! Near that place there was a small park, belonging to a parish in the neighborhood. Most of the benches were lined with homeless people. I was terrified, but I needed to rest, and I let myself fall exhausted on the only one that was free. Moments later a woman from the urban police patrolling the neighborhood was surprised by my appearance, which was not that of a beggar and wanted me to identify myself, but I could not answer any of her questions, so they understood that I was in a state of shock, and took me to the police station of the neighborhood... You know the rest... For God's sake! Why do I have to face this horrible dilemma? If I save one I condemn the other! Where is the justice? Which of the two is truly innocent and which is truly guilty? And why does one of them have to be guilty? Why can't they both be innocent? They each have their reasons for doing what they have done and I am unable to judge them. I suppose only God can judge them! My mother is packing her little travel bag, because she is about to take the first train of the morning. There will be no opportunity for reconciliation. She will probably not be at his bedside when he passes away. She does not want to return to this city that brings back such bad memories. She is determined to forget him, but now voluntarily. Who knows, now that she has regained her memory and can live a normal life, maybe she will meet another man with whom she can rebuild her traumatic life. And me, what should I do? I want her to give me the answer herself: -Mom, I understand that you resent him and want to forget about him, but what should I do? He's my father, and he's a dying man! Should I be at his bedside when he passes away? His answer plunges me deeper into my uncertainty: -My daughter, do what your conscience dictates, you are already an adult, you must decide for yourself.... Now I am the one who feels like crying. -I don't want to be an adult! 32. Naomi's mother (Narrator: Naomi's mother) It is not yet dawn and we are ready to head for the station. My train leaves in an hour and the station is not far, but we will take advantage of the time to have breakfast in the cafeteria. My daughter is not used to these early mornings and is still sleepy. She has insisted on accompanying me to the station, but now I can manage on my own perfectly well. The cab is waiting for us on the street and in less than twenty minutes it drops us off at the station. I look nostalgically at the cityscape of my youth that I will never see again. We have plenty of time to chat, but first we need a strong coffee to clear our heads. We sit at a separate table in the cafeteria and Naomi brings me coffees and two croissants that are still warm. We have breakfast in silence. She waits for me to tell her something about what my life will be like from now on in my small town. I tell her that nothing will change, but that I will now try to publish some of my poems. -Even if they are dedicated to my father? -Why not? A poem is a poem, and it doesn't matter to whom it is dedicated, what matters is that it moves feelings and emotions. -But he can read them. -He has not lost his memory; he has nothing to remember. -Will you ever come back to this city? -No, Naomi, my poor child, I will never set foot in this city again. He's been dead to me for twenty years! He took his own life the night he went to that notorious club on the arm of that woman. She dug her own grave, and then erased the epitaph on his grave, because she too forgot her victim. For me he has remained dead these twenty years, until he was momentarily resurrected to revive again his agony. I have written the last verse dedicated to him, which can serve as a panegyric: I die when I am still young; I die when I am still an adult; I resurrect when I am about to die; I die again when I was about to live. -This is my farewell gift until death wills to take me to his side as well. Then we will know which of us two has done justly. Literature will lose a writer with all his talent barely used and a poetess with all her talent barely remembered. No, Naomi, I don't want to force you to choose who to condemn or who to save. Your soul and mind do not belong to us, only your body. You have received your soul from God, and only you have the possibility of discovering what your true personality is. Don't try to imitate us and choose your own path, which may lead you to be a great writer, but you could also be an excellent doctor or a great soccer player. You owe us nothing. We begot you by our recklessness, without that being our desire, as most human beings are begotten. It is we who are indebted to you, but we do not have the means to compensate you for our mistakes. You were born free and you are free to choose who deserves your affection and your memory. Your mother will always welcome you with open arms, but live your life and do not feel pity or expect comfort from us. If you need comfort, learn to comfort yourself; if you need support, learn to lean on yourself; if you need compassion, learn to pity yourself and if you need love, learn to love yourself. It may not have been the advice a mother should give her daughter, but at least in this I agree with her father, people are only united by the affections that their works arouse; without works there can be no affections. -Your father and I were happy when we both admired each other's work, but when he stopped being interested in my poetry and I stopped admiring his, because he stopped writing short stories to devote himself to writing novels inspired by his perverse agent, we had no reason to love each other anymore. But I didn't want to accept that that talented young writer would let himself be handled by his agent, and I continued to admire the author of "Poetas sin cielo". Now I know how wrong I was! Only if he returned to being the writer I idolized could I forgive him. But perhaps for him it is already too late. That must be his destiny and this must be mine. The public address system at the station announces the imminent departure of my train. My poor daughter has felt it as if they were announcing the departure of a train to eternity with no return, because she looks at me in anguish and I know she is making great efforts to hold back her tears. -Mom, if I have to be an adult, I want to be like you. I love you very much... but also my wretched father... -I know, you have a generous heart because you are young. With age it shrinks and becomes more selfish, but more faithful and demanding. -No, we'll say goodbye here.... Take good care of yourself, and don't pout like when you were a child, or you'll make me cry too. Give me a farewell smile! Naomi tries to please me, but her smile is a cheerful way of crying. My heart breaks into a thousand pieces as I walk away from her dragging my small travel suitcase as if it were my coffin. When I finally step through the door onto the platform and she can no longer see me, I let my downtrodden soul vent freely and cry silently.... I can't help but feel guilty for having lived! 33. The second novel (Narrator: Alicia) I have read the manuscript of her first novel twice and I think I am ready to take on this important challenge. Of course I will alter some things, she has to understand the reasons for his abandonment and be able to justify it. This man cannot leave this world without a clear conscience and I will not be able to convince him that he is innocent. But I have little time, I have long sleepless nights ahead of me! I heard from Naomi that her mother has returned to her hometown and it seems she has no intention of ever going back. Fortunately Noemi still considers me a good friend she can trust. She has not told me expressly, but she is going through a very difficult time. We have arranged to meet at the coffee shop where I met her father, but he will not attend, because I will not inform him of our meeting. I want Naomi to have nothing that prevents her from opening her heart to me and telling me what conclusions she has drawn after what her mother has told me about her father's behavior. I need that information to finish getting an idea of the plot of this new novel. Now she knows the whole story, but according to her mother's version, I want her to know her father's version as well. I am taking advantage of the fact that she is spending the morning at the hospital to meet her. I am the first to arrive and I sit at the same table as that day. In front of the table there are some large mirrors where I see myself reflected and I can hardly believe that this woman is me. My gaze has become severe, or rather, cold and disenchanted. I no longer find myself neither ugly nor beautiful, just sober and adult. I don't need to attract anyone's attention either, because I already have someone to pay all my attention to, that's why I dress again with the same old-fashioned clothes I wore when I arrived from the provinces. I even notice that my movements are slower and my appearance in general suggests that of a simple social worker. I feel more like myself than in those provocative clothes. How little they esteem themselves who need to hide themselves in the way they dress! Naomi has just arrived. She has all the appearance of a helpless and confused creature. She stands hesitantly in the doorway, as if afraid of being discovered. She hasn't seen me, or perhaps hasn't recognized me in my new guise, and she motions to leave. I signal her with my arm, and as she recognizes me she seems to come back to life. She smiles as if I have saved her from some imaginary danger. She sits down across from me. She asks me about her father's health. -I don't want to deceive you Noemi, all these events have affected him... I don't think he will make it through this winter -his smile has turned into a bitter expression of deep sadness-. I think that what is worsening his health is his deep depression after your mother's rejection. Naomi lowers her gaze, as if she does not want me to notice the conflict of her divided feelings in her eyes. We keep a few moments of silence in memory of her dying father. She has nothing to say, I am the one who starts the conversation. -May I ask you why your mother does not want to hear your father's confession? She tells me the real cause and not the one we all believed. I'm afraid the mother has a powerful reason for her spiteful attitude. Even I would find it hard to forgive her if I were in her place. Betrayal now has a pornographic image, something simply intolerable for a sensitive poetess. In her delusions she must have imagined him as a satyr with the face of an angel. How can I justify that scene? Why did they go to that club after, in all probability, they had drunk to excess during the romantic private dinner? There must be a good reason that exculpates him. -Dear friend, sometimes I wonder, especially as a writer, what is the use of language if we cannot understand each other. Perhaps it would have been better to communicate with a few sounds to express our basic feelings, as animals do, because words, no matter how cultured, creative or realistic we may be, are not capable of expressing ourselves as clearly as those simple sounds. Your parents are two excellent people, and they would have understood each other with simple sounds, without using words. The use of words has confused and separated them. It is a biblical curse! The same words have different meanings depending on who pronounces them and how they are pronounced. The heart does not understand the meaning of words, but the tone with which they are pronounced. The meaning is the task of the mind, but the mind lacks feelings, it doesn't care about one word or another. Your mother only listens to what is said if it is poetic; but your father only pays attention to what is said if it resembles the dialogues of a novel. Neither listens to what the other really says! -Yes; they themselves admit that their passion for literature is what has separated them! -No, Noemí; it is not literature, but words. Literature is a noble attempt to give some emotional or intellectual meaning to words so that their messages are clear to the senses. But life is not a novel, we don't know who the characters are or what the plot is about or even know its author. We trust that words and their meanings are enough to go through the world with morality and a sense of justice, but all we do is invent moralities and justice with words that do not have the same meaning for everyone, so there can be no morality or justice as long as there are words. Naomi seems to ponder my thoughts. She has come to a wise conclusion: -So, do you think they are both guilty? -No doubt, but it is an inevitable sin, because we need words, not to understand each other, but to communicate. That is why literature that is born of this curse and tries to redeem itself is so necessary, but not literature that is born already cursed and rejoices in its evil, as a pig wallows in its excrement. We writers have only one mission: to free words from the flames of hell and make them reach heaven. We are the fallen angels in this hell, while we inhabit the Earth, and of heaven, when we leave it. -And what can I do to reconcile them? -Words will not reconcile them, unless they are spoken in such a way that the heart understands them. -What do you mean? -Your mother will only react if she receives the message in poetry! -And who will write this poetry? -The person who loves them the most... You will write it. It will be your debut in this magical world of Literature and you will pass with an A, because you have the main thing: a great motivation. I know she feels overwhelmed, but at the same time I notice in her eyes the spark of genius that demands her chance. -But my mother would only be reconciled if he proves to her with a new novel that he is the same one who wrote "Poets Without Heaven", and that she has unconsciously loved these twenty years.... -Your father will write it! I don't want to reveal to Naomi that I will be the one to write it, because unconsciously I might reveal it to her mother and all the work would be useless. -Alicia, you have never told me why you feel obliged to take care of my father, because you always address him as "you", which is not proper for a mistress.... Do you have anything to do with his publisher or his manager? I had always feared that Naomi would ask me this question. But I don't have a clear answer even if I ask it to myself. Only a month ago I was a woman in love with a famous writer, whom I was physically attracted to and admired for his talent, so I had no doubt about the causes. Now my feelings have gone beyond love and are in an unknown dimension, which is probably not of this world. Thanks to his illness we have found ourselves in a dimension that goes beyond the human and must have something to do with the divine, and that must be hidden in our astral personality. Only in extreme situations do we penetrate this dimension, which creates eternal bonds. It is as if I am helping this man to enter that dimension, which must be the myth of Paradise, where we will meet again and be lovers for all eternity, so we can spare no effort to achieve it. I am trying to secure the love of this man after his death, so I cannot feel jealous of his mother, who will only be able to love him with that earthly, temporary love of human beings, when I reserve for myself his eternal and divine love. But Naomi would not understand. -Your father and I are, in addition to professional colleagues, old friends. I feel obliged to help him die a good death. I would do the same for any of my friends and fellow writers. 34. The wording Today I started writing the novel. I have the strange feeling that I am fulfilling a divine mandate; the will comes to me from an unknown source. The salvation or damnation of a human soul depends on its outcome. It is as if I were donating blood to a badly wounded person. I begin with that terrifying phrase for all writers: "Chapter One. It is like opening the bonds of the imagination, in a perfect union with the mind. It is absolutely necessary that the first lines arouse in Naomi's mother the need to read the following remaining lines or failure is assured. These are my first lines: "The main characters of this story did not meet by chance, but by destiny. But for twenty years they put all their efforts into going against what was written in the stars. This is the story of two lovers united by literature, but separated by words." I think it's a good beginning, and only with a good beginning is a good ending possible. Now I have to create the author of the novel, because this novel will not be written by me but by my characters. Also in real life things work the same way. God has created man, and has endowed him with the necessary understanding so that he can decide for himself the plot of his story. I continue: "These characters are two young people with the defects and virtues of all young people: utopian, independent, rebellious, reckless, nonconformist, generous, innocent and unbelieving. Like all young people, they do not live in the present, but in the future; they have no history, only a great desire to make history. Nor do they have experience, only experiences. They are not wise, they only have the desire to know. They make the simple complicated, because they believe that the simple is for old people or children, but not for them. They are, in short, two young people of our time, but as young people have been in all times. She has a passion for the sensitivity of Garcilaso and he for the imagination of Cervantes; she adores Dante Alighieri, he Lope de Vega; she is a poet, he is a storyteller. She knows she has talent and is sure of herself; he doubts her talent, and has no confidence in himself. But she believes in him and decides to postpone temporarily his inevitable conquest of fame and glory in order to help the insecure young narrator, so that they can walk the road to glory together, without one overshadowing the other." Four exhausting weeks have already passed. The novel is progressing at the same rate as my strength is waning. I have reached the critical point of separation and I have no difficulty in exonerating my death row inmate of all guilt. Where can the writer find the source of his inspiration if not in real life? How can he describe a brothel, observe the deep sadness that encloses the false joy of the prostitutes; the eagerness to make even the smallest drop of pleasure received pay, if he has never been in a brothel? How can a writer with her wings intact and free to fly wherever she pleases, clip another writer's so that he does not stray too far from his nest? Poetry springs from the soul; narrative from life. The poet sees the world from a cloud; the storyteller from the sewers. Poetry is music; narrative is noise. Naomi's mother still sees the world from a cloud, and if she does not descend to dry land she will never know that clouds become rain, and rainwater runs in the gutters! I have used these notes in this decisive chapter : "It was no surprise to find a table set up in his unmistakable style for two diners. Champagne set to chill, caviar canapés and other delicacies. I even knew that he would choose the most provocative clothes, in other words, it was nothing more than a novel scenario that I was to describe in the novel I was writing at the time. It was my clever agent's peculiar form of collaboration. But there were still some complicated scenes to describe for which I lacked the necessary imagery and could easily fall into ridicule. I discussed it with my agent and he suggested we pay a visit to one of the less reputable clubs in town, where I would surely have the images I needed. But I remembered my appointment. It was a painful decision. I knew she would be outraged, but a woman who has a writer for a partner must be used to such rudeness. Would she be angry if I were a doctor who missed her appointment because she had to treat a sick person? With my novels, I also treat thousands of people who are sick with boredom and lack of entertainment. Tomorrow I'll excuse myself and she'll understand! Before that excursion to the most nauseating bowels of the city, we finished the champagne, because sober we would not have had the courage to enter that brothel." "Unfortunately it was a fatal coincidence that she, frustrated and hurt by my absence, strolled down the street where the club was located and surprised us as we got out of the cab and entered the club somewhat dizzy, so that my agent had to lean on my arm. If it was true that he had blind trust in my fidelity, he had to wait until the next day to see that, despite appearances condemning me, I was still faithful. But that misleading image exceeded all her capacity for tolerance, and wounded her deeply, causing her the fatal trauma that has kept us apart for these past twenty years!" If after reading this she doesn't forgive you, this woman has lost her soul! 35. Winter The slower you want time to pass the faster it insists on passing. I've been so busy this past month that I haven't been aware of the passage of time and it's already winter! After her interview with her mother, Naomi is less affectionate with her father. Whatever her mother may have told her about her relationship with her father has affected her noticeably. There is something that separates them, but Naomi does not want to discuss with him her encounter with her mother, and her version of what happened. If she hides it, it must be because it must be something very lurid and that she does not dare to comment on. She has also become accustomed to her father's illness, she even seems to be mentally prepared to accept his untimely death, and only visits him once a week. Her apology is that she is so busy with her exams that she can barely stay for an hour in his apartment, and doesn't even stay for dinner. Since her hasty return, we have heard nothing from the mother. She seems buried in absolute silence. At least Naomi does not mention her. Unfortunately, it is as if all our behavior has entered into an irresponsible routine, without us being truly aware of the seriousness of the moment. Your father has had to be admitted several times to the emergency room, because his illness is getting alarmingly worse. Every time I call an ambulance to transport him to the hospital, he begs me to let him die in his bed. He is horrified by hospitals, because he believes that everyone there is so familiar with death that they cause it themselves! The pains cloud his mind and in those critical moments he totally loses the will to live, but I cannot accede to his wishes, because I still need him to survive at least long enough to see my purpose through. The novel is practically finished, because it is not very long. Only a few corrections are missing. I had some difficulty in finding a good denouement, but I think I have solved it satisfactorily. Your publisher will have no knowledge of this novel, of which I will publish only a few copies, enough to fulfill its purpose and no more. About the poem to be written by Noemi, maybe I overestimated her talent, but I still trust her, she will surprise me any day. My plan is that by Christmas the reconciliation will be consummated, and, at last, I will also be able to reconcile with myself. Perhaps I will also take advantage of this painful experience to write my own novel with my own version of events, but most likely I will dedicate my next work to the memory of this great man. As I expected, Naomi has not let me down, and has written a touching poem that is sure to influence her mother's mood. In any case, I don't think he will follow in his parents' footsteps. She is too down-to-earth and too grounded. She would make a good researcher, or teacher. If her parents have problems it is because of her artistic, creative, fickle, unpredictable temperament. It is difficult to live with an artist. 36. The last winter (Narrator: the sick person) This will be, if medicine does not prevent it, my last winter. I would like to live it intensely, but life slips through my fingers like fine grains of sand on a beach. Soon I will have left this troubled world. With each passing day I feel more and more familiar with death. With each new dawn the sun rises darker for me, and its light grows dimmer. Slowly what was a nightmare becomes a dream. As life punishes me, death rewards me. Death seemed like a drama to me before I knew the true face of life. Now that I know it, death seems to me a comedy, and it causes me an irresistible desire to laugh. In the end I will end up turning my death into a great event and I will sit in the stalls with a real longing for the curtain to rise. I may be starting to lose my mind, but that must be the mind's strategy to elude suffering. Blessed is madness when sanity allies itself with pain so that you suffer it consciously! But I wish to be an exceptional witness to my own death, because it is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I am a writer. If I intend to describe death in my novels, I must have experienced it! I know it seems an absurd thought, but more absurd is to believe that our mind and spirit do not transcend beyond the threshold of death. I believe that everything we have come to conceive and imagine will somehow remain, and transcend our death, to be the foundations of the personality of a new life at the instant of its gestation, into whom we will transmigrate. I also know that this is a naive consolation, because no one has been able to prove such a theory. Others believe that their souls will ascend to heaven, remain in purgatory or descend to hell, where they will be reunited with other soul mates, virtuous or sinful. This is the most popular version. In my theory there are no heavens or hells, but there is overcoming or degradation. A wicked and depraved soul can transmigrate into the fetus of a beast. It is not the most popular, but I believe it must be so. Now I spend most of the day bedridden and my mind is only clear when the sedatives take effect and the pain disappears, more and more intensely. Alicia spends the day with me, but at night, after she leaves me sedated and I manage to fall asleep, she goes back to her apartment, only to return first thing in the morning. She must be exhausted, because sometimes she falls asleep on the couch and it is me who watches over her sleep. She has brought her laptop with her, on which she passes the time when I sleep. She says she is working on her new novel about the ballerina, but she doesn't want to read anything to me until it is finished. She has become very superstitious and thinks it brings bad luck. I find her getting worse and worse every day, even thinner. I fear that she may also fall ill. Today is one of the coldest days of the winter. A heavy snow is falling and the flakes seem to go crazy as they are pushed by a strong gusty wind, which is constantly changing direction. Like every morning, I hear the pleasant rattle of the lock as Alice arrives at my apartment. She is shivering with cold and completely soaked. I suggest she put on one of my robes and dry her clothes on the heating radiator. Many times I have held her body in my arms, but I had never seen her naked. This morning I finally had that opportunity. I see the body of an attractive but not provocative woman; sensual but not sexual. It is harmonious but not erotic. It's just a human being's body. It feels better already. As she prepares my breakfast, I inquire about her career situation, which she seems to have abandoned because of me. -Alicia, how are things going with my agent? Did he get you a contract? Alicia denies it with a slight nod of her head. -And has he given you any reason? -Publishers don't like novels where there is no sex, or at least something that excites their imagination, and my novels find them too intellectual or spiritual. -Yes, I think my first agent seduced me into having a firsthand sexual experience and being able to describe it in minute detail. That was also one of the keys to the success of my novels. Sexuality is not an invention of culture, it is a natural reality and there is no reason for it not to be part of a plot, but it should not be described as a simple sexual relationship, similar to that of animals, because what characterizes a human being is that from all his natural experiences he extracts a moral evaluation, which does not exist in animals. Among humans, sex cannot be exempt from this same morality. Most novels dispense with this necessary moral premise to describe it as a purely animal relationship and, therefore, immoral. It is not true that in war as in love anything goes. In war there are also rules of conduct, so why shouldn't there be in sexuality? Alicia listens attentively to my brief dissertation on sexuality and seems to agree, but qualifies a few details. -Morality is relative, and its values are not shared by all, that is why I believe that sexuality has to be based on other more realistic norms, that satisfies desire without incurring in prostitution.... -And what are these standards? -Of course, mutual consent, and respect for the sensitivity of each lover, provided that both are aware of the consequences of this relationship. That attitude is already sufficiently moral. No lover should be considered an object of pleasure, but pleasure should have an object, that of mutual satisfaction of the senses, without creating a bad conscience: the contrary would be prostitution! 37. Last Christmas (Narrator: Naomi's mother) Once again I am in this small and remote town. It has welcomed me with the first snowfall of this year and I feel that the snow is also falling on my soul. Now that I have recovered my memory, the last twenty years of blessed amnesia seem like a brief instant. Were it not for the wrinkles, those of the face and those of the soul, I would not know that time has passed. To remember for what; to recognize the cause of your amnesia; to see again that painful scene at the entrance of that brothel; to relive those dreams cut short by the ambition of a disloyal friend? For this it is better not to remember! Now I have to forget what I have remembered so that it does not continue to disturb me and to meet again with poetry, which is my only friend and confidant. The only one that is loyal and for no cause, justified or not, betrays you. We are only what we believe in and believe, the rest is a chimera, because it only exists in our imagination. I imagined him as I wished him to be, but he was not as I imagined him to be, because no one can penetrate the mind and soul of another person. They will always let us down! Now I have to follow the same advice I gave Naomi: If you need comfort, learn to comfort yourself; if you need support, learn to lean on yourself; if you need compassion, learn to pity yourself; and if you need love, learn to love yourself. What would have become of me if he hadn't won that untimely award? Would we still be together, would he have grown tired of me? We would probably be separated. I remember the night of the recital. He didn't say goodbye to me because he was jealous of my friends. But, on the other hand, only those who love feel jealous. And what would have become of his literary career if he had not met that woman? Naomi wants me to read her novels, but she herself assures me that they are well written and interesting, but lack motivation. They don't convey anything transcendental or human, they are novels to regale the ears of ordinary people, without ambition, conformist and resigned to their vulgarity. If I had helped him, he might not be so famous, but he would be better regarded and would have more incentive. He had the talent to write something more ambitious; something that deserved to go down to posterity. I just got an email from Naomi, I miss her so much! She should write to me more often. I open it, unable to contain my excitement: "Dear Mom, in two weeks it will be Christmas again and this year I don't know with whom of the two of you I am supposed to spend this lovely time of the year. You know how much I love you, but it hurts me that my father spends them alone, being so sick. My heart is still divided between the two of you, and I can't decide on either of you, because I wish I could spend them with both of you!" My poor daughter is in an unbearable emotional struggle. I should write to her and tell her that I won't mind if she doesn't come and spend it with her father. Someone has to sacrifice, because neither of us has done more to deserve her affection! "I have another important piece of news for you: Alicia has given me several copies of Dad's latest autobiographical novel. In spite of being very weak she has kept her promise. I've read it and I couldn't help crying with joy, but I won't tell you why, it's better if you read it and find out for yourself. Will you promise me you'll read it? I'll send you a copy by mail. I also enclose my first poem dedicated to the two of you. I already told you at the station that I wished I was like you. I hope you like it. A very strong hug from your daughter who loves you and misses you, Noemí." God knows that I would make any sacrifice so that Naomi would be happy and not have to suffer for our faults, but He asks the impossible of me! Betrayal has no redemption. Jesus would not have forgiven Judas either, nor does God forgive the devil. One betrayal is enough, now I cannot also betray myself. No, Naomi, my poor child, you cannot yet understand how the wounds of the heart hurt. Mine has bled for twenty years, and now it needs to heal its wound, it may happen tomorrow or never. Everything is written in destiny. Let it decide for us. She tells me that her father has published a new novel, and that it is autobiographical. I have a feeling that it must not leave me in a good place among his memories. Why is Naomi so keen for me to read it? I'm not spiteful. I, too, wish everything had happened differently. I also long for those happy campus days; that insecure young writer who needed my help; those dreams practically within our grasp. But he reneged on everything in exchange for thirty pieces of silver. God is just and has sent him the punishment he deserves! However, the paths of the Lord are inscrutable, thanks to my weakness this daughter of mine was born, who promises to surpass both of us and to be the comfort of both of us. Only God knows what is right and what is wrong. If I stand firm it will be His will and if he must die with regrets, so must he. Today has dawned with a dense blanket of snow that evens everything with the same whiteness. You can hardly walk through these steep alleys. I met the letter carrier on my way out of the bakery and he handed me the envelope with the book Noemi sent me. We all know each other here and there is no need for mailboxes. If I didn't know it also contained a poem by my daughter I wouldn't even open it, but I want to see if Noemí will become a great poet or if she is following the wrong path. I open it and am painfully struck by the title of the book: "Si tú fueras..., Memorias de dos amantes unidos por la literatura y separados por las palabras" (If you were..., Memoirs of two lovers united by literature and separated by words). What does he intend with this title? But I see Noemi's poem. It is not very long. I read it: "I WAS BORN OF FORGOTTEN PARENTS For love or lack of love, by charm or disenchantment, of two unknown lovers I was born of oblivion. As a baby I had no one to rock me, as a child I had no one to spoil me, as an adult I had no one to counsel me because I was born of forgotten parents I met my father when he was dying, I met my mother when I didn't remember, I knew myself when I cried, because we continue to be forgotten. I write you this simple poem to make you forget what you have remembered and remember what you have forgotten of the writer you had loved. Your loving daughter, Naomi." It is a poem worthy of my daughter. You could not have expressed her wishes better. It has touched the depths of my aching soul. I feel guilty that I have ignored my daughter's yearnings. Perhaps she has the right perspective on this drama and I am fixated on my revenge. Perhaps, after all, it is written in destiny that I must forgive her. But how do I know, who can advise me, should I turn to a priest, do they know more about the human soul than we do, have they been given the grace of faith by God himself, so that they are closer to virtue than other human beings? I have lost faith and trusted only in my own judgment, without waiting for the miracle of revelation, but after reading my daughter's moving poem I am beginning to doubt my moral certainties and the time may have come to ask for advice from one who is devoted to the salvation of souls, and mine must be at risk of damnation. If my daughter wishes, I think I should read this new novel. 38. The alarm (Narrator: Alicia) I have to warn Naomi, her father is dying! I know it's against his will, and it's the will of a dying man, but I'm going to call the hospital to have him admitted. He has to hang on to life for a few more days. I can't accept that this woman has no heart. She has to come and save him from the hell of his remorse or he will not rest in peace and we will not be able to meet in that place in the cosmos reserved for our souls. He is bedridden. He can hardly move anymore and has no desire to speak to me. But he follows my every movement with a dull, lifeless look, as if he could only move the girls in his eyes. But in that cloudy, dying look there must be a lucid mind, unaffected by the disease, and he must be thinking about his situation. I can almost read his thoughts. He accepts that his journey through this world has come to an end, and he awaits death with serenity and resignation. He will also dedicate some of his last thoughts to me. I know he hears me, I can see it in the flicker of his eyes, and I have to try to comfort him: -I know you can hear me," he blinks slightly, "You have not been a strong man, for geniuses are weaker the more wisdom they acquire, but illness has given you the strength to accept it without complaint or lamentation. Each day that passes and your end approaches, my love for you increases with the same proportion. At the moment of your death I will be the most in love woman in the universe. I know that this does not console you.... don't be sad, because she will come! But you have to keep a titanic pulse with death. Don't let it take you until it gives you its blessing! -I hold her trembling hand, which is now barely strong enough to know how she reacts. You must forgive me, but I have to call the hospital to prolong your life as long as possible. When she and Naomi arrive we will bring you back here and you can die as I know you wish: holding her hand until your last breath. Then our real life will begin. Then I will not be the ugly, clumsy, provincial girl, but a luminous soul who will meet yours and remain united for eternity. But if you die without his blessing, your soul will wander erratically from one universe to another eternally, never finding peace, and I will be alone for eternity. I know you will do this for me. I try to pull my hand away to dial the hospital phone, but I feel a slight pressure and his gaze seems to come alive. I think he's trying to tell me something. Maybe he wants me to keep shaking his hand. Yes, that must be it. -You don't want me to call the hospital, or stop shaking your hand, do you? -she confirms with a weak blink. Okay, I won't call the hospital, but you have to be strong and hold on until she and your daughter Naomi arrive. He closes his eyes and I get the feeling he's trying to tell me it's too late. Does this mean he could die at any moment? 39. A fatal destiny (Narrator: Naomi's mother) I have not been able to finish reading your latest novel. I think it's enough to make me feel close to hell, when I thought I was close to heaven! Why did fate set that monstrous trap for me? Why didn't I trust his loyalty? How is it possible that a deceitful image could have stolen the best twenty years of our lives? Who drove me to be in that place at that precise moment? The devil? The devil? What monstrous sin had I committed to deserve such a punishment? Poor man, all these years he could not tell me what had really happened! If he had known, of course I would have forgiven him! How could he write the novels I inspired in him if he has felt guilty all these years? I must write urgently to Naomi, telling her of my desire to return as soon as possible and show her father my repentance and my desire for reconciliation. There will probably be no happier person in this world than her when she receives my message! But I also feel as if my heart is no longer oppressed for the first time in twenty years, and is overflowing with joy, and I feel that it is beating again as strongly as when I was eighteen years old, the day I met this wretched writer over a slice of strawberry cream pie! That must be the happiness that forgiveness causes! Blessed be God who has enlightened me! I am desperate and on the verge of a new crisis: the latest snowstorm has left us incommunicado! There is no way to communicate with Naomi. I know from experience of other years that we will be cut off for several days, and he may die at any moment! Why, what evil force interferes with our destiny again and again? For God's sake, I hope it is not too late! No; I can't wait for the telephone lines to be repaired and the snow to be cleared from the road. I have to try to get to the railroad station, because the trains are still running. It's only five kilometers. In a week it's Christmas and I could be by his bedside, and spend the first Christmas together after twenty years of absences. Maybe the cab driver in town will want to take me. I'll go to his house right now. The cab driver is an elderly man, about to retire, and does not dare to drive in this blizzard. The road is narrow, with some very steep slopes. He suggests that we wait for the snowplows to pass, but he doesn't think they will clear the road until tomorrow or maybe the day after tomorrow. But neither tomorrow nor the day after tomorrow are there any trains connecting with the one to the capital. I have to catch the next one, which leaves at five o'clock in the morning. It has stopped snowing and I can walk this route. For this trip I don't need any luggage, whatever I can fit in my bag will be enough. I have to try! 40. The agony (Narrator: the dying man) Poor Alice, how can I tell her that my mind is clear and I am fully aware that I am about to die? How can I also tell her that I no longer have any regrets, because I have only done what destiny had planned for me. Our lives are written in the stars, and our spirit is a part of the destiny of the universe. Destiny that we do not know. Naomi's mother also had a destiny; which has already been fulfilled. I don't know how to tell her that I have sensed her death in some icy place, and that she will never be at the bedside of my deathbed. I once said that a dignified death is to die shaking the hand of the person who feels most affection for you, and that person is you, Alicia, besides your presence in this place makes it a home, so my conditions for a good death are more than fulfilled. Now I can die in peace. She has understood this and continues to hold my hand. I feel her life beating in it, already inert, and that contact makes me begin to feel an indescribable inner peace. It is her soul that pierces me and I feel it inside me, when I only have a few seconds left to live. Now appear the most emotional familiar images of my childhood that I kept in my subconscious. They follow one after the other with their sounds and sensations. I hear my own crying and my mother's voice rocking me in the cradle my grandparents gave her; I see my father pushing the swing in the park near our modest house on the outskirts of the city, when he must have been only two or three years old. He is young and vigorous, and he pushes the swing so hard it makes me cry from the excitement of the game. Many other images pass by, and from all of them I retain some impression. I see myself dressed in my admiral's costume from my first communion, and my parents, who take me by the hand almost on a cartwheel to the neighborhood church. There I see the little girl, with her virginal first communion dress, which made me feel the first passionate emotion of love. A multitude of family images follow, such as the photograph of the primary school, my father's first car, my first train ride, the first girl I went out with and the first kiss on the lips of a woman, and after many others, also the images of the university cafeteria and those that followed. But they all pass quickly and an indescribable emptiness remains after their ephemeral vision. It is as if they were being erased from my consciousness so that when death comes there is no trace left in my soul of what my life in this world has been. I sense that when I reach the last image I will die, and that moment is coming, because I see the image of my literary agent, that night that destroyed our lives. I see her in the half-open door of Naomi's apartment. My imagination has gone blank, and an immense peace comes over me. I no longer feel Alicia's hand. Now I see an intense, blinding light, I know that I am going to penetrate into that light where I will remain eternal... mind.... 41. Death (Narrator: Alicia) He has barely made a slight head movement leaning back against the pillow, and I feel no sign of life in his hand, I think he has died! But he seems to have fallen peacefully asleep. There is not on his face the slightest sign of pain. I withdraw my hand and his hand collapses. Yes, he is dead! The great love of my life lies dead before my eyes! From this instant death will do its work and his beautiful hands, his prodigious head, and his battered body will turn them to ashes. But the hateful reaper has not power enough to destroy the fruit of the one who now belongs to him. His work will survive, and his memory will not fade from my imagination until death takes me too. Now I should mourn him by evoking his memory, but he who has taken him from me will not have his way. Although my soul is broken in pieces, I will not shed a single tear, for I have already mourned him when he was alive. Now I have hardly any tears left, and I must save what tears I still have left for when I begin to miss him and feel his absence. He has been a lucky man, because he has lived doing the will of others, but he has died according to his own will. Only a privileged few have such a death; if it is difficult to live, it is much more difficult to die! 42. The two deaths (Narrator: the author) The two lovers of literature die on the same day and at the same time, because it was written in the stars. The frozen body of Noemi's mother was found by the driver of the snow-clearing vehicle, which would circulate that same morning, clearing the winding road of snow. Her body was not on the road, but in a small ravine, where it must have fallen given the darkness and the layer of snow that hid it. Her former lover died from fatal complications of his incurable disease. Naomi had sensed her mother's death when they said goodbye to each other at the railroad station. Unfortunately, she did not have to choose which of the two she would spend Christmas with, but which of the two she mourned. They were not buried together. She lay in the small local cemetery, and he had her body cremated and her ashes dumped on a nearby beach, as was his wish. Alice was deeply affected, for according to her beliefs, she would not be reunited with her beloved in that dimension she thought she had discovered in his astral personality. PART THREE: ASTRAL ENCOUNTER "Labor not for the meat which perishes, but for the meat which endures to eternal life." (John 6:27) 43. The farewell Death has taken him from me and death will give him back to me. I will look for you wherever you are and we will be together again, but for eternity! If you are in Hell I will rescue you; if you are in Purgatory, I will accompany you until we gain Heaven, and if you are already in Paradise, there we will meet, because love knows no barriers, neither human nor divine. This corpse lying on the bed has lost its soul, which must wander through the cosmos without a specific destination. No one but me will be able to find its whereabouts, because my astral body will be able to travel to every corner beyond the universe, and in some of these places I will find you. She condemned you to hell in one of your nightmares, and she has not come to free you from this curse. Now her presence is no longer necessary. I have to communicate this painful news to Naomi, because she, in spite of her mother's opposition, was very fond of her. She has died just hours before a new dawn. It is not worth waking Naomi so early. It is no longer necessary for her to hurry, her father no longer needs her. I will wait for the dawn. I feel as if I am the messenger of death, but of an expected death. No one will be surprised. Those who knew her diagnosis are already just waiting to read her obituary in the press or on the net, and will exclaim those phrases of condolence that they will have heard in other deaths of other famous people. "Poor thing, he died in the prime of his life and at the height of his popularity"; "He died when he had had everything but his health"; "This is how most of the great characters end their lives: always ahead of schedule"; "Artists live at an unhealthy pace and intensity, that's why they die early", etc. I think they are basically right. The soul is what gives life to the body and if we abuse our soul, we also abuse our body. In the end, the exhausted soul loses its defenses and so does the body, and the inevitable fatal disease ensues. My unfortunate friend was doomed, because he lived abusing his soul since he was aware of its existence. It is dawn, but this is not the same sun as yesterday, nor the same fading stars. It is not the same morning breeze, nor the same blue color of the sky. It is not the same city, nor the same street. Because tonight a writer has died, and when a writer dies something dies in the collective soul of the world, because we writers and artists are the soul of the world. With great pain in my heart I decide to call the unfortunate Naomi to tell her the sad news. She does not answer, but I receive a message from her cell phone answering machine: "Sorry, I am not available. I'm on my way to my mother's place. I just got word that she was found frozen to death on the road as she was walking to the train station. I am devastated and cannot talk. Leave me your message. I feel deeply affected and, at the same time, guilty because I judged this woman prematurely. I hope she forgives me! However, she took too long to forgive him. It is she who should have been shaking his hand when he expired. No doubt she has met her death when she was trying to answer the call of her fake novel, but when it was too late. Once again fate incomprehensibly turns against me, and she will again be my rival after her death, for the three of us will meet again beyond this tormented life. 44. The last trip The unhappy Naomi has had to attend two funerals in a few days. She attended her mother's funeral and barely had time to mourn her when she had to take care of her father's funeral. The hospital has taken care of his cremation and has given him the ashes. Now she has to carry out her father's last wishes and scatter them at sea. She has asked me to accompany her and we will leave for the coast first thing tomorrow morning. -How did my father die," Naomi asks me when we return in a cab to her apartment, unable to hide the sadness in her eyes and her delicate face disfigured by grief. -I think he was at peace, but I can't tell you more because he could hardly speak, I can only tell you that his countenance was serene and he seemed to have accepted death with resignation. -He didn't mention my mother? -He couldn't speak, but I'm sure he would have her in his last thoughts. -The local cab driver told me that she was trying to catch the first train in the morning to meet my father, and he didn't dare take her to the station, so she tried to get there on foot. -Why didn't you wait for the station road to be cleared? -I ask him, although I can guess the reason. -I don't know, but I found a short verse he wrote the night of his death: "Tonight there are no stars and it will not cease to be night Tonight there will be no moon, and it will never be daytime." She must have sensed his death, too, because she did not believe she could see my father alive. But she tried and it cost her her life too. Wherever they are, my parents will have been reconciled and will finally have the peace they deserve. I listen to Naomi and I can't help but feel an unjust wish that her hopes will not be fulfilled. She can't come between us even after she is dead! We are already in his father's apartment. I can't help but have the feeling of his presence, as if his soul has not yet left this room and cannot leave for some reason that only he must know. Naomi looks through everything that belonged to her father, and that now belongs to her, but she doesn't seem to be interested in it. She has gone to the bookshelf and selects one of his novels. She looks at the photograph of her father on the back cover, and cannot contain her tears. -Alicia, what was my father really like? You must have known him better than I did. -I believe that above all he was afraid of condemning himself, because he could never live according to his desires due to his constant remorse. He was a tormented soul who wrote novels to forget the cause of his torments. -Did you love him? -Yes, I loved him, but he never loved me back. -Then why didn't you leave him? -How can you abandon what is already a part of you? -And now, what will you do? -I will write a novel about your father's journey through the cosmos. His life after death! -But that's impossible! I suppose you can imagine, no one has ever been able to meet the dead! I do not want to alarm Naomi and explain to her that I can split my personality and separate my astral body from my physical body. I have experienced it once and I will achieve it a second time. The first time I barely moved a short distance from my physical body, but this new experience I have to take all the necessary precautions so that no one disturbs my concentration, because it will take me a long time to return. -Yes, of course I will imagine it. -Where do you think she is right now? -I can see in her eyes that she is uneasy and fearful, but she must get used to paranormal phenomena, because her parents will try to contact her through her dreams, and I must warn her. -I think he is here, because his soul has not yet been totally uprooted from the emotions transmitted to him by the objects with which he has had contact in life. -And do you think he's watching and listening to us? -he asks me, unable to hide his concern. -No, he neither sees us nor hears us. It can only contact us through our astral body, which happens during dreams. You have to be forewarned, because they are likely to appear in your dreams, and they will want to know what state of mind you are in. But it is likely that they will not make any reference to their deaths, but will appear in scenes that will not make any sense to you. In dreams we have no control over our imagination, time or space. I don't think I should have told her about this possibility. She seems really scared now and will be more so when the night comes and she faces the dreams. A foggy and unpleasant day dawns. It is not the most suitable to spread its ashes. We have arranged to meet at the railroad station, where we will take a train to a coastal town. Naomi is already waiting for me at the station entrance. We still have time for a hot tea, which will lift our spirits. We are sitting at the same table where she was last with her mother. She seems to have regained her composure. -Now I know why my poor mother gave me that sad advice. "Don't expect comfort from us. If you need comfort, learn to comfort yourself." I sensed her death. When she walked away from me, I had a feeling that was the last time I would see her alive! During the trip to the coast we barely exchanged a few words about the unpleasant weather. On the other side of the window, the landscape seems to share our deep sadness. A dense fog hangs over the small towns we are leaving behind. It is hard to believe that there can be happy people in such a depressing landscape. Sometimes the train runs alongside the road, and we can see the cars running at the same speed, occupied by people with obligations and responsibilities who do not think about death, but have no chance to think about life either. They live, that's all! 45. The ashes As we approach the coastal town we can smell the saltpeter. We leave the small railroad station and it is easy to orient ourselves and know where the sea is, because the freshness of the sea breeze clearly indicates the direction. The sky looks like an immense grayish mantle, and a cold and humid fog confuses the shapes of things. The cars drive with their lights on even though it is not yet noon. There are few people in the streets, it looks like a ghost town. We head for the promenade. It is not far. We can already hear the scandalous squawking of the seagulls. The station street leads directly to a simple promenade, as desolate as the rest. We can already hear the waves crashing against the promenade wall. From this promenade we can see the sea, but we can not see the horizon line, which is confused with the sky because of its grayish tone and the dense fog. On one side of the promenade there is a small breakwater, where a few fishing boats are moored, which probably have not gone to sea because of the storm. We chose that place to scatter the ashes. -It is very sad to end a long life of illusions, projects and ambitions," says Naomi, preparing to dump her father's remains in the sea, "in a handful of dust that will be carried by the currents to the bottom of the sea, and so ends his unfortunate story. -It is only his body, his soul will continue to exist, as his works will continue to exist. A group of hungry seagulls hover around, no doubt they must believe that the debris Naomi spreads on the water could be food. -His wish has been granted," he says to me, sobbing, "There will be no more deaths; we no longer need this urn! With an angry gesture, he throws the small urn into the sea. He wipes his tears with the back of his hand, grabs my arm energetically and we walk away from the place. -If you need consolation, learn to console yourself. Yes, Mom, I've already learned! Naomi has recovered her spirits. Life goes on and it is useless to mourn the dead. We have mourned them enough when they were alive. Of the dead, only the memory remains, and he has left a good memory. There is no reason to mourn. I am amazed at her fortitude, but in fact until a few months ago she has been an orphan since birth. Her behavior is not surprising. The return trip is as silent as the previous one. Naomi seems absent, or maybe she is thinking about her future as an orphan. Her gaze is lost in the misty landscape we are leaving behind. She seems to be reacting to some obsessive thought, because suddenly she turns to me and comments: -You were right, I dreamt about my parents tonight.... -He remains eloquently silent, as if wondering if he should unveil his dream to me. I was sitting on a park bench and my father suddenly appeared and sat next to me, but he was dead. I asked him why he had abandoned my mother, and suddenly she appeared sitting next to him, but she also appeared to be dead. They could not answer my question. Suddenly a policeman appeared, and addressing me, he said. "Excuse me, but the dead are not allowed in the park. Take them to the cemetery and bury them." I didn't know what to answer, I was terrified. But incomprehensibly, they both sat up, and turning to the policeman, my father said: "It is not necessary for her to bury us, we will bury ourselves. Goodbye Naomi, don't be late to join us...", and they disappeared, sinking to the ground of the park. At that moment I woke up -she keeps a sepulchral silence, she seems very affected by the dream-. What can this dream mean, Alicia? -That your parents miss you! -I answer without hesitation. -You mean they want me dead? -For them now you live in death, and they live in life. The roles have been changed, that's why they want you to join them. It is possible that this same dream will repeat itself again, although with a different argument, and they will insist again that you join them. You have to be strong and not let yourself be obsessed by what you hear from your parents during the dream. Although they happen in the astral dimension, they are disturbed by your own subconscious. -You mean I subconsciously want to die and join them? -she asks me in alarm. -Yes, but it's because of your current state of mind. You will get over it and your parents will only appear in your dreams when you miss them. Naomi seems comforted by my explanation. But she is still deep in thought, and once again loses her gaze in the misty landscape that we contemplate as the train passes by. Naomi seems to come out of her gloomy thoughts again, turns to me and confesses: -I'd like to be like you, Alicia: sure of who you are and what you want to do with your life. But who am I? The unwanted daughter of two dreamers who were lovers of literature, but who didn't understand the meaning of the word love, even though they wrote it hundreds of times. What should I do? I'm not sure I want to write anymore, with the example of my parents I've had enough! Maybe, as my mother said, I would make an excellent doctor. I'm not sure if I should encourage her to follow her parents' vocation, but precisely because they didn't know how to combine their worldly ambitions with their personal relationships, Naomi will learn from her parents' mistakes and could be an excellent writer without ruining her life. Yes, I think I should encourage her, it would be the best tribute she could pay to her ill-fated parents! -Naomi, in these times when no one believes in what they hear or see anymore, they can only believe in what they can imagine, and we writers can provide them with those images of the world they would like to hear or see! Sadly, most writers rejoice in recreating the nauseating images of what we can no longer believe and should no longer see. You can be a writer who enlightens readers! -But how do I know if I have the necessary talent to not remain in mediocrity? -My dear friend, that is what we all ask ourselves! You won't know the answer until you have overcome a few failures, because each failure will mean you have chosen a wrong path, and you must rectify until you find your own. Talent is about being yourself. The train is entering the central station. Naomi will not move into her father's apartment, because she does not want to live alone. She prefers to continue living with her classmates from college, but she has suggested that, if I wish, I can take it over. The idea is very attractive, because it makes my experience easier. I accept her offer, at least for the remainder of the course, and I will move in as soon as possible. 46. The preparation I am already provisionally installed in Naomi's father's apartment. It is a difficult sensation to describe, because all the objects in the apartment have something of him, and I still have the memory of his dead body on the bed where I am about to sleep. But I feel no fear, on the contrary, sleeping in the bed where the effluvium of the deceased is still there is the best way to communicate with him. I am aware of the risks and I do not know what may lie beyond this dimension. He may be trapped by some higher force and my energy will not be enough to free him. But you may also have reached some dimension that resembles Heaven, and my journey will be in vain. Either way, his destiny was written in the stars from the day of his birth, and it will have been fulfilled without possible appeal. Above all I have to make sure that no one will disturb my sleep while my spectrum is separated from my body. I have to disconnect everything that can ring, including the telephone and anything that creates magnetic fields, which I fear will be impossible to eliminate, and I don't know how it will affect me. After all, when I separate from the body I will only be energy and I don't know how other sources of energy that may be in the apartment may affect it. It is a risk I have to take. The other doubt is, in the case that our spectra meet, to know how we will communicate, because in the encounter we will only be able to communicate through our thoughts, for which we will have to ascend to the mental plane. If we manage to reach that dimension we will not be able to hide our thoughts, so it is impossible to lie or deceive, and everything must happen with total transparency. That must be the curse of material life: the possibility of deceiving and lying, the cause of all the disasters of this world! What will happen if I cannot return to my body? Will I die too? It would be suicide, which means going against my destiny written in the stars, and my soul would wander, without finding rest, until when? But how to have a notion of time where there is nothing but energy? It is all very confusing, and I know I am running a great risk. But what is the meaning of my existence in this world? I have given my heart to a deceased person and now I have no choice but to join him, whether he is in Heaven or in Hell! This weekend could be the appointed day for the meeting, because Noemí will travel to her mother's place to handle the formalities of her inheritance and there is no risk that she might show up unexpectedly. Nor do I expect unexpected visits, because in the last months of her life she had no other friend than her literary agent. His negative opinion of current writers caused him enmity with those with whom he had some relationship. Anyway I will leave a note on the door to make sure of any other eventuality. Tonight will be the big trip. I want to take advantage of these previous hours to write down what I intend to do, and I hope to be able to write also what might have happened on my return. To relax, I take a long walk through the same park where I declared my love. It is a walk full of nostalgia and deep sadness. Everything I see reminds me of his kind person, and sometimes I have the feeling that he is walking next to me and asking me new questions, but this time they are about the mysteries of life and death, for which I have no answers. I sit on a bench and remember Naomi's dream, I would like it to happen to me, but that only happens in dreams, reality is more stubborn, it refuses to change its rigid rules and everything happens as it is meant to happen. I'm back in the apartment and writing notes about tonight's experience. It is getting dark. It is a frigid late winter day. There is a chance of snow. For some reason snow depresses me. I don't like it, because it feels like it is falling on my soul. I like warm countries, because they are cozier and life is simpler. I listen to Bach's oratorios, because I think it is the music that should be heard in Paradise. I lie down on the bed and prepare myself for concentration. 47. Astral travel (Narrator: the deceased) I know I have passed away. I felt a strange vibration and what must be my soul is detached from my body. Alicia has already realized my demise and has let go of my hand, which now falls limp. I feel a force propelling me out of my apartment, and I pass through the wall without any difficulty. I am now traveling at breakneck speed, and I am heading towards the light I saw at the moment of my death. I have entered a strange dimension and I continue my journey through a semi-dark space. In this dimension I see a multitude of trapped specters, who implore me for help and try uselessly to hold me, because their twitching hands penetrate my specter without being able to grasp it. From their appearance and clothing I deduce that some of them have been in this darkness for thousands of years. I also believe that these are people who must have died a violent death, because their specters are horribly mutilated. Some are missing limbs, others heads, and most show wounds possibly caused by the wars or accidents, from which they must have died. But why do they remain in this darkness and not ascend to the luminous zone where I seem to be heading? I notice an important difference between them and me, where the explanation must be. My aura is absolutely resplendent, theirs are darkened. Perhaps when I died with a clear conscience and in peace, my aura was charged with positive energy, which gives it that glow. I have described this phenomenon in one of my novels, the fruit of my intuition, but which I now prove to be correct. For this reason my soul must be attracted directly to the source of light. It must be a simple effect of electromagnetic attraction. For this reason, I suppose that whoever dies with an uneasy conscience, suddenly or by accident, the soul must contain negative energy that obscures the spectrum, and in these conditions they must be attracted only to this dimension, which must be the astral, the first dimension of where those who have died are. These souls are suspended between what theologians call Heaven and Hell, which must be Purgatory. Their desperate attempt to cling to me must be for me to transfer to them the positive energy they need to enter a new dimension that will lead them to the light to which I am heading. But it does not seem that this transfer is possible between wraiths. Possibly that positive energy they need can be transferred to them from the physical world, with invocations, prayers or any other form that I do not know, directed especially to them and showing them your affection. I am still traveling at possibly the speed of light, but I have not yet left this dimension where there are possibly millions of souls in similar conditions. If this is Purgatory, where the souls are not enlightened enough to reach Heaven, those people who die and who have committed faults that have no redemption, their auras will be charged with negative energy, and they must appear absolutely dark, so they cannot rise and remain in the physical world, and this must be the Hell of the souls in pain of theology, and that for some cause that I do not know, they can appear as living dead, or zombies. I have no other explanation. I have crossed another cosmic plane and, at last, I am in the dimension of the blinding light that has irresistibly attracted me since the moment of my death. It has the same luminosity as my soul. No shadow to darken it. My journey through the dimensions of the cosmos seems to end here, because I have stopped moving at dizzying speeds. Here, too, there are perhaps millions of luminous souls like mine. They all seem to have the same youthful appearance, they must not be more than 18 or 20 years old, and they remain suspended in this immense luminous dimension. My specter moves slowly among them. They smile at me and seem to welcome me. I stop in front of a specter that amazingly looks like me when I was 18 or 20 years old, and still in college. He seems to be my double. Something extraordinary has happened: I feel a strange vibration and my double has merged, penetrating into my specter. Now I also have the same appearance as him. I feel confused, but at the same time I feel a great sense of indecipherable goodness. One of the souls who has watched my transformation approaches me and seems to want to communicate something to me. I try to read her thoughts, but I hear nothing. Moments later another even more resplendent soul approaches me, and, like the previous one, I think he is trying to make me listen to his thoughts. I hear him! -Welcome to the luminous dimension, because your soul has only positive energy, and it shines like the light that generates the source that illuminates and created the cosmos! An extraordinary source of positive energy, located in an even higher dimension, and its light is the creator of all the visible and invisible illusions of the cosmos. The more luminous our soul is, the closer we come to this extraordinary source of light. There are the souls of the most virtuous characters in history, such as Socrates, Jesus Christ or St. John of the Cross. I am also a higher luminous entity and I can communicate with any soul, but you can only communicate with those who have had contact in life and feel affection for you. You will be able to hear their thoughts, but they will not be able to read yours. -But what happened to me? Who was this double of mine? Where did he come from? -I hear your thoughts and will answer your questions. When we are gestated two spiritual entities are generated. One is in the form of the space we will come to occupy at the limit of our growth. That entity is composed of positive energy and remains in this dimension. Our destiny is written in it. The other spiritual entity remains in the embryo, which animates it. Its energy is variable and depends on the processes of its consciousness, which can generate positive or negative energy. Our destiny is fulfilled when we act in such a way that it is maintained with positive energy until the instant of our death. Otherwise we act against our destiny and at death we cannot merge with our energetic double and remain in an intermediate dimension or in the physical world, if our consciousness has no redemption. That double of yours has followed your personal development, and has been by your side whenever you invoked him. He was your guardian angel! -Yes, I now remember my experience in the little church park hours after I learned of my diagnosis, where I believed that an angel was sitting in my very pew. It must have been this double of mine, whom I had previously invoked. -You are now constituted as your destiny intended. There is no more duality in you, but an absolute energetic unity! My strange journey to this luminous dimension has ended when I reunite with my double personality. It is as if from this moment on a new eternal life has begun, but I cannot say that I am happy, because that would be to accept unhappiness, unknown in this dimension. It is a neutral state, indescribable, devoid of any anguish, fear or restlessness. Possibly the appropriate expression is "beatific". But fortunately I am not completely separated from my former physical reality, because I can indeed hear the thoughts of those who remember me and invoke me, albeit faintly, like a whisper. At this moment Alicia is invoking me and I faintly hear her thoughts. I fear that she is about to commit a grave imprudence, because she intends to join me in the astral plane, where I am not, and she will never be able to access this luminous dimension while she is alive. If Alice's astral body enters the dimension of the dead, she runs the risk of not being able to rejoin her physical body, and it is quite possible that she will also be trapped in the darkness of Purgatory, and she will no longer be able to join me, as was her wish! I have to find a way to communicate with her and make her see the risk she runs if she persists in her attempt. Now I am nothing more than a contingent of subtle energy that is invisible, but can move into the physical world. I run the risk of becoming infected with negative energy and not being able to return to this dimension, but I cannot allow Alicia to be condemned because of me. I have to try! 48. The return I have returned to the dimension of the physical world and I am at the foot of the bed where Alice is lying. She is approaching the state of concentration where the unfolding of her astral body can occur. If I provoke an energy discharge I may be able to turn on the lamp on the bedside table and interrupt her concentration. I get the lamp to flicker and fortunately Alice has abruptly snapped out of her concentration. She looks at the lamp quizzically, but does not associate it with my presence. She unplugs it and goes back to concentrating. I have to try again and hope she realizes that I'm trying to communicate with her, because my aura's energy wanes. I get her to blink weakly again, and Alice is startled. I think she has understood that it is me who provokes it. -Is that you? Are you here? I flicker the lamp again. Alicia has understood that this is my answer. -So, you haven't left your apartment, as I assumed! But you can't communicate with me. Be patient, I'll join you soon. Maybe this very night. I am trying to concentrate and manage to unfold my astral body, and then we can communicate and you can tell me where you are! I try to flicker the lamp again but it is useless. I will not be able to prevent her from unfolding and entering the dimension of the dead, and if she reaches that dimension and gets trapped I will not be able to rescue her. I only hope that her soul is not condemned and can no longer leave the physical world, which could happen if she dies, because suicide is a serious fault, and it would fill her soul with negative energy! -Alicia doesn't know that I can't hear when she speaks to me, but I can hear her thoughts, and my premonition of Naomi's mother's death is confirmed. But she is thinking that she trusts that we have not met, because she still considers her her rival, even after she is dead. If Noemi's mother is dead I should be able to communicate with her. Perhaps it is because she did not give me her forgiveness before she died that she is in Purgatory. But how do I know where she is? I should listen to her thoughts to know where to go, otherwise it is impossible for me to find her soul among millions of souls. Perhaps his thoughts do not mention me and he thinks only of the wretched Naomi. That would explain it. Alicia is again on the verge of her astral projection. If she succeeds, we will meet again, but it will be for a short time, because she must return to her physical world of the living and I to my energetic world of the dead. All her efforts are useless, our destinies meet neither in life nor in death. I feel truly sorry for this woman, but now I know that it is useless to fight against what is written in the stars. It must be the stigma she was telling me about. Alicia's body seems to shake. It is vibrating. She moves her head from side to side, as if something is trying to detach itself. Yes, it is succeeding, and the specter of her head is detached from her body, and the rest of her astral body as well. Her physical body has been left in absolute rest, no doubt sleeping deeply, while she dreams her splitting. Her first movements are imprecise, she rises slowly but keeps her eyes closed. A thin thread of energy holds her to life, I trust it will not break! Her ascent has stopped. She opens her eyes and gazes at me in amazement, but she cannot speak. Now she must read my thoughts and I must read hers. -Alicia, why did you do it? -He's here! I've done it! But he has changed his appearance, he is now a young man! -Alicia, what you have achieved is to put your life at risk! -He reproaches me for what I did, just for being by his side. -Alicia, I can hear your thoughts. Yes, I have to reproach you. Now you won't be able to join me. I'm dead and you're alive... -Then if my death can settle our differences, I will not return to my body! -You would achieve nothing, because it would be suicide, and you know that your soul would be condemned and could not be separated from the physical world. Give up this useless and dangerous love for both of you! -Haven't I been your faithful companion until your last breath? -Alicia, you are endangering my salvation as well. These reproaches, which I know are not fair, will cause my soul to become contaminated with negative energy, and may prevent me from returning to the dimension of light in which I had managed to ascend. For both our sakes, renounce! -I understand... my stigma haunts me here, too, among the dead. You wish to be with her for eternity, don't you? If I renounce, I'll be damned anyway... -But you will save my soul, and hers too! -She, with her unexpected death, has won! -No, Alicia, we haven't met. I don't know where he might be. Maybe we'll never meet. But where I am, time doesn't exist. I'll wait for you, but you have to die in peace with your conscience! Don't be afraid of old age, when you meet me you'll be eighteen again. -What about her? -Alice, where we will meet there is neither happiness nor misfortune, only goodness; there you can neither love me nor hate me; the three of us will be able to enjoy that infinite goodness eternally, and when its time comes, I trust that Naomi will also join us. -Are you asking me to let my life be consumed in the hope of eternally sharing with you the goodness of your Paradise? -Yes, I beg you! -I have no choice? -Hell now or Heaven when death wants to take you. -You give me the choice between two hells! -Yes, Alicia, but one can last for 30 or 40 years and the other for eternity? -I suppose I must resign and say goodbye until 30 or 40 years from now, and I can't even shake the hand I held at the moment of your death! -That's how it should be, Alicia... But I have to ask you something else.... It's about Naomi's mother. I fear that she is being held in a dark space, halfway between Heaven and Hell. For her to free herself from this dark dimension she needs the help of someone alive, who will transmit her the positive energy that will help her to ascend to a higher plane, and you can help her, and at the same time, help yourself to gain your salvation... -Are you asking me to save my rival? -He is no longer your rival, he is a soul, who, like you, deserves to ascend to the dimension of light and come out of the darkness where he may find himself. -And what can I do for her? -Pray for her! -I've never prayed; I wouldn't know how! -You only have to invoke his name and show him your affection. That will be enough to transmit positive energy to her. Also convey this wish to my daughter, Naomi, to pray also for her mother, and between the two of you you will save her. -How sad is my fate! -No, dear Alicia, in the world of the living there is no greater joy than to feel useful and necessary. Spend the rest of your life writing novels with plots that incite generosity and kindness, and you will live happily until your time comes and you join us. -I don't even have the consolation of crying! -Go back to the living and you can ease your heart with weeping. -Farewell then, until death do us part! -Farewell, my dear Alicia, I'll wait for you in Paradise.... His specter rejoins his body, which remains motionless. I cannot hear him, but I can tell from his sad expression that he must be on the verge of tears. Now he brings his hands to his face and must be sobbing bitterly. Poor Alice, no one but her deserves to enter Paradise! 49. In Purgatory (Narrator: Naomi's mother) Why am I locked in this darkness? Is this the fate of the dead? Where am I? I have seen my body frozen on the roadside as my soul ascended to this dark place. Yes, I must be dead, I have been imprudent, and I have paid for it with my life! What will become of my poor Naomi? I intended to save someone from his regrets, and I die with no one to save me from mine! This place is the Hell I deserve! I shall suffer this anguish forever! I think I see a small glow approaching me. Now I distinguish the spectre of a young man.... Oh, my God, it's him, he's dead too! But he is just as he was when I knew him twenty years ago! Yes, it's him; it's the same restless, ambitious young man who read my poems on our college campus; with the same teasing smile; the same charm in his gaze. I am ashamed that he finds me aging, though he is but a ghost. Perhaps he has heard my wailing, Death brings us together again! He approaches me and I can hear his thoughts: -My dear friend and admired poet, we meet again in strange circumstances. I learned of your sad death in the snow when you were about to watch over my deathbed. I do not know why you are in this dark place, but I will help you and I will repay you in death what you have suffered because of me in life. I needed your forgiveness to die with a clear conscience, but my sincere repentance and the help of our daughter and that extraordinary person, Alicia, saved me from hell. -I would have forgiven you, but death intervened. But, for God's sake, can you tell me where I am? -You are halfway between Heaven and Hell; in Purgatory. Your conscience should not have been at peace at the moment of death, and it became contaminated with negative energy, which prevents you from ascending to a new dimension, where I am. But fear not, your daughter Naomi and Alice will take you out of here and you will be able to join me. -I have never wronged anyone, why do I deserve this punishment? -I do not have the answer. Energy and its relation to consciousness has its own rule, but I suppose that the positive or negative energy that our soul accumulates depends on the state of our consciousness at the moment of death. -Then I deserve to be in this sinister place, because I was reckless.... but I had a good cause! -It would have been useless, because I died the same day. It was already too late! -But I did not know the reasons that led you to that brothel that night, and that you tell in your last novel. If I had known, I would have forgiven you from the first meeting. -I have not written a novel describing that unfortunate event! -Naomi sent me a copy that Alicia had given her.... -Alicia! She wrote that book and altered the facts so that you would come to my deathbed to co-sort me. I don't know what she told about that unfortunate event, but your impression was the true one: I betrayed you! -Is this deception also part of my tragic destiny? -Alicia was only trying to save my soul.... -At the cost of condemning mine! -He had set out to prolong my life until you arrived, but I prevented him from doing so. I am once again to blame! But it is too late for regrets. Our destinies are about to be fulfilled. Mine has already been fulfilled, and Alicia and Naomi will help you to fulfill yours as well. None of us deserves Purgatory, much less Hell. We were wrong because we were human, but for the same reason we repented, and we paid for our absolution with suffering. Now it only remains for us to gain Heaven and a whole eternity to immerse ourselves in a beatific calm in the dimension of light. -If this is also my destiny, I can only trust my daughter Naomi and join you in Paradise. Thus concludes a dramatic story that began one day in early spring, because of a strawberry and cream cakes. 50. Sentences (Narrator: Naomi) Alicia called me because she wants to see me about something related to my deceased parents. We will meet this afternoon and have dinner together at my father's apartment, just like in the old days. I have recovered my spirits and I am living a normal life. Fortunately my career takes up all my time and occupies my thoughts. Only in the evenings I feel the absence of my parents, but in reality I have always felt this absence. I am back in my late father's apartment. Alicia has not changed at all and her books, computer and all her personal belongings remain in the same place. She looks very worn out. It is as if she is suffering from some illness. Her gaze is languid and distant. Something is constantly distracting and disturbing her. She welcomes me with a slight smile. She is no longer the strong, self-confident woman. No doubt my father's death has affected her deeply. -Alicia, don't you feel well? You look tired, you look very unwell. -Yes, Naomi, I am not feeling well. I am depressed and sad. -It's because of my father's death! -Yes, that's why... He remains silent, as if he doesn't want to give me any other reasons for his depression. We sit at the table and Alicia serves me what she has cooked for dinner and we eat in silence. -I thought about your mother," he says in a pause, because he seems to have no appetite. I'm not a believer, but I think we should pray for the salvation of her soul.... -You mean his soul didn't deserve to go to Heaven, if it exists? -The circumstances of her death were not natural but accidental, and in these conditions she died without a companion to comfort her and help cleanse her soul of any remorse. She may be in a dimension where she needs our help. -Alicia, you make me uneasy! Are you suggesting that my mother may be in Hell? -If she were in Hell, she would no longer have salvation, but if she is in Purgatory, our prayers can help her to get out of there and go up to Heaven, which is where she deserves to be! -Alicia, you are talking like a believer. Do you really believe in hell, purgatory and heaven? My comment seems to have confused her, and I think she is mulling over her response. -Naomi, I don't know what I believe anymore! I beg you not to ask me any more questions, for I would not know what to answer. But I have a feeling that we must invoke her and show her our affection. You only need to think of her and show her your affection. Wherever she is, she will receive your message, and she will be closer to Heaven. -Alicia, I always thought you and my mother were rivals. -Dear Noemí, we do not compete with the dead. Outside of this world the heart no longer beats and there is no place for emotions like love. There is only goodness in Heaven and evil in Hell. Near Heaven and Hell there is only anxiety and doubts. Author's note Alicia died of sadness two months later. Her heart stopped because it was no longer useful. There was not an atom of negative energy in her soul and she ascended to the dimension of light without the slightest setback. FIN Foreword generated by artificial intelligence Jan Gosan doesn't just write stories; he maps the invisible terrain where ethics, faith, and social reality intersect. Firmly convinced that consciousness is the only force capable of fostering integral human development, Gosan uses narrative as a mirror of our own coherences and contradictions. For the author, politics and spirituality share the same horizon: the realization of the person. In his works, the "what" is dictated by consciousness, the force to act comes from Grace, and the will is the rudder that decides whether a soul is lit or extinguished. With a visually striking style and a philosophical depth that avoids complex treatises to focus on the truth of the individual, Jan Gosan invites the reader to stop being a passive spectator. His books are, ultimately, a call to action: a reminder that the weight of the world's problems dissipates when each person simply decides to listen to their own inner voice and act accordingly. 1. Diagnosis Five simple words were all it took for the whole fantastic universe I created with my novels and in which I have lived apart from this world to collapse: "You suffer from an incurable disease". I have just been told this by the specialist who treats my illness. The messenger waits for my reaction, but I am unable to get an idea of what I have just heard. There is a tense silence. It seems as if the doctor is afraid to go on describing my situation, but he felt he had to be clear so that I would not be under any illusions, and he warned me that I have no more than six months to live, or, in exceptional cases, and if I respond well to treatment, perhaps a year. I leave the hospital reneging on having allowed myself to be diagnosed with the cause of my discomfort. Of course I do not accept the diagnosis. After all, the pains are still bearable. It is a cool, damp morning, as autumn mornings are, but pleasant for a walk. To prove that the diagnosis is not acceptable, I will walk back to my apartment. Why me? Yes, I know many people who suffer from incurable diseases, but for some inexplicable reason I thought I was immune. Now I need some time to come to terms with my mistake. Even to my regret, I have to accept that I am as human as others, and I can suffer from their same diseases. I am tired and I still have more than half of the journey to go. I enter a small park next to the neighborhood church. On one of its benches a beggar is dozing, and when I approach him he looks at me with a clear expression of hatred, because he must feel humiliated by my appearance of a well-placed person. He cannot know that I had just been condemned to die prematurely; if he did, he would have no reason to envy me. I sit down on an adjoining bench, because my legs can't take another step. The beggar looks disgruntled and shuffles around in his rags, as if this were his house and I had entered without knocking. The doctor has created a stigma for me. I am no longer the me-self who just an hour before could do whatever I wanted, but me-self-and-death. From now on, my every thought or act will have to count on it. But I am not resigned. The doctors may be wrong. Perhaps my medical records have been misplaced and are those of another patient. Some inexperienced secretary may have made that terrible mistake. Nature cannot abandon me and life cannot be so irresponsible with me. Fate cannot go against my will, because it is my will that must create my destiny. This can't be happening to me. I still have many new things to admire, many fantastic stories to tell, and, why not, perhaps someone to love. Is this a divine punishment? Am I being condemned to a premature death for supposed sins committed, even though I cannot know the nature of my guilt? A sinner does not need to know the details of his guilt, it is enough for him to suffer the punishment to know that he has sinned. It is perfectly possible that this illness was written in the stars, or can be read in the palm of my hand, without that I should consider it a punishment. But the most reasonable thing is that it is the result of my long nights of voluntary insomnia, giving life to characters that in gratitude lead me to death. But I bear them no grudge. From the beginning I accepted that every work that deserves praise is because in it there is a little bit of our own humanity, and humanity must also have its limits. Perhaps that was my fault: to have created ghosts and presumed to be their god. But without me they would never have existed, so I must be right: I am their god, and therefore I do not deserve to be punished with such cruelty. ZIf that is divine justice, all artists will go to hell and imagination would be persecuted and severely punished. 2. The reaction The great impression and uneasiness that the diagnosis has caused me totally overrides my sense of time. I do not know how long I have been sitting on this bench. While I think of my desolation in some remote part of the universe, I am sure that someone, who already knows my fate, must be feeling sorry for me. It is probably an angel, the same one that appeared in the prayer cards we were given when we were kids in religion classes. Back then I wanted to be an angel too. I wanted to fly, to see the world from above, to migrate to warm lands, to be free like the birds, and, according to those bright pictures, only angels knew how to fly. That's why I wanted to be an angel. My hair stands on end, because I sense that this angel may now be sitting on this very bench, listening to my nostalgic thoughts, futilely trying to console me, because angels and humans, for some reason that only God must know, are incompatible. But I have returned to real time because of the murky, resigned look the beggar gives me from time to time, unable to understand what someone like me is doing sitting on this bench at this hour of the morning, reserved for the homeless. I would like to tell him that I don't know either, but it would be of no use to him. A cold, autumn sun shines, but clean and bright. A cool, damp breeze from a nearby sea moistens my hot face. There are still traces of the morning lightning on the cars and sidewalks. Winter will soon be here. It is inevitable that winter will come to all of us one day, but some of us will not live to see the next spring. The beggar has stood upright and looks at me in wonder. I think that despite his appearance, he must have the ability to read my thoughts. Yes, he knows what I am thinking, because those of us who suffer have the same rictus, the same languor in our eyes, the same curvature of the back, the same reddened eyes, and all that is easy to translate into common language: Desolation. For a few moments he seems undecided. Finally he makes up his mind, and with the gait of one whose muscles are numb, he comes to my bench, but does not sit down. He remains standing, hesitant, undecided. Finally he makes up his mind, and asks me for a cigarette, but unfortunately I don't smoke. I offer him some coins, but he incomprehensibly refuses. His gaze wanders to an indeterminate point, he seems to meditate whether to engage in conversation or return to his world. As if that encounter had not taken place and without making the slightest gesture, he walks again with the same clumsiness that short distance that separates our two worlds, and again wraps himself in his rags to continue dozing. He has no courage to come out of his poverty and I have no courage to accept mine. He has lost confidence in human beings, from whom he only asks for a cigarette; I have lost confidence in myself, from whom I only ask for courage to face my misfortune. The beggar has risen again and comes towards me. He asks me with a gesture of mock humility for the coins I offered him. I don't feel like taking any interest in his situation, I only have some interest in my own. Not even an hour has passed since I have known my condemnation and I have a feeling that before returning to my apartment I will have passed to the phase of rebellion, which is nothing more than the resource of kicking, previous step to the acceptance and submission without defenses or reservations. "Behold the slave of the Lord, be it done unto me according to thy word". The beggar gets impatient, he probably thinks I want to humiliate him and I notice more hatred in his stray look than in the previous one. I hand him the coins and he goes back to his bench without thanking me. He counts them and gives me a contemptuous and coarse look. No doubt I had hoped he would have been more generous. I can't stand his ragged presence any longer and resume my walk, but part of my body burns as if I were already in hell, and I find it hard to walk. Is there a hell? Is there a heaven? Is there a God, and his angels and cherubs? I am horrified to realize my rapid transformation. For the first time I have doubted my deep-rooted secular convictions. Until just a minute ago, hell, heaven and God were something anecdotal; a topic of conversation full of incongruities and fanaticism for the gullible and ignorant; of intellectual blindness and irrationality. And suddenly these theological questions arise again, but with renewed importance. I also sense that my mind will soon go blank, refusing to think, since I could not stop thinking about death and its intricate mysteries. I have to rediscover nothingness, and immerse myself in it until the day of my announced death. 3. It's three in the morning and I can't get to sleep. Just darkness and nothing else. Those figures that the lights of the cars project on the ceiling are the only thing that catches my attention, the rest seems to have vanished. Everything around me is silence, darkness, nothing. Whoever created this absurd word was thinking of me, I have given it its true meaning; its authentic meaning; its oppressive emptiness. At four o'clock in the morning I will still be thinking the same thoughts I am thinking now, and the next hours, the next days until the day of my death I will still have the same thoughts: nothing. I have nothing left to think about except nothingness, and, thinking about nothingness is like not thinking. I leave my mind blank to try to dissuade my brain from reliving bad memories, the good ones I have not forgotten. 824 there is nothing left of all that. It is time for my own final judgment. I have been ambitious, selfish and disloyal. If hell exists, no doubt I will be condemned. I have to admit it, these insistent pains, added to my regrets, have sapped the creativity of my imagination. My latest novel is mediocre, even pathetic. The characters are stillborn and act like real zombies. I think I have lost connection with reality and live in a parallel world. I see the new world but I don't feel it; I hear it but I don't understand it, and I no longer have anyone around me to comment on this chore of time; a confidant to whom you can tell a host of misfortunes without being rejected, ignored, or forgotten. I have crossed from one dimension to another without realizing it, entertained with my dreams of greatness, with the conviction that I would put the world at my feet and now I am its doormat. I have betrayed the only woman I have ever loved. I have despised my friends, and admired my enemies, because I preferred the encouragement of victory after a bitter war against my enemies to the sterile peace of friends. And now I have neither friends nor enemies. Some I have humiliated, and the others have ignored me and rejected my enmity, so that there is nothing left, neither of one nor of the other. I am prostrate on the bed trying to forget that I have a corrupted body, which threatens to destroy my soul and my mind as well. Tonight the sporadic lights of the cars that cross the roof seem to me like souls in pain that warn me that very soon I will be one of them and I will cross the roofs of other damned; that neither heaven 8 hell exist, only the unbearable nothingness. 4. The first sunrise 6 It's finally dawn. I have slept two or three refreshing hours. It is a relief to sleep; to be able to have the opportunity to meet with the dearest people, but not the real ones, but the ones that your mood needs, and that during wakefulness sleep in your imagination. Only in dreams things happen as we wish them to happen; without dreams the soul would have nowhere to take refuge, nowhere to nest and sing its song, it would be prey to the harsh and severe reality. I do not know who gave us the faculty to dream, but it must have been someone very understanding and well aware of the weaknesses of the human being. Maybe it was the God that religions talk about, but I cannot accept it, because I simply do not believe in anything. I have even stopped believing in myself. He who lives in nothingness cannot believe in anything. But it is dawn and it is my hour for optimism; the most awaited moment, because light must be the cause of all creation, while darkness is in charge of destroying it, of plunging creation into an abyss of no return, the same that must await us after death. I have thought a lot about death, especially about my death; about my irreversible and early death. I would like to believe in transmigration, because life is not destroyed, only transformed. It would be a comfort to be able to believe that moments after my last breath to be part of a new life, somewhere on Earth or in the Universe. After all, we come from it and we will return to it. But my room has been flooded with light and now I see things as they are and not as I dream them. I see on the shelf meticulously arranged by thickness, color and height my novels, on which I have spent, or perhaps worn out, all my life, and some photos of remote and unrecoverable times. The best novels I wrote when my mind and my imagination had wings, because they were young and free, and understood each other: what the imagination created my disciplined mind wrote. Most of my novels have been a resounding success, but the last one was tainted with my illness. On my desk, next to the window through which I look out on my part of the world, I see that the computer that in better days constantly provoked me, leaving me hardly any respite, no time for rest, remains inactive and silent. I could only hear the exciting and rapid sound of the keys describing on the illuminated screen the images that gushed like a spring of fresh water from my exuberant imagination. Then this machine was an extension of my mind and my spirit, now it is a common computer, like thousands of others, without soul and without activity, because I no longer have anything to tell. The keyboard seemed to me like a universe, with which one could express even the deepest philosophical thoughts, write the most passionate dialogues, or describe the most beautiful scenery. Everything was there, at sight, you just had to choose the right letters, in the right form and with the right rhythm. That was another life. Each character that came out of that now inert keyboard completely disrupted reality: they were the real ones, the rest was a dream. I felt them so alive that I often invoked them convinced that they would appear in my room, and we would discuss their future as a character in the novel. I always had the feeling that they were unhappy with their role, because I never got to know them as they really were, even though I had created them myself. But that was before the diagnosis; before my walking became clumsy and unsteady; long before the first symptoms of my illness made me lose consciousness because of an intense pain arising from some vague part of the inside of my body. But I had a premonition of my illness many years before. I may have had the presentiment from birth, so I lived with urgency, wrote with urgency and also grew old with the same urgency. Now I can rest and calm down, there is no longer any reason for urgency. 5. A dignified death I have discarded all hope. I know I am going to die, but against my will. I cannot accept that nature will decide for me. I have to anticipate its blind impulses; its irrational destruction. Only I can decide when and how I should die. It is a thought that horrifies me, but perhaps I must put an end to my life myself. Suicide? Would I be able to do it? But how? I don't want to die a violent death. By resorting to sedatives? But, knowing my situation, no doctor would prescribe them. I never thought it would be so difficult to attempt against one's own life. I envy those who are fortunate enough to die in their sleep, because the greatest difficulty for a suicidal person is to make the last decision of his life, because it is not possible to rectify it. Perhaps I could resort to euthanasia, but I do not want to die where the law allows it, nor do I want my death to be a commercial exchange. I would like to die by the sea, at the dusk of an autumn twilight, to take its beauty with me into eternity. Can't the wishes of a dying person be fulfilled? Why can't mine be fulfilled? But I am talking about me; planning my death by my own hands and by my own will. I intend to be myself the murderer who destroys everything I have created; to put an end to the fruit of my youthful illusions, my ambitions consummated after many years of loneliness and sadness, to my pleasant memories. At least if nature kills me, I will not be responsible for this homicide. No, I cannot attempt against myself. No tree would destroy its own fruit. But if I do not have enough courage to attempt against my body, I have to silence my conscience, limit the gloomy thoughts and close the eyes of imagination, the only one responsible for my sufferings, because we do not suffer if we do not imagine. So, do I have to let this terrible disease take its course? How will I bear this long agony? What stimulus will I count on? I can't imagine waiting impassively for death lying in a hospital bed, my mind dazed by painkillers and my vision blurred, foolishly fixed on some spot in the room. No, that is not a dignified way to die. There must be another, more humane and less painful way. Maybe the only worthy way to die is in that place you call home, and to be next to someone who feels true affection for you; that you can shake his hand until the last breath is lost, because it is through the hands that souls communicate and express their desires and feelings, so you can take his affection and his smile to eternity, although my eyes no longer see, my ears no longer hear and my body no longer feels anything. That is the only worthy way to die! A wise but useless reflection, because I don't have a home or anyone who feels so much affection for me. This apartment is not a home, because it lacks the essential: a woman. It is only a place of residence; a comfortable refuge; the right space for a writer; a gilded cage where to let the imagination run free. Only a woman can turn a station waiting room into a home, because she is the home. It is in her arms, in her bosom, in her feminine energy. Home is in the bed where a woman lies. As for someone who feels enough affection for me to watch over my agony and shake the weak hand of a dying man, unfortunately I haven't heard from her for many years. She was my first and only love, the person who stimulated my imagination and my creativity. To her I owe what I am and the memories that have inspired most of my novels. But back then my blind ambition was stronger than my feelings. We were united and separated by our passion for literature. We were both confident in our talents and had not the slightest doubt about our future successes. Our relationship inspired his best poems, for which I was flattered and transported to another world, but providence had a painful fate in store for him. The plot of my first novel was also the fruit of our relationship: the story of a failed poetess who describes her suicide in her last poem - a bitter paradox of fate! She helped me to correct my notable literary defects as a beginner, even typed the manuscript and suggested that I send it to a well-known literary contest for beginners. She shared my illusions and ambitions with generosity and without the slightest shadow of envy. He gave himself entirely to this work, which finally bore its unexpected fruits: I won the first prize! What followed is the cause of my regrets and I will never be able to forgive myself. A well-known literary agent was interested in me, and assured me that I had great literary talent and that in one or two years she would make me the most read and admired writer of that time. I was deeply flattered and accepted her bet. She suggested the theme of my second novel: a romantic story with a happy ending, and I had no difficulty in imagining the plot, I only had to add some new scenes to my own personal experiences. In this second novel it was she who revised and corrected the numerous stylistic flaws and grammatical errors of the first manuscript. We used to work in her own home, in an atmosphere of intimacy and familiarity, created to seduce me and make me literally fall into her arms. He had seen in me not only a talented writer, but also a lover. Unfortunately for my faithful companion, my agent was a woman with the appeal of mature yet beautiful women, with a young spirit and great experience in the arts of seduction, so it was impossible for me to resist. In a short time she managed to completely dominate my will. I spent my days in a frenetic program of promotion of my novel that barely allowed me to dedicate a few minutes to the memory of another woman who had to suffer in silence every time my image, with a studied smile of an arrogant winner, appeared in the media. The few moments I did not dedicate to my promotion I had to occupy them in satisfying her desires, always unsatisfied, not as my agent but as my lover. Although there were times when I was aware of my disloyal behavior, I could not give up the vain feeling of being above the common people; of dominating their wills, turning them into sycophants and my admirers. Since then there has been no peace for my spirit and I have known neither true friendship nor, much less, the passionate feeling of love. Now it is too late, because both friendship and love are like a beautiful plant, it needs time to bloom. 6. Memories Sometimes I wonder what would have become of me if I had not won that unexpected prize. I would possibly be married, have two or three children, a more prominent abdomen and could have found a good job in an insurance company, where I would have been promoted to assistant manager by now. We would live in a nice house with enough rooms for everyone, located in a quiet residential suburb. We would have two dogs, my wife's hysterical Yorkshire and a larger breed, plus a Siamese cat. Two of my children would already be going to university. The eldest would study law, and would already have secured a job in my company, and my middle daughter would study journalism, because she believed she had a vocation as a writer, and would have already published a book on the web with a romantic theme. The little one, because we would most probably have two females, would still be in high school and would wear a dental prosthesis to correct the deviation of her teeth. My wife would be president of some cultural association, and every first Saturday of the month our large living room would become a meeting room, where a dozen active mothers of families, and some retired widower, would discuss the details of an ambitious cultural program. We would have a good relationship with our neighbors. He might be a top executive of a multinational pet food company, and she would run a small, exclusive clothing boutique in our residential area, which in all likelihood would be a ruinous business. Every summer my wife, myself and our youngest daughter would spend two weeks in a popular seaside resort, where we would have an apartment booked every year on the 15th floor of a building on the third line of the sea, while our older children would take advantage of the summer to follow intensive English courses in London or New York. Is that what I missed? No; it's too conventional an assumption that I would never have accepted. But I don't want to think of my life with that woman as if it were the plot of one of my novels. She is a person and I must not confuse her with a character; our relationship was not a novel. Sometimes I don't know how to distinguish dream from reality, because memories eventually become dreams, and dreams eventually become reality. Everything could have been different if I had not been so blind and ambitious and had not fallen into the arms of my literary agent. But soon her eagerness to feel young and attractive no longer found sufficient stimulus in me, and she found herself a new lover, another ambitious young writer. I did not feel her betrayal at all, rather it was a liberation, because I also needed new stimuli to continue the meteoric rise of my popularity. Then I tried to recover my first love, but I lost track of her, it gave the impression that she had emigrated to another planet or had been swallowed up by the earth, because she had disappeared from all the means that could identify her whereabouts. Discouraged by the futile search, I tried to seek solace in one of my young female admirers. It was not difficult for me to seduce them, I could even choose among the many young girls who idolized me. I chose her not for her intelligence but for her body, because my capacity for love had been nullified by my betrayal. Unfortunately, despite her attractiveness, my constant remorse made me impotent and insensitive, so my relationship with my young lovers was brief and frustrating. My remorse led me to accept loneliness and I gave myself body and soul to my work. But the theme of my novels changed radically, the previous plots always had a happy ending, the new ones became unhappy, negative and with tragic endings, in which the protagonist of the story invariably died. But far from declining, my popularity continued to grow, because in our time there are hardly any relationships with a happy ending, and my readers identified better with the new dramatic twist of my tragic plots. 7. Ella Yes, despite all these years, I still keep her image alive, because she has been the one who has inspired my most beloved female characters. I have described her so many times that I could not forget her even if I tried. And if my memory should play a trick on me and erase her image, I only have to read again and again the novels where she is present to recover her intact, just as I have kept her for the last twenty years. But the years go by and leave their horrible mark. Maybe if I passed her in the street I wouldn't recognize her. What havoc has time done to her childish face and rosy cheeks? What color are her curly blond hair, always tousled, tangled between my fingers? And her breasts, small but sensual? What must not have changed is her sincere and tender look, nor the blue color of her eyes. How much I have longed for her in my long sleepless nights giving life to characters with her qualities! How much I would have given to feel her hands on my sore shoulders for those endless hours trying to recreate the world with the fantasies of my exhausted imagination! And how many mornings I woke up hugging my pillow, waking up from a dream in which I took her in my arms, and lying on a fragrant freshly cut lawn, we contemplated a pristine blue sky, which our eyes could barely contemplate a tiny part of its immensity. I met her in the faculty canteen one day in the early spring of 1997, the year Dario Fo won the Nobel Prize for literature, which I secretly aspired to win someday. She stood in front of me in the cafeteria line and pretended to hold her cup of coffee and a huge strawberry-cream cake with one hand, because the other was holding several books of poetry. I offered to hold the books for him, but he declined. Finally, as feared, the coffee cup, the cake and his precious books rolled on the floor. Then she did accept my help. While she cleaned up the pieces of cake that had smeared the books, I got a new cup of coffee and the last remaining slice of cake. But as fate would have it, that early spring morning she was left without her coffee and her delicious strawberry and cream cake, because I tripped over a misplaced chair and, once again, coffee and cake ended up on the floor. That coincidence in our clumsiness we interpreted it as a sign of destiny, that we were made for each other. The days and months that followed our eventful meeting were simply glorious. We discovered our respective vocations and ambitions, and agreed, sealed with a kiss, to walk together on the road to glory, which our youthful optimism considered conquered. We used to sit on the soft grass of our campus and exchange notes with our respective creations. I would read and appreciate her poetry and she would read my stories and we would discuss them in heated literary debates. Even today I still remember one of her poems, dedicated to me, of course: If your heart were foam, I would be ocean; If your soul were heaven, I would be cloud; If your gaze were rain, I would be a field; If your hands were water, I would be thirsty. We attended all cultural events related to literature, and we were considered "Les enfants terribles" of book presentations, because of our exhaustive questions. I think authors were afraid of us. We didn't miss any biographical film of writers. We made plans for the future, for when we were rich and famous. We agreed that we would spend half the year in Paris and the other half in Mallorca, in a small house on some cliff and that from the bedroom window we could watch the sunrise over the Mediterranean Sea. We had even decided to have our first child when I turned 30, and to have enough time to consolidate our respective literary careers. All those wonderful fantasies were happening before I won that damned prize. I realize now that I was sure of what my bright future would be like with all sorts of details, but I wasn't sure what I was like, and I barely endured the first test that fate put in my path. 8. The message I have barely had time to reflect and be fully aware of my pitiful fate and tomorrow I have to appear in public and make the presentation of my latest novel. I am the slave of my own success, a prisoner of the clauses of a draconian contract. I have long since ceased to be free and become an admired slave. I would give everything I own to go back and restart my life with her, and that I would never have had the clumsiness to submit my first novel and a literary contest, only to have the misfortune of winning it. But it's too late now. Now I will be back on the cover of specialized magazines, but to announce my inevitable death. They will write eulogies full of eulogies and virtues that I surely do not have, but the dead are extolled or sullied, but rarely respected. Surely the sales of my books will triple, so my untimely death is a magnificent business for my publishing house, for the printers and for the bookstores. They will mourn my death with crocodile tears. My agent will visit me repeatedly to secure his commission after my death. The publisher will also visit me, and with affected sadness, will make me sign a new contract to ensure the exclusivity of my books when I leave this world. I will receive thousands of condolences from my admirers, and they will be so hypocritical as to wish for my speedy recovery, but deep down my death is much more morbid and exciting for them. And what will become of my work? How long will it remain in the memory of my current admirers? A dead writer is only profitable as long as his funerals and tributes last, then other living writers will occupy my void, and they will surely be victims of my same disease. I am not likely to survive long. I have always had the feeling that I was writing what readers wanted to read not what I wanted to write. I will never know what kind of writer I am because I have never really tested myself. It has all come too easy to be important. There is no greater misfortune for a writer of vocation than to win a contest at a young age nor worse torture than to succeed at something you don't like. To write what your own intuition dictates, it is necessary not to think about readers at least until you are forty. I am one of those victims. I try to put these pathetic thoughts out of my mind by reading some of the numerous messages I receive every day. Today I don't want to read that chorus of praise from those who seem to be born to admire anyone who has their name printed somewhere other than on their ID card or in the mailbox. Most of them admire me only because I have hundreds of other admirers and followers, but they don't really know why they admire me. They all expect the same thing from me: a few words of response from the myth they are subjugated to in order to feel blessed by divine grace. Those of these unconditional admirers are a few short sentences that they must have saved in their computer memory to send to their favorite writers: "Very good your last novel", "I was hooked by your last novel", "I enjoyed your last novel", "I loved your last novel"; etc. And what can I answer? I could give them a huge thank you and have them divide it among themselves. But there is one message that catches my attention. It is that of a young woman. I can't explain it, but her image makes me uneasy and uneasy. Perhaps it is because there is something common in our features; or because of her haughty and provocative look, and yet, there is something of sweetness in her face. I have the impression that her arrogance hides a vulnerable personality. I almost don't dare to read her message, I have a feeling it will not be favorable and I don't have the day to endure criticism. After all, praise is a balm, it doesn't cure but it soothes; criticism is a bitter medicine, it tastes bad but it cures. I dare to read it: "Hi, I am an aspiring writer who has read all your novels and in my humble opinion there is only one that has a good motivation: the first one, the rest are acceptable, but lack this important quality. It seems as if after the first novel you have lost the motivation of the first one. As for your last novel, I am sorry to say that it seems as if you have lost both motivation and inspiration. Forgive me for being so frank, but that is my opinion. Naomi." Whoever you are, Naomi, you have discovered my best kept secret! I confess that this severe criticism from an arrogant and conceited young lady has affected me. I shouldn't worry, all the invitations for the presentation of my new novel have been booked for a week now, and the reviews have not been very effusive but not bad either, but what surprises me is the certainty of her judgments, which fully coincide with the reality of my literary career. It is true that the novels after the first one I wrote were influenced by my literary agent, not by a human being, and that they were not written by the artist but by the professional with a good style. And that face... that expression... those features so similar to mine; the clear forehead, the dimples in the cheeks and the slight droop of the eyelids... they are identical. But I wonder who is this mysterious Naomi? There is nothing in her profile that identifies her, not where she studied, not where she lives, no pictures, no blog; nothing! I answer: "Dear Noemí, your harsh criticism has hurt my self-esteem, but I appreciate your sincerity. I have no doubt that you will be a great writer. I am aware that none of my novels will deserve even a modest corner of posterity. If I wrote with posterity in mind, I would lose practically all my readers. In the times we live in, no writer can be above the intellectual level of his readers, because that would make them feel guilty and ignorant. If you appear half a dozen times on a TV channel with a large audience and you have some physical attraction, you automatically become the idol of thousands of people who were born to be followers. The media has so much power that if they had their way, they could win the Nobel Prize for the editor of the crime chronicles of a provincial newspaper. If the media have idealized you, you can write anything, because they won't stop admiring you. My latest novel is not brilliant, it is as normal and ordinary as the normal and ordinary readers who will enjoy reading it, because it speaks in their same language, it has their same vices and virtues. Anyway, that is the novel they would write themselves, but I have spared them that painful work. Most of us writers today are not chasing readers but journalists and image-makers, who are the ones who really rule the world. If you dream of being an out-of-the-ordinary writer, your life will be spent within that same out-of-the-ordinary dream, and you will never be able to live in reality. I look forward to your understanding. Kind regards" I send it. I find it a good rejoinder, but I have to admit that your criticism has merit. I don't owe my fame to my supposed talent but to the popularity that my first novel gave me, and that she inspired me, and the intelligent marketing of my protector. I have no more merit than to have been able to interpret her advice, her deep knowledge of the psychology of readers and her wise ideas, with my ability to write them in an acceptable style. But I am sure that there are hundreds of writers with much more talent than me who have not been as lucky as me. I just received a new message from Naomi. I wonder how she interpreted my reply. I could delete it. After all, it's just the opinion of an immature young girl, I don't have to take it into consideration. I have plenty of admirers and I am no longer worried about success or failure, because there will be no more novels to criticize. She is right: I lack muse and inspiration. But I am curious to know her opinion and I open it: "Yes, good novels need good readers, that's why they are so scarce. But good writers make good readers, and if you write mediocre novels you will always have mediocre readers. I look forward with great interest to hearing your views on the presentation of your new novel. Best regards and see you tomorrow. Noemí." It hurts me, but I accept it. You are absolutely right: each reader gets the author he or she deserves. No doubt I am one of those to blame for the mediocrity of the readers, because I have been satisfied with their compliments without worrying about whether or not they were well-founded. What can I say about the novel if I have never written a real novel? 9. Hallucinations Another endless sleepless night. I see mysterious shadows creeping stealthily around my bed. No doubt I suffer from hallucinations. I have had to hide all the pictures that decorated this room, because when I looked at them it seemed as if they were moving and coming out of their frames. Sometimes I look at my hands and it seems to me that they are someone else's and not mine. Any small object becomes an insect crawling on the shelves of my bookcase, or on my study table, I even see them moving on the quilt of my bed. I know they are simple hallucinations caused by my tired eyesight and depressed mood, but they distress me. I cannot bear this suffering until the day I die. I have to do something. I need her forgiveness. I have to find her even if I have to go to hell itself, from which I am only a step away. Why hasn't he contacted me in all these years? I am a public figure. She must have known how to contact me. A wound can't stay open for twenty years. They say that time heals everything, but they don't say what kind of wounds it heals. There are some for which, it seems, time does not pass, and probably some of them are disloyalty and betrayal. But she may also already be married with a family, and no longer feel any interest in me. Or, who knows, and I am distressed at the very thought, but she may already be dead. The ghosts keep haunting my bed. It seems as if all the spirits are conspiring against me to destroy what little judgment I have left, but I will resist; this is not a good time for madness. I have taken from the shelf my latest novel and read the passage in which the heroine discovers that her lover is cheating on her. It is an ordinary love story, and in real life cheating is also ordinary, and I have personal experiences to write these scenes realistically. Another dawn without any reason for optimism. I must have slept two or three hours, but I feel tired and sore, because the few hours I have slept have been occupied by a horrible nightmare. Fortunately I can only remember the final moments. I was bedridden in a hospital bed, but the room was painted red and a faceless nurse was injecting me with a dose of morphine. Scenes of a butcher butchering pigs could be seen in front of my bed. The pigs would talk and ask the butcher, "Why me?" But the butcher would not listen to their cries and would unload one after another of his deadly blows. Incomprehensibly it was my turn, and I asked him again the same anguished question, "Why me?" with the same result. And the butcher was preparing to settle his killing blow, when he suddenly transformed into her, smiling, just as I last saw her on campus. She stroked my dazed head. She gazed at me for a few moments, and barely as a whisper, she exclaimed: "Spreads his wings the angel of death, because he has an important assignment from Lucifer. When you are suspended by its deadly claws, I will not cry for you but for me, for I will not be able to accompany you to hell, as was my wish." And he vanished, transforming into the butcher, who again was about to lay his deadly blow when fortunately a call from my cell phone woke me up from this horrible dream. It is my current literary agent. -I'm sorry to call you at this hour, but I want you to know that I'm sorry; I'm really sorry! -His ambiguous message causes me great concern -I'm sorry about your diagnosis! -How do you know about my diagnosis? -Someone from the hospital has leaked the news of your incurable disease and it's circulating all over the social networks! I didn't know it was so serious! Believe me I'm sorry; I don't know what to say...! -My agent feels obliged to take charge of the situation and comments visibly affected: "If you are not feeling well, we can cancel the presentation. But this would mean breaching the contract with the publisher and would bring us a lot of headaches. Only death can be a legal justification. No, I have to make the presentation. Sooner or later they will know my state of health. A writer without a contract is free to do whatever he wants, because he has nothing published. On the other hand, a writer with a contract and who has published has something to justify his slavery. We write to have a reason to lose our freedom. That's how paradoxical the writer's world is. We arranged to have breakfast together in a café near my apartment. My agent was accompanied by a young woman who made a great impression on me. But not because of her beauty, but because of her appearance and curious attire. She wears a wide leather jacket of a striking scarlet color, which contrasts with her straight black hair, cropped at the nape of her neck, pale as snow. She wears tight black tights and a black skirt that covers a small part of her thighs. But the most striking thing is her huge military-style boots, which she laces up with red laces. As for her face, it seems vulgar to me, with nothing to highlight. I have the impression that with that flashy outfit she intends us not to pay attention to her face, which she herself must be aware of its lack of attractiveness or charm. However, her gaze and gestures are simple and frank. Just by her manner of greeting I deduce that she is cultured and intelligent. The young lady is the latest represented by my agent. According to him, she has talent. He wanted her to join us for our interview because she needs to be introduced to the world of literature, and he felt I was a good place to start. The young woman seems somewhat intimidated by my presence. She has spilled her coffee twice by shaking it too vigorously. She doesn't dare look at me straight on, and doesn't take her eyes off her shaken coffee cup. I wonder what he is thinking. He waits for me to speak to him, and the truth is, I don't know what we can talk about other than the weather. I break the silence by commenting that it's been a very wet autumn. The young woman nods slightly, but only out of politeness. My trivial remark confuses my agent, who doesn't want to waste time with such trifles. From a pocket of her jacket she pulls out a newspaper clipping and hands it to me. It is the latest published review of my novel. I ask him to summarize it for me, that's why I have an agent: -It's good," he says, not hiding the businessman's satisfaction, "even suggesting it could be the novel of the year. I don't discuss it with my agent, but I suspect this reviewer must collect a check every month from my publisher, and doesn't want to antagonize them. There are few honest critics left, or if they are, they are ignorant of the fundamentals of literature. For the sake of this millennial art I would have preferred a bad review, as this novel deserves. On another occasion I would have rejoiced, but now that I must give an account to my conscience for all my actions, it saddens me, because even now the wise phrase: "The hour of truth has come" makes sense. And the truth is that it is a bad novel. The young writer congratulates me and assures me that I deserve it, and seems to expect my thanks. I think she is trying to suggest some topic of conversation in which she can participate. -Forgive me for butting in," he finally decides to intervene, "but I think it's a good novel, too. I ask him what motivates his opinion. -It's well written and the characters are very well characterized," she answers a bit embarrassed, because she wasn't expecting my question. It has very well-drawn descriptions and the dialogues are very natural. Yes, I think your last novel is very good. It is evident that this young girl belongs to this generation in which ideals are rare, because she has omitted the fundamental: the plot. A poem does not need a plot, words are enough, but a novel cannot exist without a plot. The plot is what links fiction with reality, and a good novel must bear witness to the reality of its time through the plot; of the author's commitment to his time. If this linkage does not exist, it cannot transcend its immediacy, and instead of a novel we write a pamphlet of three hundred pages, decorated with a suggestive cover, and with an unjustified price. I don't put this idea to her because she probably doesn't feel committed to her times. I ask her what she thinks of the argument and she seems to mull over the answer: -It's a classic theme," he answers without much conviction. The betrayal of the one we love. It's a good argument. But it is rude of me not to show interest in your work. I am also interested in his idea of literature. I ask him which genre of literature he is most attracted to, and without barely letting me finish my sentence, he replies: -The novel, of course! It must be so, because her face has been transfigured with the charm of enthusiasm. She seems pleased by my interest; it is evident that she wished to communicate with me, but as a writer to a writer. She has succeeded. I ask her what is the reason for her enthusiasm for narrative, and her answer leaves no room for doubt: -Only a novel can tell a complex story that is a complete world. The short story is very brief and the tale can only tell a part of that world. No doubt this young woman knows what she wants. Now we'll see if she also knows why she wants it. I ask about her motivation. -My motivation? I've never asked myself this question, I think I was born already motivated by the love of literature! I have many reasons to be motivated," she answers with a sudden and astonishing self-confidence. But perhaps the main one is that through literature many values can be transmitted that can help each generation to be morally superior to the previous one. That's a good answer. I have been wrong about this young woman and I have underestimated her. I ask her the last question: -And what is literature for you? -Literature is a way of telling stories that provoke in the reader the feeling of the beauty of language, the creativity of the imagination and the understanding of the reality in which they come from or wish to live. When the words do not prevent the imagination from seeing, hearing or feeling what you are reading, because they are all in perfect harmony, with none missing or surplus. That is my opinion. I am impressed by her response, and I congratulate my agent on his wise choice. The young lady is out of the ordinary, but that doesn't mean she will have the success she undoubtedly deserves. 10. The walk I say goodbye to my agent and his young companion, to whom I give encouragement to continue because I believe he has the necessary talent for success, but I also warn him of the price he will have to pay for his passion. A useless warning, because passion overflows all attempts at restraint. He will go on his way without heeding my warnings. My agent asks me what I plan to do until the time of the presentation, and if I would like to have lunch together as well. Maybe he's thinking that it's not a day to leave me alone and he needs company. I tell her that I had thought about taking a long walk in the park, but I decline her invitation; I have never liked restaurants. The young woman also seems concerned about my mood and makes me a tempting offer: She would like to accompany me on my walk and then go to her apartment, where she will cook for me one of the specialties of her region. It sounds like a good program and I accept. I notice in his invitation the desire to communicate his concerns and show me his works to know my opinion, but also a sudden affection for me, which must have a large dose of compassion. It is cloudy and at intervals clearings open through which the sunlight penetrates, and all the foliage is illuminated as if it were a fresco painted by some genius of those who probably inhabit this park. My young companion seems to be happy that I have accepted his invitation, and walks beside me but in silence. I have the impression that he has already achieved his purpose and does not think he needs any more arguments or reasons to convince me. There is no doubt that he admires me, which makes me feel uncomfortable. No person is more admirable than another, what is admired are the results of his education, intuition or creativity, but not the human being himself. Since we all deserve the same respect and consideration, there cannot be some more admirable than others. I try to make him see it with a committed personal question: -I would love to know what idea you have formed about me; and why were you interested in meeting me personally? The question has caught her off guard. She meditates for a few moments on her answer, losing her gaze in an undefined point of the leafy walk, sketching a smile that must emerge from her thoughts. She turns to me, literally glares at me, and doesn't hesitate in her surprising answer: -Because I am in love with you! Now the surprised one is me, but the years have made me skeptical and limited my ability to feel affection for others. But there is another reason for me to reject her surprising statement: I have no other mission in my remaining life than to find the woman to whom I owe what this young woman admires. As long as I do not repay my debt my feelings are blocked. I let her know this in the least painful way possible: -Sometimes we writers live our fantasies as if they were reality. I'm sure you love a character in your novels who looks like me. But your answer surprises me even more than the first one: -I have told you that I am in love with you, but not that you are in love with me. You cannot prevent me from loving you, but neither can I prevent you from feeling no affection for me. I know you don't find me attractive, you may even consider me ugly, and you may not like the way I dress. I choose whom I love, but I don't pretend that you are also my lover. I am content to be able to walk beside him, and if he feels like it, to taste my casseroles, but he must know that I love him! Her generosity is sublime: she gives her feelings in exchange for accompanying the faltering step of a dying man, and having a guest at her table. No doubt this ungraceful young woman has an immense heart and can afford to squander her affections. I must not allow this waste, she may later need them for herself. -But you yourself have witnessed that you have fallen in love with a sick man who will soon leave this world! -I know, and I feel a great sadness, but you are a writer too, and you make people love each other who exist only in your imagination. Why can't I do the same? When the unfortunate day comes when you are gone, I will still have you in my imagination, and I will still love you as I love you now. It is inevitable that I will ask you this crucial question: -But what is so attractive about a dying curentón that awakens such a passion in you? -There are very few men who have been able to penetrate the soul of a woman. We admire the man who has brilliant ideas, but we love the man not for his intelligence but for being essentially a man, whereas we can fall madly in love with a gigolo, a greasy-handed mechanic or a smelly sewer man, as long as they are essentially men! If he is also intelligent and creative, then he is irresistible! -Do I belong to that category? He doesn't answer me, but his smile answers my question. 11. Lunch The apartment of my young lover is a museum of nostalgia, because it is full of objects that remind her of her place of origin, which she must miss deeply. It is a single room where a certain chaos reigns. His desk is next to the only window in the room, and it is full of pages with printed texts, which must be his writings, where his laptop appears. On the printer is a small stuffed panda bear, and on the window ledge, arranged in a row, is a veritable collection of assorted objects, possibly gifts or souvenirs from trips. His bed is a large convertible sofa, because there is not enough room for a regular bed. On the opposite side of the window there is a space separated by a wide curtain that must be your kitchen. And next to it a table where no more than two pieces of cutlery can fit, as long as you remove the huge bouquet of flowers that are beginning to wilt. The table is also occupied by the remains of a previous meal, such as unwashed dishes, half-full glasses or leftover bread. It is obvious that he was not expecting visitors, so he hastens to justify the mess: -Excuse this mess, but I wasn't expecting visitors, I'll tidy it up in a moment. Despite the clutter the set is intimate and cozy. I'd rather you didn't tidy it up. -Would you like to read some of my writings while I prepare lunch? I beg you not to address me as you, because we have already made enough confidences to be on a first-name basis. -I will read them with great interest. He tries to put order in the pages scattered on his desk until he has gathered about twenty pages. -It's the first pages of my new novel," she says with some embarrassment, "it's the love story between a young dancer and her choreographer... who is inspired by you. He insists on not calling me by my first name. I suppose his love for me includes this distant treatment. If he were to call me by my first name, some of his charm would be lost. I have to accept that. I like his style. I am particularly struck by this passage: "A talented dancer understands the language of music and translates it into the harmonious movements of her agile body. You no longer need a choreographer, but a lover who interprets the music that moves your body!" The meal was delicious and for her, moreover, a source of longing. I still have a few hours to go before the presentation. She suggests that I get some sleep to be clearer. I accept the idea. We unfold the bed and I lie down. She covers me with a light blanket, closes the window shade and locks herself in her tiny kitchen to do the dishes and the rest of the service. I hear the bustle of the kitchen almost in my sleep, and it brings back images of times gone by, when she also cooked for me. I am awakened by the sound of crying. It is the young woman crying. She is lying next to me, and hurries to wipe away her tears when she notices that I wake up. -Is something wrong, Alicia? I ask him in alarm. But his answer puzzles me: -Forgive me, I am a fool; I was crying with happiness to have you next to me, in my own bed! I could never have imagined that this young, scantily clad, strikingly dressed young woman was such an exceptional human being. No doubt that appearances can be deceiving. I feel the need to know more about her. I let her approach me, because I feel more paternal than passionate affection for her. I beg her to tell me something about her. She comes closer to me. I think she wants me to hold her in my arms. I cannot rebuff her and do her bidding. She smiles gratefully at me. -I'm just a provincial girl, ugly and clumsy," I try to protest, but she interrupts me. No, it's true, I'm ugly, that's why I dress in flashy clothes, although it doesn't do much good. The boys didn't like me, even though more than one tried to rape me. I grew up without the slightest affection and soon I had no other alternative to mitigate my loneliness than to invent lovers and friends. I felt real disgust for boys of my age, violent and rude. I fell in love for the first time with a mature, married man. He treated me gently and, although I would have allowed it, he never asked me to make love. It's my fate, he wasn't in love with me either, I think he felt pity. I had no choice but to leave my city, and I came here. Literature was my only friend. My novels were my only consolation. I managed to interest a modest publisher to publish one of my novels, although I had to pay for the edition out of my own pocket. That was almost two years ago. I sent the manuscript to several publishers, but all of them rejected it. Someone advised me to look for a literary agent, and I found his agent on the Internet. I sent him a copy of my novel, and the rest you know. I remain silent because I am impressed by her story, so different from mine! I have betrayed those who loved me; she has been faithful to those who did not love her. Her story makes me feel even more guilty. But she has omitted something and I can no longer accept that I am not interested: -But I am missing in your story! -Yes, of course; you're missing! I met him during the presentation of his previous novel. I was sitting in the last row. I looked like a normal young woman then, and you approached me several times, but you must have been invisible, because you didn't so much as glance at me and I didn't dare to catch your eye. I have always been somewhat shy and introverted, but that day I was out of this world. When I saw you on the rostrum, with your shirt unbuttoned, with your mocking and provocative gesture, so sure of yourself, something stirred in my whole body, and I immediately understood that I had fallen in love with you, but with the man, I didn't know the writer yet -he remains silent for a few moments, as if reliving that moment in his imagination, because I feel as if his body was shaking; he smiles as if now he finds his sudden passion for me funny-. When I left his presentation, I don't know how long I walked around aimlessly, trying to hold back tears. I had fallen in love with the most admired man in the literary world. I still ache from the applause of his brilliant speech. When he finished and came down from what for me was already a throne, for you were already my king, all the young women in the room surrounded him because they wanted to touch their idol. They were all beautiful and wore brand name clothes. I was a provincial girl, ugly, shy and clumsy, and I wore old-fashioned clothes. That night I stayed up all night, crying non-stop. When a woman falls in love, the lover is part of her flesh and soul, and his absence hurts as if both were torn away. We don't think we can survive these terrible wounds," she pauses again, but now she seems to be reliving those bitter moments. Unexpectedly she takes one of my hands and caresses it. That comforts her and she continues her story. I spent some anguished days, but I finally resigned myself and tried to put the fire that burned me down, but I didn't stop loving him, only to numb his memory. But I resolved to one day be on the same level as him, so that he would notice me. I changed my wardrobe and frantically wrote one novel after another in which somehow you were always the protagonist - he exchanges a meaningful glance with me and continues - You can't imagine the joy that invaded me when I saw your photograph in the office of the agent who had agreed to represent me! -Yes, I can imagine! -I interrupt her. -And now you are here, in my own bed, and you hold me in your arms. Have I no reason to weep for happiness? 12. The presentation The account of her generous love for me, which I certainly do not deserve, changes my affection for this sensitive young woman, who has the evocative name of Alicia. I no longer find her ugly, nor clumsy; I see not her face but her soul, and I find her beautiful. I would like to let her know this, but I fear I may change my mind when my remorse for my unforgivable betrayal returns. Only if I rid myself of them could I even reciprocate her love for me. But I cannot forget that I must not delude myself into enjoying the pleasures of life, for before my feelings can be free to love whomever I wish, I will have died. Alicia does not deserve this punishment. It's time to go to the presentation venue. My agent has called me on my cell phone, he is worried about my state of mind, but I reassure him, I feel strong enough to face the presentation. Even the story of this young woman has given me new arguments to defend the literature that arises from the deepest feelings and condemn the banal and entertaining. As expected, the room is packed to capacity. Most of them remain standing because there are not enough chairs for everyone. No doubt they know the news of my diagnosis. My agent is waiting for me in an adjoining room to bring me up to date with the most prominent attendees. The editors of several literary magazines have come, and most of the journalists from the culture sections of the newspapers. They must be interested in the story of the writer who dies, not the one who writes. Alicia has accompanied me here, but she got confused with the audience and I lost sight of her. The moderator and other guests are already on the podium. When I appear in the room there is a telltale murmur. Several photographers take snapshots of the panel, but mostly they point their cameras at me. They must think that these will be the last pictures they will take of me. The moderator introduces me and gives a brief summary of the novel I am going to present. The time has come for my speech. I look for Alicia in the crowd, and discover her at one end of the room, leaning against a column. She has felt my gaze and smiles at me. She wants to encourage me; her smile makes it easier for me to begin my speech. -Good afternoon. First of all I want to thank all of you for attending the presentation of my latest novel. I feel guilty that I have this comfortable chair when most of you have to stand. Had I known so many of you were coming we would have held this presentation at the Olympic Stadium -you laugh at my joke, but I'm sure most of you didn't expect me to still have a sense of humor under the circumstances-. I assume you have all read the reviews of my new novel. Most are favorable, but not all - I forgot to send the check to two or three reviewers! I also assume you must already know the news of my diagnosis. Yes, I have only a few months to live, and it's no laughing matter, but my health won't improve if I take it seriously," I'm interrupted by a loud murmur, but I beg for silence. I learned the diagnosis yesterday, and because of the leak I haven't been able to extend my life insurance premium. I am sorry for my cat, who is the beneficiary of the insurance, because as you must know, I have no offspring. I'm very fond of my cat, because she's the only one I understand - I gave up understanding humans years ago! But I guess you haven't come here to hear about my good understanding with my cat, but about my latest novel. Surprising as it may surprise you, this novel and the previous ones I could not have written without my cat. She has taught me to accept who feeds me without losing my dignity. She has also taught me that there is always a time to play, and despite my advanced age I have never stopped playing! For me writing is a game, but a serious game. To play it is necessary to know only these three basic rules: to have a good technique, to have one's own style and a solid motivation. Whoever knows these three rules well has every chance of winning. Writers have a solid training, and we know how to distinguish a past perfect from a pluperfect, we do not commit spelling mistakes and we know where to put a comma or semicolon. After all, they are just rules to memorize, so most of us have a good technique. But when we talk about style not everyone understands what its meaning is and how it is valued, although critics insist on pigeonholing us with this or that current, because style has no rules, but depends on our sensitivity and the value we give to the words. Each word, in addition to a meaning, has a tone and must be joined to other words perfectly tuned, which is not common in today's literature, the meaning prevails and not the intonation. And if we talk about motivation, we usually associate it with remuneration, and not with a commitment to the values of our time, which must somehow be reflected in the arguments of what we write. Artists also pay rent; for the tax authorities we are just one more and in supermarkets they don't give us credit, if we don't pay we don't eat. That's why the writer must be paid. But this should not be the motivation. And that is the incurable disease of art, because what is the patrimony of the spirit becomes a market product; what should not have a price becomes an accounting value; what should entertain and enlighten, only serves to entertain. Finally, the spirit has nothing to exercise itself with and atrophies by inactivity and the result is that we lose the sensibility to distinguish the beautiful from the ugly; the good from the bad; the transcendent from the inconsequential. And that is the deplorable state in which literature finds itself today, practically on a global level, because insensitivity to art has also become globalized. All the responsibility for this situation falls on fifty percent of the readers and another fifty percent on the authors, because each reader has the author he deserves, and each writer has the readers he deserves. About this last novel, I will not reveal the plot, just advance that it is the drama of two writers, she is a poet and he is a narrator, who are united by literature, but separated by words. We understand the people we imagine, but not the real ones we love. Finally, I would like to tell you a moving story that illustrates better than any complicated argument what Literature is and what it is for. The story I wish to tell you is that of a young writer from the provinces, who considers herself ugly and clumsy, rejected by everyone, and who learned to love generously through the characters in her novels. This young woman does not write for fame and money, but to feel loved, even if her lovers are fictional. But her extraordinary humanity and generosity has been rewarded, and the beloved protagonist of her fiction has become a reality. However, despite her fleeting happiness, the story does not have a happy ending, because the real character will die a few months later, and this young writer from the provinces, who, as I have said, considers herself ugly and clumsy, will again resort to the suggestive power of literature to keep him in her memory and keep the flame of her love alive forever. -I try to see what Alice's reaction to my mention is, but she is no longer standing by the column. She has disappeared! Perhaps I have offended her, but I have to go on. And it is this extraordinary power of literature that I wanted to tell you about in this presentation. Power that only literature that springs from inspiration and shapes a creative imagination has. There can be nothing more obscene than a stultified, uninspired, soulless literature. Thousands of words put together without harmony or humanity, telling us banal, dehumanized stories, with no other purpose than to entertain our boredom and distract us from our worries. Death scares me, as it does any human being, but in return it has given me something I would not have had without its terrible threat: freedom! Now I can speak my mind without fear of the consequences, and I think that the novel I present to you here today was not written by me, but by market demand, like practically all other novels published today. Only that young, ugly and clumsy provincial writer, and perhaps thousands more as provincial, ugly and clumsy as her, to whom no one will pay attention, write their novels for themselves, as their hearts and minds dictate, because they simply need to. Literature, written in capital letters, is a necessity, not a pastime; it not only entertains, but teaches; it not only calms, but heals; it is not only read, but lived. If I were to be born again, I would like it to be in a world where one could survive without the laws of the market; and where we were all provincial, ugly and clumsy. I have nothing more to add, but I will gladly answer your questions, as long as they are not too personal. Several hands were raised asking for their turn to ask questions. I answer the one from a journalist: -I am sorry about your illness, but I would like to know how you plan to spend your last days. I answer without hesitation: -Meditating on death. The next question is from a woman who must be my age: -What is it that you have wished for but have not been able to achieve? -Understand the world we live in! The third question has caused me an inexplicable emotion. It is from young Naomi, with whom I have exchanged several messages. The question puzzles me, for which I do not have a ready answer. -Do you regret not having started a family, and perhaps having had one or more children, who would now take care of you? I sense that there is some hidden meaning to your question. What can I answer? It is too late for regrets. -Your question is too personal and I have already warned that I would not answer such questions. The young woman seems very upset, and does not want to give up. She insists. -Who or what inspired you to write this novel and what was your motivation? I have not meditated my answer, it has come straight from my subconscious, where it should have been for many years: -All writers have an emotional conflict between what we create and where we get our inspiration. We usually make our imagination make real what is not possible in real life. I have been inspired by a real person whom I don't understand. As for my motivation, it is precisely to try to understand her. The young woman seems satisfied with my answer and does not insist. They applaud my intervention, but only the youngest seem to have understood my message. Utopia is no more than twenty years old. The pain returns with severe intensity. I ask the moderator to close the presentation. The attendees seem to understand the reasons and the room is becoming empty. Alicia met with me. She had rushed out of the room so she wouldn't be seen crying. Perhaps I had overdone it and should have been less dramatic. My agent tells me that outside the room a crowd is waiting for us to sign copies. I can't refuse. Most of them show me their sadness for my illness with some words of comfort. I don't know how many books I have signed but I am exhausted. I beg Alice to let me lean on her shoulder and we return to the hall to collect our coats. I feel the pain blurring my vision and I am so weak that if I didn't lean on her I would have collapsed by now. In this deplorable state I am unable to recognize young Naomi, who remains in her seat, because she is waiting for me. My agent has spoken to her and conveys her desire to talk to me, but has not revealed the reason. But I am not in the mood to hold literary talks with my female admirers. I ask her to excuse herself, and to contact me by mail. My agent communicates my message to her, but the young woman insists on talking to me. It's not about literature, apparently it's personal. Alicia helps me into an armchair in the next room, and the pain seems to subside. I ask my agent to call the young woman - I hope it's not another platonic love! 13. Noemi For the first time my illness has prevented me from fulfilling my editorial commitments. It is evident that my health is getting worse with each passing day. It has been a blessing that I met Alicia at this crucial time. For the first time I am unable to fend for myself and I need help. I am beginning to feel the painful preambles of death. I am anxious about the interview with young Naomi. There is something familiar about her, as if I had known her in a previous life. But, on the other hand, I sense that she brings with her serious events that may alter what little life I have left. Alicia seems to share my concern. She may be a rival with an advantage, because Naomi is a very graceful young woman. She is of a medium build, her long hair, of an elegant brown color and her harmonious forms, make her a very attractive young woman. She enters the room accompanied by my agent. She seems uneasy or perhaps nervous. She contemplates me prostrate on the couch. She must understand the inappropriateness of this interview. As she approaches, I feel a deep pity in her eyes. She seems to feel my illness as if we already knew each other. I beg him to sit in the next armchair. -So, Naomi, what is this important thing you have to tell me? She makes a gesture to sit down, but again she remains upright, something is bothering her. She exchanges a glance with my agent and with Alicia, who remains next to me, leaning on one of the arms of the wide sofa: -Could we be alone for a few minutes," she asks me, visibly nervous, "what I have to tell you is very personal. My agent exchanges a questioning glance with me, and Alicia becomes uneasy, because she must believe that the young woman is definitely a feared rival. If I beg you to leave us alone, you'll think I don't trust you, but now I'm keenly interested in what this young woman wants to tell me. I beg you to leave us alone. Alicia can't help exchanging a sad and doubtful look with me, but she respects my wish. The two leave the room without reproach. Naomi follows them with her eyes and seems relieved when she closes the door behind her. For a few moments, during which she seems to gather her thoughts and calm down, she does not take her eyes off an indeterminate point on the floor. Then she looks up and, visibly excited, asks me: -Do you remember who wrote this verse? If your heart were foam, I would be ocean; If your soul were heaven, I would be cloud; If your gaze were rain, I would be a field; If your hands were water, I would be thirsty. It's as if a bolt of lightning crosses my mind. I have a powerful intuition, but I refuse to acknowledge it. How did that poem come to this young woman? I don't answer, but it is I who asks the next question, and I feel my breathing become labored and my old heart flutter: -Who wrote it? She looks at me and I feel a deep anxiety in her eyes. She is on the verge of tears. -My mother wrote it twenty years ago...! She breaks into silent tears and covers her face with her hands. She doesn't dare look at me. I am stunned, and I don't know how to react. I ask myself the question I anxiously await an answer to: Is this young woman my daughter? If so, how could all these years have passed without her mother telling me? Yes, it is possible; we made love a few weeks before my betrayal, and we took no precautions. But how should I behave towards her? I cannot feel sudden parental affection for someone I do not know, even if she is my own daughter. We will need some time to get to know each other and maintain a normal father-daughter relationship. On the one hand the news fills me with joy, but on the other hand it saddens me, because for twenty years I have ignored its existence and when I learn of it I have only a few months to live. I have managed to regain my composure, I have to act sensibly. I hope she will also regain her composure and clear up my many doubts. Where is her mother? Why has she kept my daughter away from me all these years? My so-called daughter has calmed down and stops crying. She turns to me with a pleading look on her face, because she expects me to somehow prove to her that I have adopted her. But I need some answers: -Dear Naomi, you must understand that this situation is very confusing. I can't behave like a father in a few moments. Calm down and tell me why you haven't contacted me before. Where is your mother? But let my agent and Alicia come, they are absolutely trustworthy and can be present. I must not show them mistrust. My supposed daughter nods slightly as she wipes her tears and tries to regain her composure. I call my agent and Alicia and update them on the new situation. They are both perplexed and don't know what to say. Alicia approaches Naomi and tries to comfort her by stroking her long silky hair. Naomi thanks her with a smile. She seems to be calm now. I hope she can clear all my doubts. 14. Naomi's story -I didn't know you were my father until just a month ago, when I needed a novel for a paper on current literature and I found one of your novels in the faculty library. When I saw your photograph I was struck by our physical resemblance, but I didn't pay any more attention to it, but when I read the description of the female character, I realized that you were describing my mother. I read all her novels and in all of them, with minor changes, she was still the same description of my mother. But I was missing one of her books: the first one, which won a well-known literary contest of that time, and I could have the definitive proof. But they had no copy in the library. The book was out of print and a bookseller informed me that you had not authorized its reprinting. So I went to all the used bookstores in town, with no success. When I had already lost all hope of finding that book, I received a call from a classmate of mine to give me the good news that she had a copy of the book I was looking for. When I read it, all my doubts were dispelled. Your novel was titled "Poetas sin cielo" (Poets Without Heaven), after a poem written by my mother, which is the plot of your novel. Certain that you were my father, I booked an invitation to the presentation of your new novel. But I didn't want you to know until I was sure what kind of person my father was, because I had formed a very negative idea of who had abandoned my mother. When I found out about her illness, I changed my attitude, but when I listened to her today I felt enormously proud to be her daughter, and I want to believe that she will have some powerful reason that could justify her abandoning her when she was pregnant with me. Unfortunately my mother doesn't have the answer. You don't know this, but so great was the trauma of the separation that she suffered a bout of severe amnesia, from which she has not yet recovered. She still has no memory of her relationship with you. I grew up with my grandparents in a small northern town, but they were not aware of their daughter's relationship with you either. My mother was a free and independent woman, always doing what she wanted, until she lost her memory. My grandparents took her in and she still lives there, but now she is alone, because both my grandparents have died and I have enrolled in the university in this city, the same one where you and my mother met, twenty years ago! It is true that reality surpasses fiction! I am desolate, my soul hurts me more than my body, but for this evil they don't sell painkillers in pharmacies, they can only be found in hell. I do not deserve the affection of this ignored daughter; I do not deserve the affection of anyone and I doubt very much that I can avoid my damnation. I almost wish it as a deserved punishment! 15. Repentance There is a sepulchral silence. I notice in the expressions of my agent and Alicia a veiled reproach. Naomi looks exhausted, indecisive, waiting for my reaction. Now I should give her a justification for my behavior, but I have none and she must know it. I do not expect her forgiveness, but at least she will not live deceived. She must know who her father is, and if in spite of everything she believes she deserves his affection and understanding. -No, dear Naomi, I have no justification, your father is a scoundrel! -Alicia wants to protest, she can't understand how I could have behaved that way, but I beg you to let me finish, I need to confess my guilt. Naomi cannot blame her mother; I am the only one to blame. When we are young and ambitious, everything seems valid and we believe that wounds heal easily. I knew your mother would suffer for my betrayal, but I assumed she would soon get over it. Perhaps she would find another young man and soon forget about me. I could never imagine that her love for me would be so deep, and my betrayal so painful. I also didn't know she was pregnant, because after I left her I didn't have enough courage to take an interest in her, and I never saw her again. I know that Naomi must be disappointed with my statement of guilt. I can see the dismay and confusion in her expression. It is unfortunate, but I still believe that youth heals wounds quickly. Naomi must also soon heal this wound. In my desperation I can only think of a remote justification: -Literature brought us together and literature itself drove us apart. I believed that my literary career was above feelings; as if I had been born to fulfill a mission, and I could not put anything, including people and their feelings, before this blind ambition. My only love was literature, there was no room for anyone or anything else! When I received your first message I understood my mistake, and why my novels lacked motivation and humanity, because there can be no humanity in a novel if it is not inspired by love for people, from which the characters arise. Alicia has proved my mistake: she knows what literature is and what it is for. She has not had the misfortune of finding a literary agent with the ability to promote an author's works; someone who knows the tastes of ordinary readers and knows what they like to read. An agent who uses your talent for her commercial purposes. Who makes you the idol of ordinary people and the monster of yourself. My agent has reacted. He seems to wonder if he's not doing the same thing to me. I don't want him to feel guilty too. -When you agreed to represent me, I had already adopted the bad habit and all my novels suffered from the same lack of motivation, but they were guaranteed success. I only began to worry after this last novel, it was the result of all these years of denying myself; the writer who wrote "Poetas sin cielo", the only novel fruit of my love for a person, and not of marketing and the market. Noemi reminded me when it was too late to redeem my sin: I will never write again because I do not deserve to be loved and I cannot love anyone! Alicia does not admit my resignation. She protests and wants to give her opinion: -I don't agree; your father is not totally guilty! Whoever has the courage to acknowledge his guilt deserves forgiveness; the holiest were the most sinful. It is not the saint who needs compassion, but the sinner! Naomi, you have to forgive him, not because he is your father and even if in the past he has behaved like a scoundrel, but a repentant human being who recognizes his faults, deserves your compassion and your forgiveness. Forgiveness is what makes us human beings; resentment turns us into soulless beasts, only with memory. My daughter is on the verge of crying again. She is under great emotional pressure and looks so vulnerable! She looks at me and I can see in her eyes her desire to forgive me. Alicia takes one of her hands and places it on mine. Her hand is burning and trembling. It has been the prodigy of a true writer who has performed the miracle of forgiveness. Naomi hugs me and cries silently. I think I hear a whisper: -Dad, I love you! I feel like crying too, but now I have a daughter who needs a father who is strong! 16. Reconciliation It's been two days since the eventful launch of my latest novel. It's not long to assume that I am now the father of a lovely young woman. I have been taught a hard lesson, but it is only the beginning of my redemption. I have lived twenty years of loneliness and isolation and now it is hard for me to assume that I have to spend some of my time thinking about others. I don't know what the responsibilities of a parent are. Naomi is as independent as her mother and doesn't need anyone to tell her what to do or how to do it, and it doesn't create big responsibilities for me. She will continue to live in the apartment she shares with two college roommates, but we will do our best to have dinner together two or three times a week at my apartment. Alicia has offered to be our cook, and she will delight us with her delicious local stews. Naomi confesses that she is not very skilled in the kitchen, she is a young woman devoted to her career. I think she has inherited my passion for literature and her mother's sensitivity for poetry. I can't say whether or not he has talent, he hasn't had the time or opportunity to test himself yet. He hasn't written anything important. But I have always believed that talent is not inherited, but born with it. It is not in the genes; it is in the mind and in the soul and we must acquire it at the very moment of our gestation. It may come to us from the cosmos or from someone who died at that very moment. I believe in transmigration, because the spirit, like energy, is not destroyed, it is transformed. From the beginning of time there is a universal spirit, which believers call God, from which all animate beings come. The obvious proof of transmigration is that in my family there are no artists or writers, only normal people, concerned about normal things. There may have been some among my remote ancestors, but I do not know it. My illness continues its diabolical course and does not leave me much free time without pain. I often have to go to the hospital for painful treatment. In exchange for putting up with all this discomfort, I am assured that I will be able to prolong the time I have left to live, which I need to put my conscience in order. As expected, my latest novel has tripled the sales of the previous ones. Death is an extraordinary attraction. My publisher cannot hide his satisfaction, even if he is sympathetic. The media hound me and I have had to change my phone number. The messages of condolence are overwhelming, I find it impossible to read them all. But fortunately they are still unaware of my unexpected paternity, they must believe that the young woman who accompanies me is my latest conquest. As for Alicia, I cannot deny that I feel a deep affection for her, but it cannot be called love, because in these critical moments I do not know the meaning of this beautiful word. She seems resigned and I believe that, in spite of everything, she is happy just to be by my side and to be of help to me. Yes, it must be her fate that she is not reciprocated. She has been unlucky in her choice of lovers. She and Naomi seem to understand each other well, and share the same concerns. I think they have become good friends. But this fleeting happiness has a dark shadow: her mother! I have talked to Naomi about her, it is not an easy subject. Naomi thinks my presence might help her regain her memory. But I wonder if it might not be better for her to keep her amnesia. It must not be pleasant for her to remember my betrayal. If she regains her memory she may be able to forgive me, but it may also increase her resentment towards me. Because of me she has wasted twenty precious years of her existence, there is no penance great enough to compensate for her suffering. I know it would make Naomi enormously happy to see us together again. As if time had not passed, and to reconstruct the past at the moment when we were happiest. When she wrote that short and passionate poem to tell me, with four rhymes, how much she loved me, and which has marked our lives. Today we will have dinner at my apartment. My two wives will be arriving any minute and I have to tidy up a bit. I don't feel very well, despite the painkillers that wreak havoc on my stomach, a constant pain persists that manages to make me lose my temper and sour my good nature. It is amazing and sadly paradoxical that during the last twenty years in which I have enjoyed excellent health I don't think I have had even five minutes of happiness, and when my health has broken down I am not able to manage so many moments of happiness, I have met an extraordinary woman and I have recovered an ignored daughter! Living is a game that consists in doing the opposite of what we consider reasonable. The first to arrive was Alicia. She has come a little early so that when Noemi arrives, dinner will be ready. She is interested in my health. She suggests that given the state I am in I should have someone to take care of me 24 hours a day and she is probably right, but I insist that the time has not yet come. -And when will that time come, when he is dead? It was a spontaneous reaction, but she regrets having told me. She is deeply sorry. -Forgive me; I didn't mean to...! -There's nothing to forgive," I interrupt her, "you're right and I know you'd be happy to do it yourself, but I can't accept your help. I have to finish paying my debts first. Naomi's mother needs more help than I do, and she believes that my presence can help her recover her memory. But I don't know how she would react if she remembers our relationship. Alicia has understood what I dare not say. Now her rival is Naomi's mother, because if she agreed to forgive me she would be the one to take care of me until the day I die. -I understand, once again my sad destiny is fulfilled: I will never be reciprocated by the people I love. All my efforts to live this moment have been of no use to me. I am always the last in line, and when I arrive I have finished what they were giving away. Alicia has returned to delight me with her casseroles, but Naomi does not seem to have enjoyed her dinner. She has remained absent and with her thoughts far away from here. Before coming she spoke to her mother on the phone and believes she is deeply depressed and disoriented. -He's afraid to forget about me too," she says in anguish, "He sent me a verse that reflects his confusion and pitiful state of mind. We have to make a decision tonight. Today I dreamed that I dreamed, that you were not who you were, that time had no time, and that death had died. I can't help but compare this verse with the one from twenty years ago. Despite all those forgotten years, she is still a great poet. 17. Amnesia I beg Naomi to tell me everything she remembers about her mother after her bout of amnesia. -What I know of the early years, of which I have only a blurry picture, was told to me by my grandparents. Naomi doesn't seem to be very enthusiastic about my suggestion. They must be sad memories. Memories of a child raised by two old men and a mother with no past, unable to tell her daughter how it came about, by whom and where. Without her being able to even mention the name of her possible father. Not only has she not had an unknown father, but a forgotten one. But I beg you to try to overcome your sadness and go on. Before we meet I need to know how all these years of oblivion have passed. -We don't know anything about how the separation happened," she continued, overcoming the sadness of reliving her childhood, "but it must have been very painful because she didn't remember anything about what happened and she didn't even remember who her parents were or where she lived. A policewoman found her dozing in a park and fortunately they were able to identify her thanks to a prescription for a medicine against morning sickness, because she had no official identity document. But they couldn't leave her alone in that state, so they found my grandparents, who took her in. And that's all we know about the first days of her amnesia. Naomi has exchanged several uneasy glances with me. Possibly she is still wondering if I deserve her forgiveness after all. I remain pathetically silent, not daring to say anything in my defense. I only know the story from one Sunday when we had agreed to attend a screening of an Oscar Wilde film, but I never showed up... while she waited uselessly at the cinema doors, I was in my seductive agent's bed! Will I have the courage to confess it? If I don't confess it my conscience will never be clear! I'll wait to know the whole story. I beg you to tell me what happened during the following years. My poor daughter is recalling a part of her life that she may also wish to forget, but she gets over it and goes on: -My mother moved to live in the small northern town of her parents, my maternal grandparents, and all efforts to get her memory back were futile. She was apparently able to lead a normal life, but she had to learn to recognize her own name, her parents' names, and all the other circumstances following her amnesia. When I was born I was already fully aware of everything, except her stay in this town and her relations with you," she addresses me with the same expression of veiled reproach. My grandfather was a civil servant at the City Hall and got a small pension for my mother, because she had frequent memory lapses and was unable to do any work. My grandfather died when I was ten years old, his health began to deteriorate from the day he learned of my mother's amnesia, and my grandmother died a few months before I enrolled in college. The poor thing was very unhappy about all these events, but she never reproached my mother. We had a maid for several years before I was born, the same age as my mother, who is with her at the moment. I could not give up the University, because I got a scholarship, with which I am surviving at the moment. She never stopped writing poems, she must have written enough to fill a dozen volumes, but she has refused to publish them. I always suspected that she dedicated them to you, but it must have been only a faint intuition, which did not access her conscience. Perhaps that is why she lived tormented by the inability to conceive the image of one who had only an intuition. That is all I can tell you about my mother. Alicia has made us coffee, which she serves us while we keep a thoughtful silence. I try to imagine her mother twenty years later, the woman I will soon have to meet again and account for my unforgivable behavior. I have the impression that she will horrify me, because I think I see on her aged face the indelible mark of suffering, for which I am guilty. Alicia breaks this tense silence: -Perhaps if she receives a strong stimulus to remember the person she seems to still love, she will recover her memory. Alicia has put her finger on the sore spot. It is not enough for her to be reunited with me, but with her lover, as if my betrayal had never happened. Alicia seems deeply affected, I think she regrets her suggestion. But my redemption requires some sacrifice, and Alicia will understand and eventually accept it. Twenty years later I have to try again to seduce the same woman I betrayed. Fate wants to put me to the test and I cannot let it down. 18. Preamble Is it possible to heal a wounded heart? Can time erase forgotten wounds? Can an old man with an exhausted heart love? Can a sick man heal another sick man? I ask myself these anguished questions to still feel like a human being, but I know I don't have the answer.Naomi and Alicia left a little over an hour ago, and they have left an immense void. I have never felt so essentially alone. It is an abysmal loneliness, bottomless, without the slightest glimmer of light. My soul has been left in utter darkness. The body has abandoned it; joy has migrated to other, warmer and more welcoming lands. Pleasure has been transformed into intense pain and happiness, which until only an hour ago was brimming over all its edges, has gone with them, I am unable to keep it with me for long. One more endless night I strive uselessly to be absent from myself. I search with real desperation for a state of mind close to nothingness, no uncontrolled thoughts, no movements of any kind. I try to exercise myself to prepare for my death without last minute shocks, but it is totally useless. The mind does not sleep, it only disconnects temporarily from consciousness. It stops thinking about what it sees to think about what it imagines. It does not tire, it does not exhaust itself, it does not give up, because it has no flesh that can make it sick, nor a skeleton to sustain it; it has no eyes, no mouth, no ears, it does not eat, drink, see or hear, it only thinks without rest because it is eternal and already existed before it was my mind. Naomi believes that, despite the visible traces of my illness, I am still an attractive man and that I can seduce her mother again. Alicia has not given me her opinion, which I already know. She is an unfortunate woman, but at some time and somewhere she will have her reward. But time is pressing, the illness is getting worse and my spirits are failing. I am not sure I can see this plan through to the end. We have agreed that Naomi will invite her mother to spend a few days with her in the city. Our meeting will take place during a welcome dinner at Naomi's apartment. Naomi just called me, her mother has accepted the invitation and will come this weekend and Saturday will be the big day of the test. I have to go back twenty years and try to understand the reasons for my betrayal. It is not enough to blame ambition, vanity or selfishness. There has to be a reasonable explanation to justify that behavior, because we humans always have a good reason to justify our behavior. I have thought it on countless occasions that to discover means to destroy what was hidden. The sun shines at the cost of destroying its hydrogen reserves. Imagination creates at the cost of destroying what has not yet been imagined. In the end there will be nothing left to imagine because we will have destroyed the reserves of images, death. It was inevitable to destroy the causes that had provoked my creativity, and that cause was the woman who had inspired them. If I wanted to continue creating I had to look for new sources for my inspiration, to destroy them again, and so on until death. I am not entirely to blame. We should never have invented literature because it feeds on the souls of humans. Every novel, every story, every tale or every poem has devoured its insatiable ration of humanity. I am no exception, I have my victims too, but otherwise there would be no literature or art or any other expression of the human soul that needs to feed on the human soul. No one will understand these reasons, only our creator knows our weaknesses, our spiritual cannibalism, our revenge for being human. I cannot argue these reasons for my exculpation, only those who are victims of inspiration understand them, through which this evil is contagious. Ordinary people are immunized against this disease of the spirit. Now there is no longer the slightest doubt in my mind that this was the cause of my bodily illness. My harmful spirit has entered my body and will not cease until it dies. There are no heavens reserved for writers, but there are no hells either, there are only purgatories: near heaven, near hell. If I had the strength and the necessary time to live, I would write a novel with this title, which would be the great novel of my life, but I might write it after I am dead, and it might be the great novel of my death. But why write; why stir the still waters of unconsciousness; why bring out the faults and virtues, the passions and disenchantments or the loyalties or betrayals of human beings? Why tell so many lies; so many stories that have never happened and never will happen? Why this sick eagerness to perpetuate our memory after we have lost our memory? No, even if I had a hundred more years to live, I would never write another novel. Someone has to take the first step to rid humanity of this scourge. I have the impression that I am delirious and think things that make no sense. There is no justification for someone who causes harm to a human being without a reason that is also human. A doctor can cause you some harm to heal a wound, but a writer cannot claim his sources of inspiration to cause harm. If I were to put on a scale the pleasure my novels may have caused and the harm caused by writing them, on which side would the scale tip? And who can have the answer? I have no way out. I have no judge but my own conscience, and it keeps shouting at me that I am guilty. 19. The mother Today has dawned an unpleasant day that will influence my mood. Today is also the day Naomi's mother will arrive in town; the person on whom my salvation depends. I am not in the right frame of mind for the circumstances. I should get over myself and realize that I have returned to my college years; years when life was a blank sheet of paper, waiting to be written on both sides; years when the most important thing was to be young, not only to enjoy life but to live away from death; years when everything was allowed except nostalgia; when love was a working tool, when the wisdom of experience was considered an old mania and was worthless compared to the vitality of facts. Those years in which the people around you were samples for your laboratory or the lead of your flask, from which you hoped to obtain gold, following the magic formula invented by your excluding imagination. Years, in short, that I have always wished to forget and that now I have to recall. My memory has to erase without a trace what happened after I won the untimely literary prize, as if it had never happened. As if we had followed together our longed-for path to glory, and once we had achieved it, since it seemed inevitable given our genius, we would live six months a year in Pigalle, in Montmartre or in Saint-German-des-Prés, where I would write my novels in the heat of her inspiration, and she her passionate verses inspired by her love for me. As if every spring we would wake up in our little house in Majorca, next to the highest cliff of the coast, from where our view would be lost in a horizon as infinite as our desires to live; as beautiful as our soul mates, as mysterious as our intuition, or as cozy as our bed where we make love. When I was twenty years old I could not imagine myself at sixty, now that I am about to turn sixty I cannot imagine myself at twenty. Nevertheless, it had to happen, because time is the greatest swindle of human understanding, since it is an eternal instant, this instant in which I live, or better I will say, I live badly today, is the same in which I lived twenty years ago, what has changed is the perspective and the scenario, but the instant is the same! Noemí called me to tell me that she had picked up her mother at the train station, and that she found her very unwell and dazed. They are already in her apartment, and she has been able to rest and recover a little. She tells me that, if she feels better, they will go to the Opera, which is her mother's passion. They will perform "Madame Butterfly", which seems very appropriate for the circumstances. His mother does not remember seeing this opera before, but she had seen it twice because she still kept the tickets as a souvenir. She thinks it may help our plan. She has told him of her desire to have him accompany her to the college on Monday, the same one she attended, but insists that she does not remember ever attending a college in that city. It is evident that she remains obstinate in not allowing the images and feelings that she keeps in her subconscious to enter her consciousness. I also got a call from Alicia. She is concerned about my worsening health. She wants to know if I need help. I thank her, but I insist on fending for myself until I see how the test turns out. Alicia is confused and saddened, because she can't wish it to be a failure, but she can't wish it to be a success either. She would have been happy just to have the exclusivity of my care until the day I die. But Naomi's mother takes precedence. If only we were good friends, both women could watch over my agony, but she has committed the weakness of falling in love with me, and love is selfish and rigorously incomparable. She seems resigned but not defeated. I am the great love of her life and she is not willing to withdraw and give up. She will lurk around waiting for an opportunity. I have created many female characters, and I boasted of cooking them even better than they know themselves, but Alicia has shown me how laughable my smugness is: I still have many nooks and crannies of the female soul to discover. Perhaps my premature death will help me to discover them. What I have not been able to understand is how those who give life see death. Possibly they feel the same affection for both. Many women suffer more depression immediately after bringing a new life into the world than at the sight of a dying person. Life hurts them as much as death. 20. A bad day The weather continues to be unpleasant. On the glass of my large window, the drops of water from a weak but persistent rain drip down. The rain does not depress me, on the contrary, it enlivens me, the water brings life, it brightens everything it covers. The plants are invigorated and show all their splendor and beauty. But what pleases nature displeases humans. I see from my window disgruntled people. They resent everything they cannot dominate and control, and nature does not submit easily. That is why we are putting all our efforts into destroying it. We may succeed in destroying the rain as well. I lie in bed until almost noon because I don't know what I can do to justify being up. I have nothing to write, no event to attend, no visit to receive, nothing; but I have found an occupation: rereading my first novel, and perhaps I should also say that it is the only one I have written, because I think it meets the three basic conditions for it to be considered a novel: it has a motivation: a passionate plea in defense of poetry and poets. This argument is also the fruit of his imagination and not of mine. The novels that followed lacked motivation, they only had technique and style, that is why they were not of this world, but of a parallel and dehumanized world. Noemi is right. "It's the middle of the night. The city lights litter the sky and I can't see the stars. I have to imagine them. I also have to imagine the people on this deserted street. And the rose bushes, orchids and non-existent geraniums on the balconies of their uninhabited houses. I have to imagine the children playing in a ghost school, and the sparrows nesting in absent trees. This is my street, where I don't live, where I don't inhabit, where I only imagine that I live and inhabit." This is how it should be. Our life must pass in one of these deserted streets, where we do not live but imagine that we live, because when you least expect it your time runs out, and it seems to you that in reality you have not lived but have dreamed. On rereading this first novel I feel in all its crudeness the falseness in which I have lived all these years, and I wonder what kind of writer I would be today if I had remained true to myself. It would not have been strange if I had won the Nobel Prize! Now I have to be satisfied with the market prize, and with the thousands of followers of the consumption of entertaining literature with an expiration date. They have nothing to transmit about our way of understanding life and its values to future generations. I am not a redeemer, and I am overwhelmed by praise, but when an artist expresses himself in any discipline, he is sending a message in a bottle that will inevitably fall into the hands of people of other times, in other latitudes of the immense ocean of time; who will have other values, and who, thanks to those messages, will be able to place them in the general trunk of history. Given the brevity of our existence, the only solid thing we humans have to save us from the flood of the inevitable changes that sweep everything away is History. Today I have one of those days when I feel too insignificant to have great ambitions, because this great humanity that populates our planet, of which I am a tiny part, is not even a grain of sand in the desert compared to the immensity of the universe we inhabit. Powerful men believe themselves to be great because they reign over their tiny domains, while those who recognize that they are infinitely small inhabit the great domain of the immensity of the universe. Humans have an endless number of alternatives to choose the way we wish to consume our valuable time, but there is only one that corresponds to our personality. The reason for our existence is none other than to find it and be faithful to it until death. Only in this way each individual will be a person, and each person will be a world, and all the worlds together will form a universe, and many universes gathered into one will be the only idea we can have of something to call "God", so that only people and their worlds are in direct contact with God. I have lived in permanent contact with hell, because I renounced my personal world, so I have no access to heaven. I may still have time left to repair my great mistake, but I would have to write one last novel: the continuation of the first one, which would pave the way to my salvation, but for that I need not only time, but inspiration; I would not only have to meet again with the writer, but also with his lover. Could it happen tomorrow? I should think about tomorrow's dinner and my salvation, and I think I have an idea that would do both: write my last novel with the story of our relationship. To relive her memory day by day, kiss by kiss, caress by caress, with every detail, nuance, feeling, illusion, hope and project for the future. Yes, she would have the story that her conscience refuses to remember. It would undoubtedly be the great novel of my life, the one that would give me a good death. But will I have enough time left, and will I be able to face the challenge with the foresight and the right frame of mind to bring it up to the level of my first novel? Naomi sent me a message to let me know that her mother has recovered and is in good spirits. In the afternoon they will go to the Opera, as planned, and when they leave they will have dinner in a small Italian restaurant nearby. She says she misses me and it would have been a complete joy if the three of us could be together and united as a family. Poor Naomi! Even if your wishes were fulfilled, your happiness will be short-lived. It is better that you get used to my absence, even if you continue to miss me in your happy moments, maybe I will accompany you, even if you cannot see me. Tomorrow I will tell you my idea. 21. Waiting He has also invited Alicia to his mother's welcome home dinner, because he wants it to feel like a reunion of old friends, where his mother is not the focus of most of the attention. He wants to test whether she will recognize me. I haven't communicated my new idea to her yet, because I'm not sure she's in the condition and mood to do it. I call Alicia to tell her about Noemí's invitation. She accepts. -If it's okay with you, I can stop by your place now and prepare something to eat," he suggests, "then we can go to your daughter's apartment together. I notice from the tone of his voice that he has received the news with great joy. Now the scales of fate are tipped in her favor and against me, but I accept her offer. This woman is becoming a necessity, she is always where I need her. She is not an old dream of the past but a reality of the present, no history, no regrets, no need to recover the memory of what has not happened. She brings peace to my spirit and manages to make me forget my past, to recover the present, which I need so much in these difficult times. Alicia is already in my apartment and once again I hear the domestic sound and the pleasant memories of the hustle and bustle in the kitchen. This woman is leaving everywhere she goes the halo of the everyday, the simple, but that is what is truly endearing. She is not only preparing a delicious meal, but the homey atmosphere that is not only a warm feeling, but a necessity of any human being. -What will you do if you don't recognize him? He asks me with a nonchalant air, as if he is not affected by my answer, while he serves me what he has cooked. I ask her once again not to address me as you, because I am no longer the hero of her dreams, but the helpless and tortured man who needs her help. But Alicia knows that calling me "you" means taking a giant step in our brief relationship, and she does not want to change the deal until she is sure that she has conquered my soul and my will. In the meantime, she will continue with the same distant and respectful treatment. I need to rest and get some sleep so I can be presentable for dinner with my daughter, and Alicia makes up my bed, just as she did the first time in her tiny studio. As she fluffs the pillows she gives me several looks that I can easily interpret. She seems to want to tell me that this time I won't be woken up by her crying. She helps me to lie down and, just like the first time, goes back to the kitchen, and I hear again that very domestic and soothing sound of the bustle of the kitchen, with which I fall asleep. Alicia has veiled my dream by reading the manuscript of my first novel, which had been left on the coffee table in the living room. When I awoke, she read aloud one of the most tragic passages of the novel, moments before the suicide of the protagonist. "I was not born to live. I did not come into this world to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh. I am not alive to celebrate the wonders of nature. I do not feel part of life. No, I came into the world to sing it, to recite it, to turn it into a long poem, to dissolve it into beautiful words. So that it may be said of me when I die that I was just poetry, with nothing to stop me, not my body, not my mind; just poetry, nothing but poetry." -Who could have inspired these dramatic lines? -he asks me with a gesture of desolation or perhaps horror, "her? My mind is not yet clear enough to respond and I just smile. She understands, and continues reading, but silently. I see from her astonished expression that she is shocked by what she is reading, no wonder, they are the passages prior to the suicide of the poetess protagonist. She closes the book and leans back on the sofa. He doesn't wait for my answer because he already knows it. He exchanges a sad glance with me. I think he wants to give me his opinion: -You know, I think the suicide of your poetess protagonist is justified," she pauses and it seems as if what she says next is for herself. We are all born with a stigma engraved on our foreheads, which tells us who we are and what we have come to this world for; and what we can aspire to and what we are strictly forbidden. Your protagonist was born with the stigma of poetry in a world without poetry, he had no choice but to immolate himself with it -a new silence that he breaks with a heartfelt sigh, and continues-. I was also born with a stigma: that of ugliness. No doubt an accident of nature, because it is nothing like my soul. They must have been born each on their own, without agreeing. My soul fills me with good and noble feelings, while my face prevents me from taking advantage of them and showing them to others. Only when I write I am free to generously give those feelings to my characters, because they do not find me ugly and do not see my stigma. I have no doubt that she knows what she is talking about. I myself rejected her in the first moments because of her unattractive face. I wonder why we humans have created canons of beauty that ostracize and ostracize people like Alicia, or women and men in the prime of their lives, just because their backs are hunched, their hands go astray, and wrinkles appear on their foreheads, which are the price paid for their wise maturity, serenity, gentleness, balance and intelligence! No doubt we deserve every one of the torments to which this behavior leads. It is useless to try to console her by praising the beauty of her soul, because the soul cannot be seen, the face can. Unfortunately for people with these stigmas, rejection ends up infecting their souls with the same stigma. Alice is a glorious exception, but no doubt she owes it to literature. It seems that we are both immersed in our respective thoughts, and we remain in an eloquent silence. It is Alicia who breaks it with a question that reminds me of the idea of writing a new book: -We still have three hours left to meet your daughter, why don't you tell me about your affair with her mother? I think the idea is interesting, it can serve as an exercise for that last novel that's been on my mind. I agree and Alicia prepares some coffee, no doubt a long and interesting confession awaits! 22. Confession Alicia looks like a little girl whose grandmother is about to tell her a story of enchanted princes and princesses. She has taken off her shoes (since she has known me she has toned down her clothes, and above all she no longer wears those horrible military boots), she settles down in the armchair, gathering her legs also in the armchair, and waits with childish anxiety for my story. I don't know how to explain it, but she seems totally transfigured. I am unable to recognize the clumsy and ugly young woman, as she defines herself, and I see a young woman with a radiant expression, an intelligent gaze, at the same time curious as that of a cat, and a body brimming with vitality. Nature has been bad to her face, but generous to her body. I start by telling you the story of the coffee shop where we met. -After that funny event we each went to our corresponding classes. We were at the same university and had the same studies, but I was one class ahead of him, so our classes did not coincide. We didn't exchange anything to get back in touch. She seemed to distrust everyone, although I didn't know why at the time. She had been sexually assaulted several times by some of her classmates. That day neither of us could concentrate in class, something magical had happened. I think I fell in love with her when I offered to hold her books for her. She did not look at me with distrust, but as soon as she saw me, I noticed as if I was an old lover, whom she had not seen for a long time and was happy to see me again, but after that moment of pleasant surprise, her distrust returned, and she refused my help. If I had not suffered that terrible accident, everything would have ended like that, but destiny had foreseen it all. -That weekend our faculty had organized a meeting of young poets. I wouldn't have hesitated to attend if it had been for narrative, but for poetry I wasn't enthusiastic about the idea. But that Saturday I was deeply bored. It was the end of the month and my allowance was practically exhausted. The meeting was free, so it seemed like a good way to kill time. I arrived a little late, just at the time of the intervention of the young woman I met in the cafeteria. We passed each other in the center aisle of the hall, as I was entering and she was heading to the stage, and I think both her and my hearts skipped a beat, and we greeted each other with a telltale smile. When I saw her on the stage, completely in the dark, except for her, illuminated with a beam of light, she looked to me like an angel who had descended from heaven to announce the good news of her poetry. This was the verse she wrote after our first meeting: We barely looked at each other and we were already kissing. We barely knew each other and we already loved each other, We barely spoke to each other and we already understood each other. We were barely separated and we were already longing for each other. Alicia seems overwhelmed by the passion in these four lines. She is not passionate, she is sensitive, because passion blinds the understanding and Alicia is a thoughtful and reasonable person. She remains silent so as not to distract me from my confession. -At the end of the event I hurried to congratulate her on the reading of her poems, which was very well received by the audience, mostly fellow faculty members. As she left the hall I found her surrounded by her friends and admirers, who besieged her with questions and congratulations. I had barely exchanged a few glances and smiles and already I thought I had the right to have her all to myself. I was so upset that I did not feel like saying goodbye to her, and I grumpily left the auditorium. Once again it seemed as if fate was against us. But as soon as I was out of the auditorium I realized that I had acted in anger and without justification, and I returned hastily, just as she was leaving accompanied by one of her friends. When she saw me, I could again see her expression of joy reflected on her face, and this time she did not hesitate to call my attention. -Why did you leave without saying goodbye? Didn't you like my poems? I'd like to know your opinion! The friend understood the situation and excused herself, leaving us alone. -I loved them! I did not dare confess to him that I had been jealous. I told him that I also wrote, but narrative, I was not born with the grace of poetry, but with the necessary imagination to write novels. We walked for a while, talking about our works, the importance of poetry, the mediocrity of the novels that were published, the excessive commercialization of art. We seemed to have found the ideal interlocutor to unburden ourselves of our artistic concerns. We generally agreed on everything. We agreed to meet the next day in the park. I would show her my stories and she would show me her latest poems. That night I practically stayed up all night, because I wasn't satisfied with any of the stories I had written and I didn't want to disappoint my new friend. I was a complete unknown at the time, while she was well known among the students of the faculty and other local poetry circles. All the reviews were favorable and predicted a brilliant literary career for her. Undoubtedly her beneficial friendship influenced my inspiration, and that night I wrote my first truly literary work, the previous ones were simple stories, almost all autobiographical, lacking the main thing: a motivation. When I met her she was 18 years old. Like you, she had come from the provinces, with a fixed idea, which she carried more in her heart than in her mind: to triumph as a poetess! She didn't need praise, she considered herself great, and she wasn't wrong. All of us who knew her had formed the same opinion. To me her genius was her best attraction. I was more attracted to her as a poet than as a woman, because neither of us lived in this world, but in those two sister worlds: she in that of poetry and I in that of the novel. And that was the cause of our separation! We lived with too much intensity the unreal and we forgot the real. We met in the park on a day that could have been painted by Botticelli or Velazquez. It was early spring, when the tone of the new leaves is intense green. The sky is an inimitable blue, decorated with white clouds of whimsical and imaginative shapes. It smells of the sap of the rejuvenated stems and the perfumed resins given off by the linden trees. New birds flutter in their nests, impatient to fly and get to know what will be their world. In this magical atmosphere and in a secluded and lonely corner of the park, I read her my first story written thanks to her and for her. At that very moment our separation began to take shape. Our relationship became more intimate every day, but always sustained by our common passion for literature. Our euphoria grew at the same pace and intensity as the quality of her poetry or of my stories and tales, because at that time I still felt incapable of tackling the novel. We never seriously thought of our relationship as a simple couple in love, but in love with the poetess and the writer. At no time did it cross our minds to live together, because that would mean depriving us of the solitude necessary to create; we had enough with our daily encounters, during which we would load each other with brilliant phrases, passionate poems, fantastic stories and a moderate dose of sensuality. We didn't make love until after the six months that our relationship lasted, and it was in that one relationship that Noemí was born! Alicia seems to be meditating on everything I have told her so far, because her gaze is lost in some point of the street that can be seen through my windows. She has reacted and looks at me with a certain air of reproach. -So, he didn't love that woman, he was just using her. -Yes, you can put it that way. -And she, do you think she also used him? -No, she didn't use me; she didn't need encouragement, I told you she was fully confident of her talent; it was me who needed it to discover mine. A month after our meeting, when I had already written a dozen stories and tales that she thought were great, she suggested I write a novel. I took her advice and tried to find a plot that would motivate me. They all revolved, in one way or another, around her and our strange relationships. I put my ideas to her, but she didn't find them original enough. It was then that she read me her poem about the suicide of a poetess, and suggested that this could be a good argument, in which she could collaborate with her poetry. I was delighted to accept her proposal and began to work on the plot. During the time it took me to write it, only two months, our meetings focused on the progress of my novel. She checked every chapter, every paragraph and every word I wrote daily, and corrected my many flaws and typos, until she felt that the syntax, spelling, rhythm and style were perfect. It seemed as if she was writing it herself. When my novel was practically finished, she suggested that I submit it to a popular literary contest for new authors. I couldn't refuse, because it wasn't just my novel, it was our novel. Alicia interrupts me. -Now I understand why he suffered that terrible attack of amnesia. His betrayal was double, because he betrayed the lover and the writer! -No doubt it was a double betrayal, but then I didn't take it into consideration! Not only did she collaborate in its writing, but she took the trouble to type up the original and send it herself to the contest. -Why do you think she would do that? Was she really so in love with you that she sacrificed herself to help you in your career? -Although it pains me to admit it, it must have been. The days leading up to the contest judging were really nerve-wracking for me, but not for her. She knew perfectly well that we had submitted one of the possible winning novels, so much so that she had confidence in herself and in her judgments about literature. But she was also aware that among beginners there is little chance of good novels being submitted. Most suffer from an excess of passion, nonsensical styles, defects of structure and syntax, and unoriginal plots. In fact, the vast majority are simply imitations of their idols, or of fashionable writers. She knew we would win, and we did! She was also the first to know the news of the award, because she received the message with the result and the invitation to the awards ceremony that same weekend at a well-known hotel in the city. When we met at the faculty, she recited to me the famous sentence of Julius Caesar: "Vini, vidi, vici", which I understood immediately. I confess that moments after hearing the news, I considered myself a superior being, I had killed the undecided and modest writer to feel like a new member of the cultural elites of the country. And that image blinded me from the first moment. She never suspected my arrogance, and she was as happy as if she had been the awardee. During the award ceremony, she must have felt like the mother who attends the presentation of the diploma of honor to her son at the university: without envy or professional jealousy. But I was already very distant from her. I saw my books piled up in bookstores, with the mention of that award. I saw myself signing copies for my gawking admirers, but above all, I felt superior and dominant. Alicia has reacted, stands up and gives me a questioning look. -I think you're making up the story! I know you well enough by now not to believe that you would behave that way! -You meet a repentant demon twenty years later. But I wouldn't have committed that sin if I hadn't met the real culprit. During the cocktail party hosted by the sponsors, many guests approached me to congratulate me. She seemed proud of my sudden popularity. From the first day she learned of my vocation as a writer, she wanted me to become more self-confident, so that we could pursue our ambitious careers at the same level. I took it for granted that we would achieve our ambitious project of fame and glory without one overshadowing the other. When, fatigued by so many emotions and hustle and bustle, we were about to leave the meeting, we were approached by a middle-aged, elegant-looking woman, dressed in a sober suit jacket, her hair half-haired, blonde and slightly curly, and addressing me, as if the presence of my companion had not been perceived, and without ceasing to fix her deep and insinuating gaze on mine, she handed me a business card, which must have been perfumed with the fragrances of hell, because when I read it the perfume evoked in me an abyss into which I would not take long to fall -You will need a good agent. Call me tomorrow and we'll talk about your future. That was all she said, and she went back to join a group of guests. That look disturbed me so much that for a moment I too forgot about her presence. She must have sensed my betrayal at that moment! I beg Alicia's forgiveness, but I do not wish to continue. What follows is the most painful part for me, and the memory of it has haunted me all these years. Alicia seems to wake up from a dream, or maybe it's a nightmare. The coffee is finished. She picks up the coffee pot and cups and takes them to the kitchen. She remains silent but her mind must be replaying the story I just told her. He returns from the kitchen, exchanges a sad look with me, sits back down and, finally, I know what he is thinking. -Poor woman, I would not have liked to be in her place. I would have lost my memory too. No, I would have lost my head! Your comment makes me feel guiltier. Those who have no remorse cannot know how much it hurts to be reminded of our sins. -Forgive me. I know you are deeply sorry, and if I were that woman, I would probably forgive you, but that doesn't repair the damage done. Perhaps it would be better if she did not recover her memory! If she does not recover her memory and I do not have her forgiveness, I will be hopelessly condemned! 23. End of confession It has been a time of great emotional tension. Alicia is torn between her heightened sense of justice, her solidarity with other women, her mercy and her love for me. Mercy and love have finally won out, but that doesn't mean she considers me redeemed. She thinks that somehow I must repay that woman. But she doesn't know how. Neither do I. -Even if it brings back bad memories, I think you'll feel better if you tell me the end of the story. I promise I won't hold it against you! Maybe Alicia is right. Hiding my guilt only causes it to become entrenched in my conscience, it is healthier to air them. -All right, I'll tell you the rest of this sorry story. Neither I nor she felt the way we were supposed to feel after the awards ceremony. I still hadn't gotten over the shock of that woman's insinuating stare, and she seemed to want to ask me what I was thinking, because I think she was reading my thoughts. In an almost pleading tone of voice, she begged me not to accept that woman as my agent, because there would be others who would be happy to represent me. I assumed she was jealous of her, but I did not have the courage to confess to her that, despite her fears, I would call her and we would meet to find out her plans for my promotion as a writer. What was happening was that the woman was living in the new world I thought I had entered after the award, while she belonged to one that was already outdated and without incentives for an ambitious writer. I was no longer a student of letters, I was a writer, and writers can transgress all moral norms because they are justified. That night I could not sleep until dawn, because I too was torn between what my conscience dictated and what my ambition demanded, because it made no sense to have come that far and renounce what any other author would do in my place. After all, she had helped me get there herself, so why not accept the help of someone who would make your dream of becoming a writer come true? When we met that morning on campus, I had already made up my mind and she seemed to me an unacceptable intrusion on my freedom, but I didn't have the courage to let her know, and tried to pretend that nothing had changed after the award and we would follow our future plans as we had dreamed. She must have been relieved by my attitude, but it was evident that my enthusiasm and joviality had changed. I was no longer paying attention to her readings or motivated to write new stories. She interpreted this as me being tired from my efforts to write my first novel, and she didn't reproach me. That same afternoon I went to the agent's office, with whom I had already arranged an interview that morning. Her office was located in her own home. A spacious apartment in a noble building, located in one of the most expensive avenues of the city. She met me herself at the elevator exit. I could hardly recognize her. She was now wearing tight jeans, which emphasized the soft shapes of her hips, and a loose blouse, with what looked like the logo of her agency. Her reception was extremely cordial. It was evident that she had a great interest in me, not only as a writer, but as a person. -My warmest congratulations on the award, but now you have to prevent them from forgetting about you in a couple of months, I can help you," he said as soon as I got out of the elevator. He introduced me into his office, a spacious and bright room soberly furnished with two comfortable black leather armchairs, a large work table and a large sofa of the same material as the armchairs. The only detail that indicated that we were in a working office were the dozens of photographs of their represented authors that hung on the walls. Some of their writers frequently topped the most prestigious book sections of newspapers and literary magazines. Soon mine would be there too. All this proved to me that I had chosen a good agent. We settled into the two armchairs. He offered me a sweet from a small basket on a glass table, and without wasting time on introductions, he asked me: -Do you want to become a fashionable author? What could my answer be: "No"? There was only one possible answer: -Yes! -Okay, so starting today we have to work on a program that may be hard and require all your dedication. Are you decided? I just nodded my head firmly. -My commission is five percent; the contract is for two years, and I have your exclusive representation for all media where it is published, including film, television, radio and the web. Are you happy? I again agreed with an energetic nod of my head. Well, then come back tomorrow at this same time and we'll sign the contract. In two years you'll be one of the most read and sought-after writers in the country! And that's how I signed the contract that would ruin my personal life and from which the professional writer would be born! The next day, as planned, I signed my condemnation. My new agent was more explicit and argued the reasons why she was sure of my success. -You represent the ideal of a talented young man, successful from his first work, who does not resort to pornography, nor to violence, nor to esoteric plots, nor to cloying romanticism, nor to philosophical detectives. That you write simple, but real and exemplary novels that everyone likes. That you also have enough physical attractiveness to appeal to young female readers. You write novels that can be read by the whole family, at all ages, and in all times... -But I've only written one novel! I must have guessed the answer. It was practically in the clauses of the contract that I didn't bother to read: -But you will write them, I will tell you how! 24. Seduction As I left my new agent's office, I realized what a grave mistake I had made in my haste and blindness. I blamed it on my lack of experience, but I was consoled by the fact that fortunately it was only two years, which passed quickly. Now I felt ashamed because I had thrown dirt on our noble concerns, our illusion of keeping ourselves pure, disinterested, away from the merchants of dreams, who lure us with siren songs, and end up dragging us into their dirty world of economic transactions, balance sheets, shareholders, investors, CEOs, bankers, unprincipled and unscrupulous traders and a whole host of individuals unable to value what does not have a price and can be sold on the market, such as honesty, generosity or illusion... They have no scruples in selling and buying souls, and auctioning them in their corrupt financial markets. I will be one of them. But, to tell the truth, before I entered this office I was already corrupted. That evening we had arranged to attend the premiere of a film on the life of Oscar Wilde. I was not in the mood to attend yet another crucifixion of an author, but I had to keep my relationship with my new agent a secret. I made the appointment, albeit somewhat belatedly, when the film had already begun. She waited patiently at the lonely cinema entrance. Despite my tardiness, she always justified my disloyalties, because she had not a shadow of a doubt about my fidelity. I need to pause. Alicia is as shocked as I am, but she has promised not to recriminate me, and she keeps her promise. I feel bad, because I cannot erase from my memories her frail figure, illuminated by the flickering billboard signs, arms folded, looking anxiously from one side of the street to the other, trying to justify my tardiness. It is likely that I would have waited much longer without losing faith in my fidelity. -When she saw me appear on the side of the street opposite to that on which she expected me to arrive, she had a moment's hesitation, but my vision overflowed any desire for reproach, and she received me with a smile that would try to wrest it from the sadness that a few minutes before had gripped her. I think for the first time I felt sorry for her, and perhaps had a sincere desire for repentance. I was tempted to fill her in on her situation, but her smile thwarted my desire. I hugged her, we kissed and I improvised an excuse. She believed me because she needed to believe me and urged me to get the tickets as soon as possible, because we would have time after the movie to clarify the details. It was not possible to wake up someone who was sleepwalking without the danger of causing her irreparable damage! There was no clarification. The film had had such an impact on us that when we left the cinema for a long time, we strolled through the now deserted streets without saying a word. She broke the silence with a comment that set my conscience on fire: -Why do geniuses have to pay such a high price just to be famous? Will we also have to pay such a high price? No, of course not; we won't make their mistake or lead double lives that could cause scandal! We will be a perfect writing couple without giving any reason for what happened to the unfortunate Oscar Wilde, won't we? What could I answer? At that moment I didn't have the courage to tell him the truth and undo the deception at once. No matter how much she suffered, it would not be compared to what she had to suffer afterwards. So much to justify her amnesia! Alicia indicates with a gesture of her arm that she wants to tell me something. -And that's the woman who will be sitting next to him tonight, at the same table? Of course, if she recovered her memory, she would have every reason to hate him. But go on, forgive my interruption! -The days that followed the signing of the contract were so intense that I didn't have a chance to think about her. My agent would invite me to her apartment, and, after a light dinner, we would sit in the armchairs of her office and discuss the plot of my next novel. Of course it would be a love story with a happy ending. Once in my apartment I would write a chapter or two and show it to her the next night. She would make corrections and suggest any changes she thought were necessary. I have to confess that we became well coordinated, because I did not dislike her arguments and ideas and it was easy for me to interpret and write them. As Naomi said in her first message: I just changed muse, and overrode any noble motivation. For the first few days her behavior was strictly professional, but as the days went by she became more familiar and intimate, and changed her clothes to a comfortable night gown, which left her attractive legs practically uncovered. She had a plan to seduce me, but she would not carry it out until I finished the novel. That would be the prize! My relations with the other woman who had become entangled in this drama remained superficial, as are the relations of those who hide their true feelings. Sometimes she dared to ask me the cause of my apathy, which made her suffer so much, and she herself came to the conclusion that the cause might lie in a lack of more sensual relations. Although it was not in her plans, she set out to seduce me and would consent to our lovemaking. Our relationship had been from the beginning an artistic affinity and we were unsure of our physical attraction. At that moment I was infinitely more attracted to the mature beauty and sensuality of my agent than to that of the poetess, who had not awakened from her dream of glory and fantasies. With the excuse of inviting me to dinner, she prepared the necessary atmosphere for my seduction. That night we gestated Naomi, but neither of us was satisfied with that relationship. No; we had not come together for carnal love, only for spiritual love! I cannot continue this story, because today, twenty years later, I still feel the shame of that hasty pleasure, of those frustrated relationships that were closer to prostitution than to love. -Excuse me Alicia, but I think it's time to go to our appointment with my daughter. -And with his mother! -Yes, and with his mother. This will be the last twist of fate, I don't want to think about anything else! Alicia is visibly dejected, I can see it in her sad and absent look, so different from the one at the beginning of this story. She gets up with a heavy heart, as if her legs were heavy, and helps me to get dressed. I leave my private refuge as if moved by a supernatural force, against which my own will is useless. It is already dark, the days are short in October. The cool breeze of the evening twilight suits me well. There is still a pale streak of red on the horizon. We have called a cab to pick us up at the door, but I ask the driver to drop us off two blocks before my daughter's house. Alicia approves of the idea. I want to finish my story before I face this difficult test. -Two weeks later I was putting an end to my second novel, although I would have to rewrite several chapters that were not to the liking of my demanding agent. But that was the day she had chosen to seduce me, and she prepared everything so that I would have no escape. But that same day I had arranged to meet the other unfortunate woman to see the film about Oscar Wilde again, because the previous time we had missed a good part of the beginning. The idea came from her and I couldn't refuse. But it was not only the interest in the film that made them want to see me, but apparently she had some important news to tell me, but she did not want to tell me what it was about. He wanted me to be there when he gave it to me. I assumed it must be something to do with his poetry, perhaps he had won a prize, or had found an important publisher to publish it. I went to my daily appointment with my agent, with the intention of leaving the manuscript for him to read and write down the corrections, but to my surprise, I found a table prepared with great care and detail for two people, illuminated pale by two artistic candles, on a side table there was a bottle of champagne set to cool, and in the center of the table a silver tray with canapés of caviar, salmon and other such delicacies. But what impressed me most, and of course turned me on, was the way she had dressed for the occasion. She was wearing a silk blouse of the same color as her skin, open almost to the waist, where part of her still firm breasts could be seen, and a tight black skirt that covered her above her knees. The outfit was extremely elegant, but above all, irresistibly attractive! I don't know if you know men well, Alicia, but there is no will capable of overcoming a temptation like that. It is for this very reason that mankind was condemned; it is the eternal sin that man has committed from the beginning: the irresistible attraction of Eve and her apple! This biblical drama was played out in that room: caviar, champagne and sex. After that, the grim reaper could take us into his darkness. I had to choose between the two women: one offered me fame. The other offered me spiritual affection, sincere friendship and, of course, loyalty. -Who would you have chosen, Alicia? The question has caught her off guard, but the answer is withering: -The second time, of course! -I didn't want to choose; I wanted things to stay as they were, I could continue to have both relationships and not hurt either, but my agent forced me to choose. In the end it was the champagne and its irresistible sex appeal that decided. To celebrate my betrayal, we began the evening in a cabaret where they staged sexual scenes of indecent bad taste, but it was part of their plan. At the entrance of the cinema, illuminated only by the flickering lights of the neon signs, with her arms crossed, and without ceasing to look anxiously from one side of the street to the other, she waited uselessly for the man who I now know wanted to tell me that he was going to be a father! Fortunately he lost his memory! 25. The reentry We approached Naomi's house. I have finished my painful story, and we quietly give ourselves to our own thoughts. Alicia must wonder if she hasn't been blinded by my popularity, because I don't deserve her affection; and I wonder if I can look the woman who is waiting for a visit from a perfect stranger in the face. Recent events are beyond my capacity for assimilation, and now I have to face a new mammoth test. A few steps away I am going to meet the woman from whom I have stolen the best years of her life. She may recognize me, in which case I don't know how I will be able to justify myself, and if she doesn't recognize me, I won't be able to justify myself either. All these years have only served me to understand that ambition without a noble cause does not bear noble fruits, but poisoned ones, with the poison of your own poisoned spirit. But there is something that worries and amazes me: Has all that time really elapsed? Are we not always at the same moment? How far does the boatman travel in his boat? None! And yet, the boat does travel a space and consumes a time, dragged by the current. I have also been dragged by the current, but I am still in the same boat; the same instant as always, and that will probably be eternal. The woman who must be in Naomi's apartment is the same woman I left at the door of a neighborhood cinema, but she continues, like me, to live in the same instant, for we have not passed through time, we have passed over time, like the boatman over the current of the river! But it is not the body that travels in the boat, but the soul, which is not affected by time. She will have the same soul she had the day she lost her memory, and it is that soul that has not aged and will surely recognize me. Now they meet again and they will ask themselves: what have we done with our lives that we had to separate? Only I have the answer: not having listened to her or followed her wishes. We are at the door of her apartment. Alicia gives me a pleading look. -Your great moment has come! Now you will have the only chance to save or damn your soul! She knocks and we hear some agile footsteps that must be those of my daughter Noemí. But it is not Naomi who opens the door, but she does! Alicia could not avoid an expressive gesture of surprise, and I feel as if I were plunging into an abyss of time, and I would have to travel through the past twenty years to land in the same place where I was the night of my betrayal: time has not passed for her! There is no trace of suffering on her face, still smooth and young. Her figure is the same. Her hair is still curly, but a little more faded, and what impresses me most is her serene and tender gaze, but as if lost in nothingness. I don't know what to say, but I am anxious about her possible reaction. Did she recognize me? I hear rapid footsteps, it's Naomi coming to greet us. But she has become paralyzed and anxiously contemplates the scene. Finally, her mother and I are face to face and neither of us is able to break the tension of the moment. Naomi watches her mother, but there is no reaction that could give her to understand that she has recognized me. She remains holding the doorknob, and seems relaxed, she is waiting for her daughter to come. -Are they your guests, Naomi? Naomi tries to hide her desolation, she didn't recognize me! -Yes, Mom, they are our guests. She exchanges a disconsolate glance with me. Alicia also feels the tension of the moment, and looks at me questioningly. Naomi's mother begs us to come in, lets us in and closes the door behind Alicia. She follows us into a small living room, where a table is already set for four guests. We take off our coats and Naomi hangs them on a coat rack. Her mother remains silent, rubbing her hands together, not knowing what to do with them. She gives us fleeting glances and smiles slightly. There is strangeness in her expression, it is evident that she considers us strangers, and she does not know what her behavior should be. I think he is waiting for his daughter to introduce them to him. Naomi expected some gesture in her mother's expression that would show some indication that she remembered me, but it is evident that this has not been the case. She seems resigned and introduces us to her indecisive mother. -Mom, these are my friends I told you about. They are both writers, like us. The mother seems to welcome our profession with pleasure, because she gave us a broad smile with a gesture of admiration. Naomi tries, without much hope, to provoke her mother's memory. -He's a very famous writer, I'm sure you've seen his picture in a newspaper or in literary magazines! But the mother flatly denies this with a nod of her head. We are all caught off guard by a question from her mother addressed to me: -And what do you write, novels or poetry...? I write poetry..., yes, I've written a lot of poetry... He loses his gaze on an indeterminate point in the room. I try not to show my deplorable mood and respond by forcing a friendly smile: -I write novels, stories of ordinary people. Nothing special... but I met an admirable poetess, who, unfortunately for her many admirers, never published them! She smiles back at me, but makes no comment. I get the feeling that something is disturbing her mind, because the smile is frozen on her lips. She seems to wander off and move somewhere else. Perhaps to our university campus. She is a helpless and vulnerable woman, the same as she was twenty years ago, but time and amnesia have made her extremely sensitive and emotional. I would love to read her poetry. Dare I suggest it: -Why doesn't one of them read us? She has been startled by my unexpected suggestion and seems embarrassed. -Oh, no, no; I write them for myself.... They are very personal... You wouldn't like them! Naomi listens to her mother and seems devastated. -Mom, these are my friends. Come on, cheer up and read us some of your poems! There's still some time before dinner is ready. Naomi wants to try everything. There may not be another chance. Her mother looks stunned. She looks at us as if to check our willingness to listen to her poems. Once again she seems to sink into faraway places. Naomi tries again and suggests to her mother that she read the first ones she wrote, but that she does not remember when and where she wrote them. There is no doubt that she is under great pressure. I feel sorry for her, but above all I feel even more miserable. This poor frightened woman, who writes romantic poems dedicated to a lover she cannot remember and who has him in front of her, does not deserve this suffering. She seems to be hesitating. We are all watching her decision. She looks at us again as if trying to read our thoughts. Alicia has been silent, she must realize that now she has a real rival. Now that I have seen her again, those happy, pure and generous days return to my mind with infinite nostalgia, and I begin to believe that if destiny has it in mind, they could come back, even if only for a short time. Neomi has managed to overcome her mother's fears and agrees to read us some of her poems. The three of us settle down on a small sofa while she nervously shuffles through several notebooks she keeps in a travel bag, and doesn't seem to know which one to choose. He finally decides on one with pink covers, where there is a caption that I can't read. He sits down on one of the dining room chairs, leafs through several pages, and finally seems to decide on one. She has the same tone of voice, the same slow cadence and intonation. It was a pleasant experience to listen to her recite, and I see it's still the same! IF YOU WERE... If your heart were foam, I would be ocean; If your soul were heaven, I would be cloud; If your gaze were rain, I would be a field; If your hands were water, I would be thirsty. For God's sake, that verse again! Why is fate playing cat and mouse? Why has it chosen this very poem? I think she has noticed my confusion. She gives me a strange look that could be one of interrogation, perhaps she is beginning to remember! Naomi has exchanged a look of astonishment with me, she seems to be asking herself the same question. Alicia hasn't reacted, but I suspect what she must be thinking: her stigma is haunting her! Naomi's mother has come out of her momentary impasse and continues reading. When she finishes, we have the feeling that she has made a great effort. She closes the notebook, leaves it on the table and drops relaxed on the chair. She doesn't want to read any more poems. Something is disturbing her mind again. Now I can read the notebook's caption: "Poems of love and oblivion. Spring 1997." But there is no indication of the place or name of its author. I congratulate her effusively, she thanks me with a kindly smile, but I notice her absent, troubled. Naomi is worried about her mother's despondency. She must think that we should not push her. To awaken her memory abruptly may cause her a new trauma. She does not insist. Dinner is ready. Alicia accompanies Noemí to the kitchen to help her set the table. My daughter has cooked and has surprised me, I didn't know she was such a good cook. Her mother has relaxed; she is calmer and we exchange comments about how wet this autumn is turning out to be and what she has seen during her stay in the city. -Did you like the opera "Madame Butterfly"? -Oh, yes; very much so! -Don't you find it a little sad? -Yes, you are right, it is a bit sad.... I have the impression that she is talking to me, but her thoughts are elsewhere. I would give anything to know where! Naomi intervenes in the conversation. -I have an idea," he turns to me, "why don't you take my mother to visit a museum? I can't miss school, but you might have time. I know she was looking forward to seeing the latest exhibition at the National Museum. His mother tries to protest. Sounds like a good idea to me. -I will be happy to accompany you. I was looking forward to seeing her too! Alicia remains in dramatic silence. Everything is conspiring against her. She has noticed that I am beginning to take a lively interest in Naomi's mother, and I think she even suspects that I may feel something more than compassion. The truth is that I feel a great longing for the times when we were two lovers of literature, but also two good friends, and friendship is less passionate than love, but more loyal and generous. On the other hand, I would like to repay her suffering with my affection. But I can do nothing for her unless she recovers her memory and remembers who I am. I think Naomi is of the same opinion. The dinner was delicious. I congratulate my daughter, who is very flattered. But my aches and pains threaten to return and I would like to be back in my apartment before this happens. Naomi brings us our coats and I notice in her mother's eyes that she senses our departure, I think she has taken a liking to me and has overcome her initial misgivings, possibly she vaguely remembers me. We agreed that I would pick her up here the next day and we would spend the morning visiting the exhibition. Then we would go to an Italian restaurant for lunch, as Noemi has filled me in on her mother's gastronomic tastes, and she loves Italian pasta. Yes, I remember! 26. Memory I have spent a night in intense pain. All these emotions may be detrimental to my health. The pains have been joined by uncertainty about Naomi's mother. It is very likely that had our past not mediated I would have been attracted to her; for her kindness and sensitivity, so rare in the environment in which I have lived these last twenty years. I have still found her attractive, but it is not an exclusively physical attraction, perhaps I cannot explain it in spite of being a writer, but it is a physical attraction that emanates from the spirit; a physical attraction proper to human beings and not to animals. It is the joy of pleasure when it is tempered by sensitivity and not only by sexuality. It is as if the soul gives you its blessing to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh without unconsciousness and bestiality. It's not sex, it's sensuality, if I can put it that way. Maybe that's why we had that frustrated relationship, because she tried to imitate a behavior that was not in her personality, and I wouldn't have known how to interpret it then either. I don't feel well, I'm down and my whole body aches, but I have to pull myself together and keep the promise I made to Naomi's mother. Another absence would be intolerable! The weather is with us. It is a sunny, almost summery day. The shower has cleared my head and I feel a little better. The prospect of spending a morning with someone who has loved you but is unable to recognize you fills me with uncertainty. I may not be up to the task and I may not know how to behave. After all we are two sick people, and sick people understand each other. A cab takes me to Naomi's house, I ask her to wait, because it will take us to the National Museum. Naomi's mother had been waiting for me dressed to go out for a long time. When she opens the door I notice enthusiasm in her expression. I greet her with a friendly kiss on the cheek and can't help but compliment her good looks, which she seems to appreciate. I suspect she has taken a liking to me and feels safe with me. What would happen if she knew who I really was? I don't know, but sooner or later she has to know. I find it hard to accept what is happening. I spend the morning next to a woman I have longed for for many years, and now that she is next to me I feel unable to openly show her my affection, and I continue to suffer from the same regrets as with the previous ones, but aggravated by the constant fear that she will recover her memory and realize that she is next to the man who has caused her the most harm. I would like her to end this nightmare; to recognize me and condemn or forgive me. If on many occasions I have wondered what would have become of me if I had not left her, now I don't need to imagine it. We would visit the latest exhibition at the National Museum, but we would be holding hands, and we would talk about the sales of my latest novel, which surely would not even reach the tenth position of the best sellers, but in exchange I would have a good number of educated and faithful readers, with whom I would exchange thoughts, concerns, ideas and comments about my novels, the message of the characters, about literature and art in general. Many of them I would know personally and I could consider them my friends, as well as faithful readers. But they would not flatter me, even if they felt admiration for my novels. I would not be an idol of young girls blinded by my popularity and the attractiveness of an experienced forty-year-old who considered me sexy, since I would have a companion that everyone would know and would know that I had always been faithful to her, as she herself said at the exit of the movie theater of such bitter memory and that resonate in my ears as if she had pronounced them yesterday: "We won't make mistakes or lead double lives that might cause scandal! We'll be a perfect writing couple, giving no reason why what happened to the unfortunate Oscar Wilde shouldn't happen, right?". How I wish it had been so! But we would also talk about the success of her last book of poems, because she would be much more popular and admired than me. Her books would indeed be at the top of the best sellers and most valued. And they would not be poems addressed to a ghost lover, but to all that multicolored spectrum that can be expressed through poetry. This is the dream that I have failed and that I cannot even turn into an exemplary novel, written with my heart and not my head, without studying the tastes and trends of the market, the number of potential readers and possible royalties, or wasting time in eternal photo shoots to publish the most commercial image, or begging for an interview on the most popular program in exchange for promoting a sponsor who is not interested in what you think about literature, so that future generations would receive that message of friendship, loyalty and generosity from the people of generations already gone. That would possibly have been my life with her. During the cab ride to the museum, she stares quizzically at what she sees as if she has never been here before. When something especially catches her eye, she exchanges a look of amazement with me, I respond with a smile of approval. At the museum she seems enthusiastic about the paintings on display. There is no doubt that she is an artist. She tells me about the ones that catch her attention. I have acquired for her as a souvenir of this visit an illustrated book about the painter in the exhibition, which she thanks me with a discreet kiss on the cheek. She is undoubtedly the same charming woman she was twenty years ago. It would be a memorable morning if I were not in constant pain. I try not to let her notice my suffering, because even if it is brief, today is probably one of the happiest days in recent years. What makes us most human is our ability to get affection and friends who just know us. A friendship without affection is like a black and white photograph: it lacks color. I'm finding the museum visit exhausting, but she seems immune to fatigue. I suggest we take a break and have a drink in the museum cafeteria. She thinks it's a good idea. The cafeteria brings back distant memories of the one at our university. Twenty years later she is standing in line in front of me again and she is also holding a book in one hand! As if this coincidence wasn't enough, they also have slices of strawberry cream pie! She has seen them and seems hesitant to put a slice on her tray. She gestures with the intention of taking a slice but pulls back. I think the sight of that cake has possibly awakened some area of his unconsciousness. I can't see the expression on his face, but he is unable to go on with just a cup of coffee. I get the impression that something is again disturbing his mind. There are several people behind us who are getting impatient, because she has become as if paralyzed in front of the tray of cakes. In a strange gesture, which seems to me more impulsive than voluntary, she finally takes one of the portions. I'm beginning to worry, I have a feeling that twenty years of amnesia may have a tragic end here. But I don't care, and I take one more step towards this abyss, offering to hold the book for him so that he can take the tray with both hands! She turns sharply toward me and I have the alarming feeling that her gaze is remotely familiar, the same one I remember when she turned to me in the faculty cafeteria. Maybe she is starting to remember that scene too, because she refuses my help again! I don't know if fortunately or unfortunately, but there has been no repeat of the accidental event that brought us together, and we managed to get to a table with no accidents! She must have noticed my confusion mixed with my pains, because her gaze shows a certain uneasiness, it seems as if she is looking at a stranger, who is not the same one she had kissed ten minutes before to thank her for the unexpected gift. The coffee and his slice of cake are on the table, and for some reason they remain untouched. It is as if they were witnesses to some important event and needed to be presented as damning evidence to an imaginary but exacting jury. I cannot look into her eyes without feeling uncovered, lost in a deep sense of guilt for which there is no redemption. If I could read her mind I'm sure my image appears blurred in a dense fog, but it is quickly making its way to clearer areas, where it will eventually become perfectly visible. I, too, am getting the feeling that this woman is being transfigured, and before long she may emerge from the mist and may, at last, know the identity of her betrayer! In the midst of this state of anguished transformation, I hear the familiar sound of cups and plates rolling on the floor. An elderly woman has lost her balance, and dropped her tray! Once again fate intrudes on our tormented lives! The woman sitting in front of me now has a twitching face, her eyes wild, her accusing gaze fixed on mine, which I feel unable to hold. She has risen so abruptly that she has caused our accusing coffee cups and cake slices to fall. He almost shouts at me: -You; it's you! PART TWO: THE REUNION "He who forgives sin, seeks affection; he who spreads it, drives away the friend." (Proverbs 17:9) 27. Rejection Naomi's mother has vanished in the cafeteria. I don't know to what extent her memory has returned, but it is clear that she recognized me. A museum security guard has spotted a doctor among the visitors, who is trying to revive her. He asked me what caused her to faint. I told him that she had suffered a shock. The doctor wants to know what caused the shock. I replied that the cause was the strong impression of recognizing a person she had forgotten for the last twenty years. -That's no cause for fainting. -She did not wish to recognize him. He seems to recover. He half-opens his eyes, contemplates me for a few moments and closes them again. -I want to go back to my daughter's house; call my daughter and have her come and get me...! She asks the attending physician. -The gentleman who accompanies you can take you there. -No, no; call my daughter! The doctor looks at me strangely. -It's me he didn't want to recognize. It's a long story; I wouldn't know how to explain it to you. The museum guard suggests we find a cab and tell the driver where to take her. She nods weakly. Someone of those watching the scene has recognized me, and the word spreads among the others watching the scene. I notice in their looks a veiled reproach. I think they know from what is published in the magazines of the heart that my relationships with women are tortuous, and that she may be another of my victims. Nothing causes more pleasure to admirers than to discover the weaknesses of their idols, because deep down they hate them. Their admiration enslaves them and this discovery is a liberation. A few anxious minutes pass, but finally a young man appears who must be the cab driver, because he is accompanied by the guard. I tell him where to take her. The young cab driver and the doctor accompany her, and they leave the cafeteria. I find myself terribly alone, surrounded by people who probably hate me for my alleged misconduct with the victim. It is possible that someone may have taken a photo with his cell phone and tomorrow the photo will be published in the tabloids and on the networks, and some unprincipled and unethical journalist will take advantage of the incident to climb the ladder by resorting to libel. He will make up a story claiming that I mistreat my colleagues, which will delight the readers. He knows perfectly well that I will not sue him, because he will certainly be a poor devil who will not get his miserable salary at the end of the month, and I could only pay for the damages at the taxpayers' expense, giving him shelter and food in one of our overcrowded prisons. But my image will deteriorate, and in these critical moments that is what I most wish to preserve. I don't give the people who witnessed the scene a chance to explain it to them, and I rush out of the museum. It is urgent that I call Naomi so that she is informed of the recovery of her mother's memory and the dramatic outcome, which unfortunately I had already feared. Her cell phone is disconnected, she must be in a class. I call the University secretary's office and ask them to send her my message, and to come to her house urgently. I don't know what else I can do. After making these calls, I stop to think about what has happened. And I don't need to make any great show of intelligence to understand that my life is now meaningless. I don't even have a daughter to hold on to in this life, because I have not been, am not and could not be, the father that any daughter needs. Meeting her was a mistake. It would have been better if we had never met. When I did not exist, all her affection was for her mother and I had no one to judge my behavior. Now I have intruded and she feels obliged to share it with me, and I feel obliged to account for my conduct. It is better for me to get out of her way as soon as possible, as if she had been a mirage, and to employ her noble sentiments on those who deserve them. I am strolling aimlessly along a busy avenue, but I doubt that they will notice my presence, because I already feel myself floating in a vague place, a prelude to my final journey, which I will not take long to undertake. Perhaps sooner than expected! Alicia; yes, Alicia will help me! I can trust her; she will do whatever I ask of her! I don't know the feeling of love and how far we can sacrifice ourselves for the loved one, but she must know because there is no more sublime sacrifice than to love without being reciprocated. And she has endured it with infinite generosity. Someone has to give me the push to get me on my way to a place where I can find peace. I'm startled by the alarm on my cell phone, it's Alicia! It's as if my previous thoughts had been a spell to summon her and she had heard my wishes to die sooner than expected. She has heard from Naomi that her mother has regained her memory and wants to know how she reacted to remembering me. Just a minute ago Alicia was little less than my exterminating angel, and now that I listen to her life is once again claiming her attention, and she manages to drive these gloomy thoughts from my mind. She is a woman and knows how women think and feel, so I knew she would reject me. She asks me how my mood is and I reply that I am like a lost child in a department store who is asked by adults not to cry because they will soon find their parents. I was also crying before his call because I felt lost and scared. She asks me if I want her to come to my apartment so that I can tell her what happened to make Naomi's mother's memory come back. -Thanks to a slice of strawberry cream pie! -I replied. Alicia has the road free, but she knows that I will remain inaccessible as long as I don't have the forgiveness of the woman who now knows who I am and where her enemy lives. Of course, I beg you to come. 28. Depression Despite Alicia's invaluable moral and spiritual help, I am deeply depressed. It must be one of those depressions that inevitably lead to suicide. If I have not committed it yet, it is out of cowardice and horror of physical pain, but there are many ways to end this suffering. If life is not supported by some incentive, it is not possible to live it. In human beings the defense of life is not instinctive, but mental; it is a reasoned and justified decision, but pressured by the irreversible lack of incentives. No animal commits suicide. I have consumed and wasted all my incentives, without the result being what I would have wished. But I must also admit that I have never known what I really wanted. Naomi called me. She is already in her apartment. Her mother is very upset and wants to go home tomorrow. She has completely recovered her memory and remembers the causes of her amnesia in detail as if it happened yesterday. Naomi has tried to make her see that I am deeply sorry, but she does not want them to talk about me. She thinks she will need some time to get over her resentment, but the one thing I don't have is time. She has not told her about my illness so that she does not think that she wants to blackmail her. She is deeply sorry for this situation, for having to divide her affections between two parents at odds. Her mother does not understand why she has forgiven me, when I am the main victim of this drama. Naomi fears that her mother will distance herself from her because she believes that she has not behaved as she expected. She thinks she should have been more consistent and not forgiven me, and I think maybe her mother is right. Alicia has just arrived. Not a day has gone by since the day we met that she hasn't worried about me and I remain stubbornly oblivious to her. Why does she insist on maintaining her loyalty to a doomed, hopeless man who can only inspire pity and sympathy? The answer must lie in those recesses of women's souls that I have failed to understand. 29. Alicia's plan (Narrator: Alicia) Today I found him in a deplorable state. I know that he had hoped that Naomi's mother would have given him the opportunity to express to her his regret and his own sufferings and remorse in twenty years of solitude. If she has lived those twenty years in darkness, he would have preferred to have lost his memory as well. We women are condemned to forgive men's infidelities, because they have created a world where it is not possible to avoid this sin. If it were the world of women, infidelity would not be possible because neither would ownership exist. Men would be as shared as food or work. No one would be anyone's property. This man is a victim of that world, where there is no other incentive than competition and the derisory pleasure of the winners. He is also an unhappy winner in a world made in his own image and likeness. We cannot change a world that has a male God. But we women would not have gods either, only energies, positive or negative. Energy has created the world, we are all energies. I know that in his desperation he is thinking of suicide, but he is a weak man, and to commit suicide it is necessary to have courage. Men feel strong if they have terrible weapons, we do not need those diabolical weapons, but if we set our minds to it, we could bring about the destruction of the world in the same time it took God to create it! God himself had to be begotten by a woman. I would like to make him understand that he is not guilty and that his remorse is unfounded. If there is a guilty party to be found, it is Naomi's mother, because her fantasy and her ignorance of human nature and of the reality in which she lives provoked this man's infidelity. The most serious sins are not committed by the intelligent, but by the ignorant, but they do not feel guilty because their ignorance serves as a mitigating factor. Her literary agent lived in the real world, it was a matter of competition and she had the best offer, that's why she was the winner and got the product. It would be necessary to completely revise our morality and adapt it also to the laws of supply and demand. If I love this man it is because, besides the physical attraction, for twenty years he has been consistent and has written what the market required, but his loneliness justifies his rejection. Only when death threatened him did he decide to put an end to this immorality, and say in public what he really felt and thought. For me he is a hero! He wonders why Naomi's mother won't listen to him and I suggest an idea that might help him: -Why don't you write a new novel with the story of your relations with her and how you have lived these last twenty years. She won't want to see you, but she might read the novel. I think this idea has been in his head for some time, but he doesn't feel strong enough to do something like this. -It's too late now, Alicia, I'm afraid my illness is getting worse and I won't even be able to count on those six months of respite. I have a feeling that I won't live to see the next spring bloom and that I won't be spared the cold winter of death! It is useless for me to encourage him, he knows better than anyone else when death will come, because it must be the most foreseen event. Yes, it is possible that he will not see the next spring bloom and that for him it will be too late, but not for me: I will write that novel in his name! 30. The first novel I had to help him change his clothes and make him comfortable. Maybe it's time to get to know him on a first-name basis. I think he has only me now. His daughter Naomi will only feel pity and compassion for him, but she will remain attached to her mother. She is young and idealistic now, and thinks she loves everyone, but soon she will be more selective, and will be more demanding in lavishing her affections. This is now a dead father, of whom only the memory will remain, but the mother will still be alive and demanding in her maternal affection, more as a family obligation than as a sincere moral sentiment. Now my poor friend is a loser, for with death he loses everything. I need him to tell me what his life has been like in these twenty years of unfounded remorse. -I'll fix you something to eat and then you can rest. While you sleep I will finish reading your first novel. But when you wake up, if you feel well, I want you to tell me what your life has been like during these twenty years. -Alicia, you called me by my first name! I was expecting this remark -Yes, I have called you by your first name; there is no longer any reason to keep our distance. Now we are closer to each other and share the same loneliness. You may not love me, but you need me as much as I need you. We are now traveling companions. You will get off before me, but my journey won't be very long either. I can only trust you and you can only trust me. I may be the only one to mourn your death. Now he rests and I return to the reading of his first book, which I now read with great attention. The one I write must have his style, because it must be his book. I do not know if I should inform him of my idea, it is possible that he felt frustrated at not being able to write it himself. I read a paragraph that strikes me: "The day is dark for the cursed poets, and the night is clear and welcoming for us; the light damages our eyes accustomed to darkness. In the darkness there are no visible paths, it is necessary to travel them with the imagination. During the day all the paths where you are forced to travel are visible. That is why only in the darkness we are free, while in the light of day we are slaves. I have chosen the darkness of death, because on the other side of the darkness there is always light. I will be reborn in a new world saturated with light, where I will live eternally." Will it really be like that? How can I know in life? My good friend will check it very soon, and I should arrange with him a spell to cross our dimension and inform me. Would it be possible? The short break was good for him. He has woken up in a good mood and agrees to tell me his story. I make coffee for both of us; I sit comfortably in the armchair and listen to him with great attention. -My agent knew I had betrayed the other woman, but he didn't feel guilty. He believed she was infinitely more beneficial to my career than my partner. As an agent, she prioritized the success of those she represented over her feelings. In just three months we managed to place my novel among the top 10 best sellers, and two months later, we reached first place. She had kept her promise! She knew all the levers to promote the novel of a perfect stranger. And sometimes those levers didn't move very ethically or morally. Our extra-professional relationship was not very satisfying for both of us. I was not a lover up to her demands. The truth is that for one reason or another I have never been a great lover. When he managed to place me on the cusp of popularity he stopped being interested in me. His passion was to bring young writers out of anonymity and share their triumphs in a very personal and physical way. For the first six months I did not have the courage to concern myself with the fate of the victim of my ambition, but not a day passed without the memory of her and my betrayal weighing on my conscience. I had promised myself that as soon as my career was consolidated and free from the bonds of my contract with my agent, I would seek her out and propose to her to resume our old dreams of glory, and we would once again become the writing couple she had imagined. I already had the means to make it happen. But I still had a year's commitment to my agent. No, that woman does not deserve this man's affection; and of course he is not guilty. If he is guilty, to live is sin! Nothing fundamental that we human beings do is righteous, because we are driven by necessity and not by will, but this is what living is all about. We have all inherited "original sin." -My agent didn't wait for our contract to end before finding a new lover. Another young writer, as ignorant and inexperienced as I was. Surely he would offer him the same fame and success as me, but he hadn't won any contests. He may not have been a better writer than me, but he was probably a better lover. By then I had not only risen to the top of the popularity charts, but I had created a saga that virtually assured the success of my future novels. That's why I decided that the time had come to repair the damage done, to meet her again, to try to get her to forgive me, and to make up for lost time, which had been very profitable for me. But there was no trace of her - he remains silent for a few moments, I think he realizes the desolation that awaited him if he did not manage to find the whereabouts of that woman -. She was hidden in a remote location that had little contact with the rest of the country, and no one knew with whom she was associated during her stay at the university. She never revealed the name of that town, which also did not coincide with her birthplace. Her father was the secretary of the Town Hall and had already made several transfers to that position in that small town. All my inquiries were useless. To make matters worse, she had adopted an artistic name to sign her poetry by which she was known, and not by her real name, which even I do not know! -So, is it true that you have exhausted all attempts to find her? -I ask him, although he has already given me the answer. -All the ones in my hands. I assumed that she had removed all traces of where she was so that I could not locate her. I didn't know I had lost my memory. I still let the year that was left in our contract go by, never for one day failing to try some other means of getting hold of her, but all my efforts proved futile. I finally came to the conclusion that she did not want to be located, because otherwise after two years there was no reason for her not to be the one to try to contact me. I did not believe her to be so spiteful, and I gave up looking for her. Two years of hard work, of having reached the pinnacle of popularity and having the necessary means to realize our dream, were meaningless and useless; in other words: they had gone to waste! -But she says the opposite: that you had no intention of tracking him down. -For her, I must have already been dead; there was no need to wait for me to suffer from this disease! -And how did you live the following years? -The following years I did not live; I survived! I had no other incentive than those commissioned novels, one every year, twenty thorns stuck in my mind! I had thousands of admirers, but not a single one to whom I could confide. When you write novels for ordinary people, don't expect to find a single one out of the ordinary. It's been such a lost few years for her, even though she has an excellent memory. 31. Confidences of a mother (Narrator Naomi) My father has not told me the whole story of his relationship with my mother. Now that he has regained his memory and I know the real story from my mother, I think maybe she is right and does not deserve my forgiveness. My mother could have prevented my birth by having me aborted, which she possibly would have done if my father had known of my gestation. If I was gestated it is because she believed she loved him and did not want to lose him, but he did not know how to value her sacrifice and abandoned her. She knew that she had accepted the representation of that vicious and heartless woman, and she was so naive that she thought she could compete with her. What else could she do to keep him by her side? It was of no use for her to write the best poems and dedicate them to him, because he had ceased to be interested in the poetess, and of course in the woman, but he did not have the courage to be honest with her. My poor mother has been crying practically since she has arrived at my house. It has been very painful to come face to face with a man who had shown so little courage in hiding his infidelity from her. -It's easy to regret when one senses death.... -she says to me between sobs-. You had to be the one to find him.... If he had put more effort years ago he would have found me, but success, and surely his many admirers, kept him very busy. I cannot reproach him for his resentment, twenty years lost in a few hours are not forgotten just because he suffers from an incurable disease. He is the cause of my mother also suffering from an incurable disease, but of the soul. But I am deeply saddened by this situation. I wish I could have found a justification for both of them, because deep down I believe they are both good people. They both have noble souls, and, if they have hurt each other there must be a powerful reason. My father blames his passion for literature and perhaps he is right. To create it is necessary to leave this world and contemplate it without an emotional relationship, otherwise it is not possible to understand it. I suppose that in order to create characters with different personalities, the author does not have to be emotionally linked to any of them. When my father was immersed in the creation of his novels, his relationship with the world around him, including my mother, must have changed and they were no longer people but characters. His life was a fiction and his relationship with my mother, the plot of some of his future novels. As it was. If I intend to follow in his footsteps and be as good a writer as he is, I must avoid creating emotional ties with anyone in this world, because, as he himself told me, and which I have not been able to forget, "If you dream of being an out-of-the-ordinary writer, your life will pass within that same out-of-the-ordinary dream, and you will never be able to live in reality." My mother also lived her out-of-the-ordinary dream, but she made the clumsy mistake of falling in love with one of her characters. I cannot expose this reflection to my mother because she might not be able to understand it. Although she has regained her memory, she still lives in her fictional world, and my father is a character of her imagination who has accidentally incarnated himself in the body of a lover. They should wake up from their respective dreams and contemplate each other as they are. Only then could they know how they really feel about each other, but how to wake up from a dream someone who doesn't know he is dreaming? I know it is useless, but I try to make my mother see this other point of view: -I understand that you are hurt, but perhaps your passion for literature played a trick on you, neither of you knew what the other was really like. Love is blind, and only sees what it imagines it sees. Maybe you were in love with someone who existed only in your imagination. My mother has reacted, and she looks at me confused and suspicious. She doesn't seem to have understood what I meant. I try to be more explicit: -What I mean is that both you and he needed each other as admirers of your respective works, which is what you really loved. When my father found another admirer, he no longer needed you, but you still needed him. I think he still doesn't understand my thoughts about his relationships. I'm afraid he thinks I'm trying to justify it. -Naomi, daughter, I don't know what you're trying to tell me! His guilt is evident, he took advantage of my innocence. I always tried to justify his lack of interest because I blindly believed that, in spite of everything, he was still faithful to me. It wasn't the first time that woman had made him late for our appointments, but that night I needed to see him and let him know that I was pregnant with your child, and I didn't know how he might react. He was not likely to want to be a father at this delicate time in his career. He needed to know as soon as possible, but I didn't think it was appropriate to tell him in writing or over the phone. I wanted to see his first reaction to know whether he would accept you or reject you. So, you can imagine my enormous frustration and anguish, because of his absence. In spite of the pain, I tried to believe that he had some powerful reason for not coming to the appointment, I was still blindly trusting in his fidelity! His expression has changed. She seems to be feeling the desolation and pain of that night. I can see it in the wrinkles on her forehead and in the wetness of her eyelids, she is about to cry again. -I was so distressed and helpless that after waiting uselessly for him for more than an hour, I did not return directly to my apartment. The night was warm and clear so I felt like taking a walk. I thought a long, relaxing walk would calm my anguish and I wandered through the busy streets, to mingle with the people and distract myself from my thoughts. I was confident that the next day we would have a chance to meet. And that's when I had the terrible shock that caused my amnesia. In one of these streets, there was a nightclub of ill fame, and I was contemplating the obscene photographs of the claim, when he descended from a cab, accompanied by that woman, who took him by the arm and they entered the club. They both seemed intoxicated. That image gave me a strong impact and I felt as if my head was going to explode. When I recovered from that terrible shock, I didn't know where I was, nor did I have the slightest idea how I had gotten there? -I didn't know where I lived, I didn't even remember my name! Near that place there was a small park, belonging to a parish in the neighborhood. Most of the benches were lined with homeless people. I was terrified, but I needed to rest, and I let myself fall exhausted on the only one that was free. Moments later a woman from the urban police patrolling the neighborhood was surprised by my appearance, which was not that of a beggar and wanted me to identify myself, but I could not answer any of her questions, so they understood that I was in a state of shock, and took me to the police station of the neighborhood... You know the rest... For God's sake! Why do I have to face this horrible dilemma? If I save one I condemn the other! Where is the justice? Which of the two is truly innocent and which is truly guilty? And why does one of them have to be guilty? Why can't they both be innocent? They each have their reasons for doing what they have done and I am unable to judge them. I suppose only God can judge them! My mother is packing her little travel bag, because she is about to take the first train of the morning. There will be no opportunity for reconciliation. She will probably not be at his bedside when he passes away. She does not want to return to this city that brings back such bad memories. She is determined to forget him, but now voluntarily. Who knows, now that she has regained her memory and can live a normal life, maybe she will meet another man with whom she can rebuild her traumatic life. And me, what should I do? I want her to give me the answer herself: -Mom, I understand that you resent him and want to forget about him, but what should I do? He's my father, and he's a dying man! Should I be at his bedside when he passes away? His answer plunges me deeper into my uncertainty: -My daughter, do what your conscience dictates, you are already an adult, you must decide for yourself.... Now I am the one who feels like crying. -I don't want to be an adult! 32. Naomi's mother (Narrator: Naomi's mother) It is not yet dawn and we are ready to head for the station. My train leaves in an hour and the station is not far, but we will take advantage of the time to have breakfast in the cafeteria. My daughter is not used to these early mornings and is still sleepy. She has insisted on accompanying me to the station, but now I can manage on my own perfectly well. The cab is waiting for us on the street and in less than twenty minutes it drops us off at the station. I look nostalgically at the cityscape of my youth that I will never see again. We have plenty of time to chat, but first we need a strong coffee to clear our heads. We sit at a separate table in the cafeteria and Naomi brings me coffees and two croissants that are still warm. We have breakfast in silence. She waits for me to tell her something about what my life will be like from now on in my small town. I tell her that nothing will change, but that I will now try to publish some of my poems. -Even if they are dedicated to my father? -Why not? A poem is a poem, and it doesn't matter to whom it is dedicated, what matters is that it moves feelings and emotions. -But he can read them. -He has not lost his memory; he has nothing to remember. -Will you ever come back to this city? -No, Naomi, my poor child, I will never set foot in this city again. He's been dead to me for twenty years! He took his own life the night he went to that notorious club on the arm of that woman. She dug her own grave, and then erased the epitaph on his grave, because she too forgot her victim. For me he has remained dead these twenty years, until he was momentarily resurrected to revive again his agony. I have written the last verse dedicated to him, which can serve as a panegyric: I die when I am still young; I die when I am still an adult; I resurrect when I am about to die; I die again when I was about to live. -This is my farewell gift until death wills to take me to his side as well. Then we will know which of us two has done justly. Literature will lose a writer with all his talent barely used and a poetess with all her talent barely remembered. No, Naomi, I don't want to force you to choose who to condemn or who to save. Your soul and mind do not belong to us, only your body. You have received your soul from God, and only you have the possibility of discovering what your true personality is. Don't try to imitate us and choose your own path, which may lead you to be a great writer, but you could also be an excellent doctor or a great soccer player. You owe us nothing. We begot you by our recklessness, without that being our desire, as most human beings are begotten. It is we who are indebted to you, but we do not have the means to compensate you for our mistakes. You were born free and you are free to choose who deserves your affection and your memory. Your mother will always welcome you with open arms, but live your life and do not feel pity or expect comfort from us. If you need comfort, learn to comfort yourself; if you need support, learn to lean on yourself; if you need compassion, learn to pity yourself and if you need love, learn to love yourself. It may not have been the advice a mother should give her daughter, but at least in this I agree with her father, people are only united by the affections that their works arouse; without works there can be no affections. -Your father and I were happy when we both admired each other's work, but when he stopped being interested in my poetry and I stopped admiring his, because he stopped writing short stories to devote himself to writing novels inspired by his perverse agent, we had no reason to love each other anymore. But I didn't want to accept that that talented young writer would let himself be handled by his agent, and I continued to admire the author of "Poetas sin cielo". Now I know how wrong I was! Only if he returned to being the writer I idolized could I forgive him. But perhaps for him it is already too late. That must be his destiny and this must be mine. The public address system at the station announces the imminent departure of my train. My poor daughter has felt it as if they were announcing the departure of a train to eternity with no return, because she looks at me in anguish and I know she is making great efforts to hold back her tears. -Mom, if I have to be an adult, I want to be like you. I love you very much... but also my wretched father... -I know, you have a generous heart because you are young. With age it shrinks and becomes more selfish, but more faithful and demanding. -No, we'll say goodbye here.... Take good care of yourself, and don't pout like when you were a child, or you'll make me cry too. Give me a farewell smile! Naomi tries to please me, but her smile is a cheerful way of crying. My heart breaks into a thousand pieces as I walk away from her dragging my small travel suitcase as if it were my coffin. When I finally step through the door onto the platform and she can no longer see me, I let my downtrodden soul vent freely and cry silently.... I can't help but feel guilty for having lived! 33. The second novel (Narrator: Alicia) I have read the manuscript of her first novel twice and I think I am ready to take on this important challenge. Of course I will alter some things, she has to understand the reasons for his abandonment and be able to justify it. This man cannot leave this world without a clear conscience and I will not be able to convince him that he is innocent. But I have little time, I have long sleepless nights ahead of me! I heard from Naomi that her mother has returned to her hometown and it seems she has no intention of ever going back. Fortunately Noemi still considers me a good friend she can trust. She has not told me expressly, but she is going through a very difficult time. We have arranged to meet at the coffee shop where I met her father, but he will not attend, because I will not inform him of our meeting. I want Naomi to have nothing that prevents her from opening her heart to me and telling me what conclusions she has drawn after what her mother has told me about her father's behavior. I need that information to finish getting an idea of the plot of this new novel. Now she knows the whole story, but according to her mother's version, I want her to know her father's version as well. I am taking advantage of the fact that she is spending the morning at the hospital to meet her. I am the first to arrive and I sit at the same table as that day. In front of the table there are some large mirrors where I see myself reflected and I can hardly believe that this woman is me. My gaze has become severe, or rather, cold and disenchanted. I no longer find myself neither ugly nor beautiful, just sober and adult. I don't need to attract anyone's attention either, because I already have someone to pay all my attention to, that's why I dress again with the same old-fashioned clothes I wore when I arrived from the provinces. I even notice that my movements are slower and my appearance in general suggests that of a simple social worker. I feel more like myself than in those provocative clothes. How little they esteem themselves who need to hide themselves in the way they dress! Naomi has just arrived. She has all the appearance of a helpless and confused creature. She stands hesitantly in the doorway, as if afraid of being discovered. She hasn't seen me, or perhaps hasn't recognized me in my new guise, and she motions to leave. I signal her with my arm, and as she recognizes me she seems to come back to life. She smiles as if I have saved her from some imaginary danger. She sits down across from me. She asks me about her father's health. -I don't want to deceive you Noemi, all these events have affected him... I don't think he will make it through this winter -his smile has turned into a bitter expression of deep sadness-. I think that what is worsening his health is his deep depression after your mother's rejection. Naomi lowers her gaze, as if she does not want me to notice the conflict of her divided feelings in her eyes. We keep a few moments of silence in memory of her dying father. She has nothing to say, I am the one who starts the conversation. -May I ask you why your mother does not want to hear your father's confession? She tells me the real cause and not the one we all believed. I'm afraid the mother has a powerful reason for her spiteful attitude. Even I would find it hard to forgive her if I were in her place. Betrayal now has a pornographic image, something simply intolerable for a sensitive poetess. In her delusions she must have imagined him as a satyr with the face of an angel. How can I justify that scene? Why did they go to that club after, in all probability, they had drunk to excess during the romantic private dinner? There must be a good reason that exculpates him. -Dear friend, sometimes I wonder, especially as a writer, what is the use of language if we cannot understand each other. Perhaps it would have been better to communicate with a few sounds to express our basic feelings, as animals do, because words, no matter how cultured, creative or realistic we may be, are not capable of expressing ourselves as clearly as those simple sounds. Your parents are two excellent people, and they would have understood each other with simple sounds, without using words. The use of words has confused and separated them. It is a biblical curse! The same words have different meanings depending on who pronounces them and how they are pronounced. The heart does not understand the meaning of words, but the tone with which they are pronounced. The meaning is the task of the mind, but the mind lacks feelings, it doesn't care about one word or another. Your mother only listens to what is said if it is poetic; but your father only pays attention to what is said if it resembles the dialogues of a novel. Neither listens to what the other really says! -Yes; they themselves admit that their passion for literature is what has separated them! -No, Noemí; it is not literature, but words. Literature is a noble attempt to give some emotional or intellectual meaning to words so that their messages are clear to the senses. But life is not a novel, we don't know who the characters are or what the plot is about or even know its author. We trust that words and their meanings are enough to go through the world with morality and a sense of justice, but all we do is invent moralities and justice with words that do not have the same meaning for everyone, so there can be no morality or justice as long as there are words. Naomi seems to ponder my thoughts. She has come to a wise conclusion: -So, do you think they are both guilty? -No doubt, but it is an inevitable sin, because we need words, not to understand each other, but to communicate. That is why literature that is born of this curse and tries to redeem itself is so necessary, but not literature that is born already cursed and rejoices in its evil, as a pig wallows in its excrement. We writers have only one mission: to free words from the flames of hell and make them reach heaven. We are the fallen angels in this hell, while we inhabit the Earth, and of heaven, when we leave it. -And what can I do to reconcile them? -Words will not reconcile them, unless they are spoken in such a way that the heart understands them. -What do you mean? -Your mother will only react if she receives the message in poetry! -And who will write this poetry? -The person who loves them the most... You will write it. It will be your debut in this magical world of Literature and you will pass with an A, because you have the main thing: a great motivation. I know she feels overwhelmed, but at the same time I notice in her eyes the spark of genius that demands her chance. -But my mother would only be reconciled if he proves to her with a new novel that he is the same one who wrote "Poets Without Heaven", and that she has unconsciously loved these twenty years.... -Your father will write it! I don't want to reveal to Naomi that I will be the one to write it, because unconsciously I might reveal it to her mother and all the work would be useless. -Alicia, you have never told me why you feel obliged to take care of my father, because you always address him as "you", which is not proper for a mistress.... Do you have anything to do with his publisher or his manager? I had always feared that Naomi would ask me this question. But I don't have a clear answer even if I ask it to myself. Only a month ago I was a woman in love with a famous writer, whom I was physically attracted to and admired for his talent, so I had no doubt about the causes. Now my feelings have gone beyond love and are in an unknown dimension, which is probably not of this world. Thanks to his illness we have found ourselves in a dimension that goes beyond the human and must have something to do with the divine, and that must be hidden in our astral personality. Only in extreme situations do we penetrate this dimension, which creates eternal bonds. It is as if I am helping this man to enter that dimension, which must be the myth of Paradise, where we will meet again and be lovers for all eternity, so we can spare no effort to achieve it. I am trying to secure the love of this man after his death, so I cannot feel jealous of his mother, who will only be able to love him with that earthly, temporary love of human beings, when I reserve for myself his eternal and divine love. But Naomi would not understand. -Your father and I are, in addition to professional colleagues, old friends. I feel obliged to help him die a good death. I would do the same for any of my friends and fellow writers. 34. The wording Today I started writing the novel. I have the strange feeling that I am fulfilling a divine mandate; the will comes to me from an unknown source. The salvation or damnation of a human soul depends on its outcome. It is as if I were donating blood to a badly wounded person. I begin with that terrifying phrase for all writers: "Chapter One. It is like opening the bonds of the imagination, in a perfect union with the mind. It is absolutely necessary that the first lines arouse in Naomi's mother the need to read the following remaining lines or failure is assured. These are my first lines: "The main characters of this story did not meet by chance, but by destiny. But for twenty years they put all their efforts into going against what was written in the stars. This is the story of two lovers united by literature, but separated by words." I think it's a good beginning, and only with a good beginning is a good ending possible. Now I have to create the author of the novel, because this novel will not be written by me but by my characters. Also in real life things work the same way. God has created man, and has endowed him with the necessary understanding so that he can decide for himself the plot of his story. I continue: "These characters are two young people with the defects and virtues of all young people: utopian, independent, rebellious, reckless, nonconformist, generous, innocent and unbelieving. Like all young people, they do not live in the present, but in the future; they have no history, only a great desire to make history. Nor do they have experience, only experiences. They are not wise, they only have the desire to know. They make the simple complicated, because they believe that the simple is for old people or children, but not for them. They are, in short, two young people of our time, but as young people have been in all times. She has a passion for the sensitivity of Garcilaso and he for the imagination of Cervantes; she adores Dante Alighieri, he Lope de Vega; she is a poet, he is a storyteller. She knows she has talent and is sure of herself; he doubts her talent, and has no confidence in himself. But she believes in him and decides to postpone temporarily his inevitable conquest of fame and glory in order to help the insecure young narrator, so that they can walk the road to glory together, without one overshadowing the other." Four exhausting weeks have already passed. The novel is progressing at the same rate as my strength is waning. I have reached the critical point of separation and I have no difficulty in exonerating my death row inmate of all guilt. Where can the writer find the source of his inspiration if not in real life? How can he describe a brothel, observe the deep sadness that encloses the false joy of the prostitutes; the eagerness to make even the smallest drop of pleasure received pay, if he has never been in a brothel? How can a writer with her wings intact and free to fly wherever she pleases, clip another writer's so that he does not stray too far from his nest? Poetry springs from the soul; narrative from life. The poet sees the world from a cloud; the storyteller from the sewers. Poetry is music; narrative is noise. Naomi's mother still sees the world from a cloud, and if she does not descend to dry land she will never know that clouds become rain, and rainwater runs in the gutters! I have used these notes in this decisive chapter : "It was no surprise to find a table set up in his unmistakable style for two diners. Champagne set to chill, caviar canapés and other delicacies. I even knew that he would choose the most provocative clothes, in other words, it was nothing more than a novel scenario that I was to describe in the novel I was writing at the time. It was my clever agent's peculiar form of collaboration. But there were still some complicated scenes to describe for which I lacked the necessary imagery and could easily fall into ridicule. I discussed it with my agent and he suggested we pay a visit to one of the less reputable clubs in town, where I would surely have the images I needed. But I remembered my appointment. It was a painful decision. I knew she would be outraged, but a woman who has a writer for a partner must be used to such rudeness. Would she be angry if I were a doctor who missed her appointment because she had to treat a sick person? With my novels, I also treat thousands of people who are sick with boredom and lack of entertainment. Tomorrow I'll excuse myself and she'll understand! Before that excursion to the most nauseating bowels of the city, we finished the champagne, because sober we would not have had the courage to enter that brothel." "Unfortunately it was a fatal coincidence that she, frustrated and hurt by my absence, strolled down the street where the club was located and surprised us as we got out of the cab and entered the club somewhat dizzy, so that my agent had to lean on my arm. If it was true that he had blind trust in my fidelity, he had to wait until the next day to see that, despite appearances condemning me, I was still faithful. But that misleading image exceeded all her capacity for tolerance, and wounded her deeply, causing her the fatal trauma that has kept us apart for these past twenty years!" If after reading this she doesn't forgive you, this woman has lost her soul! 35. Winter The slower you want time to pass the faster it insists on passing. I've been so busy this past month that I haven't been aware of the passage of time and it's already winter! After her interview with her mother, Naomi is less affectionate with her father. Whatever her mother may have told her about her relationship with her father has affected her noticeably. There is something that separates them, but Naomi does not want to discuss with him her encounter with her mother, and her version of what happened. If she hides it, it must be because it must be something very lurid and that she does not dare to comment on. She has also become accustomed to her father's illness, she even seems to be mentally prepared to accept his untimely death, and only visits him once a week. Her apology is that she is so busy with her exams that she can barely stay for an hour in his apartment, and doesn't even stay for dinner. Since her hasty return, we have heard nothing from the mother. She seems buried in absolute silence. At least Naomi does not mention her. Unfortunately, it is as if all our behavior has entered into an irresponsible routine, without us being truly aware of the seriousness of the moment. Your father has had to be admitted several times to the emergency room, because his illness is getting alarmingly worse. Every time I call an ambulance to transport him to the hospital, he begs me to let him die in his bed. He is horrified by hospitals, because he believes that everyone there is so familiar with death that they cause it themselves! The pains cloud his mind and in those critical moments he totally loses the will to live, but I cannot accede to his wishes, because I still need him to survive at least long enough to see my purpose through. The novel is practically finished, because it is not very long. Only a few corrections are missing. I had some difficulty in finding a good denouement, but I think I have solved it satisfactorily. Your publisher will have no knowledge of this novel, of which I will publish only a few copies, enough to fulfill its purpose and no more. About the poem to be written by Noemi, maybe I overestimated her talent, but I still trust her, she will surprise me any day. My plan is that by Christmas the reconciliation will be consummated, and, at last, I will also be able to reconcile with myself. Perhaps I will also take advantage of this painful experience to write my own novel with my own version of events, but most likely I will dedicate my next work to the memory of this great man. As I expected, Naomi has not let me down, and has written a touching poem that is sure to influence her mother's mood. In any case, I don't think he will follow in his parents' footsteps. She is too down-to-earth and too grounded. She would make a good researcher, or teacher. If her parents have problems it is because of her artistic, creative, fickle, unpredictable temperament. It is difficult to live with an artist. 36. The last winter (Narrator: the sick person) This will be, if medicine does not prevent it, my last winter. I would like to live it intensely, but life slips through my fingers like fine grains of sand on a beach. Soon I will have left this troubled world. With each passing day I feel more and more familiar with death. With each new dawn the sun rises darker for me, and its light grows dimmer. Slowly what was a nightmare becomes a dream. As life punishes me, death rewards me. Death seemed like a drama to me before I knew the true face of life. Now that I know it, death seems to me a comedy, and it causes me an irresistible desire to laugh. In the end I will end up turning my death into a great event and I will sit in the stalls with a real longing for the curtain to rise. I may be starting to lose my mind, but that must be the mind's strategy to elude suffering. Blessed is madness when sanity allies itself with pain so that you suffer it consciously! But I wish to be an exceptional witness to my own death, because it is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I am a writer. If I intend to describe death in my novels, I must have experienced it! I know it seems an absurd thought, but more absurd is to believe that our mind and spirit do not transcend beyond the threshold of death. I believe that everything we have come to conceive and imagine will somehow remain, and transcend our death, to be the foundations of the personality of a new life at the instant of its gestation, into whom we will transmigrate. I also know that this is a naive consolation, because no one has been able to prove such a theory. Others believe that their souls will ascend to heaven, remain in purgatory or descend to hell, where they will be reunited with other soul mates, virtuous or sinful. This is the most popular version. In my theory there are no heavens or hells, but there is overcoming or degradation. A wicked and depraved soul can transmigrate into the fetus of a beast. It is not the most popular, but I believe it must be so. Now I spend most of the day bedridden and my mind is only clear when the sedatives take effect and the pain disappears, more and more intensely. Alicia spends the day with me, but at night, after she leaves me sedated and I manage to fall asleep, she goes back to her apartment, only to return first thing in the morning. She must be exhausted, because sometimes she falls asleep on the couch and it is me who watches over her sleep. She has brought her laptop with her, on which she passes the time when I sleep. She says she is working on her new novel about the ballerina, but she doesn't want to read anything to me until it is finished. She has become very superstitious and thinks it brings bad luck. I find her getting worse and worse every day, even thinner. I fear that she may also fall ill. Today is one of the coldest days of the winter. A heavy snow is falling and the flakes seem to go crazy as they are pushed by a strong gusty wind, which is constantly changing direction. Like every morning, I hear the pleasant rattle of the lock as Alice arrives at my apartment. She is shivering with cold and completely soaked. I suggest she put on one of my robes and dry her clothes on the heating radiator. Many times I have held her body in my arms, but I had never seen her naked. This morning I finally had that opportunity. I see the body of an attractive but not provocative woman; sensual but not sexual. It is harmonious but not erotic. It's just a human being's body. It feels better already. As she prepares my breakfast, I inquire about her career situation, which she seems to have abandoned because of me. -Alicia, how are things going with my agent? Did he get you a contract? Alicia denies it with a slight nod of her head. -And has he given you any reason? -Publishers don't like novels where there is no sex, or at least something that excites their imagination, and my novels find them too intellectual or spiritual. -Yes, I think my first agent seduced me into having a firsthand sexual experience and being able to describe it in minute detail. That was also one of the keys to the success of my novels. Sexuality is not an invention of culture, it is a natural reality and there is no reason for it not to be part of a plot, but it should not be described as a simple sexual relationship, similar to that of animals, because what characterizes a human being is that from all his natural experiences he extracts a moral evaluation, which does not exist in animals. Among humans, sex cannot be exempt from this same morality. Most novels dispense with this necessary moral premise to describe it as a purely animal relationship and, therefore, immoral. It is not true that in war as in love anything goes. In war there are also rules of conduct, so why shouldn't there be in sexuality? Alicia listens attentively to my brief dissertation on sexuality and seems to agree, but qualifies a few details. -Morality is relative, and its values are not shared by all, that is why I believe that sexuality has to be based on other more realistic norms, that satisfies desire without incurring in prostitution.... -And what are these standards? -Of course, mutual consent, and respect for the sensitivity of each lover, provided that both are aware of the consequences of this relationship. That attitude is already sufficiently moral. No lover should be considered an object of pleasure, but pleasure should have an object, that of mutual satisfaction of the senses, without creating a bad conscience: the contrary would be prostitution! 37. Last Christmas (Narrator: Naomi's mother) Once again I am in this small and remote town. It has welcomed me with the first snowfall of this year and I feel that the snow is also falling on my soul. Now that I have recovered my memory, the last twenty years of blessed amnesia seem like a brief instant. Were it not for the wrinkles, those of the face and those of the soul, I would not know that time has passed. To remember for what; to recognize the cause of your amnesia; to see again that painful scene at the entrance of that brothel; to relive those dreams cut short by the ambition of a disloyal friend? For this it is better not to remember! Now I have to forget what I have remembered so that it does not continue to disturb me and to meet again with poetry, which is my only friend and confidant. The only one that is loyal and for no cause, justified or not, betrays you. We are only what we believe in and believe, the rest is a chimera, because it only exists in our imagination. I imagined him as I wished him to be, but he was not as I imagined him to be, because no one can penetrate the mind and soul of another person. They will always let us down! Now I have to follow the same advice I gave Naomi: If you need comfort, learn to comfort yourself; if you need support, learn to lean on yourself; if you need compassion, learn to pity yourself; and if you need love, learn to love yourself. What would have become of me if he hadn't won that untimely award? Would we still be together, would he have grown tired of me? We would probably be separated. I remember the night of the recital. He didn't say goodbye to me because he was jealous of my friends. But, on the other hand, only those who love feel jealous. And what would have become of his literary career if he had not met that woman? Naomi wants me to read her novels, but she herself assures me that they are well written and interesting, but lack motivation. They don't convey anything transcendental or human, they are novels to regale the ears of ordinary people, without ambition, conformist and resigned to their vulgarity. If I had helped him, he might not be so famous, but he would be better regarded and would have more incentive. He had the talent to write something more ambitious; something that deserved to go down to posterity. I just got an email from Naomi, I miss her so much! She should write to me more often. I open it, unable to contain my excitement: "Dear Mom, in two weeks it will be Christmas again and this year I don't know with whom of the two of you I am supposed to spend this lovely time of the year. You know how much I love you, but it hurts me that my father spends them alone, being so sick. My heart is still divided between the two of you, and I can't decide on either of you, because I wish I could spend them with both of you!" My poor daughter is in an unbearable emotional struggle. I should write to her and tell her that I won't mind if she doesn't come and spend it with her father. Someone has to sacrifice, because neither of us has done more to deserve her affection! "I have another important piece of news for you: Alicia has given me several copies of Dad's latest autobiographical novel. In spite of being very weak she has kept her promise. I've read it and I couldn't help crying with joy, but I won't tell you why, it's better if you read it and find out for yourself. Will you promise me you'll read it? I'll send you a copy by mail. I also enclose my first poem dedicated to the two of you. I already told you at the station that I wished I was like you. I hope you like it. A very strong hug from your daughter who loves you and misses you, Noemí." God knows that I would make any sacrifice so that Naomi would be happy and not have to suffer for our faults, but He asks the impossible of me! Betrayal has no redemption. Jesus would not have forgiven Judas either, nor does God forgive the devil. One betrayal is enough, now I cannot also betray myself. No, Naomi, my poor child, you cannot yet understand how the wounds of the heart hurt. Mine has bled for twenty years, and now it needs to heal its wound, it may happen tomorrow or never. Everything is written in destiny. Let it decide for us. She tells me that her father has published a new novel, and that it is autobiographical. I have a feeling that it must not leave me in a good place among his memories. Why is Naomi so keen for me to read it? I'm not spiteful. I, too, wish everything had happened differently. I also long for those happy campus days; that insecure young writer who needed my help; those dreams practically within our grasp. But he reneged on everything in exchange for thirty pieces of silver. God is just and has sent him the punishment he deserves! However, the paths of the Lord are inscrutable, thanks to my weakness this daughter of mine was born, who promises to surpass both of us and to be the comfort of both of us. Only God knows what is right and what is wrong. If I stand firm it will be His will and if he must die with regrets, so must he. Today has dawned with a dense blanket of snow that evens everything with the same whiteness. You can hardly walk through these steep alleys. I met the letter carrier on my way out of the bakery and he handed me the envelope with the book Noemi sent me. We all know each other here and there is no need for mailboxes. If I didn't know it also contained a poem by my daughter I wouldn't even open it, but I want to see if Noemí will become a great poet or if she is following the wrong path. I open it and am painfully struck by the title of the book: "Si tú fueras..., Memorias de dos amantes unidos por la literatura y separados por las palabras" (If you were..., Memoirs of two lovers united by literature and separated by words). What does he intend with this title? But I see Noemi's poem. It is not very long. I read it: "I WAS BORN OF FORGOTTEN PARENTS For love or lack of love, by charm or disenchantment, of two unknown lovers I was born of oblivion. As a baby I had no one to rock me, as a child I had no one to spoil me, as an adult I had no one to counsel me because I was born of forgotten parents I met my father when he was dying, I met my mother when I didn't remember, I knew myself when I cried, because we continue to be forgotten. I write you this simple poem to make you forget what you have remembered and remember what you have forgotten of the writer you had loved. Your loving daughter, Naomi." It is a poem worthy of my daughter. You could not have expressed her wishes better. It has touched the depths of my aching soul. I feel guilty that I have ignored my daughter's yearnings. Perhaps she has the right perspective on this drama and I am fixated on my revenge. Perhaps, after all, it is written in destiny that I must forgive her. But how do I know, who can advise me, should I turn to a priest, do they know more about the human soul than we do, have they been given the grace of faith by God himself, so that they are closer to virtue than other human beings? I have lost faith and trusted only in my own judgment, without waiting for the miracle of revelation, but after reading my daughter's moving poem I am beginning to doubt my moral certainties and the time may have come to ask for advice from one who is devoted to the salvation of souls, and mine must be at risk of damnation. If my daughter wishes, I think I should read this new novel. 38. The alarm (Narrator: Alicia) I have to warn Naomi, her father is dying! I know it's against his will, and it's the will of a dying man, but I'm going to call the hospital to have him admitted. He has to hang on to life for a few more days. I can't accept that this woman has no heart. She has to come and save him from the hell of his remorse or he will not rest in peace and we will not be able to meet in that place in the cosmos reserved for our souls. He is bedridden. He can hardly move anymore and has no desire to speak to me. But he follows my every movement with a dull, lifeless look, as if he could only move the girls in his eyes. But in that cloudy, dying look there must be a lucid mind, unaffected by the disease, and he must be thinking about his situation. I can almost read his thoughts. He accepts that his journey through this world has come to an end, and he awaits death with serenity and resignation. He will also dedicate some of his last thoughts to me. I know he hears me, I can see it in the flicker of his eyes, and I have to try to comfort him: -I know you can hear me," he blinks slightly, "You have not been a strong man, for geniuses are weaker the more wisdom they acquire, but illness has given you the strength to accept it without complaint or lamentation. Each day that passes and your end approaches, my love for you increases with the same proportion. At the moment of your death I will be the most in love woman in the universe. I know that this does not console you.... don't be sad, because she will come! But you have to keep a titanic pulse with death. Don't let it take you until it gives you its blessing! -I hold her trembling hand, which is now barely strong enough to know how she reacts. You must forgive me, but I have to call the hospital to prolong your life as long as possible. When she and Naomi arrive we will bring you back here and you can die as I know you wish: holding her hand until your last breath. Then our real life will begin. Then I will not be the ugly, clumsy, provincial girl, but a luminous soul who will meet yours and remain united for eternity. But if you die without his blessing, your soul will wander erratically from one universe to another eternally, never finding peace, and I will be alone for eternity. I know you will do this for me. I try to pull my hand away to dial the hospital phone, but I feel a slight pressure and his gaze seems to come alive. I think he's trying to tell me something. Maybe he wants me to keep shaking his hand. Yes, that must be it. -You don't want me to call the hospital, or stop shaking your hand, do you? -she confirms with a weak blink. Okay, I won't call the hospital, but you have to be strong and hold on until she and your daughter Naomi arrive. He closes his eyes and I get the feeling he's trying to tell me it's too late. Does this mean he could die at any moment? 39. A fatal destiny (Narrator: Naomi's mother) I have not been able to finish reading your latest novel. I think it's enough to make me feel close to hell, when I thought I was close to heaven! Why did fate set that monstrous trap for me? Why didn't I trust his loyalty? How is it possible that a deceitful image could have stolen the best twenty years of our lives? Who drove me to be in that place at that precise moment? The devil? The devil? What monstrous sin had I committed to deserve such a punishment? Poor man, all these years he could not tell me what had really happened! If he had known, of course I would have forgiven him! How could he write the novels I inspired in him if he has felt guilty all these years? I must write urgently to Naomi, telling her of my desire to return as soon as possible and show her father my repentance and my desire for reconciliation. There will probably be no happier person in this world than her when she receives my message! But I also feel as if my heart is no longer oppressed for the first time in twenty years, and is overflowing with joy, and I feel that it is beating again as strongly as when I was eighteen years old, the day I met this wretched writer over a slice of strawberry cream pie! That must be the happiness that forgiveness causes! Blessed be God who has enlightened me! I am desperate and on the verge of a new crisis: the latest snowstorm has left us incommunicado! There is no way to communicate with Naomi. I know from experience of other years that we will be cut off for several days, and he may die at any moment! Why, what evil force interferes with our destiny again and again? For God's sake, I hope it is not too late! No; I can't wait for the telephone lines to be repaired and the snow to be cleared from the road. I have to try to get to the railroad station, because the trains are still running. It's only five kilometers. In a week it's Christmas and I could be by his bedside, and spend the first Christmas together after twenty years of absences. Maybe the cab driver in town will want to take me. I'll go to his house right now. The cab driver is an elderly man, about to retire, and does not dare to drive in this blizzard. The road is narrow, with some very steep slopes. He suggests that we wait for the snowplows to pass, but he doesn't think they will clear the road until tomorrow or maybe the day after tomorrow. But neither tomorrow nor the day after tomorrow are there any trains connecting with the one to the capital. I have to catch the next one, which leaves at five o'clock in the morning. It has stopped snowing and I can walk this route. For this trip I don't need any luggage, whatever I can fit in my bag will be enough. I have to try! 40. The agony (Narrator: the dying man) Poor Alice, how can I tell her that my mind is clear and I am fully aware that I am about to die? How can I also tell her that I no longer have any regrets, because I have only done what destiny had planned for me. Our lives are written in the stars, and our spirit is a part of the destiny of the universe. Destiny that we do not know. Naomi's mother also had a destiny; which has already been fulfilled. I don't know how to tell her that I have sensed her death in some icy place, and that she will never be at the bedside of my deathbed. I once said that a dignified death is to die shaking the hand of the person who feels most affection for you, and that person is you, Alicia, besides your presence in this place makes it a home, so my conditions for a good death are more than fulfilled. Now I can die in peace. She has understood this and continues to hold my hand. I feel her life beating in it, already inert, and that contact makes me begin to feel an indescribable inner peace. It is her soul that pierces me and I feel it inside me, when I only have a few seconds left to live. Now appear the most emotional familiar images of my childhood that I kept in my subconscious. They follow one after the other with their sounds and sensations. I hear my own crying and my mother's voice rocking me in the cradle my grandparents gave her; I see my father pushing the swing in the park near our modest house on the outskirts of the city, when he must have been only two or three years old. He is young and vigorous, and he pushes the swing so hard it makes me cry from the excitement of the game. Many other images pass by, and from all of them I retain some impression. I see myself dressed in my admiral's costume from my first communion, and my parents, who take me by the hand almost on a cartwheel to the neighborhood church. There I see the little girl, with her virginal first communion dress, which made me feel the first passionate emotion of love. A multitude of family images follow, such as the photograph of the primary school, my father's first car, my first train ride, the first girl I went out with and the first kiss on the lips of a woman, and after many others, also the images of the university cafeteria and those that followed. But they all pass quickly and an indescribable emptiness remains after their ephemeral vision. It is as if they were being erased from my consciousness so that when death comes there is no trace left in my soul of what my life in this world has been. I sense that when I reach the last image I will die, and that moment is coming, because I see the image of my literary agent, that night that destroyed our lives. I see her in the half-open door of Naomi's apartment. My imagination has gone blank, and an immense peace comes over me. I no longer feel Alicia's hand. Now I see an intense, blinding light, I know that I am going to penetrate into that light where I will remain eternal... mind.... 41. Death (Narrator: Alicia) He has barely made a slight head movement leaning back against the pillow, and I feel no sign of life in his hand, I think he has died! But he seems to have fallen peacefully asleep. There is not on his face the slightest sign of pain. I withdraw my hand and his hand collapses. Yes, he is dead! The great love of my life lies dead before my eyes! From this instant death will do its work and his beautiful hands, his prodigious head, and his battered body will turn them to ashes. But the hateful reaper has not power enough to destroy the fruit of the one who now belongs to him. His work will survive, and his memory will not fade from my imagination until death takes me too. Now I should mourn him by evoking his memory, but he who has taken him from me will not have his way. Although my soul is broken in pieces, I will not shed a single tear, for I have already mourned him when he was alive. Now I have hardly any tears left, and I must save what tears I still have left for when I begin to miss him and feel his absence. He has been a lucky man, because he has lived doing the will of others, but he has died according to his own will. Only a privileged few have such a death; if it is difficult to live, it is much more difficult to die! 42. The two deaths (Narrator: the author) The two lovers of literature die on the same day and at the same time, because it was written in the stars. The frozen body of Noemi's mother was found by the driver of the snow-clearing vehicle, which would circulate that same morning, clearing the winding road of snow. Her body was not on the road, but in a small ravine, where it must have fallen given the darkness and the layer of snow that hid it. Her former lover died from fatal complications of his incurable disease. Naomi had sensed her mother's death when they said goodbye to each other at the railroad station. Unfortunately, she did not have to choose which of the two she would spend Christmas with, but which of the two she mourned. They were not buried together. She lay in the small local cemetery, and he had her body cremated and her ashes dumped on a nearby beach, as was his wish. Alice was deeply affected, for according to her beliefs, she would not be reunited with her beloved in that dimension she thought she had discovered in his astral personality. PART THREE: ASTRAL ENCOUNTER "Labor not for the meat which perishes, but for the meat which endures to eternal life." (John 6:27) 43. The farewell Death has taken him from me and death will give him back to me. I will look for you wherever you are and we will be together again, but for eternity! If you are in Hell I will rescue you; if you are in Purgatory, I will accompany you until we gain Heaven, and if you are already in Paradise, there we will meet, because love knows no barriers, neither human nor divine. This corpse lying on the bed has lost its soul, which must wander through the cosmos without a specific destination. No one but me will be able to find its whereabouts, because my astral body will be able to travel to every corner beyond the universe, and in some of these places I will find you. She condemned you to hell in one of your nightmares, and she has not come to free you from this curse. Now her presence is no longer necessary. I have to communicate this painful news to Naomi, because she, in spite of her mother's opposition, was very fond of her. She has died just hours before a new dawn. It is not worth waking Naomi so early. It is no longer necessary for her to hurry, her father no longer needs her. I will wait for the dawn. I feel as if I am the messenger of death, but of an expected death. No one will be surprised. Those who knew her diagnosis are already just waiting to read her obituary in the press or on the net, and will exclaim those phrases of condolence that they will have heard in other deaths of other famous people. "Poor thing, he died in the prime of his life and at the height of his popularity"; "He died when he had had everything but his health"; "This is how most of the great characters end their lives: always ahead of schedule"; "Artists live at an unhealthy pace and intensity, that's why they die early", etc. I think they are basically right. The soul is what gives life to the body and if we abuse our soul, we also abuse our body. In the end, the exhausted soul loses its defenses and so does the body, and the inevitable fatal disease ensues. My unfortunate friend was doomed, because he lived abusing his soul since he was aware of its existence. It is dawn, but this is not the same sun as yesterday, nor the same fading stars. It is not the same morning breeze, nor the same blue color of the sky. It is not the same city, nor the same street. Because tonight a writer has died, and when a writer dies something dies in the collective soul of the world, because we writers and artists are the soul of the world. With great pain in my heart I decide to call the unfortunate Naomi to tell her the sad news. She does not answer, but I receive a message from her cell phone answering machine: "Sorry, I am not available. I'm on my way to my mother's place. I just got word that she was found frozen to death on the road as she was walking to the train station. I am devastated and cannot talk. Leave me your message. I feel deeply affected and, at the same time, guilty because I judged this woman prematurely. I hope she forgives me! However, she took too long to forgive him. It is she who should have been shaking his hand when he expired. No doubt she has met her death when she was trying to answer the call of her fake novel, but when it was too late. Once again fate incomprehensibly turns against me, and she will again be my rival after her death, for the three of us will meet again beyond this tormented life. 44. The last trip The unhappy Naomi has had to attend two funerals in a few days. She attended her mother's funeral and barely had time to mourn her when she had to take care of her father's funeral. The hospital has taken care of his cremation and has given him the ashes. Now she has to carry out her father's last wishes and scatter them at sea. She has asked me to accompany her and we will leave for the coast first thing tomorrow morning. -How did my father die," Naomi asks me when we return in a cab to her apartment, unable to hide the sadness in her eyes and her delicate face disfigured by grief. -I think he was at peace, but I can't tell you more because he could hardly speak, I can only tell you that his countenance was serene and he seemed to have accepted death with resignation. -He didn't mention my mother? -He couldn't speak, but I'm sure he would have her in his last thoughts. -The local cab driver told me that she was trying to catch the first train in the morning to meet my father, and he didn't dare take her to the station, so she tried to get there on foot. -Why didn't you wait for the station road to be cleared? -I ask him, although I can guess the reason. -I don't know, but I found a short verse he wrote the night of his death: "Tonight there are no stars and it will not cease to be night Tonight there will be no moon, and it will never be daytime." She must have sensed his death, too, because she did not believe she could see my father alive. But she tried and it cost her her life too. Wherever they are, my parents will have been reconciled and will finally have the peace they deserve. I listen to Naomi and I can't help but feel an unjust wish that her hopes will not be fulfilled. She can't come between us even after she is dead! We are already in his father's apartment. I can't help but have the feeling of his presence, as if his soul has not yet left this room and cannot leave for some reason that only he must know. Naomi looks through everything that belonged to her father, and that now belongs to her, but she doesn't seem to be interested in it. She has gone to the bookshelf and selects one of his novels. She looks at the photograph of her father on the back cover, and cannot contain her tears. -Alicia, what was my father really like? You must have known him better than I did. -I believe that above all he was afraid of condemning himself, because he could never live according to his desires due to his constant remorse. He was a tormented soul who wrote novels to forget the cause of his torments. -Did you love him? -Yes, I loved him, but he never loved me back. -Then why didn't you leave him? -How can you abandon what is already a part of you? -And now, what will you do? -I will write a novel about your father's journey through the cosmos. His life after death! -But that's impossible! I suppose you can imagine, no one has ever been able to meet the dead! I do not want to alarm Naomi and explain to her that I can split my personality and separate my astral body from my physical body. I have experienced it once and I will achieve it a second time. The first time I barely moved a short distance from my physical body, but this new experience I have to take all the necessary precautions so that no one disturbs my concentration, because it will take me a long time to return. -Yes, of course I will imagine it. -Where do you think she is right now? -I can see in her eyes that she is uneasy and fearful, but she must get used to paranormal phenomena, because her parents will try to contact her through her dreams, and I must warn her. -I think he is here, because his soul has not yet been totally uprooted from the emotions transmitted to him by the objects with which he has had contact in life. -And do you think he's watching and listening to us? -he asks me, unable to hide his concern. -No, he neither sees us nor hears us. It can only contact us through our astral body, which happens during dreams. You have to be forewarned, because they are likely to appear in your dreams, and they will want to know what state of mind you are in. But it is likely that they will not make any reference to their deaths, but will appear in scenes that will not make any sense to you. In dreams we have no control over our imagination, time or space. I don't think I should have told her about this possibility. She seems really scared now and will be more so when the night comes and she faces the dreams. A foggy and unpleasant day dawns. It is not the most suitable to spread its ashes. We have arranged to meet at the railroad station, where we will take a train to a coastal town. Naomi is already waiting for me at the station entrance. We still have time for a hot tea, which will lift our spirits. We are sitting at the same table where she was last with her mother. She seems to have regained her composure. -Now I know why my poor mother gave me that sad advice. "Don't expect comfort from us. If you need comfort, learn to comfort yourself." I sensed her death. When she walked away from me, I had a feeling that was the last time I would see her alive! During the trip to the coast we barely exchanged a few words about the unpleasant weather. On the other side of the window, the landscape seems to share our deep sadness. A dense fog hangs over the small towns we are leaving behind. It is hard to believe that there can be happy people in such a depressing landscape. Sometimes the train runs alongside the road, and we can see the cars running at the same speed, occupied by people with obligations and responsibilities who do not think about death, but have no chance to think about life either. They live, that's all! 45. The ashes As we approach the coastal town we can smell the saltpeter. We leave the small railroad station and it is easy to orient ourselves and know where the sea is, because the freshness of the sea breeze clearly indicates the direction. The sky looks like an immense grayish mantle, and a cold and humid fog confuses the shapes of things. The cars drive with their lights on even though it is not yet noon. There are few people in the streets, it looks like a ghost town. We head for the promenade. It is not far. We can already hear the scandalous squawking of the seagulls. The station street leads directly to a simple promenade, as desolate as the rest. We can already hear the waves crashing against the promenade wall. From this promenade we can see the sea, but we can not see the horizon line, which is confused with the sky because of its grayish tone and the dense fog. On one side of the promenade there is a small breakwater, where a few fishing boats are moored, which probably have not gone to sea because of the storm. We chose that place to scatter the ashes. -It is very sad to end a long life of illusions, projects and ambitions," says Naomi, preparing to dump her father's remains in the sea, "in a handful of dust that will be carried by the currents to the bottom of the sea, and so ends his unfortunate story. -It is only his body, his soul will continue to exist, as his works will continue to exist. A group of hungry seagulls hover around, no doubt they must believe that the debris Naomi spreads on the water could be food. -His wish has been granted," he says to me, sobbing, "There will be no more deaths; we no longer need this urn! With an angry gesture, he throws the small urn into the sea. He wipes his tears with the back of his hand, grabs my arm energetically and we walk away from the place. -If you need consolation, learn to console yourself. Yes, Mom, I've already learned! Naomi has recovered her spirits. Life goes on and it is useless to mourn the dead. We have mourned them enough when they were alive. Of the dead, only the memory remains, and he has left a good memory. There is no reason to mourn. I am amazed at her fortitude, but in fact until a few months ago she has been an orphan since birth. Her behavior is not surprising. The return trip is as silent as the previous one. Naomi seems absent, or maybe she is thinking about her future as an orphan. Her gaze is lost in the misty landscape we are leaving behind. She seems to be reacting to some obsessive thought, because suddenly she turns to me and comments: -You were right, I dreamt about my parents tonight.... -He remains eloquently silent, as if wondering if he should unveil his dream to me. I was sitting on a park bench and my father suddenly appeared and sat next to me, but he was dead. I asked him why he had abandoned my mother, and suddenly she appeared sitting next to him, but she also appeared to be dead. They could not answer my question. Suddenly a policeman appeared, and addressing me, he said. "Excuse me, but the dead are not allowed in the park. Take them to the cemetery and bury them." I didn't know what to answer, I was terrified. But incomprehensibly, they both sat up, and turning to the policeman, my father said: "It is not necessary for her to bury us, we will bury ourselves. Goodbye Naomi, don't be late to join us...", and they disappeared, sinking to the ground of the park. At that moment I woke up -she keeps a sepulchral silence, she seems very affected by the dream-. What can this dream mean, Alicia? -That your parents miss you! -I answer without hesitation. -You mean they want me dead? -For them now you live in death, and they live in life. The roles have been changed, that's why they want you to join them. It is possible that this same dream will repeat itself again, although with a different argument, and they will insist again that you join them. You have to be strong and not let yourself be obsessed by what you hear from your parents during the dream. Although they happen in the astral dimension, they are disturbed by your own subconscious. -You mean I subconsciously want to die and join them? -she asks me in alarm. -Yes, but it's because of your current state of mind. You will get over it and your parents will only appear in your dreams when you miss them. Naomi seems comforted by my explanation. But she is still deep in thought, and once again loses her gaze in the misty landscape that we contemplate as the train passes by. Naomi seems to come out of her gloomy thoughts again, turns to me and confesses: -I'd like to be like you, Alicia: sure of who you are and what you want to do with your life. But who am I? The unwanted daughter of two dreamers who were lovers of literature, but who didn't understand the meaning of the word love, even though they wrote it hundreds of times. What should I do? I'm not sure I want to write anymore, with the example of my parents I've had enough! Maybe, as my mother said, I would make an excellent doctor. I'm not sure if I should encourage her to follow her parents' vocation, but precisely because they didn't know how to combine their worldly ambitions with their personal relationships, Naomi will learn from her parents' mistakes and could be an excellent writer without ruining her life. Yes, I think I should encourage her, it would be the best tribute she could pay to her ill-fated parents! -Naomi, in these times when no one believes in what they hear or see anymore, they can only believe in what they can imagine, and we writers can provide them with those images of the world they would like to hear or see! Sadly, most writers rejoice in recreating the nauseating images of what we can no longer believe and should no longer see. You can be a writer who enlightens readers! -But how do I know if I have the necessary talent to not remain in mediocrity? -My dear friend, that is what we all ask ourselves! You won't know the answer until you have overcome a few failures, because each failure will mean you have chosen a wrong path, and you must rectify until you find your own. Talent is about being yourself. The train is entering the central station. Naomi will not move into her father's apartment, because she does not want to live alone. She prefers to continue living with her classmates from college, but she has suggested that, if I wish, I can take it over. The idea is very attractive, because it makes my experience easier. I accept her offer, at least for the remainder of the course, and I will move in as soon as possible. 46. The preparation I am already provisionally installed in Naomi's father's apartment. It is a difficult sensation to describe, because all the objects in the apartment have something of him, and I still have the memory of his dead body on the bed where I am about to sleep. But I feel no fear, on the contrary, sleeping in the bed where the effluvium of the deceased is still there is the best way to communicate with him. I am aware of the risks and I do not know what may lie beyond this dimension. He may be trapped by some higher force and my energy will not be enough to free him. But you may also have reached some dimension that resembles Heaven, and my journey will be in vain. Either way, his destiny was written in the stars from the day of his birth, and it will have been fulfilled without possible appeal. Above all I have to make sure that no one will disturb my sleep while my spectrum is separated from my body. I have to disconnect everything that can ring, including the telephone and anything that creates magnetic fields, which I fear will be impossible to eliminate, and I don't know how it will affect me. After all, when I separate from the body I will only be energy and I don't know how other sources of energy that may be in the apartment may affect it. It is a risk I have to take. The other doubt is, in the case that our spectra meet, to know how we will communicate, because in the encounter we will only be able to communicate through our thoughts, for which we will have to ascend to the mental plane. If we manage to reach that dimension we will not be able to hide our thoughts, so it is impossible to lie or deceive, and everything must happen with total transparency. That must be the curse of material life: the possibility of deceiving and lying, the cause of all the disasters of this world! What will happen if I cannot return to my body? Will I die too? It would be suicide, which means going against my destiny written in the stars, and my soul would wander, without finding rest, until when? But how to have a notion of time where there is nothing but energy? It is all very confusing, and I know I am running a great risk. But what is the meaning of my existence in this world? I have given my heart to a deceased person and now I have no choice but to join him, whether he is in Heaven or in Hell! This weekend could be the appointed day for the meeting, because Noemí will travel to her mother's place to handle the formalities of her inheritance and there is no risk that she might show up unexpectedly. Nor do I expect unexpected visits, because in the last months of her life she had no other friend than her literary agent. His negative opinion of current writers caused him enmity with those with whom he had some relationship. Anyway I will leave a note on the door to make sure of any other eventuality. Tonight will be the big trip. I want to take advantage of these previous hours to write down what I intend to do, and I hope to be able to write also what might have happened on my return. To relax, I take a long walk through the same park where I declared my love. It is a walk full of nostalgia and deep sadness. Everything I see reminds me of his kind person, and sometimes I have the feeling that he is walking next to me and asking me new questions, but this time they are about the mysteries of life and death, for which I have no answers. I sit on a bench and remember Naomi's dream, I would like it to happen to me, but that only happens in dreams, reality is more stubborn, it refuses to change its rigid rules and everything happens as it is meant to happen. I'm back in the apartment and writing notes about tonight's experience. It is getting dark. It is a frigid late winter day. There is a chance of snow. For some reason snow depresses me. I don't like it, because it feels like it is falling on my soul. I like warm countries, because they are cozier and life is simpler. I listen to Bach's oratorios, because I think it is the music that should be heard in Paradise. I lie down on the bed and prepare myself for concentration. 47. Astral travel (Narrator: the deceased) I know I have passed away. I felt a strange vibration and what must be my soul is detached from my body. Alicia has already realized my demise and has let go of my hand, which now falls limp. I feel a force propelling me out of my apartment, and I pass through the wall without any difficulty. I am now traveling at breakneck speed, and I am heading towards the light I saw at the moment of my death. I have entered a strange dimension and I continue my journey through a semi-dark space. In this dimension I see a multitude of trapped specters, who implore me for help and try uselessly to hold me, because their twitching hands penetrate my specter without being able to grasp it. From their appearance and clothing I deduce that some of them have been in this darkness for thousands of years. I also believe that these are people who must have died a violent death, because their specters are horribly mutilated. Some are missing limbs, others heads, and most show wounds possibly caused by the wars or accidents, from which they must have died. But why do they remain in this darkness and not ascend to the luminous zone where I seem to be heading? I notice an important difference between them and me, where the explanation must be. My aura is absolutely resplendent, theirs are darkened. Perhaps when I died with a clear conscience and in peace, my aura was charged with positive energy, which gives it that glow. I have described this phenomenon in one of my novels, the fruit of my intuition, but which I now prove to be correct. For this reason my soul must be attracted directly to the source of light. It must be a simple effect of electromagnetic attraction. For this reason, I suppose that whoever dies with an uneasy conscience, suddenly or by accident, the soul must contain negative energy that obscures the spectrum, and in these conditions they must be attracted only to this dimension, which must be the astral, the first dimension of where those who have died are. These souls are suspended between what theologians call Heaven and Hell, which must be Purgatory. Their desperate attempt to cling to me must be for me to transfer to them the positive energy they need to enter a new dimension that will lead them to the light to which I am heading. But it does not seem that this transfer is possible between wraiths. Possibly that positive energy they need can be transferred to them from the physical world, with invocations, prayers or any other form that I do not know, directed especially to them and showing them your affection. I am still traveling at possibly the speed of light, but I have not yet left this dimension where there are possibly millions of souls in similar conditions. If this is Purgatory, where the souls are not enlightened enough to reach Heaven, those people who die and who have committed faults that have no redemption, their auras will be charged with negative energy, and they must appear absolutely dark, so they cannot rise and remain in the physical world, and this must be the Hell of the souls in pain of theology, and that for some cause that I do not know, they can appear as living dead, or zombies. I have no other explanation. I have crossed another cosmic plane and, at last, I am in the dimension of the blinding light that has irresistibly attracted me since the moment of my death. It has the same luminosity as my soul. No shadow to darken it. My journey through the dimensions of the cosmos seems to end here, because I have stopped moving at dizzying speeds. Here, too, there are perhaps millions of luminous souls like mine. They all seem to have the same youthful appearance, they must not be more than 18 or 20 years old, and they remain suspended in this immense luminous dimension. My specter moves slowly among them. They smile at me and seem to welcome me. I stop in front of a specter that amazingly looks like me when I was 18 or 20 years old, and still in college. He seems to be my double. Something extraordinary has happened: I feel a strange vibration and my double has merged, penetrating into my specter. Now I also have the same appearance as him. I feel confused, but at the same time I feel a great sense of indecipherable goodness. One of the souls who has watched my transformation approaches me and seems to want to communicate something to me. I try to read her thoughts, but I hear nothing. Moments later another even more resplendent soul approaches me, and, like the previous one, I think he is trying to make me listen to his thoughts. I hear him! -Welcome to the luminous dimension, because your soul has only positive energy, and it shines like the light that generates the source that illuminates and created the cosmos! An extraordinary source of positive energy, located in an even higher dimension, and its light is the creator of all the visible and invisible illusions of the cosmos. The more luminous our soul is, the closer we come to this extraordinary source of light. There are the souls of the most virtuous characters in history, such as Socrates, Jesus Christ or St. John of the Cross. I am also a higher luminous entity and I can communicate with any soul, but you can only communicate with those who have had contact in life and feel affection for you. You will be able to hear their thoughts, but they will not be able to read yours. -But what happened to me? Who was this double of mine? Where did he come from? -I hear your thoughts and will answer your questions. When we are gestated two spiritual entities are generated. One is in the form of the space we will come to occupy at the limit of our growth. That entity is composed of positive energy and remains in this dimension. Our destiny is written in it. The other spiritual entity remains in the embryo, which animates it. Its energy is variable and depends on the processes of its consciousness, which can generate positive or negative energy. Our destiny is fulfilled when we act in such a way that it is maintained with positive energy until the instant of our death. Otherwise we act against our destiny and at death we cannot merge with our energetic double and remain in an intermediate dimension or in the physical world, if our consciousness has no redemption. That double of yours has followed your personal development, and has been by your side whenever you invoked him. He was your guardian angel! -Yes, I now remember my experience in the little church park hours after I learned of my diagnosis, where I believed that an angel was sitting in my very pew. It must have been this double of mine, whom I had previously invoked. -You are now constituted as your destiny intended. There is no more duality in you, but an absolute energetic unity! My strange journey to this luminous dimension has ended when I reunite with my double personality. It is as if from this moment on a new eternal life has begun, but I cannot say that I am happy, because that would be to accept unhappiness, unknown in this dimension. It is a neutral state, indescribable, devoid of any anguish, fear or restlessness. Possibly the appropriate expression is "beatific". But fortunately I am not completely separated from my former physical reality, because I can indeed hear the thoughts of those who remember me and invoke me, albeit faintly, like a whisper. At this moment Alicia is invoking me and I faintly hear her thoughts. I fear that she is about to commit a grave imprudence, because she intends to join me in the astral plane, where I am not, and she will never be able to access this luminous dimension while she is alive. If Alice's astral body enters the dimension of the dead, she runs the risk of not being able to rejoin her physical body, and it is quite possible that she will also be trapped in the darkness of Purgatory, and she will no longer be able to join me, as was her wish! I have to find a way to communicate with her and make her see the risk she runs if she persists in her attempt. Now I am nothing more than a contingent of subtle energy that is invisible, but can move into the physical world. I run the risk of becoming infected with negative energy and not being able to return to this dimension, but I cannot allow Alicia to be condemned because of me. I have to try! 48. The return I have returned to the dimension of the physical world and I am at the foot of the bed where Alice is lying. She is approaching the state of concentration where the unfolding of her astral body can occur. If I provoke an energy discharge I may be able to turn on the lamp on the bedside table and interrupt her concentration. I get the lamp to flicker and fortunately Alice has abruptly snapped out of her concentration. She looks at the lamp quizzically, but does not associate it with my presence. She unplugs it and goes back to concentrating. I have to try again and hope she realizes that I'm trying to communicate with her, because my aura's energy wanes. I get her to blink weakly again, and Alice is startled. I think she has understood that it is me who provokes it. -Is that you? Are you here? I flicker the lamp again. Alicia has understood that this is my answer. -So, you haven't left your apartment, as I assumed! But you can't communicate with me. Be patient, I'll join you soon. Maybe this very night. I am trying to concentrate and manage to unfold my astral body, and then we can communicate and you can tell me where you are! I try to flicker the lamp again but it is useless. I will not be able to prevent her from unfolding and entering the dimension of the dead, and if she reaches that dimension and gets trapped I will not be able to rescue her. I only hope that her soul is not condemned and can no longer leave the physical world, which could happen if she dies, because suicide is a serious fault, and it would fill her soul with negative energy! -Alicia doesn't know that I can't hear when she speaks to me, but I can hear her thoughts, and my premonition of Naomi's mother's death is confirmed. But she is thinking that she trusts that we have not met, because she still considers her her rival, even after she is dead. If Noemi's mother is dead I should be able to communicate with her. Perhaps it is because she did not give me her forgiveness before she died that she is in Purgatory. But how do I know where she is? I should listen to her thoughts to know where to go, otherwise it is impossible for me to find her soul among millions of souls. Perhaps his thoughts do not mention me and he thinks only of the wretched Naomi. That would explain it. Alicia is again on the verge of her astral projection. If she succeeds, we will meet again, but it will be for a short time, because she must return to her physical world of the living and I to my energetic world of the dead. All her efforts are useless, our destinies meet neither in life nor in death. I feel truly sorry for this woman, but now I know that it is useless to fight against what is written in the stars. It must be the stigma she was telling me about. Alicia's body seems to shake. It is vibrating. She moves her head from side to side, as if something is trying to detach itself. Yes, it is succeeding, and the specter of her head is detached from her body, and the rest of her astral body as well. Her physical body has been left in absolute rest, no doubt sleeping deeply, while she dreams her splitting. Her first movements are imprecise, she rises slowly but keeps her eyes closed. A thin thread of energy holds her to life, I trust it will not break! Her ascent has stopped. She opens her eyes and gazes at me in amazement, but she cannot speak. Now she must read my thoughts and I must read hers. -Alicia, why did you do it? -He's here! I've done it! But he has changed his appearance, he is now a young man! -Alicia, what you have achieved is to put your life at risk! -He reproaches me for what I did, just for being by his side. -Alicia, I can hear your thoughts. Yes, I have to reproach you. Now you won't be able to join me. I'm dead and you're alive... -Then if my death can settle our differences, I will not return to my body! -You would achieve nothing, because it would be suicide, and you know that your soul would be condemned and could not be separated from the physical world. Give up this useless and dangerous love for both of you! -Haven't I been your faithful companion until your last breath? -Alicia, you are endangering my salvation as well. These reproaches, which I know are not fair, will cause my soul to become contaminated with negative energy, and may prevent me from returning to the dimension of light in which I had managed to ascend. For both our sakes, renounce! -I understand... my stigma haunts me here, too, among the dead. You wish to be with her for eternity, don't you? If I renounce, I'll be damned anyway... -But you will save my soul, and hers too! -She, with her unexpected death, has won! -No, Alicia, we haven't met. I don't know where he might be. Maybe we'll never meet. But where I am, time doesn't exist. I'll wait for you, but you have to die in peace with your conscience! Don't be afraid of old age, when you meet me you'll be eighteen again. -What about her? -Alice, where we will meet there is neither happiness nor misfortune, only goodness; there you can neither love me nor hate me; the three of us will be able to enjoy that infinite goodness eternally, and when its time comes, I trust that Naomi will also join us. -Are you asking me to let my life be consumed in the hope of eternally sharing with you the goodness of your Paradise? -Yes, I beg you! -I have no choice? -Hell now or Heaven when death wants to take you. -You give me the choice between two hells! -Yes, Alicia, but one can last for 30 or 40 years and the other for eternity? -I suppose I must resign and say goodbye until 30 or 40 years from now, and I can't even shake the hand I held at the moment of your death! -That's how it should be, Alicia... But I have to ask you something else.... It's about Naomi's mother. I fear that she is being held in a dark space, halfway between Heaven and Hell. For her to free herself from this dark dimension she needs the help of someone alive, who will transmit her the positive energy that will help her to ascend to a higher plane, and you can help her, and at the same time, help yourself to gain your salvation... -Are you asking me to save my rival? -He is no longer your rival, he is a soul, who, like you, deserves to ascend to the dimension of light and come out of the darkness where he may find himself. -And what can I do for her? -Pray for her! -I've never prayed; I wouldn't know how! -You only have to invoke his name and show him your affection. That will be enough to transmit positive energy to her. Also convey this wish to my daughter, Naomi, to pray also for her mother, and between the two of you you will save her. -How sad is my fate! -No, dear Alicia, in the world of the living there is no greater joy than to feel useful and necessary. Spend the rest of your life writing novels with plots that incite generosity and kindness, and you will live happily until your time comes and you join us. -I don't even have the consolation of crying! -Go back to the living and you can ease your heart with weeping. -Farewell then, until death do us part! -Farewell, my dear Alicia, I'll wait for you in Paradise.... His specter rejoins his body, which remains motionless. I cannot hear him, but I can tell from his sad expression that he must be on the verge of tears. Now he brings his hands to his face and must be sobbing bitterly. Poor Alice, no one but her deserves to enter Paradise! 49. In Purgatory (Narrator: Naomi's mother) Why am I locked in this darkness? Is this the fate of the dead? Where am I? I have seen my body frozen on the roadside as my soul ascended to this dark place. Yes, I must be dead, I have been imprudent, and I have paid for it with my life! What will become of my poor Naomi? I intended to save someone from his regrets, and I die with no one to save me from mine! This place is the Hell I deserve! I shall suffer this anguish forever! I think I see a small glow approaching me. Now I distinguish the spectre of a young man.... Oh, my God, it's him, he's dead too! But he is just as he was when I knew him twenty years ago! Yes, it's him; it's the same restless, ambitious young man who read my poems on our college campus; with the same teasing smile; the same charm in his gaze. I am ashamed that he finds me aging, though he is but a ghost. Perhaps he has heard my wailing, Death brings us together again! He approaches me and I can hear his thoughts: -My dear friend and admired poet, we meet again in strange circumstances. I learned of your sad death in the snow when you were about to watch over my deathbed. I do not know why you are in this dark place, but I will help you and I will repay you in death what you have suffered because of me in life. I needed your forgiveness to die with a clear conscience, but my sincere repentance and the help of our daughter and that extraordinary person, Alicia, saved me from hell. -I would have forgiven you, but death intervened. But, for God's sake, can you tell me where I am? -You are halfway between Heaven and Hell; in Purgatory. Your conscience should not have been at peace at the moment of death, and it became contaminated with negative energy, which prevents you from ascending to a new dimension, where I am. But fear not, your daughter Naomi and Alice will take you out of here and you will be able to join me. -I have never wronged anyone, why do I deserve this punishment? -I do not have the answer. Energy and its relation to consciousness has its own rule, but I suppose that the positive or negative energy that our soul accumulates depends on the state of our consciousness at the moment of death. -Then I deserve to be in this sinister place, because I was reckless.... but I had a good cause! -It would have been useless, because I died the same day. It was already too late! -But I did not know the reasons that led you to that brothel that night, and that you tell in your last novel. If I had known, I would have forgiven you from the first meeting. -I have not written a novel describing that unfortunate event! -Naomi sent me a copy that Alicia had given her.... -Alicia! She wrote that book and altered the facts so that you would come to my deathbed to co-sort me. I don't know what she told about that unfortunate event, but your impression was the true one: I betrayed you! -Is this deception also part of my tragic destiny? -Alicia was only trying to save my soul.... -At the cost of condemning mine! -He had set out to prolong my life until you arrived, but I prevented him from doing so. I am once again to blame! But it is too late for regrets. Our destinies are about to be fulfilled. Mine has already been fulfilled, and Alicia and Naomi will help you to fulfill yours as well. None of us deserves Purgatory, much less Hell. We were wrong because we were human, but for the same reason we repented, and we paid for our absolution with suffering. Now it only remains for us to gain Heaven and a whole eternity to immerse ourselves in a beatific calm in the dimension of light. -If this is also my destiny, I can only trust my daughter Naomi and join you in Paradise. Thus concludes a dramatic story that began one day in early spring, because of a strawberry and cream cakes. 50. Sentences (Narrator: Naomi) Alicia called me because she wants to see me about something related to my deceased parents. We will meet this afternoon and have dinner together at my father's apartment, just like in the old days. I have recovered my spirits and I am living a normal life. Fortunately my career takes up all my time and occupies my thoughts. Only in the evenings I feel the absence of my parents, but in reality I have always felt this absence. I am back in my late father's apartment. Alicia has not changed at all and her books, computer and all her personal belongings remain in the same place. She looks very worn out. It is as if she is suffering from some illness. Her gaze is languid and distant. Something is constantly distracting and disturbing her. She welcomes me with a slight smile. She is no longer the strong, self-confident woman. No doubt my father's death has affected her deeply. -Alicia, don't you feel well? You look tired, you look very unwell. -Yes, Naomi, I am not feeling well. I am depressed and sad. -It's because of my father's death! -Yes, that's why... He remains silent, as if he doesn't want to give me any other reasons for his depression. We sit at the table and Alicia serves me what she has cooked for dinner and we eat in silence. -I thought about your mother," he says in a pause, because he seems to have no appetite. I'm not a believer, but I think we should pray for the salvation of her soul.... -You mean his soul didn't deserve to go to Heaven, if it exists? -The circumstances of her death were not natural but accidental, and in these conditions she died without a companion to comfort her and help cleanse her soul of any remorse. She may be in a dimension where she needs our help. -Alicia, you make me uneasy! Are you suggesting that my mother may be in Hell? -If she were in Hell, she would no longer have salvation, but if she is in Purgatory, our prayers can help her to get out of there and go up to Heaven, which is where she deserves to be! -Alicia, you are talking like a believer. Do you really believe in hell, purgatory and heaven? My comment seems to have confused her, and I think she is mulling over her response. -Naomi, I don't know what I believe anymore! I beg you not to ask me any more questions, for I would not know what to answer. But I have a feeling that we must invoke her and show her our affection. You only need to think of her and show her your affection. Wherever she is, she will receive your message, and she will be closer to Heaven. -Alicia, I always thought you and my mother were rivals. -Dear Noemí, we do not compete with the dead. Outside of this world the heart no longer beats and there is no place for emotions like love. There is only goodness in Heaven and evil in Hell. Near Heaven and Hell there is only anxiety and doubts. Author's note Alicia died of sadness two months later. Her heart stopped because it was no longer useful. There was not an atom of negative energy in her soul and she ascended to the dimension of light without the slightest setback. FIN >