Happy That It's Not True
Read Happy That It's Not True Online
Authors: Carlos Alemán
Happy That It's Not True
Carlos Alemán
Published in the USA by Aignos Publishing, Inc.
1910 Ala Moana Blvd, #20A
Honolulu, HI 96815
www.aignospublishing.com
Printed in the USA
Edited by Jonathan Marcantoni
Cover art provided by Carlos Alemán
Art Design by Carlos Alemán
13-digit ISBN: 0986023396
10-digit ISBN: 978-0-9860233-9-2
This book is fictional; the story and characters herein are not meant to portray any person who ever existed or who has ever been purported to have ever existed.
The author and publisher have neither liability nor responsibility to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused, or alleged to have been caused, directly or indirectly, by the information conveyed in this book.
For Jean
Introduction for Happy That It’s Not True
Carlos levitates.
Or he can levitate, if he wants, when he wants, and what he wants most is for you to know that. The fact that he asked me, his editor, to write this introduction and to include that factoid in a book that is long on tragedy and bittersweet romance should also tip you off to the fact that, even in the darkest of times, Carlos has a sense of humor, and so does his book, which is why I love it as much as I do.
I have been editing books for eight years now, I have done around twenty of them, and I find myself at a point where I expect certain things from certain types of authors. Among those expectations are that self-published authors are prima donnas, that their books are largely trash, and that first time authors, whether previously self-published or looking for their first credit, have serious issues with sustaining a narrative, writing dialogue, creating compelling characters, and so on. First time authors take on average four times as long to explain something than a seasoned writer could (on a good day). First time authors, not knowing the narrative tricks that experienced writers do, oftentimes hamper their own writing by trying to over explain things, or approach a situation in as clichéd a manner as possible because they lack the confidence to take a risk. The fact that this book, previously titled
Happy as Ling
, was both self-published and Carlos’s first book, I was hesitant to consider it for Aignos, and I mostly did so because it had been recommended by Maria Ferrer, who runs the Latina Book Club and who reviewed and gave great support to my first novel,
Traveler’s Rest
. Maria had been generous to me so I decided to return the favor when she brought up Carlos and his book, while ever so subtly mentioning it was a finalist in the International Latino Book Awards. Knowing Maria has good taste and figuring that no book, self-published or not, would be a finalist for a book award unless it was at least decent, I jumped in and, well, I still haven’t come back. Carlos hooked me from the first page, and no it wasn’t perfect, we made a lot of narrative changes and cut away at some of the excesses of the original, while creating whole new ones. Only a couple times could I tell he was a new author, otherwise this book reads like most writer’s fourth or fifth book. It was confident, had a clear vision, took risks, challenged the reader, and it was incredibly moving. I think the story brought me to tears about three times, which is no easy task.
Carlos also proved to be an exception to the rule concerning self-published authors. He was always generous, kind, humble, and willing to meet every challenge I gave him. While working with him as his editor he also became my friend, as we are both competitive and perfectionists, so like any true friends, we pushed each other to be better than even we thought possible, not just on this book, but on later projects in which we have collaborated. I cannot believe I have known him for only a year, he often seems like Diego, a long lost uncle who becomes more precious with every passing day.
Just knowing Carlos one feels like they have reunited with an old friend, his characters have that lived in quality that makes them immediately recognizable. From page one I knew these people, they had been figures in my own life, whether as friends from high school, mentors I’ve had, relatives I still hold dear or fear. The journey of discovery that Cara experiences, the yearning for connection that consumes Octavio, Alex’s insecurity about his weight, the heartbreak of the castaways, Diego’s search for meaning , I’ve been in their shoes more times than I care to admit. I carried these characters with me when I wasn’t reading the book, imagining my own scenarios with them, as if this was a book I had written, or really, a life I had lived. It has been a couple months since I read the book all the way through, but I still think of them, particularly Diego, whose devotion to Ling is what all boyfriends and husbands should strive for with their significant other.
The last thing I want to say about the book is, Zach Oliver and I started Aignos not only to discover new voices, all publishers have that desire, but to promote new ways of storytelling. Whereas many publishers shy away from the unconventional, we embrace it. Carlos’ structure throughout the book is different and innovative, but it becomes clear in the books final ten pages that what you just experienced was the sleight of hand of a seasoned magician. For a first time author to do something as ambitious as what Carlos does here, and not only that, to pull it off like it was nothing special, that is the kind of innovation and vision Zach and I wanted to represent our company. Carlos doesn’t just tell stories, he creates experiences. I credit that daring to his being a painter. As a painter, he takes a simple image, say, a flower, and transposes layer upon layer, until the flower is just an outline, what the painting really means held within.
Happy That it’s Not True
is like a painting, it is not enough to read it, you have to immerse yourself into it, peel back the layers, and discover something new, about art, about storytelling, about love, about life, and most of all, about yourself.
I like you when you’re silent
Because it’s as if you were absent
Far away and hurting
As if you had died
One word then, one smile is enough
And I am happy
Happy that it's not true
- Pablo Neruda
Ocean waves were transmitting dreams like the dust from the Sahara that sometimes reaches the Caribbean. The surf receded with a fizzing sound as the shadows of palm trees stirred the sea. A man surveyed the beach, looking for pieces of Styrofoam, the kind that washes onshore from cruise ships. He thought about combining a few large chunks with some old tires, and building a wooden frame to tether a raft.
This seemed like a much better solution. Rather than swimming himself to exhaustion and drowning on such a beautiful day, he could start over. If he survived the journey as a balsero, he would awaken in a new world, a new person. The plan would not mend a broken heart, but made it possible to live another day.
...
He found the letter one evening while searching for an old book. He grinned when he first looked at it, thinking it had been penned for him. And then—the labor pains of his death began, brought on by words so erotic, they could never be spoken. It shocked him that his wife could love another man with such intensity. Perhaps she had intentionally left the letter for him to find, and planned his devastation—callously wishing that he would leave her.
He didn’t want to betray her expectations. His disappearance would atone for all their marital discontent, but could never explain why his name had been blotted out of his wife’s heart. How can it be so easy to fall out of love? He kept asking himself.
And then there were the children. They were a constant reminder of what his own father had done to wound his soul. They were also his most effective narcotic. How strange that it would all end this way. To lose what he could not live without. His hands, empty of the love he had always wanted.
And this is why he had to build a raft. Somewhere in a new world, perhaps he would also find true love, just as his wife had. No one can prove that love actually exists, but the letter seemed to be inspired by something so vulgar and vile, he could not deny its beauty.
Chapter One
Octavio could hear the loud clanking coming from a disintegrating belt of ammunition. He could taste the cold air again; smell the stench of an abandoned village. He and several others left their makeshift bunker in a mud brick house and ran across the road to pursue the enemy. They climbed to a rooftop and aimed their weapons down a staircase shaft.
“I can’t see anything—I don’t like this!” said one of the reservists. The group huddled around the opening in the roof, flinching with fear. “All right, let’s do this. Watch each others’ backs.” They slowly descended the stairs.
“Run! Run!” screamed the man in front, and the soldiers bolted back to the rooftop.
“What the hell happened?” asked one soldier.
“I felt wire! The place must be booby trapped.”
The soldiers paced the rooftop shouting profanity to relieve tension.
Octavio was startled to see a head emerging from the shaft. He quickly aimed his rifle, but realized it was a small boy. “Don’t shoot—it’s a kid!”
The boy, wearing only one shoe, walked slowly, deliberately toward Octavio, his English as clear as a blue sky. “Other countries have clean streets and parks where children can play. I just want a ball.”
There was a sound like a wave sweeping along a shoreline, a projectile agitating the air around it. It struck the house and Octavio felt himself falling. He reached for the boy, but he was too far away. The boy descended into a maelstrom of dark dust and smoke, and then a rain of bricks buried the child of sorrows. Octavio, unhurt and lying on a heap of ruins, heard more distant popping of rifles. Then he heard the distinctive sound of wood cracking and a cheering crowd, and remembered he was at the ballpark with his children.
The batter in the bottom of the order had connected with a sixth inning shot that had traveled 370 feet. The camera flashes flickered like an ocean sparkling in the sun. Octavio turned to look at his five year old, Alex, who seemed to be in a trance. Octavio’s nine year old, Cara, was surprised to see her father’s heavy expression.
Octavio patted Alex’s head. “I’ll get you that baseball you wanted—okay?” Unable to concentrate on the game, he stared into the sky, thinking of what the weather was once like and what it was now.
The days were a harmony of extremes. The summer heat conceived cold rain—ropy weighty showers brought relief from a severe and zealous sun. Storms were arriving a little sooner every day, like an art student eager for class to begin—hands wringing in anticipation of clay and the unfinished still life
.
This particular evening, the violent skies had already spent their deluge and now it only smelled of rain—distant rainless clouds writhing and glowing in architecture of peach and indigo. The close proximity to storm clouds brought a slight coolness, which mixed with the heat and humidity to cause the skin to smile and the eyes to sting with sweat.
Octavio’s thoughts became lost in the clouds, seeking a heavenly sanctuary.
Can’t think of the Afghan children. It’s just too sad. It’s true what they say, that God goes to Afghanistan only to weep. How can I bring back all this sorrow to my family? If only I were feeling better, then I could appreciate this perfect night.
...
After the game, they walked down the spiral ramp of Gate D, Octavio carrying Alex and holding Cara’s hand. Cara knew it would take a while to reach the exits, and even longer to find the car. The descent gave her a sensation of bliss, as if the stars—which were lost in the bright lights—were somehow conspiring to prolong her delight. Alex had fallen asleep in the ninth inning, and Cara felt as if she were alone with her father—as if father and daughter were together in the dream.
“That was a good game,” Octavio shouted above the bedlam of the crowd moving together like a herd. Cara looked up and smiled, delighted by anything her father had to say. “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen a game-winning grand slam—and you
,
Hija
—
only had to wait until nine years of age,” Octavio bantered with a smile he used to cover his pain. “So you can’t really appreciate this.”
The three wore black team shirts; Alex wore a cap that was too big for his head, still turned inside out for the ninth inning rally. Octavio, a soldier used to carrying over 130 pounds of protective gear, weapons and ammunition easily shouldered Alex like a light and momentary burden.
It was just a game, but the win was the type of warmth Octavio needed, another form of medication. His primary source of healing these days had much to do with the love of his children. He was glad that they didn’t seem to notice how differently he had been acting, how hard it was to remember things, to see within the fog of the second war—the battle to readjust after a deployment. He kept glancing down at his daughter, almost afraid to look away—to miss a moment of her life.
Cara’s glowing face radiated the heat of the summer night; her eyes—partly hidden behind the sweaty strands of hair—spoke contentment and peace. After Octavio had looked long enough, he noticed the man walking in front of him, and admired what looked to be an authentic jersey with embroidered numbers and lettering. “I know what you guys can get me for my birthday,” Octavio said lowering his voice a little, pointing to the man’s back. He turned to Cara and silentl
y
oohe
d
. Cara laughed, happy that her father could be a kid just like her. Octavio noticed the quality and detail in the fabric, and began to feel a bit foolish, that he would desire something so frivolous and expensive.
“Oh that’s okay—those things cost a lot of money. Besides, I really need to buy you guys something tonight.”
“Thanks for bringing us to the game,” Cara said.
“My pleasure, my little string bean.”
“I love you dad.”
“I love you, skinny-bones.”
When they stopped to get souvenirs, Octavio purchased a baseball for Alex, and Cara decided on a small team picture plaque. Later, when they got to the car, Alex woke up as Octavio buckled him into the back seat. Alex put his forehead up against the window to look at the stadium with a brief smile and his eyelids began to close again.
“Aww—look at the little baby,” Cara said and then giggled.
“Don’t say that,” Alex said.
“Just a little baby.”
“Make her stop saying that!”
“All right, stop it,” Octavio said as the car softly bounced on the stadium parking lot grass.
Cara smiled a very mischievous smile as she turned her head away from her brother, determined to remain quiet the rest of the way home.
Forty minutes later, a few blocks away from the house, Octavio grew impatient with the car in front of him. “Why are you driving so slow?” The words were barely out of his mouth when he noticed a large truck darting through the intersection. Octavio felt an icy stab in his chest and found it hard to breathe.
“Did you see that? That truck ran a red light.” He looked in the rearview mirror to see Cara still awake. “If it hadn’t been for that slow driver in front of us, that truck might’ve hit us.” The traffic light turned red as the slow car drove ahead into the night. Octavio stopped his car at another intersection, slowly exhaling as his head fell forward; the thought of the near death of his children made his heart race, his stomach turn in knots.
As he was examining the shards of glass on the street, left behind by a previous collision, an earsplitting horn blast from a pickup truck startled him. The light had turned green and someone screamed, “Move it!”
Octavio’s hands were trembling, his face perspiring. The pickup drove around him; a man shouting obscenities. Cara took off her seatbelt and reached over to put her arms around his shoulders.
“It’s okay Dad.” She could feel him shaking, the t-shirt drenched. Alex was frightened and couldn’t say a word.
“
Mi Amo
r
, please put your seatbelt back on—okay?”
Cara quickly slid back in her seat and fastened her belt. Octavio blasted the air conditioner while driving the rest of the way home.
“Here’s the key Cara—I’ll be in—in a few. Go on—tuck your brother into bed.” Cara’s eyes were welling up, but Octavio didn’t notice.
“Love you Dad.”
“I love you too—you too Alex.”
Cara held Alex’s hand as they entered the dark house, both afraid. She turned on the light and took Alex to his room. She changed Alex’s clothes, put him to bed and gave him a goodnight kiss on top of his head. Alex smiled and turned over, lifting his knees up, his body forming a ball. Cara turned on a nightlight, turned off the lamp and sai
d
goodnigh
t
. She walked to the living room and looked out the window through the sheers, wondering when Dad might feel better.
The storm clouds were as incandescent as they had been all evening, only now further away—brighter because of the blackness of night. The vibrant skies could also be seen from an empty hospital room several miles away. A nurse walked in and took a moment to look out a window, before removing a handmade sign that read:
Miracle in Progres
s
. She felt almost as brokenhearted as the patient’s family as she looked at it and just about threw it away, but then folded it and placed it in her pocket. The words, even if they were lies, were as sweet as wine, for truth can only be found in parables.
