Love in Lowercase (15 page)

The owner of the restaurant told us that they had chosen the name “Buzzing” as an omen of success, as the word is often used to describe a place full of people having a great time.

His fringe was dyed in psychedelic colors to go with the black, red, and orange decor and the sixties-inspired furniture. Gabriela stood for a moment contemplating a series of black-and-white photos covering one of the walls. Then she asked, “Have you got any new entries for the dictionary?”

“A couple of things.” I was trying to improvise because I hadn't really come up with anything. “It's a variation on love in lowercase, the instant karma that happens when you commit minor indiscretions. You complain that a friend is stingy, and that day he gives you a gift. Or you shout at someone, and when you go outside you're so agitated you crash into a lamppost. The Germans have a saying for this, which roughly translated is ‘God punishes small sins without delay.'”

“That's quite good.”

The man with the multicolored fringe poured our wine while we decided on what to eat. I raised my glass to make a toast with Gabriela.
Here's to us
. But I resisted the temptation to say anything,
because that would have sounded too cheesy, so we clinked our glasses in silence.

“When can I see you again?” I asked, breaking my own rule about not pressuring her.

She ignored my question. “I've got a new entry for your dictionary. The definition would be: the inability of some people to live in the present.”

“That's not fair,” I protested.

Gabriela smiled and, after taking a sip of her wine, said, “Put it on my karma account.”

Anyone who's in love wants to get to know his beloved's past. This is one of the ways to understand and avoid disappointing her. In my case, Gabriela's past was still quite a mystery, but knowing she'd lived in Osaka and spoke Japanese made me decide, that very afternoon, to enroll in an intensive course on Japanese culture.

I didn't have many resources on the subject at home, apart from
The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea
by my cat's namesake, and an anthology of haiku that I was given years ago. I thought I'd start with that.

Among the haiku, I found one by Issa that was ideal for reciting to Mishima, who observed me from his comfortable position on the couch.

Arise from sleep, old cat,

And with great yawns and stretchings,

Amble out for love.

Mishima thumped his tail a couple of times but didn't move. He was probably still too young to amble out for love. Then I read
him a traditional Japanese song, which I thought was especially tender:

Two things will never change,

not today or any other day,

for they have been here since time began:

the water's flow

and the strange, sweet nature of love.

This was certainly a good definition of love, because if it wasn't strange I'd never have managed to get Gabriela to agree to see me the following day.

I was wildly happy and full of energy. Someone once said that, when you fall in love, you're not really in love with the person but with life through that person. This was happening to me.

The problem was that I didn't know how long I'd be able to contain my feelings. Despite the rules I set for myself, I wanted to confess my love every time I was with her, which would have been totally counterproductive. For the moment, she'd given me only her friendship, and I had to cling to that, come what may. That didn't stop me from rehearsing my crazy declarations of love in private.

A book from Titus's shelves turned out to be the perfect source of inspiration for this. It's called
10,000 Ways to Say I Love You.

It's hard to believe there could be so many variations on the phrase, but the author, a guy named Godek, had set out to make it into the
Guinness World Records
with his project. Some of his more extravagant suggestions include suggestions like:

Writing “I love you” on your teeth (one letter per tooth) with a pen that's not toxic and flashing a big smile so your beloved can read it.

A flyer campaign in your neighborhood with your photo, your beloved's name, and the message, “Love me!”

Saying it over the phone in Morse code by tapping a glass with a spoon.

Making a gift of yourself, nicely wrapped up and delivered by friends to the beloved's home on his or her birthday.

Making and sharing a pizza on which the topping forms a big heart.

Closing your eyes to be kissed after writing “I love you” on your eyelids.

Because of my great mood and the prospect of a week off—until the second semester started—I received Valdemar warmly that night and was even enthusiastic about engaging in conversation with him.

As if to counteract my energy, this time he was gloomy and dejected. He gave the impression of being tormented or threatened by messages from his persecutors. With the light switched off, he smoked a whole cigarette before deciding to speak. Meanwhile, I'd poured myself a glass of wine and was studying his movements, or those of his shadow, with an anthropologist's curiosity.

Valdemar, who had placed his ever-present backpack on the floor, began the night's chat with a question to himself.

“Who was Lobsang Rampa? Whatever the case, he wasn't who we thought he was. Millions of people who read
The Third Eye
were convinced he was a Tibetan lama who'd attained the supernatural powers he describes in his book. Although it was a best seller for decades, no television channel ever managed to interview him. This raised his profile even further, because people love mystery. His trump card was the fact that nobody knew
what he looked like. That's why, last century, people preferred what they believed to be the dark side of the moon before it was photographed. Reality, or what we take to be reality, has never been of any interest to most people.”

“So, who is Lobsang Rampa?”

“Nobody. That's the problem. Lobsang Rampa doesn't exist as such. After he'd conned the whole world with the lama story, some journalists from the
Times
discovered that he was a plumber whose real name was Cyril Henry Hoskin. He'd never been to Tibet. The most surprising thing is that people didn't seem to be put off by that, because the book kept selling. What sort of world do we live in? Now do you understand why I have nostalgia for the future?”

“I think that some people can't make their real identity public because nobody would accept it.” I was surprised to find myself defending the Francis Amalfis of this world.

“What do you mean by that?”

“The author might have wanted to use his real name, but nobody would have taken any notice, starting with the publisher. The world wanted Lobsang Rampa, not Cyril Henry Hoskin.”

“Are you trying to tell me that it's not necessary to practice what you preach? That you can go around thinking one thing, saying another, and doing something else? Is that what you believe?”

“I'm only saying we're human beings. It wouldn't be just to ask more of Lobsang Rampa than I'd ask of myself.”

Valdemar took a deep drag. He exhaled slowly.

“I've come to the conclusion that, not only do we live in a fake world, but it's impossible to share any experience.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I'll give you an example to explain what I mean. Imagine that I want to go off on a long journey, and I don't know when I'll be
back. You come with me to the railway station to say good-bye. If after that we stay in touch by e-mail or phone, and we both reminisce about that farewell, it will be pure self-deception.”

“Why?”

“Because we're not talking about the same thing, however much we want to believe we are. Your memory is different from mine and could even be the complete opposite. You remember a man getting on a train, moving away into the distance, and waving good-bye out of a window. I, however, remember a man standing still on a platform, getting smaller and smaller. That's the only thing we can share: the sensation that the other person is getting smaller. This is true of our emotional lives too. Experience can never be shared. It's served in separate packets.”

“Do you want a glass of wine? I guess we'll be talking for a while yet.”

Just then, Mishima started racing up and down the hallway, as if he realized that the night was going to be important somehow and that he needed to stay fit and alert.

When I woke up in my chair it took me quite a while to figure out where I was, as if I'd had a grand mal absence. The early-morning light bounced off two empty wine bottles and another that was almost full.

Judging by the hangover that made me fear my head was going to explode, we must have been drinking and talking nonstop until I'd dropped off to sleep. Valdemar must have staggered off to the upstairs apartment but had left his backpack lying on the floor.

I felt that tidying up was an even more urgent task than trying to sort myself out, so I collected the bottles and emptied the ashtray, which was full of half-smoked cigarettes. When I picked up the backpack I noticed that it was very light. I opened the zipper and saw that it was empty.

That was surprising because Valdemar carried his manuscript around in it. I hadn't seen him open it once the previous night. How could it be empty now? The only possible answer was that he'd come down with an empty backpack, just as I'd found it. But why would anyone carry around a backpack with nothing inside it? Unless he'd planned to take something away in it. But
this couldn't have been the case, since the backpack was still lying there, empty.

Two aspirin and a cold shower later, my hangover had been reduced to a state of feeling slightly out of sorts. I forced myself to eat a couple of slices of bread with cheese.

It must have been about ten when I went out, still feeling woozy. I had two hours to recover before meeting Gabriela, who had the morning off.

I should have thought about this before I started drinking.

The fresh air felt like soothing balm on my skin.

This time we'd arranged to meet in the café at La Central, the biggest bookshop in El Raval. Since I got there an hour early, I decided to browse in the foreign-literature section.

I started leafing through a book called
Death and the Penguin
by the popular Ukrainian writer Andrey Kurkov. It's about loneliness and life in post-Soviet Ukraine. Viktor, a struggling writer, adopts a penguin after the Kiev zoo gives away its animals when it can no longer feed them. After embarking on a series of adventures together in Kiev, they get embroiled in a complicated situation.

Seduced by this find, I decided I'd take the penguin and its protector home with me. As I was going to pay for the book, I thought that if I had a new novel, then Gabriela should have one too. But which? It's not easy to guess the tastes of someone you barely know, even if she's read Somerset Maugham and Graham Greene.

In such cases, there is a surefire solution, however, which is to give something you'd like yourself. But you have to be careful about your choice, because the title can say a lot about your intentions toward that person. It's not the same thing to give a woman a book called
Tell Me You Love Me Even If It's a Lie
as it is to give
Memoirs of a Bitch
.

I went and asked one of the assistants if they had
The Flaw
by Antonis Samarakis. It looks like a crime novel at first, but in the end you realize that it's also the story of a friendship. I remember having tears in my eyes when I finished it, which doesn't happen to me very often. Yes, that was a good choice.

When Gabriela came into the bookshop café, I was having a cup of the house special, a blend called Monk's Tea, which seemed most adequate for the image of self-restraint I was trying to convey.

She asked for the same tea as I had. While they were making it behind the bar, I placed the book I'd chosen for her on the table.

“What's that?” She was surprised.

“Since we're in a bookshop, it must be a book.” I was trying to be funny.

“How did you know it's my birthday today? Have you hired a private detective?”

I was upset by her suspicion, although the amazing coincidence quickly made me forget my indignation. Whatever the case, I needed to be a bit cool and distant, so I said, “I didn't know. Happy birthday! Actually, I'm like the Mad Hatter and the March Hare because I'm into unbirthdays.”

“So it really is a coincidence,” she marveled.

“Aren't you going to open it?” I asked impatiently.

Her long fingers tore the paper off, as if she were trying to free the book from a shroud. When
The Flaw
emerged, she looked at
it lying on the table but didn't touch it, except for a long lock of hair that fell onto it, covering the author's name.

“I don't know this one,” she said.

“That's why I'm giving it to you. It's one of my favorite novels.”

I shouldn't have done that
.
I've put unnecessary pressure on her with this gift. Now she'll think she has to respond in some way
.

“Thank you,” she said, putting the book in the pocket of her woolen overcoat.

I had to salvage the situation as soon as possible, so I drained my teacup and suggested, “Shall we go? Today's my first day off, and I'd love to go for a walk.”

Gabriela nodded and, with a vacant expression, got up, leaving her cup still full on the table. It was only then that I noticed that she hadn't touched it. I definitely couldn't have been more inept.

Leaving the bookshop, we walked along the street leading to the Plaça dels Àngels. There's an old building there and a couple of tall, thin palm trees that I've always liked, but that morning they looked like two poor creatures being flayed by the wind—just like Gabriela and me.

“What's Osaka like?” I asked, hoping to break the silence that had set in between us.

“They call it the Venice of Japan because it has so many canals. But it's nothing like Venice. It's a modern city with lots of students.”

She lapsed into silence again. I didn't ask any more questions, and she didn't seem willing to take the initiative, as on our last date. What was going on?

As I often do in desperate situations, I chose precisely that moment to do something very rash. When we walked into the large square, I took her hand in mine. Astonishingly, she didn't reject it or say anything. She didn't even stop walking, despite this new
turn of events. We just kept going toward the center of the square, which was full of skaters and musicians.

I was holding her cold, soft hand, but she wasn't really holding mine. Instead of closing hers a little around mine to show she was responding to my move, it was hanging there limply, like a creature without a will of its own.

“Do you mind my holding your hand?”

“I don't mind. The problem is what it means to you.”

After that dig, I let go of her hand. It fell to her side, heavy as lead, like a bird shot down by a bullet. That was the point of no return, and it was entirely my fault because I hadn't been patient enough or had sufficient control over myself to win her friendship and trust little by little.

She had very clearly grasped my intentions, and now I'd lost everything. It was too late for the cautious, stealthy approach decreed by the golden laws of seduction.

With my whole project ruined, I didn't have it in me to keep hanging on to false hopes.

“Gabriela, I'm sorry for having hassled you now and over the past week. I'm no good at flirting. Let me be honest with you: I don't think we can ever be friends.”

“We can't?” She was shocked.

“It'd be wonderful to be your friend, because it's a privilege to spend time with you. But I love you too much to keep pretending. Gabriela, walk away now or I'll have to kiss you.”

Once the words were out, I was overwhelmed by a dizzying need to flee and rushed off without waiting for her reaction. My head was spinning as I scurried away from the square. I felt like the most ridiculous man in the world because, having made my threat, I was the one who'd run away.