She was, indeed, beautiful.
I am imperfectly aware that my memory constantly and involuntarily augments her perfection each time I reconstruct her, each time I recreate her with my already numb senses. But the memory of her lingers on.
Her long and delicate red hair, falling over her always impeccable raiment, as if it had been painted by the master Leonardo: an oily sfumatura with cubist influences; she possessed a typically French glamour with drops of Arabian mystique.
If it’s true that one really possess what cannot be lost in a shipwreck, she did indeed possess the gift of beauty and grace: a living work of art – a masterpiece.
At the beginning, just like any other inexperienced young man, I felt my heart breaking into a million pieces when I first saw her talking with and smiling at another man; I even reasoned, in a vain attempt to ease my anxiety, that without her, without such feminine hope, my life would be dispossessed of any possible meaning – a sensation that very much made me travel back in time some twenty years.
My fervent memory expressionistically depicted those high school days during which I used to desperately seek for her, my circumstantial Dulcinea, in that crowded and sleepy yard, trying to find her, full of dread and hope, with the sole intention of assuring myself that the day was worth the hair gel, the cold travel in the bus and the natural though embarrassing erection produced by the predictable swinging of the public transportation, or not; but repetition in this matter (just as in all matters), attenuates the unavoidable pain inflicted by the deceitful and ruthless females.
So I eventually became accustomed, because all human beings have the skill to adapt to any given situation, to seeing her speaking with other men who were pitifully dazzled by her wondrous smile and impressive looks (proof of their own shallowness and lack of knowledge about her true inner wonders). But slowly, that force bringer of calmness allows one to perceive more; and soon I realized that behind the alleged display of chivalry from my competitors, a material interest was awaiting. My last observation – because indeed my jealous concern took a couple of days to be extinguished – showed me that all he wanted, a first competitor among many, was an espresso macchiato.
One day, despite the fact that her presence was beginning to feel as if I were suddenly revisiting those school days without the beloved one forming the dooming pre-classroom queue, I caught sight of her looking aimlessly at the void, not without a sense of attention: as if she were expecting a call from an unexpected visitor, or the unseen, the unperceived. I’m sure that her sensitivities are much more developed than in those other ordinary women: the rest of what is left once she is out of the equation.
After the first stage of reconnaissance had been completed, and the predictable and necessary confidence built, I promptly started phase two: to eagerly seek for her with my hopeful eyes, wondering if fate itself might sanctify me with a blessing that was surely about to occur through the grace of her two shining blue diamonds, that other ignorants simply call eyes.
But she kept ignoring me.
Unfortunately it only takes to bless a woman with your indifference in order to gain her love and attention; and of course, I was not the exception to such a precise rule. I grew tired of rejecting those feminine others who are unworthy of my senses and heart, knowing deep inside that this very day would bless me with its arrival in the form of her.
I assume that, at the beginning, her constant companions were the oblivious distraction or the sturdy laziness; hence the sensation of being invisible to her, whereas her heart had indeed perceived me before, perhaps during another life – past or present.
I do know, just as if I could see it painted in the air, that she sensed, perhaps through her feminine nature, the nascent desire that I was starting to feel for her in my breast, the recognition that was pumping in the shape of a loving heart.
Such is the woman’s nature: just as a great tenderloin cut from the most delicate and gentle cow awaits the flames and the heat only to transform the charcoal into embers at the precise moment and not before, so the meat can be properly grilled and then being eaten, and then transmuted; thus did she with my flaming pumping love.
She waited as my heart macerated.
And other women who not only could have never overshadowed her, but were not even worthy of being her servants, kept molesting me as well, vainly trying to distract me from my muse, my love, my perfection. The best I could do was to distract them with simple and random culinary requests, so no feelings would be hurt.
I do know now that she kept answering the contemptuous calls gestured by my competitors (who now seemed to be unaware of her many marvels or else bored by the shallow admiration) whilst dismissing my subtle attempts, only to make me suffer with that typical feminine stratagem of ignoring the valiants who express a hint of an interest in them.
I did also saw her interacting with women of different races and socio-economic backgrounds; her purity of heart made no distinction of any kind whatsoever. She even spoke avidly and cheerfully with them. When it came to couples, the thing differed a bit; perhaps by force of chance or fate, in these cases she tended to pay more attention to the woman than to the man. During her cheerful interactions with little children, I could observe her maternal instincts, her natural sweetness and empathic skills at once; though I’m quite sure those little rogues are not hers: such an immaculate body shows not a sign of the pregnancy experience, and she does not seem the type that would care to adopt such an exaggerated amount of infants. She also treated them with an unusual affection – the kind of emotion that is not inspired by someone you live with. However, I did not feel quailed by it, because I do know that her true passion is that of serving others, and among those others, men. Of course, not any men: moi. Her real and true and ignored love.
But, despite the fact that I wanted to be served, she still continued to ignore me and my heart was still being macerated.
Until one day our eyes met, and it was like a glorious operatic matinée worthy of the golden 60’s, echoing a Corelli-Nilsson duet. Our eyes recognized each other, said hello, and melted in a visual hug for the very first time. Short after the usual silent compliments, tea was served accompanied with some buttered scones.
The embers were ready.
I can affirm or write a document immortalizing this very same assertion and sign it with my own blood: at that precise moment, my life changed forever. My private world became bright and my existence found its last and most profound raison d’être. My eyes also got a little burnt because the tea served with the scones was a bit too hot; but that’s nothing compared to the harmonies of rapture and delight that she inspired.
And love continued to grow percentually…
The smell of coffee and toasted caramelized croissants invades this recollection that I share with you [1]. The memory of the senses. I can now feel in this very moment the hardness of that very same chair which stoically stood under my flattened bottom during endless tortuous hours crammed with hope, anguish, despair and body fluids; I can now feel the cool breeze that always managed to find its way through the rotten frame that pretended to be somehow holding the window that gave me a beautiful sight of Ayacucho Street; the very same glass that separated us from the unknown, the unseen, the unexpected.
From that day onwards, a fourth of July at 8:47 am, the daily encounter of our eyes was soon to be followed by continuous approaches on her side. Just a single second of visual contact would prove to be enough to presage her scent entering my nostrils. The embers started to grill the food from paradise, my private manna; my macerated loving heart.
And love continued to grow percentually…
In those shy beginnings, her approaches took place not without a certain disdain; such an attitude was surely aimed at enhancing my real masculine attention and physical reactions… but my troubadouresque virgin, being quick witted and of a chaste spirit, soon realized that my love had no need of such cheap tricks in order to grow and expand: it was already complete and at its apogee; a roasting macerated heart over the embers of longing and passion.
Hello was the first word that inaugurated our personal Genesis, the sound that tore the deceiving veil that kept the lovers apart, like the fiendish and envious daytime trying to melt away the knighthood love. I am your Tristan.
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was Hello.
After the initial vocal recognition, the light found its way and her name blasted out of my mouth. She appeared to be surprised by my seer’s qualities; I do admit to having taken advantage of her ignorance and to never exposing my secret. Neither will I reveal it to you.
Once the first step had been taken, infinite variations of words followed the primal salutation under various forms: how are you? Great, and you? I’m cool, had a great time and the classic I would rather have those gizzards well done, otherwise I will suffer a hell of diarrhoea.
And love continued to grow percentually…
Time passed smoothly and sweetly, leaving an aftertaste of white sugar in my mouth, and I soon discovered (not without a sense of surprise) that she affectionately responded to all my requests with a smile that seemed to be tattooed on her face; such was its luminosity that it could have brighten up all the galaxies in the sky.
Our connection developed into a wordless alphabet; all was said, suggested and muted through our very eyes.
If on a certain day I happened to be in the mood for a coffee, she always managed to get it just as I have liked it ever since I was a two year old infant (later I figured out how she did it): almost boiling hot, with three spoons of whipped cream and three lumps of brown cane sugar. If my stomach was not ready for any acid ingestion, she would bring a glass of water. If the gizzards had not been properly accepted by my intestines, a couple of charcoal pills would be waiting for me at the table after an everlasting and sweaty visit to the rest rooms; and if the inner calling had been of an extreme nature, she would hand me a replacement wardrobe and clean up the muddy mess with nothing but love in her hands.
And love continued to grow percentually…
Croissants? I needn’t have to ask for them. The only thing I had to do was to prefigure them in my mouth so she, as a Cassandra from the Río de la Plata, would surprise me at once with a toasted and caramelized delicacy in one hand, or with two, or five, depending how hungry she knew I was.
I would say that even the morning newspapers were handed to me by her with a certain aroma of passion in her moves; the whole news smelt like her, even the mere reading of assassinations and politician’s statements inspired awe and fondness in my heart because of her touch left on those sheets.
And love continued to grow percentually…
One day I was blessed by a slight rubbing of her hands, and their asperity soon behoved me as well: It’s because I always have to wash so many dishes was her timid excuse before flying off like a butterfly, leaving a hint of a perhaps northern lazy accent, probably like that which is heard in Santiago del Estero, Argentina.
Indignant by the harm done to such a representation of divine art, I set myself at once to remedy the unworthy and ignoble epidermic blasphemy; I bought the best available dishwasher which, by the way, washed away my already bulimic bank account, along with five thousand litres of an effective moisturiser cream. If those were the hands meant to caress and cuddle my future heirs, they must be spotless and perfect – flawless as the great mother I will soon transform her into.
The embers were already burning myself and the macerated heart was passionately cooked.
One day, I discovered her admiring a lavish car that was passing by the exact same corner that already felt like home to us both. The roar of the engine interrupted our little daily chat, whose epicentre was the whimsical weather that was spitting down at us. Her facial expression changed a tiny though noticeable bit at the sight of that wheeled masterpiece, and I also sensed a brief sigh.
Those were all the signs and inspiration I needed, full of love and willing to make her happy without sparing any means, to invest my parents’ lifelong savings earned with sweat and tears. If the almighty creator did not spare sumptuous details when he prefigured the Garden of Eden, why should I refrain from any effort when it came to the chariot that was supposed to prevent my beloved’s feet from getting worthlessly eroded on the pavement? [2]
And love continued to grow percentually…
The plan was fairly simple: the very same Ferrari which that afternoon drew a sigh from her mouth would surprisingly await her in the garage of that house dreamed by her under the blessing shade of some colorado tree during one of the sweaty and thirsty naps she used to take when she once was a little provincial child; the mansion she dreamed about is located in the barrancas de Alvear, with river views, maids aplenty, two chefs, a British housekeeper from Kent and an Irish setter with copper hair that would prove to be a kind and loyal friend, ideal for the babies to come; a dog who would be jumping with joy and waiting for her alongside a pink and precious pony, her most intimate fantasy as a premenstrual child.
The only motherfucker who would make things a bit more complicated than I had expected was the bank clerk who, due to a lack of gentlemanly generosity and a remarkable ignorance of what love is about, had to die so I could get the money out of my parents account in order to make my muse happy, for ever, and ever.
If the price to pay for my love is these one hundred years in isolation, which are anxiously waiting for me, I will absolutely face that iron future with zest and courage. My heart has but one owner; I’m often assured that my ass will have many more.
If prison is to be my personal purgatory, I will dwell in it with nothing but a single cry buried in my chest:
My friends, I fell in love with a waitress!
[1] The uncensored version expands the text like this: I can feel the texture and warmth of the crunchy lard croissant as it goes up my anus and drags any flaky trace towards the origin, like a journey through time and space, representing the masculine longing to re-enter that watery womb which once was our home. The ulterior remembrance of the last reheated croissant dancing in my interiors excites my appetite voraciously. The reader will easily understand why we left such paragraph outside the actual edition of the text. If you cannot discern what that reason is, please go and stick a croissant up your anus.
[2] Nothing to comment here.