I clear my mind to try to stop my brain from bringing back bad memories; I haven’t forgotten the good ones. But nothing remains of all that now. It’s time for my own final judgment. I’ve been ambitious, selfish, and disloyal. If hell exists, I’ll undoubtedly be condemned. I have to admit, these persistent pains, combined with my remorse, have sapped the creativity of my imagination. My latest novel is mediocre—even pathetic. The characters were dead on arrival and act like real zombies. I think I’ve lost touch with reality and am living in a parallel world. I see the new world but don’t feel it; I hear it but don’t understand it, and I no longer have anyone around me to discuss this passage of time with—a confidant to whom I can pour out a mountain of misfortunes without being rejected, ignored, or forgotten. I’ve slipped from one dimension to another without even realizing it, distracted by my dreams of greatness, convinced that I would lay the world at my feet—and now I am its doormat. I have betrayed the only woman I have ever loved. I have scorned my friends and admired my enemies, because I preferred the thrill of victory after a bitter war against my enemies to the barren peace of friendship. And now I have neither friends nor enemies. I have humiliated some, and the others have ignored me and rejected my enmity, so there is nothing left—neither of one kind nor the other. I lie prostrate on the bed, trying to forget that I have a corrupted body, one that threatens to destroy my soul and my mind as well. Tonight, the sporadic lights of cars passing overhead seem to me like souls in torment that warn me that very soon I’ll be one of them and will cross the rooftops of other damned souls; that neither heaven nor hell exists, only unbearable nothingness. X   Chapter 2 Dawn finally breaks. I’ve slept two or three restful hours. It’s a relief to sleep—to have the chance to be with the people you love most, not the real ones, but the ones your mood needs, and who, while you’re awake, sleep in your imagination. Only in dreams do things happen the way we want them to; without dreams, the soul would have nowhere to take refuge; where to nest and sing its song; it would be trapped by harsh and severe reality. I don’t know who gave us the ability to dream, but it must have been someone very understanding and well-acquainted with human weaknesses. Perhaps it was the God that religions speak of, but I cannot accept that, because I simply don’t believe in anything. I’ve even stopped believing in myself. Those who live immersed in nothingness cannot believe in anything. But dawn is breaking, and it is time for me to be optimistic; the moment I’ve been waiting for, because light must be the cause of all creation, while darkness is responsible for destroying it, for plunging creation into an abyss of no return—the very same abyss that must await us after death. I’ve thought a great deal about death, especially my own death; my irreversible and premature death. I’d like to believe in reincarnation, because life isn’t destroyed—it’s only transformed. It would be a comfort to believe that moments after my last breath, I’d become part of a new life, somewhere on Earth or in the universe. After all, we come from it and to it we shall return. But my room has been flooded with light, and now I see things as they are and not as I dream them. On the bookshelf, I see my novels, meticulously arranged by thickness, color, and height—novels on which I have spent, or perhaps worn away, my entire life—and some photos from times long past and irretrievable. I wrote my best novels when my mind and my imagination had wings, because they were young and free, and understood one another: what the imagination created , my disciplined mind would write it down. Most of my novels have been a resounding success, but the last one was tainted by my illness. On my desk, next to the large window through which I gaze upon my corner of the world, I see the computer lying idle and silent—the very machine that, in better days, constantly spurred me on, barely giving me a moment’s respite or time to rest. All that could be heard was the exciting, rapid sound of the keys tracing on the illuminated screen the images that gushed forth like a spring of fresh water from my exuberant imagination. Back then, this machine was an extension of my mind and spirit; now it is a mere computer, like thousands of others, soulless and inactive, because I no longer have anything to tell. The keyboard seemed like a universe to me, through which I could express even the most profound philosophical thoughts, write the most passionate dialogues, or describe the most beautiful scenes. Everything was right there, in plain sight; I just had to choose the right letters, in the most fitting way and with the right rhythm as well. That was another life. Every character that emerged from that now-lifeless keyboard completely upended reality: they were the real ones; everything else was a dream. I felt them so vividly that I often called upon them, convinced they would appear in my room, and we would discuss their future as characters in the novel. I always had the feeling that they weren’t satisfied with their roles, because I never really got to know them for who they truly were, even though I had created them myself. But that was before the diagnosis; before my gait became clumsy and unsteady; long before the first symptoms of my illness caused me to lose consciousness due to intense pain arising from some vague part deep inside my body. But I sensed my illness many years earlier. Perhaps I had that premonition from the moment I was born—that’s why I lived with urgency, wrote with urgency, and also aged with the same urgency. Now I can rest and find peace; there is no longer any reason for urgency. I have cast aside all hope. I know I am going to die, but against my will. I cannot accept that nature should decide for me. I must forestall 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 end my own life. Commit suicide? Would I be capable of doing it? But how? I don’t want a violent death. By taking sedatives? But, knowing my situation, no doctor would prescribe them to me. I never thought it would be so difficult to take one’s own life. I envy those who are fortunate enough to die in their sleep, because the greatest difficulty for someone committing suicide is making the final decision of their life—there’s no turning back. Perhaps I could resort to euthanasia, but I don’t want to die where the law allows it, nor do I want my death to be a commercial transaction. I’d like to die by the sea, at sunset on an autumn evening, to carry its beauty with me into eternity. Aren’t a dying person’s wishes granted? Why can’t mine be granted? But I’m speaking of myself; planning my death by my own hands and of my own free will. I intend to be the murderer who destroys everything I have created; to put an end to the fruit of my youthful dreams, my ambitions fulfilled after many years of loneliness and sadness, along with my fond memories. At least if nature kills me, I won’t be responsible for this murder. No, I cannot take my own life. No tree would destroy its own fruit. But if I do not have enough courage to harm my own body, I must silence my conscience, curb these gloomy thoughts, and close the eyes of my imagination— the sole cause of my suffering, for we do not suffer unless we imagine. So, must I let this terrible disease run its course? How will I endure this long agony? What comfort can I count on? I cannot imagine waiting impassively for death, bedridden in a hospital, my mind clouded by painkillers and my vision blurred, staring blankly at some spot in the room. No, that is not a dignified way to die. There must be another, more humane and less painful way. Perhaps the only dignified way to die is in the place you call home, surrounded by those who truly care for you; so that you can hold their hand until its touch is lost with your final breath, because it is through our hands that souls communicate and express their desires and feelings; in this way, you can carry their affection and their smile into eternity, even if my eyes no longer see, my ears no longer hear, and my body no longer feels anything. That is the only dignified way to die! A wise reflection, but a useless one, because I have no home and no one who feels such deep affection for me. This apartment is not a home, because it lacks the essential element: a woman. It is merely a place of residence; a comfortable refuge; the ideal space for a writer; a gilded cage where the imagination can run free. Only a woman can turn a train station waiting room into a home, because she is the home. It lies 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 me in my final moments and clasp the feeble hand of a dying man, unfortunately, I haven’t heard from her in many years. She was my first and only love, the person who stimulated my imagination and creativity. I owe her who I am and the memories that have inspired most of my novels. But back then, my blind ambition was stronger than my feelings. Our passion for literature both united and separated us. We were both confident in our talent and had not the slightest doubt about our future successes . Our relationship inspired her best poems, which flattered me and transported me to another world, but fate had a painful destiny in store for her. The plot of my first novel was also the result of our relationship: the story of a failed poet who describes her suicide in her last poem. What a bitter paradox of fate! She helped me correct my glaring literary flaws as a beginner; she even typed up the manuscript and suggested I submit it to a well-known literary contest for beginners. She shared my hopes and ambitions generously and without the slightest hint of envy. She devoted herself entirely to this task, which ultimately bore unexpected fruit: I won first prize! What followed is the source of my remorse—something I will never be able to forgive myself for. A renowned literary agent took an interest in me and assured me that I had great literary talent and that, within a year or two, she would make me the most widely read and admired writer of that era. I was deeply flattered and accepted her offer. She suggested the theme for my second novel: a romantic story with a happy ending, and I had no trouble imagining the plot—I just had to add a few new scenes based on my own personal experiences. In this second novel, it was she who reviewed and corrected the numerous stylistic flaws and grammatical errors in the first manuscript. We used to work at her home, in an atmosphere of intimacy and familiarity, designed to seduce me and make me literally fall into her arms. She 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 allure of mature women who are still beautiful, possessing a youthful spirit and great experience in the arts of seduction, so it was impossible for me to resist her. In a short time, she managed to completely dominate my will. I spent my days in a frenetic promotional schedule for my novel that barely allowed me to devote a few minutes to remembering another woman who had to suffer in silence every time my image—with a studied, arrogant smile of a winner and arrogant, appeared in some media outlet. The few moments I didn’t devote to my promotion, I had to spend satisfying her desires—which were always insatiable—not as my agent, but as my lover. Although there were moments when I was aware of my disloyal behavior, I couldn’t give up the vain sensation of being above ordinary 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—they need time to bloom. Sometimes I wonder what would have become of me if I hadn’t won that unexpected prize. I would probably be married, have two or three children, a more prominent belly, and might have found a good job at an insurance company, where I would have already been promoted to assistant director. We would live in a nice house with enough rooms for everyone, located in a quiet residential suburb. We would have two dogs—a hyperactive Yorkshire Terrier for my wife and another of a larger breed—as well as a Siamese cat. Two of my children would already be in college. The oldest would be studying law and would already have a job lined up at my company, and my middle daughter would be studying journalism because she’d believe she had a calling to be a writer and would have already published a romance novel online. The youngest—since we’d most likely have two daughters— she would still be in high school and would be wearing a dental appliance to correct her crooked teeth. My wife would be the president of some cultural association, and every first Saturday of the month our spacious living room would turn into a meeting room, where a dozen active mothers—and perhaps a 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 at a multinational pet food company, and she would run a small boutique selling exclusive clothing in our neighborhood—which would most likely be a money-losing venture. Every summer, my wife, our youngest daughter, and I would spend two weeks in a popular coastal town, where we’d have an apartment reserved every year on the 15th floor of a building three blocks from the beach, while our older children would spend the summer taking intensive English courses in London or New York. Is that what I’ve missed out on? No; it’s too conventional an assumption—one I would never have accepted. But I don’t want to think about what my life might have been like with that woman as if it were the plot of one of my novels. She is a real person, and I mustn’t confuse her with a character; our relationship wasn’t a novel. Sometimes I can’t tell the difference between dreams and reality, because memories eventually turn into dreams, and dreams, over time, become reality. Everything could have been different if I hadn’t been so blind and ambitious and hadn’t fallen into the arms of my literary agent. But soon her craving to feel young and attractive was no longer sufficiently satisfied by me, and she sought out a new lover—another young, ambitious writer. I didn’t feel her betrayal at all; rather, it was a liberation, because I, too, needed new inspiration to continue the meteoric rise of my popularity. Then I tried to win back my first love, but I lost track of her; it seemed as though she had emigrated to another planet or been swallowed up by the earth, because she had vanished from all the media that might have revealed her whereabouts. Discouraged by the futile search, I tried to find comfort in one of my young female admirers. It wasn’t difficult to seduce them—I could even choose from among the many young women who idolized . I didn’t choose her for her intelligence but for her body, because my capacity to love had been nullified by my betrayal. Unfortunately, despite her attractiveness, my constant remorse left me impotent and numb, so my relationships with my young lovers were brief and frustrating. My remorse led me to accept solitude, and I devoted myself body and soul to my work. But the themes of my novels changed radically; the previous plots always had a happy ending, while the new ones became unhappy, negative, and ended tragically, with the protagonist invariably dying the protagonist of the story. But far from waning, my popularity continued to grow, because in our time, relationships with happy endings are rare, and my readers identified more closely with the new dramatic twist in my tragic plots. Yes, despite all these years, I still keep her image alive in my mind, because she has been the one who inspired my most endearing female characters. I have described her so many times that I could not forget her even if I tried. And if my memory were to play a trick on me and erase her image, I’d only have to read the novels where she appears over and over again to bring her back intact, just as I’ve kept her in my mind these past twenty years. But the years pass and leave their terrible mark. Perhaps if I were to run into her on the street, I wouldn’t recognize her. What ravages has time wrought on her childlike face and rosy cheeks? What must those full, irresistible lips look like now? And what color is her blonde, curly hair—always tousled— that used to tangle between my fingers? And her breasts—small but sensual? What must not have changed is her sincere and tender gaze, nor the blue color of her eyes. How much I’ve longed for her during my long, sleepless nights, bringing characters to life with her qualities! How much I would have given to feel her hands on my aching shoulders after those endless hours spent trying to recreate the world with the fantasies of my exhausted imagination! And how many mornings have I woken up hugging my pillow, emerging from a dream in which I held her in my arms, and as we lay on fragrant, freshly mowed grass, we gazed at a pristine blue sky—a sky so vast that our eyes could barely take in a tiny fraction of its immensity. I met her in the college cafeteria one day in early the spring of 1997, the year Darío Fo won the Nobel Prize in Literature—a prize I secretly aspired to win one day. She was standing in front of me in line at the cafeteria, trying to hold her cup of coffee and a huge strawberry cream cake with just one hand, because the other was holding several books of poetry. I offered to hold her books for her, but she refused. Finally, and as was to be expected, the cup of coffee, the cake, and her precious books rolled onto the floor. Then she did accept my help. While she wiped the pieces of cake that had smeared the books, I got her a new cup of coffee and the last remaining slice of cake. But as fate would have it, on that early spring morning she was left without her coffee and her delicious cream and strawberries that morning, because I tripped over a misplaced chair and, once again, coffee and cake ended up on the floor. We interpreted that coincidence of our clumsiness as a sign from fate—that we were meant for each other. The days and months that followed our eventful encounter were simply glorious. We shared our respective vocations and ambitions with each other, and agreed, sealed with a kiss, to walk the path to glory together, which our youthful optimism took for granted. We used to sit on the soft grass of our campus and exchange sheets of paper with our respective creations. I would read and evaluate her poems, 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 the ocean ; If your soul were the sky, I would be a cloud; If your gaze were rain, I would be a field; If your hands were water, I would be thirst. We attended every cultural event related to literature, and we were considered “Les enfants terribles” at book signings because of our exhaustive questions. I think the authors feared us. We never missed a biographical film about a writer. We made plans for the future, for when we’d be rich and famous. We agreed that we’d spend half the year in Paris and the other half in Mallorca, in a small house on a cliff, where we could watch the sunrise over the Mediterranean Sea from our bedroom window. We’d even decided to have our first child when I turned 30, so we’d have enough time to establish our respective literary careers. All those wonderful fantasies took place before I won that damned prize. Now I realize that I was certain of what my brilliant future would be like, down to the last detail, but I wasn’t sure who I really was, and I could barely withstand the first trial that fate put in my path. I’ve barely had time to reflect and fully come to terms with my wretched fate, and tomorrow I have to appear in public and present my latest novel. I am a slave to my own success, trapped by the terms of a draconian contract. I ceased to be free long ago and became an admired slave. I would give everything I own to go back and start my life over with her, and to never have been so foolish as to submit my first novel to a literary contest—only to have the misfortune of winning it. But it’s already too late. Now I’ll be back on the covers of specialized magazines, but to announce my inevitable death. Eulogies will be written, full of praise and virtues I surely don’t possess, but the dead are either extolled or defamed—rarely respected. Sales of my books will surely triple, so my premature death is a magnificent business opportunity for my publisher, the printing presses, and the bookstores. They’ll 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 feigned sadness, will have me sign a new contract to secure exclusive rights to my books once I leave this world. I’ll receive thousands of condolences from my admirers, and they’ll be so hypocritical that they’ll wish me a speedy recovery, but deep down, my death is far more morbid and exciting to 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 for the duration of his funerals and tributes; afterward, other living writers will fill the void I leave behind, and they will surely fall victim to the same affliction. It’s unlikely that I’ll survive much longer. I’ve always had the feeling that I was writing what readers wanted to read, not what I wanted to write. I’ll never know what kind of writer I am because I’ve never really put myself to the test. Everything has turned out to be too easy to be important. There is no greater misfortune for a writer by vocation than winning a contest at a young age, nor any worse torture than succeeding at something you don’t like. To write what your own intuition dictates, you must not think about readers—at least not until you’ve turned forty. I am one of those victims. I try to push 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 have been born to admire anyone whose name is printed anywhere other than on their ID card or their mailbox. Most admire me only because I have hundreds of other admirers and followers, but in reality they don’t know why they admire me. They all expect the same thing from me: a few words of response from the legend they’re captivated by, so they can feel blessed by divine grace. The messages from these unconditional admirers are short phrases they must have saved in their computer’s memory to send to their favorite writers: “Your latest novel was great,” “Your latest novel had me hooked,” “I really enjoyed your latest novel,” “ I absolutely loved your latest novel”; etc. And what can I say in reply? I could just thank them profusely and tell them to share the thanks among themselves. But there’s one message that catches my attention. It’s from a young woman. I can’t explain it, but her image makes me feel uneasy and restless. Perhaps it’s because there’s something we have in common in our features; or because of her haughty and provocative gaze—and yet, there’s a certain sweetness in her face . I get the impression that her arrogance hides a vulnerable personality. I almost don’t dare to read it—I have a feeling it won’t be favorable, and I’m not in the right frame of mind to handle criticism today. After all, praise is a balm—it doesn’t cure, but it soothes; criticism is bitter medicine—it tastes bad, but it cures. I dare to read it: “Hello, I’m an aspiring writer who has read all your novels, and in my humble opinion, only one of them has a strong driving force: the first one. The rest are acceptable, but they lack this important quality. It seems as though, after your first novel, you lost the drive you had in that first one. As for your latest novel, I’m sorry to say that it seems as though you’ve lost both the drive as well as your inspiration. I’m sorry for being so blunt, but that’s my opinion. Noemí.” Whoever you are, Noemí, you’ve uncovered my best-kept secret! I confess that this harsh criticism from an arrogant, conceited young woman has gotten to me. I shouldn’t worry— all the invitations for the launch of my new novel have been booked for a week now, and the reviews haven’t been very effusive but aren’t bad either; what surprises me, however, is the certainty of her judgments, which fully align with the reality of my literary career. It’s true that the novels that followed my first one were written under the influence of my literary agent—not by a human being—and that they were written not by the artist but by the professional with a fine writing style. And that face… that expression… those features so similar to my own—the broad forehead, the dimples on the cheeks, and the slight droop of the eyelids… they’re identical. But I wonder, who is this mysterious Noemí? There’s nothing in her profile to identify her—not where she studied, not where she lives, no photos, not even a blog; nothing! I reply: “ Dear Noemí, your harsh criticism has hurt my pride, but I appreciate your honesty. I have no doubt whatsoever that you will be a great writer. I am aware that none of my novels will deserve even a modest place in 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 their readers , because if they did, they’d make them feel guilty and ignorant. If you appear half a dozen times on a widely watched TV channel and have some physical appeal, you automatically become the idol of thousands of people who were born to be fans. The media have so much power that if they set their minds to it, they could make the crime reporter for a provincial newspaper win the Nobel Prize. If the media has idealized you, you can write anything, because they’ll never stop admiring you. My latest novel isn’t brilliant; it’s as ordinary and run-of-the-mill as the ordinary, run-of-the-mill readers who’ll enjoy reading it, because it speaks their language and shares their vices and virtues. In short, it’s the novel they themselves would write, but I’ve spared them that tedious work. Most writers today don’t chase after readers but after journalists and image-makers— who are the ones who truly rule the world. If you dream of being an extraordinary writer, your life will unfold within that same extraordinary dream, and you’ll never be able to live in reality. I hope you understand. Warm regards” I’m sending this. I think it’s a good response, but I have to admit that her criticism has merit. I don’t owe my fame to my supposed talent but to the popularity that my first novel brought me—and which it inspired—and to my patron’s clever marketing. I deserve no more credit than having known how to apply her advice, her deep understanding of readers’ psychology, and her insightful ideas, combined with my ability to write them in an acceptable style. But I’m sure there are hundreds of writers far more talented than I am who haven’t had the same luck as I have. I just received a new message from Noemí. I wonder how she’ll interpret my reply. I could delete it. After all, it’s just the opinion of an immature young woman; I don’t have to take it into consideration. I have more than enough admirers, and I no longer worry about success or failure, because there won’t be any more novels to criticize. She’s right: I lack a muse and inspiration. But I’m curious to hear her opinion, so I open it: “Yes, good novels need good readers—that’s why they’re so rare. But good writers make good readers, and if you write mediocre novels, you’ll always have mediocre readers. I look forward to hearing your thoughts at the launch of your new novel. Best regards, and see you tomorrow. Noemí.” It hurts, but I accept it. She’s absolutely right: every reader gets the author they deserve. I’m undoubtedly one of the ones to blame for the mediocrity of readers, because I’ve settled for their flattery without worrying whether or not they were well-founded. It’s already too late to make amends. What can I say about the novel if I’ve never written a real novel myself? Another endless sleepless night. I see mysterious shadows creeping stealthily around my bed. I’m undoubtedly suffering from hallucinations. I’ve 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 they belong to someone else and not to me. Any small object turns into an insect crawling across the shelves of my bookcase or across my study desk; I even see them moving across the bedspread on my bed. I know they’re just hallucinations caused by my tired eyes and my depressed state of mind, but they distress me. I cannot endure 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 descend into the very depths of hell, from which I am already just a step away. Why hasn’t she contacted me in all these years? I’m a public figure. She must have known how to get in touch with me. A wound cannot remain open for twenty years. They say time heals everything, but they don’t say what kind of wounds it heals. There are some for which, apparently, time does not pass, and perhaps some of them are disloyalty and betrayal. But she may also be married by now with a family, and no longer feel any interest in me. Or—who knows, and the very thought distresses me—she may already be dead. Ghosts continue to haunt my bed. It seems as if all the spirits are conspiring against me to destroy what little sanity I remains, but I will resist; this is no time for madness. I’ve taken my latest novel from the bookshelf and am reading the passage where the heroine discovers that her lover is cheating on her. It’s a common love story, and in real life, too, cheating is common, and I have enough personal experience to write these scenes realistically. Another dawn with no reason for optimism. I must have slept two or three hours, but I feel tired and achy, because the few hours I managed to sleep were filled with a horrible nightmare. Fortunately, I can only remember the final moments. I was lying in a hospital bed, but the room was painted red, and a faceless nurse was injecting me with a dose of morphine. Across from my bed, I could see scenes of a butcher slaughtering pigs. The pigs spoke and asked the butcher: “Why me?” But the butcher paid no heed to their pleas and delivered his fatal blows, one after another. Inexplicably, it was my turn next, and I asked him the same agonizing question again: “Why me?” With the same result. And just as the butcher was about to deliver his fatal blow, he suddenly transformed into her—smiling, just as I’d last time I saw her on campus. She stroked my dazed head. She gazed at me for a few moments, and barely above a whisper, she exclaimed: “The angel of death spreads his wings, for he has an important mission from Lucifer. When you hang in his deadly clutches, I will not weep for you but for myself, for I will not be able to accompany you to hell, as was my desire.” And she vanished, transforming back into the butcher, who was once again preparing to deliver his fatal blow. X   Chapter 3 Fortunately, a call on my cell phone woke me from this horrible dream. It’s my current literary agent. “Sorry to call you at this hour, but I want you to know that I’m sorry; I’m really sorry! —his ambiguous message makes me very uneasy— I’m sorry to hear about your diagnosis! “How do you know about my diagnosis?” “Someone at the hospital leaked the news about your incurable illness, and it’s spreading all over social media! I didn’t know it was that serious!” Believe me, I’m sorry; I don’t know what to say…! —My agent feels compelled to take charge of the situation and says, visibly shaken—: “If you’re not feeling well, we can cancel the presentation.” But that would mean breaching the contract with the publisher and would cause us a lot of headaches. Only death can serve as a legal justification. No, I have to do the presentation. Sooner or later, they’ll find out about my health. A writer without a contract is free to do whatever he wants, because he hasn’t published anything. On the other hand, a writer with a contract who has been published has something that justifies his enslavement. We write to have a reason to lose our freedom. That’s how paradoxical the writer’s world is. We agreed to have breakfast together at a café near my apartment. My agent arrived accompanied by a young woman who made a strong impression on me. But not because of her beauty, rather because of her appearance and curious attire. She wore a loose-fitting leather jacket in a striking scarlet color, which contrasted with her straight black hair, cut short at the nape of her neck, and her skin, pale as snow. She wore tight black leggings and a black skirt that covered a small portion of her thighs. But the most striking feature is her enormous military-style boots, which she laces up with red laces as well. As for her face, I find it ordinary, with nothing remarkable about it. I get the impression that with that flashy outfit she’s trying to divert our attention from her face—that she herself must be aware of her lack of attractiveness or charm. However, her gaze and her mannerisms are simple and sincere. Just from the way she greets me, I can tell she’s cultured and intelligent. The young woman is the latest person my agent is representing. According to him, she’s talented. He wanted her to join us for our interview because she needs to break into the literary world, and he thought I’d be a good place to start. The young woman seems somewhat intimidated by my presence. She’s spilled her coffee twice by stirring it too vigorously. She doesn’t dare look me in the eye, and she keeps her gaze fixed on her swirling cup of coffee. I wonder what she’s thinking. She’s waiting for me to speak to her, and the truth is, I don’t know what we could talk about other than the weather. I break the silence by remarking that it’s been a very damp fall. The young woman nods slightly, but only out of courtesy. My trivial observation confuses my agent, who doesn’t want to waste time on such trifles. From a pocket of his jacket he pulls out a newspaper clipping and hands it to me. It’s the latest review published about my novel. I ask him to summarize it for me—that’s what I have an agent for: “It’s good,” he assures me, making no effort to hide his business-like satisfaction, “it even suggests it might be the novel of the year.” I don’t mention this to my agent, but I suspect this critic must be cashing a check every month from my publisher, and he doesn’t want to fall out with them. There are few honest critics left, or if they are honest, they ignore the fundamentals of literature. For the sake of this age-old art, I would have preferred a bad review—as this novel deserves. On another occasion, I would have been glad, but now that I must answer to my conscience for all my actions, it saddens me, because now, too, the wise phrase makes sense: “The moment of truth has arrived.” And the truth is that it’s a bad novel. The young writer congratulates me and assures me that I deserve it, and she seems to be expecting my thanks. I think she’s trying to suggest a topic of conversation in which she can participate. “Forgive me for butting in,” she finally decides to speak up, “but I also think it’s a good novel.” I ask her what leads her to that opinion. “It’s well written, and the characters are very well developed,” she replies, somewhat flustered, because she wasn’t expecting my question. “The descriptions are very vivid, and the dialogue is very natural. Yes, I think your latest novel is very good.” It’s clear that this young woman belongs to a generation in which ideals are rare, because she’s omitted the fundamental point: the plot . A poem doesn’t need a plot—words alone are enough—but a novel cannot exist without a plot. The plot is what links fiction to reality, and a good novel must bear witness to the reality of its time through the plot; of the author’s commitment to their time. If this link doesn’t exist, it cannot transcend its immediacy, and instead of a novel, we end up writing a three-hundred-page pamphlet, adorned with an evocative cover, and with an unjustified price tag. I don’t bring up this idea with her because she most likely doesn’t feel committed to her era. I ask her what she thinks of the plot, and she seems to ponder her answer: “It’s a classic theme,” she replies without much conviction. “The betrayal of the one we love. It’s a good plot.” But it’s rude of her not to show any interest in my work. I’m also interested in her view of literature. I ask her which literary genre appeals to her most, and before I’ve even finished my sentence, she replies: “The novel, of course! It must be so, because her face has lit up with the charm that enthusiasm brings. She seems pleased by my interest; it’s clear she wanted to connect with me, but as one writer to another. She’s already succeeded. I ask her what fuels her enthusiasm for fiction, and her answer leaves no room for doubt: “Only the novel can tell a complex story that’s a complete world. A short story is too brief, and a narrative can only tell a part of that world. This young woman certainly knows what she wants. Now we’ll see if she also knows why she wants it. I ask her about her motivation. “My motivation? I’ve never asked myself that question. I think I was born already motivated by a love of literature! I have many reasons to be motivated,” —she replies, displaying a sudden and astonishing self-assurance—. But perhaps the main one is that through literature, many values can be conveyed that can help each generation be morally superior to the one before it. That’s a good answer. I was wrong about this young woman; I underestimated her. I ask her one last question: —And what does literature mean to you? —Literature is a way of telling stories that evoke in the reader a sense of the beauty of language, the creativity of the imagination, and an understanding of the reality in which they live or wish to live. When the words do not prevent the imagination from seeing, hearing, or feeling what you’re reading, because they’re all in perfect harmony—with nothing superfluous or missing. That’s my opinion. Her answer has impressed me, and I congratulate my agent on his excellent choice. The young woman is extraordinary, but that doesn’t mean she’ll achieve the success she undoubtedly deserves. I say goodbye to my agent and his young companion, whom I encourage to keep going because I believe she has the talent necessary for success, but I also warn her of the price she’ll have to pay for her passion. A futile warning, because passion overflows any attempt at restraint. She’ll continue on her path without heeding my warnings. My agent asks me what I plan to do until the presentation, and if I’d like to have lunch together as well. Perhaps she’s thinking that this isn’t a day to leave me alone and that I need company. I tell her I’d planned to take a long walk through the park, but I decline her invitation; I’ve never liked restaurants. The young woman also seems concerned about my state of mind and makes me a tempting offer: She’d like to accompany me on my walk and then go to her apartment, where she’ll cook one of her region’s specialties for me. It sounds like a good plan, and I accept. I sense in her invitation a desire to share her concerns with me and show me her work to hear my opinion, but also a sudden affection for me, which must stem from a great deal of compassion. It’s cloudy, and at intervals the clouds part, letting sunlight stream through, and all the foliage lights up as if it were a fresco painted by one of the geniuses who probably inhabit this park. My young companion seems happy that I accepted her invitation, and walks beside me in silence. I get the impression that he has already achieved his purpose and doesn’t think further arguments or reasons are necessary to convince me. There’s 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 one’s education, intuition, or creativity, but not the human being in and of themselves. Since we all deserve the same respect and consid , no one can be more admirable than anyone else. I try to make this clear to him with a candid personal question: “I’d love to know what impression you’ve formed of me; and why were you interested in meeting me in person?” The question caught him off guard. He pauses for a moment to consider his answer, her gaze drifting to some undefined point along the leafy promenade, a smile playing on her lips that must stem from her thoughts. She turns toward me, literally fixing me with her gaze, and doesn’t hesitate with her surprising reply: “ Because I’m in love with you! Now I’m the one who’s surprised, but the years have made me skeptical and limited my ability to feel affection for others. But there’s another reason I reject her surprising declaration: I have no other mission for the rest of my life than to find the woman to whom I owe what this young woman admires. Until I pay my debt, my feelings are blocked. I let her know this in the least painful way possible: —Sometimes we writers live out our fantasies as if they were reality. I’m sure the one you love is some character from your novels who resembles me. But her response surprises me even more than the first: —I told you I’m in love with you, but not that you’re in love with me. You can’t stop yourself from loving me, but neither can I stop you from feeling no affection for me . I know you don’t find me attractive—you might even think I’m ugly—and you don’t like the way I dress. I choose whom to love, but I don’t expect that person to also be my lover. I’m content just to walk by your side, and if you feel like it, to let you try my stews— but you must know that I love you! Her generosity is sublime: she offers her feelings in exchange for accompanying the faltering steps of a dying man and having a guest at her table. Without a doubt, this unattractive young woman has an immense heart and can afford to lavish her affection. I must not allow this waste; she may need it for herself later on. —But you yourself have witnessed that you’ve fallen in love with a sick man who will soon leave this world! —I know, and I feel great sadness, but you, too, are a writer, and you make people who exist only in your imagination fall in love. Why can’t I do the same? When the unfortunate day comes that you are gone, I will still have him in my imagination, and I will continue to love him as I love him now. I cannot help but ask you this crucial question: —But what could possibly be attractive about a terminally ill man who stirs such passion in you? —Very few men have been able to penetrate a woman’s soul. We admire the man with brilliant ideas, but we love a man not for his intelligence but for being essentially a man; on the other hand, we can fall hopelessly in love with a gigolo, a mechanic with greasy hands, or a smelly sewer worker—as long as they’re essentially men! If he’s also intelligent and creative, then he’s irresistible! —Do I belong in that category? She doesn’t answer me, but her smile answers my question. My young lover’s apartment is a museum of nostalgia, because it’s full of objects that remind her of her hometown, which she must miss deeply. It’s a single room where a certain chaos reigns. Her desk is next to the room’s only window, and is piled high with sheets of paper covered in print—presumably her own writing—with her laptop sitting on top. On the printer sits a small stuffed panda, and on the windowsill, arranged in a row, is a veritable collection of assorted objects—possibly gifts or souvenirs from her travels. Her bed is a spacious sofa bed, since there isn’t enough room for a regular bed. On the opposite side of the window is a space separated by a wide curtain that must be his kitchen. And next to it is a table that can’t hold more than two place settings—provided you move aside the enormous bouquet of flowers that’s starting to wilt. The table is also cluttered with the remains of a previous meal, such as unwashed dishes, half-full glasses, or scraps of bread. It’s clear he wasn’t expecting visitors, so so he hastens to explain the mess: “Please excuse the mess, but I wasn’t expecting visitors; I’ll tidy it up in a moment.” Despite the mess, the atmosphere is intimate and cozy. I’d prefer it if she didn’t tidy it up. “Would you like to read some of my writings while I prepare lunch?” “Please don’t address me so formally, because we’ve already shared enough personal details to be on a first-name basis.” “I’ll read them with great interest.” She tries to bring order among the sheets of paper scattered across his desk until he has gathered about twenty pages. “These are the first pages of my new novel,” ”—she tells me with some embarrassment—“it’s the love story between a young dancer and her choreographer… who is inspired by you.” She insists on addressing me formally. I suppose her love for me includes this distant manner. If she were to address me informally, she’d lose some of her charm. I have to accept that. I like her style. This passage particularly catches my attention: “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 rather a lover who can interpret the music that moves your body!” The meal was delicious, and for her, it was also a source of nostalgia. I still have a few hours left before the performance. She suggests I get some sleep so I’ll be more clear-headed. I agree. We unfold the bed, and I lie down. She covers me with a light blanket, closes the window blind, and locks herself in her tiny kitchen to wash the dishes and the rest of the tableware. I hear the clatter from the kitchen, almost in a dream, and it brings back memories of times long past, when she used to cook for me, too. I’m awakened by the sound of crying. It’s the young woman who is crying. She’s lying next to me, and she hurriedly wipes away her tears when she notices I’m awake. “Is something wrong, Alicia?” I ask, alarmed. But her answer baffles me: “I’m sorry, I’m such a fool; I was crying out of happiness, just to have you next to me, in my own bed!” I could never have imagined that this unattractive young woman in flashy clothes could be such an exceptional person. Appearances certainly can be deceiving. I feel the need to know more about her. I let her come closer to me, because I feel a paternal rather than passionate affection for her. I beg her to tell me something about herself. She moves even closer to me. I think she wants me to hold her in my arms. I can’t turn her down, so I grant her wish. She smiles at me gratefully. “I’m just a girl from the provinces—ugly and clumsy,” I try to protest, but she cuts me off. “No; it’s true, I’m ugly, which is why I wear flashy clothes, though it doesn’t help much. 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 choice to ease my loneliness than to invent lovers and friends. I felt genuine revulsion toward boys my own age— violent and rude. I fell in love for the first time with a mature, married man. He treated me with tenderness, and even if I had let him, he never asked me to make love. It’s my fate—he wasn’t in love with me either; I think he just felt sorry for me. I had no choice but to leave my hometown, so I came here. Literature was my only friend. My novels were my only comfort. I managed to get a small publisher interested in publishing one of my novels, though I had to pay for the printing out of my own pocket. That was almost two years ago. I sent the manuscript to several publishing houses, but they all rejected it. Someone advised me to look for a literary agent, and I found her agent online. I sent him a copy of my novel, and you already know the rest. I’ve remained silent because I’ve been so struck by her story—so different from mine! I’ve betrayed those who loved me; she’s been faithful to those who didn’t love her. Her story makes me feel even more guilty. But she’s left something out, and I can no longer accept that I’m not I’m interested: “But I’m missing from your story!” “Yes, of course—you’re missing! I met you at the launch of your previous novel. I was sitting in the back row. Back then I looked like a normal young woman, and you approached me several times, but I must have been invisible, because you didn’t even glance at me, and I didn’t dare to get your attention.” I’ve always been a bit shy and introverted, but that day I was out of this world. When I saw you on the stage, with your shirt unbuttoned, with his mocking, provocative expression, so sure of himself, something stirred throughout my whole body, and I immediately realized that I had fallen in love with you—but with the man; I hadn’t yet met the writer—she remains silent for a few moments, as if reliving that moment in her imagination, because I can sense her body trembling; she smiles as if she now finds her sudden passion for me amusing— . When I left your presentation, I don’t know how long I wandered aimlessly, trying to hold back my tears. I had fallen in love with the most admired man in the world of literature. The applause for your brilliant speech still hurts me. When it ended and you stepped down from what was already a throne to me—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 wearing designer clothes. I was a girl from the provinces—ugly, shy, and clumsy—and I wore old-fashioned clothes. I spent that night awake, crying nonstop. When a woman falls in love, her lover becomes part of her flesh and soul, and his absence hurts as if both were being torn away from her. We believe we won’t be able to survive these terrible wounds—h 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 went through a few agonizing days, but finally I resigned myself to it and tried to douse the fire that was consuming me, though I never stopped loving him—I merely let the memory of him fade. But I resolved to one day be on his level, so that he would notice me. I changed my wardrobe and frantically wrote one novel after another in which, in some way, you were always the protagonist —she exchanges a meaningful glance with me and continues—. You can’t imagine the joy that flooded over me when I saw your photograph in the office of the agent who had agreed to represent me! —Yes, I can imagine it! —I interrupt her. —And now you’re here, in my own bed, holding me close in your arms. Don’t I have every reason to cry with happiness? Her account of her generous love for me—which I certainly don’t deserve—changes my feelings toward this sensitive young woman, who bears the evocative name of Alicia. I no longer find her ugly or clumsy; I see not her face but her soul, and she seems beautiful to me. I’d like to let her know this, but I fear she might change her mind when my remorse for my unforgivable betrayal returns. Only if I rid myself of that remorse could I even return her love for me. But I cannot forget that I must not delude myself into thinking I’ll enjoy the pleasures life has to offer, because before my feelings can be free to love whomever I wish, I will have died. Alicia doesn’t deserve this punishment. It’s time to head to the presentation. My agent called me on my cell phone; he’s worried about my state of mind, but I reassure him—I feel strong enough to face the presentation. Even this young woman’s story has given me new arguments to defend literature that springs from the depths of our feelings and to condemn the banal and entertaining kind. X   Chapter 4 Just as I expected, the room is packed with people. Most are standing because there aren’t enough chairs for everyone. There’s no doubt they’ve heard the news of my diagnosis. My agent is waiting for me in an adjoining room to fill me in on the most prominent attendees. The editors of several literary magazines have come, as well as most of the journalists from the newspapers’ culture sections. They must be interested in the story of the writer who is dying, not the one who is writing. Alicia has accompanied me all the way here, but she’s blended into the crowd and I’ve lost sight of her. The moderator and other guests are already on the panel. When I enter the room, a telltale murmur goes through the crowd. Several photographers are snapping pictures of the panel, but they’re mainly pointing their cameras at me. They must think these will be the last photographs taken of me. The moderator introduces me and gives a brief summary of the novel I’m about to present. The time has come for me to speak. I search for Alicia in the crowd and spot her at one end of the room, leaning against a column. She’s sensed 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’d like to thank all of you for attending the presentation of my latest novel. I feel guilty sitting in this comfortable chair while most of you have to stand. If I’d known so many of you would come, we would have held this presentation at the Olympic Stadium —they laugh at my joke, but I’m sure most didn’t expect that, given the circumstances, I’d still have a sense of humor—. I suppose you’ve all read the reviews of my new novel. Most are favorable, but not all of them. I forgot to send the check to two or three critics! I also suppose you must already know the news about my diagnosis. Yes, I have only a few months left to live, and it’s not something to take as a joke, but my health won’t improve if I take it too seriously—a loud murmur interrupts me, but I ask for silence—. I learned of the diagnosis yesterday, and because of the leak, I haven’t been able to increase my life insurance payout. I feel sorry for my cat, who is the beneficiary of the policy, because as you must know, I have no children. I love my cat very much, because she’s the only one I understand. I gave up trying to understand humans years ago! But I suppose you haven’t come here to hear me talk about my good relationship with my cat, but rather about my latest novel. Although it may surprise you, I wouldn’t have been able to write this novel—or the ones before it—without my cat. She has taught me to accept those who feed me without losing my dignity. She has also taught me that there’s always time to play. Despite my advanced age, I’ve never stopped playing! For me, writing is a game—but a serious one. To play, you need to know just these three basic rules: have good technique, have your own style, and be strongly motivated. Anyone who knows these three rules well has everything going for them. Today, writers have a solid education; we don’t make spelling mistakes, and we know where to place a comma or semicolon. After all, they’re just rules you have to memorize, so the vast majority of us have good technique. But when it comes to style, not everyone understands what it means or how it’s evaluated—even though critics insist on pigeonholing us into this or that movement—because style has no rules; rather, it depends on our sensibility and the value we place on words. Every word, in addition to its meaning, has a tone and must blend with other perfectly attuned words—which is not common in contemporary literature, where meaning prevails over intonation. And when we talk about motivation, we generally associate it with remuneration, rather than with a commitment to the values of our time, which should be reflected in some way in the themes of what we write. Artists pay rent too; to the tax authorities, we’re just like everyone else, and at the supermarket we don’t get credit; if we don’t pay, we don’t eat. That is why writers must be paid. But this should not be the motivation. And that is the incurable disease of art, because what is the heritage of the spirit is transformed into a market product; what should be priceless becomes an accounting value; what should enlighten becomes mere entertainment. Ultimately, the spirit has nothing to exercise itself on and atrophies from inactivity, and the result is that we lose the sensitivity to distinguish the beautiful from the ugly; the good from the bad; the transcendent from the trivial. And that is the deplorable state in which literature finds itself today, practically on a global scale, because insensitivity to art has also become globalized. The entire responsibility for this situation lies with fifty percent of the readers and another fifty percent of the authors, because every reader gets the author they deserve, and every writer gets the readers they deserve. As for this latest novel, I won’t reveal the plot— but I will just tell you that it is the drama of two writers—she is a poet and he is a novelist—who are united by literature but separated by words. We understand the people we imagine, but not the real ones we love. To conclude, I want to share a moving story that illustrates better than any complicated plot 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, whom everyone rejected, and who learned to love generously through the characters in her novels. This young woman doesn’t write to gain fame and money, but to feel loved, even if her lovers are fictional. Yet her extraordinary humanity and generosity have 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-life character will die a few months later, and this young writer from the provinces—who, as I’ve said, considers herself ugly and clumsy—will once again to the suggestive power of literature to preserve him in her memory and keep the flame of her love alive forever. —I try to gauge Alicia’s reaction to my mention of him, but she’s no longer standing by the column. She’s vanished! Perhaps I’ve offended her, but I must continue.—And it is this extraordinary power of literature that I wanted to discuss with you in this presentation. A power possessed only by literature that springs from inspiration and shapes a creative imagination. There can be nothing more obscene than literature that is mindless, uninspired, and soulless—thousands of words strung 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 frightens 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 say what I think without fear of the consequences, and I believe that the novel I’m presenting to you here today was not written by me, but rather by market demand, like practically every other novel published today. Only that young, provincial, ugly, and clumsy writer—and perhaps thousands more just as provincial, ugly, and clumsy as she is, whom no one will pay any attention to—write their novels for themselves, as dictated by their hearts and minds, because they simply need to. Literature, with a capital “L,” is a necessity, not a pastime; it not only entertains, but also teaches; it not only soothes, but also heals; it is not only read, but also lived. If I were to be reborn, 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, provided they are not too personal. Several hands have gone up, asking for a turn to ask questions. I’ll answer one from a journalist: “I’m sorry to hear about your illness, but I’d like to know how you plan to spend your final days.” I answer without hesitation: —By meditating on death. The next question is from a woman who must be about my age: —What is something you’ve always wanted to do but haven’t been able to achieve? —To understand the world we live in! The third question stirred an inexplicable emotion in me. It’s from a young woman named Noemí, with whom I’d exchanged several messages. The question takes me aback— I don’t have a prepared answer for it. “Do you regret not having started a family—and perhaps having had one or more children who would now be taking care of you?” I sense that her question holds some hidden meaning . What can I say? It’s too late for regrets. —Your question is too personal, and I’ve already warned you that I wouldn’t answer such questions. The young woman seems very upset and doesn’t want to give up. She insists. —What or who inspired this novel, and what was your motivation? I haven’t thought my answer through; it came directly from my subconscious, where it must have been for many years: “All writers have an emotional conflict between what we create and where we draw our inspiration. Generally, we use our imagination to bring to life what isn’t possible in real life. I was 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 doesn’t press the issue. They applaud my remarks, but only the youngest in the audience seem to have understood my message. Utopia is no more than twenty years old. The pain returns with fierce intensity. I beg the moderator to bring the presentation to a close. The attendees seem to understand my reasons, and the room is emptying out. Alicia has come to meet with me. She had rushed out of the room so no one would see her crying. Perhaps I went too far and should have been less dramatic. My agent tells me that a crowd is waiting for us outside the room for me to sign copies. I can’t refuse. Most of them express their sadness over my illness with a word of comfort. I don’t know how many books I’ve signed, but I’m exhausted. I ask Alicia to let me lean on her shoulder, and we return to the room to pick up our coats. I feel the pain clouding my vision, and I’m so weak that if I weren’t leaning on her, I would have already collapsed. In this wretched state, I’m unable to recognize the young woman, Noemí, who remains in her seat because she’s waiting for me. My agent has spoken with her and relayed her desire to speak with me, but he hasn’t revealed the reason to her. I’m not in the right frame of mind to engage in literary discussions with my admirers. I ask her to excuse me and to contact me by mail. My agent relays my message to her, but the young woman insists on speaking with me. It’s not about literature; apparently, it’s something personal. Alicia helps me settle into an armchair in the adjoining room, and the pain seems to be subsiding. I ask my agent to bring the young woman in. I hope this isn’t another platonic love affair! X   Chapter 5 For the first time, my illness has prevented me from fulfilling my commitments to my publisher. It’s clear that my health is deteriorating with each passing day. It’s been a blessing that I met Alicia at this crucial moment. For the first time, I can’t take care of myself and need help. I’m beginning to feel the painful prelude to death. I’m anxious about the interview with the young woman, Noemí. There’s something about her that feels familiar to me, 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 could disrupt what little life I have left. Alicia seems to share my unease. She may be a rival with the upper hand, because Noemí is a very graceful young woman. She is of medium build; her long hair, an elegant chestnut color, and her harmonious figure make her a very attractive young woman. She enters the room accompanied by my agent. She seems restless, or perhaps nervous. She looks at me as I lie on the sofa. She must realize how ill-timed this meeting is. As she approaches, I sense deep pity in her gaze. It’s as if she senses my illness as though we already knew each other. I ask her to sit in the armchair next to me. “Well then, Noemí, what is this important matter you need to discuss with me?” She makes a move to sit down, but then stands upright again; something is troubling her. She exchanges a glance with my agent and with Alicia, who remains by my side, reclining on one of the arms of the spacious sofa: “Could we be alone for a few minutes?” she asks, visibly nervous. “What I have to tell you is very personal.” My agent exchanges a questioning glance with me, and Alicia grows uneasy, because she must believe that this young woman is definitely a feared rival. If I ask them to leave us alone, they’ll think I don’t trust them, but right now I’m keenly interested in what that young woman wants to tell me. I ask them to leave us alone. Alicia can’t help but exchange a look with me—one that’s both sad and full of doubt—but she respects my wish. The two of them leave the room without a word of reproach. Noemí watches them go and seems relieved when she closes the door behind her. For a few moments, as she seems to gather her thoughts and calm herself, she doesn’t take her eyes off an indeterminate spot on the floor. Then she looks up and, visibly moved, asks me: “Do you remember who wrote this verse?” If your heart were foam, I would be the ocean; If your soul were the sky, I would be a cloud; If your gaze were rain, I would be a field; If your hands were water, thirst. It’s as if a bolt of lightning had struck my mind. I have a powerful intuition, but I refuse to acknowledge it. How did that poem find its way to this young woman? I don’t answer, but I’m the one who asks the next question, and I feel my breathing grow labored and my old heart race: “Who wrote it?” She looks at me, and I sense deep anxiety in her gaze. She’s on the verge of tears. “My mother wrote it twenty years ago…!” She bursts into silent tears and covers her face with her hands. She doesn’t dare look at me. I feel dazed, and I don’t know how to react. I ask myself the question to which I anxiously await an answer: Is this young woman my daughter? If so, how could all these years have gone by without her mother telling me? Yes, it’s possible; we made love a few weeks before my betrayal, and we didn’t take precautions. “But I’m not thinking about you,” I tell her. “When you agreed to represent me, I’d already fallen into that bad habit, and all my novels suffered from the same lack of motivation—but their success was guaranteed.” I only began to feel uneasy after this latest novel—was it the result of all these years of denying myself? I’ll never write again because I don’t deserve to be loved, nor can I love anyone! Alicia won’t accept my resignation. She protests and wants to give her opinion: “I don’t agree; your father isn’t entirely to blame! Anyone who has the courage to admit their guilt deserves forgiveness; the holiest were the greatest sinners. It’s not the saint who needs compassion, but the sinner! Noemí, you have to forgive him—not because he’s your father, and even though he may have behaved like a scoundrel in the past, but because he’s a repentant human being who acknowledges his faults; he deserves your compassion and your forgiveness. Forgiveness is what makes us human; resentment turns us into soulless beasts, with nothing but memory. My daughter is once again on the verge of tears. She’s under tremendous emotional pressure and looks so vulnerable! She looks at me, and I see in her eyes her desire to forgive me. Alicia takes one of her hands and places it on mine. Her hand is burning hot and trembling. It was the genius of a true writer who worked the miracle of forgiveness. Noemí 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! Two days have passed since the tumultuous launch of my latest novel. It hasn’t been long enough to fully grasp that I am now the father of a charming young woman. I’ve learned a hard lesson, but it’s only the beginning of my redemption. I’ve lived twenty years of loneliness and isolation, and now I find it hard to accept that I have to devote some of my time to thinking about others. I don’t know what a father’s responsibilities are. Noemí is as independent as her mother and doesn’t need anyone to tell her what to do or how to do it, and she doesn’t burden me with major responsibilities. She’ll continue living in the apartment she shares with two college roommates, but we’ll do our best to have dinner together two or three times a week at my place. Alicia has offered to be our cook, and she’ll delight us with her delicious local stews. Noemí admits she isn’t very skilled in the kitchen; she’s a young woman devoted to her career. I think she’s inherited my passion for literature and her mother’s sensitivity to poetry. I can’t say whether or not she has talent; she hasn’t yet had the time or opportunity to put herself to the test. She hasn’t written anything significant. But I’ve always believed that talent isn’t inherited—you’re born with it. It isn’t in the genes; it’s in the mind and the soul, and we must acquire it at the very moment of our conception. Perhaps it comes to us from the cosmos or from someone who passed away at that very moment. I believe in reincarnation, because the spirit, like energy, isn’t destroyed—it’s transformed. Since the beginning of time, there has been a universal spirit—which believers call God—from which all animate beings originate. The clear proof of transmigration is that in my family there are no artists or writers, only ordinary people, concerned with ordinary things. Perhaps there was one among my distant ancestors, but I am unaware of it. My illness continues its diabolical course and leaves me with little free time and few pain-free moments. I have to go to the hospital frequently to undergo a painful treatment. In exchange for enduring all this discomfort, they assure me that I can extend the time I have left to live—time I need to put my conscience in order. As expected, my latest novel has tripled the sales of my previous ones. Death is an extraordinary selling point. My publisher cannot hide his satisfaction, even as he puts on a compassionate front. The media is hounding me, and I’ve had to change my phone number. The messages of condolence are overwhelming; it’s impossible for me to read them all. But fortunately, they are still unaware of my unexpected fatherhood; they must believe that the young woman accompanying 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 think that, despite everything, she is happy just to be by my side and to be of help to me. Yes, it must be her fate that her love goes unrequited. She hasn’t had much luck in choosing her lovers. She and Noemí seem to get along well, and they share the same concerns. I think they’ve become good friends. But this fleeting happiness has a dark shadow: her mother! I’ve spoken with Noemí about her—it’s not an easy subject. Noemí believes that my presence might help her regain her memory. But I wonder if it wouldn’t be better for her to remain amnesic. It can’t be pleasant for her to remember my betrayal. If she regains her memory, she might forgive me, but it could also deepen her resentment toward me. Because of me, she has wasted twenty precious years of her life—no penance is great enough to make up for her suffering. I know it would make Noemí immensely happy to see us together again—as if no time had passed—and to rebuild the past from the moment when we were happiest. When she wrote that short, passionate poem to tell me, in four rhymes, how much she loved me—a poem that has shaped our lives. Tonight we’ll have dinner at my apartment. My two women will be here any minute now, and I need to tidy up a bit. I’m not feeling very well; despite the painkillers that are wreaking havoc on my stomach, a constant pain persists that makes me lose my temper and sours my usually good nature. It’s astonishing and sadly paradoxical that during the last twenty years, when I’ve enjoyed excellent health, I don’t think I’ve had even five minutes of happiness, and now that my health has failed, I’m unable to handle so many moments of happiness—I’ve met an extraordinary woman and reunited with a daughter I’d neglected! Life is a game that consists of doing the opposite of what we consider reasonable. Alicia was the first to arrive. She came a little early so that dinner would be ready by the time Noemí gets here. She asks about my health. She suggests that given my condition, I should have someone take care of me 24 hours a day—and she’s probably right—but I insist that the time hasn’t come yet. “And when will that time come—when I’m dead?” It was a spontaneous reaction, but she regrets having said it to me. She’s deeply remorseful. “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. First, I have to finish paying off my debts. Noemí’s mother needs more help than I do, and she believes my presence might help her regain her memory. But I don’t know how she’d react if she remembered our relationship.” Alicia has understood what I don’t dare say. Now her rival is Noemí’s mother, because if she were to forgive me, she would be the one to take care of me until the day I die. “I understand; once again, my sad fate is fulfilled: I will never be loved in return by the people I love. All my efforts to reach this moment have been for nothing. I’m always last in line, and by the time I get there, whatever they were giving away is already gone.” Alicia has once again delighted me with her stews, but Noemí doesn’t seem to have enjoyed dinner. She’s been distant, her thoughts far from here. Before coming, she spoke with her mother on the phone and believes she’s deeply depressed and disoriented. “She’s afraid she’ll forget me, too,” she says, distressed. “She sent me a verse that reflects her confusion and pitiful state of mind . We have to make a decision tonight. Today I dreamed that I was dreaming, that you weren’t who you were, that time had no time, and that death had died. I can’t help but compare this verse to the one from twenty years ago. Despite all those forgotten years, she’s still a great poet. ö I beg Noemí to tell me everything she remembers about her mother after her bout of amnesia. — What I know about those early years—of which I have only a vague memory—was told to me by my grandparents. Noemí doesn’t seem very enthusiastic about my suggestion. They must be sad memories. Memories of a little girl raised by two elderly people and a mother without a past, unable to tell her daughter how she was conceived, by whom, or where. Unable even to mention the name of her possible father. Not only did she not have an unknown father, but a forgotten one. But I beg her to try to overcome her sadness and continue. 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 that had happened, and she didn’t even remember who her parents were or where she lived. A police officer found her dozing in a park, and fortunately they were able to identify her thanks to a prescription for medication against morning sickness, since she wasn’t carrying any official identification. But they couldn’t leave her alone in that state, so they tracked down my grandparents, who took her in. And that’s all we know about the first days of her amnesia. Noemí has exchanged several unsettling glances with me. She’s probably still wondering if, after all, I deserve her forgiveness. I remain in pathetic silence, not daring to say anything in my defense. I only know the story starting from a Sunday when we’d agreed to go see an Oscar Wilde movie, but I never showed up… while she waited in vain at the theater doors, I was in bed with my seductive agent! Will I have the courage to confess it? If I don’t confess it, my conscience will never be at peace! I’ll wait to hear 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 herself might also wish to forget, but she pulls herself together and continues: —My mother moved to live in the small town in the north where her parents—my maternal grandparents—lived, and all efforts to help her regain her memory were in vain. Apparently, she was able to lead a normal life, but she had to learn to recognize her own name, her parents’ names, and all the other circumstances that followed her amnesia. By the time I was born, she was already fully aware of everything, except for her time in this city and her relationship with you”—she addresses me with the same look of veiled reproach—“My grandfather was a city hall official and secured a small pension for my mother, because she had frequent memory lapses and was unable to hold down any job. My grandfath grandfather died when I was ten; 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 woman was deeply distressed by all these events, but she never once reproached my mother. We’d had a maid for several years—even before I was born—who was the same age as my mother, and she’s the one who’s with her right now. I couldn’t give up college because I’d won a scholarship, which is how I’m getting by right now. 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 she dedicated them to you, but it must have been just a faint intuition, one that never reached her conscious mind. Perhaps that’s why she was tormented by her inability to picture the person she could only sense. That’s all I can tell you about my mother. Alicia has made us coffee, which she serves us as we sit in thoughtful silence. I try to imagine her mother twenty years from now—the woman I’ll have to meet again very soon and to whom I’ll have to answer for my unforgivable behavior. I have the impression that she will be horrified by me, because I think I see on her aged face the indelible mark of suffering—for which I am to blame. Alicia breaks this tense silence: “Perhaps if she receives a strong stimulus to remember the person she apparently still loves, her memory will return.” Alicia has hit the nail on the head. It’s not enough for her to be reunited with me; she must be reunited 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 this and eventually accept it. Twenty years later, I must try to seduce the very woman I betrayed. Fate wants to put me to the test, and I cannot let it down. X   Chapter 5 Is it possible to heal a broken heart? Can time erase forgotten wounds? Can an old man with a weary heart still love? Can one sick person heal another? I ask myself these agonizing questions just to still feel like a human being, but I know I don’t have the answer. Noemí and Alicia left a little over an hour ago, and they’ve left an immense void. I’ve never felt so profoundly alone. It’s an abysmal loneliness, bottomless, without the slightest glimmer of light. My soul has been left in utter darkness. My body has abandoned it; joy has migrated to other, warmer, and more welcoming lands. Pleasure has turned into intense pain, and the happiness—which, just an hour ago, was overflowing at the brim—has gone with them; I am unable to keep it by my side for long. For yet another endless night, I strive in vain to be absent from myself. I search with true desperation for a state of mind close to nothingness—without uncontrolled thoughts, without movements of any kind. I try to prepare myself for death without any last-minute surprises, but it’s completely futile. The mind doesn’t sleep; it merely disconnects temporarily from consciousness. It stops thinking about what it sees to think about what it imagines. It doesn’t tire, it doesn’t wear out, it doesn’t give up, because it has no flesh that can fall ill, nor a skeleton to support it; it has no eyes, no mouth, no ears; it doesn’t eat, nor does it drink, see, or hear; it simply thinks without rest because it is eternal and already existed before it became my mind. Noemí believes that, despite the visible signs of my illness, I’m still an attractive man and that I can seduce her mother again. Alicia hasn’t given me her opinion—which I already know. She’s an unfortunate woman, but at some point and somewhere she’ll get her comeuppance. But time is running out; the illness is worsening, and my spirits are flagging. I’m not sure I can see this plan through to the end. We’ve agreed that Noemí will invite her mother to spend a few days with her in the city. Our meeting will take place during a welcome dinner at Noemí’s apartment. Noemí just called me—her mother has accepted the invitation and will be coming this very weekend, and Saturday will be the big day of the test. I have to go back twenty years and try to understand the reasons behind my betrayal. It’s 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 conduct. I’ve thought about it countless times: to discover means to destroy what was hidden . The sun shines at the cost of destroying its hydrogen reserves. The 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 sparked my creativity, and that cause was the woman who had inspired them. If I wanted to keep creating, I had to seek out new sources of inspiration—only 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 human soul. Every novel, every story, every short story, or every poem has devoured its insatiable share of humanity. I am no exception; I, too, have my victims, but otherwise there would be no literature, no art, nor 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 use these reasons to exonerate myself; only those of us who are victims of inspiration—through which this evil spreads—understand them. Ordinary people are immune to this disease of the spirit. Now I have not the slightest doubt that this has been the cause of my physical illness. My harmful spirit has entered my body and will not rest until it brings about its death. There are no heavens reserved for writers, but neither are there hells—there are only purgatories: close to heaven, close to hell. If I had the strength and the time left to live, I would write a novel with this title—it would be the great novel of my life—but perhaps I will write it after I die, and it will be the great novel of my death. But why write? Why stir the calm waters of unconsciousness? Why bring to light the flaws and virtues, the passions and disillusionments, or the loyalties and betrayals of human beings? Why tell so many lies—so many stories that have never happened and never will? Why this morbid desire 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’m rambling and thinking things that make no sense. There is no justification for anyone who causes harm to a human being without a reason that is also human. A doctor may cause you some harm to heal a wound, but a writer cannot cite his sources of inspiration as an excuse for causing harm. If I were to weigh the pleasure my novels may have brought against the harm caused by writing them, which way would the scales tip? And who can have the answer? I have no possible escape. I have no judge other than my own conscience, and it never stops screaming at me that I am guilty. Today dawned as a gloomy day that will affect my mood. Today is also the day Noemí’s mother will arrive in the city—the person on whom my salvation depends. I don’t feel in the right frame of mind for the circumstances. I should pull myself together and remind myself that I’ve 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 far from death; years when everything was permitted except nostalgia; when love was a tool of the trade, and the wisdom of experience was considered an old man’s quirk and was worth nothing compared to the vitality of action. Those years when the people around you were test subjects for your laboratory or the lead in your alchemical flask, from which you hoped to extract gold, following the magical formula invented by your exclusive imagination. Years, in short, that I’ve always wanted to forget and that I now have to recall. My memory must erase without leaving the slightest trace what happened after I won that ill-timed literary prize, as if it had never happened. As if we had continued together on our longed-for path to glory, and once we reached it—since it seemed inevitable given our genius—we would live six months a year in Pigalle, in Montmartre, or in Saint-Germain -des-Prés, where I would write my novels warmed by her inspiration, and she her passionate verses inspired by her love for me. As if every spring we’d wake up in our little house in Mallorca, next to the highest cliff on the coast, from where our gaze would lose itself in a horizon as infinite as our desire to live; as beautiful as our soulmates, as mysterious as our inspiration, or as cozy as our bed where we make love. When I was twenty, I couldn’t imagine myself at sixty; now that I’m about to turn sixty, I can’t imagine myself at twenty. Nevertheless, it had to happen, because time is the greatest deception of the human mind—it is an eternal instant. This instant in which I live—or rather, in which I barely survive today—is the same one in which I lived twenty years ago; what has changed is the perspective and the setting, but the moment is the same! Noemí called me to say she picked up her mother at the train station and found her looking very frail and dazed. They’re already at her apartment, and she’s been able to rest and recover a bit. She tells me that, if she feels better, they’ll go to the opera, which is her mother’s passion. They’ll be performing “Madame Butterfly,” which she thinks is very fitting under the circumstances. Her mother doesn’t remember having seen this opera before, but she had actually seen it twice because she still kept the tickets as a memento. She thinks it might help with our plan. She’s mentioned her wish for her mother to accompany her to the university on Monday—the same one she attended— but she insists that she doesn’t remember ever attending a university in that city. It’s clear that she remains determined not to allow the images and feelings she holds in her subconscious to surface into her consciousness. Alicia has also called me. She’s worried about my deteriorating 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 distressed, because she can’t wish for it to be a failure, but neither can she wish for it to be a success. She would have been overjoyed just to have the exclusive right to care for me until the day I die. But Noemí’s mother takes precedence. If only we were just good friends, both women could watch over me in my final moments, but she has committed the folly of falling in love with me, and love is selfish and strictly non-shareable. She seems resigned but not defeated. I am the great love of her life, and she is not willing to step back and give up. She will linger, waiting for an opportunity. I have created many female characters, and I boasted of portraying them even better than they know themselves, but Alicia has shown me how laughable my conceit was: there are still many recesses of the female soul left for me to discover. Perhaps my premature death will help me uncover them. What I have failed to understand is how those who give life view death. Perhaps they feel the same affection for both. Many women suffer more from depression immediately after bringing a new life into the world than at the sight of a dying person. Life pains them as much as death does. The dreary weather continues. Drops of water from a light but persistent rain slide down the glass of my large window. The rain does not depress me; on the contrary, it invigorates me—water brings life and adds luster to everything it touches. The plants are revitalized and display all their splendor and beauty. But what pleases nature displeases humans. From my window, I see people who are annoyed. They’re bothered by everything they can’t dominate and control, and nature doesn’t submit easily. That’s why we’re putting all our effort into destroying it. Perhaps we’ll manage to destroy the rain as well. I stay lying in bed until almost noon because I don’t know what I could do that would justify getting up. I have nothing to write, no event to attend to, or any visitors to receive—nothing; but I’ve found something to do: rereading my first novel, and perhaps I should also say that it’s the only one I’ve written, because I think it meets the three basic conditions for being considered a novel: it has a motivation—a passionate plea in defense of poetry and poets. The plot is also the product of its imagination, not mine. The novels that followed lacked a motivation; they had only technique and style, which is why they weren’t of this world, but of a parallel, dehumanized world. Noemí is right. “It’s midnight. The city lights pollute 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 rosebushes, the orchids, and the nonexistent geraniums on the balconies of their uninhabited houses. I have to imagine the children playing in a ghost school, and the sparrows nesting in trees that aren’t there. This is my street, where I don’t live, where I don’t dwell, where I only imagine that I live and dwell.” That’s how it should be. Our lives should unfold on one of these deserted streets, where we don’t actually live but imagine that we do, because when you least expect it, your time runs out, and it seems as though you haven’t really lived at all but have merely dreamed yourself into existence. As I reread this first novel, I feel, in all its harshness, the falsehood in which I’ve lived all these years, and I wonder what kind of writer I would be today if I’d remained true to myself. It wouldn’t have been surprising if I’d won the Nobel Prize! Now I have to settle for the market’s approval, and for the thousands of fans of entertaining literature with an expiration date. They have nothing to convey to future generations about our way of understanding life and its values. I have no calling to be a savior, and praise overwhelms me, but when an artist expresses themselves in any discipline, they are sending a message in a bottle that will inevitably fall into the hands of people from other eras, in other latitudes of the immense ocean of time; people who will have different values, and who, thanks to those messages, will be able to anchor them in the main current of history. Given the brevity of our existence, the only solid thing we humans have to save us from the flood of inevitable, all-consuming changes is History. X   Chapter 6 Today I’m having one of those days when I feel too insignificant to have grand ambitions, because this vast 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 their own infinite smallness dwell within the vast realm of the universe’s immensity. We humans have an endless array of options for choosing how we wish to spend our precious time, but there is only one that aligns with our true selves. The reason for our existence is none other than to find that one path and remain faithful to it until death. Only then will each individual be a person, and each person a world, and all worlds together form a universe, and many universes united into a single one will be the only concept we can form of something we might call “God,” which is why only people and their worlds are in direct contact with God. I have lived in constant contact with hell, because I renounced my personal world, and so I have no access to heaven. Perhaps I still have time to make amends for my great mistake, but I would have to write one last novel: the sequel to the first, which would pave the way for my salvation. But to do that, I need not only time but also inspiration; I would have to reconnect not only 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 serve both purposes: to write my final novel based on the story of our relationship. To relive her memory day by day, kiss by kiss, caress by caress, in every detail, nuance, feelings, dreams, hopes, and plans 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 grant me a peaceful death. But will I have enough time? Will I be able to take on the challenge with the clarity and right frame of mind to make it as good as my first novel? Noemí sent me a message to let me know that her mother has recovered and is in high spirits. This afternoon they’ll go to the opera, as planned, and afterward they’ll have dinner at a small Italian restaurant nearby. She says she misses me and that it would have been complete joy if the three of us could already be together and united as a family. Poor Noemí! Even if your wishes were granted, your happiness would be short-lived. It’s better for you to get used to my absence; even if you continue to miss me during your happy moments, I might be with you, even if you can’t see me. Tomorrow I’ll tell her about my idea. She’s also invited Alicia to her mother’s welcome dinner, because she wants it to feel like a gathering of old friends, where her mother isn’t the center of attention. She wants to see if she’ll recognize me. I haven’t told her about my new idea yet, because I’m not sure she’s in the right frame of mind to go through with it. I call Alicia to tell her about Noemí’s invitation. She accepts. “If it’s okay with you, I can stop by your house now and make something to eat,” she suggests, “then we can go together to your daughter’s apartment.” I can tell from the tone of her voice that she’s received the news with great joy. Now the scales of fate are tipping in her favor and against me, but I accept her offer. This woman is becoming a necessity; she’s always there when I need her. She’s not an old dream from the past but a reality of the present—without a history, without regrets, without the need to recall what never happened. She brings peace to my spirit and manages to make me forget my past, so I can reclaim the present, which I need so much in these difficult times. Alicia is already at my apartment, and once again I hear the sounds of home life and pleasant memories of the hustle and bustle in the kitchen. This woman leaves behind a trail of the everyday, the simple—yet truly endearing—as she goes. She’s not only preparing a delicious meal but also creating a homey atmosphere that’s not just a warm feeling but a necessity for any human being. “What will you do if she doesn’t recognize you?” She asks me with a carefree air, as if my answer wouldn’t affect her, while she serves me what she’s cooked. I ask her once again not to address me formally, because I’m no longer the hero of her dreams, but rather the helpless, tortured man who needs her help. But Alicia knows that addressing me informally means taking a giant step forward in our brief relationship, and she doesn’t want to change the way she treats me until she’s sure she’s won over my soul and my will. In the meantime, she’ll continue with the same distant and respectful manner. I need to rest and get some sleep so I’ll look presentable for dinner with my daughter, and Alicia makes my bed, just as she did the first time in her tiny studio. As she fluffs the pillows, she gives me several glances that I can easily interpret. She seems to be telling me that this time, her crying won’t wake me up. She helps me lie down, and just like the first time, she goes back to the kitchen, and I hear once again that very domestic and soothing sound of kitchen activity, to which I drift off to sleep. Alicia has kept me company while I slept by reading the manuscript of my first novel, which had been left on the coffee table in the living room. When I wake up, she reads aloud one of the novel’s most tragic passages, set just moments before the protagonist’s suicide. “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 have come into the world to sing of it, to recite it, to turn it into a long poem, to dissolve it among beautiful words. So that when I die, it may be said of me that I was nothing but poetry, with nothing to stand in my way—neither my body nor my mind; only poetry, nothing but poetry.” “Who could have inspired these dramatic lines?” she asks me with a look of desolation—or perhaps horror—“Her?” My mind isn’t clear enough yet to answer, so I simply smile. She understands and continues reading, but in silence. I can tell from her look of astonishment that she’s deeply moved by what she’s reading—which doesn’t surprise me; these are the passages leading up to the protagonist poet’s suicide. She closes the book and leans back on the sofa. She doesn’t wait for my answer because she already knows it. She exchanges a sad glance with me. I think she wants to share her opinion with me: “You know, I think the suicide of your main character, the poet, is justified,” she pauses, and it seems as if what she says next is meant for herself. “We’re all born with a stigma engraved on our foreheads, which tells us who we are and why we’ve come into this world; and what we can aspire to and what is strictly forbidden to us. Your protagonist was born with the stigma of poetry in a world without poetry; she had no choice but to sacrifice herself along with it —another silence, broken by a meaningful sigh, and she continues—. I, too, was born with a stigma: that of ugliness. Undoubtedly an accident of nature, because it bears no resemblance to my soul. They must have been born separately, without consulting one another. My soul fills me with good and noble feelings, while my face prevents me from making the most of them and showing them to others. Only when I write am I free to generously bestow those feelings upon my characters, because they do not find me ugly and do not see my stigma. I have no doubt that she knows what she’s talking about. I myself rejected her at first because of her unattractive face. I wonder why we humans have created standards of beauty that marginalize and condemn people like Alicia—or women and men in the prime of their lives—to ostracism and loneliness, simply because their backs are hunched, their hands are gnarled, and wrinkles appear on their foreheads—which are the price paid for their wise maturity, serenity, gentleness, balance, and intelligence! We undoubtedly deserve every torment that this behavior leads to. It’s useless for me to try to comfort her by praising the beauty of her soul, because the soul cannot be seen, but the face can. Unfortunately for people with these stigmas, rejection ends up infecting to their souls as well. Alicia is a glorious exception, but she undoubtedly owes it to literature. It seems we’re both lost in our own thoughts, and we remain in an eloquent silence. It’s Alicia who breaks it with a question that reminds me of the idea of writing a new book —“We still have three hours before we meet with your daughter— why don’t you tell me something about your romance with her mother? I think it’s an interesting idea; it might serve as an exercise for that latest novel I’ve been mulling over. I agree, and Alicia makes coffee. She’s undoubtedly expecting a long and interesting confession! X   Chapter 7 Alicia looks like a little girl whose grandmother is about to tell her a story of enchanted princes and princesses. She’s taken off her shoes (ever since she’s known me, she’s toned down her style, and above all, she no longer wears those horrible military boots), settles back into the armchair, tucking her legs up onto the armrest as well, and waits with childlike anticipation for my story. I don’t know how to explain it, but she seems completely transformed. I can’t recognize the clumsy, ugly young woman, as she describes herself—and instead I see a young woman with a radiant expression, an intelligent gaze—at once curious, like a cat’s—and a body brimming with vitality. Nature has been unkind to her face, but generous to her body. I begin by telling her the story of the café where we met. —After that funny incident, we each went to our respective classes. We were at the same university and were studying the same major, but I was a year ahead of her, so our classes didn’t overlap. We didn’t exchange any contact information. She seemed to distrust everyone, though at the time I didn’t know why. She had been sexually assaulted several times by some of her classmates. That day, neither of us could concentrate on class—something magical had happened. I think I fell in love with her when I offered to hold her books. She didn’t look at me suspiciously; rather, as soon as she saw me, I felt as if I were an old lover she hadn’t seen in a long time and was happy to see me again. But once that moment of pleasant surprise had passed, her distrust returned, and she refused my help. Had I not suffered that spectacular accident, it’s possible everything would have ended there, but fate had other plans. —That weekend, our college had organized a gathering of young poets. I wouldn’t have hesitated to attend if it had been a fiction workshop, but the idea of poetry didn’t excite me. But that Saturday, I was deeply bored. It was the end of the month, and my allowance was practically gone. The gathering was free, so it seemed like a good way to kill some time. I arrived a little late, just as the young woman I’d met in the cafeteria was about to speak. We passed each other in the central aisle of the hall—as I was entering and she was heading toward the stage—and I think both her heart and mine skipped a beat, and we greeted each other with a telltale smile. When I saw her on stage, in complete darkness except for her, illuminated by a beam of light, she seemed 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 encounter: We barely looked at each other and already we were kissing, We barely knew each other and already we loved each other, We barely spoke to each other and already we understood each other. We barely parted and already we missed each other. Alicia seems overwhelmed by the passion in these four lines. She isn’t passionate; she’s sensitive, because passion blinds the mind, and Alicia is a thoughtful and reasonable person. She remains silent so as not to distract me from my confession. —When that event ended, I hurried to congratulate her on her poetry reading, which was warmly applauded by the audience—mostly fellow students. As we left the hall, I found her surrounded by her friends and admirers, who were bombarding her with questions and congratulations. We’d barely exchanged a few glances and smiles, and already I believed I had the right to have her all to myself. I was so upset that I didn’t feel like saying goodbye to her, and I left the auditorium in a bad mood. Once again, it seemed as though fate was working against us. But as soon as I was outside the auditorium, I realized I had acted out of anger and without justification, so I rushed back, just as she was leaving with one of her friends. When she saw me, I could once again see the look of joy on her face, and this time she didn’t hesitate to get my attention. “Why did you leave without saying goodbye? Didn’t you like my poems? I’d love to hear your opinion!” Her friend understood the situation and excused herself, leaving us alone. “I loved them ! I didn’t dare confess to her that I’d felt jealous. I told her that I wrote, too—but fiction; I hadn’t been born with a gift for poetry, but I did have the imagination needed to write novels. We walked around for quite a while, talking about our work, the importance of poetry, the mediocrity of the novels being published, and the excessive commercialization of art. We seemed to have found the ideal conversation partner to vent our artistic concerns. For the most part, we 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. I practically stayed up all night, because I wasn’t satisfied with any of the stories I’d written and didn’t want to let my new friend down. At the time, I was a complete unknown, while she was well known among college students and in other local poetry circles. All the reviews were favorable and predicted a brilliant literary career for her. Her supportive friendship undoubtedly influenced my inspiration, and that night I wrote my first truly literary work; the previous ones were nothing more than simple stories—almost all autobiographical—that lacked the most important thing: a driving force. When I met her, she was 18 years old. Like you, she had come from the provinces, with a single-minded determination that lay more in my heart than in my mind: to succeed as a poet! She didn’t need praise; she considered herself a genius—and she wasn’t wrong. All of us who knew her had formed the same opinion. For me, her genius was her greatest charm. I was more drawn to her as a poet than as a woman, because neither of us lived in this world, but rather in those two sister worlds: she in the world of poetry and I in the world of the novel. And that was the reason for our separation! We lived the unreal with too much intensity and forgot about the real. We met in the park on a day that Botticelli or Velázquez could have painted. It was early spring, when the new leaves are a deep green. The sky was an inimitable blue, adorned with white clouds in whimsical and imaginative shapes. It smelled of the sap from the rejuvenated stems and the fragrant resins exuded by the linden trees. Young birds flutter in their nests, eager to fly and discover the world that awaits them. In this magical atmosphere, in a secluded and solitary 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 grew more intimate every day, yet it was always sustained by our shared passion for literature. Our euphoria grew at the same pace and with the same intensity as the quality of her poetry and my short stories and tales, because at that time I still felt incapable of tackling a novel. We never seriously thought of our relationship as simply a couple in love, but rather as lovers of the poet and the writer. At no point did it cross our minds to live together, because that would mean depriving ourselves of the solitude necessary for creation; our daily encounters were enough for us, during which we would fill 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 our relationship had lasted. Noemí was conceived during that one and only relationship! Alicia seems to be reflecting on everything I’ve told her so far, because her gaze is lost somewhere on the street visible through my windows. She’s snapped out of it and looks at me with a certain air of reproach. “So, you didn’t love that woman—you were just using her.” “Yes, you could put it that way.” “And her—do you think she was using you, too?” “No, she wasn’t using me; she didn’t need encouragement—I’ve already told you she was completely confident in her talent. It was I who needed it to discover my own. A month after we met, when I’d already written a dozen short and short stories that she thought were brilliant, she suggested I write a novel. I took her advice and tried to come up with a plot that would inspire me. They all revolved, in one way or another, around her and our strange relationship. I shared my ideas with her, but she didn’t find them original enough. That’s when she read me her poem about a female poet’s suicide and suggested that could be a good plot, which she could contribute her own poems. I gladly accepted her proposal and began working on the plot. During the time it took me to write it—just two months—our meetings centered on the progress of my novel. She reviewed every chapter, every paragraph, and every word I wrote on a daily basis, correcting my many mistakes and typos until she felt the syntax, spelling, rhythm, and style were perfect. It was as if she were writing it herself. When my novel was practically finished, she suggested 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 you suffered that terrible bout of amnesia.” Her betrayal was twofold—she betrayed both the lover and the writer! “Without a doubt, it was a double betrayal, but at the time I didn’t think of it that way! Not only did she help with the writing, but she also took the trouble to type up the manuscript and submit it to the contest herself.” “Why do you think she would do that? Was she really so in love with you that she sacrificed herself to help your career?” “Although it pains me to admit it, that must have been the case. The days leading up to the contest results were truly agonizing for me, but not for her. She knew perfectly well that we had submitted one of the potential winning novels—that’s how confident she was in herself and in her judgment regarding literature. But, moreover, she was aware that among beginners there’s little chance of good novels being submitted. Most suffer from an excess of passion, erratic styles, structural and syntactic flaws, and unoriginal plots. In reality, the vast majority are mere imitations of their idols, or of the writers of the moment. She knew we would win—and we did! She was also the first to hear the news about the prize, because she received the message with the results and the invitation to the awards ceremony that very same weekend at a well-known hotel in the city. When we met at the university, she recited Julius Caesar’s famous phrase to me: “Veni, vidi, vici,” the meaning of which I understood immediately. I confess that moments after hearing the news, I considered myself a superior being, I had killed off the indecisive and modest writer to feel like a new member of the country’s cultural elite. And that image blinded me from the very first moment. She never suspected my arrogance, and she felt as happy as if she herself had been the one to win the award. During the award ceremony, she must have felt like a mother attending her son’s college graduation without any professional envy or jealousy. But I was already very distant from her. I saw my books stacked on the shelves in bookstores, with mention of that award. I saw myself signing copies for my wide-eyed admirers, but above all, I felt superior and in control. Alicia reacted, sitting up straight and giving me a questioning look. “I think you’re making this story up! I’ve known you long enough not to believe you’d behave that way!” “You’re meeting a repentant devil 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 very first day she learned of my calling as a writer, she had wanted me to gain more self-confidence, so that we could pursue our ambitious careers on equal footing. She already took it for granted that we would achieve our ambitious project of fame and glory without one of us overshadowing the other. When, exhausted by so many emotions and the hustle and bustle, we were about to leave the gathering, we were approached by an elegant-looking middle-aged woman, dressed in a simple pantsuit, with blonde, slightly curly, and falling to her shoulders. Addressing me—as if she hadn’t noticed my companion’s presence—and without taking her deep, suggestive gaze off mine, she handed me a business card, which must have been scented with the fragrances of hell, because when I read it, the scent evoked an abyss into which I would soon fall —A will not hesitate. Call me tomorrow, and we’ll talk about your future.” That was all he said, and he returned to a group of guests. That gaze unsettled me so much that for a moment I, too, forgot she was there. She must have sensed my betrayal at that very moment! I beg Alicia to forgive me, 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 be waking from a dream—or perhaps it’s a nightmare. The coffee is gone. She picks up the coffee pot and the cups and takes them to the kitchen. She remains silent, but her mind must be replaying the story I’ve just telling her. She returns from the kitchen, exchanges a sad glance with me, sits back down, and finally, I know what she’s thinking. “Poor woman—I wouldn’t have wanted to be in her place. I would have lost my memory, too.” No, I would have lost my mind! Her comment makes me feel even more guilty. Those who have no remorse can’t know how much it hurts to be reminded of our sins. “Forgive me. I know you’re deeply sorry, and if I were that woman, I’d probably forgive you, but that doesn’t undo the damage done. Perhaps it would be better if she didn’t regain her memory! If she doesn’t regain her memory and I don’t have her forgiveness, I’ll be doomed beyond redemption! These have been moments of great emotional tension. Alicia is torn between her strong sense of justice, her solidarity with other women, her mercy, and her love for me. In the end, mercy and love have prevailed, but that doesn’t mean she considers me redeemed. She believes that somehow I must make amends to that woman. But she doesn’t know how. Neither do I. “Even if it brings back bad memories for her, I think she’ll feel better if you tell me the rest of the story. I I promise I won’t hold it against you! Maybe Alicia is right. By hiding my guilt, I’m only letting it fester in my conscience; it’s healthier to air it out. “All right, I’ll tell you the rest of this unfortunate story.” Neither she nor I felt the way we were supposed to feel after the awards ceremony. I still hadn’t recovered from the impression made by that woman’s suggestive glance from that woman, and she seemed to want to ask me what I was thinking, because I think she could read my mind. In an almost pleading tone, she begged me not to accept that woman as my agent, because there would be others who would be delighted to represent me. I assumed she was jealous of her, but I didn’t have the courage to confess to her that, despite her fears, I would call her and we would meet to discuss her plans for promoting me as a writer. The fact was that that woman lived in the new world I believed I had entered after winning the prize, while she belonged to one that was already behind me and held no appeal for an ambitious writer. I was no longer a student of literature— I was a writer! And writers can break all moral rules because they’re justified in doing so. That night I couldn’t fall asleep 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 this far and then give up what any other author would do in my place. After all, she herself had helped me get this far—why not accept help from someone who makes your dream of becoming a writer come true? When we ran into each other on campus that morning, I had already made up my mind, and she seemed to me like an unacceptable intrusion on my freedom, but I didn’t have the courage to let her know, so I tried to pretend that nothing had changed after the award and that we would continue with our plans for the future just as we had dreamed. She must have felt relieved by my attitude, but it was clear that my enthusiasm and cheerfulness had changed. I no longer paid attention to her readings, nor was I motivated to write new stories. She interpreted this as me being exhausted from the effort I’d put into writing my first novel, and she didn’t hold it against me. That same afternoon, I went to the agent’s office—I’d already scheduled an interview with her that very morning. Her office was located in her own home: a spacious apartment in a stately building on one of the most expensive avenues in the city. She greeted me herself as I stepped out of the elevator. I could barely recognize her. Now she was wearing tight jeans, which accentuated the gentle curves of her hips, and a loose-fitting blouse, featuring what appeared to be her agency’s logo. Her welcome was extremely warm. It was clear she took a keen interest in me, not only as a writer but as a person. “My warmest congratulations on the award, but now you have to make sure they don’t forget about you in a couple of months… I can help you,” she told me as soon as I stepped out of the elevator. She led me into her office, a spacious and bright room, soberly furnished with two comfortable black leather armchairs, a large desk, and a spacious sofa made of the same material as the armchairs. The only detail that indicated we were in an office were the dozens of photographs of the authors she represented hanging on the walls. Some of her writers frequently topped the lists in the most prestigious book sections of newspapers and literary magazines. Soon mine would be there, too. All of 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 that sat on a glass side table, and without wasting time on introductions, he asked me: “Do you want to become the author of the moment?” What could my answer be: “No”? There was only one possible answer: “Yes!” “Good. Then starting today, we have to work on a plan that may be tough and require your full dedication. Are you committed?” I simply nodded firmly. “My commission is five percent; the contract is for two years, and I have exclusive representation rights for all media where it’s published, including film, television, radio, and online. Are you okay with that? I again gave my consent with a vigorous nod. “Good, then come back tomorrow at this same time and we’ll sign the contract. In less than two years, you’ll be one of the most widely read and sought-after writers in the country! And that’s how I signed the contract that would ruin my personal life and give birth to the professional writer! The next day, just as planned, I signed my own death warrant. My new agent was more explicit and laid out the reasons why she was certain of my success. “You embody the ideal of a young man with talent, a success from your very first work, who doesn’t resort to pornography, violence, or esoteric plots, nor cloying romanticism, nor philosopher-detectives. You write simple novels, yet realistic and exemplary ones that everyone enjoys. Furthermore, you’re physically attractive enough to appeal to young female readers. You write novels that the whole family can read—people of all ages and in every era. .. “But I’ve only written one novel!” I should have anticipated the answer. It was practically written into the contract clauses I hadn’t bothered to read: “But you’ll write them—I’ll tell you how!” When I left my new agent’s office, I realized the serious mistake I’d made due to my haste and blindness. I blamed it on my lack of experience, but I took comfort in the fact that, fortunately, it was only for two years— which flew by in a blur. Now I felt ashamed because I had buried our noble aspirations, our hope of remaining pure, selfless, and distant from the merchants of dreams, who lure us with siren songs and ultimately drag us into their sordid world of financial transactions, balance sheets, shareholders, investors, CEOs, bankers, unprincipled and unscrupulous traders, and a whole swarm of individuals incapable of valuing what has no price and cannot be sold on the market—such as honesty, generosity, or hope... They have no qualms about buying and selling souls and auctioning them off in their corrupt financial markets. I’ll be one of them. But, to tell the truth, I was already corrupt before I even stepped into that office. That afternoon, we’d planned to attend the premiere of a movie about Oscar Wilde’s life. I wasn’t in the mood to watch yet another “crucifixion” of an author, but I had to keep my relationship with my new agent a secret. I showed up for the date, albeit a bit late, after the movie had already started. She was waiting patiently in the deserted movie theater lobby. Despite my tardiness, she always made excuses for my infidelities, because she didn’t have a shred of doubt about my loyalty. I need to pause. Alicia is just as shaken as I am, but she has promised not to reproach me, and she’s keeping her word. I feel terrible, because I can’t erase from my memory her fragile figure, illuminated by the flickering marquee lights, her arms crossed, looking anxiously from one side of the street to the other, trying to justify my tardiness. She probably would have waited much longer without losing faith in my fidelity. “When she saw me appear from the opposite side of the street from where she was expecting me to come, she hesitated for a moment, but the sight of me overwhelmed any desire to reproach me, and she greeted me with a smile she was trying to wrest from the sadness that had gripped her just minutes before. I think that for the first time I felt sorry for her, and perhaps I felt a sincere desire to repent. I was tempted to fill her in on her situation, but her smile thwarted my desire. I embraced her, we kissed, and I made up an excuse on the spot. She believed me because she needed to believe me, and she urged me to get the tickets right away—we’d have plenty of time after the movie to sort out the details. It was impossible to wake someone who lives like a sleepwalker without risking causing her some irreparable harm! There was no clarification. The movie had affected us so deeply that when we left the theater, we walked for quite a while through the now-deserted streets without saying a word. She broke the silence with a comment that added fuel to the fire of my conscience: “Why do geniuses have to pay such a high price just for being 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 a scandal! We’ll be a perfect couple of writers without giving anyone a reason for what happened to that unfortunate Oscar Wilde, right? What could I say? At that moment, I didn’t have the courage to tell her the truth and put an end to the deception once and for all. No matter how much I suffered, it wouldn’t compare to what she had to suffer later. Enough to justify her amnesia! Alicia gestures with her arm to indicate she wants to tell me something. “And that’s the woman who’ll be sitting next to you tonight, at the same table? Of course, if she regained her memory, she’d have every reason to hate you. But go on, pardon my interruption! “The days following 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’d sit in the armchairs in her office and discuss the plot of my next novel. Of course, it would be a love story with a happy ending. Once back at my apartment, I’d write a chapter or two, which I’d show her the following night. She’d make corrections and suggest changes she thought were necessary. I have to confess that we became quite in sync, because I didn’t dislike her plots and ideas, and I found it easy to interpret them and put them into words. As Noemí said in her first message: “I just switched muses, and set aside any noble motivation.” During the first few days, her behavior was strictly professional, but as the days went by, she became more familiar and intimate, and she would change out of her clothes to put on a comfortable nightgown that left her attractive legs practically bare. She had a plan to seduce me, but she wouldn’t carry it out until I finished the novel. That would be the reward! My relationship with the other woman who had become entangled in this drama remained superficial— as are the relationships of those who hide their true feelings. Sometimes she dared to ask me the reason for my apathy, which caused her so much suffering, and she herself came to the conclusion that the cause might lie in a lack of more sensual intimacy. Although it wasn’t part of her plans, she resolved to seduce me and would agree to make love to me. Our relationship had been, from the very beginning, an artistic affinity, and we weren’t we were certain of our physical attraction. At that time, I was infinitely more drawn to the mature beauty and seasoned sensuality of my agent than to that of the poet, who had not yet awakened from her dream of glory and fantasies. Under the pretext of inviting me to dinner, she set the stage for my seduction. That night we conceived Noemí, but neither of us was satisfied with that encounter. No; we hadn’t come together for carnal love—only for spiritual love! X   Chapter 8 I can’t continue this story, because today, twenty years later, I still feel the shame of that reckless pleasure, of those frustrated encounters 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 her mother! —Yes, and with her mother. This will be fate’s final twist. I don’t want to think about anything else! Alicia is visibly dejected; I can tell from her sad, distant gaze, so different from the one at the beginning of this story. She gets up, weighed down, as if her legs were heavy, and helps me get dressed. I leave my private refuge as if moved by a supernatural force, against which my own will is powerless. It’s already night; the days are short in October. The cool breeze of the evening twilight does me good. There’s still a pale streak of red on the horizon. We’ve called a taxi to pick us up at the door, but I ask the driver to drop us off two blocks before my daughter’s house. Alicia agrees. I want to finish my story before facing this difficult ordeal. —Two weeks later, I put the finishing touches on my second novel, although I would have to rewrite several chapters that didn’t meet my demanding agent’s standards. But that was the day she had chosen to seduce me, and she arranged everything so I’d have no way out. But that very same day, I had made plans with that other wretched woman to see the movie about Oscar Wilde again, because the last time we’d missed a good part of the beginning. The idea came from her, and I couldn’t say no. But it wasn’t just interest in the movie that made her want to see me; apparently, she had important news to share with me, though she wouldn’t tell me what it was. She wanted me to be there when she told me. I assumed it must be something related to her poetry—perhaps she’d won a prize, or found a major publisher willing to publish her work. I went to my daily meeting with my agent, intending to leave him the manuscript so he could read it and mark up the corrections, but to my surprise, I found a table set with the utmost care and attention to detail for two people, dimly lit by two art candles. On a small side table, a bottle of champagne was chilling, and in the center of the table stood a silver tray with canapés of caviar, salmon, and other delicacies of that sort. But what impressed me most—and, of course, aroused me—was the way she had dressed for the occasion. She was wearing a silk blouse the same color as her skin, open practically all the way to her waist, where part of her breasts—still firm—were visible, and a black, form-fitting skirt that fell just above her knees. The ensemble was extremely elegant, but above all, irresistibly alluring! I don’t know if you know men well, Alicia, but no willpower can overcome a temptation like that. It is for this very reason that humanity was condemned; it is the eternal sin that man has committed since the beginning: the irresistible allure of Eve and her apple! In that room, this biblical drama was being reenacted: caviar, champagne, and sex. After that, let the Grim Reaper take us into his darkness. I had to choose between the two women: one offered me fame; the other, spiritual affection, sincere friendship, and, of course, loyalty. “Who would you have chosen, Alicia?” The question caught her off guard, but her answer was immediate: “The second one, of course!” “I didn’t want to choose; I wanted things to stay as they were; I could have continued both relationships without hurting either of them, but my agent forced me to choose. In the end, it was the champagne and its irresistible sexual allure that decided the matter. To celebrate my betrayal, we began the evening at a cabaret where they staged sexual scenes of indecent bad taste, but that was part of his plan. At the movie theater entrance, lit only by the flickering lights from the neon signs, with her arms crossed, and without ceasing to look anxiously from one side of the street to the other, she waited in vain for the person who—I now know—wanted to tell me that he was going to be a father! Fortunately, he lost his memory! 25. We’re approaching Noemí’s apartment. I’ve finished my painful story, and we’re lost in our own thoughts in silence. Alicia must be wondering if she’s been blinded by my popularity, because I don’t deserve her affection; and I wonder if I’ll be able to look the woman in the eye—the woman who’s expecting a visit from a complete stranger. Recent events have overwhelmed my ability to process them, and now I have to face yet another enormous ordeal. Just a few steps away, I’m about to come face-to-face with the woman from whom I’ve stolen the best years of her life. She might recognize me, in which case I don’t know how I’ll 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 to make me realize that ambition without a noble cause bears no noble fruit, but poisoned ones—poisoned by the venom of one’s own equally poisoned spirit. But there is something that troubles and amazes me: Has all that time really passed? Aren’t we always in the same moment? How far does the ferryman travel in his boat? Nowhere! And yet, the boat does travel a distance and takes time, carried along by the current. I, too, have been carried along by the current, but I remain in the same boat; the same moment as always, and one that is likely eternal. The woman who must be in Noemí’s apartment is the same one I left at the door of a neighborhood movie theater, but she continues, like me, living in the same moment—time has not passed for us; we have passed over time, like the boatman over the river’s current! But it is not the body that travels inside the boat, but the soul, which is unaffected by time. She will have the same soul she had on 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 will ask themselves: What have we done with our lives that we had to part ways? Only I have the answer: I didn’t listen to her or follow her wishes. We’re standing at the door to her apartment. Alicia gives me a pleading look. “Your big moment has arrived!” Now you’ll have your one and only chance to save or condemn your soul! She rings the bell, and we hear light footsteps—they must be my daughter Noemí’s. But it’s not Noemí who opens the door— but she does! Alicia can’t help but let out an expressive gasp of surprise, and I feel as if I’m plunging into an abyss of time, traveling back twenty years to land in the very same spot where I stood on the night of my betrayal: time has not touched her! There is no trace of suffering on her face, still smooth and young. Her figure is the same. Her hair is still curly, though somewhat more faded, and what strikes me most is her serene and tender gaze—yet it seems lost in nothingness. I don’t know what to say, but I’m anxious about her possible reaction. Has she recognized me? I hear quick footsteps—it’s Noemí coming to greet us. But she’s frozen in place, watching the scene with anxiety. Finally, her mother and I are face to face, and neither of us is able to break the tension of the moment. Noemí watches her mother, but there’s no reaction that would lead me to understand that she’s recognized me. She remains holding the doorknob and seems relaxed; she’s waiting for her daughter to come. “Are these your guests, Noemí?” Noemí tries to hide her despair—she hasn’t recognized me! “Yes, Mom, they’re our guests.” She exchanges a heartbroken glance with me. Alicia also feels the tension of the moment, and looks at me questioningly. Noemí’s mother urges us to come in, steps aside to let us through, and closes the door behind Alicia. She follows us into a small living room, where a table for four is already set. We take off our coats, and Noemí hangs them on a coat rack. Her mother remains silent, rubbing her hands together—she doesn’t know what to do with them. She casts fleeting glances our way and smiles slightly. There’s a look of bewilderment on her face; it’s clear she sees us as strangers and doesn’t know how to behave. I think she’s waiting for her daughter to introduce us. Noemí was hoping for some expression on her mother’s face that would show a hint that she remembered me, but it’s clear that wasn’t the case. She seems resigned and introduces us to her hesitant mother. “Mom, these are my friends I’ve told you about. They’re both writers, just like us. The mother seems to welcome our profession warmly, as she gives us a broad smile with a look of admiration. Noemí tries, without much hope, to jog her mother’s memory. “He’s a very famous writer—I’m sure you’ve seen his photo in a newspaper or in literary magazines!” But the mother shakes her head emphatically in denial. We’re all taken by surprise when her mother asks me a question: “And what do you write—novels or poetry…? I write poetry… yes, I’ve written a lot of poetry…” Her gaze drifts to some indeterminate point in the room. I try not to show my dismal mood and reply, forcing a friendly smile: “I write novels—stories about ordinary people. Nothing special… . But I once knew an admirable poet who, unfortunately for her many admirers, never published her work! She returns my smile, but makes no comment. I get the feeling that something is troubling her, because the smile has frozen on her lips. She seems to drift off, transported to some other place. Perhaps to our university campus. She is a frail and vulnerable woman , the same as she was twenty years ago, but time and amnesia have made her extremely sensitive and emotional. I’d love to read her poems. I venture to suggest: “Why don’t you read us one?” She’s startled by my unexpected suggestion and seems embarrassed. “Oh, no, no; I write them for myself… They’re very personal… You wouldn’t like them! Noemí listens to her mother and looks devastated —Mom, these are my friends. You can trust them. Come on, cheer up and read us some of your poems! There’s still a little while before dinner is ready. Noemí wants to try everything. There might not be another chance. Her mother seems dazed. She looks at us as if to gauge our willingness to listen to her poems. Once again, she seems to drift off to faraway places. Noemí tries again and suggests that her mother read the first ones she wrote—though she doesn’t remember when or where she wrote them. There’s no doubt she’s under a great deal of 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 can’t remember—and who is standing right in front of her— doesn’t deserve this suffering. She seems to be wavering. We’re all waiting to hear her decision. She looks at us again as if trying to read our minds. Alicia has been silent; she must realize that she now has a real rival. She has good reason to feel this way; now that I’ve seen her again, those happy, pure, and generous days come back to my mind with infinite nostalgia, and I’m beginning to believe that if fate has in store, they might return—even if only for a short time. Neomí has managed to overcome her mother’s fears and agrees to read us some of her poems. The three of us settle onto a small sofa while she nervously rummages through several notebooks she keeps in a travel bag, seemingly unsure which one to choose. Finally, she settles on one with pink covers, on which there’s an inscription I can’t read. She sits down in one of the dining room chairs dining room, flips through several pages, and finally seems to settle on one. She has the same tone of voice, the same unhurried cadence and intonation. It was a delightful experience to hear her recite—and I see she’s still the same! IF YOU WERE... If your heart were foam, I would be the ocean; If your soul were the sky, I would be a cloud; If your gaze were rain, I would be a field; If your hands were water, I would be thirst. For God’s sake, that verse again! Why does fate play cat and mouse? Why has she chosen this very poem? I think she’s noticed my confusion. She gives me a strange look that could be questioning—perhaps she’s starting to remember! Noemí has exchanged a look of astonishment with me; it seems she’s asking herself the same question. Alicia hasn’t reacted, but I suspect what she must be thinking: Her stigma is haunting her! Noemí’s mother has emerged from her momentary pause and continues reading. When she finishes, we get the sense that it took a great deal of effort. She closes the notebook, sets it on the table, and slumps back into her chair, relaxed. She doesn’t want to read any more poems. Something is troubling her mind again. Now I can read the inscription in the notebook: “Poems of Love and Oblivion. Spring 1997.” But there’s no indication of the place or the author’s name. I congratulate her effusively; she thanks me with a kind smile, but I notice she’s distracted, troubled. Noemí is worried about her mother’s despondency. She must think we shouldn’t pressure her. Jolt her memory too abruptly could cause her further trauma. She doesn’t press the issue. Dinner is ready. Alicia joins Noemí in the kitchen to help her set the table. My daughter cooked, and I was surprised— I didn’t know she was such a good cook. Her mother has relaxed; she’s calmer, and we exchange comments about how damp this fall is turning out to be and what she’s 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’re right, it is a little sad...” I get the impression she’s talking to me, but her thoughts are elsewhere. I’d give anything to know where! Noemí joins the conversation. “I have an idea,” she says to me —“Why don’t you accompany my mother to visit a museum? I can’t miss class, but maybe you have time. I know you’ve been wanting to see the latest exhibition at the National Museum.” Her mother tries to protest. It seems like a good idea to me. “I’d be delighted to accompany her. I’ve been wanting to see it, too!” Alicia remains in dramatic silence. Everything is conspiring against her. She’s noticed that I’m starting to take a keen interest in Noemí’s mother, and I even think she suspects I might feel something more than compassion. The truth is, I feel a deep longing for the days when we were two people in love with literature, but also two good friends—and friendship is less passionate than love, yet more loyal and generous. On the other hand, I’d like to repay her suffering with my affection. But I can’t do anything for her unless she regains her memory and remembers who I am. I think Noemí feels the same way. Dinner was delicious. I congratulate my daughter, who is very flattered. But my pain is threatening to return, and I’d like to be back at my apartment before that happens. Noemí brings us our coats, and I can see in her mother’s eyes that she’s sad to see us go; I think she’s taken a liking to me and has overcome her initial misgivings; she might even vaguely remember me. We agreed that I’d pick her up here the next day and we’d spend the morning visiting the exhibition. Afterward, we’d go to an Italian restaurant for lunch, since Noemí has filled me in on her mother’s culinary tastes, and she adores Italian pasta. Yes, I remember now! I spent a night in intense pain. Perhaps all these emotions are taking a toll on my health. Added to the pain is the uncertainty surrounding Noemi’s mother. It’s very likely that, had our past not been a factor, I would have been drawn to her—by her kindness and sensitivity, so rare in the environment where I’ve lived these past twenty years. I still find her attractive, but it’s not an exclusively physical attraction; perhaps I can’t explain it, even though I’m a writer, but it’s a physical attraction that emanates from the spirit—a physical attraction characteristic of human beings and not of animals. It is the joy of pleasure when tempered by sensitivity and not merely by sexuality. It is as if the soul were giving you its blessing to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh without recklessness or bestiality. It is not sex; it is sensibility, if I may put it that way. Perhaps that is why we had that frustrated relationship—because she tried to imitate a behavior that wasn’t part of her personality—and I, at the time, wouldn’t have known how to interpret it either. I don’t feel well; I’m down in the dumps and my whole body aches, but I have to pull myself together and keep the promise I made to Noemí’s mother. Another absence would be intolerable! The weather is on our side. A sunny, almost summery day has dawned. The shower has cleared my head, and I feel a little better. The prospect of spending a morning with someone who has loved me but is unable to recognize me fills me with uncertainty. Maybe I won’t rise to the occasion and won’t know how to behave. After all, we’re both sick, and sick people understand each other. A taxi takes me to Noemí’s house; I ask the driver to wait, because he’ll be taking us to the National Museum. Noemí’s mother had been waiting for me, dressed and ready to go, for quite some 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 on how good she looks, which she seems to appreciate. I suspect she’s taken a liking to me and feels safe around me. What would happen if she knew who I really am? I don’t know, but sooner or later she’s bound to find out. I’m having a hard time accepting what’s happening. I spend the morning with a woman I’ve longed for over many years, and now that she’s right beside me, I feel unable to openly show her my affection, and I continue to suffer from the same pangs of remorse as with the others—but compounded by the constant fear that she’ll regain her memory and realize she’s with the man who’s caused her the most pain. I wish this nightmare would end; I wish she would recognize me and either condemn or forgive me. While I’ve often wondered what would have become of me if I hadn’t abandoned her, now I don’t need to imagine it. We’d visit the latest exhibition at the National Museum, but we’d go hand in hand, and we’d talk about the sales of my latest novel, which surely wouldn’t even reach the tenth spot on the bestseller list , but in return I’d have a good number of cultured and loyal readers, with whom I’d exchange thoughts, concerns, ideas, and comments about my novels, the characters’ messages, and literature and art in general. I’d know many of them personally and could consider them my friends, as well as loyal readers. But they wouldn’t flatter me, even if they admired my novels. I wouldn’t be an idol for young girls blinded by my popularity and the appeal of an experienced man in his forties whom they consider sexy, since I would have a partner whom everyone would know, and they would know that I had always been faithful to her—as she herself said as we left that movie theater, a memory so bitter that her words still ring in my ears as if she had spoken them yesterday: “We won’t make mistakes or lead double lives that could cause a scandal! We’ll be the perfect writer couple, giving no reason for what happened to that unfortunate Oscar Wilde to happen to us, right?” How I wish it had been that way! But we’d also talk about the success of her latest book of poetry, because she’d be much more popular and admired than I am. Her books would indeed be at the top of the bestseller and most-acclaimed lists. And they wouldn’t be poems addressed to a phantom lover, but to that entire multicolored spectrum that can be expressed through poetry. This is the dream I’ve ruined and that I can’t even turn into an exemplary novel—written from the heart and not the head, without studying market tastes and trends, the number of potential readers, and possible royalties, nor wasting time on endless photo shoots to project the most marketable image, or begging for an interview on the most widely watched show in exchange for promoting a sponsor who doesn’t care what you think about literature—so that future generations might that message of friendship, loyalty, and generosity from the people of generations long gone. That might have been my life with her. During the taxi ride to the museum, she looks around in wonder, as if she’d never been here before. When something particularly catches her eye, she exchanges a look of amazement with me, and I respond with a smile of approval. At the museum, she seems enthusiastic about the paintings on display. There’s no doubt she’s an artist. She tells me which ones catch her attention the most. I’ve bought her an illustrated book about the painter featured in the exhibition as a souvenir of this visit, and she thanks me with a discreet kiss on the cheek. She is, without a doubt, the same charming woman she was twenty years ago. It would be a memorable morning if I weren’t suffering from this constant pain. I try not to let her notice my distress, because even if it’s brief, today is probably one of the happiest days I’ve had in recent years. What makes us most human is our ability to find affection and friends who truly know us. A friendship without affection is like a black-and-white photograph: it lacks color. The visit to the museum is proving exhausting for me, but she seems immune to fatigue. I suggest we take a break and have a drink at the museum café. She thinks it’s a good idea. The café brings back a distant memory of the one at our university. Twenty years later, she’s standing in line in front of me again—and she’s also holding a book in one hand! As if this coincidence weren’t enough, they also have slices of strawberry cream cake! She’s spotted them and seems to hesitate about putting a slice on her tray. She makes a move as if to take a slice but pulls back. I think the sight of that cake may have stirred something in her subconscious. I can’t see the expression on her face, but she’s unable to move on with just a cup of coffee. I get the impression that that something is once again troubling her mind. There are several people behind us who are growing impatient, because she’s stood there as if paralyzed in front of the cake display. With a strange gesture—which seems more impulsive than deliberate to me—she finally takes one of the slices. I’m starting to get anxious; I have a feeling that twenty years of amnesia might come to a tragic end right here. But I don’t care, and I take one more step toward that abyss—I offer to hold her book so she can grab the tray with both hands! She turns abruptly toward me, and I have the alarming feeling that her gaze seems vaguely familiar—the same one I remember from when she turned toward me in the college cafeteria. Perhaps she, too, is beginning to remember that scene, because she refuses my help again! I don’t know if it’s for the best or for the worst, but the fateful incident that brought us together hasn’t happened again, and we manage to reach a table without any mishaps! She must have noticed my confusion mixed with my pain, because her gaze shows a certain unease— it’s as if she were looking at a stranger—not the same person she had kissed just ten minutes earlier to thank him for the unexpected gift. The coffee and her slice of cake are on the table, and for some reason they remain untouched. It’s as if they were witnesses to some significant event and needed to be presented as damning evidence to an imaginary but demanding jury. I can’t look her in the eyes without feeling exposed, lost in a deep sense of guilt for which there is no redemption. If I could read her mind, I’m sure my image would appear blurred in a thick fog, but it’s quickly making its way to clearer areas, where it will eventually become perfectly visible. I, too, have the feeling that this woman is transforming, and before long she may emerge from the mist and will, at last, discover the identity of her betrayer! In the midst of this state of agonizing transformation, I hear the familiar clatter of cups and plates rolling across the floor—an elderly woman has lost her balance, and dropped her tray! Once again, fate is meddling in our tormented lives! The woman sitting across from me now has a contorted face, her eyes bulging, her accusing gaze fixed on mine—a gaze I feel unable to sustain. She has stood up so abruptly that she has knocked over our coffee cups and the incriminating slices of cake. She almost she yells at me: “You—it’s you!” PART THREE: THE REUNION “Whoever forgives a sin seeks affection; whoever reveals it drives a friend away.” (Proverbs 17:9) 27. Naomi’s mother has fainted in the café. I don’t know to what extent she has regained her memory, but it’s clear that she recognized me. A museum security guard has found a doctor among the visitors, who is trying to revive her. He asked me what caused her to faint. I told him she had suffered a shock. The doctor wants to know what caused the shock. I reply that the cause was the intense shock of recognizing someone she had forgotten for the past twenty years. “That’s no reason to faint.” “She didn’t want to recognize him.” She seems to be coming around. She half-opens her eyes, looks at 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 get me…!” She asks the doctor attending to her. “The gentleman accompanying you can take you there.” “No, no; call my daughter!” The doctor looks at me in surprise. “It’s me she 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 taxi and tell the driver where to take her. She nods weakly. Someone among the onlookers has recognized me, and word spreads among the others watching the scene. I sense a veiled reproach in their glances. I think they know from the gossip magazines that my relationships with women are tumultuous, and that she might be another of my victims. Nothing gives admirers more pleasure than discovering their idols’ weaknesses, because deep down they hate them. Their admiration enslaves them, and this discovery is a liberation . A few agonizing minutes pass, but finally a young man appears—he must be the taxi driver, since the security guard is with him. I tell him where they should take her. The young taxi driver and the doctor accompany her, and they leave the café. I find myself terribly alone, surrounded by people who probably hate me for my alleged mistreatment of the victim. It’s possible that someone managed to take a photo with their cell phone, and tomorrow the photo will be published in all the tabloids and on social media, and some journalist without principles or ethics will exploit the incident to climb the career ladder by resorting to libel. He’ll make up a story claiming that I mistreat my female colleagues—a story that will delight readers. He knows perfectly well that I won’t sue him, because he’ll almost certainly be some poor devil whose meager salary won’t last him through the month, and could only pay the damages at the taxpayers’ expense, while being housed and fed in one of our overcrowded prisons. But my reputation will be tarnished, and at this critical moment, that is what I most want to preserve. I don’t give those who witnessed the scene a chance to ask for an explanation and rush out of the museum. I urgently need to call Noemí to let her know about her mother’s return of memory and the dramatic outcome, which, unfortunately, I had already feared. Her cell phone is turned off; she must be in class. I call the university office and beg them to pass on my message, and that she go home immediately. 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 be a genius to realize that my life no longer has any meaning. Not even having a daughter serves as an anchor in this life for me, because I haven’t been, am not, and could never be the father any daughter needs. Getting to know her was a mistake. It would have been better if we had never met. When I didn’t exist, all her affection was for her mother, and I had no one to judge my behavior. Now I have intruded, and she feels obligated to share it with me, and I feel compelled to account for my behavior. It’s better that I step out of her path as soon as possible, as if I’d been a mirage, and that she direct her noble feelings toward someone who deserves them. I’m wandering aimlessly down a very crowded avenue, but I doubt anyone notices my presence, because I already feel myself floating in an undefined place—the antechamber of my final journey, which won’t be to begin. Perhaps sooner than expected! Alicia—yes, Alicia will help me! I can trust her; she’ll do whatever I ask! I don’t know what love feels like or how far we can go to sacrifice ourselves for a loved one, but she must know, because there’s no sacrifice more sublime than loving without being loved in return. And she has endured it with infinite generosity. Someone has to give me the push I need to set me on a path to a place where I can find peace. The alarm on my cell phone startles me. It’s Alicia! It’s as if my earlier thoughts had been a spell to summon her, and she’d heard my wishes to die sooner than expected. She’s heard from Noemí that her mother has regained her memory and wants to know how her mother reacted upon remembering me. Just a minute ago, Alicia was practically my angel of death, and now that I’m listening to her, life is reclaiming my attention, and she manages to drive these gloomy thoughts from my mind. She’s a woman and knows how women think and feel, which is why she knew I’d reject her. She asks how I’m feeling, and I tell her I feel like a child lost in a department store—the kind of child adults tell not to cry because they’ll find their parents soon. I was crying too before her call because I felt lost and scared. She tells me not to cry because they’ll find their parents soon. tell not to cry because they’ll find their parents soon. I was crying too before her call because I felt lost and scared. She asks if I want her to come to my apartment so I can tell her what happened to help Noemí’s mother regain her memory. “Thanks to a slice of strawberry cream cake!” I reply. Alicia has a clear path, but she knows I’ll remain unreachable until I have the forgiveness of the woman who now knows who I am and where her enemy lives. Of course, I beg her to come. 3 28. Despite Alicia’s invaluable moral and spiritual support, I am deeply depressed. It must be one of those bouts of depression that inevitably lead to suicide. If I haven’t done it yet, it’s out of cowardice and horror of physical pain, but there are many ways to end this suffering. If life isn’t supported by some incentive, it’s impossible to live it. In human beings, the defense of life is not instinctive, but mental; it is a reasoned and justified decision, yet one pressured by the irreversible lack of incentives. No animal commits suicide. I have consumed and squandered all my incentives, without the result having been what I would have wished for. But I must also admit that I have never known what it was that I truly desired. Noemí called me. She’s already at her apartment. Her mother is very upset and wants to leave for her hometown tomorrow. She has fully regained her memory and remembers, as if it had happened yesterday, the causes of her amnesia in great detail. Noemí has tried to make her see that I’m deeply remorseful, but she doesn’t want them to talk about me. She thinks she’ll need some time to get over her resentment, but the one thing I don’t have is time. She hasn’t told her about my illness so that she won’t think Noemí is trying to blackmail her. She feels this situation deeply, having to divide her affections between two parents who are at odds with each other. Her mother doesn’t understand why she has forgiven me, when I am the main victim of this tragedy. Noemí fears her mother will distance herself from her because she believes Noemí hasn’t behaved as she expected. She thinks Noemí should have been more consistent and not forgiven me, and I think perhaps her mother is right. Alicia has just arrived. Since the day we met, not a single day has gone by when she hasn’t been worried about me, and I remain stubbornly determined to ignore her. Why does she insist on remaining loyal to a condemned and doomed man who can only inspire compassion and pity? The answer must lie in those recesses of a woman’s soul that I have never managed to understand. 29. (Narrator: Alicia) Today I found him in a deplorable state. I know he had hoped that Noemí’s mother would have given him the chance to express his regret and his own suffering and remorse over twenty years of solitude. If she had 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 possible to avoid this sin. If it were a world of women, infidelity would not be possible because ownership would not exist either. 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 victors. He is also an unfortunate victor in a world made in his own image and likeness. We cannot change a world that has a male God. But women wouldn’t have gods either—only energies, positive or negative. Energy created the world; we are all energy. I know that in his desperation he must be thinking of suicide, but he is a weak man, and to commit suicide, one must have courage. Men feel strong when 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 very same time it took God to create it! God himself had to be conceived by a woman. I’d like to help him understand that he’s not to blame and that his remorse is unfounded. If anyone is to blame, it is Noemí’s mother, because her delusions and her ignorance of human nature and the reality in which she lives led to this man’s infidelity. The gravest 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 secured the deal. We would need to completely reevaluate our morality and adapt it to the laws of supply and demand as well. If I love this man, it is because, in addition to physical attraction, for twenty years he has been consistent and has written what the market demanded, 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 truly felt and thought. To me, he’s a hero! He wonders why Noemí’s mother won’t listen to him, and I suggest an idea that might help him: —Why Why don’t you write a new novel about your relationship with her and how you’ve lived these past twenty years? She won’t want to see you, but she might read the novel. I think this idea had already been on his mind for some time, but he doesn’t feel strong enough to do something like that —“It’s already too late, 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 I won’t live to see the next spring bloom and that I won’t escape the cold winter of death any longer! It’s no use trying to cheer him up; he knows better than anyone when death will come for him, because it must be the most foreseen of events. Yes, it’s possible he won’t see the next spring bloom and that it will be too late for him, but not for me : I will write that novel in his name! 30. I’ve had to help him change his clothes and get comfortable. Perhaps the time has come to address him informally. I think I’m all he has left. His daughter Noemí will feel only pity and compassion for him, but she’ll remain close to her mother. She’s young and idealistic now, and believes she loves everyone, but she’ll soon become more selective, and she’ll be more demanding in bestowing her affection. This man is already a dead father, of whom only the memory will remain, but the mother will still be alive and will demand her maternal affection, more as a family obligation than as a sincere moral sentiment. Now my poor friend is a loser, since with death he loses everything. I need him to tell me what his life has been like during these twenty years of unfounded remorse. —I’ll make you something to eat, and then you can rest . While you sleep, I’ll finish reading your first novel. But when you wake up, if you’re feeling well, I want you to tell me what your life has been like during these twenty years. —Alicia, you’re addressing me informally! I was expecting that remark —Yes, I’m addressing you informally; there’s no longer any reason to keep our distance. Now we’re closer to each other and share the same loneliness. You may not love me, but you need me just as I need you. Now we’re traveling companions. You’ll get off the train before I do, 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 who’ll mourn your death. Now rest, and I’ll return to reading his first book, which I’m now reading with the utmost attention. Whatever I write must have his same style, because it must be his book. I don’t know if I should tell him about my idea; he might feel frustrated at not being able to write it himself. I’ve read a paragraph that strikes me: “The day is dark for the cursed poets, and the night is clear and welcoming to us; the light hurts our eyes, accustomed to the darkness. In the darkness, there are no visible paths; one must travel them with the imagination. During the day, all the paths you’re forced to walk are visible. That is why only in the darkness are we free, while in the light of day we are slaves. I have chosen the darkness of death, because on the other side of darkness there is always light. I will be reborn into a new world saturated with light, where I will live eternally.” Is that really how it is? How can we know while we’re alive? My good friend will find out very soon, and I should agree with him on a spell so he can cross over into our dimension and let me know. Would that be possible? The brief rest has done him good. He’s woken up in a good mood and agrees to tell me his story. I make coffee for the two of us; I sit comfortably in the armchair and listen to him with rapt attention. “My agent knew that I had betrayed the other woman, but she didn’t feel guilty. She believed that she was infinitely more beneficial to my career than my partner. As an agent, she prioritized the success of her clients over her own feelings. In just three months, we managed to get my novel into the top 10 bestsellers, and two months later, we reached number one. She had kept her promise! She knew all the tricks for promoting the novel of a complete unknown . And sometimes those tactics weren’t exactly ethical or moral. Our non-professional relationship wasn’t very satisfying for either of us. I wasn’t a lover who could live up to her expectations. The truth is that, for one reason or another, I’ve never been a great lover. Once she managed to propel me to the pinnacle of popularity, she lost interest in me. Her passion was to bring young writers out of anonymity and share in their triumphs in a very personal and physical way. During the first six months, I didn’t have the courage to find out what had become of the victim of my ambition, but not a single day went by without her memory and my betrayal weighing on my conscience. I had promised myself that as soon as my career was established and free from the constraints of my contract with my agent, I would seek her out and propose that we revive our old dreams of glory, and we would once again to be the writing duo she had imagined. I already had the means to make it a reality. But I still had a year left on my contract with my agent. No, that woman does not deserve this man’s affection; and of course he is not to blame. If he is to blame, then living is a sin! Nothing fundamental that we human beings do is just, because we are driven by necessity and not by will, but this is what life consists of. We have all inherited “original sin.” —My agent didn’t wait for our contract to end before finding herself a new lover. Another young writer, just as ignorant and inexperienced as I was. Surely she would offer him the same fame and success she offered me, but he hadn’t won any contests. He might not have been a better writer than I was, but he was probably a better lover. By then, I had not only risen to the top of the popularity charts, but I had also created a series that practically guaranteed the success of my future novels. That’s why I decided the time had come to make amends for the damage I’d caused, to reconnect with her, to try to get her to forgive me, and make up for lost time—which, for me, had nevertheless been very fruitful. 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 couldn’t track down that woman’s whereabouts—. She was hiding in a remote town that had barely any contact with the rest of the country, and no one knew who she had been associating with during her time at the university. She never revealed the name of that town, which wasn’t her birthplace either. Her father was the town clerk and had been transferred several times before taking that position in that small town. All my inquiries were in vain. To make matters worse, she had adopted a pen name to sign her poems—by which she was known—rather than her real name, which even I don’t know! “So, is true that you exhausted every possible attempt to find her?” I ask her, even though she’s already given me the answer. “Every one within my power. I assumed she’d erased all traces of where she was so I couldn’t track her down. I didn’t know she’d lost her memory.” I still let the remaining year of our contract run out, without missing a single day of trying some other way to find her, but all my efforts were in vain. Finally, I came to the conclusion that she didn’t want to be found, because otherwise, after two years, there was no reason why she wouldn’t have been the one to try to get in touch with me. Especially so she could meet Noemí—I didn’t think she was that resentful! , and I gave up looking for her. Two years of hard work—of having reached the peak of popularity and having the necessary means to make our dream come true—were meaningless and useless; in other words: they had all been for nothing! —But she says the exact opposite: that you had no intention of finding her. “As far as she was concerned, I must have already been dead; there was no need to wait for me to suffer from this illness!” “And how did you get through the following years?” “I didn’t live through the following years—I merely survived! I had no other incentive than those commissioned novels, one each year—twenty thorns stuck in my mind! I had thousands of female fans, but not a single one I could confide in. When you write novels for ordinary people, don’t expect to find a single extraordinary one. Those years were just as lost to me as they were to her, despite my excellent memory. 31. A Mother’s Confidences (Narrator: Noemí) My father hasn’t told me the whole story of his relationship with my mother. Now that he’s regained his memory and I know the true story from my mother, I think maybe she’s right and he doesn’t deserve my forgiveness. My mother could have prevented my birth by having an abortion—which she probably would have done if my father had known about my pregnancy. If she carried me to term, it was because she believed she loved him and didn’t want to lose him, but he failed to appreciate her sacrifice and abandoned her. She knew she had taken on the role of that depraved and heartless woman, and she was naive enough to believe she could compete with her. What else could she have done to keep him by her side? It was no use writing the finest poems and dedicating them to him, because he had lost interest in the poet—and, of course, in the woman—but he didn’t did he have the courage to be honest with her. My poor mother has been crying practically ever since she arrived at my house. It was 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 repent when you sense death approaching…” she tells me between sobs. “It had to be you who found him… If he’d tried harder years ago, he would have found me, but his success, and surely his many admirers, kept him very busy.” I can’t blame her for her resentment; you don’t forget twenty lost years in a matter of hours just because he suffers from an incurable illness. He is the reason my mother also suffers from an incurable illness—but of the soul. But this situation saddens me deeply. I would have liked to find a justification for both of them, because deep down I believe they are both good people. They both have noble souls, and if they’ve hurt each other, there must be a powerful reason. My father blames his passion for literature, and perhaps he’s right. To create, it is necessary to step outside this world and observe it without any emotional attachment; otherwise, it’s impossible to understand it. I suppose that to create characters with different personalities, the author must not be emotionally attached to any of them. When my father was immersed in writing 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 fiction, and his relationship with my mother became the plot of one of his future novels. And so it was. If I intend to follow in his footsteps and become as good a writer as he is, I must avoid forming emotional bonds with anyone in this world, because, as he himself told me—and I’ve never been able to forget it—“If you dream of being an extraordinary writer, your life will unfold within that same extraordinary dream, and you’ll never be able to live in reality.” ” My mother also lived her extraordinary dream, but she made the mistake of falling in love with one of her characters. I can’t share this thought with my mother because she might not understand it. Even though she’s regained her memory, she continues to live in her fictional world, and my father is a character from her imagination who has accidentally taken on the form of a lover. They should wake up from their respective dreams and see each other for who they really are. Only then could they know how they truly feel about one another. But how can you wake someone from a dream who doesn’t even know they’re dreaming? I know it’s futile, but I try to help my mother see this other point of view: “I understand that you’re 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 it 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 somewhat wary. It seems she hasn’t 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—that was what you truly loved. When my father found another admirer, he no longer needed you, but you still needed him. I think she still doesn’t understand my thoughts about their relationship. I’m afraid she’ll think I’m trying to justify his behavior. “Noemí, my daughter, I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me! His guilt is obvious—he took advantage of my innocence. I always tried to justify his lack of interest because I blindly believed that, despite everything, he was still faithful to me. It wasn’t the first time that woman had caused him to be late for our dates, but that night I needed to see him and tell him I was pregnant with you, and I didn’t know how he might react. It was unlikely he’d want to be a father at that delicate stage 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 or reject you. That’s why you can imagine my immense frustration and anguish at his absence. Despite the pain, I tried to believe he must have had some compelling reason for not showing up—I still trusted his fidelity blindly! Her 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 the moisture on her eyelids—she’s about to start crying again. “I felt so distressed and helpless that after waiting for him in vain for over an hour, I didn’t go straight back to my apartment. The night was warm and clear, so I felt like taking a walk. I thought a long, relaxing stroll would ease my distress, and I wandered through the busiest streets to blend in with the crowd and take my mind off my thoughts. I was confident that the next day we’d have a chance to meet. And that’s when I had the terrible realization that triggered my amnesia. On one of these streets, there was a seedy nightclub, and I found myself staring at the obscene photographs on the sign, when he stepped out of a taxi, accompanied by that woman, who took him by the arm, and they entered the club. They both seemed drunk. That image had a profound effect on me, and I felt as if my head were about to explode. When I recovered from that terrible shock, I didn’t know where I was or have the slightest idea how I’d gotten there.. .—she sobs silently; now I understand her better.—I didn’t know where I lived either—I didn’t even remember my name! Near that spot was a small park belonging to a neighborhood parish. Homeless people were dozing on most of the benches. I was terrified, but I needed to rest, so I collapsed, exhausted, onto the only one that was free. Moments later, a woman from the city police who was patrolling the neighborhood was surprised by my appearance—I didn’t look like a beggar—and wanted me to identify myself, but I couldn’t answer any of her questions, so they realized I was in a state of shock and took me to the local police station... You already know the rest... By 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? Each has his own reasons for doing what he’s done, and I’m unable to judge them. I suppose only God can judge them! My mother is packing her little suitcase because she’s getting ready to take the first train in the morning. There will be no chance for reconciliation. She probably won’t be at his bedside when he passes away. She doesn’t want to return to this city that brings back such bad memories. She’s determined to forget him, but now of her own free will. Who knows—now that she’s regained her memory and can lead a normal life, perhaps she’ll meet another man with whom she can rebuild her traumatized life. And me—what should I do ? I want her to give me the answer herself: “Mom, I understand that you’re resentful and want to forget about him, but what should I do?” He’s my father, and he’s dying! Should I be at his bedside when he passes away? Her answer plunges me deeper into uncertainty: “My daughter, do what your conscience tells you to do. You’re an adult now; you must decide for yourself...” Now I’m the one who feels like crying. “I don’t want to be an adult!” 32. Noemí’s Mother (Narrator: Noemí’s mother) It’s not even dawn yet, and we’re already ready to head to the station. My train leaves in an hour, and the station isn’t far, but we’ll use the time to have breakfast at the café. My daughter isn’t used to getting up this early and is still sleepy. She’s insisted on accompanying me to the station, but I can manage perfectly well on my own now. The taxi is waiting for us on the street, and in less than twenty minutes it drops us off at the station. I gaze nostalgically at the cityscape of my youth—one I’ll never see again. We have plenty of time to chat, but first we need a strong cup of coffee to wake us up. We sit at a table in a corner of the café, and Noemí brings me the coffees and two croissants that are still warm. We eat breakfast in silence. She’s waiting 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 now I’ll try to publish some of my poems . “Even if they’re dedicated to my father?” “Why not? A poem is a poem, and it doesn’t matter who it’s dedicated to; what matters is that it stirs feelings and moves people.” “But he might read them.” “He hasn’t lost his memory; he has nothing to remember.” —Will you ever return to this city? —No, Noemí, my poor girl, I’ll never set foot in this city again. As far as I’m concerned, he’s been dead for twenty years! He took his own life the night he went to that seedy club on the arm of that woman. She dug her own grave, and then erased the epitaph from his tomb, because she, too, forgot her victim. To me, he has remained dead these twenty years, until he rose momentarily to relive his agony once more. I have written the final verse dedicated to him, which may serve as his eulogy: I die while I am still young; I die while still an adult; I rise again when I am about to die; I die once more when I was about to live. —This is my parting gift until death comes to take me to its side as well. Then we will know which of us two has acted justly. Literature will lose a writer with all his talent barely used and a poet with all her talent barely remembered. No, Noemí, I do not want to force you to choose whom you condemn or whom you save. Your soul and your mind do not belong to us—only your body does. You received your soul from God, and only you have the ability to discover your true self. Don’t try to imitate us—choose your own path, which might lead you to become a brilliant writer, but you could also be an excellent doctor or a great soccer player. You owe us nothing. We conceived you through our recklessness, without intending to, just as most human beings are conceived. It is we who are indebted to you, but we don’t have the means to make up for our mistakes. You were born free, and you are free to choose who deserves your affection and your remembrance. Your mother will always welcome you with open arms, but live your own life and don’t feel pity for us or expect comfort from us. If you need comfort, learn to comfort yourself; if you need support, learn to rely on yourself; if you need compassion, learn to have compassion for yourself; and if you need love, learn to love yourself. Perhaps this wasn’t the kind of advice a mother should give her daughter, but at least on this point I agree with your father: people are bound together only by the affection inspired by their works; without works, there can be no affection. “Your father and I were happy when we both admired each other’s works , but when he lost interest in my poetry and I stopped admiring his—because he stopped writing short stories to devote himself to writing novels inspired by his wicked agent—we had no reason to continue loving each other. But I refused to accept that that talented young writer would let himself be manipulated by his agent, and I continued to admire the author of “Poets Without a Sky.” Now I know how wrong I was! Only if he were to become the writer I once idolized again could I forgive him. But perhaps it’s already too late for him. That must be his fate, and this must be mine. The station’s public address system announces the imminent departure of my train. My poor daughter has felt as if they were announcing the departure of a train bound for eternity with no return, because she looks at me with anguish, and I know she’s struggling hard to hold back her tears. “Mom, if I have to be an adult, I want to be like you. I love you so much… but I also love my wretched father…” —I know, you have a generous heart because you’re young. With age, it shrinks and becomes more selfish, though also more loyal and demanding. —She wants to walk me to the platform.— No, we’ll say goodbye here… Take good care of yourself, and don’t pout like you did when you were a little girl, or you’ll make me cry too. Give me a smile to say goodbye! Noemí 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 little suitcase as if it were my coffin. When I finally step through the entrance door onto the platform and she can no longer see me, I let my oppressed soul vent freely and cry in silence… I can’t help but feel guilty for having lived! 33. The Second Novel (Narrator: Alicia) I’ve read the manuscript of her first novel twice, and I think I’m ready to take on this important challenge. Of course, I’ll change a few things—she has to understand the reasons for her abandonment and be able to justify it. This man can’t leave this world with a clear conscience, and I won’t be able to convince him that he’s innocent. But I don’t have much time. Long, sleepless nights await me! I’ve learned from Noem that her mother has returned to her hometown and apparently has no intention of ever coming back. Fortunately, Noemí still considers me a good friend she can trust. She hasn’t told me so explicitly, but she’s going through a very difficult time. We’ve agreed to meet at the café where I met her father, but he won’t be there, because I won’t tell him about our meeting. I want to Noemí to feel free to open up to me and tell me what conclusions she’s drawn from whatever her mother might have said about her father’s behavior. I need that information to finalize my idea for the plot of this new novel. She now knows the whole story, but based on her mother’s version, I want her to hear her father’s side as well. I’m taking advantage of the fact that she’ll be spending the morning at the hospital to meet up with her. I arrived first and am sitting at the same table as that day. Across from the table are some large mirrors where I see my reflection, and I can hardly believe that woman is me. My gaze has grown stern—or rather, cold and disillusioned. I no longer see myself as either ugly or pretty, just sober and grown-up. Nor do I need to attract anyone’s attention, because I already have someone to whom I can give my full attention; that’s why I’m wearing the same old-fashioned clothes I had on when I arrived from the provinces. I even notice that my movements are deliberate, and my overall appearance suggests that of a simple social worker. I feel more like myself this way than I did in those provocative outfits. How little self-esteem those who need to hide behind their clothes must have! Noemí has just arrived. She looks every bit the helpless and confused young woman. She stands hesitantly at the door, as if afraid of being discovered. She hasn’t seen me—or perhaps hasn’t recognized me in my new appearance—and makes a move to leave. I wave to her, and upon recognizing me, she seems to come back to life. She smiles as if I’d 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, Noemí. All these events have taken their toll on him… I don’t think he’ll make it past this winter”—her smile has turned into a bitter expression of deep sadness—“I believe what’s worsening his health is his deep depression following your mother’s rejection. Noemí lowers her gaze, as if she doesn’t want me to see the conflict of her conflicting feelings in her eyes. We remain silent for a few moments in memory of her dying father. She has nothing to say; I’m the one who breaks the silence. “May I ask why your mother doesn’t want to hear your father’s confession?” She tells me the real reason—not the one we all thought it was. I fear the mother has a compelling reason for her resentful attitude. Even I would find it hard to forgive him if I were in her place. The betrayal now takes on a pornographic image—something simply intolerable for a sensitive poet. In her delirium, 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—despite all , they had drunk to excess during their romantic private dinner? There must be a good reason that exonerates her. —Dear friend, sometimes I wonder—especially as a writer—what good language is to us if we can’t use it to understand one another. Perhaps it would have been better to communicate with a few sounds to express our fundamental feelings, as animals do, because words—no matter how cultured, creative, or realistic we may be—are incapable of expressing themselves with the same clarity as those simple sounds. Your parents are two wonderful people, and they would have understood each other with simple sounds, without using words. The use of words has confused and separated them. It’s a biblical curse! The same words have different meanings depending on who says them and how. The heart doesn’t understand the meaning of words, but rather the tone in which they’re spoken. Meaning is the mind’s job, but the mind lacks feelings—it doesn’t care whether one word or another is used. Your mother only listens to what’s said if it’s poetic; but your father only pays attention to what’s said if it resembles the dialogue in a novel. Neither of them listens to what the other is really saying! — Yes; they themselves admit that their passion for literature is what has driven them apart! —No, Noemí; it’s not literature, but words. Literature is a noble attempt to give words some emotional or intellectual meaning so that their messages are clear to the senses. But life isn’t a novel; we don’t know who the characters are, what the plot is about, or even who the author is. We trust that words and their meanings are enough to navigate the world with morality and a sense of justice, but all we do is invent moralities and justices with words that don’t have the same meaning for everyone, so there can be no morality or justice as long as there are words. Noemí seems to be reflecting on my thoughts. She has reached a wise conclusion: “So, do you think they’re both guilty?” “Without a doubt, but it’s an inevitable sin, because we need words—not to understand one another, but to communicate. That is why literature born of this curse and seeking redemption is so necessary, but not the kind that is born already cursed and revels in its wickedness, just as a pig wallows in its own filth. We writers have only one mission: to free words from the flames of hell and ensure they reach heaven. We are the fallen angels in this hell while we inhabit Earth, and in heaven when we leave it. —“And what can I do to help them reconcile?” —Words won’t reconcile them, unless they’re spoken in such a way that the heart understands them. —What do you mean? —Your mother will only respond if she receives the message in a poem! —And who will write that poem? —The person who loves them most… You’ll write it. It will be your debut in this magical world of literature, and you’ll ace it, because you have the most important thing: great motivation. I know you feel overwhelmed, but at the same time I see in her eyes the spark of genius demanding its chance. —But my mother would only come around if you prove it to her with a new novel by the same author who wrote *Poets Without a Sky*—a book she’s unconsciously loved for the past twenty years… . “Your father will write it!” I don’t want to reveal to Noemí that I’ll be the one writing it, because she might unconsciously let her mother know, and all the work would be for nothing. “Alicia, you’ve never told me why you feel obligated to take care of my father—you always address him formally, which isn’t typical of a lover… Do Do you have something to do with his publishing house or his agent? I’d always feared that Noemí would ask me this question. But I don’t have a clear answer, even when I ask myself. Just a month ago, I was a woman in love with a famous writer—a man I was physically attracted to and admired for his talent—so I had no doubt whatsoever about the reasons. Now my feelings have gone beyond love and entered an unknown dimension, one that is probably not of this world. Thanks to his illness, we’ve found ourselves in a dimension that goes beyond the human and must have something to do with the divine—a dimension that must be hidden within our astral personalities. Only in extreme situations do we enter that dimension, which creates eternal bonds. It’s as if I were helping this man enter that dimension—which must be the myth of Paradise—where we’ll meet again and be lovers for all eternity, so we cannot spare any effort to achieve it. I am trying to secure this man’s love after his death, so I cannot feel jealous of his mother, who will only be able to love him with that earthly, temporary, human love, while I reserve his eternal and divine love for myself. But Noemí wouldn’t understand that. “Your father and I are not only colleagues but also old friends. I feel compelled to help him have a peaceful death. I would do the same for any of my friends and fellow writers.” 34. The Writing Today I began 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 the outcome. It’s as if I were donating blood to a critically injured person. I begin with that terrifying phrase for all writers: “Chapter One.” It’s like untying the bonds of the imagination, in perfect harmony with the mind. It is absolutely essential that the first lines spark in Noemí’s mother the urge to read the rest of the story; otherwise, failure is guaranteed. These are my opening lines: “The main characters of this story did not meet by chance, but by fate. Yet for twenty years they did everything in their power to defy 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 start, and only with a good start is a good ending possible. Now I have to create the novel’s author, because I won’t be writing this novel—my characters will. Things work the same way in real life, too. God created man and endowed him with the understanding necessary to decide for himself the plot of his own story. I continue: “These characters are two young people with the flaws and virtues of all young people: utopian, independent, rebellious, reckless, nonconformist, generous, innocent, and skeptical. 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 life lessons. They are not wise; they only have a desire to know. They complicate the simple, because they believe that simplicity is for the old or for children, but not for them. They are, in short, two young people of our time, just as young people have always been. She is passionate about Garcilaso’s sensitivity, and he about Cervantes’ imagination; she adores Dante Alighieri, he Lope de Vega; she is a poet, he a storyteller. She knows she is talented and is self-assured; he doubts his talent, and lacks self-confidence. But she believes in him and decides to temporarily postpone her inevitable rise to fame and glory to help the insecure young storyteller, so that they may walk the path to glory together, without one overshadowing the other.” Four exhausting weeks have already passed. The novel progresses at the same pace as my strength wanes. I have reached the critical point of the separation, and I have no difficulty exonerating my condemned man of all guilt. Where can a writer find the source of his inspiration if not in real life? How How can one describe a brothel, observe the deep sadness hidden behind the prostitutes’ false joy, or understand the eagerness to make a customer pay for even the tiniest drop of pleasure received—if one has never been to a brothel? How can a writer, with her wings intact and free to fly wherever she pleases, clip another writer’s wings so he doesn’t stray too far from his nest? Poetry springs from the soul; fiction from life. The poet sees the world from a cloud; the storyteller from the sewers. Poetry is music; fiction is noise. Noemí’s mother still sees the world from a cloud, and if she doesn’t come down to solid ground, she’ll never know that clouds turn into rain—and that rainwater flows through the sewers! I’ve used these notes in this pivotal chapter: “It was no surprise to find a table set in her unmistakable style for two. The champagne was chilling, the caviar canapés and other delicacies laid out. I even knew she’d choose the most provocative outfits; in other words, it was nothing more than a scene from a novel that I had to describe in the novel I was writing at the time. It was my clever agent’s peculiar way of collaborating. But there were still some complicated scenes left to describe for which I lacked the necessary imagery and could easily make a fool of myself. I mentioned this to my agent, and she suggested we pay a visit to one of the city’s most disreputable clubs, where I’d surely find the imagery I needed. But then I remembered my date. It was a painful decision. I knew she’d be outraged, but anyone who’s partnered with a writer must be used to these snubs. Would she be angry if I were a doctor who missed an appointment because I had to treat a patient? With my novels, I, too, cure thousands of patients of boredom and a lack of . Tomorrow I’ll apologize, and she’ll understand! Before that trip into the city’s most nauseating underbelly, we finished the champagne, because sober we wouldn’t have had the courage to enter that brothel.” “Unfortunately, by a fatal coincidence, she—frustrated and hurt by my absence— was walking down the street where the club was located and caught us just as we were getting out of the taxi and entering the club, somewhat dizzy, which is why my agent had to lean on my arm. If it were true that she trusted my fidelity blindly, she should have waited until the next day to see that, even though appearances condemned me, I remained faithful. But that misleading image exceeded all her capacity for tolerance, and it wounded her deeply, causing her the fatal trauma that has kept us apart for the past twenty years!” If, after reading this, she doesn’t forgive him, this woman has lost her soul! 35. Winter The more slowly you want time to pass, the faster it insists on passing. I’ve been so busy this past month that I haven’t even noticed the passage of time—and now it’s already winter! After her conversation with her mother, Noemí has been less affectionate toward her father. Whatever her mother may have told her about her relationship with her father has affected her significantly. There’s something keeping them apart, but Noemí doesn’t want to discuss her meeting with her mother—or her mother’s version of events—with him. If she’s hiding it, it must be something very scandalous that she doesn’t dare to discuss. She’s also grown accustomed to her father’s illness—she even seems mentally prepared to accept his premature death—and she only visits him once a week. Her excuse is that she’s so busy with her exams that she can barely stay in his apartment for an hour, and she doesn’t even stay for dinner. Since her hasty return, we haven’t heard a thing from her mother. She seems buried in absolute silence. At least Noemí doesn’t mention her. Sadly, it’s as if all of our behavior has fallen into an irresponsible routine, without us truly realizing the gravity of the situation. Her father has had to be admitted to the emergency room several times because his illness is worsening alarmingly. Every time I call an ambulance to take him to the hospital, he begs me to let him die in his own bed. He is terrified of hospitals, because he believes that everyone there is so familiar with death that they actually bring it about themselves! The pain clouds his mind, and in those critical moments he completely loses the will to live, but I cannot grant his wishes, because I still need him to survive at least long enough to see my project through to completion. The novel is practically finished, since it isn’t very long. Only a few corrections remain . I had some trouble finding a good ending, but I think I’ve resolved it satisfactorily. Her editor will know nothing of this novel, of which I’ll print only a few copies— just enough to fulfill its purpose, and not a single one more. As for the poem Noemí is supposed to write, perhaps I overestimated her talent, but I still have faith in her; she’ll surprise me one of these days. My plan is for the reconciliation to take place by Christmas, and, at last, I’ll be able to make peace with myself as well. Perhaps I’ll also use this painful experience to write my own novel, with my own version of events, but most likely I’ll dedicate my next work to the memory of this great man. Just as I expected, Noemí hasn’t let me down; she’s written a moving poem that will surely lift her mother’s spirits. In any case, I don’t think she’ll follow in her parents’ footsteps. She’s too realistic and has her feet too firmly on the ground. She’d make a good researcher or teacher. If her parents are having problems, it’s because of their artistic, creative, fickle, and unpredictable temperament. It’s hard to live with an artist. 36. The Last Winter (Narrator: the sick man) This will be, unless medicine prevents it, my last winter. I’d like to live it to the fullest, 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 familiar with death. With each new dawn, the sun rises darker for me, and its light is dimmer. Slowly, what what was once a nightmare is turning into a dream. As life punishes me, death rewards me. Death seemed like a tragedy to me before I knew the true face of life. Now that I know it, death seems like a comedy to me, and it makes me want to laugh irresistibly. In the end, I’ll turn my own death into a grand spectacle and take my seat in the audience, eagerly awaiting the raising of the curtain. I may be starting to lose my mind, but that must be the mind’s strategy for avoiding suffering. Blessed be madness when sanity allies itself with pain so that you may suffer it consciously! But I wish to be a privileged 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 have to have experienced it! I know it seems like an absurd thought, but it is even more absurd to believe that our mind and spirit do not transcend beyond the threshold of death. I believe that everything we have ever conceived and imagined will remain in some way, and will outlast our death, to become the foundations of the personality of a new life at the moment of its conception, into whom we will be reincarnated. I also know that this is a naive consolation, because no one has been able to prove such a theory. Others others believe that their souls will ascend to heaven, remain in purgatory, or descend into hell, where they will be reunited with other kindred spirits—whether virtuous or sinful. This is the most popular version. In my theory, there are no heavens or hells, but rather spiritual elevation or degradation. A wicked and depraved soul may be reborn in the womb of a beast. It is not the most popular view, but I believe that it must be so. Now I spend most of the day bedridden, and my mind is clear only when the sedatives take effect and the pain subsides—pain that grows increasingly intense. Alicia spends the day with me, but at night, after she’s sedated me and I’ve managed 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 sofa, and I’m the one who watches over her as she sleeps. She’s brought her laptop, which she uses to pass the time while I’m dozing. She says she’s working on her new novel about the ballerina, but she doesn’t want to read me anything until it’s finished . She’s become very superstitious and believes it brings bad luck. I find her looking more and more haggard every day, even thinner. I fear she might fall ill as well. Today is one of the harshest days of winter. Heavy snow is falling, and the flakes seem to be going wild as they’re driven by a strong, gusty wind that constantly changes direction. Like every morning, I hear the pleasant turn of the lock as Alicia arrives at my apartment. She’s shivering from the cold and completely soaked. I suggest she put on one of my robes and dry her clothes on the radiator. I’ve held her body in my arms many times, but I’d never seen her naked. This morning I finally had that chance. I see the body of an attractive but not provocative woman; sensual but not sexual. It’s harmonious but not erotic. It’s just a human body. She’s feeling better now. While she prepares my breakfast, I ask about her career, which she seems to have given up because of me. “Alicia, how are things going with my agent?” “Has he landed you any contracts?” Alicia shakes her head slightly. “And did he give you a reason?” “Publishers don’t like novels without sex—or at least something to spark their imagination—and they find my novels too intellectual or spiritual.” “Yes, I think my first agent seduced me so I could have a firsthand sexual experience and describe it in every minute detail. That was also one of the keys to the success of my novels. Sexuality isn’t a cultural invention; it’s a natural reality, and there’s no reason it shouldn’t be part of a plot, but it shouldn’t be described as a mere sexual act, similar to what animals do, because what characterizes a human being is that from all their natural experiences they derive a moral judgment—something that does not exist in animals. Among humans, sex cannot be exempt from that same morality. Most novels dispense with this necessary moral premise to describe it as a purely animal—and therefore immoral—encounter. It is not true that “anything goes” in both war and love. In war, too, there are rules of conduct—so why shouldn’t there be any in sexuality? Alicia listens attentively to my brief discourse on sexuality and seems to agree, but she clarifies a few details. “Morality is relative, and its values aren’t shared by everyone; that’s why I believe sexuality has to be based on other, more realistic standards—ones that satisfy desire without resorting to prostitution...” “And what are those standards?” “Of course, mutual consent, and respect for each lover’s sensibilities, provided that both are aware of the consequences of this relationship. That attitude is already moral enough. No lover should be considered an object of pleasure; rather, pleasure must have an object—that of the mutual satisfaction of the senses—without giving us a guilty conscience: the opposite would be prostitution! 37. Last Christmas (Narrator: Noem’s mother í) Once again, I find myself in this small, remote town. It has welcomed me with the first snowfall of the year, and I feel as though that snow is falling on my soul as well. Now that I have regained my memory, the last twenty years of blessed amnesia seem like a brief moment. If it weren’t for the wrinkles—those on my face and those on my soul—I wouldn’t know that time had passed. Why remember? To recognize the cause of your amnesia? To see that painful scene at the entrance to that brothel? To relive those dreams cut short by the ambition of a disloyal friend? For this, it’s better not to remember! Now I must forget what I’ve remembered so it doesn’t continue to trouble me, and reconnect with poetry—my only friend and confidant. The only one who is loyal and who, for no reason—justified or not—will ever betray you. We are nothing more than what we believe in and create; the rest is a chimera, because it exists only in our imagination. I imagined him as I wished him to be, but he wasn’t as I imagined him, because no one can penetrate another person’s mind and soul. We’ll always be let down! Now I have to follow the same advice I gave Noemí: If you need comfort, learn to comfort yourself; if you need support, learn to rely on yourself; if you need compassion, learn to have compassion for yourself; and if you need love, learn to love yourself. What would have become of me if he hadn’t won that ill-timed prize? Would we still be together, or would he have grown tired of me? We’d probably be apart. I remember the night of the recital. He didn’t say goodbye to me because he was jealous of my friends. But then again, only those who love feel jealousy. And what would have become of his literary career if he hadn’t met that woman? Noemí wants me to read her novels, but she herself says they’re well-written and interesting, yet lack substance. They don’t convey anything profound or human; they’re novels meant to please the ears of ordinary people—unambitious, conformist, and resigned to their own mediocrity. If I had helped him, he might not be as famous, but he’d be more highly regarded and have more to offer. He had the talent needed to write something more ambitious—something worthy of being passed down to posterity. I just received an email from Noemí. I miss her so much! She should write to me more often. I open it, unable to contain my emotion: “Dear Mom, in two weeks it will be Christmas again, and this year I don’t know which of you two I should spend these cherished holidays with. You know how much I love you, but it breaks my heart that my father will be spending them alone, when he’s so sick. My heart is still torn between the two of you, and I can’t decide on either one—because I wish I could spend them with both of you!” My poor daughter is caught in an unbearable emotional struggle. I should write back and tell her that I won’t mind if she doesn’t come and that she should spend it with her father. Someone has to make a sacrifice, because neither of us has done anything to deserve her love more than the other! “I have some other important news for you: Alicia gave me several copies of Dad’s latest autobiographical novel. Even though he’s very weak, he’s kept his promise. I’ve read it and couldn’t help but cry with joy, but I won’t tell you why—it’s better if you read it and find out for yourself. Do you promise me you’ll read it? I’m sending you a copy in the mail. I’m also enclosing my first poem dedicated to the two of you. I already told you at the station that I wanted to be like you. I hope you like it. A big hug from your daughter who loves you and misses you, Noemí” God knows I’d make any sacrifice so that Noemí could be happy and wouldn’t have to suffer for our faults, but she’s asking the impossible of me! Betrayal knows no redemption. Not even Jesus would have forgiven Judas, nor does God forgive the devil. One betrayal is enough; and now I cannot betray myself as well. No, Noemí, my poor little girl, you cannot yet understand how much the wounds of the heart hurt. Mine has been bleeding for twenty years, and now it needs to heal— it may happen tomorrow or never. Everything is written in fate. Let Him decide for us. He tells me that his father has published a new novel, and that it’s autobiographical. I have a feeling it doesn’t paint me in a good light in his memories. Why is Noemí so eager for me to read it? I’m not resentful. I, too, would have wished things had turned out differently. I, too, long for those happy days on campus; that insecure young writer who needed my help; those dreams practically within our grasp. But he renounced it all in exchange for thirty pieces of silver. God is just and has sent him the punishment he deserves! Yet the ways of the Lord are inscrutable; thanks to my weakness, this daughter of mine was born, who promises to surpass us both and be a comfort to us both. 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 remorse, so be it. Today dawned with a thick blanket of snow that covers everything in the same whiteness. It’s barely possible to walk through these steep little alleys. I ran into the mailman as I was leaving the bakery, and he handed me the envelope containing the book Noemí sent me. We all know each other here, so mailboxes aren’t necessary. 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’s heading down the wrong path. I open it, and the book’s title hits me like a painful blow: “If You Were…, Memoirs of Two Lovers United by Literature and Separated by Words.” What is she trying to say with this title? But then I see Noemí’s poem. It isn’t very long. I read it: “I WAS BORN OF FORGOTTEN PARENTS Through love or heartbreak, through enchantment or disillusionment, of two unknown lovers I was born of oblivion. As a baby, I had no one to rock me, as a girl, I had no one to pamper me, as an adult, I had no one to advise me because I was born of forgotten parents I met my father as he was dying, I met my mother when she couldn’t remember, I met myself as I was crying, because we remain forgotten. I’m writing you this simple poem so that you may forget what you’ve remembered and remember what you’ve forgotten about the writer you once loved. Your daughter who loves you, Noemí.” It’s a poem worthy of my daughter. She couldn’t have expressed her wishes any better. It has touched me to the very depths of my aching soul. I feel guilty for having ignored my daughter’s longings. Perhaps she has the right perspective on this drama, and I am blinded by my desire for revenge. Perhaps, after all, it is written in fate that I must forgive her. But how can I know? Who can advise me? Should I turn to a priest? Do they know more about the human soul than we do? Has God Himself bestowed upon them the grace of faith, making them closer to virtue than other human beings? I have lost my faith and relied solely on my own judgment, without hoping for the miracle of revelation, but after reading my daughter’s moving poem by my daughter, I’m beginning to doubt my moral certainties, and perhaps the time has come to seek advice from someone devoted to the salvation of souls—and mine must surely be at risk of damnation. If my daughter wishes it, I think I should read this new novel. 38. The Alarm (Narrator: Alicia) I have to warn Noemí— 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 hold on to life for a few more days. I can’t accept that that woman has no heart. She has to come and save him from the hell of his remorse, or he won’t rest in peace, nor will we be able to meet in that place in the cosmos reserved for our souls. He’s bedridden. He can barely move anymore and has no desire to speak to me. But he follows my every move with a dull, lifeless gaze, as if he could only move his pupils now. Yet in that clouded gaze of a dying man there must be a lucid mind, unaffected by the illness, 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 final thoughts to me. I know he’s listening to me—I can tell by the flicker in his eyes—and I have to try to comfort him: “I know you can hear me,” he says, blinking slightly. “You haven’t been a strong man, because geniuses grow weaker the more wisdom they acquire, but your illness has given you the strength needed to accept it without complaints or lamentations. With every day that passes and brings you closer to your end, my love for you grows in equal measure. At the moment of your death, I will be the most deeply in love woman in the universe. I know this offers you no comfort… don’t be sad, because she will come! But you have to wage a titanic struggle against death. Don’t let it take you until she gives you her blessing!”—I hold her trembling hand, which barely has any strength left, to see how she reacts—“You have to forgive me, but I have to call the hospital so they can prolong your life as long as possible. When she and Noemí arrive, we’ll bring you back here, and you’ll be able to die just as I know you wish : holding your hand until your last breath. Then our true life will begin. Then I won’t be the ugly, clumsy girl from the provinces, but a radiant soul who will meet yours, and you’ll remain united for all eternity. But if you die without her blessing, your soul will wander aimlessly from one universe to another forever, never finding peace, and I’ll be alone for all eternity. I know you’ll do this for me. I try to pull my hand away to dial the hospital’s number, but I feel a slight pressure, and her gaze seems to brighten. I think she’s trying to tell me something. Maybe she wants me to keep holding her hand. Yes, that must be it. “You don’t want me to call the hospital, or to stop holding your hand, do you?” —He confirms it with a faint blink.—All right, I won’t call the hospital, but you have to be strong and hold on until she and your daughter Noemí arrive. He closes his eyes, and I get the feeling he’s trying to tell me it’s already too late. Does this mean he could die at any moment? 39. A Fatal Destiny (Narrator: Noemí’s mother) I haven’t been able to finish reading her latest novel. I think that’s enough to make me feel like I’m 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 deceptive image could have stolen the twenty best years of our lives? Who drove me to be in that place at that exact moment? The devil? What monstrous sin had I committed to deserve such punishment? Poor man—all these years he hasn’t been able to tell me what really happened! Had I known, of course I would have forgiven him! How could he have written the novels I inspired him to write if he’s been feeling guilty all these years? I must write to Noemí immediately, telling her of my desire to return as soon as possible and show her father my remorse and my wish for reconciliation. There probably won’t be a happier person in this world than her when she receives my message! But I, too, feel as if my heart has stopped being weighed down for the first time in twenty years; it’s overflowing with joy, and I feel it beating again with the same strength as when I was eighteen—the day I met that wretched writer because of a slice of strawberry cream cake! And that must be the happiness that forgiveness brings! Blessed be God who has enlightened me! I’m desperate and on the verge of a new crisis: the latest snowstorm has cut us off from the outside world! There’s no way for me to contact Noemí. I know from experience in previous years that we’ll be cut off for several days, and he could die at any moment! Why? What evil force keeps interfering with our destiny time and time again? For God’s sake, I hope it’s not too late! No; I can’t wait for them to repair the phone lines and clear the snow from the road. I have to try to get to the train station, because the trains are still running. It’s only five kilometers. Christmas is in a week, and I could be at his bedside, spending our first Christmas together after twenty years apart. Maybe the driver in town might be willing to take me. I’ll head to her house right now. The taxi driver is an elderly man, about to retire, and he doesn’t dare drive in this blizzard. The road is narrow, with some very steep sections. He suggests we wait for the snowplows to pass, but he doesn’t think they’ll clear the road until tomorrow or maybe the day after tomorrow. But neither tomorrow nor the day after tomorrow are there any trains connecting to the one bound for the capital. I have to take the next one, which leaves at five in the morning. It has stopped snowing, and I can walk this route. I don’t need any luggage for this trip; whatever fits in my bag will be enough. I have to try! 40. The Agony (Narrator: the dying man) Poor Alicia! How could I tell her that my mind is clear and I’m fully aware that I’m about to die? How How can I also tell her that I no longer have any regrets, because I’ve only done what fate had in store for me? Our lives are written in the stars, and our spirit is part of the universe’s destiny—a destiny we don’t know. Noemí’s mother also had a destiny; it has already been fulfilled. I don’t know how to tell her that I sensed her death in some frozen place, and that she’ll never be at the head of my deathbed. I once said that a dignified death is to die holding the hand of the person who loves you most—and that person is you, Alicia. Moreover, your presence here makes this place a home, which more than fulfills my conditions for a good death. Now I can die in peace. She has understood this and continues to hold my hand. I feel her life pulsing through it, though her body is now lifeless, and that touch makes me begin to feel an indescribable inner peace. It is her soul that pierces me, and I feel it within me, when I have barely seconds of life left. Now the most poignant family images from my childhood—which I had stored in my subconscious—come flooding back. They follow one after another, complete with their sounds and sensations. I hear my own crying and my mother’s voice as she rocks me in the cradle my grandparents gave her; I see my father pushing the swing at the park near our modest home on the outskirts of the city, when I must have been barely two or three years old. He is young and vigorous, and he pushes the swing so hard that it makes me cry from the excitement of the game. Many other images flash by, and I retain some impression of each one. I see myself dressed in my First Communion admiral’s uniform, and my parents, who take me by the hand—almost carrying me—to the neighborhood church. There I see the girl, in her virginal First Communion dress, who made me feel the first passionate stirrings of love. A multitude of familiar images follow one after another, such as the photo from elementary school, my father’s first car, my first train ride, the first girl I dated, and my first kiss on a woman’s lips—and after many others, also the images from the university cafeteria and those that followed. But they all flash by dizzyingly, leaving an indescribable void in their wake. It’s as if they were being erased from my consciousness so that when death comes, not a trace of what my life in this world has been will remain in my soul. I sense that when I reach the last image, I will die, and that moment is already approaching, because I see the image of my literary agent, on that night that destroyed our lives. I see her in the half-open doorway of Noemí’s apartment. My mind has gone blank, and an immense sense of peace washes over me. I no longer feel Alicia’s hand. Now I see an intense, blinding light; I know I am about to enter that light, where I will remain eternally... 41. Death (Narrator: Alicia) She has made only a slight nod of her head as she leans back against the pillow, and I feel no sign of life in her hand—I think she’s dead! But it seems she has simply fallen into a peaceful sleep . There isn’t the slightest sign of pain on his face. I withdraw my hand, and his slumps down. Yes, he’s dead! The great love of my life lies dead before my eyes! From this moment on, death will do its work, and his beautiful hands, his marvelous head, and his battered body will be turned to ashes. But the hateful Grim Reaper doesn’t have enough power to destroy the fruit of the one who now belongs to him. His work will survive, and his memory will not be erased from my mind until death takes me me as well. Now I should mourn him by recalling his memory, but whoever has taken him from my side will not get away with it. Although my soul is shattered into pieces, I will not shed a single tear, because I have already mourned him while he was alive. Now I have hardly any tears left, and I must save what few remain for when I begin to miss him and feel his absence. He was a lucky man, for he lived doing the will of others, but he died according to his own will. Only a privileged few are granted such a death. If living is difficult, dying is even more so! 42. The Two Deaths (Narrator: the author) The two lovers of literature die on the same day and at the same hour, because that is what was written in the stars. Noemí’s mother’s frozen body was found by the driver of the snowplow, who was out that very morning, clearing snow from the winding road. Her body was not on the road, but in a small ravine, where she must have fallen given the darkness and the layer of snow that concealed her. Her former lover died from fatal complications of his incurable illness. Noemí had sensed her mother’s death when they said goodbye at the train station. Unfortunately, she did not have to choose which of the two she would spend Christmas with, but rather which of the two she would mourn. They were not buried together. She lies in the small local cemetery, and he had his body cremated and his ashes scattered on a nearby beach, as was his wish. Alicia was deeply affected, for according to her beliefs, she would not be reunited with her beloved in that dimension she believed she had discovered in her astral body. PART THREE: ASTRAL ENCOUNTER AL “Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures to eternal life.” (John 6:27) 43. The Farewell Death has taken him from me, and death will return him to me. I will seek you out wherever you may be, 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 reach Heaven; and if you are already in Paradise, we will meet there, for 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 track down its whereabouts, because my astral body can travel to every corner beyond the universe, and in one 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 break this painful news to Noemí, because she, despite her mother’s opposition, was very fond of him. He died just a few hours before a new dawn. It’s not worth waking Noemí so early. She no longer needs to rush; her father no longer needs her. I’ll wait until dawn. I feel as if I were the messenger of death—but of an expected death. No one will be surprised. Those who knew his diagnosis are now just waiting to read his obituary in the press or online, and they’ll utter those same phrases of condolence they’ve heard upon the deaths of other famous figures. “Poor man, he died in the prime of his life and at the height of his popularity”; “He died when he had everything but his health”; “This is how most great figures end their lives: always sooner than expected”; “ Artists live at an insane pace and intensity; that’s why they die young,” etc. I think, deep down, they’re 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 illness sets in. My unfortunate friend was doomed because he lived by abusing his soul from the moment became aware of his existence. Dawn breaks, but this is not the same sun as yesterday, nor the same stars that fade away. It is not the same morning breeze, nor the same shade of blue in 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 resolve to call the unfortunate Noemí to tell her the sad news. She doesn’t answer, but I receive a message from her cell phone’s voicemail: “I’m sorry, I’m not available.” I’m on my way to my mother’s town. I’ve just been told that she was found dead from exposure on the road while walking to the train station. I’m devastated and can’t speak. Leave me a message.” I feel deeply affected and, at the same time, guilty, because I judged that woman too quickly. I hope she forgives me! However, it has taken her far too long to forgive him. She is the one who should have been holding his hand as he drew his last breath. No doubt she met her death while trying to answer the call of her fictional novel, but by then it was already too late. Once again, fate has inexplicably turned against me, and she will be my rival again even after her death, because the three of us will meet again beyond this tormented life. 44. The Last Journey The unfortunate Noemí has had to arrange two funerals in just a few days. She has attended her mother’s funeral, and she’s barely had time to mourn her when she has to make arrangements for her father’s. The hospital handled his cremation and gave her the ashes. Now she has to fulfill her father’s last wish and scatter them at sea. She’s asked me to accompany her, and we’ll head to the coast first thing tomorrow morning. “How did my father die?” Noemí asks me as we return in a taxi to her apartment, unable to hide the deep sadness in her eyes and her delicate face contorted with grief. “I think he died peacefully, but I can’t tell you more because he could barely speak; I can only tell you that his expression was serene and he seemed to have accepted death with resignation. “Didn’t he mention my mother?” “He couldn’t speak, but I’m sure she was in his final thoughts.” “The local taxi driver told me she was trying to catch the first train in the morning to be with my father, and that he didn’t dare take her to the station, so she tried to walk to on foot. “Why didn’t she wait for the road to the station to be cleared?” I ask him, though I can guess the reason. —I don’t know, but I found a short poem she wrote the night she died: “Tonight there are no stars, and it will never stop being night. Tonight there will be no moon, and it will never be day.” She must have sensed her own death, too, because she didn’t think she’d be able to see my father alive. But she tried, and it cost her her life as well. Wherever they are, my parents must have reconciled, and finally have the peace they deserve. I listen to Noemí and can’t help but feel an unfair desire for her hopes not to be fulfilled. She can’t come between us even after she’s dead! We’re already at her father’s apartment. I can’t help but feel her presence, as if her soul still hasn’t left this room and can’t leave for some reason only he must know. Noemí lets her gaze wander over everything that belonged to her father—and now belongs to her—but she doesn’t seem interested in it. She’s gone to the bookshelf and picked out one of his novels. She stares at the photograph of her father on the back cover and can’t hold back her tears. “Alicia, what was my father really like? You must have known him better than I did. “I think 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? —Leave him? How can you leave something that’s already a part of you? —And now, what will you do? —I’ll write a novel about the journey your father will take through the cosmos. His life after death! “But that’s impossible! I suppose you’ll just imagine it. No one has ever been able to reunite with the dead!” I don’t want to alarm Noemí by explaining that I can split my personality and separate my astral body from my physical one. I’ve done it once, and I’ll do it a second time. The first time, I barely moved a short distance away from my physical body, but for this new experience, I have to take every precaution so that nothing disturbs my concentration, because it will take me a long time to return. —Yes, of course I’ll imagine it. —Where do you think she is right now? —I can see in her eyes that she feels uneasy and fearful, but she’ll have to get used to paranormal phenomena, because her parents will try to contact her through her dreams, and I must warn her. “I think she’s here, because her soul hasn’t yet been completely detached from the emotions conveyed by the objects she came into contact with during her lifetime.” “And do you think she’s watching and listening to us?” she asks, unable to hide her unease. “No, she neither sees nor hears us. She can only contact us through our astral body, which happens during dreams. You need to be prepared, because they’re likely to appear in your dreams, and they’ll want to know what kind of mood you’re in. But they probably won’t make any reference to their deaths; instead, they’ll appear in scenes that won’t make any sense to you. In dreams, we have no control over our imagination, time, or space. I think I shouldn’t have told her about this possibility. Now she seems truly frightened, and she’ll be even more so when night falls and she faces her dreams. A foggy, dreary day dawns. It’s not the best day to scatter their ashes. We’ve arranged to meet at the train station, where we’ll take a train that will take us to a coastal town. Noemí is already waiting for me at the station entrance. We still have time for a hot cup of tea to lift our spirits. We’ve sat down at the same table where she last sat 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 coming. When she walked away from me, I had a premonition that that would be the last time I’d see her alive! During the trip to the coast, we’ve barely exchanged a few words about the dreary weather. Outside the window, the landscape seems to share in our deep sadness. A thick fog hangs over the small towns we’re leaving behind. It’s hard to believe there could be happy people in such a depressing landscape. Sometimes the train runs alongside the highway, and we can see cars traveling at the same speed, filled with people burdened by obligations and responsibilities who don’t think about death, but who also have no chance to think about life. They just live—that’s all! 45. The Ashes As we approach the coastal town, we can smell the salt air. We step out of the small train station, and it’s easy to get our bearings and figure out where the sea is, because the coolness of the sea breeze clearly points us in the right direction. The sky looks like an immense grayish blanket, and a cold, damp fog blurs the outlines of things. Cars are driving with their headlights on even though it’s not yet noon. There are few people on the streets; it looks like a ghost town. We head toward the boardwalk. It’s not far. We can already hear the raucous squawking of the seagulls. The street leading from the station opens directly onto a simple boardwalk, just as desolate as the rest of the town. We can already hear the waves crashing against the boardwalk’s wall. From here, we can make out the sea, but the horizon is obscured, which blends into the sky because of its grayish hue and the thick fog. On one side of the promenade is a small breakwater, where a few fishing boats are moored—they surely haven’t gone out to sea because of the storm. We choose that spot to scatter the ashes. “It’s very sad to end a long life of dreams, plans, and ambitions,” Noemí remarks as she prepares to scatter her father’s remains into the sea—“in a handful of dust that the currents will carry to the bottom of the sea, and thus his unfortunate story comes to an end.” “It’s just his body; his soul will continue to exist, just as his works will continue to exist.” A flock of hungry seagulls flutters around; they must surely believe that the remains Noemí is scattering on the water might be food. “His wish has already been fulfilled,” she tells me, sobbing. “There will be no more deaths; we no longer need this urn!” With an angry gesture, she throws the small urn into the sea as well. She wipes her tears with the back of her hand, grabs my arm firmly, and we walk away from that place. —“‘If you need comfort, learn to comfort yourself.’ Yes, Mom, I’ve already learned!” Noemí has regained her spirits. Life goes on, and there’s no point in mourning the dead. We mourned them enough while they were alive. All that remains of the dead are memories, and he left behind a good one. It’s no reason to cry. I’m amazed by her fortitude, but in reality, she’s been an orphan since birth—until just a few months ago. Her behavior is hardly surprising. The return trip is as silent as the one before. Noemí seems distant, or perhaps she’s thinking about her future as an orphan. Her gaze is lost in the misty landscape we’re leaving behind. She seems to be reacting to some thought that’s haunting her, because suddenly she turns to me and says: “You were right—last night I dreamed about my parents…” She falls into an eloquent silence, as if wondering whether she should reveal her dream to me.— I was sitting on a park bench, and my father suddenly appeared and sat down 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 seemed to be dead. They couldn’t answer my question. Suddenly a police officer appeared, and addressing me, he said, ‘Excuse me, but the dead can’t be in the park. Take them to the cemetery and bury them.’ I didn’t know what to say; I was terrified. But inexplicably, the two of them sat up, and turning to the police officer, my father said, ‘ She doesn’t need to bury us; we’ll bury ourselves. Goodbye, Noemí—don’t be long in joining us…,” and they disappeared, sinking into the ground of the park. At that moment I woke up—she remains deathly silent, clearly deeply affected by the dream.—What could this dream mean, Alicia? —“It means your parents miss you!” I reply without hesitation. —“Do you mean they want me dead?” —“To them, you’re now living in death, and they’re living in life. The roles have been reversed, which is why they want you to join them. It’s possible that this same dream will repeat itself, though with a different plot, and they’ll insist again that you join them. You have to be strong and not let yourself become obsessed with what you hear from your parents during the dream. Although these events take place in the astral plane, they’re influenced by your own subconscious. “Do you mean that subconsciously I want to die and be reunited with them?” she asks me, alarmed. “Yes, but it’s because of your current state of mind. You’ll get over it, and your parents will only appear in your dreams when you miss them.” Noemí seems comforted by my explanation. But she remains lost in her thoughts, and her gaze drifts once more to the misty landscape we’re watching as the train passes by. Noemí seems to emerge from her gloomy thoughts again; she 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 no longer sure I want to write— I’ve had enough of my parents’ example! Maybe, as my mother said, I’d make an excellent doctor. I’m not sure if I should encourage her to follow in her parents’ footsteps, but precisely because they didn’t know how to balance their worldly ambitions with their personal relationships, Noemí will learn from her parents’ mistakes and could become 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! “Noemí, in these times when no one believes 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’d like to hear or see! Unfortunately, most writers revel in recreating the nauseating images of what we can no longer believe in or should even see. You can be a writer who enlightens readers! —But how do I know if I have the talent needed to avoid settling for mediocrity? —My dear friend, that’s what all ask ourselves! You won’t know the answer until you’ve overcome a few failures, because each failure means you’ve chosen the wrong path, and you must correct your course until you find your own. Talent consists of being yourself. The train is pulling into the central station. Noemí won’t be moving into her father’s apartment, because she doesn’t want to live alone. She’d rather continue living with her college roommates, but she’s suggested that, if I want, I can move in there instead. The idea is very appealing, because it makes my experience easier. I accept her offer, at least for the remainder of the semester, and I’ll move in as soon as possible. 46. (Narrator: Alicia I’m already temporarily settled into Noemí’s father’s apartment. It’s a feeling that’s hard to describe, because every object in the apartment has a bit of him in it, and the memory of his dead body on the bed where I’m about to sleep is still vivid. But I feel no fear—quite the opposite: sleeping in the bed where the traces of the deceased still linger is the best way to communicate with him. I’m aware of the risks, and I don’t know what might lie beyond this dimension. He may be trapped by some higher power, and my energy might not be enough to free him. But he may also have reached a dimension resembling Heaven, and my journey will be in vain. In any case, his fate was written in the stars from the day of his birth, and it will have been fulfilled without any possibility of appeal. Above all, I have to make sure that no one disturbs my sleep while my spirit is separated from my body. I have to turn off anything that might make a sound, including the phone and anything that creates magnetic fields—which I fear will be impossible to eliminate—and I don’t know how that will affect me. After all, when I’m separated from my body, I’ll be nothing but energy, and I don’t know how other energy sources in the apartment might affect me. It’s a risk I have to take. The other question is, in the event that our astral bodies meet, how we’ll communicate, because during that encounter we’ll only be able to communicate through our thoughts, which means we’ll have to ascend to the mental plane. If we manage to reach that dimension, we won’t be able to hide our thoughts, so lying or deceit will be impossible, and everything must happen with complete transparency. That must be the curse of material life: the possibility of deceit and lies—the cause of all the disasters in this world! What will happen if I cannot return to my body? Will I die as well? It would be suicide—going against my destiny written in the stars—and my soul would wander, finding no rest. Until when? But how can one have any notion of time where there is nothing but energy? It’s all very confusing, and I know I’m taking a great risk. But what meaning does my existence in this world even have anymore? I’ve given my heart to a deceased person, and now I have no choice but to be reunited with him—whether he’s in Heaven or Hell! This weekend could be the appointed day for our meeting, because Noemí will be traveling to her mother’s hometown to handle the paperwork for her inheritance, and there’s no risk of her showing up unannounced. Nor do I expect any unexpected visitors, because in the last months of his life, he had no friend other than his literary agent. His negative opinion of today’s writers caused him to fall out with those he’d once been on good terms with. In any case, I’ll leave a note on the door just in case. Tonight will be the big trip. I want to use these hours leading up to it to write down what I plan to do, and I hope to also write about whatever may have happened upon my return. To relax, I take a long walk through the same park where I declared my love to her. It’s a walk filled with nostalgia and deep sadness. Everything I see reminds me of her kind nature, and sometimes I feel as though she’s walking beside me and asking me new questions—but this time they’re about the mysteries of life and death, to which I have no answers. I sit on a bench and recall Noemí’s dream; I wish it would happen to me, but that only happens in dreams. Reality is more stubborn; it refuses to change its rigid rules, and everything happens just as it’s meant to. I’m back in the apartment, writing down my notes about tonight’s experience. It’s getting dark. It’s a freezing day at the end of winter. It might snow. For some reason, snow depresses me. I don’t like it because I feel as if it were sinking into my soul. I like warm countries because they’re more welcoming and life is simpler there. I listen to Bach’s oratorios because I believe that’s the music one should hear in Paradise. I lie down on the bed and prepare to concentrate. 47. (Narrator: the deceased) I know I’ve died. I’ve felt a strange vibration, and what must be my soul is detaching itself from my body. Alicia has already realized I’m dead and has let go of my hand, which now hangs limply. I feel a force propelling me out of my apartment, and I pass through the wall without any difficulty. Now I’m traveling at breakneck speed, heading toward the light I saw at the moment of my death. I have entered a strange dimension and continue my journey through a space shrouded in semi-darkness. In this dimension, I see a multitude of trapped spectres who implore me for help and try in vain to hold me back, for their clenched hands pass through my spirit without being able to grasp it. From their appearance and clothing, I deduce that some have been in this darkness for thousands of years. I also believe that these are people who must have died violent deaths, because their spectres are horribly mutilated. Some are missing limbs, others their heads, and most bear wounds likely caused by wars or accidents—the very causes of their deaths. But why do they remain in this darkness and not ascend to the luminous realm where I seem to be heading? I notice a significant difference between them and me—that must be the explanation. My aura is absolutely radiant; theirs are darkened. Perhaps by dying with a clear conscience and at peace, my aura became charged with positive energy, which gives it that radiance. I have described this phenomenon in one of my novels—the result of my intuition—but I now see that it was accurate. For this reason, my soul must be drawn directly toward the source of light. It must be a simple effect of electromagnetic attraction. For this reason, I suppose that whoever dies with a troubled conscience—whether suddenly or by accident—must have a soul containing negative energy that darkens the specter, and under those conditions they must be drawn only as far as this dimension, which must be the astral plane, the first dimension where those who have died reside. These souls are suspended between what theologians call Heaven and Hell, which must be Purgatory. Their desperate attempt to cling to me must be so that I can transfer the positive energy they need to enter a new dimension that will lead them to the light toward which I am heading. But it does not seem that this transfer is possible between spirits. Perhaps that positive energy they need can be transferred to them from the physical world, through invocations, prayers, or some other means unknown to me, directed specifically at them and expressing affection for them. I continue traveling at a speed that may be that of light, but I have not yet left this dimension, where there may be millions of souls in similar conditions. If this is Purgatory—where souls are not sufficiently enlightened to reach Heaven—then those who die having committed unforgivable sins their auras will be charged with negative energy, and they must appear completely dark, so they will be unable to ascend and will remain in the physical world. This must be the Hell of souls in torment described in theology, and for some reason unknown to me, they may appear as the living dead, or zombies. I have no other explanation. I have crossed into another cosmic plane, and finally, I am in the dimension of blinding light that has been irresistibly drawing me since the moment of my death. It has the same luminosity as my soul. No shadow darkens it. My journey through the dimensions of the cosmos seems to end here, because I have stopped moving at dizzying speeds. Here, too, there may be millions of luminous souls like mine. They all seem to have the same youthful appearance—they must be no older than 18 or 20—and they remain suspended in this immense luminous dimension. My specter moves slowly among them. They smile at me and seem to be welcoming me. I stop in front of a spirit who, astonishingly, looks just like I did when I was 18 or 20 and still in college. It seems as though he is my double. Something extraordinary has happened: I feel a strange vibration, and my double has merged with me, penetrating my spirit. Now I, too, have his same appearance. I feel confused, but at the same time I feel a great sense of indescribable goodness. One of the souls who has witnessed my transformation approaches me and seems to want to communicate something to me. I try to read their thoughts, but I hear nothing. Moments later, another, even more radiant soul approaches me, and, like the previous one, I think it’s trying to get me to hear its thoughts. I hear it! “Welcome to the luminous dimension, for your soul contains only positive energy, and it shines like the light generated by the source that illuminates and created the cosmos! An extraordinary source of positive energy, located in an even higher dimension, whose light is the creator of all the visible and invisible illusions of the cosmos. The more luminous our soul is, the closer we get to that extraordinary source of light. There lie the souls of the most virtuous figures in history, such as Socrates, Jesus Christ, and St. John of the Cross. I, too, am a higher luminous entity, and I can communicate with any soul, but you can only communicate with those you’ve had contact with in life and who feel affection for you. You’ll be able to hear their thoughts, but they won’t be able to read yours. —But what happened to me? Who was that double of mine? Where did it come from? —I hear your thoughts, and I will answer your questions. When we are conceived, two spiritual entities are created. One takes the form of the space we will eventually occupy at the limit of our growth. That entity is composed of positive energy and remains in this dimension. Our destiny is written within it. The other spiritual entity remains in the embryo, animating it. Its energy is variable and depends on the processes of its consciousness, which can generate either positive or negative energy. Our destiny is fulfilled when we act in such a way that it remains filled with positive energy until the moment of our death. Otherwise, we act against our destiny, and upon dying, we cannot merge with our energetic double; instead, we remain in an intermediate dimension or in the physical world, if our consciousness finds no redemption. That double of yours has followed your personal development and has been by your side whenever you called upon it. It was your guardian angel! —Yes, now I remember my experience in the small park by the church hours after learning my diagnosis, when I believed an angel was sitting on the same bench as me. It must have been this double of mine, whom I had previously called upon. —You are now as your destiny intended. There is no longer any duality within you, but rather absolute energetic unity! My strange journey to this luminous dimension has come to an end as I’ve reunited with my double. It’s as if, from this moment on, a new eternal life were beginning, but I can’t say I’m happy, because that would be to accept unhappiness—a concept unknown in this dimension. It’s a neutral, indescribable state, devoid of all anguish, fear, or anxiety. Perhaps the appropriate term is “blissful.” But fortunately, I am not completely separated from my former physical reality, because, in fact, I can hear the thoughts of those who remember me and call upon me—though faintly, like a whisper. At this very moment, Alicia is calling upon me, and I can faintly hear her thoughts. I fear she is about to commit a grave folly, because she intends to join me on the astral plane, where I am not, and she will never be able to enter this luminous dimension while she is alive. If Alicia’s astral body enters the realm of the dead, she runs the risk of being unable to re-enter her physical body, and it is very possible that she, too, will become trapped in the darkness of Purgatory—and will no longer be able to reunite with me, as she had wished! I have to find a way to communicate with her and make her realize the risk she faces if she persists in her attempt. Right now, I am nothing more than a contingent of invisible subtle energy, but one that can travel to the physical world. I run the risk of becoming contaminated by negative energy and being unable to return to this dimension, but I cannot allow Alicia to be doomed because of me. I have to try! 48 I’ve returned to the physical world and am standing at the foot of the bed where Alicia lies. She’s approaching the state of concentration where her astral body might project. If I trigger an energy surge, perhaps I can turn on the lamp on the nightstand and interrupt her concentration. I manage to make the lamp flicker, and fortunately, Alicia snaps out of her concentration. She stares at the lamp in surprise, but she doesn’t connect it to my presence. She unplugs it and returns to her concentration. I have to try again, and I hope she realizes I’m trying to communicate with her, because the energy of my aura is waning. I manage to make it flicker weakly once more, and Alicia startles. I think she’s realized that I’m the one causing it. “Is that you? Are you here?” I make the lamp flicker again. Alicia has realized that this is my answer. “So, you haven’t left your apartment, just as I suspected! But you can’t communicate with me. Be patient—I’ll be with you soon. Maybe even tonight. I’m trying to concentrate and project my astral body, and then we’ll be able to communicate, and you can tell me where you are!” I try to make the lamp flicker again, but it’s no use. I won’t be able to stop her from projecting and entering the dimension of the dead, and if she reaches that dimension and gets trapped, I won’t be able to rescue her. I just hope her soul isn’t condemned and can no longer leave the physical world—which could happen if she dies, because suicide is a serious offense, and it would fill her soul with negative energy! “In case you can hear me, I’m telling you that Noemí’s mother has also died”—Alicia doesn’t know that I can’t hear her when she speaks to me, but I can sense her thoughts, and my premonition about Noemí’s mother’s death is confirmed. But she’s thinking that she hopes we haven’t run into each other, because she still considers me her rival, even after death. If Noemí’s mother is dead, I should be able to communicate with her. Perhaps, since she didn’t forgive me before she died, she’s in Purgatory. But how can I know where she is? I’d have to hear her thoughts to know where to go; otherwise, it’s impossible for me to find her soul among millions of souls. Perhaps her thoughts don’t mention me, and she’s thinking only of poor Noemí. That would explain it. Alicia is once again on the verge of astral projection. If she succeeds, we’ll meet again, but only briefly, because she must return to her physical world of the living, and I to my energetic world of the dead. All her efforts are in vain; our destinies do not intersect in either life or death. I feel genuine pity for this woman, but now I know it’s 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 be trembling. It’s vibrating. She moves her head from side to side, as if something were trying to detach itself from her body. Yes, she’s succeeding, and the specter of her head detaches from her body, followed by the rest of her astral body. Her physical body has come to a complete standstill; she is undoubtedly sleeping deeply, while she dreams of her out-of-body experience. Her first movements are unsteady; she rises slowly but keeps her eyes closed. A thin thread of energy keeps her connected to life. I hope it doesn’t snap! Her ascent has stopped. She opens her eyes and stares at me in amazement, but she can’t speak. Now she’ll have to read my thoughts, and I hers. “Alicia, why did you do that?” “He’s here! I did it! But his appearance has changed—now he’s a young man!” “Alicia, all you’ve managed to do is put your life at risk!” “He’s blaming me for what I’m doing, just for being by his side.” “Alicia, I can hear your thoughts. Yes, I have to blame you for this. Now you won’t be able to be with me. I’m dead, and you’re alive.” .. —“Then if my death can resolve our differences, I won’t return to my body!” —“You wouldn’t achieve anything, because it would be suicide, and you know your soul would be damned and couldn’t separate itself from the physical world. Give up this love—it’s futile and dangerous for both of us!” —“You’re asking me to do this? Haven’t I been your faithful companion until your very last breath?” —“Alicia, you’re putting my salvation at risk as well. These reproaches—which I know are unfair—will taint my soul with negative energy, and may prevent me from returning to the dimension of light to which I had managed to ascend. For both our sakes, give it up! —I understand… my stigma haunts me even here, among the dead. You wish to be with her for all eternity. Is Isn’t that so? If I give her up, I’ll be damned anyway… —But you’ll save my soul—and hers, too! —You’ve found each other! She, with her unexpected death, has won! —No, Alicia, we haven’t found each other. I don’t know where she might be. Maybe we’ll never meet. But where I am, time doesn’t exist. I’ll wait for you, but you must die with a clear conscience! Don’t be afraid of old age; when you join me, you’ll be 18 again. —And her? —Alicia, where we’ll meet, there is neither happiness nor unhappiness, only goodness; there, you won’t be able to love or hate me; the three of us will be able to enjoy that infinite goodness eternally, and when her time comes, I trust that Noemí will join us as well. —Are you asking me to let my life slip away in the hope of sharing the goodness of your Paradise with you for all eternity? —Yes, I beg you! —Do I have no choice? —Hell now, or Heaven when death chooses to take you. —You’re giving me a choice between two hells! —Yes, Alicia, but one may last 30 or 40 years and the other, eternity... —I suppose I must give up and say goodbye until 30 or 40 years from now, and I can’t even hold the hand I held at the moment of your death! —So it must be, Alicia... But I have to ask you for one more thing... It’s about Noemí’s mother. I fear she’s trapped in a dark realm, somewhere between Heaven and Hell. To free herself from this dark dimension, she needs the help of someone alive who can transmit positive energy to her—energy that will help her ascend to a higher plane—and you can help her, and at the same time, help yourself to earn your salvation. . —Are you asking me to save my rival? —She’s no longer your rival; she’s a soul who, just like you, deserves to ascend to the dimension of light and escape the darkness where she may be. — And what can I do for her? —Pray for her! —I’ve never prayed; I wouldn’t know how! —You just have to call out her name and show her your affection. That will be enough to transmit positive energy to her. Convey this request to my daughter, Noemí, as well—let her pray for her mother too—and together the two of you will save her. —How sad my fate is! —No, Alicia, in the world of the living there is no greater joy than feeling useful and needed. Devote the rest of your life to writing novels with plots that inspire generosity and kindness, and you’ll live happily until your time comes and you join us. —I don’t even have the comfort of tears! —Return to the living, and you’ll be able to ease your heart by crying. —Goodby you, then. Until death brings us together! —Goodbye, my dear Alicia, I’ll wait for you in heaven... Her spirit rejoins her body, which remains motionless. I can’t hear her, but I can tell from her sad expression that she must be on the verge of tears. Now she’s covering her face with her hands and must be sobbing bitterly. Poor Alicia—no one deserves to enter Paradise more than she does! 49. (Narrator: Noemí’s mother) Why am I trapped in this darkness? Is this the fate of the dead? Where am I? I saw my frozen body lying by the side of the road while my soul ascended until it reached this gloomy place. Yes, I must be dead. I was reckless, and I’ve paid for it with my life! What will become of my poor Noemí? I intended to save someone from their remorse, and now I die without anyone to save me from mine! Is this place the Hell I deserve ! I’ll suffer this anguish forever! I think I see a small glow approaching me. Now I can make out the specter of a young man… Oh, my God—it’s him! He, too, has died! But he looks just as he did when I met him twenty years ago! Yes, it’s him; it’s the same restless, ambitious young man who used to read my poems on our college campus—with the same mocking smile, the same charm in his eyes. I’m ashamed that he finds me so aged, even if I’m nothing more than a ghost. Perhaps he’s heard my lamentations. Death unites us once more! He approaches me, and I can hear his thoughts: “My dear friend and admired poet, we meet again under strange circumstances. I have heard of your sad death in the snow as you were preparing to watch over my deathbed. As soon as I heard your lamentations, I hurried to join you. I don’t know why you are in this gloomy place, but I will help you, and in death I will repay you many times over for what you 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 must not have been at peace at the moment of your death , and it became tainted with negative energy, which prevents you from ascending to a new dimension, where I am. But fear not; your daughter Noemí and Alicia will get you out of here, and you’ll be able to join me. —I’ve never hurt anyone—why do I deserve this punishment? —I don’t have the answer. Energy and its relationship to the conscience follow their own rules, but I suppose the positive or negative energy 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 wouldn’t have done any good, because I died that very same day. It was already too late! —But I didn’t know the reasons that led you to that brothel that night, and which you recount in your latest novel. If I’d known, I would have forgiven you from the very first time we met. —I haven’t written any novel describing that unfortunate event! —Noemí sent me a copy that Alicia had given her… —Alicia! She wrote that book and distorted the facts so that you would come to comfort me on my deathbed. I don’t know what she might have written about that wretched incident, but your impression was correct: I betrayed you! —Is this deception also part of my tragic fate? —Alicia only intended to save my soul... —At the cost of condemning mine! —She had set out to prolong my life until you arrived, but I prevented her from doing so. Once again, I am to blame! But it’s too late for regrets. Our fates are about to be fulfilled. Mine has already been fulfilled, and Alicia and Noemí will help ensure that yours is fulfilled as well. None of us deserves Purgatory, much less Hell. We erred because we were human, but for that very reason we repent, and we pay for our absolution with suffering. Now all that remains for us is to earn Heaven and an eternity to immerse ourselves in a blissful calm in the realm of light. —If that is my destiny as well, all that’s left for me is to trust in my daughter Noemí and be reunited with you in that Paradise. Thus ends a dramatic story that began one day in early spring—all because of a strawberry cream cake! EPILOGUE: ASTRAL REUNION 50. Prayers (Narrator: Noemí) Alicia called me because she wants to see me about something related to my deceased parents. We’re meeting this very afternoon and will have dinner together at my father’s apartment, just like in the old days. I’ve regained my spirits and am living a normal life. Luckily, my career takes up all my time and occupies my thoughts. It’s only at night that I feel the absence of my parents, but in reality, I’ve always felt this absence. I’m back at my late father’s apartment. Alicia hasn’t changed a thing, and her books, computer, and all her personal belongings are still in the same place. She looks very worn out. It’s as if she were suffering from some illness. Her gaze is listless and distant. Something is constantly distracting and troubling her. She welcomes me with a faint smile. She is no longer the strong, self-assured woman she used to be. Without a doubt, my father’s death has deeply affected her. “Alicia, are you feeling okay? You look tired; you seem really run down.” “Yes, Noemí, I’m not feeling well. I’m depressed and sad.” “It’s because of my father’s death!” “Yes, that’s why…” She remains silent, as if she doesn’t want to give me any other reasons for her depression. We sit down at the table, and Alicia serves me what she’s cooked for dinner, and we eat in silence. “I’ve been thinking about your mother,” she says during a pause, since she doesn’t seem to have an appetite. “I’m not a believer, but I think we should pray for the salvation of her soul…” “What do you mean to say that her soul didn’t deserve to go to Heaven, if it even exists? “The circumstances of her death weren’t natural but accidental, and under these conditions she died without anyone to comfort her and help cleanse her soul of any remorse. She might be in a realm where she needs our help.” “Alicia, you’re unsettling me! Are Are you suggesting that my mother might be in Hell? —If she were in Hell, she would no longer have a chance at salvation, but if she’s in Purgatory, our prayers can help her get out of there and ascend to Heaven—which is where she deserves to be! —Alicia, you’re talking like a believer. Do you really believe in Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven? My comment seems to have confused her, and I think she’s pondering her response. —Noemí, I don’t even know what I believe in anymore! Please don’t ask me any more questions, because I wouldn’t know how to answer. But I have a feeling we should call upon her and show her our affection. You just need to think of her and send her your love. Wherever she may be, she’ll receive your message, and she’ll be closer to Heaven. “Alicia, I’ve always believed that you and my mother were rivals.” “Dear Noemí, you don’t compete with the dead. Outside this world, the heart no longer beats, and there’s no room for emotions like love. There is only goodness in Heaven and evil in Hell. Near Heaven and Hell, there is only anxiety and doubt. Author’s Note Alicia died of grief two months later. Her heart stopped because it no longer served a purpose. There wasn’t a single atom of negative energy left in her soul, and she ascended to the dimension of light without the slightest shadow THE END