Love in Lowercase

by Francesc Miralles

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

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

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

  Who Is Lobsang Rampa?

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

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

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

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

  “So, who is Lobsang Rampa?”

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

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

  “What do you mean by that?”

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

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

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

  Valdemar took a deep drag. He exhaled slowly.

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

  “What makes you think that?”

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

  “Why?”

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

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

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

  The Empty Backpack

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

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

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

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

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

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

  I should have thought about this before I started drinking.

  The fresh air felt like soothing balm on my skin.

  Choosing a Novel

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

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

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

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

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

  The Flaw

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

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

  “What’s that?” She was surprised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I don’t know this one,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Do you mind my holding your hand?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “We can’t?” She was shocked.

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

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

  From the Heights

  I spent the rest of the day wandering around the city like a man possessed, in the hope that the exhaustion would make me forget what had just happened. I escaped from El Raval into the Sant Antoni neighborhood and then walked up through L’Esquerra de l’Eixample.

  When I reached Avinguda Diagonal—which has traditionally separated the rich from the rest of Barcelona—I kept going north, impelled by some mysterious urge. I knew that as soon as I got home the whole world would collapse on my head, so I decided to continue on my expedition until I was completely worn out.

  On a whim, I decided to stop walking in a straight line, so I turned into Carrer Muntaner and kept climbing up toward the mountain. My feet were boiling hot when the sun reached its zenith. Walking past schoolchildren, executives, and well-to-do retirees, I understood that I’d have to keep walking until I’d left every last remnant of the city behind me. Only then would I stop.

  I got to Plaça de la Bonanova and turned left, looking for a street that would let me continue my mad ascent. I found one that ran alongside a prestigious business school and kept going up the slope without looking back.

  After climbing for twenty minutes, I reached the point where the blocks of luxury apartments gave way to large and small mansions. After that, a few run-down villas. Finally, there was only the forest.

  Tired after my long walk, I sat down under a stand of pines that, rearranged by gravity, were leaning at odd angles. For the first time I managed to calm down more or less. It was a relief to have the city at my feet and to know that, even if just for a few minutes, I wasn’t part of it.

  From my lofty vantage point all desires and aspirations seemed insignificant. It was like watching the frenzied activity of an anthill.

  While I filled my lungs with resin-scented air, I could see the sun’s orb sinking slowly and inexorably down toward the horizon. A little bit of common sense began to emerge from the calm that had settled inside me.

  I’ve ruined this girl’s birthday. I should really just go home and try not to crash into the furniture.

  V

  One Day in a Life

  The Disappearance

  I was much calmer when I walked down the mountain and finally got home with the night sky over my head, unaware that the weirdest twenty-four hours of my life still lay in store for me.

  I could have gone to see a film in order to distract myself from my worries, but I was too tired to concentrate on a movie. The best option was probably to go to bed and forget about my situation.

  As I climbed the stairs, I was convinced that Gabriela would have left a message on my answering machine. Either she’d ask if I was OK—which would be very kind of her—or she’d take me to task for my behavior and tell me to not bother her anymore.

  At least she was very close to home. I had to climb a mountain to find myself again. I turned the key in my door.

  There was no message. That hurt. Didn’t she care about my suffering?

  I took a shower, and by the time I came out I was quite resigned.

  I got into my pajamas and, since I wasn’t hungry, I started wandering around the apartment, tidying up here and there as Mishima kept an eye on me. Coming across Valdemar’s backpack for a second time made me uneasy.

  How come he hadn’t tried to come and get it? What if he’d been so drunk he’d hit his head and was lying there upstairs, badly injured?

  There was only one way to find out. In my pajamas and slippers I went upstairs and rang the bell a few times. Its familiar sound was all I heard. Nothing else.

  It took me quite a while to notice—after ringing the bell for the third time—that the door wasn’t closed but had been left slightly ajar. Even more worried, I pushed it open, certain I was going to find the remnants of some awful catastrophe.

  However, when I turned on the light, everything looked impeccable, which seemed at odds with the open door. Th
e keys were hanging from the lock on the inside. I put them in my pocket before closing the door and continuing my investigation.

  The lemon-scented air suggested that the floor had just been mopped. The living room was clean and tidy, and the computer sat on its table, where not a single speck of dust was visible. I looked in the direction of the kitchen, which, like mine, had a window opening onto the outside. Then I started feeling really alarmed.

  There, in the middle of the kitchen, was a large telescope mounted on a tripod, one end poking out of the window and up to the sky.

  I left the kitchen without touching anything and searched the entire place, calling Valdemar and checking every room, including the closets. Then I remembered the metal box he’d brought the first night. Without a doubt it had contained the telescope. He wouldn’t have gone away leaving that behind him unless something unexpected had forced him to flee.

  The same sixth sense that had alerted me when I saw the empty backpack told me that Valdemar wouldn’t be coming back. I inspected the apartment once more, only to discover that everything was in its place, even the cigarettes. Only the manuscript was missing. It was very strange.

  I went back to the kitchen feeling bewildered. There was a handwritten note tucked under a saucer that I’d missed the first time I’d looked. The message was both simple and disturbing:

  I’VE LEFT. WILL I BE BACK?

  With a heavy heart and a guilty conscience because I’d been so remiss, I looked through the eyepiece to see if the stars might offer me some clue as to Valdemar’s whereabouts. As if it had prior knowledge of the exact moment of my arrival, the telescope was focused on the full moon.

  I don’t know how long I remained there, mesmerized, exploring the craters and dark seas that may have once held water. I missed Valdemar but was comforted by the thought that he’d gotten there somehow. I imagined that, right then, he was looking at me from some crater through a powerful telescope that had been left behind by the Apollo 17 astronauts.