“No, no. It’s more than that. It’s more than a split. I’m not divided. It’s like I’m undergoing some—”
“Change? Congratulations, Rodrigo,” she said, and smiled wryly. “It’s a cliché and second only to ‘Love is all you need,’ but—change is good.”
I was still entranced by my meditation. “Like I’m heading off on a tangent of myself, taking a ride, but I can’t pull back. It’s going one way. Off. The tangent is becoming what was myself, what is me. It’s more like a metamorphosis.”
“Wow, nice—I hope.”
I laughed. So did she, and that gleaming white smile of hers just blazed across her face. “It’s literary. It’s Kafka-esque.”
“Gracias, amor. You always keep me in the highest—”
“Esteem?”
“And company.”
“Of course I do. I love you,” she said.
“You do?”
“Don’t you think I do?”
And right then the air went out of my face, and a chip was taken out of my fascination for her. Here we go again, I thought. More actor babble. “I think you love the idea of me.”
“And what’s that?”
“The absolute free spirit run by free will. And if you were a man, I bet you would be just like me.”
She smiled the guiltiest of smiles.
“Let me rephrase that. You may love what you thought was me. Because I’m a new me now. So, no. How can you be so sure that you love me?”
“If indeed there is a new you—we’ll just have to wait and see. Is this transformation for the better?”
“I don’t know. I think so. It has to be.”
“You’re not telling me everything, are you?”
She was smiling again, and my smile broke free as well. “You’re so intuitive.”
“That one wasn’t so difficult.”
“I guess not. I’ll tell you over dinner.”
“I’m staying at the Ritz-Carlton. Is the new you joining me there?”
“When?”
“After Duck,” she said, and laughed.
“You mean after dark?”
“Of course I mean after dark—silly rabbit.”
We enjoyed another round of martinis and our appetizers and main courses. I spent the entire dinner sharing my dream, the vitality of it, the realism, and the vividness. And her. Carlotta. I talked about Florence, recounting the afternoon at Giubbe, and meeting her, and sketching her, and my rudeness—and how it nearly ended in a disastrous way, then it did end without an end, on such a vague note. And I confessed to Julia that I was still haunted by this mysterious woman who had appeared out of nowhere in my mindscape. In a dream that felt so real.
“Have you ever lived in Florence?” she asked.
“Yes, for a few years. When I did the neoclassical series.”
“But you don’t recall ever meeting her?”
“No, absolutely not. And I mean, after all,” I observed, “we normally dream of people we know in our waking lives, or faces that are familiar to us somehow, through the media, television, the movies, even people we’ve just met. Or don’t we?”
“Usually, yes. I mean, it’s never happened to me that I remember.”
“Exactly,” I said.
She sipped from her glass and mulled it. “First of all, Rodrigo, you’re an artist, a painter. You’re a visualist, and you create images. Perhaps while you sleep, you are creating a portrait in your mind, your unconscious mind, but in this dream life, the portrait depicted is a real-life one—living, breathing, and three-dimensional. She talks. She walks. She makes love.
“But when you actually paint consciously in your waking hours, you craft the non-breathing, non-animated, two-dimensional version. When you see it this way, your painted portraits are images actually captured, yes. But really captured, as in trapped. They are not free. They are in prison, bound by a frame. And maybe you are giving the subjects of your portraits, these prisoners of your imagination, their freedom when you sleep, when you dream. You liberate them. And—”
“And what?” I asked.
“Perhaps you want to liberate them. Perhaps painting is frustrating you. Or the way you are painting. Or what you are painting.”
With that, Julia reeled me back in. “I knew you would have an interesting take on this,” I said.
“Have you made love to her?”
“Carlotta? No! I only met her once—I mean dreamed of her once . . .”
“Do you want to make love to her?”
“I—”
“You want to fuck her—”
“It’s not that . . .”
“Then what is it?”
“I . . . I . . . I want to do everything with her.”
10
LA CALA RITZ-CARLTON
I sat at the bar and ordered a Macallan. Some delicate piano with fluid notes was playing. When my drink arrived, I downed the pills Molly Boy had given me, plus a Cialis for good measure, and listened to the floating notes, a welcome reprieve from those thumping club sounds earlier in the night.
Julia returned from the powder room and glided over to me, her hair falling free and emancipated from the formal updo. She looked absolutely ravishing in her shimmering French gown, and she moved as elegantly as a dancer.
She paused before me and extended her hand, gently clasped mine, and tugged me in the direction of the elevator. I followed. There may have been a new me, but not that new. And not that improved. I was still weak when it came to a beautiful woman interested in private biology. A woman in the flesh, that is.
“What do you do when you need a fix, just grab me like a bottle of Advil?” I said, reminding her that she had once said I was like a drug.
“No, Rodrigo. You’re not over-the-counter. You’re strictly prescription fare.”
“I’d rather be over-the-counter.”
“I bet you would,” she said with sly purpose. “No, you’re not for everyone. You’re riskier than that.”
“How so?”
“As in, proceed with caution.”
“And with the proper dosage?” I asked pointedly. She smiled and erased the subtext stalemate by kissing me long and soft until the elevator doors opened, inviting us to be swept away on a glorious vertical chariot—and after we went to bed, I was swept away in a glorious dream.
I AM IN FLIGHT, soaring and spearing through wisps of clouds in a clear blue Mediterranean summer sky, held aloft by the thermal wind currents.
I am an eagle, gliding above the Serra de Tramuntana range on the island of Mallorca. I see movement below and spot a donkey train transporting tourists on a sloping mountain path. I coast lower with a flap of my wings and fasten on the gentle curve of the Cala de Deià below, with its shimmering turquoise waters. Farther beyond, the bright blue hue of the cove meets with the sun, and their natural brilliance blends together and produces a delicate purple light, the better part of blue, to form a stunning periwinkle horizon.
I eagle-eye a Swedish-built sailboat floating peacefully in the cove, a fifteen-meter Hallberg-Rassy ketch with twin masts. As I approach, I hear her voice. And there she is again! I land on the forward mast closest to the bow and dig my talons unsuccessfully into the metal crossbeam. Carlotta is enjoying a glass of rosé with another young woman; the two of them are Riviera topless and gazing out toward the sunset. Café del Mar–style ambient music is emanating soothingly from the cabin’s interior.
I eyeball her hungrily to absorb what I can, to learn anything new about her. I realize I am witnessing the vacation Carlotta, the Cala de Deià Carlotta, an Italian girl embraced by rugged mountains and a Spanish sea. Her hair is sun-bleached and windblown, her face and fiery-red-bikinied body deeply oiled, bronzed, and ablaze in gold and aqua hues. I can see the glowing green fire glint from her eyes, and the lighter sunburn-free oval-shaped tracings around them where her sunglasses have been. She has a carved, curving figure. Her breasts are not burdensome but full and delicately shaped, the nipples the size of qua
rters upturned and hard-candied to the wind.
Both girls angle up and gaze warmly and curiously upon me. They seem enlivened by a fleeting brush with a winged brother, another of God’s elusive creatures. I wait there with a predator bird’s patience and watchfulness. But I am not hunting or seeking prey. I am waiting for the right moment. Timing is everything, even with eagles.
As the sun fades and night falls, the other woman retreats to the cabin’s interior, but Carlotta stays on deck, draped in a blouse and wrapped with an African kikoy. Her hand covers her eyes as she peers out to the horizon beyond. The turquoise sea has transformed to a deep Aegean blue. Her brow is creased and her face is a portrait of anxiety, worry, even fear. I don’t know her well and have never seen her express any of these sentiments; anger, perhaps, but none from this emotional palette. The two-way radio blasts static-corrupted voices from inside the cabin. Carlotta seems to be combing the waters, searching, looking for something. Or someone. Her countenance remains unyielding and grim.
I want to comfort her, but I cannot. I can’t raise my wings. I try again and again, but I am powerless. It pains me deeply, but I am unable to move. It’s as if I am frozen like a statue, a vulgar, scaly gargoyle fastened atop the mast, poised as if unwilling to help someone in distress. My face is carved into a devilish expression, I have pointed wings and razor, reptilian claws, and I flash sharp fangs like a dragon bird. I am a Notre Dame gremlin, laughing at her, ridiculing her, in mockery of her loss, whatever it may be. But I don’t want to offend or deride her; it’s just a mask! It’s not me! It’s not the real me! You have to believe me, bella Carlotta! I’m trapped! Like a bronze sculpture, like one of my portraits held stationary by a frame!
I feel the heat bearing down on me, oppressive and uncompromising. I can move now, and when I do, it’s painful. My hand falls suddenly in the water, and my eyes unseal. I hear her voice again and lift from my supine state. I see I am floating on a paddleboard in the middle of the deep blue sea. I hear her call out again, and I twist back around—it is Carlotta, stationed on the bow of the sailboat, advancing on me. The sails have been struck, and I hear the faint murmur of the boat’s engine.
“Rodrigo!”
“Sí! I’m over here!”
“I see you! Grazie a Dio! We’re coming!”
As the ketch approaches, I try to get to my knees and my skin aches. I have been sunburned, cooked like an Alaskan king crab.
“Hola, bella . . . I must have fallen asleep!”
“You did! You are a long way from where we set anchor!” Carlotta tosses me a life preserver and vest, and I catch them, though I don’t need either, and it hurts to stretch my scorched limbs to reach for them.
The boat is back-shifted to reverse and idles smoothly beside me. I see a silent Francesca holding the wheel and waving at me, and I salute back. I have to laugh at my good fortune. I could have drifted to eternity with no way back.
“Bravo, Rodrigo! I knew we’d find you!”
“Gracias, Francesca! Dio mio!” I say, shifting in and out of Spanish and Italian. “You guys saved my life!”
My eyes meet Carlotta’s as she says, “We know . . .”
I smile back. Then I jump in the water and raise the paddleboard, and both girls load it on deck. They toss over the rope ladder, and I scale it on shaky burned limbs. Once I am on board, they start razzing me.
“Guarda, ’Cesca! We are going to have him for dinner! Lobster!”
“And lobster salad for pranzo! Surely we can get two meals out of this guy . . .”
“Very funny . . .”
Carlotta comes up to me, very close, and wraps a blanket around my shoulders. She stands before me and gazes into my eyes, my blues to her greens. Her mouth turns up slightly and her head extends forward, and what does she do to confound me once more? She grazes her lips across mine ever so slightly, not a kiss but a fragile gift that says more than I could imagine. Hungry for anything I can derive from her, I devour the moment fully. We are sailing the Mallorcan coast together, and this is merely day one. There is so much more I want to know about this enigmatic young woman who has appeared in my life in a poof!—like magic.
This Cala de Deià sailing sojourn is Carlotta’s idea. I suspect she wants to see me in my element—and great, I almost get lost and drown! She has chosen the place and invited her lovely childhood girlfriend Francesca, who has grown up boating on the Tuscan coast and the charming Cinque Terre. Carlotta has chosen our boat, too, the Monkey Business, and I am covering all expenses. That is the deal, though I am a little hazy as to how I know all this. I have negotiated my own perk: to be able to sketch and paint the girls. But we never specify when. Or how.
While the girls shower, I straddle the bow up top and count my blessings: how fortunate I am to have come across such a special person as Carlotta. She’s refined, enlightened, educated, drop-dead gorgeous, and she’ll save your life if you need it! I wash my thoughts with some rosé from a nearby bottle and watch the sun tap-dance on the orange and continuously periwinkle horizon.
The girls join me on deck just in time to see the sun’s final pirouette as she dips gracefully over the edge. Francesca speaks of their days as schoolmates in Florence and the trouble they stirred with the boys, of course. They’re both the products of overbearing Italian fathers, and they find a kinship in their common stern upbringings, and inspire each other’s resultant rebellions. They cover for each other, too, with phantom outings and sleepovers. They are fiercely loyal best friends, the type who anticipate each other’s every thought. But there is no jealousy; jealousy is a cancer that destroys any friendship, any union, for that matter.
Francesca excuses herself and leaves Carlotta and me beneath a silvery Mediterranean moon. We’re seated on deck cross-legged, the bare hard teak beneath us. My skin is burning, my face, too—it feels highlighted and glowing. Carlotta has me wrapped in a robe, and she serves me hot tea with whiskey. I’m so hot I get chills, and we share a fleece blanket.
I am not hungry, but the plates of food keep coming. Francesca is a fabulous cook. She whips up salads, sliced meats, and pasta. But I am content with my tea and whiskey. Francesca is welcome to join us again, but she instinctively declines. It tells me her act of consideration is what Carlotta would want.
“So, old man of the sea, how did you lose your way?”
“I was paddling with the current toward the sun, and just lay back to contemplate my being,” I say with a laugh. “And I fell asleep. When I woke up, I’d lost my paddle and my sense of direction. And then you were there . . .”
“To rescue you—”
“Amen,” I say with a bellowed sigh.
“You say that so strongly. Do you need rescuing?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“I suppose, in some way or another. Or just a hand to hold. At times.” Carlotta has never looked more beautiful. She seems not of this world. There is no bitterness.
I am already thinking of where we should do it. As in, share a life. And all the ancillary and adjacent thoughts, of everything that life has to offer when it is shared with someone special. In a very short time, I have come to realize that she is that someone.
“You mentioned contemplating your being? What is your being?” Carlotta asks.
I light up a cigarette then, and she joins me. “My being is . . . in my hands . . . in my art.”
She pauses, if for no other reason than to be respectful. “Is that all?”
“It’s enough, no?”
“There is so much more to life than what we do, don’t you think?”
I take my time with it. Every splintered or corrupted thought I have, she seems to know how to heal it and smooth it over. My instinct lets me know she is right—about so many things. Truths are within us all, but some discover them quicker than others. Some lose their way, following false truths to serve temporary psychological needs. Some take years to find their way back; others never do. When you stumble upon or find new truths and they revea
l themselves to you, however it happens, you incorporate them into your life. But all truths are within you. Carlotta unleashes this thought in me as we are speaking. She makes me want to be a better person. A better being. A better soul.
“I do, yes. Now.”
“Just now?”
“I think I have known that always. But it has taken me a while to embrace it. I have been following false leads.”
“Why?”
“Money. Ego. The dysfunctional one-two.”
We sit in silence and take in the stillness of the water, with the shimmering lights of the coast reflected on its glassy surface.
“I have pursued false leads, too,” she reveals.
“Yes? That surprises me.”
“Really? Why?”
“You seem so grounded.”
“You can become grounded once you’ve hit the ground. The lowest ground. Being grounded often comes with hard work.”
“The knocks of life?”
She hesitates and looks squarely at me but says nothing. Which is saying a lot.
“Have you experienced tragedy? Or mistreatment?” I ask.
“Tragedy, in some ways, yes.”
“What kind of tragedy?”
“I did not know how to love. And that is tragic.”
“That’s sad. That’s not tragic.”
“To a romantic, it’s a total tragedy,” she says, and we both laugh.
“Do you know how to love now?”
“Yes. I think so. Let’s put it this way. I’m a work in progress. But there has been progress. And you?”
“That is a very good question.”
She laughs, but lightly, thoughtfully, and not judgmentally.
“I’m not sure how much progress I’ve made.” I wonder then if I should say this or pursue this line. But that is the thing about Carlotta. She inspires me to speak truthfully. And not hide. Or play games. Or even hold back. “But I know the first step.”
“Which is?”
“Loving yourself.”
“Being honest with yourself, like that, is also a start. And no matter what has happened in my life, there is one German quote I always return to: ‘There are no facts. Only interpretations.’ ”
The Beautiful Dream of Life Page 6
