Before I met Carlotta, I had become contaminated. Poisoned. By the galloping rot of fame and money. But it was not only the trappings of success that had corrupted me.
The problem resided in one place and one place alone—within me. I was the problem. I had always been the problem. Otherwise, the more-money, more-press, more-girls, more-success complex would not have gotten me. The more, more, more machine would not have been able to get me. My problem was within me. It ran right to my core. It was my soul that was corrupted. Tarnished. Contaminated. Buried beneath all the other layers of false, misleading, deceiving drives, such as ambition and ego. These drives had taken my soul hostage and buried it in a shallow grave with a few air ducts. It was barely alive, barely able to get enough oxygen. It was suffocating. But thankfully—my soul was still there. Waiting for me to reclaim it. To let it breathe again.
And I had help—my dear Carlotta. She had come to my rescue in the nick of time. Before my pilot light went out. Before my soul could be suffocated. Carlotta. The woman of my dreams. The woman in my dreams. The woman who was the center of The Unified Universe. The woman who had inspired me to make this pilgrimage to see Heriberto in the first place.
We were ten minutes into the drive to Valldemossa, and the thoughts of my behavior toward Heriberto were putting my stomach in knots. Though I hadn’t told Carlotta, I had known where he was all along for a reason I had not wished to make public; nor, for different reasons, had Heriberto. I started to sweat. And get woozy. It was making me sick how I’d treated this man. I’d given myself a long overdue shame-on-you sermon, and here’s the kicker, I actually felt ashamed! My body was responding accordingly, and it did not feel good.
I asked the driver to pull off the road. When the car came to a halt, I opened the back door and dry-heaved; I had eaten very little in several days, so my vomit was nothing but a vile mix of bad air and bile vapor. In that moment I knew my body was trying to rid itself of any residues and bacteria from my former life.
I had seven heaves and was hoping for more. I wanted it all out. There were years’ worth of contaminants lodged in my system. How can you get them all out at once? I assumed it would take time. I closed the door then. The driver was heartened that I hadn’t soiled his cab, and we drove on.
One thing was clear: I was not yet healed, either mentally or physically.
But forget about me. I’m sick of me! What about him? What about Heriberto? How did my behavior make him feel? He was not a contaminated soul. He was a giver. He gave to me. His time. His knowledge. His love. His food. A job. A paycheck. A place to go. And stay, if I ever needed it. He gave me everything! And to be forgotten like that must have wounded him deeply.
He must have thought, How could this boy I helped educate, helped raise, turn his back on me, completely forget me? And he was right. Because he was never out for riches, or fame, or success in those terms. He was in touch with his soul. His soul was not buried. He knew early on that it was better to give than live a life of personal greed in all facets. What he cared about, very simply—what really mattered to this man I had neglected and ignored, who had been so good to me in every way—was helping a little boy realize his dream. That was all this man cared about.
The tears flooded down my face in a torrent that didn’t stop until we arrived in Valldemossa. The driver let me off in front of the fourteenth-century Carthusian monastery, which was now a nursing home.
I needed a little time to collect myself, so I walked the grounds. I sat on a bench. I contemplated the remarkable structures of the converted monastery. Each brick had been laid with love and faith. It represented the best of human nature, monuments erected for the purpose of helping others, and now, all these years later, they still were. A healing place, a place for the well-being of mind and body, a place for people who had lost their way, mentally, physically. This was now the home of Heriberto. I considered it a suitable place of peace, tranquillity, and natural beauty, staffed by his own kind of folk—people trained in the art of caring for the needy.
I stepped into the nave of the ancient church—the Palau del Rei Sanxo, which was near the monastery—and said a prayer to all the gods of all the religions. It was too deflective, too assuaging, too self-absolving, too self-serving, too greedy, too arrogant—it was all too much—to ask for forgiveness, so I didn’t dare waste the church’s time. Instead, I prayed for my old friend Heriberto.
I tried to call Carlotta to let her know I had arrived but already felt uncomfortable being here. Once again, she didn’t answer, so I tried to leave a message on her machine. Why wouldn’t she answer me? We had been through enough together now that I ought to be able to reach her at any time, even if I was perfectly awake and clear in thought, as I was now.
In the church, I had thought about what I wanted to tell Carlotta: at first my intention in coming here was to get Heriberto’s forgiveness, or some form of redemption, at the very least. Now that I’d had time to consider it carefully, I realized I wanted nothing from my old friend but to share some time together without the thought of receiving anything in return. I wanted to take nothing from that. Though my improper conduct toward this man who had given me so much had haunted me for years, as it should have, this trip wasn’t about me—not this time. This visit would be all about him and whatever I could give him.
I was confident Carlotta would concur.
20
HEAVY SEAS IN VALLDEMOSSA
The grandiose monastery, with its spectacular Roman facade, was partially set into the hillside. When I went indoors, I walked through medieval barrel-vaulted corridors on my way out to the gardens; I went through the gardens and on to the sanitarium. It was a separate modern building, a hospital, really, with state-of-the-art medical equipment.
I checked in at the front desk. That morning I had notified the staff that I would be coming, and I was on time.
Marisol, the middle-aged head nurse, guided me down a long hallway that led to an offshoot wing reserved for the Alzheimer’s patients. I passed a number of them, mostly elderly, who, bless their hearts, had seen better days. Some had chins that rested flat on their chests, others walked slowly on walkers with slow death creeping in their eyes, still others were being pushed in wheelchairs, and some were able to drive their own motorized models.
“Though his condition has deteriorated, he’s actually quite lively. And very fantastical.” Marisol winked at me. “And that’s good. Being upbeat is the key ingredient to mental health, especially as patients age.”
“You mean he’s positive?”
“Very. Others in the ward are more depressed. And depression brings on, well, an earlier passing.”
“Gracias, Marisol.”
“De nada, Señor Concepción.”
“You know me?”
She laughed. “Who doesn’t? Are you forgetting your fame and fortune? Your career? Not to mention all the press? And the Internet?”
I was embarrassed. In my former days, I would have happily taken these winds of praise until my head was blown up like a beach ball.
“You’re a celebrity. If you’re big in America, what do you think you are here? You’re Spanish, after all!”
I remained silent but smiled sparely.
“If you have a moment, some of the staff would like to take photos with you. And maybe have you sign one or two of your books?”
I had to pause, but I nodded; what else could I do? “Of course,” I said. “But, Marisol, I would like them to say nothing. I don’t want anyone to find out I was here. Or that I’m even in Spain.”
She looked at me with a perturbed expression, which was not my intention, since I didn’t want to set off any alarms. “Is everything okay?” she asked.
“No, no, I mean, yes . . .”
“I only say that because I’m good at what I do. And you look a little, shall we say, preoccupied. And anxious.”
“Perhaps we could talk after. I have some things on my mind, I mean, that I’d like to get off my chest
. Perhaps I could speak with one of your professionals . . .”
“Let me see what I can do.”
“Gracias.”
“And not to worry, Señor Concepción. Privacy has been our business for seventy-five years,” Marisol said.
“I know that—it’s one reason I wanted Heriberto to come here, where he would have both privacy and excellent care,” I told her.
“To this day no one has ever known that you have been the anonymous benefactor for Heriberto all these years. And I commend you for that. Beyond your fame and success, that says everything about you and the type of man you are. But we have always kept your secret, and that will not stop now.”
I nodded, knowing I still had not done enough. “Gracias.”
“De nada.”
Marisol stopped at the last doorway and gestured for me to go ahead and enter. The room was pleasant enough, and gave my old friend a stellar sweeping view of the ocean.
“So he’s optimistic?”
“He’s beyond optimistic. He’s animated. And very creative.” She added a wink.
My former master was dressed in a hospital gown and sitting up in bed. A wisp of white bed hair rose from his scalp. When I approached the bed, I noticed he was holding something in his hand and looking off at the turquoise vista through the window.
“Steady there,” he said, then tugged at his lower eyelid, warning me in the European way to watch or pay attention.
“Hola, Heriberto.”
“Tell me your credentials, sailor.”
“It’s Rodrigo.”
“Fine name, fine name. But have you ever been on a ship?”
I turned back and eyed Marisol. She smiled and shrugged. Then nodded as if to say, “Just go with it.”
“Uh, yes. I have been on a ship.”
“What seas?”
“Well, the Mediterranean.”
“The Mediterranean is for pussies and playboys.”
I started to slide into the visitor’s chair.
“This is no time to sit, man! Heavy weather. Get up!”
I rose to my feet, and he lifted the pair of binoculars he’d been clutching, angling them out to sea.
“Winds’re coming from the west at forty knots. It’s going to be a humdinger. Check the two-way—”
“Sir? I wanted to come here—”
“No time for idle chatter, I have a ship to sail, so don’t tell me about your petty problems. Strap on a pair of stones and get on that radio.”
I angled over and saw the ancient Zenith radio from the fifties, the plastic yellowed and browned with time. I spun the dial until it clicked. I could see the appliance was not plugged in.
“We’re listing. You feel that?”
I saw it in his eyes. What had been brilliant slate blue was gray. He’d lost almost all his hair, and he weighed about a third less. But his hands, always the genius behind his sculpture, were massive still. What this man used to be able to do with his hands! I always thought Rodin had nothing on him. But the market had spoken. He no doubt would have achieved more if he had played the game just a little. But that wasn’t his thing. I’d respected him for it then. I loved him for it now. I saw in his eyes that he had no idea who the hell I was. At that moment, I was just another deck swab on his ship. Battling the sea and the oncoming storm.
“Mare mosso . . . cinque . . .” he said, mimicking an Italian coast guard radio transmission: “Rough seas . . . level five . . .”
I would press on.
“Heriberto—I came here today to see you after all these years. I apologize for not coming sooner. I apologize for a lot of things. You were the most important figure in my life, even more so than my parents. And you were like a father to me. All that I have achieved, if I’ve achieved anything, is because of you. You helped me pursue my dream—to be a professional painter—and with your knowledge and teachings, which you passed down to me, you put me in a position to attain that dream—”
“Mare mosso . . . sei . . .”
“And—”
But he cut me off. “The swell has picked up, man!” he said excitedly. “It’s three meters . . . If it gets any bigger, we could go over! Man the life jackets!”
“And I have succeeded. In certain ways. But not in others. I’m working on that. It hasn’t been easy. But I’m trying. And I think I’ll get there—”
“Mare mosso . . . sette . . .” he interjected.
“But for years I traveled around, thinking only of myself, and what I needed, what I wanted, and grasped for it all greedily, only to want more of it—to the exclusion of everything else. And everyone else. Including you. I’m ashamed. If I knew then what I know now, well, I like to think things would be different. I would have seen much more of you. And we could have worked in the studio together . . . like we used to . . .”
“Mare mosso . . . otto . . .”
Tears were filling my eyes. My voice was beginning to crack. “. . . You doing your brilliant bronze . . . creations . . . and me doing my portraiture . . . and I’m sure my work would have been executed better . . . with more thought, more depth . . . done with more precision . . . and passion. With you nearby. You lit a fire in me . . . it’s been going ever since, and bless you for that, Heriberto. It is no one’s loss but my own that I haven’t seen you more . . . big loss . . .”
He was combing the seas with the binoculars again and said it very faintly: “We might have to follow those trawlers . . . it may well be our only hope . . .”
“Maestro—” I said suddenly.
“Don’t just stand there, sailor, turn up the volume on that radio! We’re talking a force-nine gale!”
And he was glaring right at me. I spun the dial once more.
“Go down into the galley and fetch me a Scotch! Gonna need a little liquid courage . . .”
I broke down then. It was what I used to do for him. Make him a Scotch on the rocks every evening at six. I can’t be sure this was a sign he remembered me, but I like to think it was. It had become my drink of choice years later. In my petty, pitiful homage to him.
“Mare mosso . . . nove . . .”
“Maestro—” I appealed to him again. “You are a master sculptor. There is magic in your hands. You hold a wheel now. The wheel of a ship. But you are not a ship captain. You are a maestro of great works of art. I know. I have seen your genius. Everything you taught me has urged me to come back to you now. And that’s why I am here. To tell you. You must come back. Come back to life, come back to us, and fill the hole that has been left. In our lives. And in the world of creation. The world of men and women, as simple and pathetic and error-prone as we all are, we need your gift. We need your magic. The magic of your hands. And it is within your grasp, the grasp of your magical hands, to set yourself free. Release those hands from the wheel, get off the ship, and come back to land. And make more beauty. The world needs beauty, and she is ready for the return of the Maestro.”
I approached his bed and reached forward to clasp his hand.
“Don’t you dare touch an officer!” he yelled. “I’ll have you put before the Naval Tribunal!” And then he threw a tantrum, a blast of accusations and threats in a maritime theme, including having me thrown in the “brig.” His diatribe went on and on until Marisol returned with an orderly. Heriberto demanded to have me thrown off the ship if I didn’t leave. I faded back a step.
“I love you, Maestro. May heaven’s choicest blessings be showered upon you . . . and please come back.”
And that just caused more of a reaction, as he tried to wrestle and fight off the orderly, until Marisol could give him an injection.
But I didn’t wait for that. I was already in the garden.
21
THE MEETING IN THE GARDEN
Are you Señor Concepción?”
I was hovering in a daze but snapped to and spun around. “Oh,” a woman said with a short gasp, as if frightened. “I do recognize you. Good morning. I’m Ana Paola.”
“Rodrigo, por
favor.”
She was blond, very pretty, medium height, wearing a white lab coat and white pants that were snug enough to reveal a slender, shapely figure. Her top was low-cut, and she had a trace of cleavage showing. I was still unsettled by the afternoon’s events, and I felt ashamed for noticing.
“Marisol suggested I come meet you. She said you wanted to speak with one of the doctors?” she said.
“Uh, yes.”
“We have light staff today, and our normal patient-intake girl is out. I’m filling in for her. I’m going to ask you a few questions, if that’s okay.”
“Yes, but—”
“I know privacy is a concern. And, well, just to let you know, it’s not an issue. No one will ever know you visited us. You have my word.” She uncapped her pen and raised her clipboard.
“Gracias, Ana Paola.”
The questions she had for me were rather basic: personal information, medical history, prescribed medications or drug use, reason for appointment. The usual things.
When the interview concluded, a comely young colleague of Ana Paola’s joined us. And as she approached, my breath slowed until I stopped breathing altogether. This young woman was a Mediterranean bombshell.
Her eyes were big, blue, and clear like a swimming pool, with eyelashes so long and feathery they almost appeared fake—but weren’t. She was deeply tanned, with high, sculpted cheekbones, a very feminine button nose, and a perfect, rosy mouth that smiled easily. Her brown hair was slightly reddened from the sun and pinned up in a tight bun. Her lab coat was draped over her arm, and she walked with a slow, confident stride. She wore a white mock turtleneck spandex top, and her ample rounded breasts bounced fluidly along as she walked. For a doctor, she oozed sexuality, and I gave her the benefit of the doubt: she wasn’t even trying. Her nameplate said “Dr. Volita,” and as I read it, I could barely hear being introduced to her. I scolded myself for my thoughts as my face flushed with telltale embarrassment.
“Señor Concepción. This is Dr. Volita.” Ana Paola repeated the introduction, and I snapped out of my reverie. Mercifully, I had my sunglasses on.
The Beautiful Dream of Life Page 13
