“Please call me Rodrigo,” I stuttered.
“Desideria, por favor,” she returned. “Enchanted to meet you. I have seen your art, and I like it very much.”
“Gracias,” I said, and left it at that. There’s nothing worse than acting like the brat artist who, after receiving praise from people who have been moved by the art, then dashes their complimentary appraisals. It’s such an overwhelming show of disrespect. Because what you’re really rejecting are other people’s imaginations, dreams, and at times, their feelings about themselves. Besides, once you’ve finished a work, it’s no longer yours to lay claim to. Art belongs to anyone who looks at it. Each person’s reaction is unique, based on all the things that have happened in his or her life. To denounce someone’s interpretation of art is to denounce the person—and this is never okay to do, even if you are the original artist.
Marisol returned to the garden. She was carrying two of my coffee-table books and three calendars. “It’s all they had at the bookstore.”
“I’m sorry, if I’d known, I would have brought something. Next time.”
“Will there be a next time?”
I turned and saw that it was Desideria who’d inquired.
“I believe so. I want to check in on my old friend from time to time.”
“Ah, the Capitano, sí.”
“If you could keep me informed of his progress, I would be most grateful.”
“For the great artist of Spain, of course!”
“Here, Desideria,” I said as I handed her the book I had just signed.
I took several photos with the hospital staff. Though I usually despised this sort of thing, this time I didn’t mind at all. These young professionals had dedicated their lives to helping people, elderly people, no less. If their intentions were coming from a good place, I knew I must give goodness in return.
I gave the girls my private email address and promised to invite them if I ever had another show.
“You mean you’re not going to have a show?”
“No. I’m doing personal work now. Just for me.” I smiled, too, because it made me happy to say so.
Ana Paola said, “Did you know George Sand wrote A Winter on Mallorca right here?”
“In Valldemossa?”
“No, right here at the monastery, before it was converted. When she lived here with her lover Frédéric Chopin.”
“Oh yes, that’s right.”
“We are in a great artistic surrounding. The ghosts of artists are here, too.”
“Why don’t you paint here?” Desideria said. “If books can be written here, surely paintings can be rendered, no?”
“I’m sure you are quite right about that.”
“What a place it would be to paint.”
“Yes, I’m thinking of doing the monastery before I go. And perhaps other landscapes and local color. I did the Tramuntanas already, from the sea, anyway. But I was thinking of capturing them from inland, looking out to the sea. The jagged peaks and slashing valleys.”
“There are places you don’t know about,” Ana Paola said.
“Really nice secluded beaches. And coves. Very private. We found them by boat.”
“Why don’t you paint us?” Ana Paola said. “We’re local color, aren’t we?”
For some reason, my temperature was rising. The interplay was stimulating, and I found these two to be incredibly simpatico. I had tremendous respect for the selfless, caring creatures they were. It was just prurient coincidence that they were both physically alluring as well.
“He doesn’t think we’re worth painting.”
“No, that’s not it. It’s just that, well, I’m doing other things right now.”
“Like what?”
“Well, it’s kind of a secret. But not woman portraits. I know I did a lot of that before, but now I’m more disciplined to the requirements of a new style.”
They both glared at me, not satisfied.
“Because I know I can do better,” I tried to explain. Even though I did not want to go there, I wanted to make sure they would not feel personally insulted.
I looked over at Desideria in that pregnant, silent moment, and she was eyeing me with a sparkle in her eye and her iPhone held aloft and accessible, as if to take my impending number. When I smiled at her and didn’t take the bait, she turned her head with a slight flick and raised her chin, almost taking on the pose of an elitist snob with her nose in the air. She was not used to having someone reject such an offer. It might never have happened before.
The girls had to go back to work then, and I had an appointment to meet with one of the doctors. So we said our good-byes, and the two walked off with the items I had signed for them.
22
THE APPOINTMENT
At Marisol’s suggestion, I went to the hospital coffee shop and had an instant macchiato. I had about fifteen minutes to wait before my appointment with the distinguished Dr. Bartolo Abreu. He greeted me in the coffee shop and then escorted me to his office. He was immaculately dressed, and I took particular notice of his periwinkle Chanel tie.
We sat down in his tastefully appointed office, which, like Heriberto’s room, had a spectacular view of the sea beyond. Dr. Abreu had me sit opposite his desk on the smooth, soft suede seafoam couch. There was a Miró print on his wall, and that made me feel instantly at home. We exchanged light chitchat, as he seemed interested in me; we spoke of Heriberto briefly, and I informed Dr. Abreu of our long association. With respect to me and my reason for being there, I was more candid than I had been with Ana Paola. At the same time, I didn’t really know how to express what I was feeling.
“It’s as if another dimension has revealed itself to me. Growing up, if there was one subject I didn’t mind besides art, it was science. And I learned of the scientific method. ‘Show me the proof’ kind of thing. And I believed in that. But more recently, I have been open to more ways of looking at things.”
“What ways?”
“Well, there seems to be no explanation for astrology, and yet there seem to be patterns that are valid. There is no explanation for spiritual events. Or extraordinary feats, like the Pyramids, the Mayan installations, Stonehenge. And yet they exist. And you hear it stated how little we use of the human brain, only five percent or something. The majority is unused, and something must be there, but it is not activated. I mean our brain is smarter than we are, it must be, all the knowledge of the universe lies within it. I believe that—and what has been happening to me seems inexplicable. As in no scientific explanation. For that functioning five percent, anyway.”
“What exactly are you referring to? What has been happening to you?”
“Well . . .” I began, and chuckled nervously. “I have two lives. A dream life. And a real life. But I’m not sure which is which. Recently, I have come to realize they are becoming unified. It’s one big unified life. Or one big dream.”
“Are you in a dream now?”
“Maybe. Am I?”
“Do you take drugs?”
“Never, in my dream life. But I have, in what would seem to be my real life.”
“What do you take?”
“I’m glad you asked.” I withdrew from my jacket the baggie and handed it to Dr. Abreu. “There’s Adderall. Perhaps you could tell me what the others are.”
“You take these by prescription?”
“No. Recreationally. In my New York life.”
“Well, this is Xanax. And this is Vyvanse. This here is”—and he unscrewed the cap—“this is cocaine.”
“Sorry.”
“And this, this here, hmmm. This looks like”—he scratched on it to taste it—“this is MDMA or Ecstasy; Molly, they call it, too.”
“Check.”
“This looks like a horse pill. A horse tranquilizer.”
“That’s Special K. Ketamine.”
“And this is— How did you get this? This is risperidone.”
“Molly Boy.”
“Who?”
/> “I have a supplier. In my so-called real life. But don’t tell any real-life cops. They will put me behind real-life bars.” I thought I’d better not mention the three days of propofol.
The doctor laughed. “Risperidone is a very serious drug. It is for schizophrenics, really. And this supplier, he gives them to you for recreational use?”
“I guess.” I had a flash of concern then. “Uh, Dr. Abreu—I have to know. Is this a judgment-free zone? I’m going through a lot.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not here to judge you or your habits, but let me give you an example. Heriberto takes risperidone—”
“Really?”
“Sí. And it calms him, actually, because he can become very animated on that boat of his.”
“You mean he’s like that all the time?”
“For as long as he’s been here, twelve years now. He sets sail every day. He thinks his bed is a ship and he’s sailing right on the water there. On the Adriatic. On the Mediterranean. The Aegean, because he likes to go to Greece. And through the windows, he sees the weather, and as the weather goes, so does his daily voyage. And every day is a new day on the sea. Like rebooting. Sailing is something to look forward to each day. It’s what gets him up in the morning.”
“We had stormy seas today. But the sun was shining outside.”
“That was because you were there. He wanted to scare you away with the rough seas. What size storm did he say it was?”
“Force nine.”
“Yeah, that’s heavy weather. He wanted you to go.”
“You mean he really wanted me to go—”
“You can’t take it personally. And it’s not you. It’s anyone new. If Marisol or I were there, he’d be sailing in the beautiful sunshine of today. Really, it’s what the window tells him. Or what he sees in the binoculars. Unless there’s a stranger in the room.”
“He was also reading off Italian tide and swell reports.”
“Yes, well, he sails the Adriatic, usually. The Italian coast. He did that as a boy, apparently.”
“I do remember him telling me about that.”
“If you think about it, it’s not a bad way to go. I mean, he gets to be on the water the rest of his life, if you want to look at it that way. It’s very peaceful. With respect to his condition, sailing is his brain’s way of coping with the frustration, with his disease, and it miraculously conjures a fantasy for him. It’s a survival mechanism, really, propagated by the brain’s need to compensate for the losses caused by Alzheimer’s.
“In his case, the risperidone calms him. In someone without any schizophrenic tendencies or Alzheimer’s, it can induce fantastical thoughts and reveries.”
“Dreams?”
“Yes. How long have you been taking risperidone?”
“I don’t know. Just recently, I believe. But my dream life has been with me longer, I think. But that’s the thing. My dream life seems to be my real life, like it’s more real than my real life. Is it possible that my brain could be jumbling things?”
“How do you mean?”
“That my brain is doing things in reverse. That my so-called dream life in Florence, where I seemingly live in my dreams, is actually my real life, and when I sleep there, I am really then dreaming, and that becomes what is considered my real life, my life in New York. In which case it’s not a dream at all, it’s a fucking nightmare, because I don’t like what is considered my real life. Sometimes I act like a monster in New York.
“But in Florence, I am in love and spiritually connected—I’m an Eagle—and I’m doing the best art of my life. So when I go to sleep in my flat in Florence, I have nightmares.
“And the nightmares are New York and all the things I get into there. Doing cocaine off titties. Banging girls up the ass till their eyes pop, you know? And it’s my brain that is reversing things, twisting it around, and making me believe the New York–life nightmare is the real one when it’s not. That’s what I think is happening.”
“But you realize you have cocaine on you now. And since you don’t do drugs in Florence, that connotes New York, doesn’t it?”
“I know. That’s why I’m confused. ’Cause I also just spoke to Carlotta. So I’m wondering if the two worlds have come together now, unified—and I can’t wait to paint that series!”
“Who’s Carlotta?”
“She’s the girl I’m going to marry.”
“And she lives in New York?”
“No! She lives in Florence! She’s—well—she’s an amazing person. In so many ways. You would love her, Doc. We’re going to take a house in Ronda. That’s where I am going to propose to her.”
“Paint what series?”
“The Unified Universe.”
“She’s Italian, this Carlotta?”
“No, she’s a Panther . . .”
I sat back in my couch then, relieved. I’d gotten it off my chest. This doctor really got me. He was someone I could work with, and I could feel that, too. I saw him taking a lot of notes then, which I hadn’t registered before.
“I mean, yes, she’s Tuscan,” I added as an afterthought.
“Claro.”
“I don’t want any of this to get out. I don’t want anyone to know any of my plans. In New York or Florence. That’s like twice the heat on me.”
“You have my word.”
“Do I seem a little, uh, under the weather to you?”
“No, you seem fine.”
I pulled the T-shirt away from my chest to stretch it out. It was oppressing me. “You probably think I’m totally crazy.”
“Well,” he said with a smile, “some people would think you’re crazy to give up the life in New York, I’ll tell you that. I mean, eyes popping and all.”
I broke up then. This guy was fucking cool, and I felt I could trust him. I couldn’t wait to tell Carlotta about him.
On second thought, I recognized that was not the best idea, because I didn’t want to scare her, to let her think there was something wrong with me, that I was crazy-artist damaged goods, or that I’d lost the top floor. I had to exude confidence. Because if I worried, she’d worry. No need to upset her now, when it seemed to me that things were starting to piece themselves together nicely.
“Tell you what, Rodrigo, why don’t we do some tests? I’ll set you up with an fMRI brain-imaging scan and see what we come up with—”
“You mean to see if I have some sort of condition?”
“Well, there are indicators that can be detected if there is a potential condition, yes. Sound good?”
“Yes.”
“The process takes about an hour. Why don’t you head back to the cafeteria or sit in the garden? Our chief radiologist, Dr. Volita, will come get you shortly.”
23
FULL EXAMINATION
I took a stroll past the gardens and along the ancient fortification that walled in the church and monastery. It was a clear day, not a cloud in the sky. I gave thought to the new series I would paint and choices of subject matter. Was it going to be all nature? Or some figures, too? Any animals? The fact was, I needed to stick to the theme. Whatever was part of The Unified Universe was fair game.
“Are you ready?” Desideria was waving my way with a warm smile. I picked up my pace to meet her, and we strode through the gardens together.
“Hi, there.”
“You nervous?”
“No, should I be?”
“Not at all.”
We proceeded inside the hospital and continued down a corridor to the new wing, still partly under construction, that housed the radiology department.
“We just moved into this wing. The place is a little cluttered. I’m going to call one of the maintenance guys. In the meantime, slip into this if you would—”
“Desideria, is there any way I could keep the scan you do today? I like to use things like this for collaging.”
“I’ll check with the doctor. Maybe we can get you a copy.”
I stepped into the changing room an
d took off my clothes. “Everything?”
“Yes, please! So that you have no personal items on you . . . Nothing but the smock.”
I emerged then and sat in the chair beside the MRI machine and waited. “Can I ask you something? What exactly is schizophrenia? Dr. Abreu mentioned it in connection with one of the drugs Heriberto is taking, though in his case, that’s not what it’s for, as you know.”
“Schizophrenia is a chronic, disabling brain disorder that affects about one percent of people. It may cause them to hear voices, see imaginary sights, or believe other people are controlling their thoughts. These symptoms can be frightening and often lead to erratic behavior. There is no cure, but treatment can usually control the most serious symptoms. Why? You think you may be a candidate?”
“In dreams, everything is possible,” I said.
“Ah, yes, I love that saying. As you may know, we’re going to give you what we call an fMRI: that stands for functional magnetic resonance imaging. It’s a little different than the full-body MRI; the fMRI just scans from the neck up and maps brain activity.” Then she asked, “How do you feel?”
“A little tired. Jet-lagged.”
“It’s easy to drift off in there. But try to remain still, okay?”
Then she slid me inside the machine as if she were closing the drawer of a bureau. The sound of the machine whirred all around me, and it was noisier than I thought it would be.
24
MRI DREAMS
Carlotta said, “Amore, I’ve been waiting to hear from you. How did it go?”
“Not so well. Heriberto doesn’t remember me.”
“No—!”
“It’s that bad, sadly. He looks well enough. But he’s bedridden. And he thinks he’s a ship’s captain. As soon as you enter the room, it’s all about the voyage he’s taking, and his bed is his boat.”
“I’m so sorry, amore. But I’m so proud of you for going to see him.”
“I left all my information with them and told them I would be back periodically. I told him I love him.”
“Of course you do. You always have. It has just been buried in there. You’ve made a tremendous transformation already, and I’m so proud of you.”
The Beautiful Dream of Life Page 14
