Perhaps I should become a Dream Missionary and go to far-off lands and towns and bring dream culture, my specialty, to the masses. To convert them. Maybe I’d become the Dream Messiah. And impart my wisdom to all the Sleeping Dogs and Tech Jockeys.
What the fuck was I talking about?
I had to settle on one or the other. Parallel or Unified. Dream or Reverse Dream. And did they overlap? My mind couldn’t decipher what was right or wrong. I couldn’t rectify it. I didn’t have the capacity. So I settled on it once and for all: the unified universe. Every fucking thing was a part of everything else, and it all blended together. That was easiest on my mind, anyway.
I noticed I was cursing a lot in my thoughts. I wondered where it was coming from.
I WOKE IN THE MORNING and stepped outside the hotel and flamed a cigarette. I didn’t remember my dreams from the night before. That hadn’t happened in a while, and frankly, it was almost a welcome relief.
First things first. I put a call in to the art supply outlet in Málaga for my shipment of oils and canvases, a chore I’d intended to do when I first arrived in Spain. Salvador, the proprietor, knew me well, and I knew I was in good hands. I preferred some Spanish and French paints, the metallic ones especially, and you couldn’t get them as easily in the U.S. This Unified Universe was going to pop like there was no tomorrow. I may have not had my mind entirely, but I had my work, and that would be my grounding force.
After that, I simply walked around, though I was still feeling a little muddled.
Ronda is a pretty town with a long and colorful past. I headed toward the Puente Viejo, the Old Bridge, built in Roman times. In more recent times, Hemingway, Rilke, and Orson Welles had lived here, and they all enjoyed hanging out with the bullfighters. At least I remembered something of the town’s history, and that was comforting.
I made my way to the middle of the Old Bridge, suspended three hundred feet over the canyon. I contemplated the depths below and thought I’d had worse ideas lately.
I smacked myself to snap out of it. Some people were watching me suspiciously, and though I couldn’t be sure if it was because of me, they crossed to the other side of the street. I turned around swiftly to see if I was being followed. That’s how you catch them: with a quick swivel. Otherwise they just follow you from fifty yards behind all day. I didn’t want anybody to know I was in Ronda. I had managed to elude Rafaela and her New York posse for several days now, and I knew they had to be looking for me. Creeping.
After meandering the streets a bit longer, I stepped into a vintage clothing shop and bought a Russian admiral’s black ushanka hat—naturally. From the Commie naval era, with a hammer and sickle on a gold badge, the fur rose high and mightily black, and I could flap the ears down at a moment’s notice. I put it on in the heavy August heat and it made me sweat, but it was a bitchin’ hat. I didn’t like hats, usually. Hats were for baldies. But that ushanka hat and my Ray-Ban Meteors kept me under the radar and in disguise. Out of sight.
If one was good, two was better, so I bought a second one. His and hers.
Then, while I was in the same shop, I ordered an embroidered dress worthy of a painting by Goya, and I went into great detail about how it was to be made. They looked at me funny, especially when I designed it with the proper period cut and color scheme of Goya’s time. “Don’t forget the periwinkle trim! With a touch of coral—somewhere! Anywhere! You know the drill!”
Of course, they had no idea who the dress was really for.
Before I left, they recommended the local gay bar to me—out of politeness for their suspicions that I was a cross-dresser, and respect for the money I’d just poured into their shop. Bless their hearts.
With my ushanka hat, I would be known to locals as Vladimir de Valldemossa, the Russian Ronda surf poet. And if we became chums, you could call me Vladdy. Spasibo very much. No one would ever find me.
I would go on a zapoy, like the ones you read about—a zapoy is a drinking holiday, an all-out nonstop binge that can last a week or more. Some end in cirrhosis, some end in death—a favorite pastime of Muscovites for centuries. I was right in step. Just a spiral, some Stoli, a few stanzas, while watching the swell—a surf poet. Catching the waves of strife / Total anonymity for life.
Hang ten, complete Zen.
Ah, the bliss . . .
Gnarly.
I bought a coffee at the bar of a café and downed it. Then I went back to the hotel. Juan Filippo, the real estate broker, was meeting me there. When I’d phoned him from the airport in Madrid and asked him to find me a house in Ronda, I’d told him what I wanted. He said he’d followed my directions perfectly and gotten me a great house that I would surely love.
I checked out of the slow-tel. Juan picked me up and gave me the keys, along with a contemptuous look at my hat. We stopped by a liquor store for some Scotch, no rocks, then climbed up and up to the finca-villa estate section. I liked him during the drive, until he got personal.
“Don’t you have any baggage, Mr. Shakespeare?”
“Nyet.”
“What about clothes?”
“Clothes are for those who haven’t found out yet.”
Our ten-minute friendship chilled somewhat after that, and his splash-happy questions stopped.
Juan followed me through the front door of the three-story villa, and I had to hand it to him, I liked what I saw: huge sunken living room, dining room, French doors opening to a big terrace and garden and pool beyond, situated in the midst of a wide and deep back lawn. There were seven bedrooms, the master suite on the second floor accessed by a grand semi-spiral staircase. Best of all, there was tons of blank wall space, as I had asked to have all the walls left bare.
I can really make beauty here, I thought.
Juan then became a whish in time, gone.
I was alone.
And I was Vlad Shakespeare.
I recognized that my attitude had changed since Mallorca, and not necessarily for the better. I was snarky and glib and sarcastic and ill mannered. Kind of like the way I acted in New York. I think it was a mental facade I’d erected in self-defense, a self-inflicted mind-fuck, a trick my brain was playing on its more deviant, uncooperative part to compensate for its own fracturing, and to evade and escape its controversial and alternative ways. The only way to handle this was to perform and outwit it. Because if I let my mind roam in introspective ways, in any way, I was sure to get in trouble. I could make sense of the world no longer.
I’d felt so complete and whole and in the moment that day on the beach in Valldemossa—but not now. I was not thinking straight; I was deconstructed. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe the pills, or maybe just the fallout from my hedonistic life, the “Hey, buddy, not so fast—time to atone for your conduct,” and this was the payback biting me in the ass; maybe it was the beginning of a nervous breakdown, or maybe the breakdown was at halftime, awaiting the second-half kickoff; maybe a whole list of things had caused the final fissure. But I was cracked; I needed coping mechanisms by the truckload.
Zapoy.
I was alone and in a big house with no clothes and no food and no blank canvases as yet. What the hell was I going to do now?
The most challenging, terrifying part was the not knowing. Not knowing if I’d already been through the worst of it, or if I was headed further astray—and if that was the case, how far would it go, and could I survive?
Because I could have lucid moments like this, and then I could just go off at any moment with episodes of fantastical thought and be like Heriberto on his good ship.
I went from room to room to find the best place to designate as my studio. Up on the third floor, I found a suitable space, a bedroom with dormer windows looking out over the expansive back lawn and an explosion of afternoon sunshine. That seemed positive.
Zapoy.
I needed to get my mind off itself; I needed to get to work fast.
“Work, Carlotta . . . work, Carlotta . . .” That was my mantra, and I repeated it to
myself over and over.
Zapoy.
The surf poetry kept surging through me, too, which was a relief.
Gnarly. Harley.
Did I need a Harley?
Of course I needed a fuckin’ Harley!
I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it sooner. It was the last missing piece to ensure absolute anonymity.
Try to find me now, world!
Zapoy!
part two
DREAM WORLD
30
DREAM BOY
I am sitting upright in the middle of the living room floor with my legs extended. Delicate spontaneous tears river down my face. Fresh as a baby’s tears and just as effective. This has been happening a lot lately. I think it is late afternoon, and the commodious sunken space is pretty obscured. The curtains are drawn, and the venetians are slatted shut. I am letting the sun go down on the house, too, welcoming the shadows and darkness that will soon envelop it. The last thing I care to do is bring light upon myself. I can’t wait until the end of day, when all that obnoxious lighting, as in the bright Spanish sun, will be vanquished by nighttime. I am a cheerleader for the dark team all the way and rooting for the moon’s rising.
I have lost track of days, to be perfectly honest.
“Amore.”
Through the puddles of my eyes, I can just about make out the form of a person. But how have they gotten in? What kind of security is this?
“Amore, what’s the matter?”
“What delusionary intruder could this be?” I ask. There is no immediate response. Shit, I’m thinking. They’ve found me. “Identify yourself, and how the hell did you get in here?”
“Amore, it’s me.”
“And don’t give me that ‘I’m the caretaker’ crap!” Someone claiming to be the caretaker has tried to get in several times, “to check on the house,” he always says, but so far I have been able to catch him and make him leave before he can break in on me.
I wipe my eyes again and my vision clears somewhat . . . Holy heaven! It is Carlotta! “You came!”
“Of course I came! You’ve been crying.” She kneels next to me and hugs me. She kisses my face and my eyes.
“A little. I’m very sensitive, you know,” I say, and laugh.
“What’s happened to you?”
“Nothing. I’ve expanded all operations.”
“How do you mean?”
“I’m a surf poet now. In a town with no waves.”
“Have you been drinking sangria and running with the bulls?”
“That’s in Pampy—get your festivals straight!” I smile peacefully. My better wits are being aroused finally. “I have had a thimble or two of Scotch. From what I can recall. It’s five o’clock somewhere, and herewhere it’s five. Reminds me of a Lorca poem, ‘Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías.’ Shall I quote it?”
“Please do, amore.”
And so I recite, as memorized when I was a boy, the sweet sad images—a boy brings up the white sheet, bones and flutes resounding—all at five in the afternoon.
“Lovely,” she says mercifully.
“You see, everything happens at five in the afternoon—even death.”
“Why are you thinking such thoughts?”
“It’s poetry. Very inspiring. Besides, I’m at the end of my zapoy. It’s been a long hard road.”
“Crazy boy. No wonder I have been worried about you. Have you been getting any work done?”
“Almost. Tangentially. The best way to describe it. Waiting on supplies still. But I’ve been prepping. I’ve been waiting for you. Where have you been?”
“I told you I was coming today. Haven’t you gotten my message?”
I just look at her stupidly. “Uh, I’ve kept my phone off. I’ve been concerned with privacy. Don’t want any folk to geolocate me.”
“Of course you need your privacy for your work. Why are you so upset?”
“Life of an artist. Garden-variety human-condition doldrums, nothing serious. Missing you, actually. Passion at every pore.”
“You sound a little strange. Off-kilter.”
“That’s what happens when supplies don’t show on time. There’s nothing to do and nothing to be done about it. Until your Panther comes.”
“What are those?” she says, gesturing to my baggie.
“Oh, those help me sleep.”
“Do you take them a lot?”
“Only when necessary. Say, you want to come with me?”
“Where?”
“To pick up the Harley.”
“Really? You bought a motorcycle? How fun!”
“Of course. It’s the last level—”
“Level of what?”
“Security.”
“You’re pretty tipsy. Why don’t we wait a little bit? I love your hat. What a funny hat.”
“Know what’s funnier? I bought one for you, too.”
“You did? I love it!”
“You’re officially a member of the Russian navy. I’m Comrade Vlad.”
“So poetic, I’ve been telling you, you should be writing poetry.”
“No waves. And who will you be?”
“I’m . . . let me see . . . Verushka!”
“I love it! Verushka and Vladimir. A twin-V engine!”
“An Eagle and a Panther.”
“We’ve got it all, we’re writing our own Russian love story.”
“I like that.”
“How about Snore and Peace? I sleep and dream a lot.”
“Dreams are good.”
“Dreams are tricky. You may even be a dream.”
“That’s right. I’m your dream girl.”
“I’ve said that.”
“My crazy dream boy. Get up off the floor so I can hug you for real.”
I do and we do.
“Does that feel real to you?”
We’ve jabbered on enough. She leads me upstairs and we make beautiful love and she lets me keep my hat on. Just for grins. It is fun love. A new chapter for us.
I am renewed, and it is Carlotta who has rebooted me. Again. And just in the nick of time. Things were starting to get ugly.
As I lie in bed and the hangover subsides, I watch her put on her ushanka hat and settle in and hang her clothes. She has brought a fair number of garments, and that pleases me. It is confirmation that she is going to stay for a while.
Afterward we don our hats and take a taxi up the mountain. There are six Harleys available in the environs, but this one has it all, including two eagles on the gas tank. I pay the young Spanish mechanic as promised. Twice as much as he says the bike is worth.
Then Carlotta and I drive down the mountain together on our new Harley. Wearing our ushanka hats. It is the perfect disguise. Me with my Meteor sunglasses and Carlotta with her Prada ovals. No one will ever find us now! We will just dissolve right into the landscape like two sambar deer in the Sariska woods.
The following day, Carlotta goes shopping and I go to work. The supplies arrive that afternoon—pine frames, linen and cotton canvases, da Vinci brushes, and Golden acrylic and Gamblin oil paints. I stretch and prime the canvases, then study all the sketches and categorize them and draw up my list of finalists.
I have conceived of The Unified Universe as a veritable explosion of expressionist will. I reclaim my mantle as a creative toreador. And to have Carlotta in proximity to me while painting is the best life I could ever imagine.
I paint, then we make love. I paint, then we have dinner. After we make more love, I paint through the night and am interrupted with a shy, sweet tug on my arm. I look up at her groggy smile and she says, “Rodrigo, come to bed—”
When Carlotta and I come up for air from the all-consuming love-work schedule, we tour the countryside on our twin-eagled Harley. We make trips through the nearby scenic mountains and natural park known as the Sierra de Grazalema. We hike, take pictures of the magnificent views, have wine-and-cheese picnics, and even bird-watch. And this time the photos stay on my came
ra. We visit many of the beautiful towns—some completely white, known as pueblos blancos—enveloped by the range on both the Cádiz and the Málaga sides. We venture even farther and rent a boat in Puerto Banús for an overnight and go to a masquerade party at the glamorous Costa del Sol hot spot Olivia Valère, which is situated in a Moorish castle. Though it’s a famous spot, without the mandatory mask requirement we would not have attended. All anonymity has been preserved.
One bright sunny afternoon, Carlotta sports butterfly oval sunglasses, and they make me think of Desideria—but only as a dreamland friend and artistic muse in a far-off dimension. As there were no corroborating photos on the Valldemossa camera, I still don’t know for sure if we spent that afternoon on the beach or if I only imagined it. But I am no longer unglued or splitting and protruding at the seams. I am stable again. My crack has been sealed or cemented over. And my life’s angel, my Panther, has nourished me once more and offered that adhesive cement and stability to me, my life, and my work.
The art itself—the canvases conceptualized, sketched, painted, and refined—is a reflection of me at my best. The canvases are large, they are ambitious, the whole series is an enormous undertaking. But I am more than up to the task. I feel spiritually realigned, artistically bold, and at my peak, and I am—we are—very much in love. I feel that completeness again, that wholeness of a life in harmony with the unified universe.
I have traveled through the gamut of experiences to capture The Universe, and I paint them all—the lovely Akira; Heriberto’s ship of clay, and young and old portraits of the Maestro himself; the church at Valldemossa, the monastery, George Sand at her desk and Frédéric Chopin at his piano in their apartment there, the Technicolor gardens; there is the white-sand crescent beach, Platja des Coll Baix; the Hummingbird and the Butterfly, dancing in the air together; two lost flip-flops; the iris flowers, the alpine trees; there is Dr. Abreu caught between two universes; there is even one self-portrait of me presiding over one unified universe.
The Beautiful Dream of Life Page 17
