8
My eyes are red and clouded with tears. I can barely see, but on the other hand all my other senses feel stronger, more acute, and sharpen my perception of reality.
The memory of that night now feels less painful, now that the din of the airport has brought me back to the present.
The nauseating smell of this place, a blend of sweat and disinfectant, invades my nostrils and almost makes me sick. I try to get a hold of myself and wipe my face with my sleeve. Now it’s no longer stained by the coffee but also my make-up.
“I didn’t go to bed with Maxim,” I tell Mauro. “I lied to Trevor.”
“I’d assumed that.”
“I wanted to,” I continued. “I wanted to move away from myself in order to be free and live my dream life. But life is not as beautiful as I thought it was.”
Mauro and I walk towards the exit. I finally manage to light a cigarette and the first mouthful of smoke is wonderful. Even Mauro gives in and indulges in a Marlboro.
“You still love him,” he tells me. “That’s why you’ve come back. To stop him catching that plane that will take him home.”
I listen to Mauro’s words in silence. He looks as if he’s waiting for me to say something. An apology, maybe a clever fairy tale I could just there and then pull out of my head, just like a magician pulls the traditional rabbit out of his hat. But this time, there’s no way out, I’ve exhausted my stock of lies and self justification. There are no more white rabbits or thunderous applause ahead of me, just weariness.
“And what if he doesn’t want to stay?” I ask Mauro, my voice a thin fillet of sound. “As a matter of fact there’s little to keep him here, not even me.”
Mauro shrugs.
“Trevor is alone, as you are. And when you’re on your own, one place is as good as another.”
“How would you know that?” I tease him. But his response is quite serious.
“There is no place where happiness is automatically guaranteed.” He looked around, watched all the people wandering around between the announcements of arrivals and departures. “Some of them still believe, but soon enough they will realize they’ve made a mistake,” he said.
I nodded. All this fascinating crowd of nomads, all anxious to explore other worlds, just like a swarm of flies.
Mauro had won. I no longer wished to escape.
“Shall I take you straight home or to Trevor’s?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet. Give me just a minute.”
I walked away from him and went back inside. The airport crowds made me dizzy as I watched the people rushing from one end to the other. Some were worried they were running late, others furious because their flight had been cancelled. Another was complaining because his luggage had been lost and it reminded me of Trevor’s first day here in Bologna when he had created such an uproar over his suitcase going missing. I recalled his reddening face, the nasal voice hurling insults at the airline clerk, and how much Mauro had been laughing as he explained to me that this unlikeable quarrelsome person was a friend of his.
And this is how love catches you by surprise. With a rude gesture. It runs into you, without even asking whether it’s right to cross your path. With no reason. Without even thinking of what it will do to you.
MEMORIES THAT LINGER ON by Carlos Benito Camacho
Translated by the author
Although I was born and grew up in the city, I spent fragments of my life in the country. Once, when I was a very young boy, my mother became ill and could not look after the six of us kids. While my brothers and sisters were taken care of by relatives who lived in the city, I was sent to the country to stay at an uncle’s.
Uncle Miguel lived on a small farm, which was about 75 miles from the city. He was a tenant farmer who worked a 50-acre rectangular piece of fertile land. Like my mother he was born and grew up in the country and was a devoted Catholic who attended church every Sunday. He was married to Aunt Jane, a woman who was half his age. Since they were a childless couple, it was deemed convenient that I stayed there for a whole year. I did not like the idea of having to spend such a long time away from my brothers and sisters, in some remote place where I had never been before. But they said I had to go when my uncle’s old pick-up truck stopped out in front.
My arrival in that exotic place was an unnerving experience. I was scared to death by those scrawny, rural dogs, which welcomed the urban alien with growls and barks. The first days were awful. I was homesick all the time. Hidden in some nook of that house, I would cry silently in sobs. My uncle’s solemn and distant presence was no solace to me, but Aunt Jane was a warm lady who cheered me up, talking to me as she smiled, giving me cosy hugs which fed my childish heart with sprinklings of mirth.
As my uncle was away all day long, working in the field, I spent most of the time with my dearest Aunt Jane. She worked hard, too, doing the household chores, but she always found time to fit me in, taking me for a walk to the river or giving me a ride on one of the horses. She got up at dawn everyday, milked the cows, made the fire with wood in the out-kitchen, and then she made breakfast. When Uncle Miguel left for work, she would go over to wake me up. Although I was already wide awake, because of the cocks’ crows and her hustling around the house, I always shammed sleep and let her walk over and sit on the edge of my bed; and the magic moment came when she kissed my forehead as she gently rumpled my hair for a while, whispering nice things in my ear. And I woke up, letting myself be caught in her intense blue-eyed look which warmly seeped into my soul on those beautiful country mornings when the golden beams of sunlight slantingly streamed in through the window panes. Then I smiled at her, smelling the smoked hair which flowed down over my face. Being touched by that motherly woman’s warmth made me feel safe at home.
Of course she knew I was pretending, but, since she was very fond of me, too, she acted as if she did not know about it. Affection was something my stern mother could not express. So it became a petty yet important game I loved to play. But the time came when I had to leave. I did not want to go back, but they said I had to, otherwise I would lose my first year at school. Besides, my mother had recovered by then.
My mother was a pious woman who hammered into us Biblical stories and prayers.
To go to church was compulsory, as we had to live by her strict moral codes. Even though there were times when she was in a good mood, she would get so worked up when she found one of us at fault, venting her wrath on all of us. She would also quarrel with my father when he came back late. Perhaps it was that strained atmosphere which had made of me a withdrawn, shy boy who did not speak enough to assert himself and who had trouble relating to his classmates.
But I was sensitive and had an intense inner world. I had learned to love the open, green spaces where life sprouted lavishly and quietly everywhere. That is why every year, when the school began, I escaped the cold, strident urban world and ran to shelter under my aunt’s affectionate care for more than two months. I did not feel lonely by her side, since she was the only one who really understood me. My mother never objected to my going
