Yesterday, I got in the inbox a letter from her. I didn't quite understand it, but a note of melancholy hit me nonetheless. The letter reads:
"Montreal, le 22 Mai, 2011
Mon cher Roberto,
Tu ne liras jamais ces pages que j'ecris dans une ecole sage au vent mouille d'automne. Ce n'est peu-être que pour moi, pour te garder un peu; c'est la premiere fois que je te tiens dans mon decor, premiere fois que tu me viens au rythme de mes pas.
Ici, les forets se referment et je te garde en creux dans ma vallee, entre l'etude et le gouter. Tu es dans les poemes de Cadou que les enfants recitent en chantonnant;
Je t'attendrai Helene
a travers les prairies
a travers les matins
de gel et de lumiere
Pour la premiere fois, je sais chanter pour toi, quand je decroche ma guitare. Avant je ratais un arpege, ou tu n'ecoutais plus les mots qui devaient juste te parler, tu preparais le the'. J'apprends a te parler dans le silence d'une ecole.
Tu vois, il n'y a pas qu'une insolence du bonheur. Dans la tristesse aussi, tout semble enfin facile, et c'est si simple de se ressembler. Le monde s'apprivoise, on en fait soudain ce qu'on veut. "
(You will never read these pages that I'm writing in a school for kids in the damp winds of the Fall. Perhaps it's only for myself that I look after you a little; it's the first time that I hold you in my scenery, the first time you come to me in the rhythm of my footsteps.
Here, the woods close in on itself and I watch after you in the hollow of my valley, between study-time and snack time. You are in Cadou's poems recited by the children in a sing song voice:
I'll wait for thee, Helen
across the meadows
and through the mornings
of frost and sunshine
For the first time, I know how to sing for thee when I take out my guitar and play. Thou used to prepare tea before I missed the notes on the piano or when thou wouldn't listen anymore to the words that were fair and just when I was talking to thee. I am learning to talk to thee in the silence and stillness of the school.
You see, it is not only that happiness contains insolence. In the unhappiness that one also carries, everything seems easy in the end, and it's so simple that happiness and unhappiness resemble each other. The world gets tamed, and suddenly one does whatever one wishes to do. "
Denise didn't say she borrowed the words from Philippe Delerm in "La cinquieme saison". She surprsised me for her sensitivity. Her words arrived when I was feeling blue and dejected over human trickery and cruelty and boundless capacity for sophistry. In spite of the sensitivity of Denise, as shown by her borrowed words, I don't really trust her after she stormed off into the sunset and went back to Montreal, after I clumsily explained to her in my halting French that I would not, could not regard her anything more than a friend as I had commitments and enclosures and closures. But she knew and I knew the real reason for my failure to really open my heart to her: despite all my eloquent speeches about love and romanticism, deep down in the core of my being, I have lost faith in humanity, in the existence of a woman who would love me unselfishly and fearlessly and who loves me till the end of time even if I am penniless and physically infirmed and incapacitated and impotent and wrecked by self-pity and self-doubt and remorses and regrets. Of all my real amorous achievements and triumphs (unlike the fake ones of the loud-mouthed and shameless liar) and they were numerous as I alluded to in my earlier piece (and they could have been much more numerous if I had not suddenly got cynical), only one woman from Laos who would come closest in my conception of an ideal woman. Unfortunately, she already had a boyfriend when I met her. I could have pursued her relentlessly and she might have dropped her boyfriend for me as she seemed to like me very much,. But I refused to do so out of principle. She was a devout Budshist and so was I. I didn't want her to choose and I certainly didn't want to make her boyfriend unhappy. I never want to be happy over somebody's unhappiness. Her name, unfortunately, was also Laura. So I called her LL (Laotian Laura). I don't see her anymore. I purposely stay away from her. I have principles to uphold. I have my own commitments I have to keep. I have people I have to answer to. Besides, I must concentrate my energy to be financially independent. All these romantic sideshows and distractions are just for those twits and twerps who don't feel confident about their own attractiveness. I am confident about mine. My past records speak for themselves. Do I sound vain and vainglorious and conceited? Do I sound unlike a Buddhist full of modesty and serenity as I am supposed to? You can bet your sweet ass that I am. I am a walking contradictions, an embodiment of contrasts, an avatar of ambiguities. That's why you will never fully understand me while I can read you like the palm of my hand. I am beyond your imagination while I know you are just a run-of-the-mill liar and coward. I know you well, you little twit.
At any rate, I've been spending an inordinate amount of time on the little twit at the expense of somebody else. So she called me and complained that I had not paid her any attention. I explained to her that I was busy explaining myself to the twit. She said, "Fuck him! You're wasting time on the pompous prick. He's beneath you. Why are you talking to a piece of shit? By the way, are you making any money lately? No? What's the fuck you're doing, Robby? You're stupid or what? Concentrate and focus on making money. Stop arguing with the little bastard." Guess what? I was busy talking to her on the phone and didn't pay attention to my driving and I ended up rear-ending a Lexus at a stop sign. The ensuing traffic ticket, the insurance mess, the repairs, and the emotional turbulence I experienced over the insolence and haughtiness of the traffic cop took a toll of my serenity. I am now madder than hell, and I'm going not to take it anymore. I'm going to talk to the twisted twit in person and let him know what I'm thinking of him. Oops, perhaps I already did, in the damp, dark recesses of my mind.
I am not going to answer to Denise's email. She disappointed me quite a bit. I thought she was honest and direct, but it appeared that she was merely an unaccomplished woman looking for a Sugar Daddy. I am glad she went back to Montreal. I still remember the evening I first saw her naked. A bold, impetuous move on her part. She looked straight at my eyes while lying in that unmade bed of hers. Then she rose up. Her clothes were on the floor in a matter of seconds. Her triangle was absolutely beautiful, innocent-looking and yet inviting. I asked her to help me. She readily complied. She kept saying I was handsome and sexy, especially my lips. She asked me if any other woman ever found my lips sexy. I said, yes, there was another one, up in Alaska. She laughed, for real? she inquired. I said, mais oui, vraiment. We spoke in French. She clung tight to me and called my name, Oh Roberto, Roberto as she reached the summit. Later, she fell soundly asleep in my arms. I felt peaceful, then, but not now. I just bought a journal so I can talk to her, without her knowing. She is coming softly to me on the velvet of words. She would think I am maudlin and mawkish. I will write to her with music, to tell her about my days and nights, with fresh wounds oozing hurts and blood. I will write neatly, in my best cursive style, with my Parker pen. I will tell her again and again what we talked to each other the first night we were together, how she said she was afraid she might be falling in love with me. I am looking outside. The night is still. The sky is immense and sparkles with stars. All of a sudden, I see her burning brightly in the sky. Flames envelop her naked beautiful body. And she is looking straight at my eyes, like she did the first night, right before she took off her clothes.
(cont.)
