To the shade of my dear father
The demon that visits us
This story, like all I have written, is a fiction woven from fragments whose origins I do not always know—fragments that, in themselves, mean nothing: scenes, words tethered to half-forgotten places, people, and times; imagined glimpses of lives I daydreamed, all conjured in the name of Márquez’s demons that haunt me. As always, I describe a waltz on opposing sides of a world of alienated souls, terrified by their own thirst for life—simple love stories no one understands, for their riches are hidden and their beauty ephemeral, like the emotions that birth them.
I write, too, from a weight in my chest: this story, like ancient tragedies, carries Nietzschean music—ballads of birds and wolves, of love and darkness—whose verses I quote as section titles. Words alone are not enough: only music makes them true.
Finally, my characters are once again Tatiana and Luke: actors in every play, now Alcestis and Célimène, now Othello and Desdemona, finally Abelard and Héloïse—for the chasm between man and woman is as vast, dark, and glittering as the Milky Way, and their dance, both performance and pantomime, retells forever the Historia calamitatum.
Luka jerked awake, choking. He began to breathe steadily, deeply, and felt the full weight of his fear. He closed his eyes, and the vivid images of the dream lingered: Tatiana, half-dead, carried in his arms after a long search through a death camp; her friends laughing in the distance; the uncanny chapel where she was tricked into marrying another man and condemned to be buried alive. He had held her on his knees, cradling her like a child, weeping.
He rose and opened the window to inhale the cold morning air, unsure whether he had choked from nightmares or choked because of nightmares. He wondered if such dreams held deeper meaning, a tether to reality, and felt compelled to call her. He closed his eyes and shook his head sharply.
Downstairs, in the kitchen, he set
coffee to brew. He then entered the living room to check on his
father. The old man lay on the sofa, watching TV. Luke carefully
tucked a blanket around him, peeled an orange, and they exchanged a
conspiratorial glance and smile in silence. Returning to the kitchen,
he found the water long boiled, removed the pot from the stove, and
lit a cigarette.
His hand drifted toward the phone several
times, but he withdrew each time. She was torn by obligations. Her
father, too, was gravely ill, her suffering far greater than his.
Besides, what could he say? That he’d dreamed of her and felt
sorrow? That he’d choked?
The meaning of the dream eluded him, but not me—I who also saw those images and fought for her life alongside him, I who still dream of Tatiana after so many years. Be kind, for everyone you meet carries a heavy burden; all wage futile mortal battles. At the moment Luke stepped onto the terrace to breathe the winter air and gazed across the hills, she was sprinting from the hospital room where doctors fought in vain, one last time, to save her father. His lungs, devoured by cancer, were failing.
For is she not the fairest in all the broad land
I know nothing of fate, nor am I certain it exists. I bitterly assume happy people do not believe in fate: happiness is something crafted, earned, fought for. Misfortune is what happens to us. Fate, then, exists only for the unhappy, for they, it seems, do not fight for their own misery.
Tatiana knew it was fate the moment her phone rang and he said nightmares had tormented him: her father had just died in agony, and she sat wordless, stunned, in the hospital hallway as tears flowed unbidden.
She told him what had happened, described the final grip of fingers, the last exchanged glance, and said she’d known he would call. Then they fell silent, for there was nothing to say, and what they suddenly understood—as rational people—they could not voice. Worse, her “I knew you’d call” now felt redundant.
He, too, stayed silent, for this was neither the time nor place. Later, he revisited all he’d once deemed coincidence: moments when his hand had reached for the phone just as it rang; sentences she’d finish as he began them; their relation, which he now saw as the complicit bond of old spouses.
But what haunted him most was the dream, the unbearable choking upon waking, and finally understanding his father’s fear—that brave, stoic man enduring inhuman pain as bone cancer ravaged him—when drug-weakened heart and lungs betrayed him, as breath failed.
As the demiurge of their world, I could add: it matters not that their names began with the same letter, or that their fathers’ names did too; that she shared a birthday with his dearest friend, so he’d remember to wish her well. Nor does it matter that their relationship followed patterns long familiar to them: fate bound them as punishment for hubris, for they were everything the other did not need—proof that happiness does not come unbidden or where expected, but must be gambled for.
His mad mind had trapped him with a kiss
When I dream of my house, it is always the Alpine stone home of my childhood in France, with its ship-deck parquet floors and grand external staircase winding down the slope. I see my cat leaping onto the latch, poking his head through to be let in, then napping on my pillow. Tatiana calls me, and we sit atop the stairs, drinking coffee, watching the sun set over the forest. I do not turn to her—for in dreams, I never see her face—but only glimpse her hair the color of autumn leaves and hear her deep voice.
My Tatiana is not Luke’s, of course: unlike him, I never found her. Any resemblance exists only because I cannot invent everything, because life outwits storytellers. Writers move within the probable; life—though a linear projection, a single thread among so many possibilities—remains, in the cage we are interned, truthful: it weaves infinitely intricate relationships from far fewer, far thinner threads. Life and the world, too, defy language: to love is not to love, to live is not to live, just as to dream is not to dream.
The parallels in their lives did not stop at trifles: rather, their lives flowed like rivers down the same rapids to the same sea. From poor families bound only to one another, they sailed into marriages with spouses wedded to ambition. Like borrowing imaginary money from a bank—secured solely by a promise to repay—they built dreams as castles in the air, repaying principal and interest with nonexistent love. Schooled by failure, they sought guarantees, yet knew nothing but unconditional sincerity and constancy could suffice—and so could confess love only through slips of the tongue.
Once, tipsy, he declared his love. She waited until morning to demand answers he could not then give. I imagine them at the table: she orders a double breakfast; he feigns amnesia. After much evasion, the crucial exchange unfolds:
“You know, I’m not a woman who shares her man.”
“I love my son more than anything in the world.”
Linguists might study these sentences as perlocutionary acts. Readers would intuit their meaning. Readers are usually right, writers never—it still shocks me that I never write what I meant to. Here, I sense they are not saying goodbye but reaffirming love, desperately seeking ways to offer assurances rooted only in unwavering constancy. How to begin a relationship built on trust when that trust is founded on deceit? How to believe in someone poised to betray? Striving to keep their consciences clean, they uttered the opposite of their true desires.
The rain song
I dreamed of a prefab barracks dubbed a “hospital” ward, the room where my father died. Inside, they ripped out hearts and tossed them onto a pile, for doctors had long realized people not only can, but should live without hearts. One, friendly toward me, scheduled my surgery for June 2. I peered through the window: my car blocked the concrete path to the exit. Darkness fell. I felt winter’s chill and thought it would never end.
They drove together to a distant foreign conference. She took nausea pills when they exited the highway into Aosta Valley, slipping into fitful sleep. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the landscape—the road snaking through noble mountainsides, cliffs lit by the tremulous arc of spring light.
She tossed and murmured. At first unsure, he decided to wake her, brushing her hand lightly, to no effect. He tried again, firmer, and she seized his palm. Still asleep, her murmuring ceased; her breathing steadied, quieted. She held him until sleep deepened and she stilled completely.
Later, they stood in the parking lot, gazing at the sunlit valley nestled in hills, distant cottages, evergreen forests, and bare peaks. He glanced at her and smiled. Smiling back, she asked, “Why are you looking at me?” He didn’t answer.
He was happy. The sun was setting.
I got a stone where my heart should be
It’s the same with people, horses, dogs: none wish to die. Today, Friday—my daughter’s rabbit—died. We wept together, racing from one closed vet clinic to another. I prayed his sweet soul would return, for he’d been happy with us—then recalled my cruel god, made in man’s image, grants no souls to animals, and, as many claim, none to the poor either.
For a moment, I thought my father had returned to spend time with grandchildren he’d adored. Then I sat at my desk and, like a punished schoolboy, wrote I am not mad, I am not mad, I am not mad across pages.
I am not mad. I buried Friday at the garden’s edge, near where Burt, Jerry and George—my loyal dogs—lie.
Achilles last stand
To die is so simple—it’s enough to know you’re dead and stop dreaming. To mature is to gaze into Medusa’s face: first the feet petrify, then the legs up to the knees. Only bile cannot turn to stone.
She approached from behind, covering his eyes, but he knew it was her and began to struggle. Suddenly he saw her, colors unreal: white, red, and blue bathed them. He realized it was 5 a.m., that he was dreaming, that she was likely dreaming him before waking—or had already risen (she was an early bird) and that morning felt no rage toward him or herself—and he struggled, begging her to stop, to release him, saying he couldn’t forgive her.
He grew aware he was speaking in his sleep, failed to wake, then turned to her, caressing her hair, kissing her face. She’d aged abruptly, resembling a bitter, wrinkled crone, but with each touch grew younger.
He woke and instantly regretted it. He was certain the unpatched reality of lucid dreams was truer than life—the colors paradisaically vivid. In dreams, he could see greens and purples otherwise invisible to him. In ordinary sleep, the backdrop stayed dark, forever twilight.
To mature is to gaze into Medusa’s face, and I dared not turn. We still sat on the stairs before my old house, coffee cups in hand, watching the mountains. She said:
“I wish we had never lived.”