The Fifteenth Night

 

As we were setting the table, I told Nick he ought to learn how to cook. He replied:

— Cooking just kinda bugs me, you know? I wouldn’t even know where to start.

— When I first became interested in cooking, I had to go to libraries, look up books, take notes, or buy them and keep them open beside me in the kitchen. Nowadays, all you need is a phone.

— So what made you wanna cook in the first place?

— When I was in my early twenties, a friend introduced me to Mr. George Ohsawa’s macrobiotic philosophy, and I was enchanted by his ideas. But following them meant I had to prepare my own meals — and at the time, I still lived with my parents and three siblings. My mother cooked for the family and refused to make one meal for everyone and another just for me. So I said, very well. Once you're done cooking for the family, I'll step in and cook for myself. And that’s what I did.

— Man, you were bold.

— It’s always been my greatest flaw, though back then I thought it was a form of empowerment.

— I used to love my mom’s cooking. God, I loved it. Can’t believe I walked away from all that...

I thought it best to give him a few seconds to process his feelings before I went on:

— The period I followed the macrobiotic diet was very good for me — but very brief. I soon realized it might work well for Buddhist monks, but for a young Brazilian living in a big city, surrounded by family, friends, birthday parties and relatives who were masterful cooks, I became a bit of a nuisance. And to me, belonging to my family meant more than my own physical well-being.

— I don’t think I could’ve done it any differently than I did.

— Sometimes our choices lie in fixing past mistakes — not in avoiding them.

— My mom’s gone now.

— And your sisters?

— The youngest is still around.

— Do you speak with her?

— Nah. It’s been years.

He fell silent for a moment, then looked at me and said:

— Did you and my therapist plan this together?

We ignored the table already set. I gave him a quiet smile and said:

— I don’t even know who your therapist is.

— You think I should reach out to my sister?

— If only to ask her forgiveness — for having walked away from her, and from the whole family.

— Whoa. Was that a punch to the gut or what?

— Isn’t that the whole point?

— She was kinda spoiled, but she was cool...

— Younger siblings are born into families already fully formed, with each member settled into a role. That makes life easier for them. Do you know how to find her?

Then I turned to him, gripped his shoulders firmly, and looked him straight in the eye. With calm conviction, I said:

— For things like this, we must be men — and men do not fear fear itself, but rather, fear being ruled by it. To lose our freedom is always the worst.

Our night flowed in near silence. Healing wounds is never easy.

 

The Fourteenth Night

"I was never a huge fan of this series," Nick said, moving his cards in a crapaud play after dinner. "I was more into Battlestar Galactica, and more than anything, Babylon 5!"

"I’ve never watched any of them."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. Nothing against them, but they aired on free TV at times when I wasn’t available."

"I don’t know how you can live today without watching TV!"

"I just don’t have time for it. I work outside, have house chores, take care of my plants, read my books, swim in the ocean, and once a week, I get some weird... When would I find time to just sit and watch TV?"

"Yeah, my life is way simpler. And besides Star Trek, what other shows do you like?"

"Sci-fi series? All the Irwin Allen ones."

"Nothing newer?"

"Afraid not. Back in the ‘70s, most shows came to Brazil late because TV stations had to buy film packages that were more expensive the newer they were. There were relatively few series, and the episodes were never aired in the right order, not to mention that few series were aired in full because the stations didn’t buy all the seasons. I loved watching Bonanza, but in Brazil, they only aired the first two seasons. I don’t know if, with paid TV and streaming now, Brazil has finally watched the whole show."

"That’s interesting. For me, Saturday mornings were magical! Lots of cartoons!"

"Nope. Over there, cartoons aired in the afternoons during the week. Poor kids with afternoon classes. That was never my case, luckily!"

"Isn't it amazing how time has flown by? It all happened so fast!"

"Don’t even talk about it."

"Oh, looks like I won this round."

"Well played!"

"Wanna know something?"

"I’m afraid I do."

"Let’s go swim?"

"In the dark, among the corals?"

"We can swim somewhere without them."

"Then let’s go! Besides, time is fast, life is short!"

"Was there any character from Star Trek you liked?"

"When I was a kid, I liked Mr. Spock; then I grew up and now I’m more of a Captain Kirk guy. ‘...boldly going where no man has gone before.’ Just like now."

"I’m sure a lot of people must’ve done what we’re about to do before."

"Could be, but let’s keep that possibility a secret. One thing that hasn’t changed from my childhood until now is seeing the Enterprise as a being, the symbol of a person, and the characters as parts of this entity that goes through many encounters in its life. Kirk was the conscience of this being, Spock the rational brain, McCoy the emotional heart, etc. Maybe that’s why I don’t like the movies so much, 'cause I don’t see that synergy, that emotional appeal in them."

The moon shone gloriously in the sky, and fish jumped in the water.

I’m sure somewhere in my brain, Mr. Spock rose an eyebrow and said: “Fascinating.”

 

 

The Thirteenth Night

 

When Nick arrived, dinner was ready, but there I was, still seated at the table, surrounded by my cookbooks.

“What are you doing?” he asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

“Choosing what to cook for my birthday.”

“Whoa!” he exclaimed, his eyes wide with joyful surprise. “When will it be?”

“In seven months and a few days.”

“Isn’t it a little early?”

“Not at all! I’m enjoying the party right now! Take the dishes, please, while I clear the table.”

“What have you chosen for your party?”

“Ah, well, I’m planning a surprise party for myself, so I haven’t told myself, and therefore I can’t tell you!”

“You do realize you're being totally ridiculous, right?”

“Of course I know. As the great Fernando Pessoa wrote in one of his poems, all love letters are ridiculous—they wouldn’t be love letters if they weren’t. To celebrate birthdays is a love letter we write to ourselves—or others. Celebrating is essential!”

“I would love to share such understanding and enthusiasm with you.”

“I know. I can tell you’re not much of a fan of celebrations. How many times have I celebrated occasions all by myself?”

He looked at me with a warm, tender smile.

“What?” I asked, intrigued.

“You’re reminding me a little of Mary Poppins. Are we going to have dinner floating near the ceiling?”

“It would be lovely, but I doubt it. I haven’t quite achieved such level of proficiency yet!”

“By the way, I bought some African violets.”

I glanced at the ones on my kitchen windowsill and said, “Really?”

“I’ve never had plants before, but yours look so vibrant. I realized I was missing some color in my life. Let’s see if I remember to feed them.”

“You will, if they’re important to you.”

***

Later, as Nick was about to leave, I handed him a wrapped present.

“What’s this?”

“A gift. Open it!”

“A book? Le Petit Prince—is it any good?”

“Honestly, it's an utterly disgusting piece of rubbish!”

“You silly!” he laughed. “But why?”

“Well, I like to spend money just to annoy you.”

“C’mon!”

“I’m introducing you to a new friend. Listen carefully to what he has to say. He’s quite wise.”

“Have you read it before?”

“A few times, in two different languages.”

“Okay, I’ll trust you and will read it carefully.”

“Good boy!” I said, waving him off with a smile.

 

 

The Twelfth Night

 

After dinner, while I was clearing the plates from the table so we could play our little game of crapaud, Nick was scanning the books on my shelf.

“I wish I were like you, he said, and read so many books. Have you read them all?”

“No. On that shelf are the ones waiting for my love-struck eyes.”

“But why keep all these you've already read?”

“Because I love them. I like knowing they’re there, within reach of my hands. Even to read them again.”

“Seriously?”

“Of course. I’ve read Stephen King’s The Shining four times. I adore the story. Wuthering Heights about five times. And mind you, those aren’t even my bedtime books.”

“Want to tell me a story?”

“Excuse me?”

“You read so much, there must be a story you could tell me.”

“Ok, let me think... In a tiny house on a small road lived three girls, very different from one another. Early in the morning, Arabela would open the window, Carolina would lift the curtain, and Maria would look out and smile: “Good morning!” she would say to the passersby.

“Arabela was always the most beautiful; Carolina, the wisest, and Maria looked out and smiled, saying ‘Good morning!’”

“The passersby would look and see the beautiful one, and the wise one, but of all, the one who lingered in everyone’s memory with deep longing was Maria, Maria, Maria, who said with a voice full of smiles: ‘Good morning!’”

“That’s not a story!”

“No, but it’s beautiful and true, like everything Cecília Meireles ever wrote. It’s a pity she wrote “As Meninas (The Girls),” a small poem, in Portuguese, which means I had to retell it in English.”

“There is a story in that poem, but we are the ones who have to make it. It’s like an invitation to live.

“Nice analysis, yours.”

“Too bad it doesn’t work like that. Maria’s smile only seems to attract bad people.”

“Only?”

“Almost always.”

“So, not always. I don’t see myself as bad, though I know I can conceive terrible evils, maybe even act on them; it’s my personal choice not to give room to those inclinations. But what if I gave in to the evil within me, instead of the good that resides there? Does that happen to you?”

He was silent.

“I understand what you mean. Is this poem also your friend?”

“A childhood friend. I met him when I was still a boy, at school. Ready for the game?”

“Always! And, looking at me he said: You’re a Carolina!”

“You’re an Arabela!”

“And we’re Marias!”

 

 

As Meninas

 

 Cecília Meireles

 

Arabela abria a janela.

Carolina erguia a cortina.

E Maria olhava e sorria:

"Bom dia!"

.

Arabela foi sempre a mais bela.

Carolina a mais sábia menina.

E Maria apenas sorria:

"Bom dia!"

.

Pensaremos em cada menina

Que vivia naquela janela;

Uma que se chamava Arabela,

Outra que se chamou Carolina.

.

Mas a nossa profunda saudade

É Maria, Maria, Maria,

Que dizia com voz de amizade:

"Bom dia!”