The Fifty-Fifth Night

 

We were having dinner that last Saturday when Nick, without lifting his eyes from his plate, said:

“Y’know, the other day I was thinking about how life sometimes seems to lead us—not to what we want, but to what we need.”

“Do you feel… guided, then?”

“I don’t know if I’d say guided just yet, but yeah—at least led somewhere.”

“Either way, it sounds as though you’re suggesting that some hand, from outside your life, arranges it for your good.”

Nick paused, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth, and said:

“Oh, no—don’t come at me with that Catholic spiel, man. I’m not even talking about God.”

“When Pier Paolo Pasolini began making films, he came to the conclusion that the director of that great film called ‘life’ was God. Just think: a communist, compelled by the force of logic to accept the existence of God.”

“I don’t know who that guy was, and I’m not here to judge him. But yeah, it does seem like he and I noticed the same thing—and I’ll give you that: it is a fact that we feel guided, or led. But are we, really? And if we are, why does it have to be God? What if it’s the Matrix?”

“Oh, come on…” I said, with a theatrical sigh of dismay.

“But why not? Or maybe it’s extraterrestrials who put us on this planet.”

“The ones who created us in some genetic experiment?”

“Maybe. I don’t rule that out. They put us here—and didn’t just abandon us.”

“I see…”

“So why do you reject these other possibilities so easily?”

“Because I take no pleasure in answers that do not answer—answers that merely sweep the problem further down the road.”

“Everything that exists has a beginning and an end. Everything is subject to time—beginning on one day and ending on another. That includes us, the Matrix, extraterrestrials, whatever else you might imagine. There was a time without them; there may be a time with them; and there will be a time without them. From where did all of them come—and we ourselves?”

“I can see where you’re going with this.”

“Good. Then we can move on. All these possibilities you’ve raised sprang from a human mind that perceived what you perceived and, like you, refused to relinquish its… independence from God. So it devised a number of theories, placing something—anything—in God’s stead. And yet reality continues to cry out that God exists. The universe must have an author, an uncreated origin. That origin is neither an abstract concept, nor an irrational entity, nor a mere mechanical force. We know it is endowed with intelligence because it created a universe whose parts relate to one another in order and hierarchy. How do we know this? We discover these laws and hierarchies, we make use of them—and our applications work. Notice that, up to this point, I have spoken only of things we reach through the natural use of reason; I have not even begun to preach any god.”

“Are you saying I’m irrational if I don’t believe in God?”

“I don’t know who wrote it in one of the Psalms: ‘The fool says in his heart: there is no God.’”

“So I’m irrational—and a fool?”

“What I mean is this: you are contending against God, and there is no overcoming Him. It is possible to lose Him—but never to defeat Him.”

Nick remained out of sorts with me for the rest of the evening.

When we parted, I embraced him and kissed him.

With eyes wide, he asked, “Whoa—what was that?”

“That was proof that I love you. I love you as you are—with what you believe, and what you do not.”

“How could I stay mad at you and not love you?” he replied, returning the kiss before getting into his car and driving away.

 

 

The Fifty-Fourth Night

This Easter was special. Very, very happy.

I had resigned myself to spending it alone when, on Holy Wednesday, Nick returned from America.

What joy!

He came back with good business in his suitcase, promising prospects—and, most importantly, he put my name on the map. True, a very small name, the kind one needs a magnifying glass to read, but it is there.

I had already noticed the results of his visits to galleries through the requests and traffic on my studio’s website.

But the best—the truly best part of it all—was in Nick himself. How that exposure, that challenge, had done him good. His body, reflecting his spirit, stood more upright, stronger. There was a bright happiness in his eyes.

Yet the cherry on top had been his reunion with his family. That was an even greater, more meaningful universe to explore than the galleries of New York or Boston. Seeing his sister again and meeting his nephews, his grandnephews—even those of his other sister, now deceased—moved him to tears just to tell me about them.

He told me about a nephew who was also homosexual, and how they differed in their understanding of what it meant to be so.

That Saturday, I took more care than ever with dinner—and dessert.

As on Wednesday, when I welcomed him at the airport singing the island’s song of greeting, Nick came into the house and wrapped me in the embrace of an infatuated teenager.

Georges cried out, fidgeting on his perch, “Nick! Nick!” while Cão spun and leapt about us, eager for a share of that embrace.

“Man, it feels so good to be back here,” he said. “Even Georges is calling me by my name!”

“I always told you he liked you—he’s just too grumpy to admit it.”

“There’s nothing in the world like the smell of your house.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Oh, it definitely is. Kind of a mix of anise and flowers. Just… one of a kind.”

“Still suffering from jet lag?”

“Big time. Always wanting to sleep through the day and wide awake all night.”

He took breath and said:

“So I’ll have to send you back to America, won’t I?”

“Unless you don’t want me playing your ambassador anymore.”

“That will be difficult, you know? I like it better here—but my family…”

“How I wished for this meeting of yours with your roots, your family. You know, it’s as if I had become a father to all of them. And I kept remembering your words—words that always seemed a bit absurd to me, but now… I think I understand them.”

“What words?”

“When you said that a man is only truly a man when he becomes a father to someone.”

“And a woman, when she becomes a mother to someone. And it doesn’t count to be a ‘mother’ or ‘father’ to animals. It has to be to people. Real people.”

“I understand you now. I feel responsible for every one of the twelve relatives I met. Especially that one…”

“The little queer?”

He laughed, nodding.

“I’d really like to talk to you about him sometime.”

“We will—but for now, just look at what I’ve put together for dinner!”

“Whoa—man! Anyone who can pull this off is ready to get married!”

“Not even in your wildest dreams!”

And we laughed—richly, warmly.

 

 

 

Another Night Without Nick.

 

I was preparing dinner while talking with Georges, my parrot, and Dog, my dog.

“Another night without Nick. The third one, you realize? How can that be?

‘“I’m already regretting making him my manager. He’s been in the United States for three weeks now, contacting art galleries where he might sell my work.”’

They looked at me attentively, with their silly parrot and dog faces.

“And it’s working, you know? We talk every day—miracles of technology! Which, truth be told, is more than we used to before. And he’s already signed contracts. I’ve already had to send two boxes of assorted ceramics to two galleries in Pennsylvania.

‘“Will the sales be good? Who knows?”’

“Nick,” said Georges.

“You miss him too, Georges?”

That parrot learned Nick’s name before any other word. Before my own name!

“And you, Dog? Do you miss him too?”

But Dog only gave me a long look that said I only have eyes for you, and wagged his tail, happy just to see me.

“We get used to people’s faces, don’t we? I remember when my mother died. The worst thing was coming home and not seeing her filling the spaces that had been hers. Wherever I looked, there were the empty places she had left behind. Now it’s this table, suddenly far too big for just me.

‘“That’s why I hate growing fond of people, you know? They all go away one day. For natural reasons, for the best of reasons, or the most foolish ones—the fact is that one day they go.

‘“Have you ever seen a film called The Goodbye Girl? No? Well, you should. It’s about exactly what I’m talking about—only it has a wonderful cast and Neil Simon’s humor. It does a better job than I do explaining it.

‘“Of course, one day it will be my turn to go away, but for now it’s mostly been the others leaving. But that’s life, isn’t it? He’ll still be away for a few more weeks.

‘“What consoles me is his happiness. It’s been good for him to see his homeland again, and he already has a visit planned to his sister’s house, where he’ll see her and his nephews. Imagine discovering you belong to a family when you’re nearly sixty years old!

‘“Yes… I hope they fall in love with him, like…

‘“Well, the truth is, I’ve grown accostumed to his voice, accostumed to his face… But it is another movie, isn't?’’’

 

 

 

The Fifty-Third Night

This past Saturday, the subject was cinema. Nick told me he had gone to see a film at the local theater, and that the film had reminded him very much of me.

“The movie’s bad,” he said, “but I had a hell of a time watching the two little old ladies sittin’ right in front of me. Their reactions? Hilarious. I didn’t ask you to come, though—I figured it wouldn’t really be your thing.”

“You judged rightly, and did well. Do you know how my sources in matters of cinema have been referring to that film?”

“Nope.”

“‘F*cking Heights.’”

Nick burst into laughter.

“Yeah, I mean, that tracks,” he said.

“But you told me that this bomb reminded you of me. Why?”

“I read the book. Thought it was boring as hell, honestly, but I read it back in school. And I can tell you, the book? It’s not in the movie. I also heard online that the director didn’t really base it on the novel, but on her own memories of reading it—maybe in school, like me—and just reinvented the whole thing.”

“I heard as much.”

“That’s what you call intellectual masturbation, right? Or artistic—whatever. I don’t even know anymore.”

“Yes, it is. She pleasured herself with her memories and made a film of them. That is typical of our age.”

“Lemme see if I remember your words,” Nick said, grinning. “Because in our age there’s no predominance of religion.”

“When there is religion,” I corrected him. “Without religion there is no unity in society, only standardization. With religion, we have a body composed of different members; without religion, society becomes a body made entirely of left feet. Can such a thing stand? It cannot.”

Nick was laughing. “Man, the way you put things—it’s priceless! But go on, please.”

“Very well. If the members of the body do not communicate, what remains to them is intellectual masturbation. Some woman takes her memories—memories disturbed by her own demons—and decides to make a film out of them, even if the price is artistic and commercial failure; even if the price is the destruction of a literary monument. A society without religion cannot create culture and thus destroys what already exists. But tell me—what happened to the old ladies?”

Nick laughed again and continued. “I figure they must’ve read the book, or seen some other film version, and that’s why they showed up. Suddenly they’re watching this movie where every single image is about sex, and they’d jump and cluck in shock. After a while, they started treating it like a comedy—kinda like, ‘Well, we paid for it and we’re here, might as well have fun.’ For instance, when Heathcliff walks into Isabella’s room and they end up sleeping together, one of the little old ladies said to the other, ‘Shoot, even silly old me would’ve gone for that!’”

And we laughed heartily.

“And you—have you read the book?”

“A couple times.”

“A couple?"

"Books are reusable, you know., and ‘Saint’ Emily Brontë wrote a literary monument. So perfect in its form that it is not truly filmable. Perhaps a miniseries—but even then it would remain deficient, for film shows only the actions of characters; to descend into the depths of their psychology, cinema would risk slipping into mere filmed theater.”

“Alright, alright,” Nick said, shaking his head. “I’ll reread the damn thing. Let’s see what I missed.”

“Go, and see,” I replied emphatically—so that we might both laugh again.

 

 

The original edition still with pseudonym.