The Twenty-Fifth Night

 

Over dinner, Nick asked me:

— So, you’re really going to retire?

— Yes.

— I can’t even picture that hotel without you!

— Nonsense. I leave one day, and the very next someone better comes along.

— And what do you plan to do in retirement?

— I’ve been training in many crafts for over ten years. I think I’m finally ready to share my art with the world, rather than just keeping it tucked away in drawers and on shelves.

— You mean your painting?

— That, and ceramics. I might even start working on a musical piece, with the aim of publishing it.

— And how do you plan to pull that off? I mean, here on the island, aside from the hotel, I don’t really see much of a market for art.

— True enough. I’ve started reaching out to a few galleries in the States. Depending on how things unfold, I may need a secretary.

— Oh yeah?

— Yes. Someone fluent in the language, good with people.

— Oh yeah?

— Yes. Someone like you. But, as I said, that’s for the future. Not just yet.

— You wanna hire me?

— If the opportunity arises, and if you feel like taking it...

— Man, I did not see that coming!

— Didn’t you? Silly boy. The only trouble is, you’d end up spending a lot more time with me — and that could be... problematic.

— Why’s that?

— Because I’m an old bear who loves his solitude and far too easily forgets those around him. Quite the opposite of you. Though you're making a vow of solitude yourself, the truth is, you thrive on people. And deep down, if someone offered you flowers... you’d fall in love on the spot! Am I wrong?

— I can’t lie to you! Guilty as charged, Your Honor!

— Oh, don’t be dramatic! — I said, smiling. What worries me is that a longer coexistence might lead us to grow weary of one another. In my country, we say that intimacy is good for making children — and for losing respect.

We laughed together, and Nick said:

— You wanna know what I think? You're putting way too much weight on something that hasn't even happened — and might never happen!

I looked deep into his eyes and nodded:

— You’re absolutely right, Dr. Nick.

— But you know what else? — he went on — I think it’s beautiful. Because it shows how much you care. I think it’s beautiful.

— Heavens! Did I just give you flowers?

And we both laughed, heartily.

 

The Twenty-Fourth Night

 

Because I’d been bedridden the previous week, and there was no way we could set up a game of crapaud on my narrow single bed, I introduced Nick to the wonderful world of backgammon—a swift and elegant game.

He was instantly captivated: the board, the rules, everything about it. And now, although I’ve fully recovered and left my bed behind, we’ve returned to backgammon with renewed enthusiasm.

Nick was rolling his dice for a new move when he said, in his usual laid-back tone,

“My sister replied to my email. Again.”

“That’s great! Will you write her back?”

“I already did. You were sick, and I didn’t wanna bother you.”

“It wouldn’t have been a bother.”

“She seems okay with me, you know?”

“Fantastic.”

“She even asked if I’d thought about going back to America.”

“Did she say ‘America,’ or did she use another word?”

“Yeah, she wrote ‘America.’ I told her no. Either way, she gave me her contact so we could do a video call.”

“Twice as fantastic,” I said, with genuine enthusiasm.

“Does she live in California?”

“Nope. The family’s from Pittsburgh. I moved to California when I left home. I guess by now I’m more Californian than Pittsburghian. Living here on the island makes me feel even closer to Santa Monica.”

“And you don’t think of going back? Maybe for a holiday?”

“Maybe someday. But it’s not something I’m planning.”

“Well, I’m not planning on going back to Brazil either—not even on vacation. Maybe it’s the distance, maybe my being sixty now. I really think it’s too far.”

“Anyone from your family ever come to visit you?”

“Never. I left Brazil in 2007, and no one in my family has ever come.”

“Why not?”

“The Brazilian economy was definitely an obstacle. But also... my relatives aren’t the type to leave the comfort of their homes. They’re very attached—to their houses, their routines. They’re not willing to give that up.”

“But you guys still talk, right?”

“Yes, regularly. We have video calls all the time.”

Nick nodded. “I get that. For the first time in my life, I’m at peace. I’m clean. It’s been many years since I used any drug—but it feels like, if I go back to America, even for just a few days, I’ll come out with mud on my shoes. You feel me?”

“I do. Completely.”

“If I could go back and redo it all, I would. But I can’t. I can’t go back—only start over. I caught a terrible disease that’ll never be cured.”

“But we have the video calls.”

“Yeah, we do!” said Nick, brightening. He paused his move, and his face took on a thoughtful air.

“Isn’t it something? No matter how far we go, how many lives we live, we always end up needing love. Acceptance. In that sense, man, I envy you. You’re happy being alone.”

“I’m human, Nick. Part of me would’ve loved to marry, to have children. Biologically, we’re made for that. But for me, it’s too late to undo that mistake. To use your words, all I can do now is start over. My new beginning, I find in the Catholic Church. Yours, perhaps, lies in rebuilding your relationship with your family—which, today, means just your sister.”

Nick burst out laughing, warm and loud. “I just remembered something you once told me. It was like, ‘Young people, grow old before it’s too late!’ Man, if only the young actually did that... how many problems would that be avoided?”

 

The Twenty-Third Night

 

Few things trouble me as deeply as the fragility of life.

I’ve always preferred things that are stable, enduring. This business of feeling well one moment and then unwell five minutes later—it’s such a bother.

Wednesday night fell peacefully, and I went to sleep in good health; by Thursday morning, I awoke with a sore, inflamed throat. The quiet of the night gave way to the discomfort of the following morning.

Granted, it’s not the first time this has happened, and I know exactly what to do. My greatest fear, however, was the fever that always follows after a few days—and it can be a real nuisance for a while.

Well, the nuisance arrived Thursday afternoon. I left work and came home, where I’ve been ever since—Friday now—curled up beneath the blankets with a fever.

It’s unlikely I’ll die from this throat inflammation and its fever, but it is indeed a disruption. It’s like a buzzing fly that won’t let you be, especially when you're absorbed in something meaningful.

But I give thanks to God for it. I’ve lived alone for many, many years, and I’ve grown used to not depending on anyone. I enjoy my independence. Still, when people say they envy my single life because I’m free from the natural worries of marriage and children, I always respond: unlike those who are married, I’ll never know the joy of being greeted with kisses and smiles—nor have someone bring me a bowl of soup when I’m sick.

Too much independence can make a person too proud. And nothing is worse than someone who thinks they’re invincible, unstoppable—only to be laid low by some tiny invisible bug, or worse, the stupidity of a complete stranger.

It’s good to know that God loves me enough to offer these gentle reminders of my smallness.

When I was young, these moments were easier to endure. But now, in the autumn of my life, even a mild sore throat is enough to remind me of my mortality. This never occurred to me in my twenties—back then, death was a mere theory, never a fact. Youth is arrogant that way. How vital it is that young people grow old before it’s too late!

I remember when I was a boy, attending a Seventh-day Adventist school, and the teachers would warn us to live each day as if it were our last: “If you were to die today, what would you have to show God?” the teachers asked us.

As the years passed, I never completely forgot that advice, though in youth it faded into the background—only to return now with strength and truth.

Much more important than knowing how to live is knowing how to die. I’m absolutely convinced of that. I can think of no event more significant in one’s life than death—precisely because it is the only one that is inevitable, and completely beyond our control. We have no power over it whatsoever.

And for that, too, let us praise God.

If I were to die today, what would I have to show Him? A few good things, surely—hoping that, when placed on the scale against the many failings, the good might weigh more.

 

From the bedroom I hear Nick humming in the kitchen. Suddenly, he calls out:

"Soup’s ready, man!"

Then, a pause and an exclamation of delight:

"Yo, this stuff is actually awesome! Like, how the heck did I even pull this off?"

I laughed, still tucked in bed.

He came into the room carrying a steaming bowl on a tray, with croutons and cheese on the side.

"Dinner for the sick little dude is here!" he announced cheerfully. "And yeah, of course he’s gonna love this canned soup I heated up with, like, so much love!"

I laughed again—and gave thanks to God for His love for me.

 

 

The Twenty-Second Night

 

We were sitting on the veranda, admiring the moonlight cast over the silver sea, savoring the tea liqueur I’d prepared some time ago, when I said:

“Last Tuesday, I found an octopus among the coral reefs.”

“For real? How’d you notice it?” Nick asked, intrigued.

“I know those reefs well, and I noticed one of them looked bigger, its outline just... off. I moved in closer, reached out gently — and a tentacle curled softly around my finger. Just as delicately as I had approached it. We exchanged what felt like… a few caresses.”

“That kinda sounds like an erotic story,” Nick joked, grinning.

“Far less than that, believe me. But quite suddenly, it wrapped itself around my arm, all the way to my elbow. It changed color and texture — to mimic my skin. But it didn’t harm me; it simply received the strokes I gave its great, strange head.”

“Were you snorkeling?”

“Oh, yes. It was easy to sit on the sea floor and still breathe. Octopuses are fascinating creatures. We played like that for a while, and then, gently, I nudged it back toward the coral — which it understood, and obeyed. I left the sea and went to work.”

“So… you made a new friend?”

“I doubt it. Octopuses are solitary, and I don’t believe their nervous systems allow for what we’d call affection. I suppose I didn’t pose a threat and may have even given it some physical pleasure; that’s all. Speaking of relationships, how are things going with your violets?”

“They’re hangin’ in there — still alive,” Nick replied.

“Very good. Do you speak to them?”

“Come again?”

“Your violets. Do you speak to them?”

“No...” he said, with a note of confusion in his voice, as though I’d suddenly become some odd, esoteric figure.

I laughed and pressed on.

“There’s some evidence that plants respond emotionally to external events and that they communicate with one another.”

 “Seriously?”

“Seriously. I don’t know if they ‘hear’ us, but they do perceive our presence — and our actions. It seems they even recognize us as ‘the bringers of water,’ for example. Talking to a plant can forge a sort of bond between it and its caretaker. I know countless stories of people who threatened to cut down a fruitless tree, and suddenly, it bore fruit — or bloomed, or came back to life when it seemed dead. Start an emotional relationship with them. Talk to them. Let them be your third magic chair.”

He laughed as he said, “You haven’t forgotten my magic chairs?”

“Not only have I not forgotten — I totally understand it.”

“I’ll give it a shot. I’ll try talking to my violets.”

“Please do. I just hope they don’t talk back.”

We both laughed.

“Made me think of that one who goes, ‘Feeeed me!’”

“Audrey II!”

“That’s the one! “Little Shop of Horrors!”

“Fantastic films — both the musical and the original.”

“I’ve never seen the original.”

“Directed by Roger Corman, at the height of his powers. Not as pulsing or with the grandeur of the remake, but full of charm. Want to watch it?”

“Right now!” he shouted, springing from his chair.