Selected Cronicas

UNDYING LOVE

I still feel a little uncomfortable in my new role which cannot be strictly described as that of a columnist. And besides being a novice in the art of writing chronicles, I am also a novice when it comes to writing in order to earn money. I have had some experience as a professional journalist without ever signing my contributions. By signing my name I automatically become more personal. And I somehow feel as if I were selling my soul. I mentioned this to a friend who agreed: writing is rather like selling one’s soul. It is true. Even when you are not doing it for money, you divulge a great deal about yourself. But a friend of mine who is a doctor disagreed: she argued that she puts body and soul into her work, although she still expects to be paid because she also has to earn a living. So with the greatest pleasure I sell you part of my soul when I converse with you every Saturday.

But my lack of experience in writing a weekly column gets me into a frightful muddle when it comes to choosing suitable topics. I was mulling over this problem when I happened to be visiting a friend. The telephone rang and the caller was a mutual acquaintance. I also had a word with him and naturally mentioned that I was writing a weekly column. I then asked him: ‘Which topics are likely to interest readers? Let’s say to interest the women who read my column?’ Before he could answer, my friend called out from the far end of her large sitting-room: ‘Men, of course.’ We laughed, but her answer is worth considering. I am somewhat ashamed to have to admit that women are mostly interested in men.

But there is really nothing to be ashamed of, because no one can oblige us to prefer topics of wider interest. We need not feel embarrassed, for if we were to ask the most famous electronics engineer in the world what interests men most of all, the immediate and only truthful answer would have to be: women. From time to time we need to be reminded of this obvious fact however humiliating it may be. You might well ask me: ‘But if we are talking about people, surely our children are our greatest interest?’ The relationship is quite different. Children are, as the saying goes, our flesh and blood, and the word interest is inappropriate. Children are something special. So much so that any child in this world could be our own flesh and blood. No, believe me, I am not indulging in fiction. I was once told about a little girl who was semi-paralytic. She would fly into a temper and take her revenge by breaking crockery. My blood ran cold. A daughter afflicted with cholera.

As for men, they are so appealing. Just as well. Are men a source of inspiration? Yes. Do they offer a challenge? Yes. Are they our enemies? Yes. Do they make stimulating rivals? Yes. Are men our equals and yet at the same time entirely different? Yes. Are men attractive? Yes. Are they amusing? Yes. Are men like little boys? Yes. Are men also fathers? Yes. Do we quarrel with men? We do. Can we get by without men to quarrel with? No. Are we interesting because men need interesting women? We are. Are our most important conversations with men? Yes. Can men be boring? They can. Do we enjoy being bored by men? We do.

I could go on with this interminable list until my editor tells me to stop. But I do not believe any one else would ask me to stop. For I am sure that I have touched on a sore point. And being a sore point, it hurts, the way men hurt us. And the way women hurt men.

With my mania for taxis, I started interviewing all the taxidrivers. One night, the driver was a young Spaniard with a tiny moustache and sad expression. Chatting about this and that, he asked me if I had any children. I asked him the same question whereupon he told me that he was not married and had no intention of ever marrying. Then he told me his story. Fourteen years ago he had fallen in love with a young girl in his native Spain. She lived in a small village with few doctors or medical facilities. The girl suddenly became ill. No one could diagnose what was wrong and within three days she was dead. Aware that she was dying, she had told him: ‘I shall die in your arms.’ And beseeching God’s help, she passed away in her lover’s arms. The taxidriver could neither eat nor sleep for almost three years. In that small village everyone knew of his tragic love affair and tried to help him. They took him to parties where the girls, instead of waiting to be asked, took the initiative and invited the men to dance with them.

But it was hopeless. Everywhere he went he was reminded of Clarita — that was the dead girl’s name — and it gave me a shock because her name was very similar to mine and I began to feel myself dead and loved. The young man finally decided to leave Spain without even telling his parents. He knew that there were only two countries at the time prepared to receive immigrants without sponsorship: Brazil and Venezuela. He chose Brazil where he soon made his fortune. First he set up a shoe factory and eventually sold it; then he opened a snack-bar and finally sold that as well. Nothing seemed to matter. He exchanged his car for a cab and became a taxi-driver. He lives in a house in Jacarepaguá ‘where there are beautiful waterfalls with fresh water’. Yet during the last fourteen years he has not met any woman he could ever really love. Everything leaves him cold and indifferent. The Spaniard discreetly confided nevertheless that his constant longing for Clarita does not prevent him from having affairs with other women. But as for falling in love — never again.

So there! But then my story took an unexpected and alarming twist.

I had almost reached my destination when the taxi-driver started telling me once more about his house in Jacarepaguá and those waterfalls with fresh water, as if they could possibly have been with salt water. Almost inadvertently, I said: ‘How I’d love to spend a few days resting in such a place.’

That was my mistake. At the risk of crashing into some building or other, he turned round sharply and asked me in an insinuating voice: ‘Are you serious? Feel free at any time!’ Thrown into panic by this sudden change of climate, I could hear myself quickly replying in a shrill voice that I could not possibly accept his invitation because I was about to have an operation and would be convalescing for several months. In future I shall only conduct interviews with elderly taxi-drivers. This little episode nevertheless proves that the Spaniard is an honest fellow: he does not allow his intense longing for Clarita to interfere with his everyday life.

The finale of my story is bound to disappoint those readers of a romantic disposition. Lots of people would prefer adolescent love to haunt them for the rest of their lives. It would make a better story. But I cannot tell a lie just to please my readers. Besides, I feel it is only right that the young Spaniard should not be haunted by the past. Incapable of ever falling in love again, surely he has already suffered enough.

I forgot to mention that he also talked about fraud and embezzlement in the business world — the journey took ages and the traffic was impossible. But his revelations fell on deaf ears. All that interested me was his tale of undying love. Some of the things he revealed about shady dealings in the business world are now coming back to me. Perhaps if I concentrate, I shall remember the details and be able to tell you next Saturday. But I doubt whether you would find them interesting.