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Part Six: Effaced
Unmasked, the force of the virus by now tempered, we set out at last to traverse the well-trodden paths of our lives, our short-lived elation a mere moment's breath in our full awareness that all too soon we will surely be effaced: no eyes to see; no ears to hear; no nose to smell or nostrils flare; no mouth to taste or speak.
After seven years of silence, the invitation to have a coffee and a chat, extended to me by an Argentine author, took me by surprise but, given the affinity that we had felt when first introduced, it would be going too far to say that his overture came out of nowhere.
In his email, inconspicuous in the daily onslaught of spam, and which I so easily might have missed, he suggested that the following Wednesday we meet in his most cherished haunt, a downtown cafe that, graced with framed photos of Sicilian landmarks, was steeped in Italian nostalgia.
Having proposed coordinates for our mid-week meeting, and having urged me to contact him should I think of some better plan, Eduardo went on to say that over the last few years his life had witnessed many changes, and even major upheavals but that, instead of expressing his triumphs, and most of all his woes, in cold print, he would prefer to wait for the day when, cups in hand and seated together comfortably, we would seek to set the world to rights with our heart-to-heart.
After the lockdown, imposed by the government, had come to an end, I did not, unlike most others, evocative of animals whose necks just a moment before had been tethered to posts, sally forth eagerly to explore a once-familiar hinterland in a spirit of pent-up anticipation and renewed hope.
After the failure of my eye surgery on account of cataracts, and perhaps even a botched job, I grew wary of crossing the city's wide avenues, with my life coming to be played out within the confines of a few sedate blocks near my home.
But on occasions such as my scheduled meeting with Eduardo, it was still easy enough for me to hail a taxi, and in fifteen minutes be transported to the city center of Buenos Aires.
Looking out of the car window, all that I beheld, bereft of any other color, was shrouded in a white mist. I thought about the following spring, willing myself to believe that my next operation would be successful, and that, for all the smudged interlude, I would feast my eyes again on the jacaranda's lilac blossoms, but I knew that there would be nothing certain about that season.
Entering the cafe, I could not distinguish Eduardo from the other patrons, but I did not need to take out my cellphone to alert him to my presence, as I felt almost immediately his hand touch my arm as he led me towards a nearby table.
While unable to make out his features with any degree of precision, I noted nonetheless that his shoulders were more sloping than before, his face more haggard, and I could not help but think that, prior to my arrival, sitting alone under a sepia image of some age-old village perched atop a rock, he must have cut a lonely figure, if not a forlorn one.
Although an aura, albeit faint, of fallen grandeur still clung to him, it was hard to believe that this was the same Eduardo Cristobelo who, having penned three novels, by now all out of print, had once been the toast of a besotted troupe of literary admirers.
He told me that he had had many challenges to contend with, that he had separated from his wife, and then divorced, only to reunite, but that just a few weeks ago, the conflict between them had flared up yet again.
And then there was his prostate problem, and not to mention a spinal disorder that, still to be diagnosed, racked him with pain at night.
And as if such afflictions were not enough, his son who, having taken to drink, had fallen ever-lower in a downward spiral of debt.
Placing his coffee cup on its saucer, he told me that he had never forgotten the words coined by an English writer, that we are all pebbles on a rough sea.
In my mind's eye, I walked along some beach at night, fearful of the lashing waves that, without any warning, might sweep me away.
I thought of every stone, buffeted about, then washed up on the shore, and replied, "It all works out."
"Yes," he said, "In the end."
Part One: Plummeting Like Lead
Part Two: The Tree
Part Three: The New World
Part Four: The Cricket
Part Five: Love, Hate
"The Power of Prose"
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