The Write Thing

The year is unfolding in surprising ways. Where I expected continuance, I am now seeing sad but necessary closure, by marriage, distance, or both. Where I expected briefness, I am now seeing the inevitable development of a relationship. I bet the gods are amused at the dice they cast. I thought I knew, I thought I was wise. Until recently, I even claimed to have an instinct, an ancestral memory that rarely failed. To my disappointment and, in a way, to my relief, it does fail, and the truth now dawns on me. I have to come to terms with the fact that there is a day-by-day quality to whatever we do, despite the long-term frameworks in which we technically see things. I am caught in the certainty of uncertainty, and I’d better like it, or else I’ll have to contend with my own ghost when fate decides for me.

However, no matter how much life insists on contradicting my instinct, I cannot help seeing it in action again. Perhaps that is why, one afternoon in a day of recognition and lovemaking, ages ago in a dreamy Mexican town, I turned around in bed, held her hand in mine around my waist, and without looking at her I said: “I have this sense of…arrival with you”. If I am home or not, or if the gods are just fooling around with me again, I will claim not to know. I will breathe in deeply, count my blessings and hope that my instinct is right.

There are stories that come to us without warning. One moment we think we have everything under control, and the next we are hopelessly itching with desire for that same thing we were formerly indifferent to. These days, images of an old movie I saw long ago have been playing constantly on my mind: David Lean’s Brief Encounter.

The story is a typical case of untimely love, in those days when some people at least questioned themselves before being unfaithful to their spouses. As the protagonists Alec and Laura gradually realize that their innocent meetings are leading into something far deeper than a mere acquaintance, they decide to put an end to the affair — actually, to its potential. The film is based on a play by Noel Coward called, more accurately, Still Life.

I saw the film at least over ten years ago, so relying on my memory completely might prove risky. However, I have the vivid impression that it is Alec who voices the palpable passion that dwells in both of the never-to-be lovers. In a memorable scene — or a fictitious invention, my memory will tell — he looks at her and says…”you know what’s happening, don’t you…”

I know what’s happening. Here, there are no husband or wives to cheat. There is only a distance, which in the modern world planes travel more frequently than I help myself to meals. Further favoring dramatic momentum is the fact that obstacles make excellent dramatic opportunities, facing protagonists with their tests of love and courage as the story they tell us unfolds.

Jeanette Winterson would probably start this account with a phrase such as “I would like to tell a story”. I am afraid I am already telling one, even if not as deftly as Ms Winterson. Better yet, we are telling a story, as we have told each other so many during the wonderful days we have just spent together. I must admit that it is simply very easy to flow when in company of a writer, something I had not yet experienced.

When I get to editing my own story, the one I am yet to tell, perhaps I should also mull my first line very carefully — after all, incipits are key. A good story must be subtle and yet solid enough to carry its own weight without wearing the reader down. Preferably, the protagonists should reveal their motives gradually, or let the reader find them around the corner of a gesture, or in the minimal expression of a misleading word. Stories can be written alone, in pairs or even in teams. Regardless of the number of hands assigned to the task, action and pace must flow as if only one single pen had written it.

I do not know if my story will flow as smoothly as I would like it to. Maybe not, because uncertainty is part of life, and as such it deserves a place in my account. I do not even know how the story started because, as all good things in my life, it began without warning and, when I least expected it, there it was.

I am waiting  for her. This is a peculiar situation, because she is better at waiting than I am, and yet it is my turn to test my skills. This is a business trip for one of us, and a pleasure trip for both. I have never played so much on the verge of risk…or I did, once, when I sneaked into a colleague’s bedroom in the middle of the night, losing the rest of my workmates until dawn came to call.

This time it is more open than that, because she is staying with me in the same room. This time it is not about risk, but about trust. Congress attendees suddenly inspire no fears about how wise it actually is to indulge in this when almost everyone is accompanied by their wives, and those who are not sometimes just walk a thin line between gallantry and the exciting possibility of a one-night stand.

Still, oblivious to the world outside this room in a tiny and dream-like Guanajuato, I am waiting for her. I am trying not to anticipate, for I know that some scripts go wrong when only one actor is rehearsing them. Even though she seems resilient to pre-conceived stories that go amiss, this woman with “no expectations” still carries a veil that suggests to me she should be treated with care. As in a Henry James vignette, even when she shows more than she tells, she does so imperceptibly.

I like her more than I would have ever imagined. She gives me calm, and lets my own little freak side go out to play and quote movies that nobody saw to make a minor point about something. She knows about my stationery fetish, and puts up with the fussy psychologist that resides somewhere in me and needs to find a logic behind almost everything. Because she knows me more than she has, or because she thinks so, and I concur, I am now waiting for her. She has earned my trust and she is slowly winning my heart.