Our inner changes are never smoothly gradual. Though often subconscious, they always take place suddenly, like if in sharp leaps between levels, originating from precise -though not always identifiable- happenings in our life.
And that is how we fall in love.
We know the other person, we feel attracted, we treat him/her for some time, shorter or longer, we realize that we might very well love, but still we don’t. Not yet.
Now, in a given moment something takes place, important or trifle: a movie, a trip, a walk, a gesture, a word… and then we literally “fall” in love, abruptly passing from one level to another, like if love could only exist or be served in quantums.
That is how we fall in love… and that is also how we stop loving.
However, paradoxically, contrary to what we might at first think, and in contrast with the glory we’re briefly enjoying, we find out quite soon that this encounter only dooms us to unhappiness, because, representing the summit of our sexual history, means also a challenge to any future love. After we lose this person (and we will, because these matches are seldom reciprocal, being merely coincidental if such a lover experienced the same with respect to us), from then on we’ll only perceive, in our future partners, decline and mediocrity: we’ll search and search, but rather hopelessly, because we know we won‘t find the twin.
The train compartment was almost full, and to complete the seats there arrived a young couple, tatoos and piercings and peanuts and grapes, that filled the room with two cats in cages and imposed us the feline presence… because the poor delicate creatures didn’t like to travel up, on the luggage shelves. Cats on the laps, cats on the knees, cats on the narrow floor space, cats on the seats… I was even drily requested to cut my feet off, so that the cats could fit in.
But despite all, I couldn’t help envying the kids. They were so young, probably around 20; one of those couples who only have the cheap room whre they live, and the love that affords them to live. I couldn’t stop watching them with the corner of my eye. It moved me to see how subtly they touched each other, how tenderly they looked and talked to each other, how softly they leaned on each other, how lovingly they fed each other, how devotedly they took care of each other…
I sighed and longed for that blind and trusty love of my youth.
Why not again?
It was one of the saddest evenings of my life, I believe.
We were walking in silence along the stale Berdnardskiego park and -as who bleeds to death- with every new step we took a stronger affliction overcame us.
In the orangey eventide, we came to sit on an old stoney stands half in ruins, eaten up by the grass. Down, at the other end of the field, some men played ball and their scattered voices, indistinct, emphasized the silence and isolated us even from ourselves. It was our farewell walk, though we hadn’t confessed it to each other.
The gaiety of the eve rendered, by contrast, more despondent the failure of that day. We had agreed on spending a few ones together and giving us a last chance for working it out. But, as usual, after the mirth and glee of the first hours, we had been quarrelling that morning and a mute and persistent silence, filled with gloom, settled down between us and left us helpless. Let’s go for a walk, proposed she for running away from that agony of dead feelings.
Sheltered by the player’s voices, our stares lost in the nothingness, we watched the minutes fall, and strike, like mourn chimes. I told her you move away from the people that loves you because you believe you don’t deserve being happy. I told her but you don’t have to atone for any sin, you have the same right to happiness as any other. She looked at me with a smile full of tenderness but as sad as life, and I, desolate, could see how her love, like the setting sun in the twilight which embraced us, died away behind her big blue eyes, second after second… and I couldn’t but sit there and watch.
The silence spoke to ourselves yet for a while, waiting for the twilight to die. Then, she slowly turned to me and kissed me on the cheeks, while onto hers, two heavy tears -breaming over her long eyelashes- trickled down, leaving the bright and salty trace of sorrow.
Fue una de las tardes más tristes de mi vida, creo.
Paseábamos en silencio por el caduco parque Bernardskiego y, como quien se desangra, con cada paso que dábamos una mayor lasitud nos vaciaba. Era como un tácito adiós.
En la tarde anaranjada que moría, fuimos a sentarnos sobre las gradas de piedra, medio en ruinas e invadidas por la hierba, de un centenario campo deportivo. Allá, al otro extremo, unos hombres jugaban al balón y sus voces dispersas, indistintas, acentuaban el silencio y nos aislaban incluso de nosotros mismos.
La alegría de la víspera subrayaba aún más el aciago fracaso de aquella jornada: habíamos acordado pasar unos días juntos para volver a intentarlo por última vez; pero, como siempre, pasada la excitación y el entusiasmo de las primeras horas, aquella mañana habíamos discutido y durante todo el día un vacío elocuente y pertinaz, cargado de nostalgia e impotencia, se instaló entre nosotros dejándonos indefensos. Demos un paseo, había propuesto ella para escapar de aquel infierno de sentimientos muertos.
Amparados por las voces de los jugadores, perdidas en la nada nuestras miradas, veíamos caer los minutos como campanadas de duelo. Le dije te alejas de las personas que te quieren porque crees que no mereces ser feliz. Le dije pero no has de expiar ningún pecado, tienes tanto derecho a la felicidad como cualquiera. Ella me miró con una sonrisa llena de ternura pero tan triste como la vida, y entonces vi, con total desolación, cómo su amor se iba ocultando segundo a segundo -el sol poniente de la tarde que nos amparaba- tras aquellos grandes ojos claros; cómo su cariño se me escapaba, cual gorrión huye de la mano, sin sin poder hacer nada para detenerlo.
El silencio habló por nosotros aún algunos momentos, hasta el final del crepúsculo. Entonces, ella se inclinó para besarme en la mejilla: por las suyas, dos gruesas lágrimas, derramándose desde sus largas pestañas, dejaban el rastro brillante y salado del desamor.
All of a sudden the sky, the atmosphere, the light itself, have turned yellow, and a strong wind, like the blow of an angry and evil god, is severly bending the trees and wiping from the ground, at a great speed into the air, all the dust and sand and leaves and dirt it finds on its way. But not a drop of water has come down from the heavens.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Now the yellow has turned into dark bronze, the wind has died still, and a single blinding lightning, and a single deafening thunder, have made loose the wrath of the sky, pouring down with rage all its liquid arrows.