A lot like love - Just for you, Dani

The letter

Dani:

I swear I did not plan this. Look, I have the very same book (same printing house, same cover) from where you read to me those Calvo’s poems. Remember? We were on that France Square bench, that square you thought was Elguera Square. A few meters from our bench, below the feet of the Statue of Liberty, a gang of wachiturros was selecting its next robbery victim.

 Do you want to know how I got the book?

It started when I decided to drop out my Saturday class. While the teacher was spouting his things, I revived our conversation in the Chinese restaurant, in Moquegua street –your natural smile, you being without any makeup and still remain gorgeous-; our endless roaming through Camaná street searching for the perfect place to read poetry, the Calvo’s book you carried along; the way you read out loud your two favorite poems of the book (Absences and Delays and To Elsa, short before leaving); your nervousness when you finished reading the Bukowski-style poem I had written while awaiting for you leaving your office; the fear I had to ruin that something that exists between us, that something that is strong despite the fact that that was the second time we talked after two years. Could it be love?

As I was saying, I decided to drop out that class. I had to get any César Calvo’s poetry book. His poems marching under my eyes would be the only way to have you by my side, Dani. So I took the 303 bus (Susana Villarán’s Blue Corridor), at Aramburú bus stop, and in 15 minutes time I hit Quilca street. I stopped at the newspaper cabinet on the street corner and looked to your work building in hope to get a glance of you. But you never appeared. I envisioned you working as a little laborious ant or awaking your sleepy co-worker to avoid him getting his ass kicked out by your boss.

I went through all Quilca’s bookstores and couldn’t find any Calvo’s book. So I plunged myself into the only place I didn’t search: Quilca’s Culture Boulevard. Same result. Nobody had any Calvo’s bloody book. I was resigned to revive those poems you read to me aided only by the weak help of my forgetful memory. By tomorrow, I will have forgotten the few verses I still retained.

I hadn’t visited one bookstore yet: Selecta Bookstore, owned by the novelist and voracious reader Gabriel. I asked him about Calvo. He thinks out loud: Calvo, Calvo, Calvo, while approaching to one of his bookshelves. I got only this one, says, finally. Dani, you wouldn’t believe it but it was the same book you read to me the day before. I almost embrace the book thinking it was you in person, my dear. Calvo should be edited more, says Gabriel. And I agree. César is a great poet, not much because of his quality –I’m not a poet and couldn’t be one- but because his poems are my link to you.

And I have the book here with me. Sorry to ruin the picture with my fucking and ugly face but I thought it would be ideal to get the picture of both together: the book and me, in order to proof that coincidences between you and me, Dani, are enormous.

We walked until we reached Varela Street. Remember? We talked about the salsa lessons you take sporadically. We talked about your American and Cuban teachers that are brought to this country with lots of fake promises.

We have so much in common, Dani: our rare last name (that’s why we call each other cousins); we both love Lima Downtown, its rancid smell and its beautiful early XX century buildings which are falling apart every year. We were confortable with each other. It was like we had seen each other more, far more, than just two times in two years.

I don’t know if it’s love what I feel for you, Dani, but I know it’s something I’ve never experienced before. I remember your story about César Calvo: he gave away a refrigerator to a woman he loved, but the refrigerator wasn’t his. It was Chabuca Granda’s. You told me that César was capable of anything in order to get the love of the woman he wanted. And because of that, he died poor. And he lived poor. I said: Great, that’s how true artists should die, in poverty.  Happiness is useless for art.

There, under the second-rate building where you take your salsa lessons, we hug timidly and then you walked your way, to Liliana Residential Complex, and I mine, to Tingo María Bridge. The great thing about that goodbye was that neither of us said something about a third date because we both know that that affair is our destinies business; not ours.  

That reminds me the A lot like love movie plot. Oliver (Ashton Kutcher) and Emily (Amanda Peet), after seven years of seeing each other four times by chance, finally understand that they are two of a kind: fucking soul mates.  I cried like a baby when I saw the movie yesterday. I know I look like Ashton’s butt but I couldn’t avoid feeling I was Oliver and you my Emily.

This letter is getting longer so I will conclude.

I will conclude telling you why I didn’t kiss you. (In a conversation we had hours later, you confess that your desire was also to kiss me and then run away. You didn’t tell this exactly but I inferred that you didn’t kiss me because I was married –I’m married-. Yes, I told you that the first time we met, two years ago. You just said: I don’t want to cause you any trouble. You are an angel, my dear)

Dani, I did not kiss you not because I’m married. I did not kiss you because I did not want to ruin this special bond we have, this bond the gods, fate or who else it be, plans carefully. I did not kiss you because I don’t want for us that typical relationship others have: scheduled dates, routine, formalisms, and many other calamities that end up destroying what once was pure magic.

Tacitly, we passed down the planning of our future dates to our lives. If they want us to reunite, it’ll be their choice, not ours. We know they are stronger and wiser than us. 

A dedication

Dani:

Pick up you César’s book and read Bells ring your memories on time third verse (page 20). It is for you: From the bottom of everything I have, you are missing.

Have you ever heard Mar de Copas?

I dedicate to you Goodbye, my love; specially these verses: Goodbye, my love. I’ll miss your tenderness. From South they come to steal your honor. Your voice was so clear. Your no being here and your no kissing me and your no hugging me will be my great treasure. (0:48) 

Thank-you note

Right after you read my poem –the poem I wrote for you on a napkin-, you got nervous (hours later, you told me that you got nervous because you liked my poem, because you also felt something a lot like love for me) and, as an immediate answer, you recited Garcilaso’s Soneto V. Watching and hearing you was one of the most exquisite experiences I’ve ever had so far. Silly as I am, I thought that you were nervous because of the dangerous presence of the wachiturros gang.

I’ll keep that sonnet in my memory for the rest of my life, Dani (at least inside my pendrive). You reciting that poem were the best answer to mine, best than a simple kiss. Any couple kisses. Anyone can do that. What you did was a unique thing. It only could come from you, Dani. Thank you.

The end

See you, Dani; only if our lives want to come across for the third time.