Читать книгу Twin Souls - Raimon Samsó - Страница 7

My name is Victor Bruguera, and I came to Barcelona to paint the ocean. After this, I didn’t want to leave this city anymore, because its blue ocean gets way inside when you contemplate it. I was born a little bit more than thirty five years ago. I am a Virgo, with Leo ascendance, rainy evenings bewitch me, and jazz, and I regret not learning to play piano. I believe I would not be able to spend a long time without living close to the sea, to an open space, so my ideas can develop without boundaries.

I know that I still must grow because my contradictions give me anxiety. Since Clara’s death I hide behind a parenthesis from which I don’t come out. But beyond this weight, I consider myself very vital. Clara admired my sensibility, my kindness, and my capability for tenderness. That, she said, made her fall in love. And she would add: «…Also those green and shining eyes, your abundant curly hair, your not excessive thinness and your enough strength». That is how she saw me, shaded by love’s indulgence. The mirror shows me an image of a man appearing a few years younger. A good man. No, well maybe not, a comprehensive man. Someone who uses objects to communicate silences to refine, in a face softened by the avalanche of kisses he received in his teen years.

I studied artistic expression, but now I’ve learned that the important things can’t be taught. The important things in life you learn on your own. When I started painting, I abused certain technical resources, it is normal, because I wanted to use what I had learned. After this, not anymore. I discovered that at no school they prepare you to make profitable the mistakes that will certainly come. But, I believe that we all need to get through them to think, because they are excellent teachers.

Some may think that creativity is a matter of inspiration a hundred percent… and the artist wishes for the piece to flow naturally. But I must say that not one thing or the other is like this. To me, creation is more transpiration than creation; it requires consistency and determination. Many look at a painting for just a few seconds and give a quick opinion, but the painter spent a long time working for that fleeting second of attention. In the same way, the spectator assists to the finished play, but the actor worked on the endless trials. The reader reads a book in a few weeks, but the writer typed and typed a book for months…

I can say that I’ve been able to survive with my painting. Let’s say I pay all my bills. I sell my particular fabrics regularly, public locals like town restaurants, and corporation offices. Banks, assurance companies, multinationals. My agent organized expositions here and there. Luckily, every time more people put my pieces on their house walls. It is curious, but when I started painting I believed that the day I’d be able to exhibit my work, heaven would fall over me. And well, it wasn’t like that. The world didn’t stop because of that simple detail. And yes, I accept that I felt happy; all though at the same time my inside sounded like an unfurnished house. Because I had become empty? Maybe. Or maybe because on the way you must always leave things aside, pay your prices. Any ways, and luckily, I believe that no matter how much you leave behind, you always get more. Much more.

I rented an apartment in a rehabilitated building in the old Town where I got moved. I tore down some partitions and made it my studio. An even if from my balcony I can’t see the sea, I can feel how it accompanies me, and how it penetrates in the studio, fills it with all shades of blue and before it leaves, it overflows my mood with white foam. Luckily, I enjoy an incredible light during the day. The studio isn’t fancy at all, but it works. The kitchen might be a little small –integrated to the living room- but it is fine. I love to cook and honestly I usually get pretty good results in my elaboration. Cooking relaxes me and makes my mind work at an optimum efficiency level.

Sometime later Clara came up to me in an enchanted month of April. To that day followed the happiest years of my life, filled with unthinkable details. During that time there wasn’t anything so lovely in the world than loving Clara. It still took us two years to get married, two years that passed by so quickly. Then we filled the walls from this place with her pictures and my paintings. We caught reality to show it, each one with their way, to others. What one got, sharing it, multiplied us both.

One morning, at the beginning of the recently released year, I closed my studio, left the keys where Javier could find them, and took a plane to the United States. Our flights were on the same date, so we were not going to be able to see each other. It was funny that maybe we would cross over in the sky, like stars sometimes do, so called shooting stars. And I accept that the perspective of confronting a new reality excited me, new and different scenery that didn’t know anything about me. There I wouldn’t have a past, only a present. That was the novelty: only the present. «In an environment sterilized from hurtful memories, you will be able to take enough perspective as to redirect your life », claimed Javier. I must confess I still had my doubts; because no matter where you go, you always end up finding yourself.

Anyway, here I was, at the international arrival terminal in L.A., with my luggage and an address, with my fair English and a bunch of questions. A taxi took me to Santa Mónica, one of Los Angeles’ towns bathed by the Pacific Ocean. The driver stopped in front of an old and elegant building, with 3 stories and a façade perfectly conserved. At the front, in the avenue, some stylized palm trees grew as I’d never seen. Tall as a garden up in heaven.

The breeze from the ocean refreshed my lungs. I breathed in and pressed the intercom.

-Samuel Hines? My name is Victor Bruguera; I am your neighbor’s friend. I believe you have some keys for me.

He was expecting me. He took me into his apartment. He gave me the keys and offered to come with me to the third floor. But before going up to Javier’s studio, he filled me with kindness, invited me to a beer, and introduced me to his daughter, Lorena, a charming young lady in her twenties.

-Call me Sam. She is Lorena. Her mother doesn’t live with us, but we don’t even miss her, do we Lorena? And this doggy, that won’t stop sniffing your pants, is Baffles. We have very few neighbors here. In the upper apartment lives a couple, the Jacksons. They spend a lot of time at their jobs so you won’t see them around much. He is usually on his phone, so it isn’t easy to talk with him, unless you call him on the phone -he laughed-. They often organize noisy parties, way over the top. I guess they need to do all this excess because the job pressure. And well, on the third one lives Javier, well, now you! Excuse me, would you like a beer mister Victor?

Sam: African American, divorced, former boxer, retired, a magnificent person with whom I soon formed a friendship. I mean that kind of exclusive complicity among those who have received an overwhelming quantity of knocks. I bet Sam has a giant body because his heart is so too. He gave me plenty of information about the city, and immediately got me up to date. Later, on following nights, we would talk for hours and hours in the building’s front door. He told me the story of his life several times, unfortunately a way too frequent story in boxing. I got to know all of his victories, one by one. And only once did he tell me about the sole «K.O. » that knocked him unconscious in the boxing ring. Years later a bad woman broke his heart as well. From that inappropriate relationship came Lorena, an enchanting young lady who was started as a cast singer for several record companies.

-Lorena had sang chorus for Mariah Carey and Toni Braxton. Do you know them in Spain? They are really good. Soul music, you know? -asked Sam.

Lorena asked me if some day I could paint her portrait. And I answered «someday», because in the present I was not painting. I stopped considering myself a painter from the moment my airplane left the airport and I left Barcelona behind. This last bit I did not tell her, but I kept it for myself. And since then, every time we saw each other, Lorena reminded me of my promise. And I reaffirmed my compromise: «someday». Knowing as I did that no calendar would set that date.

We went up, to the third and last floor. The studio seemed ideal. What’s known as a loft: everything integrated in one diaphanous piece. It was flooded by the light that came through the big crystals and by a ceiling partially with crystal. I looked around, while Sam closed the door behind me. Two of the four walls had crystal, and through them the sky precipitated to the studios interior. At dawn the sun rays came in timidly, but in the midday -and mostly in the evening- the light was so that shadows where impossible. In the middle of the living room: a white sofa, an audio-video device, and a halogen stand lamp, cold and a vanguard. The studio was painted in an immaculate white. The limited furnishings and the cherry tree wooded floor. And everything came to be -even the slightest detail- very Zen. At one side, next to the window, was an easel, a bunch of frames, paintings and utensils. Next to the wall, a bed -blue as a calm sea- which came apart from the whole set by a folding screen that represented an antique library.

-If you need anything, you know where to find us. Sometimes you can feel lonely in a city like this, where distances are huge -offered Sam.

-Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind.

He closed the door behind himself. There I was, with my limited luggage and my humor wrapped in a bundle. It seemed as if I was being born in a new world, but reincarnated in an antique and scared body. Wrapped in the silence in the middle of that residence, I could feel how something new was making room towards me. I sat on the floor, in the middle of the living room; I dialed a number in my cell phone and talked to a friend in Barcelona. I wanted to say it: I had arrived, but was still alone.

That night I had a dream. One of those that get stuck and you don’t forget.

Three times I heard my name in the dark, my name in the middle of two sharp pauses. And I, so used to talking to myself, whispered:

-Tell me, love.

-I’ve come to say good bye -it was Clara’s voice-. I’m leaving for ever.

-Where are you going?

-To the other side of your dream, so I am not a burden for your mood. I wish to stop being a stumbling block in your nights. Stop crying. Life is not made for tears.

That night I perceived her as incredibly real. We shared farewell’s silence as an advance of her definite absence. For how long we were like this, I don’t know. And before leaving for ever -as impossible loves leave the heart- she turned around under the door’s arch to say:

-You know Victor, death doesn’t exist. Only love exists. This was the last time I dreamt with her. I stopped feeling her heartbeat next to me, which would wake me up in the early morning. Not in this, nor in any other continent. «Only love exists», her words got stuck in my memory. And that night vanished in my memory the intense perfume from the roses she cared and that made our balcony an undisputable garden.