The desire to write grows with writing.
Erasmus:
Adagia (1508)
June can be a herald to the heat of summer or a raconteur of the tales of spring. Late that afternoon, as Neb looks out past the balcony in his hotel room, he can see a beautiful blue sky, but can also feel the sultriness in the palms of his hands. Yes, without much doubt, he can predict the dog days before him… long before that Dominican mid-July. Aimlessly, he paces the sterile room, its walls echoing the incessant noise coming from the busy street. His mind stays enmeshed in uncoordinated thoughts… his eyes responding in tired, blank stares.
He is here… finally! Then, just past one of those blank stares he notices a curious, dangling branch of a flamboyant, no more than an arm’s length from the balcony as if trying to peek inside his third floor room. A faint smile appears on his face as he remembers Leane telling him about this botanical voyeur, a tree with the most incredibly beautiful flowers, peering through her apartment window and smiling its redness at her. Her flamboyant guardian… and how often he had envied its nearness to her.
It is Neb’s first visit to Santo Domingo. His cab ride from the airport to the hotel had not properly introduced him to this city of noble colonial beginnings… but cab rides seldom, if ever, do. Not important… for this Caribbean city was not receiving him as a tourist, an itinerant sightseer from the North. As far as he is concerned, Santo Domingo is not just his Mecca, it is his Rome. For almost two years, his mind had made this city his destination point… the distant place from where love had gushed forth its crystalline waters sending them in a virtual course to quench his thirsty heart. Leane, his forever love, the woman-muse that had answered his quest, is here. And Neb is, after all this time, finally getting physically closer and closer to her.
Neb feels depleted from a long trip which had compounded two flight changes with a four-hour sun loss. There is, however, a greater emotional toll inside him. Uneasiness that seems to be ascending to new levels as time passes. Nervousness, nervousness from anticipation, that’s the reason. He needs to bring this anxiety to a halt, or the flood gates of his heart will not just open but burst. But there must be a remedy for that. Perhaps all he requires are two sleeping pills to post as chemical sentinels that can guard the night while Morpheus performs his magic keeping the world at a stand-still, until morning.
Early yet, with the sun still suspended past the balcony over the not too distant Malecon, Neb prepares to let a last night extinguish itself before he presents himself to Leane the following day. Tentatively he swallows the tablets just brought to him, as if taking part in a sacramental liturgy that will help transport him to a higher spiritual realm. Sleep, that’s what he needs, to rest his body, to calm his soul. Leane will get his surprise visit in the morning.
Although the sleeping pills muffle the noise coming from the street, they cannot anesthetize Neb from the vivid spectacle taking center stage in his head. Could it be that the scenes appearing, then disappearing, from the stage represent no more than serial memories converted into dreams? It matters little, as memories or dreams replay in methodical sequence going back two years to the chat room of a venerable European newspaper.
No, it was not a chat room for romance-seekers, but one of R-rated socio-political issues and often, very often, many lighter notes. The attractiveness of being a participant in this group had less to do with the social potpourri of the participants, their diverse cultures, or their backgrounds… and more to do with a group camaraderie that reached beyond the star of any one individual.
Mia was Leane’s chat room nickname. Quiet, intelligent and unassuming, she was a magnet of tremendous power for someone like Neb… known in the chat room as Nickholas. It wasn’t long after he had joined the group that Neb, behind his Nickholas mask, had turned inquisitively forceful in his desire to get to know Mia well. And that insistence not only underlined his presence but seemed to accentuate her interest as well. So it did not take long before they had supplanted the discussion group’s topics du jour with their own personal agendas… personal curiosity that could only be satiated by a one-on-one exchange, a duologue that at times seemed to exclude the rest of the universe.
How can romance… no, love, enter a realm lacking all important senses? And, more importantly… at such incredible speed? It wasn’t long before new nicknames were receiving the baptismal waters of a virtual rebirth… and Leane had shed her nickname of Mia for that of Brushstroke, and he, Neb, had become her Canvas. It was to be their adopted anonymity for the rest of the peer group.
Just barely two years! He still remembers her initial shock on discovering that since his days at the university he had been known as Neb, “short for Nebertcher,” he had told her… answering her keyboard’s silent perplexity with a message: “that’s Lord of the Universe,” knowing that the comment would bring a smile to her face. An American from the Pacific Northwest with an Egyptian deity for a name… surely he must be pulling her virtual leg! The subject of why opting for such unusual name never came up again… Neb was singular to Leane in every respect, as Leane was to Neb.
Not yet sleep, Neb recalls those first days… how Brushstroke and Canvas became the daily frequenters of a chat room in which they both appeared silent to the rest. How they had submerged in private conversations that voraciously feasted on each other’s most intimate thoughts. And how they soon started to weave a cocoon where they could both dwell, go through the metamorphosis together, in spirit, in hope, in desire… peeling each other’s feelings, and discovering love at the core. Even without the presence of the senses, they were experiencing the miracle of sight, sound, touch, smell and even taste… in such a vivid virtual way that even reality could envy, if only made aware.
All… the entire madness of giving oneself to the other, had taken no more than six weeks! Every single day, two magical, stolen afternoon hours had replaced the reality of the other twenty-two. There were, of course, thoughts and feelings passed on in e-mails that kept the darkness momentarily lit during the other twenty-two hours, maintaining their lives in hopeful expectation, in preparation for those special two. Those two hours represented their entire daily existence, their lives speeding up by a factor of twelve… as was their passion, their desire to share.
Leane had been an assiduous visitor of this chat room for almost two years before Neb appeared; a first edition member of the group, although her cyber-shyness and gentle manners stopped her from becoming as vocal as the rest. As Mia, Leane had portrayed an image of graciousness and genteel behavior to everyone in the group.
If one were to enter Neb’s mind and unrolled the scroll dedicated to Leane, one would read about a mythological personage part woman, part muse and part apparition. No, not part… all woman, all muse and all apparition, a self-transforming entity that can at any instant be one of the three, or all three at once.
But Neb’s postulation was just that. Leane was first and foremost a spirit born to please- perhaps an all too common characteristic of the second-born that she was. A person with exalted airs and a vast culture, she always demanded much more of herself than of others. Her imprint in the chat room, aside from her aura of gentleness, had been that of an idealistic, fierce defender of the oppressed. And Neb deeply admired that.
A vivacious creature, Leane seemed to be always challenged in trying to find the joyful side of the complex polyhedron that is life. Talented, and artistically-gifted like no one Neb had ever met, she thrived in being the translator of life’s rhythms into appropriate prose or poetry- the end of one being the beginning of the other for her, in complete harmony, with perfect fluidity and not a discordant note.
There had been times in her life when the bounty of happiness she carried needed to be shared; and she gave herself without reservation, without pausing to weigh the commitment level at the other end. A husband at a very young age, and then two, perhaps three, other soul mates who had been blessed with and received her complete, loyal affection… as the flame of love was lit by the need to give oneself with the same intensity as one desires and hopes to receive. But Neb was not jealous; knowing Leane was coming to him in virginal attire, wearing the robe weaved by a love that possesses its own time, its own place… love that belongs in all its purity and strength to the present, never to be tainted nor diluted by the past.
Reaching middle age in the high seas of emotional waters had not been easy for Leane. The attractive youthful looks that had been kept barricaded behind the passage of the years was a secondary thing for her… for her vanity. The hurt was coming from within. The romantic faucet which had always been on, cascading the flow of her artistic creations all these years, had been tampered with- almost completely turned off; and for two years now it was barely spilling occasional drops from what seemed to be an empty reservoir of inspiration. Leane had felt as if she had been asked to atone for uncommitted sins; or as if her closest friend, life, was cruelly passing her by on its return trip without so much as a salutation.
Music, or rather the intimate being of music, was distancing its lifeline from Leane. Lyrics to songs were no longer daisies in a field, to be picked at will and kept fresh in hands that served as miraculous vases that would not let them wilt. Two years without the inspirational menstruation… had she entered creativity’s menopause? Leane was afraid… the curtains seemed to be coming down on a not yet completed third act. She was scared of losing the last vestiges of that youth past… of growing old with a soul that remains forever young. Music always had been the plasma that kept the circulation going in her spiritual life, and her lyrics kept oxygenating the circulatory system. But all she felt now was a continuous recycling of tired blood… and she kept growing more and more afraid.
Then, as if by magic, Nickholas appears. A time of renewal, a rebirth… all of a sudden the church bells in that little village atop the mountain, shrouded by friendly, transparent clouds, begin tolling as if celebrating two births and one wedding, all at once. Once again, Leane became alive, displaying her creativity, her charm, her virginal predisposition to love… and her willingness to transform herself for the person behind Nickholas’ mask, Neb. A short metamorphosis for Leane, the annual cicada, had been completed… and so had a long one for Neb, a periodical cicada, now at the fulfillment end of his quest.
Leane was reborn, thanks to Neb, from the bowels of the muse Erato. She had become Erato herself, poetry and music to give to the world, and love to give and share with Neb.
Leane was reborn, thanks to Neb, from the bowels of the muse Erato. She had become Erato herself, poetry and music to give to the world, and love to give and share with Neb.
And as Leane was reborn, so was Neb. He could tell that behind Mia’s mask were his Dulcinea… and much, much more. The miracle was not just in the muse-birth presented as a gift from Erato, but in the reincarnation of Erato herself.
Neb shared the provinces of sensitivity and spirituality with Leane, but with a different upbringing. Where Leane had experienced a constant engagement with life’s beautiful soul-reaching side, Neb had existed in a dormant pupa stage, just letting life pass him by. For Neb, life had been a world of subsistence, receiving the nourishment that comes from an udder of routine, where sustenance can be squished to provide for material needs and workable relationships, but lacking that special tit from which to suck that wondrous milk capable of nourishing the heart of one’s heart… the soul.
Even in his dreams, Neb had a problem trying to capture his inner self. He always had felt out of step with the rest of the world. Achieving what most would consider a more than adequate level of success, whether in career accomplishments or partnering to raise a model family, had not been enough for Neb. The one question that constantly flashed through his mind, and had been doing so for years… why was happiness, the love of a soul mate, so elusive to him? Could it turn out to be the one thing Creation had banned from his life?
At times, Neb felt he knew what the problem was… that he was searching for perfection, something out of reach. But it was not perfection, but love he was after… love to match that which had been building up within him for so long, and with such great intensity, that it might prove to be a burden, not a blessing when offered to someone.
How often he had looked into life’s mirror and, as if a ghost, had been unable to capture an image that would define his life; but, instead of an image, there was only a blank of opaqueness. That is… until Leane had split and discarded the integument covering him, and the magicicada, his true nature, was finally out after such a long nymph life.
The awakening had taken place for a pair of cicadas. Leane, a cicada that reinvented herself year after year; and Neb, a periodical cicada, one that had existed in love-limbo, underground, for all of his thirteen years. Two different species of cicadas, Leane and Neb… yet, both were sharing the same summer and one common dream.
As Neb had been freed from his exoskeleton by Leane, he had directed his more than a thousand scolophores to ring the tympanic sounds, the song of courtship, and the melody of love that hopefully will allow the coupling of a one-year cicada with a magicicada to create a new species. Will nature consent to such miracle? Isn’t man deserving of one miracle in the supposed eternity of his life?
Whether the cicadas in his dream, or some of those Dominican sunrays filtering through the undraped areas of the windows, Neb finds himself waking up to his first sunrise in Santo Domingo. Today is the day! For a few seconds, his heart quakes with a reading too high to register in his emotional scale. Today is the day, he repeats… out loud this time, as if to make sure that his consciousness would hear that as a wake-up call.
Rested after almost nine hours of sleep, two or three more than he normally gets, Neb is also drenched from a night spent in a mental rain forest that has made him relive his life… the last two years in slow motion. Rested and drenched, yes, but not as nervous as he had been the day before, or the days leading to this trip. With much needed to be done, Neb purposefully climbs out of bed.
First, the flowers, and for this he is well prepared. Leane had made it clear to him on several occasions of her preference for wild flowers. Not a red-roses girl, his Leane. Wild flowers from whatever fields or slopes anywhere in the world, although she was partial to her Dominican flora. Those wild flowers of Cibao, always dressed in their Sunday brightest… the thousands she had picked as a young girl on her way to Jarabacoa. A week before his trip, Neb had called the flower shop at the hotel and made a most unusual request: “an arrangement of fifty-two orchids, as many varieties as possible but none commercial, nested in ferns brought from the slopes of Pico Duarte.”
And a beautiful arrangement it was! Neb saw it on his arrival the afternoon before, and he was very pleased, as he knew Leane will be… thirteen types of orchids with an orchid-quartet each, as if one for each season, and also one for each year. All he will need to do now is put in an envelope that poem that Leane had written almost two years before, and place it amidst the thickness of the ferns. Yes, Leane will be very pleased!
A pair of dreamers, poets both, that’s what they are. Leane and Neb are purists in love defining; constant seekers, although seldom finders; optimizers and minimizers; always carrying in their hearts a magnifying glass to accentuate their feelings, their desires. Always, from day one, their dreams and expectations had been dyed in the brightest, most vivid hues in the spectrum that was to define their future together.
Early yet, so Neb opts to have breakfast brought to his room before he gets ready for this matutinal journey of heart wrenching proportions. A hearty breakfast, Caribbean-style, the type Leane had always warned she would prepare for him. No croissants or English muffins will be allowed on his table this morning. Little by little, Neb seems to be gaining vitality, his composure just knocking at the door.
Breakfast is in its digestive stage, and personal grooming has concluded. One last look in the mirror, as if to witness that he, Neb, is the person in this sendoff and not some product of yet another dream. And, yes, it is Neb, as he sees his reflection in the mirror; as he lacks the door of his room behind him; as he walks down to the lobby, picks up the flower arrangement, transfers the envelope from his shirt pocket to the clutches of the ferns, and gets into a waiting cab.
As Neb gives the address to the cabbie, he can’t help but think how different this first meeting is going to be from the one they had been planning eighteen months before. No real planning, just brainstorming the sweet, and also the passionate, details of their first get-together. Leane would be waiting at SDQ, all by herself. Jokingly they both had agreed that if their physical appearances did not quite meet each other’s expectations, they would still smile and shake hands. And, if the attraction was uncontrollable and lust evidenced its presence, they would still shake hands, with or without a smile. After all, somebody at the airport might recognize her… and kissing in public was not socially-correct, other than perhaps in the cheek and without a tell-tale embrace. How they had laughed outwardly, and cried inwardly, when planning that first step of their eternal walk. So many times they had talked about that first “real” kiss, even after myriad passionate interludes that had left them fulfilled in every possible respect. Yes… in every possible respect.
Leane need not worry about Neb embarrassing her. Not then, and not now. The cab has finally reached Avenida M‡ximo G—mez, turning left at the Centro Ol’mpico. The cab driver tells Neb that they are just ten minutes away… just need to pass Miraflores and Villa Juana. A serene Neb is beginning to feel the moment… nine, maybe eight minutes from reaching her domicile. He closes his eyes, feeling like no other time in his life… and he clutches the ceramic vase housing the orchids for Leane. He is there… slowly walking away from the cab, vase in hands, with an offering that Leane will hopefully accept: himself.
It has been a year of waiting for Leane at the Cementerio Nacional, and finally her Neb has arrived. Canvas has come to let Brushstroke create masterpiece after masterpiece, bringing wild orchids to witness her genius.
As tears descend Neb’s eyes in greeting fashion, one can tell that a duologue long in coming is about to commence. He is physically a murmur away from her; not a cyber murmur, but a real one at that. But it isn’t a murmur that comes out of Neb’s lips, but a broken loud statement, part declaration, part lament. "My love for you is eternal and boundless, Leane," is proclaimed by a man, in sorrow that pierces the air; then, it is repeated… and repeated once again, in a clearer louder tone, as if making sure those distant from the family vault can hear.
It is hard for Neb to accept the fact that he hasn’t talked to or heard from Leane for a year now. All this time he had to live with nothing but her memory. An exile not so much self-imposed as one dictated by the choices that people are sometimes forced to make so as to reconcile their behavior with the welfare of those they do not wish to hurt. So Neb had paid the price, dwelling in a purgatory that might as well have been hell… and now he is claiming his freedom, his right to receive his share of happiness, and to consummate his love.
It took less than two months from the time of her malignant tumor’s finding and her death. When Neb found out that Leane’s brain tumor operation did not make her whole, he was in utter despair, feeling cheated by the forces of the universe, by the gods that bring miracles to those who are love true believers. Instead of going to her, if for a day, or even an hour, Neb had buried himself in a sepulcher of his own, without Leane by his side. Now, a year later, he is trying to erase a year from his life, and also a year from her death. For an eraser Neb brings a poem that Leane wrote to him four months after they had met, when he told her how inadequate he felt when trying to express the flow of feelings for her; the poem that he now frees from the envelope held by the guarding ferns circling the orchids. Softly, and as a preamble Neb asks Leane to get close to him… and to listen; then begins reading to his beloved the poem she had once e-mailed to him:
I am moved, my love…
You blow my soul, and as a feather playing with the wind
I come and go, also playing with your words.
I am moved, my love…
You, fall short in professing your love? Impossible.
Who with their wings covered the world
And painted the early morn in a pale blue?
Who gifted peace to those who inconsolably cry
And showed the way to the seemingly lost?
Who made an entrance infecting joy
With a pair of maracas in their hands?
Weren't we the ones,
Awakening from a love
That for centuries had remained concealed?
Disappoint me, you? Never!
It's just that words are beginning to fall short
Unable to reflect the waters held back for so long.
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