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.
Chapter Three
I Met Jodie Wright on a Tuesday in March. Even now, after all these years, if they ask me how she was, it would be difficult for me to answer that question. Without a doubt, she was a woman that shined in every sense. Someone who can point and discover things in your life that are - simple, important, yours - which haven’t caught your attention before.
I remember her aspect: radiant. She drew attention towards her: slim, thirty something, incredibly attractive. She contemplated a painting in the small gallery in Santa. Monica. The Donna Marie Gallery, on Third Avenue. Tanned, Honey colored eyes, perfect lips. She dressed casually, a pair of worn out jeans, White t-shirt and a green jersey knotted at the neck. She admired the frame with a sense of detachment as if she was looking through a window. Her eyes seemed to maintain a deep conversation with the work in a way that silence seemed obligatory.
After I began my second tour of the gallery, having taken a quick and very general look the first time, I went to stand next to her. The painting that caught her attention was an impressionist landscape depicting a dive jump on a lake surrounded by plant foliage.
Jodie watched the painting and I watched her. After a little while, our eyes crossed, once, twice. Even though I could see in her eyes an air of disapproval for having interrupted her state of suspension towards the frame, I told her:
- The colors of the water seem right, but its missing depth, everything on it seems on the surface. Don’t you think?
I didn’t get an answer, not in that moment. Only half a look and half a smile for courtesy. She was only trying to be nice. So we continued contemplating the work while I backed off in silence. Over a certain level of quality, it is difficult to talk about good or bad jobs. A painting either get’s there or it doesn’t. It’s that simple.
And it seemed it captivated her, not any other, but that landscape in particular. A second later, without expecting it, and just as I was leaving, she turned around and said:
- I once dreamt this landscape, but when I saw this painting I understood the shortage of refinements in my imagination. Have you ever been to a place where you had been in your mind?
I understood indeed. In my job, it used to happen: first I imagine it, and then I put it into the paintings. I nodded and answered the question:
- I know what you mean. It´s like discovering, all of a sudden, that people share the same ideas but they express them in different ways. We all know everything even though we might have forgotten it. And the mystery of those coincidences amazes us and leaves us perplexed.
- Yes, that’s true.
- Do you like the painting? – I asked.
-Yes. And for a very special reason.
-And can that reason be known?
We talked without taking our eyes off the painting, like two strangers, until she turned and shook my hand:
-My name is Jodie Wright –she introduced herself with a smile.
-Victor Bruguera. Nice to meet you.
We shook hands. The ice had melted. Almost.
After the presentation I remember we talked about the painting. I asked her if she painted. She laughed openly: “No I don’t paint, Do you paint?” She asked curiously. Her smile could affect anybody.
- Yes and no – I responded timidly since I concluded that people tended to overate my profession.
-So, Do you make a living out of it? –she asked.
-Let’s just say that I make ends meet –I lied.
-And that accent, it’s from…
-Spain.
She nodded. We continued our tour of the gallery. From each of the paintings she seemed to extract and enormous amount of information. Not from their subject matter, but from what could have moved the author the paint it.
She told me that art and creativity comforted her and gave her infinite longing in its absence. «Do you know what I mean? », she asked.
I wasn’t sure I understood, but I listened to her with interest. Feeling admiration for someone can be very special. And she was the kind of person that awoke admiration pretty fast, as fast as lit gunpowder fuse.
Some women I met before only came and went. Some of my old partners cured my loneliness, but I cannot say they gave me real company. Not at least the kind of Quality Company that turns into complicity. Clara, my wife, was the exception. After her death, I became uninterested with meeting other women and when it got intimate, it was only to shake the feeling of loneliness at least for a while. And then, of course, nothing beautiful came from it, since our bodies joined, but not our souls. I believe that a couple can keep their bodies together, but their souls in an unsalable distance: Which means, a commitment without a commitment. I am talking about
