Naderia

By Julian Gallo

What happens when an American poet, a Uruguayan painter, a Peruvian chef,  a Syrian belly dancer, an Algerian musician and an Italian religious fundamentalist are all searching for meaning and their lives intersect on the streets of Paris?  “Nadería” is a story about failed hopes, unrealized dreams, the nature of identity and when their respective journeys do intersect, the very notion of “meaning” suddenly gets called into question and can potentially have dire consequences.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beat Corrida
• Release date: Jan 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781507066003

Julian Gallo

Julian Gallo lives and works in New York City. His poetry has appeared in over 40 journals throughout the Unites States, Canada and Europe. He is the author of 9 poetry books, "Standing on Lorimer Street Awaiting Crucifixion" (Alpha Beat Press 1996), "The Terror of Your Cunt is the Beauty of Your Face" (Black Spring Press 1999), "Street Gospel Mystical Intellectual Survival Codes" (Budget Press 2000), "Scrape That Violin More Darkly Then Hover Like Smoke in the Air" (Black Spring Press 2001), "Existential Labyrinths" (Black Spring Press 2003), "My Arrival is Marked by Illuminating Stains" (Beat Corrida, 2007), "Window Shopping For a New Crown of Thorns" (Beat Corrida, 2007), "A Symphony of Olives" (Propaganda Press 2009) and "Divertimiento" (Propaganda Press 2009). He is also the author of 6 novels, "November Rust (Beat Corrida, 2007), "Naderia" (Beat Corrida, 2011), "Be Still and Know That I Am" (Beat Corrida, 2011), "Mediterraneo" (Beat Corrida, 2012), "Europa" (Beat Corrida, 2013), the short story collection "Rapid Eye Movements" (Beat Corrida 2014) and "Rhombus Denied" (Beat Corrida, 2015)

Book preview

"We are, I  thought, victims of a double mirage. If we look outward and attempt to penetrate things, our outer world loses solidity and ends up dissolving before our eyes, as we come to believe that it exists because of us, not in their own right.

But, if convinced of an intimate reality, we look inward, then everything seems

to come from without and it’s our inner world, ourselves, that fades out.

What to do then? Weave the thread we are given, dream our dream, live."

Antonio Machado

Cazar Moscas

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Nothing: Non-existence: worthlessness: trivialities: every day sayings we often take for granted: It’s better than nothing: It’s nothing: It’s nothing to me: Theres nothing more that I would rather do: the word nothing slipping endlessly into our every day lives.  We exist in relation to nothing.  It’s everywhere.  It’s part of our living.  Heidegger had the idea: in this world there is a basic opposition between being and nothing: you can form an idea of existence only in relation to non-existence: you can grasp some things only by seeing the absence of other things: this is the idea of the world as a whole: it is this nothing which has seeped into language in all the negatives and ways of negating, but without them, we could not reason: our reasoning has its origins in the Void: the epitome of all that is beyond comprehension....

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Dario wondered what there was to comprehend as he watched Julia prepare matė in the kitchen.  Her long black hair?  Her beautiful shape?  The fact that she’s wearing nothing but a T-shirt over that gorgeous body of hers?  Or maybe it was a sleeping Ana trapped beneath the twisted bed sheets on the mattress; her firm, smooth, tanned leg poking through the array of cotton and silk?  Maybe it was the way Julia slid her feet across the kitchen floor as she spooned the matė into the two gourds on the counter before reaching for the bombillas in the dish rack?  This was all there was to contemplate at the moment as he gazed around the apartment in a half-daze, watching the misty rain blanket the quiet streets of Paris, waiting to hear the sounds of the morning traffic or the muezzin’s prayer call come drifting through the living room window. 

He reached for a cigarette and lit it off the flame of the burning candle sitting quietly on the coffee table in front of him, its light shimmering ever so gently in the darkened living room next to a book of paintings by Ignacio Zuloaga.  It was warm to the touch and he cupped it between his hands in order to warm them up.  It was colder than usual that morning.  He gently placed the candle on the table and exhaled a plume of smoke toward a sleeping Ana, watched as it enveloped her.  Not that she will even notice being that she had come home so drunk last night that he was amazed that she was able to walk on her own. 

Be careful.  It’s hot, Julia said, handing Dario the matė. 

Thank you, he said, taking it gently, carefully. 

Dario kissed Julia softly on the lips before taking his first tentative sip, allowing the hot, bitter taste to arouse his senses.  Julia sat beside him, the bombilla placed gently between her thick, full lips.  She rested her head on his shoulder and slowly sipped her matė.  She didn’t say anything, she simply watched Ana sleep as he did.  Yes, another quiet morning and a beautiful morning at that, despite the gloom outside.

You always see things in a dark way.

This is what Julia said to him last night during one of their infinite arguments and it bothered him a great deal.  He had no idea why he was still dwelling on it.  He must have heard this a million times from her.  Naturally, he never agreed with this.  He had always tried to explain that his particular brand of existentialist worldview was actually a positive, life-affirming outlook.  He had always said that if there were ever a motto for existentialist thinkers it would have been "Carpe Diem!" Think of the Italian existentialist Nicola Abbagnano, he would tell her, but no she never really knew what the hell he was talking about nor did she really want to.  He always knew that deep down people would hear what they wanted to hear, listen to what they wanted to listen to.  Most of the time people were merely waiting for their turn to speak.  No one is really listening.  This had always been a sore spot for him.  But what did it matter now?  In the end, what does anything really matter?  He knew he had to find the answers for himself.  It is the constant quest: to get to the organic root of the problem.  The question is, what exactly is that problem?  One can’t expect to find the answer when one can’t even articulate the question properly. 

But feeling Julia’s hair against his cheek and smelling the remnants of the previous day’s perfume made it hard to find any problem with anything.  After all, it wasn’t that long ago that he didn’t have anyone at his side and he was sitting in that dank, cold apartment in New York City without anything but the sound of his television and the occasional burst of inspiration that would enable him to jot down a poem or two that would eventually make their way back to his mailbox weeks after he sent them out to the journals.  He had nothing then, but there he was, sometimes pinching himself to make sure it was all real and not just some kind of wonderful dream.  It’s not that he’d been alone for some time now.  There was another before Julia but that all ended very badly.  It wasn’t anything he wanted to think about.  It only compounded the elusive problem.  What was important at that moment was this beautiful woman sitting next to him, that burning candle on the coffee table and that book of paintings by Zuloaga. 

Just take the moment for what it is.  Enjoy it.  Savor it, like you are savoring your matė.  Like you are savoring your quiet time with Julia.  Like you are savoring the notion that you could be back in that lonely apartment in New York City with nothing to look forward to other than another day of frustration, anger and hopelessness.  It sort of puts things in perspective, doesn’t it?  After all, things could be a hell of a lot worse.  Not that things are really bad for you now.  It’s all a mindset.  Maybe Julia was right after all.  Maybe you do see things in a dark way....

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Dario Luzi.  American.  Well, more accurately a New Yorker.  American is too broad a term.  When one thinks of American one thinks apple pie, baseball, small towns, cheerleaders, the captain of the football team, swap meets, military families and a flag draped from every house.  This was not Dario’s America.  Dario’s America was seen by some of his fellow countrymen as not really American but some facsimile thereof.  The ethnic America.  The America of the immigrant experience.  This was Dario’s America.  Second generation by way of southern Italy and North Africa.  Dario’s America was the New York Experience: crime, grit, dirt, crowds, noise and of course, a seemingly inbred cynicism that is common to most, if not all New Yorkers.  In a city where everyone seemed to have an angle, where everyone seemed to be competing against you (whether you are participating or not), a city where everyone  was looking to get over on their fellow neighbor, it wasn’t hard to see why one would see things in a dark way.  Dario’s America was one in which his fellow countrymen were constantly hostile to one another, constantly trying to out-do the other, constantly trying to make his fellow neighbor feel lower than dirt in order to allow them to feel superior to them.  This is the so-called patriot Dario saw around him on a nearly daily basis.  Patriots whose love of country somehow didn’t trickle down to the countries actual inhabitants.

He always knew that Julia would never fully understand this, being that Montevideo is a much different animal than New York City.  Not that there aren’t any bad people there but he was sure the ratio was far less than there was in New York; and being that Julia had grown up under one of the most brutal dictatorships in Latin America, he had often wondered how she could remain so aloof, so detached from the way people could be with one another.  Perhaps it was her complete self-absorption that allowed her to be that way, he often mused.  Completely selfish people are often totally unaware of how others think, feel, live and breathe.  Most of the time, everyone else is merely a prop in their own, self-centered, personal story. 

You always see things in a dark way....

He kept turning this phrase over and over in his mind.  How dare she!  How dare she judge him, make such accusations when she wasn’t fully aware of his situation.  Why did she think he left New York in the first place?  Dario was very serious about his writing.  Primarily a poet, he had often spent hours sitting alone in his one room dump pouring his heart and soul into his work only to have absolutely no one give a damn about it.  He had some token publications here and there and he even made friends through networking through the fragmented poetry scene around New York but no one really gave a damn about him or his writing.  Everyone was just out for themselves.  If someone didn’t gain by knowing someone else, no one was interested.  This had always angered him, especially since he had naively believed that he could get something going with fellow writers and poets.  Nothing doing.  No one cared unless they could profit somehow.  Even those who were closest to him seemed to only pay token interest in what he was doing.  Others thought he was out of his mind, delusional, not real because he never made a dime off his writing.  There were only a few who cared, believed and encouraged him and to them he remained completely loyal to.  Everyone else, he knew they didn’t care nor would they even listen to what he had to say.  Time and time again he told some of his friends that he was going to leave New York for Paris and they merely dismissed him, wrote it all off as another one of his flights of fancies.  One day he kept his promise to himself and off he went, much to the shock of some and to the complete indifference to others who still haven’t realized that he’d been gone for the past couple of years. 

You always see things in a dark way....

Once in Paris, everything had changed.  No one knew him but no one was eager to dismiss him as much as his former friends.  They took him seriously and they were all there to support him.  He even met a nice woman, Josette, who shortly after meeting him invited him to live with her.  For a year or so he was living on cloud nine, living out a dream.  Then he did what he was often capable of doing: screwing things up. 

He had met Julia, a voluptuous, raven haired beauty from Montevideo at a party up in Montmartre.  She had immediately grabbed a hold of his heart (or was it his loins?) and one thing lead to another.  Josette soon learned of his indiscretion and tossed him out on his ass.  He lost all her friends along with her as well as any and all his contacts in Paris.  He found himself alone in a foreign city, barely literate in the native language and basically homeless, abandoned and rejected. 

Julia was his saving grace.  Without her, he would have been royally screwed.  Julia agreed to take him in despite the fact that her apartment wasn’t big enough for herself and her roommate Ana.  They would manage, she said, and thus began the tumultuous relationship which would always remain somewhat undefined.  In the beginning everything was great.  They had a pact.  They were not to get serious but things gradually changed.  Now he didn’t know what the hell was going on and they  had been fighting and arguing more than ever. 

You always see things in a dark way....

Did anyone ever wonder why? 

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Ana cradled a pillow in her arms.  She had a peaceful look on her face, a far cry from how she probably felt.

The expression on Julia’s face revealed a certain warmth as she looked upon the sleeping Ana.  Ana was always a very nice girl, though certainly not the brightest bulb in the lamp when it came to men.  Ever since she had been seeing Antonio she had been coming home drunk more often than usual.  This bothered Julia a great deal although she always tried to downplay it.  Julia could be a little overprotective of her at times.  She felt as if it was her responsibility to look out for her.  That’s just the way she was when it came to Ana.  She was even that way with Dario sometimes but he didn’t seem to mind all that much. He knew that meeting Julia was a blessing in disguise.  He didn’t know what he would have done with himself. 

Julia got up off the couch, knelt down beside Ana, ran her fingers through her thick black hair.  Dario found it adorable that she cared for her as much as she did.  Julia kissed Ana’s forehead and whispered something in Spanish into her ear.  Ana merely grunted, continued to cradle the pillow. 

I better let her be, Julia said.  "She’s completely out of it.  Would you mind refilling my matė?"

Dario took the gourd from her and re-filled it in the kitchen.  He felt Julia come up behind him and wrap her arms around his waist.  He felt her rest her head on his back.  He felt a knot in his throat and a momentary wave of sadness come over him.  This wasn’t supposed to be happening.  He handed her back the matė and they both made their way back to the couch, sipping their matė in silence, watching Ana sleep....

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Ana Rosselli, a thirty-five year old native of Montevideo, Uruguay.  She had virtually grown up with Julia.  They had met  in secondary school in their junior year.  They had immediately hit it off and became very close friends.  Virtually sisters.  Ana’s interest in art and poetry was what first drew Julia to her.  They sat next to each other in their History of Latin American Poetry class.  Both were huge admirers of Pablo Neruda and Uruguay’s most famous poet, Mario Benedetti.  It was their mutual love of his poem Tactics and Strategy that sealed the friendship. 

Since then, they had gone through everything together.  They were there for each other through their tortured relationships with their men throughout secondary school as well as the university they eventually both attended together.  They were there for each other whenever life began to weigh just a little too heavy on one or the other.  They were always there for one another and grew very close and very fond of one another; sharing clothes, make up, advice, secrets, desires, dreams, goals, and eventually, after a drunken girls-night-out after Ana had broken up with her boyfriend, one another.  It was just one of those things.  A few drinks, some heartfelt conversation, a few hugs and before they knew it, kisses and mutual masturbation back in their dorm room.  It never went beyond that nor did they ever speak of it again.  Just one of those things, Julia had always thought. 

As they aged, they grew more close and the more close they became, the more  protective of her Julia became, sometimes to Ana’s annoyance.  Every guy she dated wasn’t good enough.  Every man she was interested was a pig only after her ass.  No one was ever good enough for her in Julia’s eyes.  Ana had always been encouraging and supportive of Julia’s choices and even set her up with a guy now and then.  That respect was never reciprocated.  No one was ever good enough for her Ana.  It had soon begun to be a bone of contention between the two of them which would last for years. 

By their senior year they both had the opportunity to study art in Paris.  They jumped at the chance.  Any chance to get out of Montevideo was fine with them.  They applied, they were accepted and were both excited that they would be traveling together, going to art school together, living together.  Things could not be more perfect.  When they arrived in Paris, everything was as grand and as wonderful as they always thought it to be.  They went to school, eventually graduated and decided they were going to stay permanently.  They each found work and an apartment, albeit a dump directly across the street from a storefront mosque in the Arab neighborhood, but it was something.  It was home.  They each lead their own lives but often spent much of their time together.  They’ve been though a few boyfriends, dealt with the same issues and naturally, remained close as ever, supporting one another like they always had.  Two years later, they had another roommate.  Dario Luzi from America.  Things haven’t been the same since.

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You still think about her, don’t you? Julia said after a long silence.

Think about who?

You know who.

Are you serious?

...

What do you expect?  To forget about it all?

No, I don’t expect you to forget about it, it’s just...

What?

You’re still writing about her.

What, are you going through my notebooks?

Why?  Are we suddenly keeping secrets now?

No, it’s not that.  What’s the matter?  You think I’m keeping secrets from you that you have to go through my books to see what I am thinking about?  Why not just ask me?

I don’t know....

What’s wrong?  What’s on your mind?

If by some chance she was to come back, would you go back to her?

You’re kidding me, right?  After everything I did?  Do you think that she would actually take me back?

So you’ve thought about it.

No, I haven’t.  Julia, what’s on your mind?  What’s this all about?

After a long pause, It just seems that you’re still burning a candle for her, that’s all.

That was two years ago.  It’s over.  I’m not going to lie and say I don’t think about her.  I loved her.  What do you expect?  What’s really going on here?  Are you having thoughts about us?  Are you changing your mind about our relationship?

No...I want things to stay the way they have always been between us.

Then what difference does it make whether or not I would see her again or anyone else for that matter?  Remember, we aren’t supposed to be serious here.

...

Again, silence.  What’s the problem?  Talk to me.

Julia didn’t say anything.  Instead she got up off the couch and climbed back into bed.  Dario sat there watching her for a moment as she lied there with her arm behind her head, staring at the ceiling.  Ana stirred then pulled the remainder of the sheets over her body and groaned, leaving Julia without anything covering her.  Dario stubbed out his cigarette and climbed into bed next to her, slowly pushing her toward the middle.  He kissed her forehead, played with her hair.  He could just make out a glimpse of a smile on her face.  He could also see the beginning of a tear running down her cheek....

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For Julia Neri, everything in life seemed to be teetering on the edge of total wonderment and total disaster.  There was never any in between.  It merely depended on the day exactly where her mind would be at.  Sometimes it would depend on the hour.  Julia had always been one to worry about everything although she had always tried to keep up a tough exterior to show the world.  Deep down she was a mess and she knew it.  A lot of other people knew it too but she was one of those women blessed with such beauty that no one would ever acknowledge it.  Everyone just went along with the fallacy that everything was all right because they were too afraid to fall out of her good graces.  The curse of many beautiful women.  No one really takes them seriously enough to be completely honest with them.  They are all afraid of losing their chance so to speak.  So whatever problem they may have found with her on a personal or emotional level was always swept under the rug.  Better to ignore it than to risk losing the chance to sleep with her.  She always knew this too and she always did a very good job pretending that it wasn’t occurring.  After all, she wanted friends.  She needed people around her.  If she had cut off everyone who didn’t take her seriously, she’d have no one. 

Dario seemed to be the first man to ever take her seriously.  He never cared about losing his chance with her.  That’s what she adored about him, even though this honesty caused them to fight all the time.  She respected a man more if he were not intimidated by her, not afraid of her.  Dario certainly wasn’t but at the same time there was a little part of her that resented that fact as well.  How dare he not shake in his shoes over me!  How dare he not be intimidated like all the others!  It is always a delicate balance. 

Dario was also a man.  A grown man; on the lighter side of forty, a good number of years older than her.  Julia wasn’t used to this.  Most of the men she had ever dealt with her men considerably younger than her, men who were really still boys either struggling to be men or guys who thought they were men but were really still little boys at heart.  It was easy for her to play her manipulation games with them.  The promise of pussy or the threat of keeping it from them was all she had to do to keep them on their toes.  That was her usual M.O.  With Dario it was different.  He didn’t seem to care one way or the other and this drove her crazy sometimes.  Sometimes she would resent him for that as well, reasoning that he saw her as nothing more than a bratty kid, not the voluptuous, sexy woman she was.  Other times, she respected him for it.  Again, it depended on the day or the hour or the minute.

Julia found herself confused, unable to figure out what was going on in Dario’s mind.  She didn’t like feeling helpless and not being able to have any leverage at all.  When this happened, she cried.  All of her issues come rushing to the surface and she couldn’t handle it well at all.  Tears.  Sometimes tears worked as a manipulation tactic too.  But not now.  For this moment her tears are real and right now she just can’t make sense of anything. 

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It was not yet noon and Dario found himself staring out the rain speckled window down onto the wet, glistening streets of the 20th Arrondissement.  A few of the Muslims who gathered at the mosque downstairs were still mulling around outside; bearded, smoking, talking passionately about one thing or another in Arabic.  He could hear them even though the window is closed.  He wondered what they might be talking about.  Politics?  Their status in French society?  Religion?  Who the hell knew anymore.  It really didn’t matter.  Little by little the world is going to hell in a handcart and the clash of civilizations is continuing at full force.  Ridiculous.  Twenty-first century man fighting over Bronze Age ideas.  It’s enough to make anyone sick.  The funny thing was that he had always respected their culture very much, having read countless books on the subject.  He didn’t have much interest in their religion—-or any religion for that matter as a matter of practice.  He didn’t believe in God but he always saw religion as being too intertwined with historical events for it not to be studied and understood.  The Muslim culture in particular was always a source of great fascination for him and he often enjoyed listening to the prayer calls in the morning wafting through their living room window. 

It was a little warm in the apartment so he opened the window a little to let some of the cool, early Spring air in.  It was a bit chilly and it immediately made its way into the room, causing Ana to grumble again and turn over.  Not a happy camper at all.  Julia was still sleeping.  He couldn’t sleep and he was trying to figure out what to do with himself.  It was raining at a steady clip.  It always seemed to be raining as of late.  A great day to just sit home and write. 

He hadn’t been able to write as much as he liked to because there was always something going on with Julia or Ana or the two of them and their constant penchant for wanting to have company over at all hours of the day and night.  There was no extra room in the apartment for him to work in peace so naturally, it went by the wayside until there was a moment of peace when Julia was at work.  He always found a way to procrastinate. Wandering around Paris, sitting in cafés, sipping his coffee, reading and generally wasting his time.  He often wondered what the hell had gotten into himself.  A feeling of stagnation and the realization that he was pissing his life away came over him.  He didn’t want to admit it but it was true.  He often thought about getting out of there, telling Julia to fuck off and start anew somewhere else.  But isn’t that what he’d always done?  Isn’t that what brought him there in the first place?  What have you learned over the past few years?

You are often asking yourself these days where your place is.  Where do you fit in in the scheme of things?  Who the hell are you, anyway?  You’ve been thinking about your family, who you haven’t seen in years.  You’ve been thinking about your father who passed away so long ago now.  Who was he?  Where did he come from?  There seems to be more and more of a pull towards where you come from, hasn’t there?  That face that stares back at you in the mirror is more than a mere reflection of your face.  In it, there is a story to be told.  In it, is the countless generations that have walked this earth before you.  Who were these people?  And what were the circumstances that allowed you to be standing right here, right now, thinking about them?

As he looked outside at the Muslims deep in their conversation, he realized that their faces weren’t much different from his but culturally he was completely different from them.  What’s the deal with that?  And does it even matter?  He remembered a friend of his back in New York who never cared to discuss such things.  To even think about being anything else, to connect to your roots was tantamount to treason in his eyes.  But that’s the new American mindset apparently.  The same mindset that would throw all those downstairs into a camp if given the chance.  The scary thing was, you just don’t know these days.  Everyone seemed to have a bone to pick with everyone about something but not realizing that we are all much closer to one another than we liked to admit. 

He sat at his desk to jot these ideas down into his notebook.  No sooner than the pen hit the page he felt Julia’s lips on the side of his neck.  It felt good, warm, loving but once again he closed his notebook with just a half a sentence written down.  Perhaps he’d remember all this later....

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"¿Que hora es?" Ana grumbled from the bed.

"Dos y media." Julia said, making her way into the kitchen.  Then to Dario, You think the girl wants to sleep her life away.

Ana wasn’t in the mood. She climbed out of bed, naked from the waist down, grabbed her bathrobe off the floor and stomped into the bathroom.  The sound of the shower sounded as angry as she did.

She’s in a mood, Dario said.

What else is new?  Feel like something to eat?  I’m hungry.

I’m ok.

What are we going to do this afternoon?  Is it still raining?

Yes.

Shit.

What are you gonna do?

Is that your answer for everything?  Can’t I be upset if I want to be?

What’s the hell...?

She didn’t say anything.  Suddenly she began banging the forks, plates and knives around. He found it increasingly tiring that her moods were going from hot to cold with a blink of an eye and he didn’t like the fact that he’d been increasingly forced to walk on eggshells around her in order not to set her off.  Sooner or later this was all going to come to a head.  He was amazed it hadn’t happened already.  They’ve been fighting and arguing a lot over the past three months.  He didn’t really know why.  He knew what she was like long before he decided to get involved with her.  He always knew her sarcastic side, her bitchy side and a fuse that burns fairly quickly but those moments were once few and far between.  What has gotten into her lately and why was he putting up with it?  It had become increasingly clear to him that he just didn’t care anymore and thoughts of getting the hell out of there increased with each incident such as this. 

Instead of arguing, he got dressed, took over the bathroom after Ana stomped out.  It was the only moment of privacy he seemed to have these days.  Why not take advantage of it?  He sat on the toilet, smoked through his cigarette as he listened to Julia and Ana sputter in Spanish over God knows what.  They’re always arguing too lately, usually Julia starting the argument.  Ana too had been wondering what was bothering Julia as of late.  It wasn’t common for them to argue this much.  It seemed that in this particular case, three was definitely becoming a crowd.  It couldn’t go on like this for much longer. 

The shame of it was that in the beginning everything was great.  After Dario’s last relationship fell apart, Julia allowed him to move in with them.  He had nowhere else to go. It seemed like the natural and most logical thing to do.  After all, it seemed as if he and Julia had something beginning there even though the both of them agreed from the outset that it would always remain loose and open.  But things tend to change and the longer he spent time there, the more and more like a couple they began to become. 

Of course, early on, he seemed more free.  He had more time to write, more time to go out and do things, less time having to placate her and less time having to make sure that everything was all right with her.  It went from being a loose, open, freewheeling relationship to being one that needed to constantly reassure her that she was pretty, that she was smart, that she was dressed nicely, that her hair looked good, that she wasn’t fat, that he wasn’t going to go back to America, etc etc; and everything else in between.  Slowly but surely, the more and more difficult she had become.  He began to feel that she was taking him for granted.  He began to feel that she was that woman he initially met: an egotist who cared for nothing but herself and her own well being.  The whole world revolved around her and if it didn’t she’d find a way to make it so, no matter what the situation. 

What on earth made you begin to see her differently from that, you don’t know?  Ass?  Vagina?  Breasts?  Lips? 

Most likely.  Man’s weakness.  And they knew it too.  But those days were slowly coming to an end.  He could feel it more and more with each outburst, each childish rant and antic.  For Christ’s sake you’re forty years old.  Do you really need this?

He slipped into his coat and hat and made his way to the door.

Where are you going? she barked.

Out.  I need cigarettes and I need some air.  I’ll be back later.

But I thought...

But he didn’t hear the rest.  Only the slamming of the door behind him and  the sound of his own feet pounding the stairs.

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Dario found himself on the Metro but he had no particular destination in mind.  He just sat there people watching and turning things over in his mind.  He needed a moment to himself, to think about things, but most importantly, to get away from that madhouse.  Enough was enough for one morning.  Hell, the morning pissed itself away.  It was nearly mid afternoon.  He looked at the faces in front of him and wondered what was going on in their lives.  They seemed happy for the most part.  What was their secret?  They probably had the same issues as anyone else but what was it about them that they are able to let it roll off their back and go through life with a sense of happiness and contentment? 

What is your problem? 

He felt tired, tired of feeling so gloomy all the time.  All he wanted to do was enjoy life, to be free of nonsense and just live happily. 

What are you doing to make that happen? 

The answer was nothing.  Nada.  So who’s fault was it, really?  Enough was enough. 

He got off the Metro at the Palais Royal - Musee de Louvre station and began walking.  He took the steps down to the quay along the river and just walked, thinking.  This little walk brought back memories.  Some good, some not so good.  But it was quiet, misty, and he walked, smoking, thinking of what he was going to do with himself.  He found a bench and just sat there for a while, turning things over in his mind.  Occasionally his thoughts were interrupted by people walking by, some walking their dogs, others walking with each other hand in hand. 

That’s the kind of thing you’re talking about.  Even in the rain, here is a young couple walking without a care in the world.  What happened with you?  Why is it that you always get yourself into situations where there is a constant stream of angst and difficulty? 

He lost track of time.  It was nearly sundown by the time he was ready to get up and walk back to the Metro station and go home.  Spring was beginning to show signs of life.  The trees were beginning to sprout, the air was getting a little bit warmer. 

Now if only the rain would stop....

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They fought well into the night, back and forth, each trying to make their point, but no one was budging.  Clearly, it was a moot exercise, but they continued anyway.  The art of the argument: no one giving or taking: no one really listening: each waiting for their turn to burst out and scream their point at the other.  What was the point?  It was clear this wasn’t getting them anywhere.  Eventually it was Julia’s turn to grab the coat and storm out of the house, mumbling something about how there were plenty of people in Paris who would love to have her.  Dario just didn’t care anymore. 

Go!  Go do whatever the hell you want!  I just don’t give a shit anymore.  Go ahead!  Enjoy yourself! 

After she was gone, he lit a cigarette and sat at his desk, jotting down his frustrations into the notebook.  He realized she had been through it again, noticing her fingernail polish stains on the right hand corners of all the pages.  So much for trust.  He wrote and wrote and wrote.  He had come to realize that this wasn’t going to work if things remained as they were but what could one do?  Where would he go?  He suddenly felt panic, suddenly felt trapped. 

Take a deep breath.  There’s always a way. 

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The divine bursts out laughing, you confess.  Exhausted with the present circumstances, you need to shut your eyes and think and take a break, put the kettle on, brew some maté and relax.  You will allow a dream to swallow you in one gulp.  To swim in black rain, wondrously, deliriously, to wait and grow calm, gather up the scattered bis of the day and retreat into nothingness.  You are complicating things like a semi-lame bullfighter.  Ok.  Maté finished.  Another day done.  The ashtrays are full and the fires have been lit.  Can you see me?  Even now the night is spotted with shadow.  Watch them shiver on the ceiling.  Watch them slowly crawl about the room.  The windows are open for them to escape but they do not budge; merely shiver, watching, lurking, waiting for the moment to lunge at you as you swing down into the darkness.  Your eyes remain open, you are feeling nothing, touching the untouchable....

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Julia was painting.  There was once a time when he could sit there and watch her for hours: the way she handled the brush, watching how her ideas had come together: it was always a source of fascination for him.  Now he watched her compose a black painting.  Nothing.  Black.  He didn’t understand what she was trying to do.  Was the idea to make it as black as possible?  She didn’t acknowledge him the whole time.  Her attention was focused solely on putting more and more globs of black on the canvass.  What was once a source of fascination has now turned into one of annoyance.  He felt has if she was doing it on purpose.  The globs of black, her silence, the complete inattentiveness to the fact that he was even there.  It all fit together.  He thought it was a passive-aggressive moment.  Symbolic to the state of his relationship with her.  Black.  Nothing.  But not just black.  Deep black.  A deep nothing.  He continued to watch her.  He didn’t know why.  For some reason he thought that something would emerge from all that black, that somehow, some way, some image may appear which would reveal the secret that burned inside her head.  Nothing ever emerged.  A big nothing.  Black. Deep black.  More and more black.  Globs of black here, there, sometimes smearing it with her fingers, other times just leaving the glob where it was first applied.  She kept going for more and more black.  He knew she knew he was there watching but she did not stop, she did not turn around, she did not look over her shoulder to ask him what he thought of it as she normally did.  She just kept applying the black.  More and more black.  An hour goes by, maybe two, he didn’t know and all he saw is more and more black.  A deep nothing....

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As Julia painted, he read.  Sitting on the couch, by candlelight as Julia liked to keep the living room at night, he slowly went through his used copy of "The Legacy of Muslim Spain" by Salma Khadra Jayyusi.  Just a chance find at the bookstore. He wasn’t even looking for something like it but it somehow caught his eye and he kept going back to it. So he bought it and took it home.  He didn’t know why but there was something about the photo on the cover.  A mammoth of a book, running at nearly one thousand pages, there was something that just kept drawing him back to it, no matter how often he put the book back in the pile of other incoming books.  His eye kept falling to it.  So now he had it, reading quietly, in bad light, as Julia continued to work on her new piece non-stop. 

The more he poured over it, the more he looked at the photos, the more drawn to it he felt.  He kept asking himself why this was?  He didn’t have an answer for it.  It just did.  There was something about these people and places that seem oddly familiar to him, bringing him back to when he was a child at his grandmother’s house, table full of food, everyone around eating, laughing, enjoying life.  Look at the contrast: sitting in darkness on a rainy, misty, cold night as the woman he thinks he adores continues to plop black globs of oil paint on a canvas, knowing full well it was somehow about himself! 

You always see things in a dark way....

He set the book down to go make himself a cup of coffee.  Julia didn’t bother to look away from the canvass.  Ana was curled up in the bed, pretending to sleep.  The stereo was on very low, filling the room with the sound of Coralie Clement.  In the kitchen he realized that something had to give.  It had been a steady spiral downward and he didn’t know why this was bothering him as much as it was.  This was exactly how he had always wanted it to be.  Now that it was happening exactly the way he wanted, he was not happy with it. 

What the hell is wrong with you? 

Absentmindedly spooning the grinds into the espresso pot, he thought about earlier days when coming to Paris filled him with immense joy.  Naturally, he thought of Josette.  He thought of how he ended up in this situation and wanted to kick himself in the ass. 

Why can’t you ever just enjoy the moment as it is?  Why are you always lamenting something or pining away for something else? 

You always see things in a dark way....

Dario thought about how he should be enjoying the cup of coffee he is making, or at least enjoying the preparation of it, yet he was already thinking miles ahead, thinking of what he was going to do next week, next month or next year; and if not that, he was thinking about four years ago when he first stepped off the bus at Montparnasse.  How about enjoying the moment? 

You always see things in a dark way....

But how was one to enjoy being in a room with a passive aggressive nut job?  How does one enjoy the moment when the moment was being spent watching a woman create a work of art which was an obvious critical statement of yourself?  It was like standing there, being insulted and taking it like an asshole.  How do you enjoy the moment. Suddenly, he felt a bit of rage rise up in himself.  He poured himself the coffee and made his way back to the couch, eyeing Julia with such contempt that he didn’t think he had it in him to actually feel that way towards her.  All silently, of course.  Anything more would cause a raging fight and was too damn late in the evening for that.  Besides, all he wanted was some peace and quiet, to enjoy his book, to use the pages as some sort of portal to whisk himself away to a land of olives, wine and whitewashed houses.  White and blue as compared to nothing but black and candlelight.

The music changes: Françoise Hardy: he liked her: reminded him of Josette.  He wondered if this was also a passive aggressive move on Julia’s part because he knew she knew that Josette was very fond of her music.  He looked up at her with disgust, thinking that this was exactly what she was doing.  He felt it was only a matter of time before he lost it.  What is this game?  Seriously.  How much longer was this charade supposed to go on? 

Outside, it was still raining.  The wind was whipping the rain against the window.  He felt damp, cold.  He looked at the cover of the book again and once again he felt himself pine away for that landscape.  Nothing was really holding him back.  He could just up and go if he had wanted.  Knowing this made him feel a little better.  Knowing this was his upper hand if he had ever decided to play Julia’s game.

But aren’t you already?

Just by being quiet and not speaking up, he was playing right into her hands.    This is ridiculous, grown men and women acting this way.

He sipped the coffee, returned to reading his book....

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Crisp early morning Jardin du Luxembourg.  Many faces about.  It was the first time in days that the sun had made it’s appearance.  Breezy: cold: crisp.  Dario sat on a bench watching the passersby, thinking.

Are you ready to leave this all behind?

He thought that maybe he was.

A sojourn.  A journey. each for your own reasons:

Julia, she could not come, no.  That was the whole idea.  To get away.  To start anew.  To seek what he was seeking.  In this grand and wondrous existence just where did he fit in, that is, if there was anything to fit into at all?  Crisp, cool air.  The mothers and their strollers with their little French babies, their little Arab babies, their little Pakistani babies; each one of them here but not asked to be.  What were they going to think once they become aware?  Why were they here?  No choice of their own, just brought into the world by someone else’s decision that they wanted them.  None of us asked to be born yet here we are.  We are thrust into the world, now deal with it.  Still, it was better than not being in the world, he thought, then again, he wouldn’t know any differently.  The eternal questions: questions without any real substantial answers yet thousands of years and millions of brilliant minds attempted, still, no one knew a God damn thing.  We just guess.  That’s the best we could do: guess.  He thought the attempt was a noble one, despite the fact that deep down, in the darkest recesses of the mind, we all know that at best it’s all a guess and no one really knows anything for certain though some believe they did.  They cite God.  God: a being that also can’t be proven.  Faith: believing it because one wants to believe it.  No proof.  No matter.  Yet another path to follow to find the elusive answer to everything; but we know nothing.  Nothing: because that’s what it is ultimately.

A big nothing that we make up as we go along....

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Antonio Flores stepped back from his latest culinary creation, one hand on his hip, the fingers of this other hand pressed to his lips. 

"Magnifique!"

He picked up a fork, collected a little bit off the plate and brought the fork closer to Ana’s mouth. 

Taste, he said, watching her with giddy anticipation. 

Ana tasted the morsel and Antonio was immediately thrilled as he watched her smile, her eyes rolling upward. 

"Mmmm, this is delicious! Ana said, feeling nearly orgasmic from the virtual brilliance of Antonio’s dish.  This is wonderful.  Absolutely wonderful."

I’m glad you like it, he said, kissing her lightly on the forehead.  This is something I’ve always had wanted to do.  Is it really delicious?

See for yourself.

Antonio picked up another sample, tastes it.  He was very satisfied.

I tell you, Ana.  I think this is the best dish I have ever made.

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Antonio Flores came to Paris a number of years ago to go to culinary school.  Becoming a chef was very important to him.  Back home in Peru, he was always experimenting with different things, having a great love of food and the art of cooking.  He was known as a master in the kitchen to his friends and family in Lima and he had entertained many a friend and colleague from his tiny Miraflores apartment for many years.  It was only after much encouragement did he decide to make a serious go at becoming a chef.  Up until then, he merely experimented in his own kitchen while he frittered away his time working as a legal assistant in a law firm. 

Cooking was his greatest love but never really thought seriously about making it a career.  Not everyone loved his creations, though, which tended to lean more European than South American.  French, Spanish and Italian cooking in particular was his specialty.  Many of his fellow Peruvian associates thought him pretentious for not cooking native food and wanting to go European.  This was something that always hit a raw nerve.  Was he not also European?  Was he not a descendant of Spanish explorers?  But that was the rub.  His penchant for the use of the word explorers.  With his strong Indian features, short stature and obvious Inca blood in his veins, the word explorers often rubbed his friends and associates the wrong way.  Conquerers was the more accurate term for them and Antonio was merely shedding his native self to go European.  This was something that always made him very angry.  Had he not had a right to define himself?  What gave them a right to lay claim on who he was?  He did not disown his native ancestry in his own mind.  He merely accentuated the European.  Nothing wrong with that, was there?  To many, there was, and he became increasingly alienated from many of his friends and colleagues.  In addition to love of European cooking, his love for European literature and film also aggravated the situation among his friends.  To them, he was trying to shed his true Peruvian identity as if it were something to be ashamed of.  Just look in the mirror, pal.  You may think you’re European but the face that stares back at you says otherwise! 

So he worked and saved his money.  He made a fairly decent living at the law firm but saving was tough.  While he saved, he cooked in his spare time, impressing many of his girlfriends (who tended to be more white and European adding to the resentment of many of his associates).  But he didn’t care.  They were beautiful women. Who cared whether they