Gnuj & Alt

By Edgar Smith

When Alt meets Gnuj, a woman twenty years younger, their worlds collide, turning everything upside down. Lonesome and married to a man living in another country, Gnuj allows Alt to get close to her and woe her into a love she would have never guessed she'd ever entertain. In his debut English novel, Edgar Smith stirs the waters of our thought fountains by questioning the influence of our upbringing, the people who raise us, the effects of our surroundings and the power of love. Ultimately, in the voice of Alt, the narrator of the story, the reader travels to the times of the characters' childhoods because, according to Alt, it is there where all the answers to our lives dwell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9780989719384

Book preview

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Chapter 1

Gnuj was, in the real world, a summer love. When it comes to Love, there’s the real world, where things actually occur and have consequence; and then there is the ideal world, where love is measured, assessed and fantasized. They are interconnected: one depends to some extent on the other, reciprocally.

In the real world, Love is all about the senses, the connection of the flesh, the communication, the chemistry and the sex, the acts that lead to pride or disappointment, the dates, the celebrations, the subtle actions of discouragement, the gestures, the respect and the ruptures of idealism.

Idealism then is what the other world is comprised of. In the ideal world, Love paces faster than in its physical counterpart. It goes deeper, engulfs more. Not limited to the flesh or to stamina or to looks, the ideal love can transcend time and space, beauty and ugliness, the sexual as well as the sensual; and dwell in a sort of cocoon by and of itself. In its own time, it may die or become immortal. Although Gnuj was a summer love in the real world, in the ideal world she was much more than that. She was a true, honest, beautiful, yet flawed kind of love.

We met at a house party in the Bronx. She was the friend of a friend of Helen’s, whom I used to work with. Originally, the whole thing had been conceived as an improvised get-together among co-workers, but, as with most good parties, friends called friends and in the blink of an eye, it was going down. As people came in, alcohol bottles made continuous and fabulous entrances. Somebody mentioned food and, right away, a few ladies took hold of the kitchen determined to delve into the mystic arts of spaghetti, tomato sauce, and garlic. Somebody magically set up a dominoes table1 while the speakers shook from the power of the bass accompanying the medley of way-too-loud songs. Couples punished the tiles as they danced their bachatas2 and salsas3, bumping into furniture and turning cups over. In no time, the living room filled with laughter, friendly riot and conversation, both loud and hushed, and soon smelled of booze and of the very peculiar scent of sweat when mixed with fun and laughter.

Unremarkably, I saw Gnuj. She stood quietly by a painting whose theme I have forgotten. She appeared wrapped in that intimate tranquility only really lonely people seem to convey. She had a cup in her hand and her hair in a bun. She was dressed to go unnoticed and wore no make-up. Her eyes drifted from one side to the other. Gnuj was not what one may refer to as a pretty woman. She had a pleasant ordinariness to her, what I’ve come to think of as the ‘almost’ quality. She was almost pretty, almost hot, almost sexy. As a matter of fact, looking back, I could easily tag her entire presence at that party with the ‘almost’ label, for, indeed, she was so drawn into her own space that I could say she was almost there.

Probably moved by the miraculous inhibitions of alcohol, I found myself standing before her, cup in hand, grinning silly —probably— and asking her to dance. She seemed slightly amused, if I recall correctly; a smirk on her face, one almost empty cup in her light-skinned hand. No, thanks, she said, still grinning. Why not? I insisted, then made a corny comment she may have found funny just not to be rude. Don’t’ you know how to dance? Yeah, but I don’t want to right now. She had chubby cheeks in spite of her really thin frame, and her hair, in spite of the bun, was long and dark, like a nightmare. Her skin looked like notebook paper without the stripes, and she was half an inch taller than I was. She reminded me, briefly, of Popeye’s Olive.

Helen was dancing by herself, so I joined in. She would later say it wasn’t true, but I know Gnuj kept glancing at me. She’d just dart a quick look, curious perhaps. I’d look at her and smile, or, when she was not looking, just stare at her for a minute until her eyes would slide toward mine and then I’d look away, pretending. It was very childish, this eye game, and kind of nice.

More dancing and more beers, and a sip of vodka my good friend Edward gave me, and I was already drunk. Gnuj seemed even more distant texting on her cell phone. Boyfriend? She looked up, no trace of emotion on her face. Husband. She said a little too loudly. Oh wow, you’re married? It was genuine surprise on my part. Gnuj was really young. At that moment, she was twenty going on twenty-one, in just a couple of months. And she looked just every single one of her years on this earth, not one day older. That’s a surprise. I said stupidly. She nodded, never looking at me but at her cell.

Been married long? One year. Oh, wow, don’t tell me your husband’s here watching me, I giggled drunkenly. "No, he is in DR4. She said, her countenance serious, her eyes stapled to the cell phone. Is that why you didn’t want to dance? Still smiling like a fool. Maybe." And although she did not, I could have sworn her shoulders had been just shrugged. That should have been my queue to leave her alone, but I guess alcohol does not relate too well to queues.  As a matter of fact, the one attribute I can attest about alcohol is oblivion. That’s where I wound up that night: into the obscure realms of oblivion.

Chapter 2

co·in·ci·dence  (k-ns-dns, -dns)

n. 2. A sequence of events that although accidental seems to have been planned or arranged.

I found this definition of coincidence in an online dictionary. I’m sure most dictionaries define it similarly. I wonder how the average man defines it, though. I’ve noticed that we find ourselves on the spot when asked to define a word.

I remember a friend showed me a video once about odds. In it, chance and coincidence were being debunked, diminished by the sheer genius of probability, systematic logic, and the influence of determinism. They assured that coincidence does not exist, that what we call coincidence is but an inevitable occurrence within a number of possibilities. Running into your German girlfriend from sixth grade in the beaches of Brazil may seem like a coincidence to you, but in truth, they assured, it is not. It is but a matter of choice. You chose to go to Brazil and so did she. It is irrelevant that you both chose the exact same week out of the fifty something weeks in a year to travel to exactly the same country, to exactly the same beach, and at exactly the same time. There is no coincidence they said, just two choices and probability.

Period. There was, I can’t deny it, a seductive ring to all that babble. To think that the events of life could be calculated and explained by numbers gave me then a suspicious –and fleeting- sense of power.

Determinists think everything happens for a reason; that there is purpose for every occurrence, but these people in this video were not true determinists. They were, what to call them? Odders? Their only concern was to explain randomness based on little more than a theory on probability. If a monkey sits on a typewriter and starts to type away, probability has it that in an undetermined period of time the monkey will be able to duplicate at least one line from Shakespeare’s work.

I had to smile at that one.

Well, in spite of that video, I’ve always believed in chance and coincidence. Raquel, a friend from the Bronx, calls it ‘Diocidencia’ or ‘God-cidence’, which would be something like: there is no coincidence, but the will of God (misunderstood by us, puny humans).

I figure most religious people would see ‘good’ coincidence in this light: as an act of kindness from the Creator. Yet, I wonder what ‘bad’ coincidence may be attributed to.

So I will call it coincidence or, even better, Serendipity, with all due respect to the laws of probability, that exactly seven days after the party, I ran into Gnuj at a subway station. She was wearing a white denim jacket over a floral dress too long for my taste, and her hair made me think of dark, shiny waves. I wondered if she wasn’t cold. I stared at her for about six to seven minutes, indecisive whether or not to approach her, expectant and hopeful that perhaps she would just look my way and see me, which would seem less awkward, I figured, but it did not happen.

She was entranced by her cell phone, typing madly, her face masked by an almost disturbing serenity. Do you believe in fate? I asked, smiling. Her face betrayed her surprise. Hey, hi, she said, the sun on her face, a smile half exposed. I didn’t think I would see you again, well, it is a small world, I guess, She said, a small dose of unintended charm on her accent. To be honest, it was then, at that precise moment, and not at the party as one would conclude, that I found Gnuj attractive. At the party, she’d been an object of intrigue, a wonder, standing by herself, not talking much, not dancing. She’d seemed lonely and sad, and I -partly due to the miracle of booze- had felt moved to save her, a knight in shiny armor.

But at that moment, waiting for the train, colored by sunlight, she seemed alive, almost pretty, and less sad. Where are you going? Home, she said. Do you live around here? No. She glimpsed at the time, then at her cell phone, then at the billboard with the train schedules. Are you always this cheap with your words? I let out a short laugh. No, she answered, and realizing she’d given me another monosyllabic answer, we both laughed. Listen, this is my day off, and I have nothing to do. Would you like to eat something? I wanted to add with me, but I sensed that would make it too personal and she’d be forced to decline.

She appeared to be pondering as she looked into the distance, along the railways, past rooftops and cornices, as if the answer were hidden there somewhere. So? I don’t know, her voice was hesitant. She seemed nervous all of a sudden, swinging the cell phone back and forth, weakly. Hey, I’m not kissing you or anything, I just want company. Eating alone is a terrible thing, Pablo Neruda wrote, I said, being my charming self. She smirked, still looking away, and asked, Pablo who?

March was already half way in; uncommonly warm, as if bent on forgetting the harrowing low temperatures of the not-so-far-gone winter. The wind blew away on her dress, trying to lift its skirt, which she pinned down with her left hand, a portion of it trapped between her thighs. I fell silent, unsure on what to say next, insist or not. Then we saw the train. Well, I guess it will be next time then… You ain’t taking the train? She asked. Nope, this is not my train, I was just waiting with you, my voice a crescendo as the train screeched past us. Oh, well, she said, but all I saw was her lips forming the words. The train had swallowed the sound of her voice, yet I was encouraged by what I wished to believe was disappointment in her expression, disappointment that I would not go with her. We still got time to go eat, I said cleverly, smiling. But she was already in position to step inside, though quite indecisive. Maybe next time, she said, looking me in the eyes for the first time. OK, I said, my most endearing face possible. Then she smiled, and was gone. That’s when I realized I had no way to talk to her about ‘next time’.

Chapter 3

There is a minor detail I just realized I have unintentionally left out of the story. It’s the fact that I am twenty years older than Gnuj. Twenty years. My son, Charles, is two years younger than she is. So, technically, I could very well be Gnuj’s father. She was born in 1990, I, in 1970.

Carlos Gardel, the Argentinean Tango icon, said in a song once that twenty years is nothing. Age, truly, is but a number, a measure. Although I’m sure many will not see it this way, and risking being called a hypocrite given the circumstances herein described, I happen to believe that, indeed, twenty years may very well be nothing when it comes to relationships. But then again, that is relative. It depends on the type of relationship, and on the age range in which these relationships may be developed. For instance, it is obviously insane to be thirty and have a relationship with a ten-year old. Or twenty years may be a lot when a man is, say, sixty and his wife, forty - the age when women experience, how to put it mildly? A rejuvenation in her sexual appetite-but when a young woman in her twenties encounters a man in his early forties, there is a good deal of possibility that their relationship flourish. I experienced this with Gnuj first hand.

A young woman will spark desire, vanity, lust (which makes him feel young again), and a sense of her fragility in a man who doubles her age, urging in him an impulse to protect her, to guide her, to teach her, and to inspire her. A rare and exquisite thing happens then: curiosity and experience sync. The euphoria of youth, its boldness, its thirst of discovery, its unquestioned embrace of Now as an unending entity, its gleaming vanity…a young woman brings all of this to the table, and something more, something valuable, immediately shared between them: hope.

The forty-year-old man feels these things and his heart embraces them, a veritable fountain of youth, ointment to soothe the ravages of the aging process. Not the wrinkled skin or the nascent chicken legs in the corner of his eyes, but the scars and wounds of his ego, and of his soul. If ever is a man to be handed a chance at sentimental redemption, it is when fate —that forbidden word— pushes him onto the pathways of a younger woman’s desires. In the warmth of those arms, a man’s past sentimental misdeeds and injuries can easily be healed and forgotten; his whole existence uplifted; and new pages,