Rendezvous with Hymera (4 page)

“You have no idea
what indecent fantasies I’ve had with your lips in mind...”

But Clara knew. She knew, because in the cold, long nights, curled in darkness on an empty bed, in the
tense, edgy presence of loneliness – her habitual companion over the years – dreams often brought his face into her mind, along with regret for everything that could have been, but was not.

Now, like in a material projection of her dreams, she embraced him tightly, overwhelmed by a fulfillment
unknown to her until then, and that she unequivocally recognized as being that abstract legend called
happiness
by all human kind.

They remained silent for a long time, lying on the blanket, thoroughly savoring the simple joy of being together, to sense one another’s perfume and heat, communicating only through the primordial language of their bodies.

“Why don’t you tell me more about your work?” she urged him after a while, absently stroking
his cheek. “Have you been working long for the newspaper?”

He turned his head to look at her.

“Typically feminine curiosity or just a conversation subject?”

“Actually, it’s a genuine interest. I wanna know everything about you,” she answered, also

smiling. “So, how long have you been working there?”

“For about three years. Mainly, I like having the freedom to write about any subject that catches my
attention, regardless of the field. It’s a big asset not to be constrained in a particular sector.”

“It’s tough getting such a privileged status. Probably your boss has recognized your talent,” she
remarked.

“Thanks for the compliment,” he replied simply. “Anyway, my work isn’t nearly so interesting
and difficult as yours. What determined you to write biographies?”

Clara raised her eyebrows, pleasantly surprised by the fact that he knew about her occupation, but
answered him without further comments:

“I’m really intrigued by people, by each individual’s essence and personality. Perhaps it’s an unusual
curiosity. Often, when I see a person walking on the street, I find myself wondering about his or her life, about the environment they live in, about their favorite color. Just the other day I saw an elderly lady, dressed really elegantly, but with old-fashioned clothes, almost ancient, although they were very well preserved... I immediately imagined her living in one of those historical buildings that have their own personality, well illuminated, furnished with sofas dressed in satin and velvet and worn wooden floors covered by Persian rugs. And of course, I visualized the walls as being decorated with archaic paintings and family pictures made in immemorial times. You know, something á la Eugen Barbu.”

She laughed softly.

“I don’t know where all these ideas come to me, sometimes I amaze myself...”

Colin returned her smile and she became serious again, resuming her explanation.

“There are some people who have such a strange destiny, a life in which drama, tragedy and happiness intertwine in a way so bizarre it’s worth being written for posterity.”

While she was talking, Clara curled against Colin’s chest, listening to his heartbeats, rare and strong, as
he enjoyed himself, twisting on his fingers strands of her blond, silky hair.

“Did you come here on vacation or are you working on a project?” he asked.

“A writer’s never on vacation, ’cause inspiration doesn’t take a break,” she answered.

“Sometimes it’s a real pain in the ass. I wake up in the middle of the night with an idea in my mind, a
catchy sentence, and I have to turn on my laptop or record it vocally on my phone. Many times I’ve lost precious ideas due to laziness,” she added.

“But, since you write some people’s biographies, doesn’t that same person tell you the story?”

“I’m not adept at simple recollections,” she said, rising in one elbow to look at him. “I mean, an arid biography, devoid of evocation, doesn’t inspire me at all. People tell me the story, namely the skeleton, to put it like that, but I have to formulate, to structure, to deduce some things. It’s not as important what you have to say as the manner in which you say it.”

“Hmm...” he grunted, watching her thoughtfully, with a secret admiration. “Maybe that’s why I
remained at the mediocre journalist stage. I lack something you have plenty of, talent.”

“Geniuses have talent. I only have a skill, which I know how to exploit.”

They kept a silent moment, contemplating the dark and somewhat dusty green of the drooping foliage, in the specific stillness of hot summer days.

“So, who are you writing about now?” he asked her. “Or are you one of those artistic
temperamental writers who don’t like talking about their creations?” he teased.

“To be perfectly honest,” Clara answered seriously, “I don’t like talking about ongoing projects, though I
couldn’t explain why. It’s just one of my many oddities. My father thinks it’s an inward fear of criticism, but I never let skepticism bother me. Still, since you’re really interested, which I appreciate and find very flattering, I’ll make an exception. To make a long story short, it’s the tale of an old man whom I’ve met in a village in Tibet.”

“What the hell were you doing in Tibet?!” he exclaimed, half amused, half intrigued.

Clara sighed, slightly irritated by the interruption.

“As far as I can remember, I loved travelling in strange places, to accumulate knowledge about cultures,
customs, different peoples. In that particular moment, a village in Tibet seemed the ideal place to go for a time, as I had always longed to see the highest and most secluded country in the world – first, out of curiosity and second, at the insistent and nagging recommendations of my best friend, who had made a visit in said village. Anyway, I rented a kind of modest hut following her indications and, gradually, I began getting into the atmosphere there, and even tied some quasi-friendships with several villagers who could speak a rudiment of English, enough to make themselves understood, along with all kinds of desperate signs and mimic gestures.

Then, in one of my solitary incursions with which I preferred passing the time, I encountered a shack, at a
considerable distance from the village itself. At first, I thought it was deserted and didn’t get close, but I asked the woman who had rented me the hut if she knew something about that refuge hidden in the wilderness.”

She lifted her gaze to see if she still had his attention. Colin was watching her silent, waiting. Clara went
on:

“The story, although it seems a third-hand movie script, impressed me even more because it is a real fact. It
seems the old man who lived there had been, in his youth, very wealthy, with a beautiful wife and an apparently perfect life. But by giving birth to their first child, his wife died and he took his boy to a kind of temple, entrusting him to a priest, along with all his fortune.”

“But why?” asked Colin, stunned. “How could he simply give up his son, and why?” he repeated.

“That’s exactly what I’ve asked him, after struggling for months to get close to him and to catch some of their language. After he completely ignored me for a while, at some point we started exchanging a few words and, finally, I told him what I did and that I wanted to write his life’s story. I never expected more than his laughing in my face,” she said, smiling, “but, to my great surprise, he agreed. He told me, summarily, almost his entire biography, while I was taking notes. What astonished me the most was that, in the end, he said everything that had happened to him was the consequence of a harm, which he had done in a past life. When I asked him whom he’d harmed and how, he answered he didn’t know, but that Buddha will show him at the right time the way to rectify that mistake.”

Clara paused, looking at him, then said:

“To us, skeptical and cynical Europeans, this philosophy might seem stupid, incomprehensible, but out there it’s another world, another culture, traditions and beliefs that have lasted for centuries, even millennia. It’s nice knowing there are still places and things untouched and untamed by the viciousness of an atheist society. That’s why they reject strangers. With all our technology and so-called civilization, we’re considered primitive in a country in which evolution is measured on the scale of spiritual values and powers. Their religion is extraordinarily complex and the practices that have consecrated them are not disclosed to others, except a few initiates.”

Both remained quiet, listening to the interrogative chirping of exotic winged creatures hidden in the dense
foliage of old trees.

After a
while, Colin broke the silence:

“Hmm... What an odd and, at the same time, fascinating thing. It
really does sound like a third-hand movie script, one of those silly affairs in which Tibetans actually speak only English.”

She laughed, amused beyond measure.

“But tell me,” he resumed, “since we’re at the
Oriental philosophy
chapter, I’ll ask you a question related to this subject. Do you believe in reincarnation?”

Clara studied extensively a colorful ladybug that was walking on her palm and, probably not finding
anything interesting, once it got on top of the little finger, flew away, losing itself in the landscape.

“I believe the soul is a much too powerful and complex entity to just stop being,” she finally
answered. “Besides, if this
spiritual recycling
wouldn’t exist, it would be a big waste of energy in

this Universe.”

“By any chance, have you converted to Buddhism while you were in Tibet?” he smilingly teased.

“Certainly an intelligent man doesn’t cling to the delineation of one religion. My opinion is that a supreme
force exists somewhere, a force who governs everything, at least everything we know; and it doesn’t matter what name we give it: God, Jehovah, you-name-it... But there’s another intriguing thing. I don’t quite know where I’ve heard something like:
Behind the cross grins the
Devi
l. It’s a bizarre and even sinister witticism. It makes you wonder if God is almighty, then why is there evil? Some would say for balance in the Universe. But who sets this balance, how and why?”

Colin was listening, fascinated. Although he was educated and well read, the profoundness of Clara’s
thinking made him feel somewhat shallow, but at the same time, instilled in him the desire to penetrate, as deep as possible, all the hidden places of this cerebral labyrinth, behind those windows of calm, clear green eyes.

A man less sure of himself would have felt intimidated by such a woman. He, however, felt mystified
and more and more attracted to this nymph with the face of a goddess and a philosopher’s mind.

Clara continued introspectively:

“I was born and raised in Christian spirit. Even now, I stop when I come across some deserted little church in my travelling. I couldn’t say why. Maybe it’s a reminiscence of the religious education I’ve received.

Sometimes I feel I can gather myself; sometimes I pray with such fervor and passion I think I could create a
vortex in the Universe. It’s just that, so often my prayers have apparently remained unanswered; I began losing what Christians call
faith
. There’s always a cynical part in me, whispering that God has higher preoccupations than to acknowledge the whining of some poor mortals. Do you know the story of that woman who was healed just by touching Jesus’ clothes? He told her:
Woman, your faith has redeemed you
.

Maybe that’s my problem. I don’t have enough faith. The curse of a scholar,” she added with a wistful
smile.

Colin took her hand into his own, tracing with one finger the outline of her wrist’s bluish veins.

“Did anybody tell you that you think too much?” he asked smiling. “
Blessed are the poor in spirit
. That too is written somewhere in the Bible, or so I’ve heard.”

“Yeah. There are times when I wish with all my heart just to exist like most bipedal creatures populating
the Earth, in ignorance and routine. But maybe Nietzsche was right when he said God had died. If only my poor parents could hear me!” she exclaimed with a profound sigh.

In the small town where they both grew up, faith and going to church were practically stamped on the
inhabitants’ foreheads and in their hearts.

Clara’s parents were ordinary, simple people, who had offered to their only daughter a decent, modest
living. Along with the success obtained by Clara through her career, their financial status had improved considerably. Although her parents refused to move out from the little town where they had spent several decades, she had bought them a mansion in the most beautiful neighborhood. There, her mother could enjoy the luxuriant garden she’d always wanted, and her father built a huge painting studio to cultivate the passion that had been denied to him until then, due to a constant struggle for survival.