Jacob
16
“The sun rose and everything fell”
“Can you wait one second?” Alejandra said, walking out of the room to fix herself a coffee.
I paused. We had started the story and not even gotten past the first sentence. In many ways, the action mirrored our relationship; it’s turbulent nature, it’s shambolic state. And yet, in many ways, it did not.
In actuality, I hadn’t said “The Sun Rose and Everything Fell” to start the story. I had read, directly from the Spanish original, “Amaneció el sol y se cayeron todo”. I have translated all of the dialogue in this story.
Alejandra walked back into the room, coffee in hand. It wasn’t the expensive, low-quality shit that everyday Americans are inured to. It was the good stuff. That doesn’t matter though. Ignore what I just wrote there.
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
I read. “The sun rose and everything fell. The stellated night sky wistfully said goodbye to its canvas. Then, in its haste, it left laughing without a trace. The sun looked around, startled. He had come to join his friends; where had they gone? And the stars, upon hearing him, had fled.”
Alejandra bristled next to me. I had chosen the story. I could already sense her objection to the similarity that it bore to our own story. I cared a lot about her, but not enough to stop reading.
Just as I was about to continue reading, she looked me right in the eye.
“Can’t you see how cruel this is? Don’t you see what you’re doing to me?”
“Don’t worry. The story gets better. If you’re bored by it now, that’s okay. It ramps up.”
She didn’t laugh or even smile.
Tears were now streaming down her face.
To understand how we got there, to that particular point, I must tell our own “story”. It’s largely based on a reconstruction from my own memory, which I do not claim to be perfect - Hell, just yesterday I nearly forgot the anniversary of an important event. I would appeal to Alejandra for help in this retelling - to make it more balanced - if it weren’t for the fact that I have no easy way of contacting her, even in this wired world that we live in. That, and the fact that it probably is already close enough to being balanced because Alejandra was an important part of me and who I was.
We met in a bar. Or a club. I don’t know. The establishments that replaced dance halls because all the dance halls burned down. I guess clubs aren’t very viewed as classy; it doesn’t matter. Dance halls were probably lascivious back in their day. Back then, arranged marriage was the “proper” choice. Anyway, I didn’t want an arranged marriage, so I went to this club. I was working abroad and I guess I happened to play the role of the enigmatic foreigner that night. Alejandra was there and as they say, “we hit it off”. Not immediately, but we eventually did. I introduced myself, and then Alejandra broke the ice with a dismissive glare.
“I don’t go to clubs. In fact, I am here only because of extenuating circumstances and a friend. Perhaps you’d also be interested to know I’m not seeking to meet any more awful friends or boyfriends here tonight.”
“That would make two of us” I shouted over the music. So there we were, two non-clubgoers amidst the lights and the darkness, in a club probably full of non-clubgoers if each patron were to be asked personally.
That final story, the one I had been reading before that slight digression (sorry), might have sounded like a traditional tale for children, or even the slightly less classy possibility of it being the prize of a free picture book for kids giveaway in a cereal box. (Unfortunately, I’d never been lucky enough as a child to win anything from a cereal box. My brother had inherited all of the luck leaving none for me.). But actually, it was neither. The story was the product of an Italian writer, who Alejandra introduced me to, but this particular story had been my own finding. He had a fabulistic quality to his writing with fantastic flourishes interspersed. His writing, rather than feeling dated or modern, felt atemporal. Alejandra and I shared an admiration for his work.
“He is slightly misogynistic,” she once told me, “But I like how he doesn’t try to hide it, like everybody does these days with their prejudices and beliefs. He’s mostly a moral individual, but he doesn’t try to create a world without flaws or his own deficiencies.”
The recollection of this remark brings me back to our long conversations. Alejandra was - and remains - the most engaging person I’ve ever talked to (or at least in the top two along with my brother). Of course her acerbic wit was brilliant, but what was more impressive was her frankness. She never tried to portray herself in a sympathetic light or pretend the problems that she saw didn’t exist.
One time we’d been having a long conversation - I think on a park bench or perhaps in bed - and the talk sort-of trailed off. We sat there in silence, something that Alejandra liked and was totally new to me. Silence - especially after mutually participating in a conversation - was uncomfortable to me. Yet Alejandra did it with everybody. Coworkers, friends, whoever; it didn’t matter. Sometimes the other person would even be expecting a reply but Alejandra wouldn’t grant it, she would just stare off vaguely into the distance and leave the conversation at a crossroads (she contested this point, saying that rather, she preferred to think in silence, personally moving forward, making observations, and finding a sense of clarity, rather than regurgitating the previously voiced points and arguments). I teased her that she got away with it because of the impression she made on people and how beautiful she was. She countered, ”Of course, that’s less of a reason for me being able to do it. One of the biggest reasons we have this collective societal aversion to silent thought is because of the male-dominant culture.” I raised an eyebrow. “No, I’m serious, males feel the need to assert themselves and demonstrate to females that they can carry a conversation, which the male in turn expects the female to feel gratitude towards him for helping them both avoid an awkward situation, and now she will regard the male favorably.”
“So when everybody in the elevator is looking down at their shoes, and I make a comment to lighten the mood, it’s because I want to get into everybody’s pants?”
“Not necessarily, per se, but just because it’s not a goal of yours doesn’t mean it’s not a cause. You’ve seen this behavior by males thousands of times who might’ve had different motives for it, but regardless of any motive on your part - there may not even be one, you will mimic it to fit social norms.” She added after a second, “And also, that’s an elevator, so there’s less of a chance that your fellow travellers are deep in thought. It’s not as bad to make a comment in an elevator. Most people in elevators, in fact, will probably be just like you and worrying about their behavior and the social situation at hand, so you’ll be doing them a favor. Somewhere, for example, where it would not be ideal, however, and I would disapprove of it would be eating at restaurant or a bar. And yet how many countless times have you seen in TV and movies men walk up to that silent pensive women?”
Getting back to my original train of thought, we were together but the conversation had drifted off. I was looking at her, trying to pinpoint the malaise that had been spreading over me in recent months. She was looking away. Abruptly, she proceeded with a non-sequitur.
“Would you love me if I weren’t beautiful?”
The question took me off guard. The nonchalant matter in which she delivered it made me feel uneasy. If anybody had walked by without hearing it, it would have seemed to them like a women asking her partner if he had bought the groceries or walked the dog. She still hadn’t looked back at me. The question was also peculiar on account of its phrasing. She hadn’t used a “conventionally” or “perceived as” as I had become accustomed to disclaimers of this type when talking to her about anything. This was a woman who just yesterday had lectured me about the construct of success. I sputtered and she looked back at me.
“Yes” I lied.
From this moment on (if not before), I think she knew I had been drawn to her by physical attraction (and maybe even to have her as an accomplishment); the impressive symmetry of our faces had led me to talk to her. Sure, I liked a lot of other things about her, perhaps I delighted in them even more so than her beauty. But the artifice that had brought us together remained the same, an unholy reminder about our base nature.
The day that I read that story, the final night together, we went to a movie in the afternoon. We were both off work and I figured it would be a good way to relieve some of the stress that I had started to notice. It was a very small theatre with only two screens. We had two choices: an arthouse flick, or Shoot-Em-Up-Middle-Aged-Guy-Adrenaline-Fest IV. I chose, and I was satisfied with my choice, but by a happy accident we were able to see the end of Shoot-Em-Up-Middle-Aged-Guy-Adrenaline-Fest IV because we arrived a bit early. If you were wondering, I can assuage your fears that the main character dies (He lives!), unfortunately his best friend ass-whooping sidekick dies after falling off a cliff because he sacrificed himself for the protagonist (it was a lot more emotional in slow motion), but then we learn right at the end that he didn't die and was only bit shaken up because he fell into water, which always softens the impact in movies. Everybody lived, except the bad guy, but he's replaceable (especially if the purported salary he’s asking for in the sequel is true). One line really resonated with me, although I realize how completely ridiculous this sounds. The main character was looking at his sidekick after their tear-jerker reunion and he said, "I'm too old for this business. I need to get out of this. It's a trap. The game is up." I appreciated the Shakespeare quote and thought it a classy nod; but alas, everybody knows it's not true because sequels and money and other pesky things like that, but for me, the quote rang true, and that was important.
The arthouse flick was good. It was a fictionalized true account of an Afghanistan war veteran who broke down and was struggling to put his life together. I left the theatre feeling lighter, which I suppose was odd, given the content of the film. Walking out I couldn't find Alejandra. I didn't look for her.
Perhaps this story is starting to feel incoherent, and I apologize for that. It is only recently that I have been able to tell this story, or at least the full version of it with no attempt to deceive. It might make me seem a bit strange, or even crazy, but I ask you to withhold judgement and/or revulsion. And only make a diagnosis if you are a certified medical professional, and I expect it to be in the strictest confidence (That was a joke. I am not soliciting medical advice and my current psychiatrist is quite capable).
Alejandra was back at our flat. Multiple times I considered asking her to leave but I didn't. Instead I read the story to Alejandra. We both cried. But at the end I knew what I needed to do. It had become very clear, now clearly in the light. The sun had risen to illuminate my path.
I walked downstairs to get my phone. I was ready to end it all. And that's when I saw the new text. Everything fell.
I pulled out a knife. Alejandra was there. I was crying. Stop she screamed at first. But then she became cold. Do it she said. You're a freak. Better than showing me to your friends and family back home what will they think? It took me a few minutes but I calmed down. I put the knife back. Alejandra had left. I knew she would never return.
That remains as the most painful moment of my life even though there was no physical pain. It was the first good decision that I had made in this entire thing, not to wound myself, and yet it was too late. I got on my computer and booked myself a plane ticket home departing at some ungodly hour. I collected everything that I needed and left for the airport.
The plane ride back was where I relived everything and started to process it all, so I guess this is where I should explain myself and what happened.
The text message I had gotten that day had been about my brother, Nick. Funnily enough, before I saw it, I was getting my phone to call him. And if that didn’t go through, I was going to inundate his messaging app with texts. Of course, all would have gone unanswered. I had planned on taking my phone to the movie but it had been out of battery so I let it charge. I hadn’t turned it on until that moment, and a chain of texts was waiting for me. I had about thirty missed calls too. My mother had called me twenty times, and Nick’s wife had called ten times. My mother had texted “answer your phone”, “you need to answer your phone” and finally “you need to come home”. Nick’s wife, Kristina had texted “Alex pick up”, then “bad news”. The last message waiting for me was “They’re saying Nick’s dead”.
It was a shock, because my brother was a large part of who I was. Or who I wasn’t. I feel now would be an appropriate time for an anecdote of me as a child to show how much I looked up to him, but it’s really not, because one event can’t demonstrate the admiration I had for him, and the admiration certainly didn’t end at adolescence. Nick was everything I was, except better. He had been better looking, more charismatic, and done more impressive things. He was a reporter, having gone to the school at which I had failed to be accepted. To be completely honest, he was the reason I was working abroad, and he had been the only one to question me about it. He had known I had hated my job at marketing, and asked me what would change about this if the only difference was a change of location. After I transferred and realized the mistake I had made, I sulked. Childishly, I had thought my life would be more beautiful or glamorous here than the depression at home; it wasn’t. The depression remained. My brother was an investigative journalist and war correspondent; exotic locales were a part of his job description. I talked to him about it a few weeks after I had moved, speaking vaguely and trying to mask my true discontentment.
“Well,” he said, “Sometimes things here are incredibly mundane… And sometimes they’re incredibly exciting. Everybody expects that everything here is just an action movie - non-stop excitement and chasing of stories - but it’s not. I have the stupidest tasks to do everyday like writing emails to my editors or inquire about travel arrangements. And what’s most surprising for people is that a lot of my time is spent passively pursuing stories. I can’t start writing about something unless I have a basis. That means drifting, wandering around, and talking to people.” I wanted to scream at him when he was talking and say, “but look at yourself” (In hindsight, this would have been incredibly rude and mentally unstable thing to do). He liked what he was doing; he had a life, a wife, an everything. I was just here, unhappy, socially isolated, filling the role of an empty void.
About a month later, I invented Alejandra. It was petulant and pathetic, and even at the time I remember thinking, “What am I fucking doing”. It was innocuous enough at first. He had sent me some photos to try to cheer me up, of where he was working. I sent him photos back, the last one a picture of me and my coworkers, from the only night I had gone out with anybody, to celebrate a birthday. I was next to a female coworker, and in the picture it looked like I had my arm around her even though I hadn’t. Nick sent a text “Who’s that?”, to which I replied, “What?”. Then he sent “Your girlfriend?”. It might have been a joke. I don’t really know. But at that moment I realized he was referring to the lady next to me, and it was too tantalizing of a proposal to turn down. “Alejandra”. That wasn’t her real name. It worked though. I was soon telling him everything about “our” relationship. Just to be clear, it’s important that I say I could clearly distinguish between reality and my fantasy (even if it didn’t seem like that from the story). I wasn’t so psychologically fucked up that I was hallucinating. Well I was, but the hallucinations were of my own creation.
The real Alejandra was never my girlfriend. We probably talked only a few times. Bits and pieces of the conversations that I detailed were real. Everything else was fake. The club part was completely invented (I had told Nick that I met her at a club). The short story, I had actually read, and the writer was real. I had seen her reading something from the author one day. That’s why I read it. The silence conversation was real, the beauty one was completely imagined (I had a recent fascination with physical appearance: I had been largely unattractive my whole life - unlike my brother - until I decided to lose a lot of weight. I did, and looked better, but I found myself angry at the hypocrisy of it all). But yeah, to put it bluntly, I had a freakish obsession with a woman whom I was barely an acquaintance of. Or you could take the slightly more sympathetic view of me being obsessed with an abstraction of a woman.
Coming back home was strange. I was forced to confront (even if I had known about it all along) my envy of Nick and people like him. People who just fit in, and life was easy, and who wanted everyone to be happy. My mom and family knew about Alejandra as they had been in the loop too, but I told them brusquely that I had dumped her. After that, no further questions were asked. The only person who knows about this is my psychiatrist who is very professional and won’t disclose anything. I quit my job, an incredibly easy decision, and took a part-time job at the local coffee place. My coworkers are mostly friendly and like to joke around. We serve good coffee. A bunch of customers come who use the rival big-chain’s patented terms, but I try to give them what they want and I don’t ridicule them behind their back. I’ve long since stopped caring about what kind of coffee people drink or what they do.
I felt a bit of guilt about Nick’s death and initially wondered if my texting him earlier with my confession and plea could have saved him. Probably not. There was no water to soften the impact in real life. He likely would have still gone out on that expedition. The only difference would have been remembering me as his lunatic brother rather than just his brother before he was blown to smithereens. At the top of his list of family members to remember, I imagine would have been his kids, two and four years old. I volunteered to look after the kids while Kristina was recovering and also when she needs to work (she just started up again). The kids are young and they don’t quite understand the concept of death (we’re working on it) and view me as their fun uncle who’s a temporary replacement and who’s almost as good as dad. I’m okay with that assessment.
I’m on my way to see them now. I’m coming up to the house. I stare at the door handle and slowly turn the knob.
