Lethe Bashar's Novel of Life

Senorita Lorenzo's red chamber

noreply@blogger.com (Lethe) — Thu, 19 Jun 2008 02:25:00 +0000

Senorita Lorenzo, Lethe's sly psychiatrist, was encamped in her office all day long. She rarely left for lunch, preferring instead the red-chambered privacy of the British-American clinic. She savored the time that she had alone and usually allowed herself to relax and forget about her patients.

It was a narrow window of pleasure, and she had to be careful not to impinge on the delicacy of these moments with her mundane, daily preoccupations. She was not a particularly indulgent woman, but she knew how to indulge herself and was precise about it.

She could give herself a small piece of chocolate, a single glass of wine, or a few crackers with goat cheese, and she was happy. Without this ritual of self-gratification, she was likely to pay less attention to her patients. Her patients demanded her full sympathy and this was an exhausting practice, listening to someone tell you about their problems. She only required a small portion of the day for herself; the rest she could charge for.

She knocked off her shoes underneath the desk, and dropped a fresh cherry into her mouth. The juice spilled down the sides of her chin, and she laughed at herself for being so messy.

She thought of an older man who she'd been spending some time with lately. She went back and forth on whether this was a good idea. The man was recently divorced. Moreover, he worked in the same clinic.

The soft, fresh goat cheese coated the outsides of her teeth. Before she brought the wine glass to her lips, she savored the bitty chives with self-abandon. The minutes were ticking away and soon she'd be working with a client (she glanced at her schedule--it was Lethe!). At least she had her fifteen minutes of pleasure. In the right frame of mind, fifteen minutes could seem longer, like in a dream.

But not really. She rubbed her feet anxiously against the carpet.

If there was enough time in the world, she would visit Ibiza, where her sister lived. If there was enough time in the world, she would shop every morning for new clothing and then return what didn't fit the next day. If there was . . .

But there wasn't. Her days followed a whiplash pattern of one-thing-after-another. The only solace she found during the day was when her patients didn't show up, and she could happily extend her ritual of self-gratification.

But could she really say there wasn't enough time?

She remembered what it was like before she was married, before she had a job, before she went to school. At the ripe age of nineteen, a feisty young lady with intellectual ambitions, she did nothing all day but read and talk to strangers.

That's how she fell in love with psychiatry. It was the stories she loved, not the people. Occasionally she had a patient who inspired her; who reminded her of herself.

She tried not to manipulate them, unlike what she did with the rest of her patients.

She considered her work manipulation because most people who came to the clinic were terminally unhappy. Meaning, they would never be happy. Thus her services were reduced to an occupational pretense, a pantomime of good intentions.

Over the years, she'd grown adept at convincing these people that they would one day become healthy, happy individuals.

She would listen to their stories, sometimes for weeks, months, years. And during these long periods of listening, she would occasionally interrupt her patients to tell them,

"Things will get better. Trust me. I know they will."

Even though this was painfully untrue. For most of her patients succumbed to deeper, more embarrassing forms of failure in life.

In order to thwart this spiral of helpless hopelessness, she would have to lie to them.

She would tell them they would miraculously become sexually potent. She would tell them they would overcome stage fright and be able to sing again. She would tell them they were unrecognized geniuses.

Lethe was frantically running though the underground metro. Sweat soaked his underarms; a continuous huffing threw him into an athletic trance. Finally, he arrived, bursting into Senorita Lorenzo's red chamber with lackluster appearance.

The sly psychiatrist stashed a couple things into her bottom drawer. Her shoes went back on. She straightened her collar.

"It smells like alcohol in here--" Lethe remarked.

"Sometimes I have a glass of wine with my lunch."

Lethe situated himself in his chair, looking around.

"I spoke to your father."

"How much did he send?"

"He won't send you a dime until you find a job."

"But I'm in Spain. How am I supposed to find a job in a place where there's thirty-five per cent unemployment?"

"Well, you won't find one if you never leave the apartment."

Lethe turned to the back of the room. The heavy, brocade curtains kept the light out like a patch of overgrown mushrooms on a front yard. The dark wine walls and yeasty carpet combined the effects of excitement and luxury. He wanted to stay in her office all afternoon.

"I'm busy working."

"On what? I thought you were out of school."

"I am out of school. But I always have something brewing in the back of my mind. My mind never stops. I'm always thinking of new ideas. I write my novel during the day, very diligently; and go for walks at night."

The psychiatrist put two fingers over her lips and wrote something down.

"What is your novel about?"

"I'm writing a novel about my experiences in Spain."

"I see. And should I worry that you're writing about me?" She asked with only a hint of sarcasm that Lethe didn't catch.

"Everyone thinks I'm writing about them, but I'm not. I'm writing about made-up characters, not real people."

"What do you do on your walks? Do you bring a notebook?"

"I go to the Plaza del Sur. No, I don't carry anything."

"Be careful. There're lots of thieves in the plazas at night."

"Lots of Moroccans. I'm friends with some of them. They have their own little gang."

"Moroccans?" The psychiatrist said with a gasp.

"I'm trying to meet all sorts of different people."

"You're not buying drugs from them, are you?"

"No way. Nothing like that. Just writing the novel and meeting new people. It's actually starting to get interesting . . ."

Lethe continued, "I've discovered that I actually have to leave the Senora's apartment--and wander to the other side of the city--to get good stories."

Hashish

noreply@blogger.com (Lethe) — Thu, 05 Jun 2008 17:47:00 +0000

A long, long time ago in an artificial suburban hamlet called Barclay Park,

beside a high stucco wall covered with ivy,

behind a flowering bush (Calochortus nudus),

Lethe smoked his first cigarette.

Tasting the harsh fumes of death, Lethe grew hardened and ambitious to continue smoking each week. He slipped out of the house when his parents weren't looking and he ran to the end of his street to smoke. He knew the people who lived in the house at the end of the cul de sac, he played soccer with their son. Nevertheless he pretended they couldn't see him going into their backyard and hiding behind their flowering bushes.

He was born into a gated community. Smoking, being the great rebellious act of any adolescent, instilled him with a sense of expansive liberty. He was saving a corner of himself for misdeeds, a part of himself which his father couldn't influence.

The dark deed of smoking was repeated over and over like a ritual. When he entered high school, he could say that he smoked, not once, but often.

The shadow of his youth became like his double. When he wasn't studying to get good grades to earn his father's approval, the shadow took full possession of him. At times, the shadow felt more real than anything else.

The neighbors down the street never saw him scurrying into their backyard. They never came out of their house to evict him from the flowering bush, the site of his early transgressions. And if he wanted to jump the stucco wall, he did. He threw his bicycle over it and rode across the highway where there was a hotel and a golf course.

Sometimes he spent whole afternoons wandering through the hotel. He sat on the couches and drew in his sketch book, like a dandy. He made doodles and graphic symbols with meanings only he could decipher. He pretended he was a guest in the hotel, or the son of a well-known politician.

His father was a doctor. A prescriptive man by nature who communicated to his son mainly through lectures.

Cigarettes tasted like the harsh fumes of death. He grew used to the taste, but never completely. There was always the residue of something bitter and coarse.

During his senior year he smoked every morning while driving to school. He drove his father's Oldsmobile; he was never given a car of his own. In the neighborhood where he grew up this was unusual.

If he wanted to escape Barclay Park, which he often did, he had to climb the stucco wall. When he got the car, he roamed the leafy suburb at night, smoking cigarettes one after the other.

On the balcony of the Senora's apartment, Lethe removed the tobacco from one of his cigarettes. He kept the paper.

It was three o'clock in the morning. The night air had a wavy, moist feel. The stars in the sky fell under the horizon like lost buttons and pins. You had to search for them. Directly above him there was nothing. Only a gulf of darkness.

He filled the cigarette with the hashish he had bought that night. Moroccans sold it to him. You could find Moroccans in almost any park after 11:00 pm. They clustered around benches and stone steps, drinking whiskey and shouting gleefully. You simply had to approach them and they understood what you wanted. Lethe learned these things from living in Spain.

The leader stepped up to Lethe. He pressed his body against Lethe's and took his cash. Then he removed a little piece of clay wrapped in plastic and tore it in half between his teeth. Muttering something in Spanish, he put the hashish into Lethe's hand.

Lethe caught sight of the Moroccan's mouth. It was the dirtiest mouth he had ever seen in his life. The Moroccan was missing all but four of his teeth, and those teeth were yellow and stumpy.

The rest of the Moroccans had pockmarked faces and greasy hands. They grinned whenever you were communicating with them. They couldn't stop grinning.

The joint tasted like his first cigarette: overpowering, dirty, coarse. But he sucked on the end of it until his head was full, and his senses lazily unstrung.

It was like slipping out of the house, and running to the end of the street. It was like hiding beside the flowering bush, and taking those first drags off a half-smoked cigarette. It was like jumping the high stucco wall.

The neighbors wouldn't notice a thing.

The early morning pleased him in a disorienting way. It was somewhere between morning and night and this was a comfortable place for him. He liked how the trees below the Senora's apartment grew out of their little concrete squares. He liked how the storefronts gleamed in the oily moonlight. He noticed the fruit seller's wooden cart which had fallen on its side from the wind.

Hashish was weird. It didn't fill him with ecstatic energy. It just sort of dulled his senses and dropped him onto plateaus of vacant emotion. There was nothing immediately pleasurable in the effects. But having spent so much time in the Senora's apartment, doing practically nothing, any difference in his well-being seemed to satisfy him greatly, to remind him of his youthful transgressions, smoking behind his neighbor's house, and to transport him back to a feeling of defiance.

"What are you doing out here?" The Senora asked suddenly.

Lethe looked at his watch; it was almost 4:30 in the morning.

"Oh, I came outside to have a cigarette . . . I must have fallen asleep."

"When Don Quixote fell asleep, he was attacked by highway men."

Lethe smiled. "Are you a highway man?"

"Not tonight."

They laughed together. "Go to bed, nino."

The Senora's Family Comes Over

noreply@blogger.com (Lethe) — Wed, 21 May 2008 18:48:00 +0000

He sat in his bedroom, reading the poster on the wall.

Now the poster irritated him. He doubted whether he understood it. Not the words, the meaning. He had the urge to ask Donte, the other foreign exchange student, if the poster meant what he thought it did.

To wish for too big of a happiness makes it difficult for the same happiness.

The poster was in Spanish. His Spanish had gotten better over the last two months. Signs, labels and snatches of conversation still eluded him. He sensed meanings in a vague, partial way. The poster in his room continued to elude him--even though he thought he understood it.

The clown had funny shoes and a fumbling gait. Underneath the shoes was the quizzical quotation. Which he was pretty sure he knew what it meant.

And he had been foolish. He had been foolish for not comprehending the poster earlier. Lethe expected Spain to be idyllic. He expected the Senora to become his best friend. She was only the woman who lived here. She took in college students every year, cooked their meals and cleaned their dirty jeans. She returned to her household duties soon after the talk she had with Lethe on the couch.

The meaning of the poster changed. He thought that it meant, "You will receive all the happiness you wish for."

It was Sunday afternoon and the Senora's relatives were over. Her family came every Sunday. He would stay in his bedroom until she called him for lunch, and even then, he might stay in his room. The voices of the Senora's relatives rumbled through the thin walls of the apartment. Outbursts of laughter. He could hear them cracking pistachio nuts and the children running in the halls. The men were playing cards, and accusing each other of cheating. The women were helping in the kitchen and gossiping. Juanita lurked in the hallway with her patched eye. She was probably looking for him.

The poster said not to wish for happiness. But that was impossible. Lethe expected the Senora to take care of him. Now she was ignoring him. And yet, he didn't want to go home either.

Yesterday he felt so comfortable and secure with his situation. Yesterday he wrote the first pages of a novel. A novel! Imagine that! Lethe Bashar began the first pages of a novel. He repeated this to himself over and over.

He recalled the ease and fluidity of that day. How he seemingly floated through it without a single irritation and everything unfolded effortlessly.

He came in from the balcony and sat down at his desk. Then, as if the shutters of a dark room had suddenly opened, he looked out and saw the suburbs of his childhood. The gated subdivision with the artificial ponds. The weeping willow trees. The pool house and red clay tennis courts.

He followed the camera over manicured lawns, sparkling lakes, flowering gardens. The cul de sacs of Barclay Park turned in and out, down hills, around vast swathes of land. An artificial world, to be sure. And it was made even more artificial by his memory.

Swans floated on the ponds, handpicked for a festival or a banquet. And the weeping willows draped their long hair over the white rocks. Children sat on green painted benches with their wet-nurses. The professional dog walkers bent over to pick up doggie doo doo.

These memories grew and grew inside of him until his pen was scribbling furiously. The rush was satisfying.

In a sense, his whole life history crystallized into these first few images of his childhood. He remembered the house where he grew up, the white ranch house his mother loved more than anything. He remembered the three pine trees in his backyard, and the log cabin his father had built. Like a dream it was suffused with various shades and colors and hues. The world flashed before him in an instant.

In rare moments he felt the energy to write down his history. But mostly he felt inept, feeble-minded, unable to capture it all. It was a grand, sweeping narrative. He made sporadic attempts, but again and again it escaped him.

In Spain, he needed the Senora more and more. He needed her for comfort. These dreams were small burdens. He was weary from carrying them. He needed her to bring him back to reality. Would she smoke another cigarette with him? Did she have a moment to spare?

Alone, in his room, he questioned the foundation of himself: the dreams he let get out of hand with the constant repetition of a childhood fantasy.

"Maybe I'm not the genius that I think I am."

Was it true?

The very thought of his ordinariness bothered him. He quickly recalled the International Institute and the herds of students who rushed through the halls every morning. He was not like them. "No," he said aloud in his room, "I'm different. I'm . . . more sensitive, more unique."

But what if Lethe Bashar was not more unique? What if he was just like everyone else? What if his literary prowess was not literary or prowess?

Two days past. Not another page written.

He laughed to himself. Ha-ha-ha. He mocked himself for wanting to be great.

The patter of voices could be heard on the other side of the wall. The Senora's family was loud. They were filled with mirth, and exuberance.

The children screamed while they played. Their little cloven feet padded up and down the hall. The husbands sat with their bellies full in the living room. They were smoking pipes, and spitting tobacco in aluminum cans.

Lethe would still not come out of his room. He dreamed of his Novel. He dreamed of becoming an Author. The Vivid Book of Life was all he ever thought about. Sometimes his dreams made him gloomy, other times they filled him with energy and life.

Visions! Visions! Like the clown who warns us all: Wishing for too big of a happiness makes it difficult for that same happiness.

The Senora's relatives were in the other room, and the Senora was occupied. If only she came into his room to talk to him. They could smoke a cigarette together and he could tell her about his plans for his novel.

He heard her voice at his door.

"Come in," he said.

"They're all gone. I saved some food for you. Do you want to eat?"

"Yes, thank you."

In the small kitchen, Lethe ate a piece of bread and a potato omelet.

For a moment she watched him eating. He looked like a street urchin, like a beggar. Then she went into the hall with her dust mop. She stood in the darkness, swinging the mop across the tiles.

Summary

noreply@blogger.com (Lethe) — Mon, 12 May 2008 23:15:00 +0000

Lethe Bashar is on study abroad in Madrid, Spain. He moves into an apartment with a sixty-five year old Senora. Within two weeks, Lethe undergoes an extreme form of culture shock. He has difficulty attending his classes at the International Institute, and his greatest fears revolve around his appearance in the mirror. The Senora, a maternal figure, suggests that Lethe withdraw from school and see a psychiatrist.

Calling home one night, Lethe discovers that his parents are getting a divorce. He tells his psychiatrist that he would prefer to stay in Spain. The psychiatrist, a cunning woman, makes an arrangement with Lethe's father. Lethe can continue to live in Spain, and receive a monthly income, so long as he attends his biweekly therapy sessions.

Lethe exults in his freedom away from school. His problems miraculously disappear and he is no longer anxious around people. But he develops a habit of loafing around the Senora's apartment, and the Senora becomes concerned again. His favorite thing to do is sit on the balcony and dream about Don Quixote.

To read the novel from the beginning Click Here.

The Senora

noreply@blogger.com (Lethe) — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 19:05:00 +0000

Although the Senora tried to conceal her emotions, she was a nervous woman who thought a great deal about her responsibilities. Her biggest responsibility was to the study abroad program that paid her a monthly income. For the most part, the students who stayed in her apartment could take care of themselves. In the first couple weeks of having a new boarder the Senora was always a little nervous. Then she got to know the college kids and there were fewer and fewer concerns. Generally speaking she found that American students were well-behaved and self-sufficient. In the last ten years, only two or three students were totally incapable of adapting to the Spanish culture. Typically these students went home.

She could remember a Chinese girl one summer who after the first week began to have nightmares. The incident passed over rather quietly, but the Senora understood that living in a foreign country could produce great strain on an adolescent.

The fact that Lethe did not want to return home made his situation all the more complicated. On the one hand, the Senora wanted to accommodate him. He repeatedly declared that he loved living with her, and he loved Spain. So why should he have to go home? On the other hand, she was not exactly enthusiastic about him staying home from school. When Lethe first came to her about his problems she told him a story about her childhood. Now she regretted it. The selfsame nervousness she described in the story was beginning to affect her sixty years later. With a teenager sitting around her house, doing nothing, she was tense.

Although her initial reaction to Lethe was one of empathy, now she was having second thoughts. She disliked how he woke up late every morning, waited until four o’clock to take a shower, and never left the house. To counteract these regrets and anxieties, she busied herself with housecleaning.

Lethe saw her in the hallways pushing dust into piles. She went over the same patch of floor again and again. She pushed the mop with a cigarette burning in her mouth until there was no more dust to be collected. Cigarettes burned in ashtrays all over the apartment. She laid them down and forgot about them while she was cleaning. But the cigarettes didn’t stay in the ashtrays long. She cleaned them out almost as quickly as she remembered they were burning.

The Senora worked side by side her maid. She happened to be folding Lethe’s laundry when his situation came to mind. A voice inside her told her to send him out of the apartment. Just for the afternoon, the voice said. It couldn’t be healthy staying indoors all day. She blamed herself for telling him that he was sick. Now he believed his own illness, which he said was “psychological”. He used her apartment as a sort of convalescence.

Sometimes the Senora would break down when she was all alone. Unable to put her feelings into words, something goaded her about Lethe’s situation. She was not comfortable with it, and yet she acquiesced. She couldn’t decide whether to confront him on the issue or not. She watched how he languished in her apartment, collapsing onto the living room couch or meandering through the kitchen when the maid was cleaning. At certain times she wanted to yell at him. But she didn’t. She held her anger inside and never said anything.

If the youth hadn’t doted on her so much, perhaps it would have been easier to confront him. His favorite strategy was to ask if she wanted to have a cigarette and a cup of coffee. Usually it was hard for her to say “no”. They’d sit down on the couch and he’d ask a bunch of questions about her daughter in Portugal or her late husband who died of lung cancer. She didn’t mind telling Lethe stories; in fact, she enjoyed their conversations. But talking to Lethe also had its limits. During the day there was work to be done. Sometimes she had to tell him, “No, no, no. I can’t sit down with you right now.” But this was like saying “no” to a child incapable of comprehending a negative answer.

Except Lethe didn’t nag or pester the Senora. He beseeched her in the most seductive manner, playing on her good side and flattering her. She tried to resist his lazy seductions, but she was an old woman and enjoyed his attention. Both her children were out of the house, and she missed them.

But why was Lethe so happy? That she could never understand. Her apartment was small and there were few entertainments other than the television. He rarely made contact with anyone in the streets. His happiness was a complete enigma to her. She sensed that it was rooted in deep, melancholy laziness.

There were three ways to address the problem of Lethe’s psychological torpor. (1) She could encourage Lethe to go back to school. (2) She could suggest that Lethe find his own place to live. Or (3) she could recommend that Lethe leave the apartment during the day.

When she thought about the first possibility, she remembered how much Lethe despised the International Institute. Upon consideration of the second possibility, she recalled Lethe’s zealous attachment to her. The third option was by far the most moderate and indirect of solutions.

Out of an unwillingness to hurt Lethe’s feelings, the Senora chose the third. One morning as Lethe was taking his coffee in the cramped kitchen, the Senora explained that her apartment was small . . . “I need you to leave the apartment during the day. Just for a couple hours until we finish everything and the maid goes home.”

Lethe stood in his bathrobe, listening to the Senora lecture him. He glanced at the maid to see her response, but the maid kept her face down.

“You’re not getting enough fresh air,” the Senora went on. “You need to go outside.”

“But I want to stay here with you. Don’t you understand? I’m content. I have everything I need.”

“But that’s not enough, nino. You need your own space. And I need mine. Please go.”

Lethe lowered his head and turned his face sour. “But I enjoy spending the day with you. I like talking. You’re so fun to be around.”

“Fun? I’m sixty-five years old. How can an old woman like me be fun to be around? I’m not saying I don’t enjoy our conversations. I do. But we can’t talk, talk, talk for the rest of our lives. Sometimes we must work, you know.”

“Remember,” she said. “You need your exercise. You need your fresh air.”

If that’s what the Senora wanted him to do, then he would have to obey her rules. The splendor of living in her quaint, comfy apartment was thus short-lived. The illusion of his happiness . . . gone.

Lethe's Happiness

noreply@blogger.com (Lethe) — Sun, 20 Apr 2008 16:15:00 +0000

During the week the Senora was busy cleaning the apartment and preparing meals. She had a maid come in the mornings to help her out. Usually, at about nine o’clock, when Lethe was having his coffee, he saw the maid and greeted her in his usual sprightly manner. Oh yes, Lethe was becoming quite a talkative fellow now that he didn’t have to attend school. While everyone else was carrying out their duties, Lethe wanted to sit down and have a chat!

He seemed to overlook the fact that people had jobs to do and schedules to keep. His earlier observations of the Spaniards and their laizze faire lifestyle inclined him to think that they were just like him, without obligations. But the maid shied away from talking too long to Lethe in the mornings. She had a young, fresh-looking face but was about five years older than Lethe. He tried to engage her in conversation on many mornings, but she often turned her back on him and applied blank concentration to the ironing.

Lethe retreated to his bedroom after his morning occupation of drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes and staring productively at the maid. He liked the fact that his bedroom had a balcony. It made him feel princely to reign over a certain domain, and the views from the Senora’s city apartment were magnificent, the rooftops, the church spires, the low mountains in the background. Then, he’d remove the chair from his bedroom and place it outside in front of the railing. Leaning back in his chair, with his shoes up on the wrought iron he’d sit and smoke.

His recognition of past events slipped away to make room for the ever-present hum in the streets. It was pleasant to fall asleep and then to wake up and look down on the buildings. In one apartment, a lady in a black dress was bending over the table and laying out napkins and silverware. In another, a maid was diligently scrubbing the floor. In a third, a little boy was practicing the piano. Lethe could see the boy’s blondish hair bouncing lightly against the nape of his neck as he struck the keys.

On the balcony, there was no sense of time. With the stirring in the streets, the cobbled alleyways, and the clear blue sky over head, Lethe forgot nearly everything, all his bitter pangs were muffled.

In such a way Lethe’s mornings stretched into afternoons and a dreamy languor carried him along. The Senora had agreed to keep him at her house, to feed him and to wash his clothes. His brief excursions through the Spanish city, to the pastry shops and the bookstores, no longer enticed him. He continued to see the psychiatrist but rarely did he wander the plazas. He clung to the Senora’s apartment like a toad on a toad stool and all the wonders of a foreign city, the museums, palaces, and stadiums, failed to spark his interest.

There was something pleasurable about remaining on the island of the Senora. The lofty ledge of the balcony never lost its charm, and the more he sat outside, the more fond he became of his life of leisure. No need to accomplish anything today, or tomorrow, or the next. Didn’t the Spaniards, above everyone else, understand this principle? They had big lunches and rested in the afternoons; they went to bed late. For a moment Lethe recalled the group of old Spanish gentlemen sitting by the fountain. The looks on their faces, their mild conversations, their pithy expressions: life is short, why toil?

In his mind’s eye he saw clearly the dog sleeping under the chair of one of the gentlemen. The old man glanced at the dog and declared in a robust sentiment, “Que Vida! Que Vida!” The Spaniard envied the lazy life of the dog. The sweet life of leisure! That was the life to champion here in the Moorish city.

Now he loathed the competitive American mindset, envying the Spaniards for their opposing values, just as the old man envied the dog. The group of old men by the fountain became like a symbol to Lethe, a symbol of what life is meant to be. His parent’s divorce was the perfect excuse for him reject all things American.

The sun was too hot on the balcony. He retreated back into his room like a snail into its shell and lay on his bed. There was no headrest on the small bed and he had to lean against the wall to sit up. After reading six or seven pages of Harold Bloom’s lavish introduction, Lethe thought, “What’s the point of these long, erudite introductions? Get to the story already.”

The Senora had told him all about the adventures of the man from la Mancha and every page of the Bloom’s introduction felt like a further postponement of a long-awaited encounter. Lethe drifted back into a languid, dreamy state of mind, now picturing Don Quixote and his gangly, emaciated body, the tattered clothing he wore, the smell of antique books in his ramshackle house, and his friends who complained that he spent too much time reading. The Senora was in the habit of talking about Don Quixote as if he were real, and this treatment of a fictional being in the company of the living was beginning to rub off on Lethe.

His bed slipped away from the wall and the young scholar fell face-forward into the gap. Don Quixote’s image dissolved and Lethe pressed his palms against the floor in an effort to lift his body upwards. Regaining his position on the bed, he looked at the wall and noticed the poster that the Senora had put there. It was an unusual poster in that it had the colors and presentation of a children’s illustration, the kind of picture you might find in a pediatrician’s office. It had a goofy-looking clown on a white background with big bold letters that read in Spanish:

To wish for too big of a happiness makes it difficult for that same happiness.

Don Quixote wished for too big of a happiness but Lethe didn’t know that yet because he hadn’t started the book. The book was cast aside, and now it lay on the floor. The poster held Lethe’s interest for the moment, only because he couldn’t properly translate the caption as I have done for the reader. Instead, Lethe thought that the caption read, well, just the opposite. He thought that it read, “How great it is to wish for happiness.” Lethe’s highest wishes almost always came true and that’s why he believed the poster contained this message.

Things seemed bad for a time but then by a powerful act of the imagination Lethe could prevent them from remaining bad. In other words, Lethe's wishes always trumped his reality. Like Don Quixote (although he wouldn’t know because he hadn’t started the book), Lethe had a fierce imagination, a sort of energy of delusion. This is precisely how he found himself living in Spain, visiting a psychiatrist twice a week, and doing absolutely nothing but dreaming on a balcony.

On occasion, he wrote letters to his mother:

Dear Mom,

I hope you’re not angry with me for not coming home. I’ll understand if you are angry. It makes me sad to think that Dad doesn’t love you anymore and that he doesn’t want to be married to you after twenty five years. Lots of people get divorced but when it’s your own parents you don’t want it to happen. I’m worried about you because of your sickness. Will Dora be able to take care of you instead? What about Mazzy? When does Mazzy come home from college? You probably think that I’m avoiding you and not wanting to help out. This is only partially true. I’m having some issues of my own to deal with right now. I’ll be honest, Mom, it’s always been hard for me to take care of you. I’m sorry that I’d rather stay here in Spain, especially when Dad’s leaving you and you’re probably depressed. You may never forgive me for this, but I have to be here right now. The psychiatrist, Senorita L., gives me a lot of encouragement. She says that it’s okay if I don’t want to come home. I told her about all the pressure I put on myself in college and she thinks that this vacation from life is what I need. It’s true that I don’t really do anything all day long. I can’t even start this book I bought. I’m smoking two packs a day, which probably isn’t good for me. But my Senora who’s forty five years older smokes the same amount. We’ve kind of become like smoking buddies. It was her idea that I stay home from school. I don’t regret it. In fact, it’s the best decision I’ve ever made. She said that when she was younger she had anxiety attacks and she couldn’t go to school either. I thought I was the only one who imagined things, but evidently it happens to a lot of people. People get paranoid, you know.

You’re probably really upset with Dad. When does he leave the house? I think you mentioned six months, something about a transition period. I can’t imagine what it must be like for you. After twenty five years, all of a sudden, he asks for a divorce. Well maybe it wasn’t all that sudden, maybe you could see it happening all along. I’ll admit I was surprised when you told me. All my memories of you and Dad are good. He tried to take care of you for a couple years but I guess it didn’t work out. I’m running out of things to say, so I should probably go.

Love,
Lethe

A Pastry Shop and a Bookstore

noreply@blogger.com (Lethe) — Thu, 17 Apr 2008 20:56:00 +0000

As Lethe meandered through the shop he could hear the clicking heels of gaunt, cosmopolitan middle-aged women. They promenaded their tall, slender-legged shapes in front of the shiny casements and paused to make mouth-watering decisions. The lipstick on their faces was thick and red. These ultra-chic mommies moved with a sort of self-conscious snobbery. Some pushed expensive baby carriages. Others came with their maids.

Chocolates were laid out on silver platters throughout the shop, and a girl in a white apron walked around offering samples of tiramisu. Inside the glass casements, the pastries looked more like works of art than edible foodstuffs. The colorful jellies and rich glazes reflected the bright light inside the displays. Almond cake, brandy truffles, flan, tiramisu, and crème-filled rolls sat on doilies or nested in porcelain dishes. Beautiful, well-groomed Spanish girls were stationed to the front and back of the shop. Behind sleek consoles, they greeted the affluent customers with benevolent smiles.

Lethe nibbled on a tarta de platano as he exited the shop and headed toward the plaza. A sculpture by Picasso stood thirty feet tall, a triangular monument with large crossbeams.

Cherishing the afternoon, Lethe wandered into a small bookstore.

A high narrow platform ran along the top of the main room. There was barely any space to walk around up there, only a plank to kneel upon while searching the upper shelves. He climbed the ladder and glanced down to the tops of people's heads who were coming in the store.

On the little beam, Lethe balanced himself precariously. Four rows of books wound around the perimeter of the room. He had to bend down to avoid knocking his head against the ceiling. Scanning the titles from Dickens to Dostoevsky, Lethe realized that most of the books were in Spanish. He knew there was a book he wanted to get but forgot which one. He tried to remember. At last it came to him. The Senora had recommended Don Quixote a couple weeks ago. If he was going to continue to stay in her house, he should definitely buy himself a copy.

Don Quixote was one of the few books in the bookstore that had an English translation. The book had a shiny red jacket with the helmet of a knight on the cover. Briskly he grabbed a copy and squirmed his way back to the ladder. A friendly man stood at the bottom, holding the ladder steady for him.

Returning to the Clinic

noreply@blogger.com (Lethe) — Thu, 17 Apr 2008 02:10:00 +0000

Instead of taking a cab to his psychiatrist, Lethe decided to take the metro. The metro was an underground subway system with newspaper stands, echoing platforms, and mildewy tunnels. Crowds surged through the subterranean labyrinth and street performers sang and played their instruments. The scowling faces of vendors and winos were ignored by the flowing masses. Gypsies crouched against walls, begging for change, but nobody noticed them.

The Senora was surprised that morning when he told her he wanted to take the metro. He sat in the waiting room and looked at the faces of the patients. They didn't look as hopeless as they seemed before. The secretary had emerald-green eyes and she laughed to herself like she was sharing a private joke with someone.

During Lethe’s session with the psychiatrist, Senorita L. told him that she had spoken to his father over the weekend. “I was able to convince your father that you’re better off in Spain.”

The Senorita opened a brief case and removed a couple papers for him to sign. “Your father and I have come up with a contract. This is so we all agree on the same thing. All the contract says is that you will come to see me twice a week. In return for seeing me you will receive five-hundred dollars as an allowance.”

“Each week?” Lethe asked, surprised.

“No, no, no. Each month. In addition, your father wants me to send him monthly reports on your improvement.”

Could it be this easy? Lethe wondered.

“I’m guessing your father is under a lot of pressure with the divorce and he thinks it would be easier for everyone if you stayed here in Madrid. I told him that your senora takes good care of you and that he has nothing to worry about. I said that in six months time we can work through your issues. By the time you return home, you should be clear-minded and serene.”

Clear-minded and serene. Lethe liked that. He thanked Senorita L. for her excellent negotiations.

“Normally, my father is not so forgiving. I can’t believe he’s paying me to live here. It’s got to be because of the divorce.”

After his session with the psychiatrist, Lethe went for a walk. He was in no hurry to return home to the Senora’s apartment. Spaniards were out strolling in the squares with their families. Older grandchildren walked side by side their grandparents. It seemed odd to Lethe. He wasn’t used to seeing families helping each out and spending time together in public. The only time you saw that in the United States was when parents were with their youngest children; but in Spain you saw the children taking care of the parents.

Lethe talks to his mother

noreply@blogger.com (Lethe) — Wed, 16 Apr 2008 16:18:00 +0000

That night Lethe called his parents to tell them what was going on. He went into the Senora’s bedroom because it was the only place where he could have any privacy on the phone.

“Mom?”

He heard his mother’s wail on the other end. She always had to breathe deeply before mustering the energy to speak. Her sighs were pained and lugubrious. She sounded like a bleating lamb.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Lethe said. “I’ve been having panic attacks. I don’t think I can go to class anymore.”

As he waited for his mother to form a response, he looked around the Senora’s bedroom. There was a bag of eucalyptus leaves on the floor near the dresser. The whole room reeked of the invigorating plant. He pictured the Senora falling asleep each night in a cloud of eucalyptus.

His mother wailed deeper on the phone and he knew she was about to speak. At last she uttered, “I want you to come home Lethe--”

“But no, Mom. I’m alright here. I met the psychiatrist today and she said she can help me. If I stay here in Spain, I can get some help.”

His mother sighed loudly into the receiver. “Your father wants a divorce.”

“What?”

“A divorce.” She sighed again before her voice dropped off.

“How could he?”

Lethe felt his eyes sting. The eucalyptus thickened all around him. He felt as though he was suffocating in the rawness of its scent.

“I don’t understand. When did this happen?”

“Last night.” His mother’s voice was weak, barely audible. She couldn’t talk anymore.

“Well, I won’t be coming home."

He sat on the Senora’s bed. The coolness of the eucalyptus was coming from the bag on the floor and dissolving its scent all around. Though pictures of his mother and her illness flashed through his mind, he relaxed forgetfully in the room’s powerful aroma. Then he remembered what his mother said about his father.

Lace hung over the Senora’s tall dressers like baby clothes. The comforter on her bed had the softness of an aged, worn blanket and the pillows were nicely fluffed and dusted. He searched for religious imagery on the walls, but there were no icons, no pictures of Jesus Christ, only a couple family portraits.

After he had been sitting on the bed for some time, contemplating his parents and their separation, the Senora came into the room.

“I don’t know if I can go to class anymore.” He said.

The old woman rubbed her hands together. Her eyes were clear and moist.

“Do you mind if I live here with you?”

“You can stay here, nino. You can live with me.”

Lethe sees a psychiatrist

noreply@blogger.com (Lethe) — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 20:03:00 +0000

It was decided that Lethe would see a psychiatrist. The Senora recommended the British-American clinic in the Barajas district of Madrid. A taxi came to pick him up and he was dropped off at a stone building on a narrow, cobblestone street. A secretary pointed the way into a waiting room with a red carpet and fireplace.

The center of the room was empty, but the walls were lined with patients. Lethe sat down and picked up a magazine. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at the patients, trying to guess their illnesses and preoccupations. Then a buxom nurse came and led him into a check-room.

The nurse put down her clipboard. Lethe sat on a chair against the wall and let out a sigh. She had her two fingers on his wrist and her lips were moving silently as she counted to sixty.

“I think there may be something wrong,” he said.

“There’s nothing wrong. No heart murmur, nothing. Do you smoke?”

“A pack a day. That’s why I wanted you to listen to my heart. I think I’m smoking too much.”

“Then you should stop.”

The nurse led Lethe down a hallway and knocked on the door to the psychiatrist’s office. A tall lady in a red silk tunic rose from her antique-looking desk and welcomed Lethe. She had long, tan fingers and a stately appearance.

Lethe sat down in the green armchair opposite her desk. Long, arabesque curtains hung down in the back of the room.

“I spoke to your father on the phone,” the psychiatrist said. “I need your permission before I give him any more information.”

“That’s fine.”

“Your father just wants to know how you’re doing. If there’s something you prefer to keep secret, just tell me.”

“No, not really.”

“He said he was paying but of course we could keep things confidential . . . ”

“No, that’s fine.”

Senorita L. was a woman in her middle forties. By nature, she was very exacting and she liked to be clear on matters with her patients.

“I just don’t want to go to school anymore." Lethe confessed. "Do you think you could talk to my Dad and convince him that I’m not well enough to go to school?”

“Would he want you to return home if you’re not attending school?”

"Not if he knew I was getting help."

Senorita L. was an attractive, slender woman with dark auburn hair, and a golden tint to her Spanish skin. She projected an aura of professionalism and refinement. Just by communicating with her, Lethe felt important. He looked up to her as a sort of ambassador of his affairs in Spain. He told her what he wanted and she said she would negotiate with his father to achieve his wishes. Moreover, it was in her favor that Lethe stayed in Spain because he would see her twice weekly.

She took out her watermarked clinical stationary. He watched her as she began to record his traumas in the green glow of the desk lamp.

“Tell me about your family.”

“My mother’s sick. She has some disease. It’s like Parkinson’s.”

“How have you been handling it?”

“I’ve known about the disease for most of my life. I’m used to it by now—”

“So you don’t think you’re mother’s illness has anything to do with your problems at the Institute.”

“No, not really. It’s about my face, I’m obsessed with it.”

“Okay. Talk to me about your face.”

“I have a hard time going to class. I usually come in late or leave early.”

“What is it about the Institute that makes you so nervous?”

“The students. I don’t know anyone there and everyone’s packed into the building like a herd of cattle. I didn’t think it would be like this to study in Spain. I didn’t think I would be around all of these American students.”

“But you go to school in New York, with American students, correct?”

“Yes but these students are from other schools. Ivy League schools like Dartmouth and Harvard. The kids are different. They look at you funny.”

“What about your face?”

“I’m always in the bathroom. It’s the first place I go when I get to the building in the morning. I’m usually late to class. My face looks horrible after the thirty minute walk to school. I go inside the bathroom and check the mirror. Every morning I have a fit, I freak out—”

“I don’t see any acne on your face.”

“You can't see it in here. It's too dark.”

“I'm looking at your face right now and I don’t see anything.”

“I stand in the bathroom for about twenty minutes gazing at my reflection. I turn my head and try different angles. But the acne is still there. It just gets worse.”

“Do you think you could go to class in the morning without checking the mirror?”

“No way. I can't.”

Senorita L. glanced down at the clock on her desk. “I’m going to prescribe you some medicine.”

“You mean medicine for my face?”

“No, I mean anti-depressants.”

“You think I’m depressed?”

“I think you have anxiety disorder and these pills will help.”

“Can you also make an appointment with a dermatologist for me?”

The Senora comforts Lethe

noreply@blogger.com (Lethe) — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 20:27:00 +0000

The next day Lethe mostly stayed in bed and every couple hours the Senora would come to his room with a glass of juice or some leche con miel. In the evening, while the Senora was preparing dinner in the kitchen, Lethe sat next to her. He was like a cat that follows its master into every room of the house without making a sound. He would just sit in the kitchen, watching with eyes full of blank wonder. He loved her mysterious presence that leapt from one task to the next.

She cooked with precision and grace. Despite her age, she was an agile woman. She zipped from counter to counter, slicing vegetables, opening cans, washing potatoes. She was immersed in an energetic flow. By merely being next to her, he could feel the energy passing through him. She'd lay one end of her cigarette on the edge of the sink, then cut up vegetables or take the trash into the hallway, and two minutes later return to her cigarette. Everything had a rhythm and a synchronicity which mesmerized Lethe.

The smoke gathered in each room they went into. But neither of them minded very much. Occasionally the Senora would complain, but then she opened up the balcony door and fresh air came in, clearing out the smoky rooms. After that the balcony stayed open unless it was raining. You could hear the vendors in the streets and sometimes the buses going by. Lethe went out on the balcony to admire the picturesque views of the city. He felt so comfortable in the Senora’s apartment, and its remarkable surroundings: the flower-filled patios, the courtyards, the old men walking down the cobblestone alleyways.

The Senora had such an easy manner about her. For an old lady, she was quite fun to be around. They laughed and watched movies and smoked, and the simple exchange of thoughts with the old woman became meaningful to Lethe.

He kept his showers to a minimum. The water in Madrid was costly and the Senora had enough expenses with feeding her boarders. He offered to fold his own laundry, and at first she refused, but then she gave in, seeing no harm in it. He shook out the table cloth after every meal and swept the crumbs. The Senora wouldn’t let him do the dishes. She had to draw the line somewhere, she said. He wanted to show her that he could be a good boarder, just like Donte. But the Senora never thought that there was anything wrong with Lethe. Lethe was the one who felt inadequate.

“I don’t want you to think I’m lazy,” Lethe said.

“I don’t think you’re lazy,” the Senora replied.

“Donte's always ready to help when you want something done. I’m usually in my room.”

“Donte likes to help out. That’s his personality. Don't begrudge yourself for another person's abilities or characteristics.”

“But I want to help too!”

“I know, I know you do, nino. But don’t compare yourself to him. You have a different personality. Just be yourself.”

Lethe felt confused. He didn’t know if she was praising him or reprimanding him.

After dinner, the Senora poured both of them a glass of wine. The evening was calm and bright, and the lights in the stucco buildings were turning off.

“Are you afraid to go back to school?” The Senora asked.

“I just don't like the building.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s built like a fortress. You feel like you're in a dungeon.”

“A dungeon! No, don’t say that.”

“And my professors get upset with me for running off to the bathroom in the middle of class.”

“Why do you go to the bathroom?”

“Out of nervousness. I don’t really have to use the restroom. I just sit in the stall and stare at the tiles. Before going into the stall, I’ll stare at the mirror for twenty minutes or so. I can’t stop looking. It’s like an obsession. My face is all broken out. Can't you see how red it is? Ever since I got here, it's been like this.”

The Senora took a tense inhale from her cigarette. “Nino,” she said, “You’re sensitive, that’s all. Lots of people are sensitive. I remember when I was a little girl my mother removed me from school. I was like you. I couldn’t handle being around people. For some reason going to school made me nervous. You’re not alone with this problem. Lots of people are afraid of being in public. Many would rather hid in a bathroom than go to class. You have no reason to feel ashamed. Luckily my mother was a compassionate soul. She understood my suffering and never blamed me for it.”

“Does this mean I don’t have to go to school?” Lethe asked.

“You make your own choices, but if I were you I would stay home. What if you had a broken leg? Would you go to school then? No, of course not, you would stay home.”

“So you really think it’s just like a broken leg?”

“Yes, I do.”

The Senora held a glass of red wine next to her knee. After speaking, she put the glass to her lips and finished off the wine. She was a strong, self-possessed woman, the Senora! How did she know to ask him about the Institute? He’d never mentioned any of these things to her before. But that was her gift; she could pick up on his deepest emotions.

The bedroom shrinks

noreply@blogger.com (Lethe) — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 15:53:00 +0000

“You’re home early.” The Senora said.

Lethe hung his head, looking sickly and pale.

“Nino, go lay down. I’ll make you some leche con mile.”

She brought the warm milk to his bedroom. He climbed into his bed with only a thin pair of underwear to cover him.

He sat up to drink the milk. His head was still reeling from the scene in the classroom. The surrealist images danced across the screen of his mind, and for a moment, the bedroom shrinked. Was he looking at the Senora? The nausea was so heavy he couldn't tell. She loomed over him with a halo of garlic radiating off of her shoulders and arms.

His feet were hanging off the bed.

The Senora continued to stand over him as he sipped the warm, sweet milk. Flecks of garlic tumbled from her shoulders like rocks in an avalanche.

"I've prepared a meal," she said. “Why don’t you eat something with us later?”

Donte was setting the table with a calm, empty expression on his face. Ever since he discovered Lethe’s histrionic suicide attempt, he was treating his friend like a mental patient. Lethe went out onto the balcony to have a cigarette. He smoked two puffs when the Senora called him back inside.

Donte carried the garlic potatoes the table. The Senora followed closely behind with the gazpacho.

“I made your favorite soup,” she said.

“I can’t eat anything."

"What about the bread? You can always eat bread."

The Senora was right. Lethe would kindly take a piece of bread.

"I'm going to Valencia this weekend," Donte said.

“With whom?” The Senora asked.

“Some friends of mine.”

"Donte won't be home this weekend," Lethe thought. "I'll have the whole weekend with the Senora."

Suddenly he felt better.

Un Chien Andalou

noreply@blogger.com (Lethe) — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 15:46:00 +0000

One minute after six o’clock, he stepped into his classroom on the eighth floor. “Sit down,” the professor said, “You’re late and we’re about to begin a movie.”

An old projector sat on a wooden stand in the front of the room. The window shades were pulled down. Lethe had no idea that they were watching a movie tonight. The credits came on and the screen read in bold white letters, “Un Chien Andalou”. In the dark room, Lethe could relax. He didn't care what he looked like because nobody could see him. The movie began. The grainy film was shot with awkward angles. The first scene showed a man and a woman in hotel room.

The man has a razor blade. He lifts the razor blade up to the woman’s eyeball. Then he starts slicing her eyeball. The students in the classroom look away, gasping at the scene. A slow spell of nausea makes a few light-headed. Now ants are crawling out of a human hand.

The severed hand rests in the middle of a street. Nothing happens for a couple seconds. Then an old woman pokes at the hand with her cane. Another second goes by and she is hit by an oncoming car.

The students yelp in disgust, some exagerate, but most are sickened by the short film.

Lethe wants to know if he can go to the bathroom. The professor stands outside with him in the hall.

“What’s wrong with you? You come late to class and then ask to leave. You haven't handed in any of you're assignments yet. Tell me, Lethe. Is there anything I can do?”

The wayward youth stared blankly at his professor. “I don’t feel well, that’s all.”

Lethe meets Veronica before class

noreply@blogger.com (Lethe) — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 01:53:00 +0000

Once a week, in the evenings, Lethe saw a friend at the Institute. Her name was Veronica and they’d met during the first week of the foreign exchange program when their college sponsored a ten-day excursion through the Pyrenees Mountains. The idea of the trip was to do a little sight-seeing outside of the capital before situating the students in the city. Over fifty students stayed in small hotels and inns along the way. They visited picturesque villages and hiked through the mountains. They relaxed on beaches and saw old churches.

Veronica was a short, prickly brunette with a small mouth and dwarfish body. She had the habit of pouting whenever she didn’t get her way. But she could also be extremely loud and abrasive. Overall, the two had a playful, teasing relationship that sometimes lent itself toward Lethe’s immaturity and overt male chauvinism.

They'd had sex on the third day of the excursion. The floors of the inn were warped from age, and the ceiling slanted down over the bed. Afterwards Lethe acted proud. They stopped talking for the first couple weeks of class until they bumped into each other one evening. Ever since then they’d been having a ritual coffee break before their evening class at the Institute.

The basement level of the Institute had a cafe where students could spend their money on pastries. Lethe liked to pick a spot in the back where the lighting was dim.

Veronica casually observed Lethe come into the cafe. He appeared sullen, over-anxious perhaps. She didn’t feel any obligation to cheer him up. In fact, it gave her pleasure these days to see Lethe overwhelmed with his personal problems. She felt as though he deserved it.

“What’s wrong with you?” She said sarcastically.

“Does my face look okay?”

“It looks the same as it always looks.”

“Thanks.”

“Relax. It looks fine,” Veronica said, with a hint of compassion in her voice.

“This place reminds me of a dungeon. Like from the Middle Ages. Look at the walls. Don't you feel like we're trapped down here?”

“We’re drinking lattes and eating Spanish pastries. I hardly feel like I’m in a dungeon.”

Her voice was as shrill and annoying as metal whistle. People could probably hear them at the other end.

Finally Lethe stood up and said, “I can’t deal with this place. All these students from different schools, everyone’s piled into one building like a herd of livestock. And they’re all freaking Americans. That's the worst part. Aren’t we supposed to have more contact with the Spaniards? Where are the Spaniards? The Spanish don’t even like us, you know. It’s humiliating even being here.”

“What’s your problem, Lethe? If you don’t like it here, then leave. Nobody’s keeping you here.”

“I actually do like it here. I like my senora and I like the place where I live. I just don’t like these freaking Americans. They’re just like the kids we go to school with in New York.”

“These 'Americans' have just as much of a right to be here as you do. And remember, Lethe, you're an American too.”

Brooding silently, Lethe finished the dregs of his coffee and lit a cigarette.

A noise from Lethe's bedroom

noreply@blogger.com (Lethe) — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 16:22:00 +0000

Later that night, Donte sat in the living room with the Senora. They were watching NASCAR on television. The Senora enjoyed American car racing; it gave her a sudden thrill to see the bright metallic cars zipping around the course. The engines droned and the announcer added his veteran commentary.

The camera panned in on two cars racing neck to neck as they squeezed each other off the course and then bam! Suddenly one of the cars flipped into the air, landing on its side. The other car pirouetted through the dust. A team of medics rushed over to the upturned car and the driver slowly pulled himself out of the window.

The Senora and Donte sat braced to their seats when an even louder noise sounded, but this time, from inside the apartment. It was coming from Lethe’s bedroom. It almost sounded like furniture was being rearranged, and then they heard a loud thump against the wooden floor, like somebody had fallen. “What’s going on over there?” The Senora said. “Go to his room. See what’s the matter?”

The boarder went down the narrow hallway and knocked on Lethe’s door.

“What?” Lethe called out from inside. “I’m busy.”

“Maria Angeles wants to know if everything’s okay. We heard some furniture being moved around.”

“Everything’s fine. I wanted to move my desk, that’s all.”

“You better ask the Senora before you go moving things around.”

“I’ll move it back, I promise.”

Donte looked at the door. “I think you should come out now, Lethe.”

“What do you mean? This is my room.”

Donte could smell the cigarette smoke from behind the door. Lethe always smoked when he was nervous.

Donte was stymied by Lethe’s responses. “Do you mind if I come inside?”

Lethe squeezed his body into the door crack so that Donte couldn’t see anything. Lethe’s face was flushed red with a puddle of sweat between his dark eyebrows.

“What are you doing in there?” Donte asked.

“I told you, I wanted to move my desk.”

“What for?”

“What does it matter? I’m allowed to move the desk, aren’t I?”

“You didn’t ask permission from the Senora. Now she’s upset.”

“I apologize for being such a horrible human being.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic Lethe.”

“I’ve already tried to hang myself tonight. I hung the sheets on the ceiling fan and moved the desk to get up there.”

Donte looked over Lethe’s shoulder.

“Get out of the way,” Lethe said, pushing Donte back. “No, don’t come in! Who gave you the right to come in here?!”

Lethe fell backwards.

A bed sheet was tied to the ceiling fan, just as Lethe had said. Donte looked puzzled, “"This isn't real, is it?”

“It was until you came in.”

“You’re not going to kill yourself, Lethe. Are you?”

“Kill myself? It wouldn’t work anyways. The fan almost came out of the ceiling. It wouldn’t hold.”

“Come into the living room. We’re watching NASCAR.”

“I hate NASCAR.”

“Watch it with us anyways. The Senora’s smoking. You can smoke with her.”

Juanita comes over for lunch

noreply@blogger.com (Lethe) — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 00:50:00 +0000

Around two o’clock Lethe and Donte came home from school, and the Senora served lunch. Her sister, Juanita, lived on the floor above them. She had a small, elderly person’s body and a large, egg-shaped head with puffy grey hair. Her right eye no longer opened and she went around squinting at everything with the left. She also had a hunchback and leered at you whenever you were talking.

From the moment that Lethe met Juanita, he could sense an icy hostility toward him. She seemed to be judging him. It was obvious that she favored Donte. Lethe often sat through an entire meal without uttering a single word. Juanita found this habit rude, something only an idiot would do.

Why was it that Juanita, even though she favored Donte, preferred to sit beside Lethe?

Because of the bread basket. She guarded the bread basket with all her life. Lethe was a greedy little boy, and Juanita wouldn’t allow for such extravagance. The old lady had lived through the dictatorship of Francisco Franco, when bread was scarce. She doled out bread as if they were living in 1938. Of course when the relatives came over, guests took more bread anyways. But Lethe was afraid. The Senora moved the bread for him to take a second piece and Juanita snatched it away.

Lunch was the biggest meal in Spain. The Senora usually made soup, vegetables and a meat dish. As the dishes were brought closer to the table, distressful thoughts began to nag at Lethe. Could the Senora’s traditional Spanish cooking be disfiguring his skin? The platters of chicken and rice resembled pools of oil and fatty parts, or vegetables floating in a stew of grease.

He wanted to eat, but he couldn’t. His bites became smaller, his preferences narrower. Soon the Senora was reproving him as if he were a stubborn child.

“Nino, have some more food.”

“No, really, I’m fine. I’m not that hungry today.”

“Is that why you rummage through my refrigerator at night? You don’t think I can hear you. I hear your stomach growling too!”

She’d never had a boarder who refused to eat her meals. Her boarders loved her food, especially the boys. On the first night, Lethe devoured everything on his plate. Since then he'd been acting strange, picking the food apart, pushing it around or hiding it underneath the potatoes. He got up to take his untouched meal into the kitchen before everyone was finished.

Juanita was righteously indignant about the food issue. She lectured her sister in private about how to deal with Lethe. In her opinion, Lethe was a spoiled brat from the United States and he ought to be taught some manners. But the Senora argued on Lethe’s behalf, saying that she suspected he was having some "problemas de la cabeza," or psychological problems.

“De la cabeza?” Juanita parroted back.

Indeed, the term "psychological" was imponderable to the older woman.

There was nothing psychological about eating the food on your plate, she said. “Donte polishes his plate at every meal. Why it should be any different for the other one?”

The Senora made a sympathetic face. “Yes, yes, I know you think Donte behaves so well and Lethe is a poorly educated; but what you don't see is that Lethe is having trouble here in Spain. Trust me, sister, I live with these boys year round and I see how they handle living abroad. Donte is infinitely more comfortable with it.”

“Comfortable or not, one should know enough respect to eat the food on his plate."

“Maybe so. But I'm convinced that Lethe needs more time before we start expecting anything out of him. He's only nineteen years old, sister. Please allow him time to adapt."

“I don't know. I don't buy into this argument. But still, he's your child and I'll let you 'raise' him as you wish. You're right that it's none of my business. From now on, I'll leave the devil to you to take care of."

“Thank you, Juanita. Then from now on let him have his second piece of bread. Even if he doesn't eat the meal. He's hungry. And there’s plenty of bread in this house!”

In the classroom

noreply@blogger.com (Lethe) — Wed, 09 Apr 2008 16:17:00 +0000

The next day at the Institute, Lethe was sitting in the back of a classroom on the eighth floor. There were twenty four desks crammed into a tiny room and the air was stifling. It occurred to Lethe that if he wanted to escape during the middle of the lecture, he would probably attract a great deal of attention to himself. This would defeat his purpose of not wanting anyone to look at him.

Everyone was paying close attention to the professor as she explained to the class the guidelines of a project they would have to complete by the end of the semester. Lethe gathered something about interviews and talking to Spaniards. It was a cultural project, an investigation into the way of life in Spain. The professor was speaking so fast he could barely put the whole thing together.

Did she want him to interview the Senora? Or maybe she wanted him to talk to people in the street? He remembered all of the commotion in the city on his way to school. The buzzing jackhammers, the bustling pedestrians, the swarming traffic. The idea of carrying out interviews in the street, especially if he had to roam through the numberless plazas, alarmed him greatly.

His thoughts returned to his face and how it was mottled with acne. He’d already checked the mirror five times today. Wasn’t that enough?

No, in fact. It wasn't enough. Lethe Bashar needed reassurance, constant reassurance. He needed to know that his face was okay. Each time he stood in front of the mirror, no matter how bad his skin appeared, he felt better. At least he could see the rough patches for himself. At least he could examine the inflamation. But here, in the classroom, he had no way of knowing what he looked like.

He had to calm himself down. "Calm down," he said to himself in a threatening tone. "Calm down." If he didn't calm down, his face would get much worse. He would begin to sweat and if he began to sweat, then his face would turn red, and if his face turned red, then the pimples would be bright and glossy. Already he could feel the skin on his face heating up a few degrees.

"I need to find a mirror," Lethe thought.

If he didn't find one right away, he was sure something terrible would happen. He turned to the right, then to the left. Everyone seemed to be paying attention the lecture. But he couldn’t follow what the professor was saying anymore because of his obsessive thoughts. All he wanted to do was go downstairs and look in the mirror. He calculated the straightest route to the door, and then sprung into the air.

The professor stopped her lecture to address him.

"Todo estaba bien alli?"

The heads at the front of the classroom turned simultaneously.

Lethe looked down, pretending to take notes. The class broke into a storm of snickers. The professor straightened her shoulders at the podium and proceeded in a calm voice, “La cultura Espanola tiene una riqueza de personalidades y tradiciones. Es tu trabajo a encontrar las puertas de descubrimiento . . .”

Going to classes would become a real torture for him, he could see it already. He wanted the day to end before it had even begun. He dreamed of the lazy refuge of the Senora’s apartment.

Dinner with the Senora

noreply@blogger.com (Lethe) — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 00:42:00 +0000

The Senora cooked a delicious meal that night. The three of them sat down together at nine o’clock. She poured herself a glass of wine, and hesitated over whether to offer some to her new guests. She didn’t want to set a standard for serving up wine every night. Between the three of them, they’d probably go through six bottles a week.

The basket of fresh bread went around the table. The bread in Spain was baked just right. Lethe lingered over the crust in his mouth as if he'd never tasted bread before. Steam rose from the soupy bowl of creamed broccoli. The thick potato-and-egg tortilla shimmered with blotches of oil. The Senora had left open the balcony door and cool air was coming in, mingling with the heat from the oven.

At an unexpected moment, the Senora dabbed the corners of her mouth and projected her voice across the table. The great curio cabinet trembled behind her. With regal self-assurance, she announced to her young squires that she was reading a "wonderful little fable" called The Alchemist.

"The Alchemist is about a young man who leaves his homeland in Spain--" She said conspiratorially, "To seek a buried treasure in Egypt."

Donte nodded his head and winked at the Senora. Clearly, he recognized the book and knew more than Lethe did. Ever since Lethe met Donte he was afraid that his own stupidity and lack of knowledge about the world would show through. He couldn't speak full sentences in Spanish and now there was a book he didn't recognize. Where would it end?

The Senora and Donte exchanged fond memories of the thin book, the Senora chuckling and Donte doing more of his winking.

"This stupid book is actually bonding them together," Lethe thought, growing indignant.

The full force of their sympathies was revealed when the Senora remarked, "Donte, ever we met, you struck me as being wise for your years. Of course, it's because you're so well-read."

"We're reading Don Quixote for my Spanish Literature class."

The gay, winsome Cuban was incapable of offending the Senora. The more that came out of his mouth, the more he fell into her favor.

Lethe seemed to break out into a sweat of jealousy.

The Senora swooned. "Don Quixote de la Mancha," she said. "Now if you haven’t heard of that one, then I’m going to give you a smack upon the head," she said.

Donte nodded in gleeful assent. His sculpted hairdo bounced up and down as he went on to justly praise the work. He'd read the tome at twelve years old and found it "uproariously funny". Since then, he read it every couple years just to remind himself not to take life so seriously.

"There is something to be said about the 'comic intent' of Cervantes," Donte noted.

The Senora smiled aggressively. They were like two dogs feasting on each other's praises. Lethe couldn't comprehend the level of camaraderie.

In an effort to include him in the discussion, the Senora urged Lethe to take the book out of her curio cabinet. "I want you to use my copy," she said.

With the giant book in his hands, Lethe thumbed through the first pages. The only thing he could think about were the little black sketches at the beginning of each chapter.

About the words themselves, he said, "But I can't read all those words in Spanish."

"Then buy a copy in English. There’s a little bookstore on la calle de Felipe."

Donte appeared to be having a conversation with himself now. "Cervantes was the greatest author who ever lived," he asserted relentlessly.

“But why?” Lethe asked, surprising both the Senora and Donte with his curiosity.

“Because nobody knows when he’s joking or when he’s serious,” Donte put a smirk on his face.

"And that’s what makes him great? Because he confuses people."

"Oh, no, you don't understand," The Senora said. "You're never confused while reading that book; you know exactly what's going on. You just don't know what it means. It's like life." The Senora began clapping her hands energetically. "Yes, yes. Like life, like life, so much like life."

The Senora continued, “Nobody can figure out exactly what his tale is about. It is not a simple tale. Each person comes to the story and finds something different.”

She brushed some of the crumbs off the table into her hand, and stood up. Lethe and Donte stared at each other for a moment and then went to their seperate bedrooms.

Donte

noreply@blogger.com (Lethe) — Thu, 03 Apr 2008 16:22:00 +0000

Lethe met Donte at the airport where they split a taxi to get into the city. They dragged their suitcases up eight flights of stairs because the metal cage of the elevator in the Senora’s apartment building was jammed.

A robust woman in her early seventies greeted them at the door. Her dark Spanish complexion resembled an old woman from a fairy-tale, rugged and manly-looking. She had short grey hair and a strong, bony frame.

Lethe was concentrating on the floor. Where to put his suitcase? He felt the initial choke of not being able to express himself in Spanish. Donte smiled graciously on his benefactors, making a proud, sweeping glance of the apartment. The Senora’s daughter, a woman in her late twenties, rushed over to explain the circumstances. She had a flighty voice that took off around the corners.

You had to follow her around when she was talking. She said that while she didn’t live here anymore, she wanted to help her mother out with the new guests.

They followed her into the kitchen. She’d just gotten married a few weeks ago; the wedding was beautiful, she said. Animated with memories, a certain expectant energy grew inside her as she bustled between the rooms. Perhaps she was thinking of the future. Perhaps she was imagining her life as a married woman. She said she had to make sure there was clean linen on the beds and fresh towels on the racks.

The Senora stood off to the side, watching her daughter prepare things. The old woman seemed to have a composed, taciturn nature. With a single gesture, she encouraged Lethe and Donte to rest on the couch. They must have taken a long trip to get here.

“Would you like some coffee?” The old woman asked.

“No, thank you,” said Donte.

“Yes, please. I’ll have some coffee,” Lethe said.

Antique side tables and embroidered chairs filled the Senora’s cozy, dim living room. A Persian carpet covered the hardwood floor. Little metal ashtrays were scattered throughout the apartment. Vine-leaf plants hung over the couches.

It was late afternoon and the balcony doors were open. Little gusts of air blew inside, rustling the heavy-hanging drapes. The Senora sat on the other couch and took a cigarette out of her pocket.

Donte’s dark-olive complexion made him look like a Spaniard. He had perfectly sculpted jet-black hair, and a jolly, good-natured confidence. Lethe disliked his charms.

The Senora causally lit the cigarette she had been holding in her hand. She asked her new guests about the colleges they attended and their families back home. Lethe stumbled over his words. Donte maneuvered the language with ease and familiarity.

In the hallway, as they were going into their separate rooms, Lethe said to Donte, “How do know Spanish so well?

“My father's Cuban.”

“Oh."

Lethe stood out on his balcony, smoking a cigarette. The sun washed over the pastels of the stucco buildings, and the flower-filled patios came alive. Were those moutains out there? Everything was picturesque in the afternoon’s glorious sunshine. It was a bright, quaint spot, the Senora’s street.

You looked out and saw pretty, young maids hanging clothes up to dry. In the cobbled alleyways a few cars were hazardously parked. Old men sat in the corridors of their shops, taking short breaks from the heat.

Maybe Donte wanted to go for a walk.

Two minutes later, the Cuban came out wearing a heavy serape sweater, tan shorts, and a hemp purse slung around his right shoulder. He looked like he was ready climb the Andes Mountains.

There were about a dozen souvenir shops on the street running perpendicular from the Senora’s building. Lethe had never seen such odd, decrepit people. Emaciated men hawked lottery tickets outside old convents and churches. Gypsies rattled copper plates as their children lay in heaps of brightly-colored fabrics. Mixed into the fray were chic, well-dressed Spaniards rushing along the sidewalks in nervous haste.

The signs, written in a language Lethe barely understood, denoted everything from national banks to telephone companies to fresh vegetables and lottery tickets. Everywhere he turned, he tried to decipher the words. The buildings had beautiful, elaborate facades and small porticos leading to inner courtyards with grille windows. The streets were narrow, labyrinthine, sometimes steep and back-breaking to climb. Verdant parks stretched for miles beside the busy enclaves of urban areas. In the parks, vendors sold fried pastries out of their bicycles.

The women took Lethe by surprise with their curiously seductive clothing. One twenty-something wore black pants that showed through to her panties! He followed her for awhile, gazing at her sculpted behind, but then lost her in the crowd. The women in Spain barely noticed you, especially if you looked like a foreigner.

“You know what I want to do before I leave this place?”

“What?” Donte asked.

“I want to see a bull fight. And have sex with a Spanish woman.”

“The first one shouldn’t be a problem.”

At the International Institute

noreply@blogger.com (Lethe) — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 18:40:00 +0000

He nearly fell backwards, startled by the piercing sounds and boisterous voices. The building reminded him of an overstuffed aviary of screaming, menacing birds. Instead of going to class, he panicked and ran into the bathroom on the first floor. As the clock struck eight, a monastery silence reigned over the building.

Lethe Bashar was hopelessly fanatical about the slightest trace of acne that appeared on his skin. Since he had gotten to Spain, it was breaking out pretty bad, here and there, around his mouth, on the chin. Now it was looking almost like a rash. He studied the exact roughness of the emerging acne, the patches of darkness slowly enveloping the sides of his mouth, the pimples charting territories of their own. The longer he stared in the mirror, the worse it became, until he was stuck in the tense, overwrought position of leaning uncomfortably over the sink. When at last he was able to free himself from this stupor of gazing, he stood back and took one more overall glance—as if the mirror were about to declare some final judgment on him.

Staring so deep and hard at his reflection drew an excessive amount of strength and soon Lethe was overcome with fatigue and needed to sit down. He pressed the stall door, which opened like a confession booth.

"What's wrong with me?" Lethe asked.

But there was no immediate answer; not even one from inside his head. So he stared up at the birds walking along the parapet through the high window at the top of the ceiling. The ragged birds looked like they'd just jumped out of a heap of garbage and were adored with garbage, half feathers, half detritus.

"I'm living in a city without a single person who speaks my language. I can't express myself. I feel like I'm drowning."

"No. What am I saying? There are plenty of people here who speak English. Even my Senora speaks English. Donte speaks English. The students in my classes speak English."

"Why do I feel like I can't communicate with anyone?"

The walk from the Senora’s apartment to the International Institute took approximately thirty-five minutes. As he brushed against the flank of a large stone church, Lethe failed to notice the shrinking sidewalk. Then, without looking, he almost stepped into a giant cavity in the road.

Construction workers appeared all around him, their arms and faces smudged with grease. Cigarettes stuck out of their mouths as they lowered ropes beneath the street and yelled orders back and forth. A crescendo of jackhammers buzzed. Women cupped their ears as they scurried through the narrow passageways.

He followed the crosswalk into a wide-open plaza with a fountain in the center. There a cluster of old gentlemen sat with their legs crossed, reading the morning newspaper under the blue fresco dome of the sky. A lazy dog slept underneath one of the chairs.

Lethe stood next to the fountain, debating whether he should go to school this morning. The taut underbelly of the lazy dog was rising and falling with every labored breath.

"What's wrong with me?"

One of the old Spanish gentlemen smiled at Lethe. He looked like he had a secret. He looked like a philosopher.

Anticipating some divine answer, or at least a clue, Lethe stared anxiously at the old man.

Turing his smiling gaze from Lethe to the lazy dog under the chair, the man shouted, “Que Vida! Que Vida!”

"What does that mean?" Lethe wondered.

"Que Vida! Que Vida!"

The dog breathed heavily under the chair. It appeared as though his sleep was intoxicating, and that he would sleep until the sun went down.