La Douleur Exquise

Glissando Contro Portamento

He shook his head and thought for a while then said, “But it’s not your first time here in this city, that I’m certain. No?”

I looked at him sharply; yes it has become a bad habit. But his eyes looked kind, no malice or any other intentions. I had to answer honestly, “The first time I came here was five years ago.”

“Ah hija, you misunderstand. What I mean by familiar is that I’ve seen your face many times before. I just don’t remember when and where.”

That hit a chord in me. ‘How could that be possible?’ I thought. I don’t have a twin, do I? Or is my soul travelling someplace else when I pass out after work? My heart suddenly throbbed a bit.

Taking my coffee cup, I stood up and walked to see the bookshelves and mementos on display. It was really a nostalgic shop. Memories trapped in pictures, cut-out cards, notes, and doilies all posted on a big board.

“This shop has been here for five decades now. This was the first love letter ever posted here.” He pointed out a yellowed tissue paper with beautiful calligraphic writing, asking for a girls hand in marriage.

“This is so beautiful. Would you mind if I take pictures? And also, would you give me the honor of writing about your shop? This would be perfect to advertise…”

“Advertise? No! But if you want to tell a story about love, then I will allow you.”

That made me stop, what was this man thinking? This was the chance for him to show off his small solitary shop. “If it’s the people you’re concerned about, I can ask permission from them or I could use pseudonyms. There are lots of ways and you won’t have problems about it.”

“Do you believe in love, no?”

I looked at him curiously, as if what he just said was a big joke.

“If you do believe, then you will respect when I say don’t write about them. You write about love, then I will let you.”

I sighed in little defeat. Maybe he does have a point and I am just too stubborn to understand it. I just can’t let go of a big story easily. It’s instant money whether I make it into a newspaper or magazine article, or better yet a book that can become a movie.

“Okay, I’ll do what you want. I will try and I will write only if I can write about love.”

Happiness rose in his face and he grasped my hands, “Oh gracias! Thank you thank you! I will tell the people here when it is done. You will contact me, no?”

“Yes I will. And maybe I will come back to give you a copy.” And I gave him my card.

I continued reading and he took my empty cup, offering me a free refill. I read through a seeming timeline of love: letters, replies, protests and comments that were actually jokes, and other small details about the people who eventually got married after simply writing a small note.

“You want to try your luck hija? Write a note and post it there, maybe it will grant you to meet your soulmate.”

I wanted to laugh but I didn’t because I didn’t want to offend him. Who would believe in such cheesy stuff that was cheesier than stuffed crust pizza? Suddenly he pushed in my hand a small pink doily and a fountain pen.

“Write. You will feel better surely.”

I wanted to laugh and retort ‘I’m a writer, and never has writing made me feel any better.’ But I kept my mouth shut. This man was too nice to be offended by a stranger like me.

I thought for a long time what to write, while also reading almost everything that was posted on the board. I also walked around to see what old titles the shop had. I mostly owned what he had, the only difference was the cover and the publishing date. I was impressed with the coffee table books he had on display, and it was all about renaissance painters and architecture. Scanning through them felt magical, as if I was on an adventure through time and history on my own. The pictures looked so read and warm.

It brought back memories that made me write. 

Yes I will marry you.

And with a flourish I signed it with my initials. Stupidly, out of reflex, I also put the date today. Funny, it was exactly five years ago when I got the question. I had no more space to write anything else and I was too ashamed to ask for another piece, the doily really looked so fancy. I took a ladybug pin and posted it on the single vacant space on the board, it was in the middle of all the papery cheesy chaos of words and promises.

I turned to look back at the bar and the barista wassmiling at me.

“You are new here, no? You should see the museum if you are a writer. It brings many memories. More things to write about don’t you think?” And he handed me a museum brochure, it was a recent exhibit. I paid for the meal, bought a prettily embroidered notepad he said his daughter made, and I made my way out.

“Come back if you have the chance. And bless you hija!” he called on me as I waved and walked away.

~To be continued

8/20/14

1:00pm