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Observing reality

through desire

Miguel Ángel Guerrero Ramos

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Copyright © Miguel Ángel Guerrero Ramos

Original title: Observar la realidad a través del deseo

© edition- La Lluvia de una Noche

Front: La lluvia de una noche

Translated from Spanish by Sebas Tian, authorized by the Author.

2013

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Dedicated to all the muses of inspiration

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Synopses:

Nina‟s a young attractive girl who‟s got to search for the love of her life,

according to a mysterious airtight female clairvoyant, sooner than three days

from now. In order to fulfil said task, Nina‟s scheduled to visit some of the most

excellent geniuses and virtuosi of painting, photography and other visual arts

alike; some geniuses who would get inspired by her, her glance, the beauty of a

muse who irradiates her slightly wavy hair or her fragrant skin of pearly moon.

This is, therefore, a story moored in the deepest desires of a damsel who‟s

been consecrated with such matchlessness and splendour. Or rather, of that

woman who could well happen to be the reincarnation of Calliope or, otherwise,

at least of all those corporeal shrewd certainties hidden behind the loom of

yearning.

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Chapter 1: Desires of an existentialistically-probing

dazzling sensual muse

They met under the luminescent fiery glow of a cerise nightfall, a crimson dusk

quivering with passion and overflowing in radiant strokes above life‟s very own

bewilderment. There was, at that moment, a delightful moon overhead, meaning

to bathe herself in the eyes of a star or, who knows, perhaps some infatuated

romantic. He approached her having all his senses been somewhat distorted by

such reality that can only be woven by longing. He drew near her with

remarkable chivalry. He called her Calliope. Some cats meowed in the ceilings,

as if they were chasing an utmost bare plucky mystery with their feline music.

Shortly afterwards, soon after they‟d met each other under the shining sizzling

spark of that hitherto crimson dusk, both of them decided to submerge

themselves in passionate waters and vertiginous currents, which belonged to

the unremitting surge of entreaty. Thus with their lives following that strain of

spine-tingling and every so often overpowering breezes, on one occasion of

pulsating unswerving collective appetites, while she fondled her beloved‟s

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chest, looked intently into him with eyes of enchanted muse. Then, just some

few seconds afterwards, it occurred to her to ask him this:

—Tell me, my love, why do you call me Calliope? Who is she?

They both remained still. There was a silence leaning on the fringe of an

unsuspecting layer of doubts. However, a fleeting moment later she, supplying

her voice with a withdrawn magnetic nostalgic harmony worthy of a tern amidst

the zephyr, suggested:

—Tell me, my love, whether she happens to be another lover of yours.

—Calliope, sweetheart —he faced up to reply—, is, according to Greek

mythology, the muse of poetry and eloquence, the most prestigious and

beautiful, you see, amongst all the Olympian muses.

—I want to know something.

—Sure.

—Do you see me in her, or do you see her in me?

—I wouldn‟t be able to tell you.

As soon as she got out of the sweet bed belonging to that artist who was

comparing her to one of the Olympian muses, more precisely to who was

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supposed to be the most beautiful and prestigious of them all, our beloved

beautiful Nina absorbed with her profound rubicund glare the spring warmth

through a bevelled window and through the very path of desire‟s mystique. A

strange silence, meanwhile, swirled around her unstoppably. “What you just

said, as if with some poetic tone, my dear artist, makes me think you dream

about me”, she said as if just for the sake of it, with her body exposed and

removing from her face some wicked locks of wavy hair.

—That, lovely Calliope —he said— means you are that driving force that turns

me into a virtuoso who takes the chisel, shapes the clay and mixes the paint

with unparalleled genius yet to be seen in any other artist.

Nina was still naked over the artist‟s bed, an act that, unbeknownst to her,

instated on his tongue the unstoppable yearning of exploring her breasts‟

softness which, by the way, portrayed a perfect contrast, and it could be said

nearly in a passionate and sublime sense of harmony, with the hardness of her

erected delighted nipples.

Outside that room, by the way, as we can remember, it was spring, but for one

reason or another, it was autumn inside our dear gorgeous Nina‟s soul, which

was ploughed with trade winds and other less undecipherable breezes. She

didn‟t stop meticulously analysing the words of that artist although, it has to be

said, she seemed to be rather wrapped up in some uncertain deep thought.

“I‟ve got to go”, the beautiful Nina said, when recalling the cold sentence a

mysterious female clairvoyant had made the previous day. Then she let him —

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the artist who compared her to one of the Olympian muses— observe her sweet

and soft naked female body for a few more seconds, during which he tried to

retain it in order to sculpt and paint it hundreds and hundreds of further times

from that day onwards and throughout all the life still ahead of him. She then

proceeded to get dressed after taking a short refreshing shower. Something

was telling gorgeous dazzling Nina that said artist was not and could not ever

become the love of her life. Of course, he just saw in her a walking poem called

“Calliope”, quite flattering, yes, but quite outside reality, which is why she had to

consequently chivvy along. Time was running out according to the warning of a

mystifying female clairvoyant, whose glance was immeasurably diluted in the

realms of Oblivion, which meant the hourglass of Nina‟s loves could stop any

moment. That‟s why she‟d got to hurry and look for the one but, shortly before

leaving, the artist took her by the arm and asked her for one last sweet soft

good-bye kiss. Against all odds, she declined. He then told Nina, in a desperate

attempt to keep her next to him, that her sweet female kisses actually were

what made him dream, and that charming exquisite flavour of her skin was what

gave him that determined inspiration he was talking about some minutes earlier

and which made him paint like no other artist elsewhere.

There wasn‟t any way or means for him to persuade her to stay, as she left him

lost in the company of the sour seclusion found in he who knows to possess an

unequalled extraordinary talent and who knows he must only work on it. Now

well, if the female clairvoyant was right, that bewildering female clairvoyant

whose glance was immeasurably diluted in the realms of Oblivion, Nina had

less than three days to find the love of her life, otherwise she‟d never do it and

would remain forever alone and with the massive distress of having lost, even in

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her youth, her very last big chance. There wasn‟t, thus, a lot to think about or

consider, the warning from the mysterious female clairvoyant of immeasurable

glance was, in its moment, squib. How did this whole story of the female

psychic and Nina looking for the love of her life in less than three days start?

Simply enough, it all began with a dream that profoundly fretted the beautiful

striking Nina in such a way that she opted to consult someone who could make

sense of it. That day of hastily roaming clouds and the bluest stationary sky, as

a consequence, a rather wary and sceptical Nina respect whatever the fortune-

teller she was about to consult could say, said to herself this: “You ought not to

believe an absurd fallacy out of nowhere Nina. You should trust your instinct

over anything else”. What gorgeous Nina didn‟t know was that her intuition

would wind up backing up that terrible forecast given to her by the spiritualist

and which from then on left her drifting through an uncertain deceitful limbo.

What was that mysterious and distressing dream of Nina‟s about? The one

dream, that is, that she wanted to be decoded by a female clairvoyant of

immeasurable glance, as if it‟d been diluted in the realms of Oblivion, or at least

she wanted to be pointed in the right direction and then get to know herself a

little bit more. It was, in fact, about a reddish twilight of quite an intense tonality,

and full of echoes which were just as perplexing as they were unsuspected, as

well as about what had happened under such sunset, which was Nina walking

down the streets of a forsaken city. In her dream, she didn‟t notice how strange

it is for a city full of high buildings to find itself as empty as it was. There were,

by the way, some disperse clouds in that sky of red tint. She, beautiful dazzling

Nina, was looking at the livid and serene clouds when someone placed a hand

on one of her shoulders, someone who also drew closer to her and whispered:

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“I‟m here, dear Nina, as an iridescent rite of light made by the shadows, and if

you don‟t turn around, I‟ll be gone forever taking all your love while you, dearly

beloved, will be carrying a heavy lumber from here to the rest of eternity and

infinity”. Nina heard that voice in a state of true perplexity, and even when that

stealthy voice warned her so categorically about that, she didn‟t turn around to

see who was talking to her. She was paralysed, though not completely so: in

that instant, at least, Nina was able to somehow recognise it was but a dream

from which she‟d wake up sooner or later. But she didn‟t wake up, and instead

began falling into a red thickness; in other words, falling into an overwhelming

red intensity from that sky spread with white and largely bruised clouds. She

shouted and desperately tried to hold on to something, because she‟d one way

or another been announced, deep down, that she‟d be permanently gobbled by

such sky of a red so intense as her most intimate ardent passions.

Nina awoke shaken up and that same afternoon, after leaving the restaurant

where she‟d been waitressing for some months, she decidedly headed towards

a female clairvoyant, or channeller, or something like that, who, according to

what Nina herself had previously learnt, is very famous and respected in that

city. Yes, Nina chose to go to some mysterious female clairvoyant for her

uniquely disturbing dream to be interpreted, and also to speak to her about love,

affection, unexpected reencounters, mysterious surprises and, who knows?,

maybe infuse some optimistic vibe into her tumultuous and agitated life.

Anyway, in she went, that warm day, to the vaguely lit lair of the aforementioned

female clairvoyant. In that den, it has to be said, an inner, mysterious and

startling lassitude seemed to be breathed, but a gaunt light haloed everything

there and that gave that lugubrious place a phantasmagorical aspect.

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The female clairvoyant spoke with a voice as rough and remote as those

memories that provoke the most heartfelt tears of their mystical supernatural

and somewhat nostalgic existence, lost in foreign destinations even being

aware that knowledge of no fate teaches life to perfectly unfold in its complex

breadths. But even then she —the female clairvoyant of immeasurable glare—

had something strange and truly peculiar. Had anyone other than Nina been

there in that enclosure, they would‟ve sworn to have seen female clairvoyant

the stroking Nina with her glare and being utterly smitten by her, biting her lips

with lewdness and thoroughly-examined sensuality, and Nina at loggerheads.

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Chapter 2: Desires of a beautiful sensual Muse

existentialistically involved in unfounded passions

“Your kisses, which are still suggestive even when they‟re on your lips, are

passionate and inspiring”, said to Nina the second man she decided to visit after

she‟d seen an artist who was a virtuoso of painting and sculpture. Said second

man, who also made love to her, is incidentally a politician, and not a very

affable one by the way, as he over gesticulates with his hands and speaks in a

martial tone. As he was opening his main door to Nina, that man felt the

bouquet of a passion that burnt his loins. To her —that is, to beautiful dazzling

Nina—, as it is customary, that politician talked about all he knew, which was,

himself. He then, customarily as well, took advantage of one of the chances he

found in the conversation —if such a thing can be called a conversation to begin

with— to unbutton the silk blouse gorgeous Nina was wearing, liberating her

breasts, which then overflew as only the most impetuous of the passionate

rivers ever could. Then he played as he wished with her ardent chest and slid

one of his hands towards the moistures and different pleats of her sex, which

not only damped the politician‟s hand a bit but which also seemed to somehow

satiate a remote instinctive thirst. He made love to her thereafter over a

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threadbare mauve-coloured carpet. All throughout that time, beautiful Nina said

and uttered naught.

“Listen to me, beautiful: if you don‟t toss yourself as if entering the ocean for the

first time, you‟ll lose the will to love for good. Be careful, though, since it won‟t

be easy at all to choose the right person”: That was precisely the last advice

given to gorgeous Nina by the mysterious female clairvoyant just the previous

day when interpreting the former‟s dream. “Oh, something else”, added the

baffling female clairvoyant right at that moment: “You‟ve only got two days

starting now to do what I told you to”:

“I want one more of your gall kisses”, said the politician to gorgeous Nina. “What

could you want another one of my kisses for, if you‟ve had me for long

inexorable minutes of passion”, she replied. “There‟s still some inspiration

missing, my dear, a kind of security to be able to talk before any audience and

any congress”. “I‟m sure, sweetheart, that you‟ll get it elsewhere”, concluded

beautiful dazzling Nina, shortly before walking out permanently from the

politician‟s house and his selfish life.

Passionate storms are now chasing uncertain invisibilities of feeling as they also

drag gorgeous Nina towards some man who used to be her boyfriend at some

point and who‟s always worked in theatre as he intends to find the curtain hiding

the exact staging of desire… of carnal desire, of course.

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In fact, beautiful Nina thinks about him so intensely that she can‟t ever forget

about a letter he once wrote to her and which she still keeps in an old drawer in

an old cupboard at her small comfy apartment, next to other very precious

correspondence from past loves and next to some soft palpitations of dreamy

life. Nina‟s saved, by the way, love letters dedicated to her by several men

throughout several years and which make her want to fly between the clouds

and then feel life doesn‟t stop softly and unconcernedly stroking her. At that

moment of rushes and doubts, however, gorgeous Nina only thought about that

love letter sent to her once by some man who‟s always been devoted to his

theatre work and which says:

I don’t know if you remember this Nina. I was Hamlet, in a world

far from history, at one of the impalpable untraveled corridors of life,

avidly, imperiously and enquiringly asking myself whether to be or not

to be, when suddenly, I looked up as if staring at a hoist horizon of

opalescent stunning appearance, and I saw you as the most comforting,

sensitive and extraordinary of facades. Yes, I found myself wondering in

those instants whether to be or not, whether getting on or not with

existence or denial or whether choosing the contents of absolute, or by

the indefinite unsuspected shape of nothing, when I saw you there, in the

middle of the discontinuous figments of a feverish pulsating tide of

heartbeats. There, at one of the galleries of such enormous modern

theatre where my soul began someday a while ago to be pursued by the

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soft silky breath of dreams and where I’ve been practising as a director,

as a lead actor and occasionally as a skilful gifted playwright, more

exactly whenever fragrant inspirations of vaguely forbidding muses want

me to.

What was the first thing I thought when I saw you for the first

time? Well, I thought you, with your gleaming amber eyes and pearly

skin, were as beautiful and hypnotic as those aforementioned vaguely

forbidding muses, as pretty as the most flirtatious and fickle of the

Sylphs. What was the second thought that came to me then? That I had to

become someone completely independent and concrete as well as

physically situated in this complex universe as an entity that is immerse

in life’s very own sudden character, and in the refulgent glow of sidereal

eyes of this earth. In other words and to make myself be better

understood, I thought in resuming doing what I was doing: acting, which

I did until the last second of the performance, until the very last moment

of that dexterous dramatisation.

The next day, before starting off the respective function, I saw you

again at the same place, in other words, the same box seat. In that instant

I told myself “Focus! Set yourself to delve in the outmost dense,

burnished and intangible ocean of the staging”. I remember, come to

think about some details relating to you, that my workgroup and I were

going to portray Reasons of Being a Starless Firmament during that new

afternoon function of that day. That was a musical about detectives and

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mafia members, inspired in the life of Al Capone and the head of the

operations to bring him down and leader of the Untouchables, Eliot Ness,

and was supposed to be the only performance of the day at that vast

modern theatre. Ten minutes to start, however, and just after double-

checking it was you who were the one in the dream suite and not a

delusion of my insufficient and moderately tactile senses of my inner

self, I abruptly changed my mind. Out I got, thus, filled with euphoria,

and told the audience of that huge up to date theatre, that marvellous

foreshadowed afternoon, that besides playing the work on detectives and

mafia, they’d be able to appreciate, as a brief and juicy treat at the end of

the evening, a small piece of Romeo and Juliet.

Such performance of Romeo and Juliet supposed itself, because of

the speed of the decision taking it to stage, in a uniquely distinctive way.

It was initially meant to be a performance of Romeo (me) talking to an

imaginary Juliet at a perfumed imaginary balcony (or at least that was the

idea). Said Juliet wound up being you. Yes, you, with your amber eyes

and pearly skin, because you directed to me several rogue, unfinished,

flirty, extremely sensual however discreet smiles, which, as soon as I

received deep down in my core, and in that zone of the soul where an

imperishable enchanting flame made me feel like I was in the most

sublime eternal of paradises.

Nowadays, even though we’ve barely greeted each other a few

times in person, I find myself writing a play I’m planning on performing

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with my theatre group especially for you. I’m already aware you’ve

become a big admirer of my work, enjoyed my part as Oedipus with a

recently self-inflicted blindness, as brave Jason looking for the Golden

Fleece, or Dante Alighieri going through the different circles of hell with

the invaluable company of Virgil. I also know you like it very much

when I, in the middle of a performance, recreate a life unusual to me,

untimely and overwhelmingly turn to you, to the point I’m familiar with

the exact way of your favourite fine elegant twists which I make before a

multitude of people, and in which my soul appears to be possessed by the

haughty and imperious presence of a clear open shimmered night as if

it’d been covered with different kinds of nudity.

Because that’s precisely acting: fiction; a kind of pretence seeking

to get to the bottom of the most real thoughts and the most sensitive

clarified hearts. That’s just what performances are: an impacting illusion,

a reality, a charade which, in my case, turns out to be the most mystical,

moving, magical and veracious of all realities.

Nina couldn‟t help but feeling a kind of emotion when recalling the fine, precise

and elaborate way that man expressed his feelings through that letter. She

then, as if she‟d been taken by a breeze recently captivated by a horizon

anxiously anticipating, went to the theatre where the man who‟d always been

involved in drama used to work in those days. He was acting at that moment,

playing a part in which he kissed an incredibly beautiful actress, drawing his

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body closer and closer to hers as his hands skilfully went across her soft

feminine thighs. Nina stood there watching the scene. For a moment she

thought it was remarkable and quite well-acted, but then she thought it was a bit

over the top, both in terms of length and graze by the actors. It was then that

her sense of intuition told her: those thespians who kissed each other were

involved and, in fact, shared some highly ardent and fiery passions on a daily

basis. They certainly know each other‟s bodies, even more thoroughly than the

way in which they act.

Nina didn‟t think about it twice and quickly left that theatre without having said a

word to that man —she needed to hurry. All the essence of the sky‟s passion,

by the way, was hidden in her eyes.

“You, beautiful, yes you, my dear, graze me in the most intimate with your

sensuality and make my senses hallucinate with your scent”. By hearing the

female clairvoyant saying that, as if she‟d found herself in an odd trance or even

about to kiss her, and while she was stroking her wavy her, Nina, for some

reason, thought about her mother, imagining her fondling her hair the same

way. However, the image beautiful Nina daydreamed about was soon blurred.

Had she ever met her mother, Nina would‟ve surely had that beautiful wistful

image forever there, underneath her memory.

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Beautiful dazzling Nina asks herself about love: she wants to know what it is,

whether it‟s the flame lighting the inextinguishable torch of passion; a trampoline

leading you to profound astonished instants; a sublime crackled light in the

middle of darkness; a condiment or some species for the exquisite palate of the

heart. No, no and no… come to think about it, Nina thinks it‟s like a fire rain, or

something beautiful that sprouts and raises up life itself.

Yes, that‟s how she was imagining love when she got to her house and found

the following message on her answerphone: “I‟d like to take you to the pictures,

Nina. There‟s a new French film I‟d like to watch with you. Do you remember

when we talked about French cinema in our school years? Anyway, if you‟re up

for it, let me know. Love you Nina”. That was a guy Nina‟d met back in school

and who‟d early on shown an interest in her, but Nina never gave him a chance

and she‟d hardly do it if it were up to her. Nina deleted the message from the

answerphone and went to carry out her itinerary. In the middle of the street, she

kept assigning shapes to love, under the golden light of a crescent sun.

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Chapter 3: Desires of a beautiful and sensual muse

existentialistically confused

Beautiful unequalled Nina heads towards the old cupboard where she saves, as

a treasure made up of the remnants of various enamoured souls, each and

every one of the love letters from the past. She wishes to feel alive and, for that

reason, she gradually caresses and flutters her own body as she‟s reading

some letters with the initial intention of cheering herself up before going out to

look for the one. She didn‟t use to do that as a child, that allegedly sinful act but

which encloses a kind of ecstasy and engrossing delight as she thought that

was taboo and now, as a youngster, it turns out several years have already

passed since different lovers go through the geography of her body with their

hands and taste the most scented porosities of her skin at will. Nina, however,

discovers some intimate personal pleasure and keeps doing it for some

minutes, up until she finds a letter, which she still keenly keeps to this day,

written by an old flame that used to work as a corporate spy, and which says:

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My dear:

Butterflies take to the air rather agitatedly in this soft perpetual

place where I am and which happens to be autumn disguised as spring.

The unstoppable and somewhat nostalgic flutter of its wings reminds me

I owe you five glasses of Vermouth, two smiles, a wink and one or two

nights of pleasure and unequivocal pleasure. It also reminds me, honey,

that you owe me several songs by Armando Manzanero, one or two by

Ana Gabriel and, above all, dearly beloved, And the Clock Struck Ten by

Joaquín Sabina.

Those butterflies that for a long time have known the end of this

slightly crystallised sky that covers us, also remind me that not long ago

we decided to leave our most unnoticed and individual inner deaths in

order to fully devote ourselves to this hourglass-shaped love with altered

minutes and passionately constant seconds and to these curtains swishing

under the cover of our warmest looks. Yes, this love, and these fevered

butterflies that surround me, remind me that not long ago I decided to

leave, for you, my love, my job as a spy, as a corporate spy. They remind

me that not long ago I decided to destroy all the microfilms, data CDs

and all the information I’d stored for years and which was worth millions

but which neither you nor I wanted to know anything about.

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Those butterflies that surround me, you know, also remind me of

that night in which your eyes confessed to me that your job wasn’t other

than being a sweet and pretty Mata Hari. That means your eyes admitted

your passionate task was merely seducing me with all the charming

devotion of your hair in the breeze, and to be aware of each and every

one of my movements. A job, yours that is, remains as constant as

always. Of course, I’ve left mine behind and now it’s but covering my

thoughts with you each night and woo you with kisses every day. Yes,

my days as a spy have been left behind since that subtle and passionate

instant of touches which were somewhat transmuted into dreams, when

you told me you’d leave everything for me. We have indeed left

everything, to the point it doesn’t matter if anyone intercepts this letter

which I’m writing to you right now. It doesn’t matter anymore if there

are more spies around us, because they’d only learn that we love each

other.

Last but not least, do not ever, honey, forget that you’re like the

flower that perfumes the shades of my horizons, and that I hope you

come here soon, to this place where butterflies and domestic curtains

move concurrently; to this tropical paradise where I’ve got an excellent

house next to the beach, because here, my dearly beloved Nina, we’ll

only be spied by the eloquent impetuosity of a breeze that is like our

love, that is, a breeze that each morning and evening seeps through the

windows and strokes the curtains.

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As he opened the main door to beautiful Nina, that grey-haired musician whom

she‟d smiled at first sight, effusively hugged her and asked her to enter and

make herself comfortable. And then, without further ado and in his frenetic

manner, that musician of unearthly inner oceans started kissing gorgeous

unparalleled Nina, deliberately and all of a sudden, just the way he always

does. It was just past noon. The previous night Nina‟d made love to an artist,

that morning to a politician and now it was no other than that musician who

soothed his most fiery and passionate desires on her. For that impetuous

musician, the sweetest flavours of life have always been those of Nina‟s, the

same way music from heaven, or at least from some of our most essential and

spiritual vitalities, has always been Bach‟s. Yes, Bach‟s, the same music

someone named Santiago used to play for beautiful Nina just before she went

to bed, with all the possible care.

“I want you to grant an eternal flame to my ideas and I wish, my dear, for one of

your sweet blackberry kisses”, asked the third man Nina‟d made love to,

intensely and passionately, after a mysterious female clairvoyant of

unfathomable glance as it‟d been diluted in the realms of Oblivion told her to

speed up in the search for the love of her life. Yes, said man is the musician

we‟ve recently started to talk about: the man who pierced her with his erect sex

as if he wanted to reach the very centre of Nina‟s soul, lifting her up with his

arms while penetrating her only wishing for her to reach the dreamland of

pleasure and for him to get to the sacred paradise of inspiration, submerging

himself in the beautiful skin of the gorgeous Nina to make her forget about said

skin‟s very existence and think, without any concept whatsoever, about the

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most concentric and concave of passionate infinitudes, and rummaging through

Nina‟s sex, within her open passionate flower, in order to discover which

strange and curious fire was burning inside of him. The same man who, after all

the hurly-burly that‟s been described to a degree, asked her for one more of her

blackberry kisses, one further osculation after a sweet bed-sheet pursuit and

the unseasonable and unpredictable music of her moans, Nina‟s. “Buy some

blackberries, dear”, she said while leaving that musician‟s house and concluded

he wasn‟t the love of her life either. There‟s not too long before the deadline for

her quest for the one concludes, as predicted to her via a dream. Just a few

more hours…

While being with the musician, Nina‟d reached the temporary conclusion that

love was like a strong blizzard that shows up and tears the inhibition curtains.

Now, disappointed, she imagines love as a snowball that first makes an

impression while it‟s descending and then it slowly dries. In other words, love

may merely be a vane illusion and could actually consist in hanging the heart by

a thread.

That‟s what Nina was thinking about while being caressed by a lukewarm

breeze which moved her wavy hair and introduced itself under her skit. Beautiful

dazzling Nina felt how that breeze went through her body as if it‟d been the avid

hands of her lovers. She wasn‟t wearing any tights and didn‟t remember where

she‟d left them, whether at the politician‟s or the musician‟s. She‟d got no

knickers either, but she was positive she‟d forgot them at the musician‟s place.

Anyway, whatever beautiful unequalled Nina thought about love, the only

certainty was that the deadline was approaching for her to accomplish her task.

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Nina thought about the boy who‟d left a message on her answerphone that

morning: perhaps he was her true love. She could go see him, even tell him

some things. She swiftly ruled him out, though, as she didn‟t know how to

approach him without making it look like she was giving away her soul and

existence. He‟s moderately shy and, if she helps him too much, it‟ll seem she‟s

offering herself to the most intimate and secret realms of her being, or at least

that‟s how she sees it. Yes, because of that foolish and unfounded fear, or

rather for that foolish and unfounded idea, she ruled him out; the same fear or

idea that kept her from even daring sending him a message regardless of the

fact she‟d already been with several men who‟d touched her and delved into her

most intimate nature. But anyway, the true important part here is that, all of a

sudden, she decided to visit another one of her old flames: a scientist this time.

In the solipsism of life, that scientist pleasantly saw beautiful Nina‟s visit and,

just like the previous three men, was quick to dissolve his desire, rather

modestly, in the encircling desirable amplitude of her body. Unlike the musician

or the artist, whose hands have always been skilful and curious, that scientist

touched Nina‟s body as if it were some sort of fragile paper.‟ That way, love with

him didn‟t last long. “Are you leaving so soon? Stay a while longer Nina”. “No, I

can‟t”. “At least grant me the sweetest of your kisses and inspire me to

understand this chaotic world”. “Perhaps you and I don‟t live in the same world,

dear”. Nina finally said, shortly before leaving and crying in disappointment, not

before men but before love, next to a crystal-clear water fountain she found in

an almost empty street.

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Nina, by the way, carried with her one of the love letters from the past, which

made her want to fly amidst the clouds and feel life doesn‟t stop softly and

unworriedly stroking her every time she read or just remembered them, just in

case it could cheer her up. Nina took it out of her handbag, a randomly-chosen

letter from the drawer of her old cupboard and which now and there, next to the

crystal-clear water fountain, turns out to be the letter of an old flame who used

to be, and quite possibly still is, a photographer, and which says:

My dear:

You know that when your glare, in one of those pictures you send

to me, pretends to be a foaming and lovely bubble bath, I don’t know

why I think I can find the exact level of intimacy of a perfect stroke, and

the aura of your pictures, by its side, transmits certain warmth to me. A

kind of warmth that, only sometimes, turns into a silence that, my

beloved Nina, seems to hurl me to one of those abysses shaped like

absence and which occasionally inhabit the horizons.

I’m very sorry to tell you this, Nina. I’m sorry to tell you the

warmth I get from your glance in the pictures and the negatives you send

to me, sometimes, and only occasionally, turns into silence, despite being

one of those heats that may remind me that true corporeal tepidness hides

outside rather than inside the body. Don’t blame me, though: blame

distance, like I do, for it is distance that keeps us from easily seeing each

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other daily to share our most shameless gravitations, that immense and

colossal puddle of water called the Atlantic Ocean, and I don’t remember

clearly whether it’s about 2,500 or 3,000 miles that separate us.

Do you know something else, Nina? Now that I’m writing this, I

think that you, my dear, must surely be thinking that distance has given

us a very beautiful way of communicating with each other, in which you

send me pictures, some innocent some a bit more daring, for me to

follow the lead of that glance of yours that so deeply loves pretending it’s

a bubble bath, during everlasting diurnal and nocturnal moments of

daybreak. You send those images, in fact, partly because you know I’m a

photographer, and also for me to write a poem or a love letter to you,

mentioning the landscapes or the places where you snap yourself, so that

I send you the letter or poem on the post or on-line just how you do with

the pictures in the midst of the rosiest autumns of life (I’ve gotta admit,

my dear, that it’s far more comfortable and inexpensive to send you

everything via the internet, and that way you can also quickly check it

out in your mobile).

About all I’ve written to you, Nina, up until today, I remember I’ve

come up, for instance, with A Beautiful Lady under Mystical Bushes of

Zirconium Colour, The Bedroom Featuring the Dolls with whom the

Moon Used to Play, The Earlier Night Sunken in Your Eyes, and The

Most Enraptured Slopes of Essence next to a Cup of Coffee. Those, as

you know well, have been letters or poems I’ve written to the pictures

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you send. It turns out that in the last one, you’re covered in foam and

seemingly naked, in a smooth white tub. I’ve seen that sensual

photograph and have just thought about this letter which lightly alludes

to the foamy bubbles where you find yourself submerged, since said

bubbles, which reflect your heart’s shape, remind me of your very own

charm, which has sweetly blown up the distance and solitude that

separates us.

“A beautiful letter”, Nina thought. That sheet of paper couldn‟t, however, cheer

her up the way she so desperately needed, and which her soul‟s breeziest and

most tempestuous part so badly required. “It seems”, said the breeze to Nina

while placing itself under her skirt, “that the soul worries and mixes itself up with

anything, and when that happens, its dreams and desires invariably blend with

other realities”.

Nina, still next to that previously mentioned crystal-clear water fountain, asked

herself over and over if she was actually a kind of muse named Calliope and

who refines some celestial gift, whose name harmonises with the most perfect

neuronal organisation of her lovers, who always wind up turned into virtuosic

geniuses. Perhaps, at the end of the day, she was a mere life consolation for all

of them, or a promise piercing into the deepest sides of spirit. A strange

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besieged sensation overwhelmed Nina, the same one which appeared in her

heart of hearts past her troubling dream, and the same one she experienced

while a mysterious female clairvoyant stroke her fragrant wavy hair with an

intimate sexual lustful desire. It could be that the interpretation of that dream

was an utter fallacy , but Nina still saw herself as a failure, as she hadn‟t

thought of finding any traces of love whatsoever. She felt as a pseudo-

existential solitary condemned figure, and that‟s when she suddenly

remembered him at last…

Yes, Nina‟s remembered him, at last she sees him wandering through her

thoughts and staying there, dwelling in them with all the clarity of the case. This

sudden memory makes her feel complete somehow.

The same way she‟d done for the last couple of days, Nina herself arrived in

„his‟ house. She felt odd, as if she‟d been carrying the world upon her shoulder

and, at the same time, as if something in her mimicked the flight of a butterfly.

He‟ opened the door to her and greeted her with substantial lightness but also

with massive joy. “It‟s so good to have you here again, María Sofia”. It‟d been a

while, it has to be said, since Nina‟d been called by her birth name, which is

why she outlined a charming and tender smile —the first one after two turbid

and rough days—. Nina devoted the rest of that afternoon to making one of the

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soups Santiago liked so much and then thought about asking him something in

the middle of supper: “Dad, I wanna know how mum was”. “How mum was, you

say?" “Yes!”

Santiago was left thinking, reminiscing about that time when his daughter

introduced him to her first boyfriend. They both had that night a father-daughter

talk about relationships, love and maturity, and which Santiago tried to sort out

in the best possible way, telling her that sometimes it‟s alright to observe reality

through desire or emotion, especially through love, but she‟d better keep in

mind that some sensations don‟t entirely belong to us; some feelings are

created by other people, and the true secret of life, as a result, is based on

listening to our heart in order to identify true sentiments and that‟s what we

really want.

“You see, my dear Nina, your mother used to say that always, wherever she

was, she‟d love you infinitely, even regardless of all the years in the world

passing by”, said Santiago to his daughter, just as he‟s done an endless amount

of times since his wife died. “Something else, dad”. “Of course, dear, tell me”.

“What is love?” Santiago when he listened to his daughter asking him that,

savoured a piece of chicken he‟d extracted from the soup he was having and

then, being as straightforward as always and full of simplicity, said: “Honey, to

love is to give the best and feel good about it”.

That night, as they analysed mum‟s blue eyes in an old photo album, they

laughed and there were many dreams and illusions painted on her faces. That

was a night in which a lot of diverse artists, either in painting, theatre or

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photography, turned into virtuosic geniuses under the light of an inspiring moon.

That night, just before going to bed, he thanked his beautiful daughter for her

visit, telling her he felt at peace, even though that night he didn‟t play any Bach

piece for Nina, as he used to when he had to raise her up by himself to make

her sleep. The next day, Nina woke up and found her dad still lying on his bed.

He smiled and she, for one reason or another, knew he‟d left this world. She

also knew somehow that an intense true love had been embedded forever in

the zeal of his memories. Then, with an ocean of tears pouring out of her eyes,

Nina kissed her father‟s forehead, as he‟d so often done as he watched her

growing up. “Here‟s to you, dad, who taught me that true kisses, just like the

best things in life, have always been free”.

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Table of Chapters:

Chapter 1: Desires of an existentialistically-probing

dazzling sensual muse

Chapter 2: Desires of a beautiful sensual Muse

existentialistically involved in unfounded passions

Chapter 3: Desires of a beautiful and sensual muse

existentialistically confused

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