This Too Shall Pass Page 12
—This too shall pass.
And winks.
You spent your last night alone. I’d been with you the whole day at the hospital holding your hand, and when the doctor told me you were doing better, I decided to go home for a little while. Even though I could tell just by looking at you that it wasn’t true. I would have liked to die along with you, in the same room, at the same instant, and not the next morning when you were already dead. I wish I had been there for our last breath, holding your hand. Though I’m walking in the land of the living, more or less joyfully, more or less alone, there’s a part of me that will always remain wherever you are. I still occasionally tell myself the story you told me once, when you were sitting on my bed and consoling me after my father died: Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, maybe in China, there was a very powerful emperor who was intelligent and compassionate, and who gathered all the wise men of his kingdom together, the philosophers, the mathematicians, the scientists, the poets, and said to them: “I want a short sentence, that serves all possible circumstances, always.” So the wise men retired and spent months and months in contemplation. “We have the phrase, sire, and it’s the following: ‘This too shall pass.’ ” And you added: “Pain and sorrow pass, but so do joy and happiness.” Now I know it’s not true. I’ll live without you until I die. You taught me that the only form of infatuation is the kind that strikes the heart with the flash of an arrow (you were right), the love of art, of books, museums, the ballet, absolute generosity with money, grand gestures at the appropriate time, precision in actions and in words. Never to feel guilt, and to enjoy freedom, with all the responsibility that entails. At home, nobody ever knew how to deal with guilt; if we made a mistake, feeling guilty was never a form of redemption—we had to deal with the repercussions and move on. I don’t think I ever heard you say, “I’m sorry.” You gave me the gift of this outrageous laugh, the thrill of being alive, the ability to surrender to things completely, the love of games, contempt for everything you thought made life smaller and more constraining: pettiness, disloyalty, envy, fear, stupidity, and cruelty more than anything else. And a sense of fairness. Nonconformity. The dazzling awareness of joy at the moment you have it in your hand, before it flies away. I remember times when we’d catch each other’s eye for a second, over a table full of people, or strolling through some unknown city, or out at sea, and feel as if a little pixie dust was falling over our heads and that maybe we’d never be able to take to flight, as Peter Pan believed, but almost. And you’d flash me a smile from the distance and I knew that you knew that we both knew, and that we both secretly thanked the gods for that silly gift, that perfect swim in the high seas, that pink twilight, that sidesplitting laughter after a bottle of grappa, the clownish things we did so that people who already loved us might love us just a little bit more. And your magnanimity; your knack for giving a name to things, for seeing them truly, your genuine tolerance with the faults and defects of other human beings. I doubt I’ve inherited your tolerance, but I know it when I see it, I can recognize it, and ever since you’ve gone, I try to find it in a hungry dog or the haggard eyes of a junkie going through withdrawal; I can smell it, I hear it, I can distinguish it (sometimes the gesture of a hand is enough), it’s budding in my children, their courtesy and good manners, the complete lack of snobbery. Every person who comes home, and that includes some very strange people, very wounded, very foolish, are received by your grandsons kindly, with curiosity and respect, cautiously and affectionately. And whenever we drive by your last apartment, on Muntaner Street, I catch sight of your elder grandson in the rearview mirror looking up at your balcony in silence. And I think maybe I should tell him that you’re in a better place now, but I know it’s not true, because there was nothing you liked more than being with your grandsons and me. The day will come when we talk all about you. I’m beginning to breathe a little better now and the nightmares have almost subsided. Some days I almost feel a little pixie dust fall on my head; not a lot and not very often, but it’s a start. And now we have a new guest at home—his name is Rey. I’m trying to teach the children to take him out for a walk every day. The day before yesterday I took your jacket to the cleaner’s; it’ll be ready on Thursday, “like new,” they said.
Milena Busquets was born in Barcelona, where she attended the Lycée Français de Barcelone. She graduated with a degree in archaeology from the Institute of Archaeology at University College London, began work in publishing, and has since founded her own publishing house. She currently works as a journalist and translator.
What’s next on
your reading list?
Discover your next
great read!
* * *
Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.
Sign up now.