Claire

By N Ivan Contreras
I died on a Friday. In the midst of my coalescing thoughts, from my hospital bed I could still distinguish my wife's
eyes, so vivid, so wet, so painful. Somewhat beyond, impressions of barely familiar faces, and in the back a unique,
colorful, complex figure, greenish, orangeful, puntillous. After dying, it took me a hard job to eventually recognize in
that misty, vanishing picture the pattern of "The Dreamers", the much appreciated painting by Albert Moore, which for
so many years inhabited my bedroom, and guarded my sleep or my insomnic dark hours. In her eyes I also saw your
eyes, Claire, and probably also my mothers, just before they turned into Medusas. I cannot tell you the exact
content of my last thoughts. I can assure though, that at least some of them were pleasant, since at the moment of
departure, I somehow chose to elaborate a mental and hopefully also lipful smile. A considerable lapse has evolved
since our last physical encounter, Claire. Enough for nostalgia to grow. It was a pity we could only go for lunch to a
single restaurant, and not to the various ones that crossed our
minds when deciding. Greenville-style king prawns were not only
delicious but spectacular. You may have been 24 at the time. It
was rainy but pleasant, I believe. Some people dont drink red
wine to avoid toothstains, but fortunately not us. You couldnt help
giggling, while your venturous tongue vibrated like a Spanish "r"
sucking perfumes off the 1989 Beaujolais Noveau that shined its
marvelous colour on our faces. Our glances and words guided a
fresh but intense tour into each other, aint? Britain had not
entered the European Union yet and you worried that your
nations soul would loose out by doing so. Perhaps for quite a
while all mankind have been loosing out to praxis.
It was a pity we were not destined to travel together that summer, but rumor has it that life would be worthless
without pities. Turquoise suited your sorcerers smile, a picture so confirms. I am happy you enjoyed coming to my
house that evening with Laly. We all rolled about laughing when I blew out too hard on my birthday cake and threw
decorating sugar all around the table and everyone`s clothes. I was nervous that I wouldn't put out all 40 little
candlelights and overdid the job, what a laugh! By that time a California ticket was already in your pocket, while I had
got mine to Cuba. Gush, was Havana hot ! Several early mornings Victor and I took long walks along the seaside on
the citys outskirts, talking about the revolution. You know what some say? That revolutions are "unnatural", as
opposed to revolts, who cares. The Cuban process had been there for 30 years already, and we were amazed to
watch a societys struggle, convinced that not only a new nation, but a "new man" was emerging. When I departed
earthly life in 2004, Victor held a high position in the state-owned Venezuelan oil business, and seemed happy. His
brother was named minister, who would have guessed. Those were interesting days at Greenville, werent they? Not
so long ago I saw a small scorpion in my frontyard, and immediately remembered Paul Fletcher, such a nice guy; he
liked Spanish people. He wanted to recruit me to work on a research project on scorpion venom. My job would be to
collect the bugs alive in Venezuela, and ship them still alive to "America", ha! Gush, insects are so peculiar. For
example, what are the flying molecules responsible for warning distantly located ants that a roach was just smashed
to death by an unattentive or purposeful shoe step? Within seconds, believe me, a whole patrol of the little buggars
will be holding up and moving about the corpse, like a collected trophy.
You remember Cabrices? He is the Venezuelan guy we met at the New York night-club the day we went to see a
Brazilian singer, around the days of the Panama invasion. He was so mad at it, but he couldn't speak out much then,
since he worked in a jewish hospital and feared reprisals. Well, you may have seen Cabrices on CNN news from
Caracas in 2002. He is the one with curly white hair that was shown repeatedly shooting a pistol against an
opposition demonstration from the top of a bridge. He was taken to jail for a while but soon released. I found him at
the horse races the other day and seemed annoyed at Chavez, although he didnt quite say why. Around then my
Russian neighbour -good old Zoe- was taken to hospital with a double leg fracture, you know? I knew tibial fractures
are terrible healers. At 84 Id rather have the leg amputated to avoid such a torturing and uncertain recovery process.
Poor chap. I wish I knew what happened to him in the end.
Anyway Claire, we lost touch, true, but you remained in me. One of the annoying things about being dead is that
one cannot keep up with worldly news, except for the gossips attributed to newcomers, and that only through mind
reading. Oral speech simply doesn`t exist over here. Peculiar really, but one gets accustomed. Advantages
compensate. No jobs, no money, no material needs. Only "virtual" experiences count, shall we say. But you know
invention-making was always in me. That is how I managed to conceive this message. My friend Orlando, doubtlessly
an eminent thermodynamist, used to say that yet unidentified, funny wave-sorts continuously spark between matter
and whatever else. I hope he is right, and just in case, at this very point I shall devote all my strengths to making you
feel a big, long, warm, loving hug, which I hope you will gladly accept; like you once did in the open, shrubby sky that
witnessed the ever special, delicate, loveful, mad shiver that sinfully joined our skins and seized our minds that
magical summer night. How could I not beg you to give me a hint when you come, or if you are over here already.