The Day I Found You Read online

  it’s not Pessoa or Hesse or Neruda, still less Herberto or Beckett, I’ve read them all beginning to end and it tastes so good, at night I sit on the sofa, I turn off the TV and devote myself to you, I find you in every page,

  because I want to be intelligent and cultured so I feel capable of you,

  and I know it won’t happen, that day won’t come, but every day I’m readying myself for it,

  love is being tirelessly prepared for what we know will never happen,

  that’s not one I read in a book, or maybe it is, I don’t know any more, I’ve read so many of those things, that’s another thing you already know, I’m sure, I want to be more intelligent and cultured to be capable of loving you as I know it’ll never be time for me to love you, let me tell you with no exaggeration that all I’d need would be a word from you to be happy for ever, it’s bad poetry but it’s you,

  you don’t need some intellectual to define what love is, you know?,

  You are all good,

  if I could change anything about you it would only be your husband, God forgive me, I do deeply want you to be happy and I would do nothing to part you from someone you love, but if I could change anything about you it would only be your husband, he doesn’t deserve you but then nobody deserves you, I have to be honest here, today you showed up in your blue trousers, they aren’t the ones that suit you best but they do suit you enough to die for,

  now I’m a whole heap of banalities and I even know the colour of your wardrobe,

  tomorrow you’ll probably be in the black dress, they’re saying it’s going to rain and when it does you always prefer dark colours, must be a way of fitting into the weather, or whatever, I’d bet that tomorrow you’ll be wearing the black dress, you won’t have it on in front of the cameras, there you’ll wear clothes you’ve borrowed and it all suits you so well, but I know I’m a simple construction worker on some scaffolding watching you go by,

  what do I know about poetry if I’ve never seen any poem but you?,

  you don’t need some intellectual to define what love is, you know?,

  You are all good,

  and she stopped and answered, nobody laughed and he came down, she smiled, showed him an old photograph, a scratched, tatty notebook, someone heard her saying she missed talking to someone intelligent, no idea if that’s just a rumour or the truth, what’s for sure is that since they’d seen a pig riding a bicycle on YouTube nothing else would ever come as a surprise again to those people on the scaffolding,

  you don’t need some intellectual to define what love is, they knew that now.

  My God, but moving house is complicated, even if it’s for the best,

  this one seemed good, but for the location, I’m far away from everything that matters to me, I like to go out in the morning and have the city right there to hand, the place where I earn my living, the perfect space for a little lunch or a tea or even dinner, being able to take a couple of steps and meet Zé Faria there for some idle chat, this one’s out of the question, it’s obvious, if I’m not going to be demanding about the place I live what am I going to be demanding about, the place I die, isn’t that right?,

  maybe this one, everything’s nearby, perfect location, no doubt about it, let’s see, well, just as I expected, the comfort falls short of what’s desired, I try to picture myself waking up here and falling asleep here and I don’t like it, it doesn’t seem very well lit either, it’s not like I’m after luxury but I don’t want discomfort either, just what has to be, and what doesn’t, I still have plenty of others to look at, I don’t need to stick with this one, long live freedom of choice, if I’m not going to be demanding about the place I live what am I going to be demanding about, the place I die, isn’t that right?,

  it’s only by a hair’s breadth that this isn’t the one, fuck, I really did feel comfortable, perfect location, right at the entrance to the city, Fonseca’s café right next door, Guidinha’s restaurant, I really was just about to go for this one, but the neighbourhood, ugh, I didn’t like what I saw round here, strange people and I don’t like strange people, or at least not these strange people, I always end up fearing for my safety, call me a scaredy-cat but that’s the way I am, I’ve got to feel safe and I don’t here, you never know who’s going to be just ahead, it’s true, only the other day I heard someone talking about how murderers don’t look like murderers and thieves don’t look like thieves, but I have to disagree, I know one or two thieves and they look exactly like thieves, entirely like thieves, or it’s that I know they are and so that’s how I see them, in any case it’s a shame, this place had everything but the neighbourhood I want, I’ve got to keep looking and not complain, keep on going till that possible perfection appears, if I’m not going to be demanding about the place I live what am I going to be demanding about, the place I die, isn’t that right?,

  it’s just me and my obsession with being strange, I know, there was nothing missing here and I could easily find what I wanted, but your eyes need to be fed, too, and they live, right?, and I do so like living with my eyes, if it’s not beautiful it won’t make me happy, and this place isn’t, it’s too grey, too dark, I like light, joy, I’m a kid, deep down, and on the surface too, I’m a kid and I like playing and I like serious things but also hot ones when they’re in a good mood, it makes me sad but that’s how it’s got to be, on to the next one as this one won’t do either, I’m sorry, if I’m not going to be demanding about the place I live what am I going to be demanding about, the place I die, isn’t that right?,

  ah sim, yes, wonderful, this place is perfect, the ideal location, not too near or far, near excitement and far from danger, I once read that in a pamphlet from a rally and it became my life philosophy, the neighbourhood is charming, the lady next door is really lovely, reminds me of my mother years ago, we’re going to be good friends, I’m sure about that, the space is so full of colour, everything telling me that I’m alive, and I am, I’m happy here, I’m going to be happy here, I’ve found it at last, sim, if I’m not going to be demanding about the place I live what am I going to be demanding about, the place I die, isn’t that right?,

  and I could bunk up right away, start enjoying the new house and everything it has to offer me, but it’s already dinner time and the association stops dishing out soup by the church at ten, let me just sort out my card to reserve the place, just to be on the safe side, and oh, I hope I don’t get there too late and someone steals my place,

  My God, but moving house is complicated, even if it’s for the best.

  You told me that all you need is love and new shoes to be the happiest woman in the world and here I am, it’s a small shoe shop and I haven’t the faintest idea what to choose, maybe the lady serving me could help out, I tell her your name and she laughs, most likely your name isn’t relevant to this business of buying shoes, but the truth is I do so like saying your name that I never miss an opportunity,

  Bárbara,

  I say, and she laughs, and I’m so happy I say it again to say sorry for having said it,

  Bárbara,

  just once more, this time I don’t say it but think it, she’s not laughing any more and just waiting for me to tell her what I want, probably boots, or otherwise sandals, I haven’t the faintest idea, I attempt an explanation for what I mean but I’m not convincing,

  but what do you want specifically?

  she asks, I answer with the truth, why the hell would I say anything else when the truth is so beautiful?, what I want is to make her happy, see the look in her eyes when I get it right, when I say the words she wants, when I make the movements she desires, or hug her when she most needs it, or comfort her when everything seems to be weighing her down,

  what I want is to make her happy,

  I say unafraid to the lady in the shop,

  what would you recommend?,

  and she smiles again, women in shoe shops have a very particular kind of condescension about them, she says she likes my answer but that it doesn’
t help her much, such blasphemy, so many blasphemies, could there ever be anything more useful than making you happy?, I keep walking round the shop in search of something, a sign, something that says yes to me, that model, that colour, that material, so many ways to make you happy and here I am desperate at not finding one, now the lady wants to know what you’re like, what you like, if you’re tall or short, what kind of clothes you wear, and before I’ve even realised it I’m already showing her my phone with the photo of you at your brother’s birthday party, she sees how you’re dressed and I love you, so simple, she immediately congratulates me because you’re so beautiful and I even feel jealous of her, only I should see you like this being so beautiful it makes me shiver, I miss you so much when she says this that I call you, I don’t say where I am, I just say I love and I need you, I hang up and I’m not satisfied, I send you a text message, too,

  I go through life in search of you and it’s just as well I find you every day,

  and I don’t know where those words came from, not being a poet and never having written in my life, the lady in the shop has some options, four or five, I look at each one doubtfully, I want to find out where you are, in which one you are, but none of them persuades me of your happiness, and ever since I met you objects have served to persuade me of your happiness, for a moment I want to choose one of them but I’m interrupted by the sound of the cell phone, and your message in reply,

  come on, then, here I am,

  and I go, I apologise to the lady in the shop but I’ve got to go, I’ll come back tomorrow and I’ll lead you by the hand, after all I too only need love and shoes to be happy, why shouldn’t we have it all at the same time?

  The morning is a sinuous knife without your hand resting on its shoulder,

  that’s how I’d start a piece of writing about the different parts of the day, later I’d talk about the sickness of a whole afternoon to be able to feel the burden of silence, and when I reached night-time I wouldn’t even have to write anything, two or three tears and a knot in the throat would be enough, there isn’t supposed to be night if I cannot sleep with you, that seems obvious,

  Because I need your skin to knock myself down, and to bear it,

  that’s how I’d start a piece of writing on civil engineering, then I would theorise on the pernicious effects of the wind on the window when I stretch out on the sofa waiting for you to arrive, and you don’t, as well as on the importance of having strong foundations to hang on to you and to love you against the wall, the best house is a house which was constructed to survive the natural disaster that is love, what kind of crappy colleges don’t teach you that?,

  Lies console me, and I know now that your sweat was drops of venom,

  that’s how I’d start a piece of writing on the exaggerated importance of being true, I would look at the need to invent excuses to stay alive, nobody in a perfect mental state can tolerate life, the secret of happiness is the secret of just the right dose of madness, there must be someone who has the courage to accept that secret, and I do, and missing you even more,

  I like to lick you and watch you melting with love,

  that’s how I’d start a piece of writing about chemical processes, I’d tackle the photosynthesis of your embrace, carbon dioxide, water, glucose and an orgasm, and that’s it, like the way butterflies live so little and yet manage to be eternal, more or less like the invincible volatility of your hand in mine, anyone who doesn’t believe in supernatural forces doesn’t love, and I don’t believe in them, let there be no doubt,

  There is only midday when you arrive,

  that’s how I’d start a piece of writing about time, it would remind me of our lunch in bed, of course, we called it wasting time but it does in fact taste good, bodies combined in surrender to the urgency of food, I could just as well write about the midnight of your sex on mine, the two a.m. of your sex on mine, anyway, we know all times are sexually active, and completely passive, it just depends on whether you’re here or not, take this other responsibility and do with it what you can,

  There’s a mousetrap and God when your eyes blind mine,

  that’s how I’d start a piece of writing about ophthalmology, and I wouldn’t be able to write another word, I’d be incapable of seeing a single letter, only your body and the lack of your voice, I’d have to be quiet before it was too late, and fuck, it would be,

  Daily I discover the existence of unpopulated laughs, sharp little laughs, and nothing more,

  that’s how I’d start a piece of writing about joy, I’d dismember the ridiculous existence of other laughs that are not yours, only what you have inside you should happen, laughter and tears are exactly the same if they don’t come from you, or at worst from beside you, do you see now?,

  I feel a pigeon crap on my head when I surrender to another kiss,

  that’s how I’d start a piece of writing about the flight of birds, the scale of what is moving isn’t worth jack shit if you aren’t moved by me, I’m just trying to be the best so you will love me more, or so that you will love me at all, what the hell would one single man want with a Nobel, that’s what I don’t understand, do you?,

  I could even run the risk of being prime minister or president of the republic, how very revolting that would be, just so I might bear the strange violence of your side of the bed lying empty,

  that’s how I’d start a piece of writing about politics, anybody who doesn’t have someone to love tends to find the most unlikely occupations, I surrender myself deep down to what entertains me the most and distances me from you, I could be a politician, mayor or clown, you never know maybe even a poet, and that’s not bad at all, even if you can’t live on it,

  I want now, and also later,

  that’s how I’d start a piece of writing about love, but that’s enough of writing to you now, forgive me, I prefer to love you, it’s lucky that I have you here reading and that you like what I’ve written so far, the only unforgivable spelling mistake would be your not liking it, to hell with critics and masterpieces, if it’s able to love you then it is art, you don’t get any simpler than that,

  this is how I’d end a piece of writing about nothing at all, and about everything else, too, and there you have it.

  I need to return to you obsessively,

  I can hold out for two or three minutes, sometime four or five when I manage to sleep a little, read a book that carries me away, and then I’m back, at last, at the strange need to find you,

  there’s a voraciousness of affection in me,

  it unsettles me that you can exist somewhere where I am not, can your skin do it?, mine surrenders, it throws in the towel and laments, is it possible to have whiny skin?,

  I have to learn to prostitute the letters,

  everything I write and read brings you, yesterday I read the directions for some medication or other and I invented a poem, it was more or less about the contraindications of your body, the adverse effects of your sweat on the skin, and in the end I just felt like taking all the medication so that something of you could love me,

  there’s a wound to protect in me,

  your gaze is definitive, and everything else passes and even then it doesn’t stop hurting, the restaurant of Dona Laura who asked about you yesterday, how’s the girl doing?, and I smiled, you’re so many people’s girl and I wanted you all for myself, there could be love without selfishness, perhaps, but I don’t know it and I hate anyone who does, and Dona Laura too,

  I need to get myself a name for your lips,

  and for you, too, by the way, I thought of calling you water because you enter me and leave me through every pore, then I remembered to call you air because despite being invisible you sustain me, and I ended up calling you mine because you were all I needed,

  there’s some lack dissolved in my blood,

  I like to see a thin glimpse of God at the moment you wake up, your eyes gradually showing me the extent of the clouds, I could just be moved by it but that would be too superfici
al,

  I have to believe that the destruction of the void is the primary aim,

  deep down you exist to dissolve entirely, and only you can manage the unbearable wretchedness of all this, there’s an installation of pornography and of prayer when you take a kiss and add to it the inside of your thigh,

  I need to feel the first shiver of death, and the last of you,

  give me each day what’s unforgettable so that I can forget about you, I’m such a fool that I thought you wouldn’t die,

  and I was right,

  you could even go and take your body with you beneath the earth,

  but don’t think I’m going to let you rest in peace.

  Dear mother,

  Dear father:

  Time passes over the tears I shed, I no longer even have the scars from the hurt I once suffered. And yet memory. That bitch memory.

  No one deserves a happy memory.

  And I was. We were. We were happy. The house filled with our joy inside it. The yard, grandad telling stories a thousand and two times that he’d already told a thousand and one times before, grandma always busy with setting the table, uncles and aunts saying that life comes at a cost. And it does come at a cost, father. It does, mother.

  No one deserves an empty house.

  And the smells. The smells don’t go away. The smells are the best way of making yourself suffer. The smell of the kitchen where life was once. A dream once. Me as a boy in the kitchen full of grandad, grandma, uncles and aunts. Me as a boy dreaming of being big, big like my uncles – ‘one day I’m going to be rich and I’m going to buy loads of stuff’. Me as a boy wanting to grow up.

  No one deserves a body that grows up.

  And the loss. All the fucking loss. Grandma with a cancer inside her. Grandad giving up more with each day that his Maria was being taken away from him. The uncles and aunts and their wrinkles. All of them going with each day I grew up. And everything dies when our dreams die.