clxrx

A loan love story.

You just have to trust your gut.

I

In wonderful conjunction of fortune and righteousness, I followed the motif that guides me in decisive moments, the one I’ve heard from my two gurus, Sri Sri Ravi Shankar and Philip Kotler — one of them is a business guru, the other is a spiritual one. If I had been trapped into family, company counselors and security guards’ guesses and pressures, who feared for my physical integrity, I would not have gone, on that day, to our bank’s headquarters to hold the weekly meeting with cultural projects fundraisers, the ten-percenters who make art happens where the free market does not arrive, and, therefore, the partners who expand and strengthen our brands and social justice.

The proposal of the day excited me: a feminist film festival. Panoramic, an ode to diversity, would have Germaine Dulac, Vera Chytilová to Jon Avnet, as well as contemporary classics like Frida, The Help, and Mulan, pretty much the perfect product to exalt and to consolidate the increasing number of women as agency managers, aiming to achieve gender equality. We were convinced that the equality of women and men in management posts would make a media boom, which, presumably, would be the burst in the stocks so necessary in those tumultuous days in Brazil, and always welcome in any time and place. We were not too worried about the parity we would have to get, nor how we would get it, when it was time for our organization to deal with the demand for dozens of genders already adopted by companies at the forefront of progress, like Facebook. Protesters, as peacefully as possible when claiming needs, were demanding greater ease and agility in accessing the state loans we were passing on to the students. Those loans, if not an acquired right, a social asset. I was isolated on the board of directors of the company, the only one who acknowledged that it would also be good for us to distribute these loans.

They were correct, those who feared that something could happen to me at the bank exit where the picket had been installed.

Because in fact, it happened.

The most stunning, fascinating, and beautiful creature I have ever seen. A sculpture no more than a meter and sixty centimeters high. Shaped with fire. Even her hair was fire. A Scarlett Johansson raised to maximum curvaceous power would be her sketch, although an insufficient one. Her body was synchronized swimming of G clefs in boiling water. Looking to the emphatic, bossy gestures of hers towards the group, I assumed she was their leaders. This was the impression I had when, still inside the bank, I saw her silhouette, which should be described with some capital letters S designed with accurate, rounded lines.

As I approached the contingent which in another time would turn out to be a crowd or was a crowd already depending on your point of view, my blood boiled — this time not for a collectivist frenzy, just because her flaming figure was then better defined to my gaze. I did not even realize where my bodyguards were as I was salivating and mesmerized by the neckline of Elizabethan shells swinging like a mix of honey, mint, and white pepper mousse.

The cupid wings hushed the screams that were fogging the bank’s doors, at this moment full of grease coming from faces rubbing on them and from hands stuck in the Torres-Vedras logo. The security guards chose to let the young people approach the bank believing such a strategy would alleviate traffic and draw less attention from passersby and the press. Levitating, or sliding over some space-time cracks, I reached the hurricane’s eye. What a rant… I crept closer to my new diva without looking directly at her, perhaps hoping to get out of there with a better remembrance of the white goddess — besides discredited by them (they did not know how much one of them I actually was). I realized we were leaning against each other when I felt her droplets hitting me like an Aurora Boreal coming in my direction and scolding at what I represented.

The little girl was a volcano in its activity splendor. Seeing her was like trying to focus at the center of the sun, and was enough to ensure that I wanted her more than anyone else I have ever wanted, and to wish she were ineluctably mine.

clxrx, at first glance.

II

Some days later her specter was still burning me. The silence in my apartment made everything worse, amplifying the sound landscape pressing my head from the inside out. Neither working nor working out was enough. I tried to retake some readings, to listen to music, to see things. I tried everything, nothing cooled me down, nor Foucault, Chico Buarque, House of Cards, etc. I even tried to play games on my cell phone, something I’ve always considered a time-wasting crazy habit.

The whole situation was unprecedented for me. I can say that in my forty-three years I had a nice sample of appreciable women, and was chosen by some as well; anyway, a normal romantic life. I am a salt-and-pepper type, tall enough and in good shape. Still, the ravishment brought by the college student baffled me. It was urgent to act. Seeing people would be good. Seeing the right someone would be miraculous.

I canceled the audio conferences scheduled to that day and redirected the meetings I would have at home or at the coffee shop next to my building to the agency where I saw her. (With “my building” I meant “where I live”.) Despite persisting minor protests and rallies, the general feeling was good, most people were feeling an agreement between the federal and state governments would happen soon since they were on the verge of maintaining and expanding the loan program. I relied on my intuition compelling me to return to the fateful location. It was a shot in the dark, even so, better than doing nothing.

As you probably have guessed, I did not find her. But for some reason I wanted to return to where everything had happened: it was there that I found the remnants that would end up putting me in the enlightened path of the enlightened one.

[a WhatsApp chatting]

— Hello, Vini!

(Vini is typing…)

— This is Paulo, you gave me your number near Torres-Vedras.

(Vini stops typing.)

— Remember when we talked about the Conscious Being, the think tank you participated in the Getúlio Vargas Foundation? I’m texting to reiterate that I would like to financially support group activities.

— ✊

— Anyway, please talk to the group about it, and let me know when we can meet.

(Vini is typing…)

(Vini stops typing.)

I asked some company colleagues to give me reports about the scarlet muse. The sense of ridicule undermined my excitement in meeting her again. A couple of weeks later without answering any of my contacts attempts — an attitude (or, we may say, a lack of attitude) that youngsters of today call ghosting –, Vinícius finally continued the conversation we left incomplete. Meanwhile, I experienced, like never before, the sudden spurt of noradrenaline arriving with a cell phone notification:

— so… next Thursday 🕗, digital activism & collaborative networks. show up. see ya

[After two minutes:]

— get some study before

(Vini is typing…)

(Vini stops typing.)

I was truly excited about the meeting. Digital activism is a multiplier of actions that traditionally come from the top down, it is vital to an exponential grow pace. In addition, those individual agents would be the new social drivers, subverting the old conservative market direction. Nothing softened the anxiety that came with the prospect of meeting the disruptive lady. She was the inspiration and disturbance of all the days from the very first moment, thus, there was no way to properly prepare me for the coming situation. I even tried to get help from the opinion polls department staff, gathering information to create a mental map of the person who obligated me to subjugate the astral alignment; in short, the id, ego, and superego that inhabited that incomparable specimen.

Mother, Bellini; father, Stern. Twenty four years old.

She joined São Paulo University four years earlier to study Medical Sciences. She moved the following year to a bachelor’s degree in Biology. With that, in doubt of which career to follow, she maintained her position in the university and still guaranteed her living in São Paulo without having to justify herself to her parents. She was usually cool with them, especially with her father; they all avoided controversial topics. Her mother stopped inviting her to religious activities pondering the successive clashes happening each time she returned from college to her birthplace. A southern girl from the Paraná state. After two sabbatical years in Biology, while she broke up with a boyfriend, she then joined Law college at Mackenzie University. A unique second-year student. The student leader without having to be an official member of any student associations or unions. She led by example. While mocking the new term “lawyercracy”, she was looking forward to the shortcuts of judicial militancy. She had a history of confrontation with teachers who did not publicly reject Mackenzie’s role during the 1960s. An ace in the debate. Quoting a friend: she bites glass if necessary to the pleasure of watching an enemy fall. Pure punishment.

Abandoned the violoncello before giving up medical studies. Although it is difficult to speculate if she would end up being a new Jacqueline du Pré, she totally could have been a professional in a first-class Brazilian orchestra (which would have made it easier for me to contact her, as we sponsor some orchestras, also I play the piano at a good level for an amateur).

For three years she dated a colleague from a musical conservatory, a very talented classical guitarist who left the country to get a college degree. She broke up with him when he was living in the United States, precisely at the time she joined Medical Sciences. She was not that much into fiction, although an obstinate history reader, especially those of ancient or extinct people, and the ones about immigration, a habit her parents instilled in her as an alternative to the Romance genre which she dismissed in early teenage years.

Straight materialism. Dialectical spirit. Lukewarm. Redemption. Bane.

III

I arrived at the Getúlio Vargas Foundation early enough to hang out for a bit. I enjoy watching people walking around; it is a good distraction and one of the many reasons I do not use my cellphone like a zombie. Also, relaxing would help me out in the upcoming meeting with the guilty pleasure girl. Among so many passers-by, I was struck by two young women who seemed to be newcomers, for they were talking about Ayn Rand, a living name in my memory because my father suggested a documentary about her for the aforementioned film festival (in the end, it was not accepted). It was quite amusing seeing those beautiful girls talking about an unknown, obscure philosopher.

Waiting and mentally hearing the clock ticking, I watched the girls wandering and disappearing as they went upstairs; from nowhere someone touches my shoulder. A small fright. Vinicius wore a white tee with a big, gray abstract print, black jeans, and yellow Timberland sneaker boots. A one-week beard. Slightly dark, non-Mediterranean skin (Iberian, I suppose). Dark black hair. His eyes were blacker than his hair; they leaped through the lenses of glasses with no frames and no logo or brand.

— Hi, Paulo! It’s so cool that you came, dude. When did you arrive? We’re excited about the possibilities you mentioned. The meeting is likely to start soon. Do you wanna drink something? Oh, forget about it… Can we go now? — his sympathy underscored the notorious difference in relation to the laconic interlocutor with whom I had exchanged awkward lines on the cellphone. He didn’t resemble at all the tense young man I saw close to the Torres-Vedras agency.

— Thanks for inviting me, Vini. I just arrived — I told him, simplifying the message. After a strategic pause to block that guilt falsetto voice, I continued: — I hope the whole team will be able to attend the meeting.

It was not long before it was obvious that I was not going to meet Clara that day, so I returned to my typical persona, calm as always. It was about time to regain my serenity after all my dating life was older than Clara. It is a simple math fact. I was prepared for the rite of the conquest of which I was going to pretend I wasn’t participating in. My desire was the same, nonetheless, it was relativized by the calm of those who had been successfully through it so many times (even if in none of them I was facing a four point zero Black Widow upgrade).

— Hey folks! Please say hello to Paulo. He wants to be an angel investor of our think tank.

I was greeted by three boys and four ladies shortly after Vinicius introduced me to the group. The group counselor was out of the room ending a conversation with another teacher, but soon he joined the conversation.

— Good evening, people — said the Professor Francisco Martinelli Seixas amicably. Then the group saluted the emeritus, whom they call Jasmine (I do not know why). — Today we’ll resume Frankfurt’s sociological studies as we agreed in the previous meeting. I know you guys are looking forward to it. Usually, we wait for our comrades who haven’t yet arrived but respecting our guest Paulo, we should start right now if that’s okay with you. Okay?

Good. He knew my name. They nodded or gestured. None of them had her intensity, making self-evident why she was the one who led them and not the contrary. Aiming at the next electoral cycle the group was preparing dossiers for socially responsible cultural policies. Drawing heavily on Adorno, Habermas, Benjamin, and Marcuse, they sought to equate what would be the good and anti-bourgeois Brazilian art in these complex times dominated by mass communication and when it is hard and risky to say what exactly folklore is. One of the effusive moments was when they discussed whether social networks are hot or cold media. The scholar man cooled things down:

— Let’s focus on the narrative aspect of the issue — said, Professor Seixas. — Our goal is to figure out what are the consensual sufficient points and make them our agenda. We’re here to put both feet on the right path. That said, we should stay focused as a team. Let’s avoid ending up our thoughts. Stay focused and avoid those intellectual traps. We do know what we want. Soon the political parties will be looking for us wanting to know which story they must be telling in the elections race. You’re here to look after them.

— It’s all about storytelling — I added trying not to intrude myself too much on their conversation.

I was honestly interested in that conversation. Our bank branding was framed to exalt both the Brazilian national distinctive element and to preserve an international character. This is a balance appreciated not only by the clients of the high-end sub-brands but also by those at the base of the social, financial pyramid.

Nonetheless, as much as I was genuinely interested in the discussion, to be crystal clear, I have to say that I was not there just because I appreciate and respect the group’s activities.

She did not attend the meeting. There was no safe way to ask them about her without arousing suspicion regarding the second most important reason for me to be there. Luckily I did not have to: the erudite man asked it before me.

— Jasmine, I don’t know about Clara. Guima WhatsApp-ed us to say he wouldn’t leave his office soon enough — answered a thin girl adorned with ethnic hair.

I suited up my best Monalisa smile and disguised the disappointment of not having found the little, big, desired puzzle. By the way, until that moment she was not yet my biggest concern. Yet. A week and a half later I received a text message that others would take as an outrageous one.

[On WhatsApp]

— paulo? s’up? gimme a call. see ya 👍🏼

I kept gnashing my teeth silently since Vinícius texted me; by then I was attending a serious meeting. Finally, after some time of boring marketing talks, I called Vini back:

— What’s up, Vinícius?! How are you?

— All good. Right now I’m on something, sorry, we have to be quick.

— Okay, no problem. What’s the news?

— Paulo, the collective is very excited about the possibilities your sponsorship offer can bring us.

— Wow, lovely. Can we move forward? I’m ready to proceed.

— Not so fast, man. There is a problem we’ll have to deal with before any further negotiations.

— All right, Vini. What are we talking about? — I had no idea what was going on.

— First of all, it’s not open for negotiations that sponsorship offer and money must come from you directly, not masked by any means or brands, and it has to go anonymously. I don’t know if it bothers you. Let’s cut the shit: that’s precisely our deal-breaker clause. Okay? You’ll be able to attend meetings when invited although without any vote or embargo rights. Well, I guess you were expecting such a scenario, weren’t you?

— Yep — and I was actually counting on it. My goal was to extend the bond with Clara beyond the group activities, not sink myself over there forever. — So tell me, Vini, what’s the real trouble we have to deal with?

— I’ll speak bluntly: one of the group members who didn’t go to the meeting you attended is totally opposed to a sponsorship coming from you or any Torres-Vedras personnel.

Fooling myself, I believed Vinicius would mention Guima.

— You haven’t met a said colleague. I’m talking about Clara. Among the group members, she’s the only academic officially tutored by Seixas. She’s our best brain and brawler: wise and tough in scientific conferences or confronting the police force.

— I see… — I said pondering without making it clear that for me understanding is not equal to giving up.

— Man, cutting the shit again: Jasmine won’t negotiate the sponsorship without Clara’s consent; also without her approving of it other members would leave our group. And, you know, the group already do well without your money…

Looking at the crisis as an opportunity, I ventured:

— Do you really think there’s no way we can persuade that young woman? Clara, am I right? I’m willing to talk to her personally. It’s not a problem.

— I was going to get to this point. If you really want to do something for or with our think tank, you’re going to have to deconstruct the concept that you’re a fucking, shitty banker.

— Thanks for the kind words — I said playfully.

— Fucking, shitty banker: these were her words. Well, however hard it may sound, this was the nicest way she referred to you. She knew you, man, she saw you at the College Education For All riot. I don’t know, Paulo… You, meeting her so soon is a bad idea. We can never know for sure what she’s willing to do. That hot, blonde girl is a beautiful spectacle, I know, also I know this makes things even harder to deal with. — he added smiling.

… And irritating me. Blonde?! What the hell?

— Vini boy, we’re gonna crack this code — I pretended to be optimistic.

— Well, Paulo, when you actually have done that, call me — he hung up while I was going to say goodbye.

Intuition first; secondly, voluptuousness. Although knowing the whole scenario was preposterous, I was desiring Clara even more. A rookie mistake. The impossibilities inflamed my desire beyond control. That feline face and snake body of hers were a maddening Egyptian combo.

I was ready to cross the long desert imposed by her repulsion without stepping on dirty lands. How would I do it? Not a clue.

Inasmuch as I could not personally bond with the Conscious Being collective without blocking my intentions altogether, a new approach was required, otherwise, I would have to give up. It was a fucked up scenario that I forgot about for a few weeks, taking advantage of being busy with the running movie festival (to the record: the festival was a huge success; Recife, the city where the festival happened, reverberated throughout the country).

When the festival was over, I concentrated on trying to get closer to Clara, masking my attempts helped by a mutual friend who had a moral debt to me. He would be paying me back by sending me print screens of Clara’s private posts (the public ones I had been following on my own).

On Instagram she used to post political stuff, often from the manifestations, she participated in, and eventually some hermetic memes (usually good ones); those posts were not bringing me clues better than the ones I already had. It was on Facebook that I got a new direction, a personal touch of the ginger biography: she was very fond of Beethoven. Fair enough, although I prefer the French composers, especially Debussy, Ludwig was always one of my favorite Austro-Germans.

(It’s important to register before we talk about Clara’s posts: I have figured out how to sponsor the think tank: I would be doing it through one of our organization’s companies without a direct connection to Torres-Vedras. The said way would not conduct me directly to Clara, unfortunately. Regardless of that, sponsoring Conscious Being would be an important investment — for the love of the bigger, common goals.)

IV

“Size matters –

— she posted, revealing her hard genius remained intact also in digital platforms.

On the comment session she argued with a stupid, dumb guy who called her “#elitist 😜😘”:

— People’s man. The little genius shut the hell up of nobles mouths, stood for Napoleon, melted down girls panties… Do you? 🖕 #LudwigFieldsForever

Clara had been publishing musical material in the following week as well, recurring over the German composer, cello, classical music, etc. I kept moving forward and looking at her posts, until one day I had an epiphany: 1) she was still appreciating Beethoven to the point of openly arguing in his favor (proving once more that when fondness comes from childhood, it is powerful and becomes a habit to the whole life, including her fresh, adult life); 2) she was crazy about History and 3) she was so curious she would exchange a kidney for a riddle explanation. Based on the alluded points, I had a very interesting clue to pursue.

I called the advertising agency editor who works for our bank, a good friend of mine. He assiduously attends the São Paulo Concert Hall. A devoted subscriber, let’s put it this way. He pointed me to the keystone of the main puzzle loose parts. Thinking about it right now, I recognize that hiring il signore Marco Antônio Bianchi was an obvious call. As soon as Lenny spoke the name The Balzacian my inner voice mumbled: “How did you not think of that before?” in a mix of excitement and anger to the fact it took me so long to find out about this possibility. “Go ahead”, this very same voice cooled me down and encouraged me: “it will work”.

Mr. Bianchi was the real one-man writing army. We were used to the joy of reading, for decades, his literary creation of the most diverse types. His handwritten business card that explains the company scope with fun, anachronistic pomp:

The Balzacian is:

• general literary services
• character creation, alter egos, heteronyms, and pseudonyms
• consulting on rhymes, metrics and rhetorical tropes

Despite having an eccentric character, he was pretty much a valuable man that I really appreciated. One of the collateral damage my brother caused me when he dragged me to Lucerne was that he made it impossible for me to go to Mr. Marco Antonio’s funeral. A Brazilian writer of Italian roots was a very correct recommendation concerning my goal: as soon as I’d overcome Clara’s prejudice against me, we would end up attracted to each other. It was precise with this issue that Mr. Marco would help me masterfully, namely putting myself into the History of Classical Music, and instigating the curiosity of the petite lady. A wise man. I bet she could only heal these itches in one way: relaxing and accepting my approach. In fact, only the old man could do it for me. Or, “de facto”, as he always wrote.

— Excuse me, Mr. Bianchi. My name is Paulo Vedras. I called earlier today. Thank you very much for having me. Many of my friends talked about your talent and also the customer’s acceptance process…

I was going to say that I would pay for the service without negotiating when he interrupted me, just seconds after we had shaken hands:

— Good afternoon, Mr. Vedras. I need to be quick. Sorry for interrupting you. Please sit down. This is what I understood about what you crave to do: you sir want to insert your family into the life and time of the maestro van Beethoven. Is that correct, isn’t? I have two business terms in order to accept your order: 1) I will only be paid when I have given you all the necessary texts to fulfill your wish — I nodded, when he spoke the second item –; 2) the young lady you told me about, she has to be in a restricted selection of candidates for the love of your life.

The old man surprised me. If I had not imagined Clara being one of the loves of my life, there was no way I would have thought of her as the love of my life. As I stammered out some misrepresenting response and noticed that there were many photographs which seemed to be of the young Marco Antônio and his wife, he interrupted me again, and this time, he was laughing:

— Ha, ha… Pardon me, sir. Only half of these conditions are true — he said, and paused, making me hope that it would be enough for me to pay for everything at the end (I had already thought I would have to pay in advance, of course).

— I am joking, Mr. Vedras. The joy of youthfulness motivates me. You can pay me after the last delivery, fine by me. Being accurate, you will pay, like I said, after the last letter. I will post the letters you ordered, and the specified warning will be along with the last delivery. Then, you must come here to pay me personally. Obviously, only if you judge the letters as good as expected. Now I beg your pardon: my quill feels cold.

I would extend my hand to say goodbye to Mr. Bianchi, who was standing behind an old L table, when he surprised me again and said, affected:

— Love is worth condemnations. Come here, accept a hug from this old writer of a single muse and in this way, we can sign our commitment and good faith.

A talented guy, and a very fast writer. His first letter arrived in just nine days! As soon as I received it, I posted a photo of the letter to my wingman, so he could post it online.

Angel,

Are you safe? Please, please let me know! I do not know how long I can resist awaiting so far away from you. Europe bleeds dreamy dreams of equality… And I do not know about you! How would you be by now? And without me, how will you be? I barely wonder. I want to protect you, I want to give you a warm hug. I want you! My heart cries out to be sure that the world will provide you with what I have failed to provide. Should I say it with unmistakable words? Fatal impulse! What can I say that was not said by Schiller? You know, writing has been a relentless and double torment for me, but it does not fill the pain caused by separation and distance, my beloved one, that’s why I have been praying — in vain — that our Lord grants me some extra time of mercy in my galloping illness. Oh God, why does it have to be like this, so sadly like this? Mournful tears escape me when I think we will not be living our love. At last, if I must wait for heavens’ mercy to the joy of having you completely mine, and to be completely yours, I will pray to have strength for this last sacrifice. For you. Always for you.

Devoutly

Yours

L.

The day Lenny posted this letter, Clara commented “😵”, which, coming from her, was fair enough. Later that day, they wrote to each other:

— for real?

— According to the URL I posted, yes it is.

— wow

I was celebrating the little progress when Bianchi’s second letter arrived. As I mentioned, a very gifted, fast writer. My squire of friend posted it late that night with a publication restricted access to his friends.

My everything,

This morning my publisher brought me the fresh breath good news brings, exactly this morning in which I noticed to be perceiving the passage of time before announced by the songs of the birds, every day less A publishing house from Portugal, the reeling Iberian side, paid me a considerable sum as an advance for the opera I mentioned in my penultimate missive. They believe my calls for justice will arrive as a strong message for this France who just has expelled Portuguese royalty. How clumsy is politics! Will fate punish me even more, if I lend my gift to this vile relationship? I do not care if it does it — because lending it will provide the tools to bring you to me, and us, together! And what a marvelous moment it will be! That is why I surrender myself with open arms to the executioner who haunts my nights. We shall have faith, my love. Trust in the yoke of Providence. The purpose of our lives is just one, not two, not another one. We will live together forever and ever, forever in love.

Affectionate kisses.

Yours.

L.

With the second letter came the dreaded warning saying it was the last of the texts contained in the order I have agreed with Bianchi. I was worried if these two letters would be enough to catch the attention of the curious Clara. Hesitating, I decided to act… In public. Specifically, on Lenny’s Facebook:

— Beautiful, man! My father often says he heard from his great-grandparents our family exercised patronage in Europe around that time and region. Would this be true?

Clara also commented, however not answering me. I did not know if she read what I wrote. Suddenly, it came:

— wtf?

After calculating risks, I dared to respond, tagging her to activate the app notification:

— I have a strong indication the letter could be genuine, @Clara Bellini Stern.

Longing for her response, every cell phone vibration punched my chest, notwithstanding, there was no interaction with her at all.

So, I decided the two failed attempts to contact her plus her unfounded mistrust in me were enough. Somewhat regretful of my exaggerations, I admit, I told myself a hard, quiet “forget about it”, and did the only thing I could do at that moment: nothing.

At the São Paulo Concert Hall, I was just hanging out and casually awaiting the start of the Schubert’s 4th — which I love — when I saw the unmistakable hair strands whose color is somewhere located in a fire color theme which we cannot precisely figure out which one is. Was God throwing darts?

Besides knowing of my abstraction (which she no longer liked so much), she knew of my physical materiality. I know she knew it because when I looked at her, she gestured, with her left index finger, the universal sign of “silence”. Bad girl.

I was regrouping after the opening surprise, brought by that bare rendezvous, when the famous unison sound carried me into the present again. Thirty pleasant minutes later, I would be enjoying the concert-break good opportunities.

When the wind section announced the final cadence, I went to the coffee shop without staring at Clara’s eyes. I was going to find her. Casually.

She met me first.

Her small freckles were remarkable, but at the same time, perceptible only when you paid them close attention, for what they were a cute, little feature that fine impressionists would dream about being able to paint.

— You don’t give up, dude — I heard coming from behind me. She interrupted me in her calm, mezzo-soprano voice, when I was talking to a random person at the coffee shop.

— Don’t flatter yourself, Clara — I said, flirting with the conciliatory and defiant tones.

— First, it was the far-fetched patronage; second, the forged letters; and finally, today’s “unexpected” meeting. It’s you clown, precisely you, who flatter yourself, not me — she confronted me, stressing that I was caught in my literary approach. I did not lose composure nor time. The fifteen-minute break was ticking and vanishing.

— You pretty much overestimate yourself, little girl — I spoke with condescension. — The patronage was truly in my plans. I made it, you can check by yourself. — She looked annoyed when I told her what was actually a proof of her suspicions towards my goals (she had bluffed about the patronage); — and the letters are the real deal, I have evidence that they are.

— Evidence? This is bullshit and only shouts you respect no limits!

— I admit half of that is true — I said, emulating Mr. Bianchi. — And as for me being here, I’d no idea you’d be here — which was true, I did not really have an idea about her attending that concert. — Don’t be presumptuous.

— I know you had no idea I was here. You don’t know shit about me.

— You’re wrong. I know a lot about you.

The iconic São Paulo Concert Hall sound alert announced the audience should return to their happily ever crowded seats, so I hastened to dare something else:

— Be nice with me, let’s attend the concert together next week, so I’ll show you that I don’t lie except about Beethoven’s letters — I finally confessed the missed shot, which was a good shot after all, because she finally seemed to want to chuckle.

— You cross all the limits, man.

The third sound alert commanded us to return when I ventured:

— At least sit in a private box with me, you know that so far from the stage you won’t listen to (…)

— No… — she said abruptly, which confirmed my dull, negative expectation.

A wrong expectation! That’s what I have found out when the little muse continued:

— No, you will not address me during the concert. Not even in the end. I accept the invitation, just because of: Debussy.

Game on.

Unlike the first part, the second one passed as slowly as an Adagio in my mind, with Clara near me, yet intangible. Of course, during the concert, I did not keep in touch with her, not even visually. And when the music ended I would do what we had agreed to do: I would do nothing. Who knows, curiosity might be in my favor.

On the way, she looked quickly to her cell phone, without opening her mouth to say anything (gosh, what a lip!). Arriving at the final door, she seemed to head for the subway station. Considering the real dangers of that environment, I had to offer some help, so I broke the silence we had agreed to keep:

— Do you want a ride, Clara?

She gestured that she did not want it, and after glancing at me, she sauntered to a car. Damn Uber.

You can trust me, I always attend the concerts, they are an important part of my cultural life since forever, long before I met her. So I just continued to attend it. Of course, it would not be bad receiving a little help from my friend Destiny. In fact, I was counting on that help. Why not?

Three weeks later, he actually helped me, albeit with a quickly diminished progression. I had not yet seen the redhead, betrayed by the cold and the charming hat she wore. (Yes, I was looking for her at the concerts, all of them.) She was standing next to the main staircase, oblivious to the typical concert break chit-chats and crowd movements.

— You keep stalking me, miss — I said accusing her, hoping to warm the conversation up and eliminate the risk of receiving the accusation I had made (that one and other unpredictable accusations).

She looked sideways, saying nothing. I did not care, and I kept the conversation:

— Are you enjoying the concert, Clara? In my opinion, Bruckner was very well performed.

— Are you really asking if I am enjoying the concert? Really, really? What a pointless question.

— Useless, why? Pointless is your bitterness, girl. Come on, “love wins” — I said humorously.

— What difference does it make if I’m enjoying the concert? Do I look like I care about musical critics? If I wasn’t enjoying it, would you force the orchestra to play it all over again? Don’t be snobbish.

— Yeah, I would — I said in obvious exaggeration.

— You’re really pushing the limits, man…

— Clara, both you and Beethoven know I really want to get to know you.

— Getting people to investigate me was not enough to get to know me, huh?

I swallowed briefly. How the hell did she know that?

— I didn’t get anyone to investigate you. I just asked for an innocent, well-intentioned help.

— Whoa, the billionaires’ modesty…

— There is something deep telling me we should get to know each other. Maybe it is destiny…

— Ha, ha. We…? — she laughed mad. — Seriously, dude, grow up, don’t include me in your plurals.

— But I’m really feeling we should…

— You’re feeling it? Oh yeah, now you’ve convinced me.

— I won’t give up on you. Beware: I’ll follow you on Facebook! — I snapped, blending eloquence and irony. — And I’m going to write on your timeline that I’ve been crazy about you since the very fucking first moment I saw you. Using gradients! Oh, the cliché among clichés, I don’t care, because it’s true. If you continue to doubt it, I’ll write all this shit with GIF, Emoji, or whatever nonsense stuff the douchebag Zuckerberg will provide us. Come on… Do you think it’s easy for me to expose myself like this?

— Whatever. Fuck that. It’s not my problem.

— Yes, you’re right, it’s my “problem”. What would you be losing by helping me fix this problem? Maybe it’s not even a problem at all. Gee, Ms. Stern, I don’t have lupus, you can ask Doctor House. One chance. Just one chance, not two. One.

For the first time, she hesitated. Drawing to the lowest end of the embarrassment scale softened her for the first time.

— Holy shit, man. So patient…

— Clara, I really like you, lame as it sounds, I have to say that maybe I’m falling in love with you — I said seriously. — Okay, I know this is going to be over sooner or later, I’m old enough to know about it in advance. I pledged myself to the fake Beethoven’s letter writer that I would consider you as a potential woman for my entire life. Give me a chance, if it isn’t for me, for the old man.

It was the first time she laughed frankly. God bless you, Mr. Marco Antonio Bianchi!

— Whatever. These are my terms when we occasionally meet here the break will be your date-time. That’s it.

A failure, in fact, however, it was more than I had achieved so far with her.

— Yes! — I did not hold back the satisfaction I felt; and took advantage of the good moment to add: — Today doesn’t count as a date, okay? Let’s start fresh.

— Of course, this doesn’t count as a date. It counts as a shit discussion of the relationship that you’ll never be able to have.

V

We did not schedule anything, only agreed on what it would count as a weird, romantic date. By that time, I was already neurotic as Takeshi Kitano‘s movie character, so I just continued my routine of regularly attending the concerts. That’s how I met the beautiful indomitable again, in a Ravel special. The French genius gave me luck.

On this day, she agreed to talk about music, finally. Taking advantage of the fact that many years ago I tried to play “La Valse”, one of my favorite musical pieces, I talked a little bit about that. Among Ravel’s compositions, her favorite one was “Gaspard de la Nuit”, that’s why she had chosen that day. At last, a breakthrough, a piece of personal information! So I kept the conversation far away from controversial issues, even the musical ones. None of Debussy versus Ravel; German versus French; etc.

— Damn… The distinctive pedal note of the third movement of “Gaspard’ de la Nuit” always strikes me — I tried to earn points without appearing pedantic, when she said bluntly she would go up and return to her seat, preventing me from showing off by mentioning the Berio’s “Piano Sonata” with its amazing incorporation of the pedal note as used by Ravel. Okay, that sounds like a bourgeois.

It was Saturday and I was back attending the concert (a day when I usually did other things). It was not by accident. The great Antonio Menezes was going to play that day, and Clara, even as a dilettante cellist, would not miss the opportunity to listen to him.

In the concert break counting as our second date, she was not very excited. I wondered if seeing the Brazilian virtuoso would have taken her buried, sore memories. To make the situation safe, I restricted the few words to concrete and enjoyable subjects like drinks and food. It was she who broke the silence:

— I don’t know what’s harder: to perform like him or not to perform like him at all — so she left, leaving me with two cups of cappuccino in my hands.

It took another month to meet her again. For those who, like me, expected romance, the beautiful Faure’s “Requiem”, howsoever heavy composition, was in danger of being a bad choice it was indeed. The funeral text somehow hampered the conversation. Clara said nothing, barely looked at my direction. To be precise, she said:

— Paulo… Sorry, man… That’s enough.

The damn finish line was on the horizon.

At the farewell, I dared again to offer to call Uber for her. Strangely, this time, she accepted. Another bad sign. So I handed my cell to her to enter her address. When the car arrived, she got into the sedan without even saying goodbye, what really felt like the infamous The End.

— You go with me — she purred from inside the car.

After holding my breath for about two and a half seconds, without any justification and showing my nervousness, I glimpsed at my Apple Watch, letting the air goes out, and laughing shyly. So I walked to the car. The driver stared at me in the rearview mirror, disguising (disguising badly) the fact that he wanted to have the privilege of sitting next to Clara (you would want to either).

As delicate as determined (maybe more determined than delicate), she put her left hand above my right hand when mine was palm down on the car seat. She did not turn to look at me as she continued to stare out the window with a strange gaze. We stayed in this position, kind of frozen, while on a trip to a building near Maria Antônia, that charming São Paulo University Academic Center near Mackenzie University, a typical accommodation for students, young adults, singles, and combinations of the mentioned sort of person.

We went upstairs to her apartment located on the second floor. When we came in, I noticed the good, spontaneous organic arrangement of many scattered books, the cello standing balanced in the single chair of the place, sheet music inside the instrument’s opened case, and almost no furniture. The mattress on the floor, next to the door that opens onto the mini-balcony and works as a window. No pets. I would have bet — and lost — that she would have at least one cat. An admirable nest that would make the French youth from the sixties proud of themselves. She was not about candles nor cries.

— What would you like to drink? — I offered as a little joke, noticing that there was no alcohol in her place, and using the uncanny question to try to relax her.

She looked at me sulkily and did not answer. Then she sat down on the mattress, staring out with the same glare as she stared out the car window, and asked me to put something to play on the little Bose speakers, whose battered power cord rested on the small table disputed with the mini lamp, one chipped black mug on the rim and a small plate with whole grain bread grains that was on the Robespierre’s book opened in the glossy pages of Žižek’s powerful introduction.

I thought quickly about the musical possibilities, speculating which feeling each choice could bring. I did not come to a conclusion. However, to avoid the risk of discussing the fake letters again, and hoping to extend my time there with her, I trusted Miles Davis. Instrumental jazz, obvious: I just wanted to hear her voice.

I got nothing.

When the music was toward its end, Clara slept. Seated. Shortly after the famous transcription of the “Concierto de Aranjuez” began, it dazzled me that the little redhead was more beautiful than when I remembered her in pure abstract desire. A better concreteness than the best abstraction.

VI

The sharpness was lost with the passion that blurred my vision. Illuminated by São Paulo’s dark night light entering her small apartment, she looked at me unhurriedly, as if allowing me to sit next to her. Then, the horny puppy sat down, you guessed.

I had been imagining so many intimate moments, none like that. Seeing her lying down did not bring me the illusion of the romantic poets, who idealized the beloved one in an immaculate bed. On the contrary, I saw Clara stronger and more special. I warmed her up with a blanket that lay between the mattress and the junction of walls, so I left… frustrated, more by the disregard for the music, of course. While admitting some twisting remorse and doubts, I had no doubts about the main issue: I was deeply in love with her.

Four days followed until the iPhone hit me with a disturbing “it was good” message with no punctuation, no Emoji, no capital letters — no clue at all about how good it would have been. I stopped everything at work to figure out the answer.

Had it been good? What had happened, after all? Of course, I wanted more of it. First, I typed “it was good and unique; Let’s repeat?”, but in just seconds I deleted it. “Let’s repeat?” What nonsense… What if she thought I was the weird guy who wants to see a woman sleeping? Of course, I wanted her awake and on fire, for I have so many ideas for us… awake and on.

Then I typed “let’s try again?”. I was going to send it when I gave up pondering that the verb “try” could make her think that something had failed, or, worst yet, we had failed. So I waited a few minutes hoping my unconscious mind would do better service than the conscious one.

It didn’t do it, actually.

I restarted the crazy typing cycle. In the end, I postponed answering it, discarding sending a cookie-cutter Emoji heart (which would be puerile). With two more attempts, I probably would have sent some variation of “I love you”.

That very same night, leaving no time for hesitation, I typed and sent in a hurry: “How about a new get together to listen to the original Joaquín Rodrigo tune?” Immediately after sending the message, I dropped my cell phone on the couch and walked away. To be honest, I was more pretending than actually forgetting about it.

— see ya at the concerts

Shit… A thud. We would be back to the fifteen-minute breaks madness, so I would have to relax and wait for the dates without a scheduled program.

The first good conversation came at the first concert we met again. A pleasant, quick conversation. On the way out Clara came toward me before I noticed her approaching:

— Goodbye, Paulo. It was good — she tiptoed over and kissed my cheek, and went away.

This routine was repeated more or less like this for the next two concert-dates. By the modus operandi I have detailed, you can already predicted that with another date we would be moving forward.

We headed to her building again, fortunately with no awkward, separate car entrance scene.

In her apartment, I bet again in the same dad’s joke. Surprisingly, it worked: she replied a gentle “thanks”. Keeping the good mood, I pointed to the speakers trying not to insinuate too much (a little insinuation would not hurt):

— Shall we?

She nodded.

Her little face could hardly bear her witch pupils, which, in that dim light, hid her beautiful blue Brendel irises.

I made a mental reminder of bringing a new power cable to a very much desired next meeting. Forget my desire for a moment and consider that the beautiful Spanish concert did not deserve to be squeaked. So I waited for a hint of what I could dare to do. Then, I understood that we would repeat what we did the first day in the apartment. So far, so good.

It was the same scenario, except that this time she kept herself awake. During the listening, I mentally established the moves that would lead me to kiss her. At step three, when I looked closely at her lips, she stared into my eyes (so my blood was in a loop from head to toe at the high speed of a Vivaldi’s Presto) and lit me with her mouth, although not returning my clear and manifest desire to possess her, just saying “let’s listen to it again… ?”.

Oh gosh…

I stood up, suppressing the annoyance, walked the five steps to the speakers, and returned to the potential love nest, but at this moment, without any strategy.

In the Adagio, she took my hand with a sweetness that even today just by remembering it excites me. Hell… It was ridiculous to feel tortured like only a teenager could feel.

It was during Solea that Clara put our tied hands between her thighs, just above her knees, in the limit between sweetness and lust. She was wearing an almost translucent dress made of thin cotton fabric as pale as her. Sixteen music bars later, the little devil laughed, denouncing the irony represented by the mix of our poses and the music surrounding us, showing me for the first time more than her front teeth (which accentuated the contrast of girlish features to the bewitching of seductive noir stories). I did not slip in the irony and hurried to put my other hand next to the interlaced ones.

At the end of the second listening, with our hands where we left, I counted up to one hundred (only the prime numbers) to decide between kissing her, making time by walking to the mobile and deciding to play the same or another music. Luckily, I did not have to get up since I had already set up the loop mode.

Looking at such a flaring beauty, not even her inertia prevented me from thinking that the omniscient God would not accomplish that much twice.

As soon as the Adagio was playing for the third time, I fancied the odds of acting letting her comfortable to say the “no” that did not need something abrupt to happen:

— May I kiss you?

— You shouldn’t have asked me now — she tore me with vague eyes and pupils atypically smaller, undoubtedly smaller than I would have chosen them to be at that moment.

When the music was over, Clara got up quickly.

The screwed little me, embarrassed, stood still. It could not get any worse, could it? It could not. So, without looking at me, she suddenly rose… and kissed me on the mouth once, with delicious, confident pressure and confused relief.

Once.

How irascible… It could get worse.

VII

I cannot tell you everything I tried to get back in touch with her. Okay… I can admit that the more obvious it became I was being rejected, the more I felt we were on the verge of restarting from the delightful moment we paused in.

The brutal truth is, after that last day in her apartment, she did not text me anymore neither we met on purpose or randomly. Nothing. I also regret having to admit that the situation got worse to the point of affecting me at work so much that, one day, my brother had to kidnap me at the Starbucks near Maria Antonia, the one who had become my insanity headquarters, and drove straight to the airport. My parents caught me in this trap, forcing me to spend some time in Europe, hoping to compose myself. I knew I was at the bottom of the pit and unable to get back on track. Emotionally weakened, mentally hurt. That I was. Still, I disguised a revolt, I argued; it was even physical.

The obligation to get over it was knocking on my door in Switzerland, charging me with an adult attitude, when I received an invitation from a Facebook friend to an unmissable rally in favor of the providing of houses to unprivileged students. I had to be there. That’s why I knew I had to.

You just have to trust your gut.

Obviously betraying my brother’s confidence (he still does not forgive me for the betrayal), I flew back to Brazil with my body burning, and feeling the wonderful taste of Clara’s smooth lips, a taste I mentally kept alive listening to our music almost everyday in Switzerland, even on the days I believed to be leaving Clara in the past.

I arrived early to the rally, prepared to convince Clara to give us a chance for real. For the first time, it would have to be real. I was determined to change each other’s world, to abdicate of what she did not accept in me. All in.

Such as always she arrived earlier and saw me first. A quick, friendly, provocative hand wave. As we came closer, I pictured again, coming out of the fire and materializing in my sight, the passionate, irresistible woman. I wanted every part of the magnificent her. I wanted her right away!

— Paulo… You came, that’s good — she shattered me, giving no readable facial expression besides her smile, as provocative as indifferent, typically pharmakon.

Still voraciously and libidinously desiring her, I turned silent and drifting away, aimless, burning and wandering. This story had to come to an end.

[To Jacqueline du Pré, in memoriam.]