Happy That It's Not True (14 page)

              Cara and Alex both nodded.  “That makes sense,” Alex said.

              “Hey—I have a luggage cart we can use to wheel up your stuff.”

              As they walked back to the elevator, Diego rambled on.  “Spanish is really a beautiful language.  If you were to ever read Don Quixote in the original, you would think you were hearing the voice of God...”

Chapter Fifteen

            
 
The thick clouds made it possible to see across the campus without squinting.  From the second story balcony of the art department building, Diego, clutching his mug, looked down as he did from his high rise home—forever a student of human drama.  Listening to his iPod, he swirled his green tea bag to his favorite piano ostinato.  One of his drawing students, Monica—a beautiful dark skinned Jamaican girl—was being held and kissed by a tall young black man.  They periodically stopped to smile at each other—their foreheads would touch and then their lips met once again.

              The young man took a small elongated box out his pocket and handed it to Monica, causing her to grin. 

              A short young woman with blonde hair came and stood next to Diego.  “Hi Mr. Alonso.”

              Diego took off his headphones.  “Look—Monica just got a present.”

              The young man helped Monica fasten a silver chain around her neck.  They kissed one more time, and Monica ran toward the art building—the young man in the opposite direction.

              “Did you see that?—let’s see what she has to say for herself,” Diego said in an impish tone.

              Monica ran up the stairs gleaming. 

              “You didn’t have to hurry Monica—I could see you had important business,” Diego laughed.  “What did he give you?”

              Winded and embarrassed, Monica tugged on her necklace to display two pendants, one a key and the other a heart.

              “Ah, someone has a key to your heart—wait—shouldn’t each of you wear one of the pendants?—shouldn’t one of you have the key to the other’s heart?”

              Monica giggled, “Oh—yeah—I guess.”

              “Oh I got it—you—Monica—have the key to your own heart!  Now that’s profound—your boyfriend is a genius!” Diego laughed.

              “I’m confused,” said the blonde.

              “All right, let’s get the class started.  Everyone is probably wondering where I am—they don’t know about the soap opera I watch,” Diego winked at Monica.

              Together, they entered the classroom.  About a dozen students were sitting on art benches, their drawing pads clipped to Masonite boards propped up diagonally on wooden vertical panels.  In the center of the room was a table containing a pile of old sneakers glowing in the track lighting.  Diego turned on a small black radio already tuned to a classical FM station.  The wooden benches vibrated with a Mozart piano concerto.

              Diego projected his voice above the music, “Just some old, dirty sneakers, yet you will potentiate these forms—these solid three dimensional objects, by de-emphasizing what is inconsequential—yet becoming conscious of every detail—the relationality—the tones and weight.  Think of metaphors and metaphrands.”

              “Why do you have to use such big words?” asked a grinning lady, about twenty years older than any of the other students.

              “Ah, because I wanted to see how many pretentious words I could use.”

              The class laughed—some of the art majors eager to draw, others with different majors—terrified of anything associated with the gift of creativity.

              “Does anyone know what a metaphrand is?—neither do I!”  Diego delighted again in the laughter of the class.  “Before we begin, let me ask you a question—what is your favorite work of art in the whole world?”

              The students shifted their eyes in thought.  “The Kiss by Gustav Klimt,” answered one young lady.

              “Ah—kissing—I’ve been seeing a lot of that lately,” Diego said looking at Monica.  “Let me tell you what the most important work of art in the whole world is—It’s whatever you happen to be working on.  You have to learn to love your own work.  If you can’t get excited about your own drawings or paintings, don’t expect anyone else to.  You—have the key to your own heart.”  Diego smiled at Monica.

...

              The road into the Pesh Valley in Afghanistan calmed Octavio’s mind.  Florida existed only as a distant memory inside the small confined space of the enormous Humvee.  The road was rough and seemingly never-ending, like the twisted seam of a garment—a garment with many patterns and textures.  A village moved past as the shadow of the gunner’s turret brushed the dusty road.  Donkeys were parallel parked with empty flatbed carts as people in brown and white clothes stood watching the convoy.

              It was a trip that lasted for hours, a gradual descent into what, for Octavio, had become normalcy—the loud clamor of the engines tearing through the countryside—oddly relaxing until the next cruel jolt from a pit or large rock. 

              Octavio couldn’t remember there being so many gravestones by the roadside on his last tour—large, irregular shaped pillars without any writing visible, strewn among smaller rocks on mossy fields.  The pitiful monuments hardly recorded the lives of the forgotten with any dignity.  Octavio thought about the living—those who inherit the earth, and how temporary and fragile that reign is.  He could almost lose himself in thoughts like these—the brotherhood of mankind, sharing the stage together for a short time until the next generation inherits the world.  But how could he?  Not in war—shoot the damn enemy dead—when you see the enemy, shoot him immediately.

              The sun overwhelmed the land and caused the valleys to become like furnaces.  The distant mountains were turquoise blue—like tropical islands—a mirage that would always dissolve away to the grayish browns of Afghanistan.  As they neared the combat base, the mountains faded—a streak of fog cutting the peaks in half.  After several more hours, a soldier in the front seat wearing a helmet with belts, straps and cables, turned a bit to shout back at Octavio.

              “It’s been really hairy—they’re launching mortars and one o’seven rockets at us all the time.  We’ve been on hundreds of missions in just a few months.  You know—it’s just the four of us embedded with the Afghan National Army.  That’s it—that’s the entire team.”

              Octavio leaned forward and shouted, “How far away are we now from the Pakistan border?”

              “Only about two miles away.”

              “Are the people liking us yet?”

              “I don’t know—we might be losing the media war.  The Talibs are using Afghan independent TV for propaganda—spreading all kinds of rumors.  The Afghans are afraid of the Taliban, but now they’re starting to fear us more.  And it’s ridiculous; the Talibs are burning people alive—entire families.  They gut people’s homes so they can use them to hide their jeeps.  They’re the ones raping women and killing everyone—beating people to death inside of mosques.  Sick bastards—The camp is right ahead.  See those ridges up there?  The Taliban are setting up ambush areas—they’ve got OP’s everywhere—they shoot at us first thing in the morning and when it gets dark.  It drives us crazy—we can’t even see ’em.”

              Octavio looked up at the merciless ridges, acknowledging an old enemy.  Ah—getting shot at.  That’s the one thing—there’s just no way to ever describe what that’s like—can never explain that to anyone back home—not in a million years could anyone understand—being shot at all the time.

              “Look at all those cornfields where they can hide—there’re spotters and spies everywhere, radioing in our every move.  We have to constantly change what we’re doing—so many more IED’s now—you wouldn’t believe how many we’ve detonated.  Right now, we’re driving on a dry river bed; tomorrow we’ll have to think of something different.”

              Octavio felt his neck tense with discouragement.  Things were getting worse in Afghanistan—not better—but much worse.  The enemy had multiple observation posts on the ridge, spotters everywhere, and snipers that could kill from incredible distances.  Most troubling were the improvised explosive devices.  “What can you tell me about the IED’s?”

              “Those cowards!  They don’t want to fight like men—I’ll fight any of them—any day, I just don’t want to deal with an IED—I want nothing to do with one of those—when those things go off, they’ll kill from three hundred yards away.  They’re the kind that were being used in Iraq.  Most of the casualties are now from IED’s.  We’re here.”

              Octavio could see the compound in the distance ringed with concertina wire—an American and Afghan flag—gray and green sandbags.  Soldiers from the Afghan National Army in their dark green camouflaged uniforms and black boots carrying M4 rifles—more young lives to extinguish.  These were the hosts—their souls injured by simply being born.  It was almost as if they were keeping a vigil, mourning a life that exists only for the erecting of gravestones. 

              It occurred to Octavio that their lives did matter.  To protect the Afghan people from religious fanatics—that was honorable.  Octavio could fight and protect them, but they weren’t Cara—they weren’t Alex.  How absurd—it’s not my family I’m fighting for.  So intangible—I have no access to them—if only I could just hold them.

Chapter Sixteen

            
 
The two basset hounds had taken the love seat for themselves—lying on their backs and stretching.  Cara and Alex shared the sofa as Diego paced the room flipping the pages of Cara’s drawing book.  He stopped and sat down on a chair next to his metal easel, patting the drawings and nodding his head.  “Cara, it’s not because you’re my sobrina that I’m saying this—your work is incredible.  You’re only nineteen?  There's so much sensitivity in your lines—how can you feel so much?  I can’t even begin to tell you how great your talent is.”

              Alex stopped typing on his laptop long enough to nod emphatically in Cara’s direction.

              “Thank you,” Cara said softly.  She felt something inside of her overflowing—excitement—joy—maybe tears.

              “And since you have such sensitivity in your art, that means you’re also very sensitive when it comes to your personality—your emotions—right?”

              “Yeah, I guess—I can get kind of emotional.”

              “She’s always falling in love,” Alex said.  “Sometimes two times a week.”

              Cara slapped Alex on the thigh.  “Shut up!”

              Diego furrowed his brow.  “What I mean is, sometimes life kinda hurts—maybe a little more than it does for everyone else.  You ever feel that way?”

              “My drawings say I’m emotionally sensitive?”

              “Yes, exactly.”

              “Are you sensitive, Tio?”

              “Don’t change the subject—we’re talking about you,” Diego laughed.

              “Well, are you?”             

              “Cara, I don’t have your kind of sensitivity. I’m not a good artist like you.”

              Cara was incredulous—confusion spreading over her face, “No, you’re a real artist—you’re incredibly talented.”

              “I’m getting old Cara, it’s about time I learned how to draw and paint.  But you—you’re so young—way too young to be this good.  I’m still not even sure I know what I’m doing.  Young artists who know exactly what they’re doing—artists with vision—they amaze me.  I think you have greatness—and if this goes to your head, maybe it needs to—what are you doing with your talent now?  You should be in art school.”

              “I hate school.”

              “I also hated school.”

              “I just can’t deal with stress—school is so stressful.”

              “What are you doing now with your life?”

              “I’m working as a receptionist.”

              “And that’s not stressful?”

              “Yeah—it’s stressful.”

              “There’s stress everywhere.  Just learn not to overreact and turn everything into a crisis.”  Diego was sincere—almost sad.  “You should think about art school—you really should.  Hey, why don’t you come to one of my Thursday night figure drawing classes at the college?  They’re open to the public.  I’ve got plenty of art supplies you can borrow.  Just come and tell me what you think of the whole experience.”

              Cara’s eyes became energetic again, beaming with possibilities.  “Anyone can come?”

              “Will there be—like naked women there?” Alex smiled.

              “Nudes, Alex—There’s a big difference,” Diego said.

              Alex pushed his eyeglasses against the ridge of his nose. “What’s the difference?”

              “Well—if you’re ever in Italy, you’ll see a lot of paintings and frescoes of nudes inside the churches, but you’ll never see any paintings of naked people,” Diego smiled. 

              “I know what Tio is saying—don’t you understand, Fathead?”