Chapter III - Blue Flowers

A recently separated man needs a woman who has at least a minimal amount of understanding. A woman to be with him at times when he’s most sociable, and who will leave him alone when solitude becomes indispensable again. But women understand only what matters to them, he thought as he hung up the phone. And the need to cancel their plans for that day was something Fabiane wasn’t remotely interested in understanding. Her response was to make the most wide-ranging recriminations. It was the second time he’d canceled on her, it’s true, but tomorrow, tomorrow night, without fail, he’d said on the phone. She had accepted after a protracted reluctance.

“Fine, tomorrow night, but if you cancel one more time, just one, I swear it’s over. If there still really is anything between us.”

“I won’t cancel, I promise, today really was something unexpected that came up.”

“Right, and Saturday, too, looks like your life is full of unexpected things just coming up.”

“No, Saturday it was because Manuela had the flu, there was no way I could have taken her, I’ve explained that already.”

“Right, and so now you’re using your daughter as your excuse for everything.”

Beautiful women tend to be more complicated, perhaps because their beauty has made things too easy for them, given them a lot of options and little need to face reality. Beautiful women tend to be self-centered and childish, he thought, they never escape from the role of little princess and expect that the man, as their subject, or as a father who will deny them nothing, is going to spoil them and demand nothing in return, just because they are beautiful. Fabiane, he thought, was an extremely beautiful woman.

After he hung up, he gathered the papers on the desk, picked up his things and went out. He had decided to leave work early that day. Not because he had any particularly pressing commitment, which was what he had told Fabiane, but just the need to be alone, to go for a walk after the long weekend with the girl, after seeing his ex-wife—he was exhausted, despite having done nothing. He had used what was left of Sunday just to walk around the apartment with no clear objective in mind. And now, the whole day he had been unable to concentrate, all that paperwork on the desk awaiting his attention, the e-mails, the phone calls he hadn’t made to people who had rung him, only Fabiane, the crucial call just to cancel. He wouldn’t be in the mood to meet up for dinner, to drink, to listen to Fabiane’s endless conversation, her complaints, troubles with the boss, troubles with her mother, troubles with her sister, in short, Fabiane’s troubles. She wanted to change everything, she’d say, a different life. She’d say the life she had was nothing like what she’d dreamed of—she wanted to leave her job, have a life that was calmer, children. Fabiane wanted two children, a happy marriage, a nicely decorated apartment, a husband well set up financially. He had commented, just to warn her, that he had a daughter already, that he had no intention of having more, that he was very far from being a good parent, besides which he’d just gotten separated, the whole thing was really stressful, he’d been looking for an apartment, moving, establishing a new routine. She looked at him angrily, got to her feet, annoyed, and left in a fury. Was that what he got for being honest? Honesty never did anyone any good, he thought. He’d been right to cancel, better that way, a bit of peace and quiet that night.

On the way home he thought of stopping by the video rental place. It hadn’t been even a month since he’d moved and he didn’t yet know the neighborhood shops very well, but he remembered the rental place nearby that he’d seen the other day, when he had strayed from his usual routine in search of a drugstore. Manuela only used a particular kind of sunblock that was especially for three-year-olds. His ex-wife insisted he use that one, she’d called and told him so first thing in the morning. But sunblock is all the same, he replied, already getting ready to take the girl to the beach, and if the one I’ve got works on me, why wouldn’t it work on her? He’d tried to argue, but his ex-wife was tenacious. He could have not bought it, could have just pretended; the girl, however, gave him a penetrating look, she knew his lies, all his little tricks, he thought. A three-year-old child understands everything. And before they went to the beach, the two of them sought out a drugstore together. He was thinking that the separation had only caused more trouble for him—the girl, who had previously been her mother’s responsibility, at least as far as everyday matters were concerned, to whom he just gave the odd affectionate caress when he got home from the office, had now become a visible, insistent being in his life. If it had been up to him, he wouldn’t have separated, he thought, not because his relationship with his ex-wife was a good one (it hadn’t been for years, not since the pregnancy), but he had never thought of separating, maybe because he felt guilty, yes, because it had been he who’d become more distant, ever since the pregnancy. Now his daughter was his on weekends, he was on his own with the task of distracting a child.

Before the separation everything had seemed easier, and even if it didn’t make him happy, even if he had sometimes felt like leaving, he had never given it any serious thought, there was always something preventing him. Until the moment when his wife said it was over. What’s over, he asked, not entirely understanding. The marriage, love, everything, she said. Everything had been over for some time. He kept looking at her, trying to understand, how was this possible, how was it possible that things should be over just like that, from one moment to the next? After all, they had a house, a life, a daughter. But his wife would not be intimidated, she looked at him with contempt, and he was the one who’d had to leave. So that’s how it was, from one day to the next, his wife decided it was over and he was the one who’d had to leave, leave everything, find someplace new to live as quickly as possible, she insisted on it as she strode about the living room. That same woman who not long before had said she loved him, hadn’t she? Recollections muddled in his memory. He even asked if she had someone else, but no, she said no, she said she was just tired, tired of him, that he never did anything for anyone, tired of his selfishness, of his absence, she said all this and many other things, the things women say when they’re angry.

He said nothing, just took his belongings and moved to the guest room, then to the new apartment. A small apartment, but with a nice view of the mountain, the first one he found (the truth was he didn’t have the patience to go on looking). He moved right away, bought a few pieces of furniture, just the essentials. And he realized then that there was no going back. He went to collect the remainder of his things from his house, his ex-house. His ex-wife was waiting for him with everything already packed up, labeled, she had always been so perfect, so efficient, even in this. He could have fought with her, but he didn’t feel he had the energy for what would probably end up being an endless argument, with his wife saying the blame lay with him, that he’d ruined her life and their child’s. Women can be extremely cruel when they want to be. He took his things and left. He considered asking after Manuela, where she was, since she hadn’t come to say goodbye to her father, but he ended up not asking anything. His ex-wife, who seemed able to read his thoughts, remarked: Don’t worry, Manu can spend weekends with you, it’ll be good for her, for both of you. She said this before she closed the door and disappeared.

Things happened without his having any control, he thought. There was always someone deciding things for him. The wedding had been an idea of his ex-wife’s—she’d so insisted that he ended up accepting; then the child, without a question or a warning. Did he by any chance want one, did he even agree? No, nothing, she’d just gotten herself pregnant. The need for a new job, all those changes, then the separation. This was what the last few years had been like, an unfurling of things happening against his wishes.

But it would be different from now on, he thought, as he drove to the rental place. It had been months since he’d watched a movie, since he’d been to the movie theater. He had woken up that morning with this thought, and felt something had changed without his noticing, and he felt glad that he had canceled his date, that he was on his way to the rental place instead, that he had the evening and all night ahead of him. Everything awaited him. Something so simple.

The place was empty. He registered as a member, gave his new address, the phone number he didn’t yet know by heart, he listed his ex-wife as his emergency contact, one of those automatic responses. Then he crossed her name out. Emergency contact: NONE, he wrote in capital letters. He wanted to say it aloud, right there, none. But he said nothing. He handed the form to the attendant and went to look for a movie. He looked carefully at the cases, one by one, paying no attention to the title or the director, as though he were looking for something specific, something very important; the attendant came over to him, and asked:

“Are you looking for any movie in particular, sir?”

He gave a start, quickly put the case he was holding back on the shelf. He replied very quietly, practically a murmur:

“Right, I am, yes, I mean, no, not something in particular, I’m just browsing.”

“If you need any help, just ask.”

“Of course, I will, yes, thank you.”

It bothered him, first that he’d been called “sir”—he was, after all, still a young man—and second that he’d been offered help. It was an unwanted approach. He went on looking, not completely sure what he was looking for, or why he was there. He went past the horror section, the adventure section, and focused on the comedies, then the dramas. He examined each cover quickly, one by one, and put it back in its place. He felt the attendant watching him curiously from behind the counter; he avoided catching his eye so as not to be asked any more questions. He ended up choosing five movies, which had nothing in common but the photo on the cover: always a young man with strong features and a blond actress. He paid for them and left as quickly as he could, his head down as though running away, as though afraid that someone would discover a secret even he didn’t know.

On the drive back home, the happiness from going to the rental place was replaced by a certain anxiety, that everything had become urgent. A fear that things might fly out of his control once again. He tried to calm down. When he reached his building, he drove in, still hurrying, parked the car and went straight to the mailbox, opened it tentatively, a few moments of fear that he might be mistaken, then immediately the feeling of relief—no, the letter was there. He took his correspondence and put it all in the bag with the movies, pushed the button for the elevator. A few other people stood waiting next to him; with a nod he greeted the neighbor he’d chatted with before. As he waited, with the movies and mail in his bag, he felt revived, happy to have the whole night ahead of him, without any obstacles, just him. First he’d look at the mail, he thought, trying to give this idea an air of indifference, of mere accident, then he’d turn on the TV and watch a movie, any one of them. But he was lying, there was no indifference, no mere accident. Once in the elevator, standing in silence, he realized that for the first time in a long while, there was something really touching him, reaching him.