The Greatest Lover of Last Tuesday Page 2

  “She read my intentions and decided that a slow approach was best. Accordingly, she developed a step-by-step program to which she gave the acronym SET, Special Events Tapering. It was predicated on the idea that knowledge is power, that if I was aware of the situations where I drank too much then I would be forearmed should I encounter similar events in the future. She supplied me with a notebook and every time I took a drink I was to write down the circumstances surrounding that drink. For example, if I encountered my old school chum Gilberto on my way to the post office and we happened to be near a bar and stopped in, then presumably by referencing my notes, I would know enough to take a different route the next time I had to mail a letter.

  “The system worked reasonably well in the beginning. Then I found that I could make it more efficient by writing down the event before actually having a drink. Soon I had a master list to which I could refer whenever I felt thirsty. For example, I could simply look at my list, write myself a letter and walk by Gilberto’s house on the way to mail it. As well, I was able to list contingency items: wedding toasts for all my single friends and drinks to mitigate the sadness I would feel when each of them should die. My list continued to expand and soon, on a recurring basis, I was toasting my marriage, the birth of my first child, my divorce and my ex-wife’s funeral. Eventually, I regularly imbibed to celebrate my own passing. At that point, Eloisa decided that the system wasn’t working.”

  The waiter brought fresh coffee. “I imagine that was the end of it,” Adriana said. “Surely Eloisa gave up.”

  “No she didn’t. Her middle name is Stubborn. She decided that I needed the discipline of a formal plan. She developed a system she called DDT, Different Drinks Tapering, where drinking was permissible but only at important celebrations. Before starting DDT, Eloisa had me rank all drinks in order of my preference. I began the list with my favourite brandy and progressed down through tequila, rum and scotch, eventually arriving at my least favourite, gin. Whenever I was allowed to drink, I was to start with my favourite and work my way down the list. The theory was that one will under imbibe if every new drink is worse than the last one.

  “DDT had two flaws. First, the definition of important celebration was not rigid, so a double brandy became a prelude to tying my shoes and a single shot was required every time I went to the bathroom. Second, I found that if I made my first brandy large enough, I could entertain the illusion that all subsequent drinks were of equal quality. I became skilled at deceiving my taste buds into believing that the worst home grown gin was really Cognac.”

  Adriana toyed with her cup. “I think you needed a reward system — perhaps a chart like those in elementary school where you are given a gold star for good behaviour. Eloisa could have called it Alberto’s Stopping Schedule. At least it would have had an appropriate acronym.”

  “She was way ahead of you, old Big And Talking. She had a large jar and every time that I had a success, she put a coloured bead into it. She intended to set the date for our wedding when the jar was full, an incentive that had little attraction for me.”

  “What happened? Were you unable to fill the jar?”

  “Exactly! After six months it contained only three beads. My performance was so lacking that I never had to remove beads from the jar. About then Eloisa gave up.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She abandoned me for a non-drinking singing evangelist from the United States.”

  Adriana pursed her lips. “You must have altered your life. You would be dead if you had continued with that behaviour.”

  “Exact again, that is one reason that I’m penning my memoir. Apart from explicating love, it will remind me of my imperfections, one of which is a great love for Uncle Brandy and all his relatives. I also hope to show how I was able to become a great lover despite a number of errors that the Good Lord made in my design.”

  The morning had been long and I had drunk too much coffee. I excused myself to go to the toilet. When I returned, I found that Adriana had paid the bill. We walked in silence — she to her home and I to mine next door — while I ruminated on what I remembered of those early days. Perhaps Eloisa’s systems had failed because no imposed blueprint, program, timetable or list can repair another’s behaviour. I alone, am qualified to fix myself.

  Feasting on Passion Mountain

  NOW THAT YOU, THE READER, HAVE been forewarned that mine is a character not without defects, and now that I have achieved the dubious status of octogenarian, I, Alberto Camelo, have decided to continue unloading my memory in order to let the world know how it was that I overcame my flaws to become the greatest lover of this or any other century.

  I did not take this decision lightly knowing full well that there are many who will dispute my claim. Being entirely aware of the storm that my declaration was bound to precipitate, I waited until I was eighty recognizing that, if the heat of the uproar became too great, my advanced age coupled with an active libido would ensure that I was soon cooling my ardour in a hotter place. I also considered the decision carefully because, as the saying goes, there is no fool like an old fool.

  When I told Adriana of my intent she cackled like an ancient whore and said, “You forget, old man, that I have known you for the better part of our two lives and that we once feasted together on Passion Mountain. If my memory is not riding a lame horse the feast turned out to be a snack with damp crackers and stale cheese. Perhaps you are the greatest lover of last Tuesday.”

  I chose to ignore this unkind remark, attributing it to the emotion of jealousy which Adriana had surely experienced in large quantity long ago when I opted to bestow my affection on another who had exhibited a more delicate and less brassy nature.

  Throughout these pages, the reader will observe that Adriana is more than happy to speak at length concerning the deficiencies she sees in both my appearance and my temperament. I do not deny any of these imperfections although they caused my pursuit of love to be a complex undertaking, similar to completing a doctorate without a research grant. Generally, I avoided the issue of my looks and personality by not requiring my partners to have the type of beauty that my male colleagues seem to think is necessary to achieve an orgasmic experience. Most of them spend their time chasing women instead of pursuing love which is a little like eating the cornflakes box for breakfast.

  Adriana acquired the house next door from one of her former husbands, a prominent municipal administrator who enjoyed a reputation for unselfishly providing moral guidance to many of our less fortunate citizens. Adriana threatened to expose him after she obtained a photograph of him already exposed while he counselled a young lady of questionable repute. As she later explained, “Nowhere in the Good Samaritan Manual does it stipulate that one’s trousers should be loose around one’s ankles when performing a charitable act.”

  Our visit to Passion Mountain took place shortly after she became my neighbour. Though the event happened when I was young, I clearly demonstrated the efficiency for which I subsequently became famous. Even in those early days I instinctively recognized the importance of briskness in the bedroom. Adriana claims not to have enjoyed the experience but this is belied by the fact that she has repeatedly said it should have lasted longer.

  She has refused to replay the venture even though I expressed sympathy for her inexperience. “Entering the ring with a champion does not make one proficient in the sport of boxing,” I told her. “Similarly, our sharing a bed does not ensure that you would acquire my skill in the art of love.”

  Long ago I left the decade of my life when I felt I had to do things in order that I might have accomplishments when I passed on. I decided to forego accomplishments as being too strenuous and unnecessary for either my well-being or my legacy as I had observed that legacies were generally the illegitimate offspring of over-achievers and that having one would produce little lasting benefit to anybody other than those who would gain the most by my passing.

  Having no descendants, I am at the very tip of the last
branch of my family tree, alone except for a rag-tag assortment of kin. Though I’m the type of individual who wishes ill to no one, I would not necessarily intervene if all of my relatives were collected together, placed on an open raft and towed in front of a passing iceberg. In lieu of icebergs, when I wander away from this mortal sweetness, I intend to bestow on each a fair portion of my accumulated debt — there will be little to divide among those who have graced my life as lovers and confidantes, though each in her own manner sparked an electric flash across my libido. Apart from Adriana there is no one left with whom I can share an idle hour to reminisce and speak lies about the past. All of my male contemporaries have either died or taken up golf which is the same thing.

  As my life has turned from deed to narrative it is necessary for me to draw import from past events, and as much malicious muttering has been uttered concerning these events, I intend to set the record straight. Therefore, please join me on the journey to discover the secrets of great love and let my legacy be this record from which I now propose to erase all zigs and zags.

  I was not always a penurious wastrel but was born into opulent circumstances: the only child in a moneyed family. My mother said that during her pregnancy she was confined to a suite on the second floor of our house. It was there that I was to be welcomed into the world by the country’s finest obstetrician who was to be assisted by an experienced nurse. When the historic day arrived my mother was moved from her large bed to a birthing table that had been acquired for the occasion.

  My entrance into this world did not come quickly. The doctor and the nurse filled the time of my mother’s labour by drinking from a flask that he produced out of his black bag. Sometime later he abandoned his position at the end of the table. When mother turned her head, she discovered that he and the nurse had removed their clothing and moved to the bed. She later claimed that the distraction of watching them caused her to miss many of the preliminary events surrounding my birth. It was only when I became persistent about pushing my head into the daylight that I regained her awareness. Apparently I hovered there, torn between security and distress, between warm and bleak, between bliss and misery … until, fed up with my indecision, she gave one mighty push forcing me into pandemonium — the bed bouncing, the doctor grunting, the nurse screaming, my mother moaning and me wailing.

  It is my belief that, in my case, the small portion of the human psyche that guides us all was clearly influenced by the amorous and boozy event that occurred during my introduction to this life and that my destiny was thus presaged.

  I was raised in the white house that sits atop the hill overlooking the eastern edge of the city of Aguas Profundas. Though it is not the largest city in Centroamérica, many believe it is the most beautiful. You may be familiar with the house. It was built for my grandfather in the last century. He was a great orator and it has always been known as La Casa del Viento, the house of wind. It was a lonely place. I remember as a child wandering from room to room looking for someone to talk to. Occasionally I would get lost in some unfamiliar part of the house. Then I would curl up in a corner and sleep to escape my fear that I would never find my way back. As I got older I carried a piece of chalk with which I marked the hallways as I passed. This facilitated my return as I simply had to backtrack past the servants engaged in washing the walls. The house held few pleasant memories and I disposed of it soon after my parents passed away.

  I disliked being an only child, a feeling that persisted through all the days of my youth and continued right up until the morning my father’s will was read. For years I have suffered from a chronic disorder — an allergic reaction to making a living. My father’s estate freed me of that burden, and until my relatives interfered I was able to pursue matters of the heart with few distractions.

  A student of mathematics does not jump into the world of quadratic equations without first mastering basic axioms. Love must be approached in the same prudent manner. It is a more important study than physics or biology for it is, at once, both science and art. Far too long have those of my sex tackled the subject as if they were operating a large aircraft — pull this lever, press a pedal, push that button. It is no wonder that many fail to get off the runway. The task, then, is to devise a flight plan that will take all aspiring pilots soaring into uncharted rapture.

  Some years ago it occurred to me that no study of love would be complete without a retrospective view from some of my former partners. I have always drifted on the surface of life inside a widening froth of memories and it was my hope that meeting previous lovers would help me dip beneath that surface. For the most part this was a satisfying experience and with the help of ex-paramours I happily reconstructed many of my romantic encounters. I confess that deep within the recesses of my remaining libido I harboured an ulterior motive — that at least one of these reunions would be with someone willing to adopt the role of intimate companion as we both creep toward our final destination.

  My interest in the fair sex was first stimulated by an incident that occurred soon after I had completed the initial decade of my life. After this event, that part of me which had heretofore been used solely for urinary purposes began to demonstrate the talent that eventually led it to enjoy a splendid apprenticeship followed by an inspired career in its chosen profession. Occasionally it still displays flashes of its former brilliance.

  I remember it like this morning’s coffee. I was in our garden attempting to capture nature using paper and paints. Sunlight had spilled around the corner of the house and was busy drying the morning dew. A noisy kiskadee, perched near the top of a giant tulip tree, was criticizing my work.

  I was deep in creative concentration when she appeared next to me. “Who are you and what are you doing in my garden?” I demanded.

  “My name is Leticia. I’m staying with my aunt next door. What are you doing? How old are you? Do you like my new dress?”

  “I’m reproducing nature in a manner not equalled since Van Gogh,” I replied. “I’m eleven and no, I don’t like your dress.”

  She laughed. “Your sunflowers are terrible. They look like runny eggs on a breakfast plate.” She grabbed my masterpiece, tore it in half and ran away carrying the pieces.

  I gave chase after being momentarily distracted by the sight of her new dress flying up to expose a tanned thigh. I caught her on the far side of the yard, pushed her to the ground and sat on her until she apologized.

  Inspiration is neutral — neither rational nor irrational. Like a noxious relative it appears when least expected but, unlike toxic kin, it provides no clue as to the outcome of its presence. So it was that, sitting on Leticia, I made one of the important statements of my life — a statement momentous in its implication. “If you ever do that again,” I said, “I’ll pull down your panties.”

  Well, to remove some of the turns in the road and get straight to the parking lot — she did and I did!

  The effect was electric. I can only equate it to losing a limb or being cured of a crippling disease by evangelical inspiration. Though the incident progressed no further and was essentially innocent, I instinctively knew that here in front of me, exposed behind the bougainvillea at the edge of our garden, was my Holy Grail, my passion, and my life’s calling. Being an individual of single minded purpose I have never looked back.

  Years later I tried to explain to Adriana how I felt in that garden. We were drinking brandy on her patio and swallows dipped around us flecked golden by the last rays of a dying sun. My explanation produced a sly snicker. “So, old man, what attracted you to the cathedral was not a spiritual quest,” she said. “It was the shape of the door.”

  “But it is only through the door that one can hope to find the sacred on the inside,” I protested.

  She raised her eyebrows. “That only applies if one can distinguish a cathedral from a whorehouse,” she said.

  I saw nothing of Leticia for more than fifty years though I carried the memory of her through the decades and, although our encounter had
been innocent, I always found it pleasant to envision what it would be like were we to meet as adults and pursue our previous activity to the conclusion reached in my imaginings.

  What, you may ask, can be learned from this minor skirmish that occurred so long ago in the first inning of the game of love? At the time, very little. Only in the brittle light of advancing age and only after I retraced my steps and spoke to Leticia, who is a retired art critic, a world authority on Van Gogh, and who now lives in her aunt’s house near Casa de Viento, did I glean some understanding from the incident.

  I telephoned her and described my goal, explaining that even though our connection had been short-lived, I had been deeply affected. I was surprised that she remembered me. She agreed to meet over lunch and I spent the evening in laborious anticipation.

  The next morning I awoke early and left for the Café Dos Lunas to prepare for the meeting. The owner, Don Emilio, makes the best café corregido in the city. I told him to add an extra shot of tequila and then drank three cups before Leticia arrived.

  I placed my briefcase beside a garden table far from the English-speaking Amazon parrots that Don Emilio keeps caged for the amusement of his patrons. Even so, their strident obscenities were clearly audible as I ordered liqueurs. Leticia is a self-assured statuesque woman and her eyes twinkled as we reintroduced ourselves. “So did you become a famous artist?” she asked, although it was obvious that she knew the answer.

  “Art … fart … private part,” screamed one of the parrots.

  “No,” I said, “far from it. I’ve rarely touched a palette since our paths last crossed. The painting you destroyed was almost my last.”

  “Ram … damn … bearded clam.” The second parrot was even louder than his mate.

  Leticia raised her eyebrows. “They are noisy, aren’t they? I’m sorry if I caused you to turn away from your calling.”