Helena and my brother argued for a time. She won the debate when she said that one of the boys could get hold of the key while my brother was sleeping, or when he forgot the key in a place where the kids could find it, or on some other occasion. Finally, Carlos opened the drawer and took out the gun.
“And to make things worse, you keep the thing loaded,” I said, after examining the firearm.
“You irresponsible madman,” said Helena, furious, “you always told me the revolver wasn’t loaded. Listen, let your brother take that piece of crap with him, now. Otherwise I’m moving out and taking the children.”
I got the revolver and went back to my apartment. I phoned my girlfriend. I felt like going to the bathroom but knew I’d see signs of blood in the urine, which always sent a shiver down my spine. That could spoil my time with her. I urinated with my eyes closed and, also with my eyes closed, flushed the toilet several times.
While I was waiting for my girlfriend, I thought about the future, smoking and drinking whiskey. I was going to spend the rest of my life filling with urine a bag stuck to my body, which would then have to be emptied somehow or other. How could I go to the beach? How could I make love to a woman? I imagined the horror she would feel upon seeing that thing.
My girlfriend arrived and we went to bed.
“You’re worried about something,” she said, after a time.
“I’m not feeling well.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, we can just talk; I love talking with you.”
This is one of the worst phrases a man can hear when he’s naked with a naked woman in bed.
We got up and got dressed without looking at each other. We went into the living room. We talked a little. My girlfriend looked at her watch, said, “I have to go, love,” kissed me on the cheek, left, and I shot myself in the chest.
But the story doesn’t end there. I should have shot myself in the head, but it was in the chest and I didn’t die.
During my convalescence, Roberto came to see me several times to say we didn’t have much time, but we could still do the bladder surgery, successfully.
It was done. Now I easily empty the urine bag. It’s well hidden under my clothes; no one realizes it’s there, over my abdomen. The cancer appears to have been entirely eliminated. I no longer have a girlfriend, and I’m addicted to crossword puzzles. I stopped going to the beach. I did go once, to throw the gun into the sea.
marta
I’m forty years old, a sensitive man who likes music, poetry, and cinema. I’m a lawyer, single, and live alone. I’m looking for a lasting relationship of love and respect. INCORRIGIBLE ROMANTIC.
I spent a week, me, Incorrigible Romantic, visiting chat rooms and was getting discouraged, when the woman I was looking for showed up:
DEAR INCORRIGIBLE ROMANTIC, Like you, I am also looking for a lasting relationship with someone worthy and affectionate. I too love music and poetry and especially cinema. Tell me more about yourself. LOUISE BROOKS.
DEAR LOUISE BROOKS, I’ve never married, not because I lacked the financial conditions to do so, just the opposite, I’m a man of means, despite living a modest life. I’ve never married because I haven’t met the ideal woman. They say there’s no such thing, that it’s a romantic illusion. But I refuse to accept such pessimism. That’s why I used the pseudonym Incorrigible Romantic. What about you? Why Louise Brooks?
DEAR INCORRIGIBLE ROMANTIC, Louise Brooks was a beautiful actress in silent films. One day a boyfriend gave me a picture of her that looked so much like me that I still have it even now. A woman with an air of mystery, which I, to tell the truth, don’t have. I’m an open book. I’ve never been married either and am looking for the ideal man. I know I’m going to find him. Who knows if he’s you. Do you have a girlfriend? LOUISE BROOKS.
DEAR LOUISE, No, I don’t have a girlfriend. I would like to meet you. You must be thinking, he doesn’t know me, how can he want to meet me? But I’m sure we’re going to get along very well. Give it some thought. ROMANTIC.
DEAR ROMANTIC, I’m a shy person, I live with my mother, I’m doing this crazy thing for the first time in my life, talking with a stranger on the Internet. I don’t know if I should go any further with this. I’m afraid. LOUISE.
I was anxious to get that woman.
DEAR LOUISE, I’m a shy person like you, it’s the first time I’ve done this. But I know, a type of premonition, that we’re going to get along very well. May I visit your home? I know your mother will like me. ROMANTIC.
DEAR ROMANTIC, At my house it’s impossible, it will have to be at yours. Give me your address. I’ll be there tomorrow, at nightfall. KISSES, LOUISE.
DEAR LOUISE, My address is on Gomes Monteiro, third floor. It’s a four-story building, one apartment per floor, one of those old buildings that real estate speculation hasn’t managed to destroy. Call on the intercom and I’ll buzz you in. Anxiously awaiting you. ROMANTIC.
I was tense all day, and as the time approached I got worse. I had to get that woman.
Then the intercom rang.
“It’s Louise.”
I pushed the button. A short time later the bell to my apartment rang. I opened the door.
She was a very pale woman, with hair so dark it looked dyed. She was wearing a miniskirt that displayed her beautiful, long white legs.
“Come in, please.”
There she stood, the woman I was looking for. She came in. I asked her to have a seat.
“A lovely apartment. Is it yours?”
“I have another one, in the Barra. I rent this one.”
“My real name is Diana.”
“Mine is Carlos.”
“Take a look at this photo of Louise Brooks,” she said.
I looked. A black and white photo. Her hair was of an unusual blackness and her skin was very white. A beautiful woman.
“Want something to drink?”
“A little whiskey.”
I got from the pantry a bottle of whiskey, one of mineral water, and a bucket of ice.
“I like mine without ice, just whiskey and water, more whiskey than water,” I said.
“Ice with mine, please, and lots of water.”
I fixed our drinks and put the glasses on a tray.
“Do you have anything to munch on?” she asked.
“I’ll check inside there, be right back,” I replied.
I dawdled, sitting in the pantry holding the bag of cookies. I wanted to give her time.
After some minutes I returned. Louise lifted her glass.
“I’d like to make a toast, in hopes that our relationship is a lasting one, as you said in your e-mail.”
I raised my glass to my lips.
“Before drinking I’d like to get something salty from the kitchen,” I said. “I only brought cookies.”
I went to the kitchen, carrying my glass. I returned with a plate of savory snacks.
I raised the glass. “To a lasting relationship,” I said.
“Cheers,” she answered, clinking her glass against mine.
We drank while we chatted.
She had lost her father, and the widowed mother she lived with was very controlling. She had no other relatives.
I told her I had four sisters, all older than me. I said I would like to travel with her, go to Paris or New York. I already had the money for the trip put aside. She said she’d like to see Katmandu.
“I’m going to get more water from the kitchen,” I said, getting up.
But as soon as I stood up, I staggered, supporting myself on the back on the armchair.
“I feel a bit dizzy …”
She hugged me.