Antonio's Letters, Pt. II
VII. Salma
Antonio, in attempt to enter the hospital room without disturbing Julian, overheard the doctor's parting line “...cases like these, we’ve unfortunately found out too late and all we can hope to do is delay it. I’ll be back tomorrow to go over our options, but for now you should rest”
Although infamous for being of the sea, Antonio had never known someone who contracted the disease. Seemed inopportune in nature that the first time he did, it was Julian.
Six months to the date Mr. Pires got sick, he passed away. The half a year lapse felt like mere days to Antonio. When they came to take the body, Antonio stayed in Julian’s vacant room, immobile, and pondered life’s gall to rearrange our favorite inhabitants with swift and unwavering force, leaving the rest of us here, to scatter through and arrive at seemingly unattainable meaning behind it all.
After the funeral, Antonio decided on leaving Spain in hopes to tend to the pain that he had found himself stuck with. His mother had given him the information of a family friend in Florence where he could stay in exchange for handy work on the weekdays and house chores on the weekends, and on his 25th birthday he left for Italy for a summer.
Mr. and Mrs Valdez had known Antonio’s parents from their time in Spain and now ran a quaint tapas restaurant in Florence that fared exceptionally well for its size and for being run just by the couple. Plus a local boy Giancarlo, who doubled as host and server.
Antonio was to take the spare bedroom in the couple’s home. An unfortunate vacancy, as the couple had been unable to conceive a child of their own. “God knew to spare my wife of the disappointment of witnessing my parental skills, and God spared me from being like my father” the husband said during dinner, attempting to kiss his wife’s neck as she shrugged her shoulder into her cheek and grinned, chuckling.
While still talking at the table, Mrs. Valdez came back into the kitchen holding bedsheets and called Antonio to follow her. Showing him to his bedroom, Mrs. Valdez made Antonio’s bed and he instantly melted on it. Mrs. Valdez placed her hand on the back of his head and told him “let me know if you need anything - we’re happy to have you here.” She stands up and heads out before adding “Ah! I almost forgot. I bake these myself, and although I usually make them from vanilla, I heard you like chocolate quite a lot, so I made a different batch today, for you”. As she reaches into her apron and sets a fresh warm cupcake on the dresser, she closes the door on her way out.
Mrs Valdez had nurture in her eyes, alleviation in her touch, warmth in her voice. She was meant to be a mother. The notion of what life is willing to give us despite of who we are disheartened Antonio to sleep that night.
The first weekend Antonio spent in Florence, he was woken up around five to help clean, since by seven he and Mr. Valdez had to head to the market to buy the week’s worth of food for the restaurant. Most dishes consisted of meat, eggs and potatoes or rice, so it was easy to buy in bulk and in advance. Vegetables were brought fresh everyday, along with fruit, from the market.
After finishing his day, Antonio headed into town with Giancarlo, who had invited him out a few days earlier, in hopes Antonio could enjoy the city beyond just working. They headed to the plaza with Giancarlo’s sister Silvana and a couple of other friends. After a night of drinks and sing-alongs outside a bar, Antonio dispersed to a quiet alleyway that led to a river, not far down, where he sat on the curb and from his wallet took out a picture he carried of the Captain. Instantly, he felt the weight of a boulder on his chest.
“Is that your father?” an intrusive but sweet voice said.
“Something like that. He was so many things” he responded, still facing down at the picture, now worn out and marked by a white line down its middle from having been sharply folded and tucked away.
“I’m sorry” the voice continue, now taking a seat next to Antonio
“For what”
“You said he was. And I can tell it’s probably recent by the way you speak about it”
Antonio didn’t know the depths of grief. When his father passed, he became engulfed in work and determined to help his mother. His commitment to succeed with the boat subsided the pain of the loss, but all the pain did was permeate slowly, like weeds in a garden. Now, without the duty of work and gripping onto the density of losing his second father figure, Antonio stood over his garden, ever so flimsy.
The neglect through time had caused grief to sprawl its long roots. Sitting with the heaviness, he knew one thing was true: he was going to have to unroot all weeds and nurture the soil back in its entirety. Only then would he be able to replant what’s necessary in order to ever reclaim a sense of peace in his heart.
But for now, “yeah it was just a month ago, we were very close” he responded.
She placed her left hand on his right arm, and finally looking up, Antonio made eye contact for a glance that felt eternal. With a passing smirk and an extended hand the voice said “It’s Salma. I’m Giancarlo and Silvana’s friend from school”.
“Antonio Vicente. Must have forgotten my manners, I should have led with that.”
“It’s okay - Hey listen, I came over because everyone’s leaving back and they asked me to let you know”.
“I’m going to stay here a while. Anywhere near the water does me good. Please tell them that I’ll head home in an hour or so”.
Antonio’s weekdays were pretty habitual. Given that work was so demanding, he would be in the shower immediately after getting home, then in the kitchen for dinner, and then put himself in bed early enough to regain energy by the next morning. On the weekends, he’d usually spend time with Giancarlo and his sister and their friends. Be it a walk around the plaza, chats by the ocean, pick up football on the street or a movie at the local theater, the nights usually ended the same - one of the three bars in the quiet town. Amongst all these, he and Salma met out on a few more occasions. Both around, and without, everyone.
“Do you ever sail to Barcelona?” she asked him one night they had gone out for late night ice cream.
“Only a couple times, but short turn-arounds, so I never got to enjoy it. Why?”
“I’m from there, I’m just here studying but I’ll be headed back once that’s over. You’re from Palma?”
“Born and raised. Had never left until I started sailing with Julian. My mother is still there, but she’s from Madrid and I think she yearns to go back. I don’t blame her - I also like it better away from Palma. I like it more at sea, or in port cities. Is that how you felt?”
“Not at all, I miss it dearly actually. My home sits near the pier actually, right down from the train station. It’s the happiest place I know. It’s a white home, with soft green trimming, a clay tile roof, and tiles on the front steps. We have a big front yard with fruit bearing trees and kids stop by all the time to grab some and our big white dog Oso spends most of his days there waiting to play with those who pass by.”
Her sweet voice unraveled Antonio into an assortment of feelings. He took any chance possible to see Salma that summer, leaving in deeper romantic surrender every time.
Antonio's work at the restaurant was made bearable by the time spent with Mr. Valdez. A self-made businessman, he had visited Florence for the first time 30 years ago to the day while in the Spanish armed forces. It was during that same two month station that he met his wife whom he would go on to write letters to through his remaining two years in the navy. They would meet each other in different cities when they could, and they were in love before they knew it. His pursuit wasn’t free of resistance however, since her father was an adamant skeptic, often questioning her impulsiveness and his, well, Spaniard-ness. Her mother however, always took a liking to him.
On his last night in Florence, before returning to Palma to be with his mother, Antonio was helping Mr. Valdez load his truck with what felt like endless bags of sugar and flour. He asked Mr. Valdez how he was able to keep from ever getting discouraged in his courting days.
“I was young, you know.” he started “Youth carries a flair of naivety disguised as courage. I remember one time I stopped by unannounced and they were having dinner. She proceeded to get mad at me for not announcing myself ahead of time. Her mother got mad at me for not wanting to stay. Her grandmother got mad at me for not wanting thirds during dinner -” a big sigh follows, as if the mere memory still exhausts him, and carries on “Then, her great grandmother got mad at me because she mistook me for the postman who apparently had lost one of the letters her son had sent all the way from Berlin. Bless her heart the lady had cataracts - It was a Tuesday and I’d gotten reprimanded by four generations of women in a span of about an hour… What I’m trying to say, is I never thought to pursue anyone else because I felt like this was meant to be. But listen to me, during the entirety of my marriage, I’ve come to love about a dozen different women. They have all just happened to be my wife.”
Before finishing his thought, Mr Valdez looked up at Antonio, who looked on, soft smiled and head tilted, then continued “I read this on those teas that come with quotes on them, you know the ones, and I never forgot it: ‘Free of agency, the gardener loves the flower for blooming into what it’s meant to be’. I don’t even like tea, but that right there has proven true in my life, especially when it comes to that woman”.
That night, Antonio, body dense on his mattress, laid in bed and mulled over the story all the way to his sleep. The more he swayed back and forth in his mind, the more Salma appeared in his thoughts. And even in his slumber, she danced with his dreams through his wake the next morning.
Knowing his departure was not until the afternoon, Antonio had the morning to dedicate one errand to, but arriving at Salma’s apartment, the friend of hers whom she lived with told Antonio that Salma had actually left for Venice that morning for the weekend. Leaving Florence, he never stopped thinking about Salma.
----------------------------------
Bruno arrives in Barcelona late into the night, and through tiredness and downpour is not deterred from delivering the next letter.
Salma arrives home and sets her bag down along with her planner, and sets water to boil. Chamomile helped her wind down after a long day of teaching.
A doorbell ring startles Salma, but seeing Bruno standing on the other side through the peephole startles her more.
“Bruno, come in please, you're soaked!” taking his coat, Salma hurries Bruno inside and asks “What in heavens are you doing? Where are you coming from?”
“I was in Marseilles a couple days ago with Antonio to finalize the sale of the company”
“He mentioned he’d be gone for a couple weeks to take care of it but I wasn’t sure if it would take longer…you’ve come from Marseilles to tell me this?”
“I was in Marseilles two days ago but I come from Palma - from seeing Lola. She’s coming here tomorrow”.
Salma watches in what feels like slow motion as Bruno reaches into his bag and pulls out an envelope. The kettle whistles as the water boils, but the noise doesn’t reach Salma.
“We don’t know what happened, just four days ago he fell ill. Fever so high doctors thought it unsustainable. He was losing weight faster than I’ve ever seen. Realizing he wouldn’t be able to make this trip himself, he sent me”.
Salma dissolves into Bruno’s arms as her weight gives. They embrace and her tears pour just like the rain pours down on Barcelona.
VIII. To Salma
My Heart,
In our unexpected departure I can only think of the last time I saw you. As dusk approached, I readied to leave our home, and before departing I set tea on your nightstand and left you with a kiss.
Now all I leave you with are scattered emotions. In making sense of them all I wish to give you solace. Some emotions you’ll float over effortlessly while some will take you to the edge of drowning, for grief is love with nowhere to go.
When you go, you’ll want people to think of you dearly, and be uplifted when they remember you. You’ll want those you leave physically to feel comfort and love. And the best reward for you will be the remembrance of you as they continue their lives. They carry parts of us everywhere they go. And it’s in the most fleeting pockets of time that they will feel us with them the strongest. So know that the best way to honor me is to continue a life bound to openness
Soften the space grief has created in you with the rest of the love you have for me. Love me double. Wrap grief in silk and subdue it to your touch. Grief is a guest in your home. Dress it in drapes and tend to it. And in return it will soften you back. Grief is a reminder of meaning. But grief is our ally if we allow it to teach us.
Certain wounds are meant to stay. They remind us of who we are, what we value, who we love, what matters. Who would we be if we went back to being our same selves as before things impacted us. If there is no moving on from, there is certainly moving forward with. It can be minimizing to feel the helpless that inhabits us at the suddenness of death. We are never really in control, but let’s not allow what feels like this intolerable reality to dictate the essence of what is before us - the transcendence of love.
And just like that early autumn, when I found the white house with green trims and clay tile roof, with a big front yard with fruit bearing trees and a big white dog in my search for you, I will find you in our next lifetime, in a tulip garden and though you will not know me, I will know you. And by the hand I’ll remind you who we are to each other and fulfill my promise of growing old together.
Yours Forever,
Antonio
IX. Antonio, pt. 2
Antonio Vicente Jr. was born in a gloomy spring to two loving but distant parents. One could even say Antonio was not a choice his parents attempted to make. His father sold his gold watches, amongst other jewelry, passed down from his own father to buy a crib and the first couple of months worth of food and diapers.
His mother would work a few hours at a local restaurant after her husband returned home, washing dishes and bussing tables. Although strained from birth, she would be able to take food home sometimes and that made it all worth it. By the time she would get home she would tend to Antonio in between attempts to rest.
Antonio grew up feeling both the chrome-like dynamic this distance had created, as well as an inherent sense of guilt for putting his parents through difficult times. Times that saw their own dreams and aspirations go by like leaves washed down a street by the first rain of the season. Antonio felt indebted from birth.
X. Magdalena
A daughter of Madrid, Magdalena was born to artist parents and grew up dreaming of flamenco and oil paintings. Through her adolescence and into adulthood, she would have no shortage of suitors yet none were ever convincing. The night she met Antonio’s father, also named Antonio, she was attending a live show at a local cafe. A woman recently graduated from university, with plans to be a painter and grow old in Madrid, found herself locking eyes with a trumpeter and a few months later, head over heels in love.
He was from Palma but was staying in Madrid with the rest of his band, for about four months in an attempt to get more recognition. Magdalena loved his zest for life, kind demeanor and tan skin. He loved her overwhelming curls, her loving gaze and the way she spoke.
After the four months, making the decision to move with him to Palma was less difficult than she, or anyone, would have imagined. What was difficult would be the subsequent years that redacted them to the mundanity of day jobs given as the musical venture dwindled for Antonio and from the lack of opportunity for her to exert a life as an artist in the city, saw them struggle to make a decent living. Underneath her love for her family, Magdalena walked the streets of Palma with an unwavering wonder of what a life in pursuit of her artistry could have been.
Once Antonio Jr. left for Florence, however, Magdalena realized how lonely she had been. Losing her husband and having her son away found her roaming her home in desolate heartache. She spent most of her days by the table, reading the newspapers and grieving. She would occasionally grab lunch with friends and her trips to the market were the few times she would get fresh air. Other times, she would spend weekend mornings walking through the plaza where she would watch local painters until it was dark.
A couple of weeks before Antonio returned from Florence, Magdalena received a knock at her door.
“Hello” a young man she was unfamiliar with said into the gap created between the door and the frame, created by the outstretched door chain. He was of small stature but good posture, “I’m looking for Mr. Antonio Vicente Jr.”
That was the first time Magdalena met Bruno, the son of a crew member who had worked with Julian and Antonio for years. Offering him a seat at the dining table, he explained he had been tasked with delivering Antonio a note on behalf of Mr. Julian Pires’ estate. The letter informed Antonio that Mr. Pires’ inheritance, every last dollar, business and property, had been left to him - and him only - under the promise he would overtake the sailing business under his own name.
A few years later, after Magdalena welcomed her granddaughter, her yearning to return to her birthplace remained intact. It was to her surprise that Antonio and Salma decided to move to Barcelona themselves so Salma could be closer to her roots, and allow them all to remain closer to one another.
Her new life was not like her old life in Madrid. It was a life almost unfamiliar to her. As if she'd gotten an opportunity to reinvent years that has once passed her by. She sought out new paints, brushes, canvases, palettes and spent her days at the plaza repainting herself.
By the bristles of her brush, Magdalena lived ideals of a life that had, up to that point, tumbled her through her years.
----------------------------------
One afternoon as she came back from her usual stroll in the park, she opened the door to notice a letter had been slipped under it. A note had been written on the outside of the envelope and she recognized Bruno’s handwriting immediately.
XI. To Magdalena:
To My Mother,
As I lay here in what presumes to be my last remembered place of rest, my joints ache. My body gets increasingly heavier with every lift and the fragile magnitude of life becomes so puzzling. Life, a notion so endless, can feel so alarmingly finite.
In your maternity you provided and loved unconditionally - but what's to be said about a son who does not hold their parents hand as they step off the pedestal, and once at eye level, see the entirety of the life that brought them to that point. I got most of what you knew to give and did not care to notice your cup never did fill. Now you see me go, and I came and went without holding your genuine self.
I hope your hands revive at the hold of the brush, and the colors you pallet onto your canvas vibrate light into your life. What’s a life that’s lived mostly for others? Nobel as it may be, in the fragment of time we are here, a life not inwardly giving loses sense of stability. God didn’t create a life meant to be conceded onto others, to be deferred to others.
From the grace of God’s hands you were molded to feel each petal touch you back, to love your reflection, to pour into the currents destined towards your passions, to gaze at the heights of your human heart. And though some wait longer, it is never too late to find yourself inside the spoils of life, to realize it has been you whom you have neglected all along.
With Love,
Your Son
XII. Antonio, pt. 3
Three days after sending Bruno onwards, his condition worsened, and memories from his life constantly ran though his mind. Antonio laid in bed, peaceful as an August Mediterranean sea. Feeling the heaviness of his eyelids for a final time, he remembered one instance, right around the time his father passed.
Without money for a proper funeral and burial, Antonio’s father’s body was given up to a clinic in exchange for compensation. The night after his father’s body was taken, Antonio’s mother made his favorite soup and the two sat across from each other, alternating glances in the dimness, between spoonfuls of tears.
Noticing her husband’s journal sitting on the table right next to Antonio’s plate, Magdalena reached across the table for it. Pulling it towards herself, opening the first page, looking back at her was the quote from Seneca: “No man is more unhappy than he who never faces adversity. For he is not permitted to prove himself.”