Antonio's Letters to his Women, Pt. I
I. The Letters
Although untimely, Antonio found his place of death to be comforting.
“My dear friend,” he said as soon as Bruno arrived at his door, in between shallow breaths, “if it’s the last favor I ask of you - I deem it the most important” Hands shaky, and naturally sweaty, Bruno didn’t know much of matters of life, let alone death. He was barely old enough to drink. “Open the drawer in my nightstand and grab what sits atop '', pulling the cabinet open by its tarnished handle, Bruno took out a threaded straw envelope that barely fit inside. From it came three paper envelopes, each addressed to a different person.
Looking back towards the bed, Antonio’s extended hand held out a piece of paper. Patting his right hand dry on his sweater, Bruno took the paper and after reading it, he said “Once I do this for you sir, I’ll make it back in enough time for Bathilde to see you again”.
II. Antonio
The summer Antonio turned 15, his father became ill. In just a couple of weeks, before any significant diagnosis was made, he was gone. A couple of nights before his passing, Antonio sat bedside and broke down pleading for his father’s resistance. Citing his incapabilities to support himself and his mother, and his paralyzing unreadiness to carry on without him or his guidance, Antonio’s face swelled from tears and his stomach sank in fear.
His father, hiding his own despair in leaving his son behind this way, brought him in for what he could sense was a parting embrace. From his nightstand, he took out a journal he had purchased for him. Unwrapping it, he wrote a quote on the very first page, and handed it to Antonio.
Prior to the tragedy, as soon as his father got sick and subsequently unable to continue working, Antonio took a job with a nearby carpenter in order to help his mother financially. The carpenter’s shop was just a couple of blocks away, smelled of shoe polish and tradition, and it had a worn out sign that read “Ferrante's Steps” in white lettering. Originally bright blue, time had weathered it to a dusty, grayish version of what it once was. Mr. Ferrante had dedicated his life to his craft, and he had owned this shop for half of that. “After me, who knows what will happen to it. To this place. My place.” he would tell Antonio, his words dipped in dread. “Having a daughter with no interest in shoe making, what I built will go when I go.”
The shop was founded of wood, most of it stained by now, and the floor creaked no matter where you stepped. Mr. Ferrante always kept fresh brewed coffee in the kitchen and although Antonio did not drink coffee, the strong and cozy smell created comfort for him. Whenever he could, he would sit in the kitchen and the aroma settled any peaking anxiety of his that day.
Not long after the death of his father, incapable of focusing enough to do the work required, Antonio quit working at the shop. After he returned his spare front door keys to Mr. Ferrante, he never stepped foot back inside nor happened to come back around and catch up with Mr Ferrante. Antonio didn’t hear much of him again for that matter, which was unusual for living on an small island like Palma.
For the weeks that ensued, unable to sleep at night, Antonio would stroll the streets before dusk. His own dismay harmonized with the crudeness of the city during these hours. The homeless, the prostitutes, the drunks and now Antonio, all doing their part in the ubiquitous desolation. Even the street lights stood over it all and shined on in sadness and lacked command, almost indifferent to anyone abiding by them at this time. Antonio would walk all the way to the pier to watch the boats sail out for the morning catch before sunrise before returning home.
One morning’s eve, as he stood on the pier, staring down at ocean water so cold it stared right back at him, purposeful steps approached behind him. Loud sips and squeaky wheels caused Antonio to turn and notice the man. A mug in his left hand and right hand on the handle of a large cooler, with a handle on the opposite side that smacked repeatedly at every step, he strutted along the moss covered, rustic planks. Before Antonio could look away, a deep voice called out “You stare at the ocean too long, she’ll seduce you - that’s experience speaking.”
Approaching Antonio, taking another sip from his tin mug, he continued “are you waiting on your crew? I’m thinking it’s too early and damn sure too cold to be here for no reason but, my ship is the only one scheduled to sail out on Thursdays at this time. So either you are crazier than the average, coherent, adult, or you’re waiting on work... Do you speak at all?” Antonio, halted by the man’s assertiveness and spearheading energy (for any time of the day, but especially this early) realized he had been standing there without a hint of a verbal expression.
III. The Captain
Julian Pires was of Marseillian origins, whose fortunate family riches in the wine industry allowed him to pursue, passion first, whatever he wanted to in life. An only son, he fell in love with the ocean on his first sailing trip with his father, at age 11. No aliveness had matched that of sailing deep ocean waves, and that feeling had stayed intactly in his heart all the way to his current age of 35. Julian, now the functioning captain of a boat himself, had graduated college by age 20, and spent the following five years working for his father in order to save enough money to buy his own ship.
Being introduced to the wine industry while working for his father, Julian and his vessel went into business with numerous vineyards in exports and imports from France to both Spain and Italy. What started as a heartfelt pursuit, had given him many years of fortuitous margins as well by now. Although Marseilles remained home to him, Julian also spent a lot of time in his main trading ports like Barcelona, Palma and Genoa.
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Walking up to his beloved Bathilde, Captain Pires was never not mesmerized by her vibrant colors: a cobalt blue base that covered from the bottom to about halfway up the keel, where a red stripe rested right on it, and the rest of it bathed in white.
“Here, please, grab that one handle and help me out” Captain Pires asked of the young man, who still didn’t respond but immediately did as was asked, and they lifted the cooler up the ramp and onto the boat. “My crew should be here in about 20 minutes, you should get going, friend. Unless you are looking for work.” Growing up with no siblings and solely dedicated to venturing the oceans from a young age, Julian had spent much of his life, although not alone, lonely. In looking at the young man in front of him, he sensed a search for belonging once parallel to his own.
As they stepped back on the ramp and made their way back on solid ground, the captain insisted once more, “My name is Julian Pires. I have a quick turnaround trip to Valencia today if you want to come aboard, I’m actually missing two crewmembers from my usual six so we can use the help.”
“How long will it take?” asked the young man.
“Should be back by one, maybe two at the latest”
“What do you need me to do?”
“Easy. Today, just load and unload boxes from the boat. I can give you a day’s pay plus breakfast when we dock in Valencia. But I only ask one thing. Actually two.”
“What?”
“That you please be careful on the boat, I don’t need an overboard adolescent.”
“And two?”
“That you tell me your name”
IV. The Captain, pt.2
Antonio continued to wait by the docks every week after that, and whenever the crew was missing anyone, he would partake in the day’s work with Julian.
“Is that your mother’s name?” asked Antonio one morning at sea.
“Bathilde? Bathilde is a woman from ‘In Search of Lost Time’ ’ Julian responded. Noticing this did not resonate with Antonio, he continued, “Marcel Proust was a French novelist. Maybe as influential as there have ever been. ‘In Search of Lost Time’ is a novel of his. They don’t make you read him at school?”
“I don’t go to school anymore sir, I just try to work so I can help my mother.”
“Come with me” - taking him downstairs and over to a chest that sat right up against the wall, Julian said “open it”. In the chest was about a 40 brown paged, flimsy, about the length of a palm and the thickness of a fist, book collection.
“These are all yours if you promise to read them. And one more thing, don’t call me sir. Julian is good enough - Captain when we’re at sea if you would like.”
Once the opportunity to officially become part of Julian’s crew arose, determined to make a life for himself and his mother, Antonio spent the following few years being the first on the ship, learning and working every facet of the business, and sometimes even sleeping in the cellar from finishing so late and exhausted - only to wake up and do it all again.
By the time he was 21, Antonio commanded the sea. He and the Captain joined in almost all trips, until Julian entrusted the man with his own ventures while leading the crew at the helm. He worked everyday and brought his pay home on the weekends to his mother. Her back pains had driven her to stop working by now but Antonio’s success had come to provide more than enough for the both of them.
During a trip to Valencia, the crew opted against a short turnaround and stayed the evening to dine together. When Julian went to gather Antonio and head to the restaurant, he found him by the pier, writing in the journal his father had gifted him. “May I?”, Antonio handed it to Julian, who, opening it to the first page, closed it rapidly after. With a smile and a laugh under his breath he said “The Stoics and their quotes - that one especially, what a marvel” handing the journal back and sitting down next to Antonio and as the sun lowered into the ocean, he added “I’m very proud of you”.
Silence struck, and the statement rolled a tear to the edge of Antonio’s left eye, and pushed it down his face. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be proud of myself in the end.”
Before heading back up the pier to dinner, Julian glanced over at Antonio, who was looking straight at the sea, the sunset reflecting off the glare of his glossy eyes. “Don’t worry about the end. You can admire something all the way through, despite its end”, he started “...there is no fear in loving what’s in front of you until it’s gone. No two sunsets are the same. You can look at one go with the peace one arrives tomorrow. The beauty resides in your capacity to appreciate it for what it is. All the way until the horizon conceals it. Life blooms in the pockets of serenity and gratefulness we can maintain between our sunsets. With that peace comes our ability to find the charm in the night until the sun arrives again. People who dread the night need only to learn to appreciate the stars as they wait for the sun to eventually return. Otherwise, they short themselves this way by worrying about what isn’t yet here. The beginning and the ends seem so important and all the while, there are entire lifetimes found in the in-betweens.”
V. Lola
His father’s passing, providing a better life for his mother, his love for Salma, his calling to sail. All these had provided Antonio a sense of purpose through his bruised life. Fatherhood, however, changed his life so radically that when his daughter arrived it raised in him a newfound definition for love and purpose. Antonio was a man who made a habit of looking forward to what was incoming. He constantly envisioned that which he could work towards. He took his sights from the immediate to what was in the horizons. But now she was here, and tomorrow could wait forever.
Lola was born in Palma, and at age 5 her family moved to Barcelona. Having fond memories of Palma, even at a young age, Lola promised herself she would one day return. Growing up in Barcelona, in what once was her mother’s childhood home, love constantly surrounded Lola. Her father would spend most of his weekdays at sea, still commanding his boat and his crew, and dedicated his weekends to his family without interruption. Her mother taught at a local university and although her working hours varied, she managed to be home every night to share supper with her daughter.
With a professor for a mother and a captain for a father, the thrill of the open sea nurtured in Lola a inquisitive spirit, and the wealth of education made her a young erudite. Inherently pursuant of her own passions, Lola chose to attend a university in Palma especializing in veterinary medicine.
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Bruno hurried down the street, and arriving at the indicated address, he was met at the door by a crowd of adults and children, all exiting in disorderly fashion. Unsure of being at the right place, he took a few steps back, and glancing at the note Antonio had given him, he confirmed the name and address. Trying to squeeze by everyone as they were leaving, raising his head from looking down to watch his steps, he realized the children were dressed in leotard unison. After the space was vacated by the tiny dancers, Bruno finally made it fully inside and approached a woman who conveniently matched uniforms with the rhythmic army of preschoolers that had just left.
Standing by a podium in the far corner of the room, where two mirror walls met, she said from afar “Hi, if you are here to sign up a child I’m afraid we don’t have openings until our summer session, but that only covers eight weeks, or 16 ballet classes total - that’s only because we take a month off” Closing their distance, Bruno responded “No, um, actually - I don’t even have a child. I’m just here to deliver something to someone whom I was told would be here”. A quiet look of concern from the woman cued him to continue “My name is Bruno, I’m looking for Lola. Do you know her? Is she here?”
“Pleasure, I’m Mariam. What do you need Lola for?”
“I’m supposed to deliver this letter”
“Leave it with me and I can give it to her”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that”
“Why? You don’t trust me? In my leotard?”
“No no it’s not that. Well, I did just meet you, so it is also that. Mainly it’s because I made a promise to hand deliver it to her, however. It’s from her father”
“Come with me Mr. Bruno'' the teacher said, noting the underlying seriousness and leading Bruno to a back room that served as storage, full of spare leotards, socks and a lost and found box. Through the storage room, a door on the right opened into a kitchen they both entered. Pulling a chair and inviting him to sit, she served him a cup of water and continued explaining “Lola should be here soon. She’s good friends with my sister. They met at uni since Jasmin is a graduate student and a teacher’s assistant in one of Lola’s undergraduate classes. Lola would frequent office hours so much, they would talk a lot, and became good friends. They usually pass by here after class, eat, and go on to who knows where”.
“Sounds like a lovely time, I never got to experience that” said Bruno.
“Uni?”
“Having such a close friend” he paused and proceeded, “I had to work from very young so I never got to be around people of my age, or be around places where a friendship could even happen much for me” placing his hand on his knee to halt his legs from twitching, he continued “I stepped into adulthood so early, and responsibilities always preceded fun. It’s been like that for me since I can recall, but I hope it’s never too late” Noticing that by now he’d been swirling the water in his cup the entire time they had been talking, Bruno put the cup to his lips. He was about to drink from it when a sudden, loud, youthful voice filled the empty ballet room in the front of the building.
“I’ll be a teacher here one day. And one, and two, and three... We’re here!” the voice yelled.
“Back here, come eat something” Mariam shouted back.
As one girl entered the kitchen in hurried steps, a second one followed right behind. Bruno recognized the serenity with which the second girl entered the room. The way she rested both hands at shoulder height on opposite sides of the door frame, and stood in the doorway momentarily - recognizing everyone in the room and with a soft smile - proceeding to enter, as if she was glad to be, and to see whoever was there. Bruno had never known acknowledgment like Antonio’s. The reverence for every space he entered, and the people therein. The same uplifted charm escorted the young lady he presumed to be Lola.
“Oh hello sir, did not know you were here.” Jasmin mentioned quickly before proceeding to address her sister, “We barely have time to eat - we’re seeing a play downtown at 4:45”. The mention of time alerted Bruno who, looking at his watch, sprung up and declared “I must be going now”. Putting down his cup and taking a deep breath, walked over to Lola and delivered his lines “Ms. Vicente, my name is Bruno. I’ve traveled from Marseilles to give you this” extending his hand, the letter, “It’s from your father”. The room densified with discomfort.
“Is everything alright?”
“I have not read the letter, but an arrangement has been made for your travels back to Barcelona to meet with your mother tomorrow... I suggest you read the letter in your own time, uninterrupted. I am sorry to be the merchant of worries, but I must go now.” Bruno handed the letter, offered his best solace through a soft smile, and headed back the way he entered. Lola’s hand holding the letter remained extended, as fear froze her movement. Her eyes gazed downward, fixed at no particular thing. The envelope slowly slipped through her fingers, and swayed downward through the air. Down with it, her father went, and she knew it.
As Bruno exited, Mariam walked out with him. The day was beaming with sunlight. Once he had fully stepped out of the ballet studio, he turned to look at Mariam, right hand on his forehead to repel the glare, and mentioned to her “I like the name, by the way. It works well. I have a friend who does all types of paint jobs. I’ll leave you his number. Tell him you know Bruno and he’ll give you a decent deal. It’s a good name, it should be way more visible - ‘Ferrante’s Steps’ - nice ring to it for a dance studio”
“Be on your merry way Bruno, I think one purpose is enough for your visit today”
VII. To Lola
To My Angel:
Sobered by the reality that we will spend less time here than I have prayed for, I write these final words and ask them to deposit a piece of my being in your chest as you read them. So that anytime you place your hand by your heart you feel my embracing.
The first time I saw you, I recognized you. I had waited for you to come around my whole life, unbeknownst to me. You were born under the brightest moon.
May the sun rinse off the worries the world places upon you every day. May you find solace in the steps you trace through adversity, not only for yourself but those you will welcome as your mirror image.
Love yourself enough to know your own boundaries, and call to the universe to intervene in your favor when these same are tested. The same candle that lights up a room upright, can also set it wholly on fire it not handled carefully.
Go after what ignites your soul. The world might try to shrink you, do not let it. Fragile egos will try to dictate your limitations and fearful people’s pursuit of validation might make you doubt your worth. In your pursuit, may your hurdles serve as reminders of who you are. May the obstacles bring forth the trueness of your being. For one does not find out they are a sailor until they have weathered storms in the open sea.
In matters of the heart - look not for just riveting passion, uncontained attraction, insurmountable desire, drowning fervor. For those same quarters might be treacherous. Those who don't love themselves won't know how to love you, those who do not know themselves will confuse you. Those uncomfortable in their own skin will rattle you. Go where you’re celebrated. Where you can strip your being bare of any illusion, and as you stand there in your genuine nakedness, you're seen and cherished.
Love resides in a peaceful village, where you’re always on time, where you belong. You won't rule this village, as love does, you will exist harmoniously amongst those around you. Love is not the pungent drink that inebriates, it’s the freshwater that nourishes. It is the source that without a need to dress up or seduce, is vital. It is that which without attention, provides support. Rid of conditions, love inhabits the space we so often are afraid to feel worthy of. Don’t create a home anywhere else.
When enough rainy trails have traced your cheeks with grief, dare to be the happiest you fathom possible. I want you to whisper my love to your future children at bedtime. I want you to carry my spirit in your laughter. And if the world is ever too much, and you feel as though you are crumbling, do not panic. Do not be afraid. Your father is always with you.
Of all the things I am leaving behind, I will miss you the most. My tender warrior, my soothing storm, you are half of me - but better than all of me. For everything I was not, forgive me.
I love you,
Your father
Continued in Part II