By Eddy Montilla.
(Taken from the book Real stories told as fiction)
“Don’t you keep it inside some briefcase at home or office under lock and key?”
When Mr. Lawrence heard that, he only took 100 dollars and, of course, his credit card.
“Let’s get out of here quickly!” He said to his employees, and before walking out of the door, he emphatically told them:
“If tomorrow someone at office knows what happened here tonight, I’ll kick you out! Is that clear?”
Wherever there is an extremely pleasant waiter, there is also an extremely big-mouthed person. For that reasons and others more complex, all people knew already about the bet and, above all, about the other mysterious talent of the violinist.
“Would you take a bet with me?” A clean, but slovenly funny man wearing a short T-shirt that unveiled his non-desirable and prominent belly asked him.
“You can’t even pay the rent money for this month, let alone make a bet like the man who left.”
“I’m drinking beer like anyone else here. Who knows?”
“I know what I’m saying and your friends too. You make them laugh by clowning around all night and they give you some drinks in return. But just for some mental exercise, judging by the look of your underpants, up out of your trousers and, by the way, you get them on inside-out, it’s no wonder that you get up every day around midday and spend the first hours in the afternoon scratching your tummy with one hand and your armpit with the other one while walking from here to there inside your apartment in your underpants.”
“Wow! I got myself into a fine mess!” The man said, smiling without being angry at all.
“Well, I’ll leave you exactly where you are!” The violinist told him and the good laugh that came after his words was the end of the matter.
“The person I’d like to talk to now is this beautiful young lady.” The violinist said, giving her a peremptory look.
“Are you crazy or something?” One of the women who were sitting at the same table with the young lady yelled at him with anger. That kind of bet is for men, not for wome…” and before she could finish the sentence, the young lady silenced her by covering her mouth with the right hand.
“And what kind of person do you think she is inside?” The violinist told her.
Life is a mixture of good and bad things that always come like alternate success and failure. Sometimes we win, sometimes we lose. If this is true, then, those who thought that it was the time for the violinist to lose were right since the young lady was not the younger female in the bar, but the most beautiful one. Her hair had subtle highlights that brought charming and enigma to her face. She was not tall, but she had lovely and soft eyes that matched perfectly her baby-faced look. Then, why on earth did he call her a man? However, nobody dared to challenge the violinist; nobody, of course, except for the young lady herself.
“She is as methodical and analytical as they come. While her friends crumpled their napkin into a little ball after using it, look at hers, perfectly folded in four parts. I guess she is a doctor or a professor of physics who loves numbers.”
“I’m a doctor.” She said.
“Needless to say, she is fluent in two or three languages.”
“French, Spanish and German. I started to learn Japanese last month.”
“The violinist’s right answers and the succinct confirmation she gave drew the attention of all people in the bar, including the waiter, of course. They seemed to witness a metal battle, something like the Match of the Century between Fischer and Spassky.
“Yes. I’m sure she is like that…A person who has a lot of plants in her balcony to make sure that no one can invade her privacy, a person who hangs systematically the clothes out, following a precise order. But you know what? Behind her successful life, other feelings are hidden. There are days, especially at night, when she feels empty, sad and lonely because the prototype of the perfect man she forged in her mind to share her life never came and, even though she’s still young, she knows now that he will never be there, in her empty house, in her empty bed, and that’s why she mourns that unsatisfied part of her life by wearing almost always black underwear.
“Not almost, but always”. She said, and her words, coupled with the glasses of beer that the men near her had taken, gave free rein to their imagination in a way that does not need to be told.
“Now you can understand”, the violinist said, “why she probably goes to her balcony from time to time in the evenings and puts her arms over the fence and her head over her arms while gazing up at the sky, looking for an irrational explanation to her own situation. That is you.” (TO BE CONTINUED…)
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