In Search of Cristian

[AMERICONORMAN]

IN SEARCH OF CRISTIAN

BY JOSE GAINZA

Bradley O’Patrick was a beautiful, white skinned boy. His father was Irish and his mother was Scottish. He had dirty blonde hair and aqua eyes. He stood about six feet tall, slender but very toned, a body akin to that of a martial artist. His skin had the complexion of vanilla but in the summer, when he walked the streets shirtless, he glowed like orange copper. You have seen this type of face before among at least a few of this race. The harmony was extraordinary, the lines delicate, but narrow and sharp; a harmony so exquisite that the tremendous beauty would remain amidst an aquiline nose.

You have seen this face before and it has hurt you. You could not possess it so it pinched your heart. It looked at you and smiled so it spread warmth through your veins. You wanted to leave everything behind for it and so fear lurked within you. You remembered it so you could not sleep. Recall the face of a Jesse McCartney. It is 2008 and I estimate you have about fifteen years to experience this phenomenon still during its peak of perfection, as what happened to Brad Pitt, though his face is not the type of face I speak of.

Bradley O’Patrick came from a North Bay, Ontario, a few hours north of Toronto. In a town like North Bay, faces like his strike you at every corner. Darker immigrants are relatively few. He knew he would move to Toronto, the metropolis, during the summer of 2006, when he watched the World Cup of soccer, with his father who suffered from a typical machismo. It was impossible to watch all the games but he became rather enthusiastic over the semi-finals between France and Portugal. Previously, he had been quite indifferent to the Portuguese. What did they ever accomplish? He could barely remember where it was on a map. But now they were in the semi-finals of the greatest sports tournament in the world, facing a recent World Cup winner, possibly to face the great Italians, the descendants of the Romans and the men of the renaissance.

Bradley’s father explained to him how the Portuguese squad had one of the greatest players in the world, Cristian Ronaldo. He also made allegations that this Ronaldo was homosexual because he was a “pretty boy” and dressed like a “fag” when he wasn’t in his soccer uniform, and liked to take his shirt off a lot. Watching the game, Bradely found that Cristian was too small on screen, except that he ran and dribbled with great skill. Every time there was a close-up it was only for a flash. But at the end of the game, when Portugal lost, he witnessed Cristian indeed remove his shirt and reveal his shiny and well sculpted but slender olive skin chest. Cristian’s face showed disappointment and looked hurt—but it was beautiful and it held Bradley staring at the screen with mouth open. His father pretended not to notice the nature of that stare in response to a naked Cristian Ronaldo, and Bradley didn’t seem to care. His father got up from the couch and brought his son a cold bottle of Molson Canadian beer. Bradley gulped it down in less than a minute

Cristian’s face is perfectly harmonious. He has dimples and a wide confident smile and beautiful teeth. There are similarities between the lines of Bradley O’Patrick and Cristian Ronaldo, however Cristian is what would typically be called Mediterranean, a naturally tanned complexion, perhaps something Moorish in the blood.

Bradley asked his father a question.

“Dad, have you known many Portuguese?”

“When I was building in Toronto I knew a few. I think there’s hundreds of thousands down there. I remember that they inhabit much of the western downtown. Dundas Street comes to mind.”

In the fall Bradley O’Patrick transferred to the University of Toronto, which has a main campus that is a comfortable 40 minute walk east of the Portuguese neighborhood that his father mentioned. Bradley moved into a room of the house of a friendly Portuguese family that had as sons two pretty young men. But neither of them looked like Cristian Ronaldo. From time to time they too made him tremble but he did no want to offend this loving family. Instead he spoke of his studies, soccer, his life up North, adventures he had been on. He was simply their friend and they showed him around town. And Bradley would help the father out in the garden and in the wine cantina. And he would help the mother prepare and cook meals and clean the house. The Silva family came to love Bradley O’Patrick.

And he spent much of his time in this neighborhood. He began by studying in the various public libraries, and the seldom Portuguese men that came in and stayed were not Cristian Ronaldo. He soon started studying at the Portuguese bars and here were more of them, some beautiful, but still no Cristian Ronaldo. Soon everyday he was walking through the local mall and was amused at why he didn’t think of it before because it seemed a parade of beautiful Portuguese men of all ages, from the Supermarket to the HMV to the Walmart to the Winners. Too many of them had some beautiful European woman attached to their arm or hand. But the odds were still good. And yet no Cristian Ronaldo, week after week. He began to wonder whether Cristian Ronaldo was the only man in the world who looked like that—or would he have to move to Portugal and thus learn Portuguese—or to Manchester where the Cristian Ronaldo worked?

But he knew that it would not be soon. He was losing patience. Soon he would explode, soon he would have to conquer some Portuguese dude, and have him. This strange passion of Bradley’s was bigger than Cristian Ronaldo. He learned in Toronto that the Portuguese were undoubtedly a beautiful race. He had seen hundreds of Portuguese beauties by now—and he had wanted all of them. They were not Cristian Ronaldo. But the true reality was that he had to taste one and worship one and to wake up next to one regularly, daily. So now which one would it be? He needed one to study and understand fully this strange passion he felt for the Portuguese male. It would be the communion of science and passion.

There were a few at the gym that he could hardly forget. But he was sure that they did not have the same interests, so he didn’t even try. He settled with his silent, secret contemplation. But there was one that heightened his confidence, the boy from the park. Every time he visited that park, Bradley saw this young man sitting alone reading a book or listening to his MP3 player. It was strange because this one tended to wear oversized jeans and golf shirts like the other occupants of the park. Groups of Portuguese boys would gather at various points of the park, drinking, smoking, arguing, or playing some sport. But the boy in question was never a part of these groups. The boy seemed to be content doing what he was doing. Was he Portuguese? Bradley was sure of it, except that he wasn’t tanned like Cristian Ronaldo, and his face was of a different kind. He was more white, and had more universal features, so that he could pass for an Englishman or a Norweigan. Bradley was certain though, it was as if he could smell it. What helped were the occasional Portuguese soccer jersey or cap that he would wear.

Before he went to this park to introduce himself to the lonely Portuguese boy, he decided to walk around the neighborhood to consider things he would say to him. The park in question was located northwest of where Bradley lived, across the way from Dufferin Mall, the cathedral of Portuguese beauty aforementioned. Instead of west he walked east on Dundas. He did not take his wallet for he hadn’t planned on using money to impress and lure the Portuguese park-boy but rather his words, but he slipped a five-dollar bill in his back pocket just in case. And so he had to decide on what words to choose and what subjects to discuss.

He reached Dundas Street, which runs east and west, via Lisgar Street. He walked west on the south side until he reached Dovercourt and waited for the light to turn green. Suddenly walking north towards him was he. It was not the anticipated boy from the park. Yes, it was Cristian Ronaldo! However, the dark brown wavy hair was gone. This phenomenon was bald but one could tell that he still had a healthy hairline. The shaved head was interesting because Bradley had never found any picture of Cristian with no hair. Bradley was quite impressed for the no hair drew ones attention to the magnificence of this Portuguese dude’s face. The cheeks were more prominent so that one wanted to pinch them or something.

Bradley stood there at that corner awaiting him, as if this intersection was some sacred alter, despite the potholes, the cracks, and the worn out asphalt. The Portuguese fellow began to feel uncomfortable by the penetrating and stubborn gaze of Bradley O”Patrick. But it was more curiosity, and so he smiled, as he began to cross eastward, as the green light was about to switch again.

“Wait! Come back here!” said Bradley. Three street crossers turned around to face Bradley. Bradley pointed to ‘Cristiano’ and said, “You, please come back here.”

“What you saying?” said this Cristian in a common Toronto accent. And by it Bradley knew that it was not the real Cristian Ronaldo, for the real one must have a thick Portuguese accent. ‘Cristian’ returned to the sidewalk.

“I’ve been in Toronto four months and I’ve been waiting to run into you ever since my arrival.”

“Why?”

“Because you look like Cristian Ronaldo.”

“That my be so but how is that supposed to be flattering?”

“No. I know nothing of the soul of Cristian. He may very well be a dumbass. But he is among the top beautiful men in the world, so pretty that one must ask of males: ‘have you seen Cristian Ronaldo—do you still find it possible to remain straight?’ It was seeing Cristian in the world cup that made me fall madly in love with the Portuguese and receive the need to possess one. But if one has seen the epitome, it is difficult to want another. It is not Cristian Ronaldo that I want but my soul mate that looks like him. You have his body—do you have my soul?”

“My name is Helder. That’s a hard question to answer in such little time. I am walking to the government liquor store over there to buy some Molson Canadian, will you walk with me?”

“Of course.”

“So what’s your name?”

“Bradley O’Patrick.” And they shook hands and Bradley held it firmly for an instant too long.

“Bradley, so what do you do?”

“I study history at U of T. And you?”

“I work construction with my father. He owns the company. But I’m trying to decide on what business I should start.”

“Like what?”

“I’ve thought about opening a movie store but I would provide a computer with a catalogue with my opinions on the movies I’ve watched, and the opinions of my friends.”

“I would appreciate that.”

“I must tell you, Bradley, that I’m glad you stopped me. You may love the way I look but really I love more the way you look. You could say that I’ve been waiting to run into you too. I’ve been captivated a few times by men who look like you. It’s perfect.”

“Amazing.” They entered the government liquor store.

“So do you want to join me for some cans of Canadian? My treat. Do you live around here? Do you live alone?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes. Let’s do that.”

“Good. We’ll really get to know each other then. “

“Gladly.”

They walked to the beer cooler. Helder reached to the back of the cases to remove 10 cold ones, and he rushed with hands full towards the cashier. With one hand Bradley took two more and followed Helder, who had not noticed the extras. The cashier was free. Helder took out a twenty-dollar bill and got ready to hand it over. But the cashier had another idea.

“Can I see your identification please?” she asked. Helder handed it over and she was satisfied.

“Can I see yours?” she asked this of Bradley who had a five in his hand.

“Damn! I didn’t bring it.”

“I’m sorry. You can’t buy those.” She said to Bradley. Helder tried to hand over the twenty.

“I can’t sell to you either.”

“But I’m of age, you saw.”

“It doesn’t matter, you are together.”

“But we just met!” said Bradley.

“Sorry.”

“Doesn’t he look nineteen?” asked Helder.

“Maybe, but the law says that if you look under twenty-five, then I can ask for identification.”

“That’s pretty arbitrary.”

“That’s the law.”

“Damn!” Yelled Helder. Bradley took Helder’s hand and led him out of the store. When they were outside, Bradley expressed a decent idea, “We’ll just go to the beer store at the next block.”

“No. They only got Jumbo cans there. It’s not the same.”

“We’ll get bottles.”

“I like those cans.”

“Then I’ll go to my house and get my identification.”

“No. I’m impatient for some privacy. Let’s go to my house. We’ll drink my father’s house wine.”

“Are your parents home?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you wanted privacy.”

“We’ll drink in my room.”

“Won’t your parents mind us being alone.”

“No. They know. They’ll like you. And besides, you don’t look the stereotype.”

“Cool. Dionysus it is.”

THE END

[AMERICONORMAN]

Note: Cristian Ronaldo is a famous soccer player from Portugal. His full time job is with Manchester United in England. Manchester United just won the club championship in Europe, beating Chelsea in penalty kicks to end the 1-1 tie. I didn't see the game, but only the penalty kicks. There is something very special about Cristian besides his great soccer skills. Though Cristian is very good, he choked horribly when it was his chance to take a kick, and soon Manchester fell behind. But Chelsea's Captain kicked the ball away, and Manchester eventually won when the Manchester goalie made a nice save. Cristian ended the game, while his teamates were celebrating, with his face buried in the grass, and I heard that the coach had to pick him up.

See for yourself:

[AMERICONORMAN]

Though, I think I may be wrong about the dimples (haven't checked properly yet), I have to say this:

This story would not have been that interesting, if the two boys were not rejected towards the end. Otherwise, nothing interferes with what the protagonist wants ultimately. Otherwise, he simply gets lucky and he has nothing to do with it, except wishing it so, but really he has done nothing with his life to get what he wants specifically. I would move to Manchester! But that simple interference, amidst the context of the story, creates the necessary frustration (in time) for the reader. The language, though it doesn't have to be so even by the author's intention, can suggest that the protagonist will achieve what he ultimately wants, and you know what that is. I don't know what happens exactly afterwards. If I were to choose, you know what I would choose--but I don't--and so they could simply be reading Galt's Speech together. But that simple frustration is what makes the story.

It is actually what made the story possible. I have experienced and witnessed similar rejections. That is how the story started. I witnessed one such even and immediately I told myself I would write a short tale about it, it would be the ending. So really the presentation of the protagonist's obsession is filler, though appropriate and eloquent filler. You clearly know what he wants, he himself out of ignorance does not know exactly where to fulfill his need, then he makes his decision and accepts the impossibility of his desire, and then suddenly out of nowhere the need seems to be promised to be fulfilled. And then the humor, not including the style of the story: someone delays the fulfillment, and perhaps may very well extinguish that fulfillment. The new character brings in the solution, the intention of the "antagonist" is eliminated just as suddenly as the Portuguese God enters the story. The choice and character of the God resolves the story by resolving the simple conflict.

And it is all--come on--at the surprise of any reader who has read the story. So I do believe at this point that by this story I have demonstrated in some evident form what a twist is. And now I bow and ask you to twist with me, like we did last summer, like we will do this summer, like we did last year ....

Please comment.

Jose.

[AMERICONORMAN]

The truth of the matter is that it is a certain type of facial structure, combined with a certain quality and color of skin, that I refer to as 'Portuguese'. It is not the language or the geography that I is attractive. It is the aesthetic quality that the majority of these people tend to have. However, I have experienced too many times where I have thought someone to be Portuguese instinctually and then found that they were: Irish or Turkish or Spanish or Italian, or Greek, or Middle-Eastern.

Which brings me to a slightly different but more exciting ending to this story. The guy, Helder, looks like Cristiano Ronaldo, a very famous and Portuguese man, but he turns out to be of another race, perhaps Italian or German. It takes Bradley even deeper to the meaning of his passion.

Jose.