To Covet What Others Discard

[AMERICONORMAN]

COPYRIGHT © 2006. Jose Rodriguez-Gainza. All Rights Reserved.

To Covet What Others Discard—By Jose Gainza

ICELAND HANDS AND A WRITER’S OBSSESSION

The short phase of the life of Cassidy Gomez, when twenty-two, and a graduated novelist, self-taught through books and practice, can be highlighted by the following theme: to possess an obsessive curiosity for a stranger. It is curiosity for a stranger so strong that it intensifies one’s affection the more silence remains within him, and the more one shouts out what one hankers for, because one so much intuits that one’s themes are heard and understood by the stranger, because he still has not found one, and put his hand to one’s throat, and grip while saying, threatening with jaw taut and teeth closed, “Leave me alone you little pest; I can squash you. Your praises disgust me. Can’t you see, we’re different natures?”

On one summer Monday afternoon of this phase Cassidy Gomez walked past the concierge person in the grey granite lobby of his apartment building, exiting, and greeted him such, “The eagle is launched.” The concierge person returned the greeting thus, “Indeed, the eagle is in flight. Good speed!” As he finally exited he said, “See you soon.”

Soon Cassidy, from the side street where his building was located, found himself on Bathurst Street, then walked south on it toward Bloor, with the explicit purpose to head east to reach the Confederation Supermarket, where he would buy a couple of bottles of pomegranate concentrated juice. But soon, though he passed the bookstore for a moment, he immediately, and without hesitation, turned around, returning to the door of the book haven, and entered.

A book, his lust for it forgotten a moment ago, and too faint then, appeared on the Fiction section bookcase, re-igniting the buried lust. It was one of many bookstores Cassidy made it a custom to browse through, upon passing by usually without express purpose and intent; it was an unconscious compulsion. This time the book was Victoria Valjean’s first novel, ICELAND HANDS, the story of a stern prison warden of a cold, lonely island in Northern Europe, and his desperate burning love.

Only one prisoner inhabits the island, his former mistress, the object of his conspiracy to imprison her in his frigid fortress, a feat accomplished through intrigue and political favours. He after judging that she had betrayed him, that she was criminal even, succeeded in convincing his society’s men of influence of it too. Henceforth were her prosecution and unfair sentence. Upon her arrival on his island, the moment of the pacification of his romantic hunger, and also the moment of his most tyrannical act—(the blind alley of the lurking darkness that too often aroused her suspicion in their affair)—this despot was struck with a sudden case of paralysis in the hands.

Consequently the prison was inhabited also by a large group of lackeys to perform his most simple functions. Besides the horrendous intention to make her his slave, a desire clashed with the rest of him, the futile struggle of his goodness to break forth: to cook her every meal unbeknownst to her—now hopeless because of his malady. As a trade of favours, the warden acquired a great chef from his friend, a colonial merchant of Africa, a wealthy shipper and tradesman. In a moment of dramatic eloquence, Valjean has the prisoner fall in love with the chef’s cooking and soon with him. After seducing her with special meals, he stays in her room longer and longer as the occasions continue. Due to his extreme bitterness and frustration over his mysterious condition, the warden remained ignorant of this romantic state of affairs, because he was compelled to escape into a secret place of the prison during her mealtimes to sulk, witnessed always by one of his lackeys.

How will the chef save his love from this prison? He will bankrupt the prison budget with extravagant meals for her and the prison lackeys, soon arousing the attention of the warden’s superiors and benefactors. Why can’t the warden fire the cook? The lackeys must be treated well since they themselves are not prisoners; for the woman—well—the warden needs to please her … somehow.

Cassidy Gomez had wanted this book for years because he was in love with the literary genius of “V.V”; as he called her because it sounded exactly like the Spanish word, “vivi”, meaning: lived. He sat on a street bench near Bloor and Bathurst, an intersection notable for a flashy gigantic bargain store, its façade stitched by thousands of light bulbs. With the new book in his hands, the fantasy struck him again.

It is not a shameful secret that Cassidy Gomez is, to this day, addicted to second hand bookstores. In his poorer days, he could even go without eating so long as his soul could be fed by meaningful words on paper. How many people knew about this addiction, he sometimes wondered, because for over a year, very often when he entered a bookstore, he would come out with a titillating treasure. It was as if he was the beneficent pawn of a secret conspiracy on his intellectual behalf. What party was bestowing him with the fortune of some lusted after book, and intellectually monumental? Was it a secret admirer or just some group that knew he was a writer of talent who wanted the life of one? Or was he, unknown to himself, a secret prodigy to be secretly raised as some intellectual master? He didn’t know. The sudden valuable book appearances had made him notice more closely the coincidences of life.

CASSIDY’S LITERARY TREASURE AND THE IMPOSSIBLE ONE

There was that book on logic by a philosopher-monk who, through that book, taught even Descartes how to think (and thus know that he is, assumedly). There was also that conveniently double-spaced edition of Aristotle’s Poetics that also had every right page blank to allow for the reader’s notations. There was an unbelievably rejected first edition copy of Atlantis signed by Alicia O’Connor (in mint condition) –for ten dollars! Cassidy had luckily found the complete works of Edmond Rostand in English. Though the newfound complete Rostand was extremely welcome, there was a part of him that like a too eager, and unsatisfied child at Christmas, wanted the complete works in French too. However, he did not let this minor frustration bother him too much, and he lived with a hope that his secret benefactor would bestow him with the French ones too. He was particularly disappointed with not having the first play by Rostand, THE ROMANTICS. It was because in English, though the situation was historically original, a master feat in its own right, the poetry in English protested too loudly that the beauty of the early Rostand was not done justice in English. CYRANO and CHANTICLEER were clearly poetic genius even in English. But he could not tell about THE ROMANTICS; whether the play was evidence of a great talent with still much to learn, or whether it was an obvious masterpiece even then, except for the simple situation.

O. Rangey, Nathaniel Hawkeye, and Edgar Alva Prime, were among others found in their complete works, in the original English, at the stores. Needless to say, Cassidy was in heaven this last year. He was in heaven but he was alone. Friends he had but none were passionate about his passion. And none had the key to experience the emotional nature of his private thrill, it seemed. This was a nagging frustration that would peek out of its hole from time to time.

There was also HIM: the impossible one. He was the tall, dark, handsome stranger who sent an earthquake through Cassidy’s world upon first sight. And the stranger was an immediate soul mate who, it seemed, had lived his life all for the day when their paths would cross that first time. And when they met at the crossroads, the stranger expressed such genuine love, in the way he looked at Cassidy, that it always warmed Cassidy upon recalling that moment. But that and a post office box was all that was bestowed upon Cassidy by the stranger.

The stranger that day walked over to Cassidy’s father’s coffin, meditated, and he was never seen again.

This stranger, nameless because of his own insistent demand, ended the relationship with Cassidy before it even started. A certain lawsuit is the threat if his name is revealed because it would violate the conditions that granted his full disclosure of the events of this tale. His argument was acceptable because he declared that it did not matter that his real name be used in a work of fiction, for a work of fiction and its leitmotif should apply to all men, and not be the single and limited disclosure from a biography. And though this tale is indeed an episode from Cassidy’s biography, he will also be a defendant if the name is disclosed, the threat allowing for the poetic license to change the actions of the hero as is romantically fit, and making Cassidy an icon and archetype of fiction, for the situation is universal and fantastic, and the licensed changes are apt to the purposes of the most genuine of romantic fiction.

Cassidy also agreed to discuss his part in this tale, despite him being the central character, because it would be payback among friends for a joke that almost went too far. For there were phases, the specifics of them not disclosed, within the greater phase of this tale, when Cassidy was intoxicated by such joy in his own talent and life, and by the greatness of the men he read, that sometimes in the humid nights, fighting the ecstatic delirium of contemplating efficacious joy, he struggled in his bed, and fought not to walk the streets to find another human with whom he could release. The true origin of these books will be disclosed, for this is not a story about luck and fate; it is not Naturalism. Be assured of this at this point. A human played an important role, responsible for the ecstasy that Cassidy encountered during his phases within the phase.

The stranger, while Cassidy sat at the bench, on Bloor after buying ICELAND HANDS, was still a stranger to Cassidy. They had spoken that first time a total of ten minutes, that was all, and it was Cassidy who then did most of the revealing. Cassidy did not even know what the man did for a living. Before they departed, Stranger (as he will be called henceforth) commanded the most peculiar thing of the man he seemingly already loved. Cassidy was refused Stranger’s phone number, as well, his home address his electronic mail address, his website. He was merely given a name and a post office box number. Cassidy was speechless and heartbroken but he took the deal and ran with it. Cassidy was madly in love, and he knew it because of the intensity unmatched in all his former days up to that first meeting

.

What Cassidy managed to find out through the grapevine was that Stranger was an heir to a billion dollar fortune, that he was brilliant, and that he travelled much around the world. That was plenty fine to fuel Cassidy’s imagination: he saw him surfing in Australia, climbing an Andean mountain, swimming with dolphins in Galapagos, protesting in South Africa, being wild in Amsterdam, smoking a cigar in London, and anything but romancing in Paris.

And in sleep he sometimes had the fortune to dream about the adventurer. Cassidy’s favourite body parts of Stranger, besides the obvious, were his nipples and his nates.

And thus Cassidy lived a happy life with his friends (Schiller’s Marquis of Posa, Alicia O’Connor’s Howe Roar, Quasimodo, Chanticleer, and many more); his teachers (V.V., Dostoevsky, Alicia O’Connor, Aristotle, Nietzsche, and many more); and his dream lover.

In notable moments during Cassidy’s literary encounters of bliss, he would be taken by two distractions. One was the idea of the bookstore conspiracy. The other distractions were his envelopes to that post office box. That Stranger could be part of the impossible conspiracy was utterly implausible in Cassidy’s mind! But who could it be if it were? Stranger could not possibly know the books of Cassidy’s lust because, in his letters, he never wrote about the books he wanted to possess but about those he had already read and those he would write. He had a wish list posted on his bulletin board over his computer station but Stranger had not given Cassidy even his phone number, forget about entering his apartment.

Cassidy never had evidence that Stranger read his “love” letters but he knew he did with an intense intuition. He had even imagined him opening the mail and grinning gleefully as he read.

Forgetting the pomegranate juice, Cassidy stood up from the bench and walked swiftly back to his apartment so that he could start Iceland Hands—so that he could write another letter to Stranger. He walked past the concierge desk and waved at the officer there. The officer smiled in return then picked up the phone as Cassidy entered the elevator. Cassidy, as he entered, heard the officer on the phone say, “the eagle has landed,” and thought that the officer was greeting him as usual. He felt a warm feeling that even while on the phone the friendly officer would make the effort to greet him because of the unique phraseology. But when the tenant was outside of hearing distance, the concierge officer said to the other person on the line, “…I said, the eagle … has landed … You’re welcome … good bye.”

THE DISCARDED AUTHORS BECKON CASSIDY FROM THEIR GRAVES

Cassidy lied down on his back on his folded futon, with book in hand, perusing V.V’s ICELAND HANDS, written as a secret message to a lover who spurned her. Were the warden’s paralysed hands a symbol of his unfeeling cruelty—or was it Valjean’s secret wish that those hands never touch another woman? Cassidy was resolute to find out.

Cassidy went back to the bookstore on the very next day where there was nothing notable in the philosophy section; where there was nothing notable in fiction; where history, as the previous day, had nothing of even the slightest interest to him. And then there it was the only aqua coloured book on the large filled shelf. It was a legendary book, very hard to get, not even available at the “world’s largest online bookstore”. The name on the cover said: Christie Montcalm—said to have published ONE book in the nineteenth century. Legend says that he was the secret lover of V.V., and was later acquainted with the poet Burnswan. In some circles the book is said to be the greatest compilation of short love poems ever written. Of over one hundred poems, Cassidy had managed to read but a few samples.

One of the poems Cassidy had memorized:

When your spirit yells a cry of despair—

And tears shoot down as your face looks up to the air—

A peace is broken that seems so hard to repair—

You have finally seen the long since mismatched pair—

So you scream as you pull at your hair:

“Oh my god this is just not fair!”

You ask yourself over and over, “Why doesn’t he care?”

When you struggle with a trembling so hard to bear!

At his image in space you just sit and stare.

You remember his beauty so rare—

And when the test was given you didn’t prepare.

Don’t reach for the blade, don’t, don’t you dare!

Cassidy decided that the poem was sweet, short, very passionate, and clever. He made sure that he memorized it. He longed to get the opportunity to read the rest of Montcalm’s verse.

Cassidy thrust his hand toward that book and clutched it like to the hand of a beloved child hanging over a precipice. It did not matter if the book cost one thousand dollars—he would have it. He felt that he would sleep with the owner of the store if he had to. He opened the front cover and read on the first blank page in pencil the following symbols: $-5-.9-5. Cassidy could not suppress the instant of his ecstatic laughter but soon he stopped out of a paranoid fear of getting kicked out of the store, to be estranged from the seductive book.

Cassidy thanked the mysterious mastermind of the possible conspiracy, as he looked into the heavens. “How did you know what I wanted?”

Iceland Hands was neglected for the remainder of the week. Montcalm dominated Cassidy’s mind. The poems were combined with such things as wine, brandy, exotic food, and Spanish ballads. Not only was ICELAND HANDS neglected, so was his own on-going novel about a passionate painter who is convinced that he is asexual and that sex is inhuman. It is a satire.

By Friday afternoon, Cassidy’s birthday, he was ready to get back to work on writing his novel. But there was one temptation that bothered him. Since it was his birthday surely he would buy himself a gift. And since he loved books so much surely he would buy himself a book. But surely that book might postpone his novel writing some more. Surely he could wait until he progressed more in his novel before buying a new book. “But if I were to go to ROMANCE AND MURDER today,” he began to ask himself aloud, “what book would I love to happen to find there? … Surely a French and English edition of Edmond Rostand’s first play, THE ROMANTICS!” He did not even have to muse at his list, over his head, on the bulletin board.

In the afternoon he took a break from writing to go for a walk where he would engage in a mental “re-grouping”. He pledged not to go into that bookstore. Before he left his desk, to leave his apartment for his walk, he wrote down on a paper pad on his desk the name of the play he wished for his Birthday: The Romantics B. Day. He thought, that he failed to find such an edition at one of his bookstores, he would attend an Internet café, and investigate the possibilities of acquiring such a book at a moderate price, somewhere in the world.

As Cassidy passed the concierge officer, with a silently mimed greeting, the officer picked up the telephone.

“The eagle has launched,” said the officer looking at Cassidy as he exited through the doors, Cassidy, who turned to look at the officer as he exited, who saw a smile on the officer’s face. “I’ll see you soon,” was Cassidy’s reply as he walked out into the bright sunlight.

The officer wanted to warn Cassidy not to forget his sunglasses but he had to make a phone call. The part of the officer’s conversation that Cassidy did not hear because he was already on his way to Bloor was, “It’s usually an hour … yes, lot’s …again you’re welcome … your generosity is more than enough of a thank-you,” and he then hung up the phone.

SOMETIMES EVENTS OCCUR THAT MAKE ONE FEEL THAT THE GREEK GODS ARE REAL

Walking south on Bathurst, and while walking then west on Bloor, Cassidy was stuck on the following problem: under what original circumstance can I get the painter to experience sexual attraction for someone? It would have to be, he began to think to himself, that the only paintings that he could paint are one’s about sex and he is morally repulsed by this, and he feels hunger for a woman painter who IS RUMOURED to have had many lovers, and who paints the non-sexual pictures that the protagonist wishes he could paint … And he followed the logical consequences of this fountain of delight for over an hour.

But when his thought was stopped by the discovery that he was approaching the ROMANCE AND MURDER, could he resist entry? No, he could not. He descended the steps that led to the store entrance. Before he entered he quickly searched the table at the door that had books for fifty cents. But he entered after his lack of success there. “Did you enjoy Montcalm?” Asked the store attendant smilingly as Cassidy entered the store. “Yes! Very much,” exclaimed Cassidy. There was no Rostand in the drama section or any section. Cassidy searched the other section quickly just in case.

Meanwhile, the store attendant was looking outside the entrance, puzzled, because a man in a tight neon green spandex outfit, with a bicycle helmet of the same color, which caused him to glow due to the bright light, took an aqua colored book from his bag, and placed it in between the others, then quickly scurried away. I’ll wait ‘til Cassidy leaves before checking, the attendant thought to himself. Soon Cassidy had given up his search, wish farewell to the attendant, and walked out of the store.

Up the steps at the sidewalk the sun hurt his eyes so that he had to turn around, thus facing the store entrance. At the fifty-cent table, in aqua color binding, with gold lettering on the spine shining in the sunlight, was a book he missed, he believed. He scurried closer, and as he approached the basket, the golden letters sent a thrill through his heart, because the letters were: T-h-e R-o-m-a-n-t-i-c-s. And there was also written the following in smaller font but still in gold and shining: French and English.

In the midst of paying for the book, the phone rang, and the cashier delayed the sales transaction to answer it. “It’s you,” the cashier said to the man on the other end of the line, “how did you … oh, yes of course, that explains it … you saw the come back? … Yes, he did …” He smiled at Cassidy, his other conversation holding on the line, “Since you’re such a good customer, you can have it for free this time. Have a nice day.”

“I will thanks to this book and you’re gesture … it’s like there is this whole conspiracy to plant the books I really want here.”

The cashier laughed and said, “Naw, that’s just how the used bookstore world works. There are tons of coincidences and surprises.”

Cassidy walked east and he gazed at the tallest structure in the distance, which was a tall, grey, bank building. I wonder what the view is like up there, he wondered to himself. And he wondered about how someone of the conspiracy can be watching him from any one of these high vantage points that surrounded him in his metropolis; for again, it was too huge a coincidence. At the approaching corner, he saw a young man on a cellular phone talking as if keeping an eye on Cassidy. He had seen that look on other strangers in the recent past but thought nothing of it those times. He quickly dismissed any suspicion he had. However, when Cassidy was half a block away, the young man started following Cassidy unbeknownst to him.

Cassidy had only read THE ROMANTICS in English, and there were only English copies of the play in all the libraries in Toronto. He couldn’t seem to find the play published on the Internet. And he could not find it at the biggest on-line bookstore. He had promised to take a trip one day to Montreal and Quebec City, in hopes to find the book if he had to, and even steal it from the public library system there if he had to. But he never got around to planning such a trip. He wanted both English and French versions so that he could hear the poetry of Rostand in the original French.

The good critics of the play, if one could summarize what they said, fused into something like, “one of the sweetest things ever written.” It was a twist on Shakespeare’s ROMERO AND JULIET situation: young love forbidden by a family feud. But there is a delightful twist and ingenuity in Rostand’s play. But Cassidy never let himself find out what exactly that twist was because he wanted to experience it for himself. Now when he got to his destination he could begin to find out, to take the journey with Captain Rostand at the helm.

The young man followed Cassidy to a pathway scattered on both sides with small, scattered grassy knolls. It was right next to Toronto’s biggest museum. He saw Cassidy approach and enter the centre of a circular arrangement of benches that created a sort of non-elevated drama stage. Cassidy opened the play. The man walked away, while talking on his cell phone, back on to Bloor Street.

THE LONG AWAITED DRAMATIZATION OF LOVE ALONG WITH THE FRENCH TONGUE

Cassidy opened the book to find, not the poetry of Rostand, but that of Shakespeare, translated into French. A boy and a girl are reading Romeo and Juliet. Mantua is spoken of and there is a farewell among lovers. Cassidy began to act out the play, until he got to his grasping of the significance of a wall that divides the young lovers of Rostand, when he was rudely interrupted from some strange voice from behind, a voice of an actor, somewhat deep, paced, and pronounced.

“I know what you want; can I act the play with you?”

Cassidy swiftly turned around and stood dumbfounded at the sight of the interrupter. “I have my own copy right here, “Stranger continued as he flashed the book to Cassidy’s sight.

“I don’t understand.”

“I put that book in the bargain basket.”

“You?”

“By Courier.”

“Explain.”

“I planted Iceland Hands there too. And most of the other wished for books that you’ve found this year.”

“How?”

“You tend to write things down. You have had a standing list on your bulletin board for some time now. I’ve been waiting for you to get enthusiastic about today’s book. You wrote it down on a notepad today. Since it was your birthday—by the way happy birthday … since it was your birthday I decided to enter your apartment for any clue of what book you might want on this special day. When I saw the note pad I was delighted. I’ve had a copy of your list for many months now, and I update it regularly when you’re not home, and I’ve had all the books on that list in the trunk of my car for some time now. One of my couriers delivered the book of today.”

“Delighted for—how did you get into my apartment!”

“The building that you live in?—I own it. I have a master key. I’ve been in your apartment several times. I’ve even used your washroom.”

Cassidy remained silent.

“I pay the employees there for information. I have spies following you all over the city. I have couriers on my pay roll on stand-by. It’s amazing what money can buy. I love modern technology too … you still don’t have a cell phone.”

“Why … why would you do all this?” Cassidy actually felt fear asking this question, fear that the answer would not be: because of love.

“Because I love you … because I’ve loved you since I was twelve: that’s thirteen years now! I’m twenty-five and I’ve never even been kissed because I wanted to save my lips for you.”

“I’ve loved you all this year. I loved you at first sight—”

“—As I have loved you since first sight for thirteen years.”

“But the first time I saw you was just this year!”

“But I saw you thirteen years ago.”

“How?”

“I saw your picture … does a restaurant named Charms sound familiar?”

“Yes, my father used to work there.”

“I used to eat there everyday because your father was such a fantastic cook … we became friends. He used to talk about you all the time and he showed me your pictures. And he would keep me informed about your life up to the week before he passed away. I have loved you that long.”

“That’s why we met at his funeral … why weren’t we friends before?”

The stranger held him, his hands were locked above Cassidy’s buttocks, and he looked Cassidy in the eyes, speaking tenderly,

“Besides dealing with and accepting certain truths about my nature, I used to suffer from jealousy. You always had a best friend. And back then and for many years I could not bear to be anything less than your best. The boyfriend situation of yours when you were eighteen almost killed me. And when that eventually ended, when you were twenty, I had already begun my business.

Cassidy’s eyes began to moisture. His heart was pinched.

“So why now?”

“Because I know you love me. And you’ve been alone for so many years now. And you’re a writer—you only really achieved that in the last two years. I’ve been watching you. Now you’re ready for love—for the celebration. The years away from you, and my confidence that one day I would have you; that you would be ready for me, has deprived me of some deep affection badly needed. I tried to forget you sometimes and I’ve dated people; but they eventually discarded me, perhaps because of something about me that said I was spoken for; or I would discard them for not even coming close.”

“Don’t you think those dates could have won your attention and your love?”

“They really didn’t know how to. Few other people can once you know that your horizon exists, since you’re working for the rails and comet that will take you there.”

“And when we first met, why not after that? Why torture me? Why deprive me and leave me only with Canada Post for one-way communication?”

“Hey, you’re the writer! It’s more dramatic and special if you are surprised … Are you surprised?”

THE BLOW, THE FRENCH KISS, AND THE RESOLUTION

Cassidy released himself from his beloved’s embrace. He looked at him with a smile then looked down to the pavement. When Cassidy raised his head again, his beloved had no time to note the fury on Cassidy’s face, because the beloved was slapped. The assault victim stood there stunned, silent. But before he could shed a tear, Cassidy’s lips pulled his own body thrusting against that of his beloved so that their lips locked. Cassidy kissed him with hunger then bit him a little, drawing a small amount of blood. Cassidy then began to nibble on Stranger’s neck. And then he was overcome by passion again and with his commanding tongue entered the mouth of Stranger, their tongues swirling together into the birth of a fused new organ of love.

Cassidy paused for a moment to ask, “So are you surprised … yes, I’m surprised … I love you utterly.” And he bobbed for his lover’s lips once more.

“Happy birthday Cassidy,” Stranger managed to utter at the first break of the passion.

When the initial passion was over, Stranger drove with Cassidy to the latter’s apartment because it was closest and they were very impatient for sex. Afterwards they began to act out the play but not without several, several break sessions for lovemaking.

After a few weeks Cassidy began to outline a story almost identical to the events as they had occurred with them. When Stranger found out, he put a stop to it.

“No! No. Let’s tell someone else about it and have him make his own story.”

“Yes. That way he can use our first names.”

“No! I forbid it. Our story is our own private Idaho. No one needs to know the details exactly. Maybe when we’re sixty you can include it in your autobiography.”

“My friend Barney can write the fiction version, I think.”

“Yes, he’s extremely intelligent and creative. Yes. Him.”

“Yes. And I’ll have him use my entire name. That is my right.”

“If you wish, though I disapprove. But if he uses any of my names, I will sue both of you. You got it?”

“Boy, did I get it!”

THE END

Edited June 2, 2006 by AMERICONORMAN