Alma Mia (My Soul)

“Como todas las cosas están llenas de mi alma,

emerges de las cosas, llena del alma mía.”

-Pablo Neruda1

            Tomás Arturo Moreira awoke from his peaceful slumber to the sounds of quiet breathing next to him. For a second his thoughts immediately went to his mother; this was how they used to sleep when he was young, her arms encircling him, her protecting him from the ever-dangerous world. But no – it couldn’t be, he realized as he began to wake up. She was no longer around, and could never be around again. Her place is in Heaven, with God, he assured himself. He finally turned around towards the breathing sound and found a girl there, sheets barely covering her nakedness. Frightened by this strange girl and unsure that she was not simply a product of his still-waking mind, he reached out and touched her neck. She stirred and slowly opened her bright blue eyes – eyes that looked like the ocean, innocent eyes, he thought – to look at him. “Hey, baby.” She yawned and stretched her arms wide. “You were amazing last night!”

            “Umm, yeah, sure,” he said, his mind now focused on other things. He checked his clock, which read 9:09, and rose from the bed towards the bathroom.

            The girl remained in the same place, busy toying with her wavy auburn hair. “I’m glad I met you last night. Your place is really nice, by the way.” She giggled. “I think I might just spend the morning!”

            Tomás entered the shower and turned on the water, enjoying its icy cold feeling. He tried not to think but as usual his mind was swirling. He quickly washed himself and dried up, then went to his closet. He was immediately comforted by his array of suits, from which he picked out a charcoal Hugo Boss set and a lipstick-red tie.

            As he moved into the kitchen to brew a hot cup of coffee, the girl called out again. “Already getting dressed?” He suddenly found her behind him, hands running down his body. “Don’t you want another go?”

            He pushed her away gently and continued preparing the coffee. “I have to go to work. I’m sorry.” His eyes wandered with his mind, glossing over his mother’s Bible and his collection of Pablo Neruda on the bed stand. Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente,
y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te toca.2 For an instant, he was caught in a reverie – immersed in the sounds of poetry and the smells of fresh coffee and a new day. The whistle on the coffee timer, and the girl’s voice, forced him back to reality.

            “Oh, okay. Well, when can I see you again?”

            “I’m not sure…I got a lot of things to take care of.” He grabbed the coffee, his briefcase and his overcoat and hastily made his way towards the front door, glancing at the girl and wondering when she would understand that she should leave.

            “Well, can I have your number? I’ll call you…”

            “Umm, yeah, sure…” He hastily grabbed a napkin and wrote his number down; he knew it wouldn’t matter because he would never answer her calls. He let her out and locked the door behind him. As the cold gray elevator opened in front of them and they stepped in, he quietly sighed. The elevator rides were always the worst – they were always awkward because the endings had already occurred at the door, as much as the girls liked to deny it. “Have a nice day.”

            She caught his arm and gave him a kiss and stood on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear. “I had a great time last night, I’ll call you.” Then she scampered away down the snowy Manhattan sidewalk.

            Tomás shivered and walked to the end of the street, where he hailed a taxi; he didn’t feel like taking the subway today, and he fooled himself into thinking he had the money. The bills can wait.

*****************

He felt lonely, as he had for a long time – ever since she had left him, twenty years ago, left him forever. Beatrìz Moreira had cared for Tomás every moment until she began to die inside, a little while after his twelfth birthday. They had always had a pleasant life, and Tomás was too small to understand the troubles that came with being an illegal immigrant. He watched as her face grew old and covered in shadow, as her coughs became as frequent as her breath, as she slowly retreated into herself. Even the vibrant, colorful spirit that came with her powerful voice faded with time, as she was forced to quit her flamenco career. She began to spend days in bed, too weak to rise. Tomás did all he could to help but it was clear that her problems were beyond him – and yet every time he pleaded that she get help, her eyes lit up with fear and she clutched at him feverishly, shaking her head and making him promise over and over again that he would never get help, even if she died. They would take him away from her, she told him, and she couldn’t let that happen. The one time that he still saw happiness within her was whenever they would sit together and she would read to him. It was always from the same book; she only had one book, and even if other books had been there they wouldn’t have existed to her. “Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada”3 held a certain magical quality that he couldn’t see in any other book, and he knew his mother felt the same. He knew every verse from that book, as if he himself had written it.

            Tomás shook off the memories as he heard a voice from the other side of his West Manhattan Bank office. Benjamin Wilkes stood across from him – the very picture of a vice-president, he thought – and eyed him with an air of control and attempted bravado. “Hey, Tom, you busy? Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. I need you to distribute these reports to the fifth floor a-s-a-p.”

            “Okay, Mr. Wilkes, I’ll get on that right away.”

            “Yes, that’s wonderful. You’re a fine employee, Tom! Going up the ranks quite quickly, I can see.”

            “It’s my pleasure, Mr. Wilkes. Have a nice day.”

            Tomás dropped off the forms and returned to his desk to deal with some unfinished work before leaving. He couldn’t wait to leave this room and this bank. It felt too clean, as if someone were afraid of any life getting in. Everything was simple and colorless; whites and grays consumed the entire office, and shadows sat against the faded walls. The whole thing seemed to come straight from a catalog, even the people. He wanted to get out, but he didn’t know what he would do. This was what kept him there every day – a huge overwhelming doubt and fear that if he left he would have nothing. And he had to have something.

            Suddenly his cell phone began to vibrate on the desk, flashing on and off. He started to ignore it, but then for some reason he felt compelled to pick it up. He answered, and a woman’s voice rang out.

            “Hi, it’s Rachel. I hope I’m not interrupting…”

“No, it’s not a problem at all.” The steady tone of his voice painted a very different picture from his slouched, uninterested form. He racked his brain and recovered that it was the girl from that morning. He fiddled with his pen, clicking it on and off incessantly.

            “Great! How are you?”

            “Good…just working, long day. What about you?”

            “I’m doing great, just got off of work. I was wondering if you might want to come out to dinner with me. If you’re free…” Her voice dropped off and he knew he had to answer. He opened his mouth to reject her plans, and his eyes fell on the picture in the center of his otherwise scantily occupied desk. His mother smiled up at him radiantly, arms around her only son, resplendent in a dark red Spanish flamenco dress. It was taken after the last of her concerts, he remembered, two months before her death. Something in her smile made him bite back his words.

            “Hello? Are you still there?” Once again the girl paused.

            “Yeah, I’m sorry, just taking care of some things at work. I could probably make it to dinner tonight…”

            The rest of the conservation was a blur. He hung up, his hand shaking for no reason. He was surprised at himself; the girl was no different for him, so why was he acting so weird? Once again his eyes were drawn to the picture. Maybe it was time for him to grow up, he reasoned. He couldn’t live on alcohol and one-night-stands forever. Where was the meaning in his world? He felt it, there, inside of him; and yet all he could take from it was grief. The life that he was living, however shallow it seemed to be, shielded him from the pain he knew rested inside of his heart. He wasn’t sure he was ready to open up.

*****************

            Four hours later, he found himself seated at a table in a small Spanish restaurant, staring down at a plate of fresh paella. He once more attempted to focus his attention on the girl, who was now babbling on about something concerned with her job and how great it was. The date had so far fallen short of his hopes, and right with his expectations. She seemed extremely unexciting and ordinary, and he felt no connection between her life and his. He concentrated on her beautiful, darting eyes so that he would not fall asleep. Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería. Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos? 4

A man suddenly approached their table, red-faced and jolly. “Rachel?”

            Rachel turned to face the man with an excited look. “Dave! Hey, long time no see! How are you doing?”

            Dave, too drunk to see that he was encroaching on a date, leaned in closer. “Great! Mind if I join you guys?”

            “No, not at all! Dave, this is Thomas… Thomas, Dave.”

            Tomás once again feigned interest. He was tired of this charade and needed to go somewhere comfortable. “Wonderful to meet you, sir. You can actually take my seat, I’ll have to get going soon.”

            Rachel grabbed his arm. “No, Thomas, don’t go just yet! The surprise hasn’t come out yet, I think you would like it. Please?” She attempted to smile coquettishly.

            Tomás shrugged and sat back down. “Sure.”

            Dave pulled up a chair and grinned widely. “Great, we can all celebrate together! Bartender, let’s get some drinks!” He snapped his fingers in an image of false self-importance. Tomás shot a look of apology towards the waiter and made a mental note to tip the man extra. He hated it when people were disrespectful – didn’t their mothers teach them better? He leaned back in his chair just as the lights dimmed in the restaurant.

            Rachel once again grew excited. “This is it! I heard they’re the best in town!”

            A man with a guitar and a woman, both dressed all in deep red, made their way to a space in the front of the restaurant. The woman bowed her head and the man sat down, resting the guitar on one raised leg. He began to play slowly, picking up speed until his fingers feverishly ran across the strings. And then the woman began to sing.

            Tomás could not speak. He was too filled with emotion – too filled with emptiness, with loss. He heard his life in that song, and his mother, and all the things that had been lost when she passed. And in this moment he also once again recognized beauty – the beauty of feeling, of seeing, of tasting, of living. It overwhelmed him like a tidal wave, washing away all of his protections and barriers. He wanted to weep but maintained a stony exterior so that no one would notice he had lost his composure.

            Meanwhile the waiter had brought drinks to the table, which Rachel and Dave had fully taken advantage of. Rachel leaned over to Tomás. “It’s good, isn’t it?!?”

Dave answered the question for him. “Ole!” He danced an imaginary jig in his seat.

Rachel attempted again to talk to Tomás, who was still staring straight ahead at the singer. “Do you listen to this music much? I saw a record next to your bed with your poems and stuff, and it’s pretty cool music so I thought it would be a nice surprise. Not my favorite, but it’s cool.”

Tomás didn’t move in response except to blink twice. “Yes…my mother was a singer.”

Dave took this moment to raise himself above the table, glass in hand. “Well let’s make a toast then… to your mother!” And he downed the rest of his drink.

Tomás sat for another second, breathing in deeply, and then rose slowly and laboriously. He looked at Rachel for a moment, and then over at Dave. “To my mother, then.” He drew back and punched Dave in the face, following his not-so-graceful arc to the floor. Then in the stunned silence that followed he grabbed his coat and walked out of the restaurant.

He walked briskly but calmly down the street, his head clear of everything but the singer’s voice. A smile slowly spread across his face, exposing his dimples, as he watched the Times Square masses hurrying toward some unforeseen destination. He would not hurry anymore, he thought to himself. He was going to wait, to take his time, to live. He had known love through his mother, and he now saw love in every area of his life, more simple and yet more profound then he had ever imagined it. Como todas las cosas están llenas de mi alma, emerges de las cosas, llena del alma mía. He would not run away from himself anymore.