Behind him, two closed doors with window panes reveal
fragments of outside’s geography: angled parts of tree branches, Spanish
architecture, and parked cars crammed into the window, fighting for their part
in the frame. And the people, of course: A woman and man, in their sixties,
walk down sweaty and fashionable. He wears a fedora, she a sun hat. Their faces
look exhausted, as many tourists’ faces do at this hour, but I’m sure months
from now they’ll consider their visit to New Orleans a worthy one. Behind them,
weary parents walk. The woman rolls the stroller with the sleepy baby, the
latter unseen by me. The father wears a Saints cap. I remember the Colombian
Jesuit who, once seeing a similar sight in an airport in Paraguay, turned to me
and with disdain remarked, “Rolando, that is not freedom.”
Through another window, I spot a heterosexual
twentysomething couple, involved in a playful embrace, smiling at each other.
They kiss, hold their lips together for a moment, then break apart, and laugh.
It’s like they’re dancing with their faces. Conclusion: Kisses are inside
jokes. They keep going at this—kiss, laugh break, kiss, laugh break—for almost
a whole minute. I feel happy for them. And I keep looking, which is kind of
weird. I get embarrassed at myself. I turn bright red. But at this
point there’s no point in looking away. I also realize, after having taken in
the scene, that I feel a need to point out that they are in fact a heterosexual
couple, and thus add the adjective to the first sentence of this paragraph,
adjective which means: the woman has black hair, the man is blonde, and they’re
both white. The 21st century has given the writer reason to add adjective upon
adjective upon adjective. I say “couple,” you ask, “which couple?”
Anyway, they look at each other like that, smiling and stupid, for a few seconds more,
speaking sweet things probably unworthy of philosophy papers or anything
publishable (no one develops theorems while they kiss a lover), and then
continue walking, disappearing from the window frame. This is probably the last
time I will ever see them, and so I am glad that they are smiling, because that
means that in my mind, they will never be sad. Strangers, those you see from
window panes and balconies, at close enough an angle to perceive their faces, yet
far enough to make you forego guessing at names or any kind of specific
circumstance, can often seem like the happiest people in the world. They have a long history, sure. But you are treated, in fortunate moments like this one, to its brightest chapters. Or to those that look the brightest, anyway.
After they leave, the street stays there, empty of faces and
full of city. I wait. Something else should happen, someone should walk by
whose countenance and gait will tell a rich history. Maybe a homeless person, a
struggling artist, an afternoon drunk. My prayers are answered: an overweight man, with a short-sleeved button-down, walks into the coffee shop and decides
to stand right in front of the window, blocking my view of the street. What blocks my view, precisely, is his belly: a boulder, pregnant with the exhaustion of many happy meals. Why did
he decide to stand there? He wields a hoarfrost mustache, dimmed eyes. A few seconds and suddenly it is all clear: a child, a little
boy, comes running from behind him and stands beside him, tugging at him.
Daddy, I want a croissant. The boy wants a croissant the way Ponce de León
wanted immortality: undyingly, fundamentally, immortally. This is not just a
want, it is the consummation of all wants. I should add: The man is balding.
Beside me, my friend asks, “How’s your Aquinas paper going?”
I answer, “I haven’t worked on it at all.”
August 4, 2013
