Hopeless Love
The Right Number
I happen to be stranded in one of the large European cities way up North. I believe it is Berlin. It is late fall; the trees extend their bare, smoky limbs in bizarre shapes into the air and rain has been drizzling down from the gloomy sky. I have been wandering through the streets for hours, or maybe days, who knows, searching for something…. somewhere. By now, with all the time I have been wandering around, my brain has lost track of what I was looking for. But the more I have been forgetting what it was, the more my search has grown intense and full of determination. My clothes are wet, and my mind is weary, and I certainly would like to arrive somewhere, if only because I deserve some rest.
Waiting For Viviana
As I hear her voice, I am startled, it is so gentle, no room for male posturing, slash and stab, victory or doom, no, just soft feminine grace, flowing waves, pleading rivers. Where are you? I ask and she says, “On the bus, just before the American border, on the way to you.” “Yes”, I say, “I’ve been waiting for you for a long time, finally we’ll see each other again.”
I hear noises, lively chat, a child’s voice, an airy laugh, and I imagine people’s bodies jostling on the Mexican bus and I say “I hope no sleazy fellow is bothering you, no pushy cabrón who stealthily undresses you with his eyes and rubs his knee against yours” and she says, “no, no, there are only good people here, just lively folks”, and I am wondering if I should get jealous of those folks. And I think she is a good girl, she doesn’t let horny cabrones harass her and chastely keeps her legs together, for me, yes, only for me.
“When will you be here in Santa Monica”, I say then and she says “ïn about four hours, ojalá, around half past two”, and these four hours should be etched in my memory, indelibly engraved, a promise, a claim, inalienable. “That’s good,” I say,” we can meet in the lobby of the Fairmont Miramar Hotel, it’s easy to find, just off Ocean Avenue.” “Where is Ocean Avenue?” she asks and I laugh and say, “Along the Pacific Ocean of course, where Wilshire Boulevard ends, if you go any farther, you’ll fall into the sea”. She laughs now, too, an open, carefree, bouncy, embracing laugh, just far away, ooh, she’s still in Mexico, it sounds almost as if from another planet. Then the words flow out of her mouth again, “I will come and stay with you,” she says, “and we will discover each other, yes, develop an exciting life, a friendship, a romance, a love, an adventurous journey to places we have never found before,” and her dreamlike promises flow through her full lips, her moist and supple lips, just as I remember them from our first encounter. And I imagine now that her upper mouth resembles her lower one, wet and soft like a naked snail.
Her words have my senses swim away and I say “and I will take you to unknown, beguiling realms beyond your imagination and yes, I will always be there for you and love you until the end of the world”.
“We can hang out and relax in the courtyard of the hotel and I’ll show you the koi fish in the pond and the turtles, the red-eared sliders. “Yes,” she says, “I’m looking forward to that and I’ll find it, the hotel, and when I get there, I’ll call you right away”.
I figure I can fill the four hours quite well and after a while I leave my den and wander about the Palisades Park. It’s a sunny Sunday afternoon in late summer and I let my gaze wander from the palisades to the sea, which dreams along calmly and peacefully before me, smooth as a lake almost, just gentle lapping, and then my eyes drift over to the headland of Point Dume and linger on the nearby Annenberg Beach House by the sand, the Back on the Beach Cafe by the bikepath, and I dream up how we spread out there later and how her fluffy laughter will lighten the air and dance down to the sea and melt into the caressing water.
Her name is Viviana, actually Vivian, but I call her Viviana, because of our Latin-American connection. I first met her as a small black dot in the Yucatán, in the midday sun on the long, dusty, deserted path that leads from the cabañas on the beach to the ruins of Tulum. It was springtime and I was just coming back from the excavations by the ocean while she approached me from the opposite direction and when we met, I had a tanned girl in front of me with long dark hair and green eyes and full lips, and yes, her moist mouth, which I noticed right away. At first we spoke Spanish, but we discovered straight away that we were both from Germany. “Where did you learn Spanish so well?” I asked and she said “I have an Andalusian heart, un corazón de Andalucía.” That fascinated me, as I have an Andalusian background myself. We recognized each other as kindred spirits and hugged and kissed each other on the cheeks without speaking….two lost wanderers on a faraway, dusty road, yearning for love.
Unfortunately our paths ran in different directions. She wanted to visit the ruins, and I wanted to rent a cabaña. Of course, there was no sensible reason for me to turn around and accompany her to the ruins. Should I stroll with her like a lost dog that sticks to the first creature that treats him kindly? Later, at the cabañas in the afternoon, she turned up again. We kissed each other on the mouth, light, fleeing kisses on her moist mouth, still more friendly than passionate, but full of sweet promises.
But then it was time for her to leave.
Looking back, the circumstances were simply adverse, yes, the circumstances. She wandered North, to Cozumel and Rio Lagartos, while I was driven South, towards the dark jungles of the Bahía de Chetumal and the moonlit lakes of Belize. We were probably both too proud, too independent and too careless to change our plans. Before she left, I invited her to visit me in Santa Monica soon, and we parted sadly and freely.
Then we wrote each other nearly daily and talked on the phone and our conversations became deeper and more passionate over time. We both knew that we must see each other again, but first we had to wait, days, weeks, even months, because she lived in Germany and, as we all know, in Germany you are busy.
So now I’m waiting again, this time in the Palisades Park, and shortly before half past two I go over to the hotel. It’s a beautiful hotel with a wide park-like entranceway with jasmine, daisies, bougainvillea, birds of paradise and palm trees on both sides and a huge fig tree in the middle, its crown overshadowing the entire wide driveway. An environment that invites you to enjoy life, made for love. I go down to the foyer, but she is not there yet.
Oh, I think, it’s still early and then I remember that she wanted to call. After half an hour has passed, I think to myself that it’s Sunday and nobody knows what happens at the busy San Ysidro border and besides that the bus connections are not good.
I look around in the foyer….. a Muslim lady in a headscarf talking animatedly to her son…an attractive young woman in a miniskirt, her boyfriend comes up to her, tense exchange of words, he leaves abruptly and she looks after him in irritation. I can already see that things aren’t right between the two of them, and I feel sorry for the woman. Why fight when the world is so friendly? Where is my girl? I call her, but she doesn’t pick up. A misunderstanding? An oversight? Or even misfortune?
I am prepared to wait, and that’s what I do. Many hours have now passed, then days, weeks and I am still waiting. I am determined to wait forever. I go to the hotel in the morning and in the evening and at night, I almost spend the nights there, I make friends with the doormen and the receptionists. I pass the time, looking across the hall for help, but I already know, nobody can help me here. I keep myself busy as best I can, change money at the reception and chat with the staff and guests, visit the exquisite restaurant, use the swimming pool and health club. I also invite my friends over and we play chess in the foyer.
After a while, my first dates with women materialize, beautiful women, ugly women, cold women who are not interested in me, degenerate women with tiny lapdogs, women who are after the money I don’t have and women who promise me love but don’t reach my heart, women who offer me their mouths and their breasts and their thighs…
But to be honest, it means nothing to me, it’s like a game, a pastime. Or a movie that I watch as a remote spectator. My real yearning is for Viviana.
She never appears.
I can’t reach her on the phone either. “What has happened, where have you gone?” I ask myself. Why did you never arrive? Why haven’t you been in touch? A conspiracy? A kidnapping? A crime? A murder? A femicide? Where are you now? What are you doing this minute, this second? Oh, I always have been waiting for you, always and everywhere.
And as time passes, she becomes that blurred dot in a distance again on the long, dusty, deserted road in Yucatán that leads to the ruins of Tulum and the cabañas by the beach. The dot that I first encountered. But this time that dot does not come any closer.
© Maniwolf – German Original by Maniwolf. Translated with DeepL.com and edited by Maniwolf. To be reviewed by USAtranslations.org
Los Naranjos
Los Naranjos was the name of the picturesque bay just south of Mulegé, where I arrived in the early evening. Just as I was wondering why there were no orange trees, an elderly woman came out of the longish hut, which displayed a colorful, hand-painted sign marking it as a restaurant. Curious as always, I asked, “Where are the orange trees?” “Aquí mismo,” said the woman laughing, “a Naranjo is standing right here in front of you. That’s because the name of the cove is our family name; we are called Naranjo. Oranges don’t grow here, though, it’s too dry for that, but otherwise we have everything our hearts desire.” That really sounded quite inviting.
Then we got down to business. Señora Naranjo told me the rates for staying in the palapas, which stretched from the restaurant down to the sea, and also for the rough structures cobbled together with beams, reeds, and palm fronds, which they called bungalows. “Let me see the bungalows by the water,” I said, and after a while her husband showed up in a dirty black camioneta, and I followed him in my camper.
He showed me several bungalows by the beach. “Bed linen and tablecloths are provided,” he said, “and you can pull up the window flaps as you wish.” “Window flaps?” “Sí señor,” he said, “in late fall, we are usually ambushed by tropical storms and even hurricanes, that’s why we installed these sturdy shutter flaps that can withstand the worst weather.” He fiddled with one of the thick ropes that ran along rollers on the walls and ceiling, and one of the heavy wooden window shutters moved upward, revealing a view of the water lapping at the shore in gentle, uniform waves. I opted for a spacious bungalow with two huge window shutters right on the water.
After a while, Señora Naranjo reappeared, this time accompanied by a young woman. My gaze immediately fell on this girl, a slender, supple indigenous muchacha with a radiant face and long, shiny black hair down to her hips, simple and beautiful. While the two of them prepared the bungalow for the night and my conversation with the señora splashed along, my mind was completely focused on her young companion. As soon as I met her eyes, curious questions came rushing out of them like a flock of wild-tame cats, streaming toward me from all corners and angles, shy yet irresistibly drawn closer, longing to rub herself against me.
It had been a long, eventful day; I was righteously tired, the bay with the reeds on the shore and the nearby islands was to my liking, everything just seemed to be in perfect order, and now, on top of that, the girl’s eyes were shining towards me with the promise of turning a good day into a round, blissful, perfect day, a day with a fulfilling night. Doesn’t a man who has had a hard day and is turning to the evening, naturally have not only a desire but even a right to the caresses of a soft, affectionate woman?
This was the feeling with which I looked freely and candidly at the girl. “Not only do I need you,” my gaze said, “but I also deserve you, yes, I have a claim on you,“ and she looked back openly and uninhibitedly, in tacit, willing agreement. I sure didn’t stare at her, but rather hugged her with my eyes, stroked and caressed her, recognized and discovered her as a girl coming of age, flourishing into a woman. “Come closer,” my look said, and aloud I said in a soft voice, ”¿cómo te llamas?” And she said “soy Irma Lucía,” and some Mexican pride resonated in her voice; I could see that she was at peace with herself. I threw a carefree, boyish laugh at her, and while our eyes continued to deeply touch, I asked her the names of the beaches and islands, and her words flowed easily and tenderly from her mouth. However, these were questions and answers that floated on the surface only, and the glow in her eyes told me that she wanted to say more, a whole vibrant life story full of yearning and dreaming that stuck in her throat because Señora Naranjo was in the way, whom I asked “that must be your daughter, right?” “But no,” she laughed, slightly flattered, “she’s my granddaughter and my assistant.” When the two were finished, I sought the girl’s eyes again with my glance urging her “come to me later, visit me, I will be waiting for you,” and she seemed to understand. Then she was gone.
Dusk was settling in, and I was wondering what the girl was wearing under her dress, surely a strip of rough, coarse fabric between her brown legs. When a woman is so young and so pretty, any underwear will do. My eyes were turning to the water through the wide, glassless window opening and I listened to the sound of the waves in the tropical night, and off the opposite island I saw a light flashing at regular intervals, a signal obviously, but for whom, for what? I thought the girl should be coming now, and I seemed to hear footsteps, but when I opened the door to the land side of the bungalow and checked, there was nobody there. I grew sleepy, thinking about how I wanted to caress her between her legs, stroking her continuously until she was completely wet and moaning, and at some point, I became completely wet and moaned and fell asleep.
But what did I see when the bright, shining sun woke me up the next morning and I stepped out of the hut to plunge into the water? Something had been painted, written, in the weeks-old desert dust on the hood of my camper. Irma Lucía Castro Naranjo was written there, framed by a circle, or was it a heart? After all she had been looking for me, but had been too shy to knock on the cabin door, or had I been too careless and missed to leave the door open all night?
For a moment, I thought about looking for her. But no, life goes on, and what yesterday would have been perfect in timing and emotions was today just futile poking for missed opportunities. I had a fresh day ahead of me and the lush palm forests of Mulegé were calling, beckoning. I decided that the dreams of the vanished night should be a thing of the past.
I didn’t see her again. But her name I continued carrying on my hub for weeks. Sometimes like a banner that proudly steered me through the desert, other times like a guardian angel that kept me on the right path, over time slightly blurring into a trace of letters until it finally became completely illegible in the dust, blown away in space and time.
German Original by Maniwolf. Translated with DeepL.com and edited by Maniwolf. To be reviewed by USAtranslations.org