He held a glass of red wine in his hand. He drank it slowly, sipping it, instead of eating his dinner. He felt its touch on the edge of his lips, its bouquet spreading in his nostrils, its color caressing his eyes, and that taste spreading across his palate. This was his solace. Catharsis. A moment of pleasure in his gray, colorless life, devoid of any color or music of pleasure. A life that had passed him by like a hurricane gust, taking away his entire world, all the taste of existence as he knew it.
No, he wasn't an alcoholic. A glass of good red, drunk alone, every lonely evening, when you're dying again, drunk not for intoxication but for a moment of pleasure, for the taste of that divine drink, probably wasn't alcoholism yet. Or rather... It probably didn't matter. Leaning back against the soft back of the armchair they'd once enjoyed so much, he thought of nothing. He would have liked to say, when the silence gave rise to voices, "Is that you, Teresa?"
But he didn't say it. He couldn't. He knew she wasn't here. In fact, he wished she were gone. Drive away from him. Leave him or abandon him. In fact, she put his suitcases outside the door and said, "Go away." But she didn't. She became a memory. As if yesterday's breath of his wonderful days, of the love he'd given her, of the life they were supposed to spend together.
Someone might have said, "It happens." But do these things always have to happen to us? Do we always have to be the victims of these merciless wheels and screeching tires on the street? Are we meant to be killed by this merciless hand, severing the umbilical cord that connects us to this world?
This time he felt it clearly. A hand touched his arm. It was warm, though perhaps not. Perhaps it was his memories that gave rise to her warmth. A warmth as if imprinted on his soul, in the abyss of inert memories, of what had flown away with the stream of time that powered the clock on his desk.
"Is that you, Teresa?"
He looked around and glanced at the alarm clock. 11:17 PM. He was alone. The same room, the same empty space hidden between the smooth, orange-painted walls where the nursery was supposed to be.
"Yes, it's me."
A sweet, mysterious voice, coming from his soul, from the depths of his heart, which he believed had died that day.
"It's me, Arthur.
" "Have you come to me, Teresa? I can't see you.
" "Don't look with your eyes, Arthur. Close them, you don't need them. Look into the depths of your soul. As deeply as only you, Arthur, can look. Look with that sensitivity of your heart that no one wanted to see in you, and only I could see and appreciate. Look with the goodness with which the good God has imbued you, look with the mercy that has been given to you.
- Okay, Teresa.
In that moment, as he closed his eyes, he pushed away the bad dreams of this world. All the bad regrets and worries vanished, as did the sadness for a life so lost. Now he was no longer alone. He danced in the garden of Eden, inhaled the scents of unearthly flowers, listened to the unearthly beauty of the angelic choirs. But all of this was dwarfed by Teresa's blue eyes. He would have shattered the gates of hell to look at them. He was willing to suffer eternal hellish torments just to hold her in his arms for even a moment, as he did now. To feel her warmth and love as fierce as his. But he didn't have to sacrifice anything. This moment was given to him, without any sacrifice, without any preconditions. Even God couldn't be indifferent to such a feeling. After all, he himself is love.
"Yes. He is love, Arthur. The love he bestowed upon us, he gave us as a gift. A gift that the hosts of hell cannot overcome.
" "When we are together." You are my Paradise.
"We will be, Arthur, we will be. Not for long, but not on a human scale. And on a human scale, we are always together. When you laugh, I laugh with you, when you cry, I wipe your tears, when you delight in the gift of this bouquet of wine, I feel this delight with you. We are together at every moment, at all times. And although your eyes don't see me, your ears don't hear me, your soul knows I am always with you.
" "Aren't you in Paradise, Teresa?
" "No, Arthur. I am in it. I am in it with you. You are here with me too. We immerse ourselves together in the peace of these gardens, saturated with God's limitless Mercy. We are here, but we are there too. Time and space have no limits for us. Nothing can defeat a love like ours. Not even Satan. Not even all the knowledge and science he has given humanity. All of this cannot compare to the love God has given us, Arthur.
" "Will I be able to stay with you, Teresa?"
"No, Arthur. Not yet. He wants you to return. He wants you to show others the gift he gave us. To dry the tears of those who weep; to give hope to those who lack it; to be music to those who have gone deaf; to show the way to the lost, to give a hand to the blind, to those whose eyes have been covered, to lift the mask from their eyes and to those without faith, to restore faith. And to the dying, he showed the meaning of their suffering. This is the gift we have been given. The grace that, even if you don't yet fully understand, you can give to others. This shriek you constantly hear in your ears, this laughter of Satan, cannot be his triumph, Arthur. This is the gift. This is the grace given to us. This shriek, this moment of his triumph, is your light. The light that can illuminate the world in the darkness of reason and science, of Satan's gifts, so uncritically accepted by people. This light is in your hand, Arthur." You can still do so much good, show so many people what love is. You can tell them it's not a figment of priests' imaginations in the dead souls of churches. It's not a relic of bygone eras, forgotten. To say it's not sadness, not desolation. Show it the joy and life contained within that word. Only you, Arthur, will be able to reveal it to this maddened world. Only you and no one else. So you must return there, beloved. You must take this gift and distribute it below. You must give it to those who seek it. To those who cannot find it.
Then they danced, full of love. Connected by an eternal thread. By life that bound them. By death that was meant to separate them, but united them forever, stronger than the titanium bars guarding the gates of hell. Love was beyond all this, but it was something more. It was a flash of genius, a force so powerful in its weakness. It was also a song that no choir of angels could ever sing.
Then he felt herself beginning to recede. But he no longer felt sadness. He was happy, full of joy, imbued with never-ending hope. He didn't know who he was talking to. Teresa. An angel. Or perhaps it was God himself who had placed his message in Teresa's mouth. It didn't matter. This gift had been given to him. It had dispelled his sorrows and anxieties. It had driven them far away from him. He would show it to others. He had to give it to them.
He turned on the computer and began tapping the keyboard. The rhythmic movement of his fingers and the clicks of the buttons he pressed drowned out the silence that had been so terrifying until recently.
"My eyes were filled with tears when I began to write.
You allowed us to dance in the garden of paradise, to
touch your hands so tenderly again
, to share so much with us with your love..."
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