Cloudburst: An Anthology of Hispanic Canadian Short Stories

Wheelchair Love

Óscar Armando Tobar 273 Wheelchair Love It’s just the way I am, I like normal people, the kind who live the common life of mortals, people who, in moments of inspiration , fight to change the world and bring people together in the twists and turns that life brings. Sometimes things aren’t as we would like them to be. I read a bunch of prose pieces at a recital. They rarely call me to read. The next day, Marta, a friend of Alam’s, phoned me. Seduced by the last reading, Marta suggested we do a literary workshop. She said there were already three of us lined up to speak. We were already together: Marta, Alam and I. Alam pulled out right away, claiming that his schedule was already too full. Introduction Marta, originally from Albania, is white with a black woman’s lips and a man’s hands; tall, very tall, but quite small in her wheelchair. From the beginning, she said that I made her feel like she was on vacation. After moving on from the conversation about personal identification, we threw in a few jokes and innocent games. We sorted out the details of the literary workshop. Marta adored the Latin American romance and claimed to have the same tastes as I did. I limited myself to just listening to her, since this woman, despite having sprouted from an illiterate crop, living among sidewalks and roses, had acquired a wealth of knowledge. Furthermore, Marta had studied arts and humanities. “It feels like we’re being watched here,” she concluded, challenging me. “Next time, we’ll go to a place that’s screamproof , at my house.” Before leaving, she gave me a lottery ticket to push me to dream big. First Encounter She effused a Sunday perfume and I liked the way her hair moved when the conversation exploded into a passionate war of words. Marta premiered the old dress usually worn by Cloudburst 274 the mannequin out front. Her invalid eyes were like blue butterflies . We laughed till we shouted because I told her that the lottery ticket she’d given me had multiplied by one, as usual. I saw in Marta the classic look of someone searching for a key companion for a marathon relationship. There was no spark in her when we critiqued a poem that would save us from oblivion. She gave me a handkerchief embroidered with birds and silver letters. Second Encounter Three weeks went by without incident before we saw each other again. This time, we met in Marta’s house. She amused herself killing flies by smashing them with a broom. We exchanged word games on a bunch of papers, mine in Spanish, hers in French, since her mastery of French lifted her to the border of the cultured world. We even talked about those books that you hear so much about it’s almost as if you’ve stayed up all night reading them yourself. My dreams never made a nest in her window; I appreciated very few of her poems. We were suspicious of the new wine, which inebriated us too quickly; but emptying the glass crater filled with red wine, I showed her the swallows at the golden bottom of the table, while she, even more tipsy than I was, tried to convince me that the table was bathed in pure gold. The day grew dark, and before saying goodbye, Marta gave me a graft of a tree branch from who knows where, which completely withered in my house a week later due to the lack of water and light, since my room is completely dark. Given that I spend so much time outside, Marta found that I resembled a young Indian chief from a lost tribe that had yet to be discovered. She marvelled at everything about me to the point of leaving a rose-coloured scent on my phone while we talked. Third Encounter She was tired of living life sitting down and of thinking so much in her wheelchair; she said she had cramps in her feet, and so she decided to go out without it. I served as her cane. We walked in silence as she clung to me, afraid of bumping Óscar Armando Tobar 275 into a rock. Marta wore glasses and when she looked at a dog, she got scared of going blind. Sometimes she trembled so much that...