Tarzan's Tonsillitis

The Prehistory of Love Damn . . . Having to admit after so many, so damn many years that when everything is said and done we were better by letter. Sure, life beat up our relationship the way the guards smack convicts around after a prison riot, but something extremely valuable and beautiful always existed between us, and that's the truth. And if you can compare reality to a port where packet boats from another century drop anchor alongside brand-new cruise ships of the dinner-jacket-and-long-dress set, Fernanda MarA?a and I were always first-class passengers each time one of us made a stopover in the reality of the other. I think that united us right from the beginning. And also not being able to do a bad thing to anyone, I guess. So what was missing? Love? Hell, no. We had that, in all shapes and sizes. From the platonic, underage love of a pair of extremely timid people to the sensual, jolly, and crazy chaos of those who sometimes had only a few short weeks to make up for, as the song says, the whole life I'd spend with you, to the love of a brother and sister born to love and help each other eternally, to the love of a pair of implacable accomplices in more than one criminal affair, and even the love of a young couple in love with love itself and the moon itself, and finally the love of a pair of old-timers still capable of frisking about on some remote island under the sun, again, as the song goes, it doesn't matter to me in what form, or where or how, but at your side. . . . In sum, yes, we had love of all shapes and sizes, but always good love, yes, absolutely, for sure. It's also true that our loyalty was always honest and absolute, although here we've got to recognize (why not?) that we often acted like two players on the same court playing different games with the same ball. And who could deny, at this stage in our lives, that the thing we were always missing was ETA, that is, what air, land, and sea navigators call "Estimated Time of Arrival." Because our great specialty, Fernanda MarA?a's and mine, over the course of some thirty years, was never knowing how to be in the right place, much less at the right time. So the real pain in the ass, the absolute pain in the ass, is having to recognize that we were better by mail. Which means, in that case, of course, that the best of me has in large part disappeared forever. Okay, I'll explain: on top of everything else, a good decade or more of the best of me disappeared forever. And it's that I died, completely and for all eternity, that day when some fuckers mugged you in Oakland, California, Fernanda MA?a, Fernanda Mine, as I like to call you, and along with the other crown jewels, they took off with about fifteen years of the least bad element there was in me, as you told me yourself, MA?a, in this letter you sent me from Oakland, God knows when because you forgot to date the letter, because in that moment you didn't know what day it was, but to judge from the context, or (better) our context, it must have been in the early eighties: Dear Juan Manuel, The circuit has been completely broken. For various reasons. First, your letters were stolen. Stolen because I keep the entire collection in a huge bag, and some horrible gorillas attacked me on the street, grabbing the bag, my grandmother's beautiful diamond ring, some gold necklaces I was wearing, and a watch. Can you imagine such a thing? I was so mad I ran after them, and luckily, while they were running, one of them dropped my wallet with all my identification papers. At least I didn't lose everything. But they took quite a few things. I called the police, but they haven't been able to find anything. That happened months ago. The only thing they told me was that I was crazy, nuts, to run after them, and that it was lucky I didn't catch them. That's true, I wouldn't have been able to do much against three huge goons likeEchenique, Alfredo Bryce is the author of 'Tarzan's Tonsillitis' with ISBN 9780375421433 and ISBN 0375421432.