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Slowly sliding down onto the soft, camel-colored leather sofa, I
stare at the painting over his fireplace. Though the abstract oil
painting was created by one of the best-known Brazilian artists
of our time, to me it looked like a jumbled mess. Lots of bold,
vibrant hues. Dramatic strokes of black forming incongruous shapes
stemming from the center to the upper right corner of the canvas.
Silhouettes of dancers in varying positions. “There’s too much going
on in this painting,” I thought as if seeing it for the first time.
Carefully holding my wine glass away from my body, I tilt my head
to the left to see if I can make sense of this so-called art by
viewing it from a different angle. “Nope,” I mumble to myself. “It
still looks like a chaotic mess.” No surprise there. I quickly turn
my attention away from the colors and forms screaming at me to the
man who has brought so much to my life…so much pure, unadulterated
joy, so much hell. It almost seems fitting that this painting would
be the focal point in the living room of the man that has created
such a mess of my life. I look into Nile’s eyes and he drinks in
my every movement, my every expression. Those eyes. I remember feeling
drawn to Nile’s dark, almond-shaped eyes that fateful night at the
English bookstore in Barcelona five long years ago.
Nile was sitting on the floor between the classics and the African
American literature section. He balanced several books on his thighs
while flipping intently through James Baldwin’s Blues for Mister
Charlie. I immediately noticed the shape of his eyes when he lowered
his book to glance in my direction with a smile. Surprised, I smiled
back only to realize that he was looking at the store owner, Ignacio,
standing right next to me. Ignacio raised a hardcover book over
his head, exclaiming, “I found Swann’s Way for you Nile! Your special
order came in yesterday.” I felt slightly embarrassed yet excited
to see a handsome young brother with what seemed like a voracious
appetite for the same classic works for which I had a deep passion.
“Gracias, Ignacio,” Nile said as Ignacio handed him the book. The
two then began an intense discussion in English juxtaposing the
short stories of Joseph Conrad and Marcel Proust. I was swept away
by his knowledge of both Conrad and Proust. Yes, I was completely
enamored and I hadn’t even met him yet.
I slowly approached the man Ignacio called Nile, partially because
he was blocking the bookshelf containing the great works of Zora
Neale Hurston, the author who inspired me to set out on a 30-minute
train ride into downtown Barcelona in the first place. But also
because I wanted to get a good look at Nile’s eyes and hear the
sound of his voice up close and personal. One of my strengths has
always been my ability to read people by looking in their eyes.
I was immediately drawn to him and already felt his energy. “Very
good vibe,” I thought to myself as I looked at Nile. I wanted to
know about him, about his life. What was this African American man
doing in Spain? Was he a student at La Universitat de Barcelona
where I was finishing up my graduate studies in international business?
Or was he a wanderer traveling through Europe in search of self?
Was he an honest man or a thief (of which I ran into many in this
part of the world)? Like me, did he really love literature or was
he simply trying to impress Ignacio with whom he seemed to have
a gentle rapport. Before I reached him, I decided not to interrupt
his complete immersion into James Baldwin, which he returned to
after the popular store owner was suddenly called away so I sidestepped
the aisle to avoid stepping over him. Instead I went around to the
opposite end of the classics section. I hoped he wouldn’t leave
the bookstore before I mustered up enough courage to strike up a
conversation. It was a gamble I was willing to take. Though I was
curious, I didn’t think being too forward was the right way to meet
him. Besides that wasn’t my style anyway. So I pulled the Zora Neale
Hurston book I was in search of from the shelf and sat down in the
purple velvet chair to skim through it. Soon I was so immersed in
the first chapter that I almost forgot about this intriguing man
with the beautiful eyes.
Suddenly I felt his presence.
He had walked ever so quietly down the aisle and stood next to me.
“Excuse me, what are you reading? I have been trying to get your
attention for the past ten minutes but you’ve been so engrossed
in that book I thought I should find out what kind of magic elixir
you’ve found in those pages so I can get some too,” Nile said with
the sexiest smile I think I’d ever seen. I looked up at this tall,
casually dressed stranger. He had strong features etched handsomely
in a deep caramel complexion and I was immediately taken by his
baritone voice. I let the book drop to my lap and replied, “I’m
reading Their Eyes Were Watching God. I love Zora Neale Hurston.”
I paused, and then said, “When I came in I noticed you and saw that
you were reading James Baldwin. I am a James Baldwin fan too.”
“Ah yes, I love great literature and James Baldwin is my man! I
could discuss Baldwin’s writing every single day and still discover
a new way of looking at life through his eyes. If only I were alive
back in the 1950s. I would have jumped at the chance to spend even
an hour talking with him.” He looked away as if thinking about James
Baldwin then continued, “I’m Nile. I’m from Silver Spring, Maryland
but I have lived in Barcelona for two years. I was transferred here
from DC to open the European division of the international software
company I’ve worked for for nine years. I come to this bookstore
all the time and I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing your pretty
face here before this evening.”
I reached for Nile’s outstretched hand and shook it thinking how
impressed I was that he was here heading up an international software
corporation. He instantly felt like an old familiar friend. “It’s
a pleasure to meet you Nile. I’m from Chicago but I live about thirty
minutes outside Barcelona in Allela. I am a graduate student at
La Universitat de Barcelona,” I said. “I have seen this bookstore
from the train station a million times but this is my first time
coming in. I was so excited to see the collection of African American
literature that I sort of lost myself for a moment.” Nile pulled
the other purple velvet chair close to me and we began talking about
our favorite authors, our favorite hangout spots in and around Barcelona,
our reasons for being drawn to this part of the world. I laughed
at Nile’s silly yet charming expressions and discovered that we
are both art enthusiasts, wine lovers, triathletes and undercover
hip hop heads. We tried to talk quietly but found ourselves getting
louder and louder. Nile laughed when Ignacio told us to quiet down
to avoid disturbing the other patrons. Nile and I smiled at each
other like two teenagers just discovering love for the very first
time. We agreed to continue our conversation over coffee at the
popular café, Xocolatería Valor. Nile had never been there and I
thought it would be a great place for lively conversation, great
coffee and entertainment. It was open mic night at Xocolatería Valor
and I had seen some terrific performances there. Besides, if Nile
turned out to be a weirdo, I knew Raquel, the café manager, and
my roommate would look out for me.
As he threw his brown messenger bag over his shoulder and went to
the register to pay for Swann’s Way, I sensed that this hopelessly
enchanting encounter with my new friend, Nile, just might be the
beginning of a very special relationship.
I had no idea, however, that this was also the beginning of the
worst kind of hell I could ever possibly imagine…
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