Love in Lowercase by Francesc Miralles Read Free Book Online

was lucky to have died of tuberculosis twenty years earlier.
    Their love was doomed because, among other things, she was married. However, this didn’t prevent them from meeting a couple of times or stop Kafka from writing her the following words:
    Dear Frau Milena, the day is so short, what with the time spent with you and a few trivial things it is almost over and done with. There’s hardly any time left to write to the real Milena, since the even more real one was here the whole day, in the room, on the balcony, in the clouds.

Lunatic
    Kafka’s love letters must have put me in a romantic mood, because when I left the class I decided to return to the crime scene.
    It was 1:00 p.m., the same time as when we had met. The intersection where it happened was only a few minutes’ walk from the university. This time I felt no emotion. The street looked like any other street, with its never-ending traffic of buses, cars, and motorbikes.
    This street is much worse when Gabriela’s not crossing it
. I laughed at my own observation.
    On the other side of the street there was a small bar with a terrace, at the beginning of Carrer Bergara. I thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to sit there for a while to see if the miracle might happen again. While I was heading for the only free table, I remembered the joke about the drunk man who, on his way home at night, looks for his keys next to a lamppost, not because he lost them there, but because there’s more light. I was doing much the same, but only to prolong a dream.
    Although it was sunny, I was surprised to see that two out of the three tables on the terrace were occupied in the middle of winter. An elderly couple was sitting at one of them—Scandinavians, by the look of it. I guess a temperature of five degrees and icy gusts ofwind must have been like summer for them. A bearded man of about forty in a gray overcoat, wide-brimmed black hat, and white scarf sat at the other table, holding a thick, spiral-bound manuscript.
    I took my seat at the free table in the middle and asked for a vermouth. From there I had an excellent view of the intersection, although there was no guarantee I’d be able to catch Gabriela if she turned up.
    What a coincidence, Gabriela!—
I’d say—
The other day I was devastated I didn’t have a chance to say hello
.
    Me too. Isn’t it a miracle that we’ve met up again after so many years?
    It’s chance that brought us back together again. But sometimes one has to help it along, like God
.
    Well, that doesn’t matter. The most important thing is that we’re together now, isn’t it?
    Yes, nothing will separate us now
.
    As I imagined this conversation and began to feel emotional, I noticed that the bearded man was openly staring at me. I tried to stare him down, but he didn’t flinch. He seemed to be mesmerized by my presence.
    I conceded defeat and looked down at the manuscript on his table. It was a thick book of more than three hundred pages with the following title, written in large letters:
    THE DARK SIDE OF THE MOON
    Must be a nutcase
. I paid and stood up to leave my observation post. The man in the hat kept studying me, and even as I walked away I could feel his lunatic’s gaze boring into my back.

Message in a Bottle
    I had a sandwich on the run for lunch, as I didn’t want to waste too much time: back home I had an ambitious domestic program that included two loads of laundry, vacuuming the living-room rug, and cooking dinner for the whole week.
    I was also keen to work on my Kafka notes. I wanted to be on the ball when my students started their oral presentations.
    After three Metro stops I was in Gràcia, the only neighborhood in Barcelona where there is more space for pedestrians than for cars. When I passed the Verdi movie complex on my way home, I stopped to see what was showing. Then I bought a newspaper and a bottle of sparkling water.
    I could now lock