Our paper crowns, p.6
OUR PAPER CROWNS, page 6
“I’m sure your talent and presence will be enough, love. When you were on that stage, I only saw you and no one else.”
“You say it because you are in love.”
That word spoken by him is like a lightning bolt in front of us. It is decisive and drastic and real. There is no going back for a word like that. You are or you are not. And I am determined to the point of madness.
“I say it from artist to artist. And maybe also because I’m in love. Or a little of both.”
He climbs onto one of the horses. I stand next to him, holding onto the post.
“What are you doing there? Come, I got you.”
And just like that, as if nothing had happened, he lifts me onto his lap. I’m sitting on his lap with the whole world spinning around and he’s as steady and unscathed as ever. His hands are placed on my lower back holding me firmly. I don’t even shudder. I can shudder at a thousand other things.
His perfume, for example, smells of forest and lime. Heady.
The touch of his hands I can swear pierces the fabric of my coat.
The traces of his makeup that make him look like a total bandit.
His crooked smile makes me think that maybe he knows the effect he has on me, but he’s holding it in.
Thousands of possibilities live with my body in his body.
“Can I kiss you?”
I make a vertical tremor with my head. It’s not a shudder. It’s a yes in this language we just invented. That’s all I can and want to say. It is more than enough to understand us. At this point, I think Zilé is capable of interpreting even my breaths.
His kisses are tender, lilting like his dance and warm in his fire. They can turn me into ashes but they temper themselves, they treat me with delicacy and love. He controls his fire so as not to leave me in ruins, because of course he is capable of doing so if he sets his mind to it, but he is acting—kissing me—with kindness and tenderness and it is the most extreme enjoyment that there is even in his control.
I can’t help it and I go down to his throat. I place one of my hands on his collarbones and the other on his right shoulder. The world continues to liquefy into lights, but I am only aware of him. I’m on his lap and he’s making me the happiest boy in the world. My lips are an uncontrollable tremor and I enjoy the lack of control. For him and for me. The world could be freezing to death and I could still feel like a forest fire under his kisses and caresses.
His hands—oh, his hands!—have found their place under the fabric and sink into my skin. I kiss him with more passion—this time I’m the one with the initiative—I cross my two arms over his shoulders and there’s not even room for air between him and me. Lips, cheeks, chin, neck; I crave everything from him. I am a stream of light and a world blurring.
Meanwhile, Zilé moves away from me a little and answers a street vendor.
“Do you like sugar? Well, it doesn’t matter,” Zilé says. “This time I’m going to break my stupid diet because something has occurred to me that takes me away. You drive me crazy, Rob.”
I am so stunned by what is happening that I have no idea of time. My column is a pyre. All my skin is. If it weren’t for the firmness of his muscles, I’m sure I would exist on another reality plane.
“I’m going to unbutton your shirt a little,” he tells me. I collaborate by moving my coat away a little. There is no one around us anymore.
Then he begins.
He places some of the blue cotton candy on my chest and starts sucking on it. First calmly and then with desperation. My body is erupting. My skin is raw and my being trembles encountering that suffocating yet pleasant heat. I have never breathed as well as I have before, even though my lungs feel close to collapse. The sweet smell of cotton intoxicates my senses along with the cherry flavor of Zilé’s face. He gives a light bite to my nipple and that’s when my throat shakes and I moan his name lightly. I kneel on his shoulder, my mouth open in amazement. He doesn’t leave even a wisp of sugar on me.
We spent the rest of the cotton candy biting it and then quickly kissing each other before it dissolves. By turns. I can’t imagine what our lips will look like. Although we can pretend that it was part of a show, a homoerotic version of The Nutcracker or a play that is closest to our instincts.
When only a small portion remains, he places it on my cheek and sucks it like he’s a vampire who hasn’t had his fill in years.
“Did you like it or was it too sweet?”
“Damn, Zilé. This has been… I forget how to speak.”
“That’s my boy.”
“Can I do the same with you later?”
“Will you be able to? Consider it a fact, Rob. As many times as you want. We probably look like traffickers and they will investigate us for that, but what does it matter. We had a wonderful time.”
The way he pauses his sentences to breathe properly makes me realize the magnitude of the matter. And also, at a certain point, I notice another kind of thing under my thighs. That does not lie. We do not lie; we have left this cruel and sometimes senseless planet for a few minutes being together and doing crazy things with our bodies.
It is the best Christmas I have ever had, and not only because of this kind of contact, but because of this kind of overflowing joy and euphoria. Where others might see an incomprehensible and even indecent voracity, I see a miraculous mixture between hunger and balance, between fire and ice, a series of opposites making a truce.
On the way home, next to him, I see that the main streets and avenues are uninhabited. We look like two ghosts (I imagine a story where we have both become ghosts after so many caresses and imploring) wandering from here to there, in nothingness. Or it seems that the world has agreed, that it has conspired with our plan and has given us the absences and the right ally.
“Shall we go to your shower?” he tells me on the landing. “I can’t get home like this.”
“That sounds like an excuse to me.”
“You’ll tell me,” he answers, with that crooked smile of his. It will never stop electrifying me. I take his hand and we go upstairs.
My mom is sleeping. I don’t think the noise of the shower will wake her up. Not at all.
Zilé and I enter the steamer. The steam is so thick that I’m only visible from the waist up, which I find an immense relief. Just seeing my boyfriend’s naked torso made me collapse. My eyes give me away. And my hands and my steps, so I stay where I am.
“What was promised is a debt. I would never forget it. Italy. I know, beautiful. And you make it more and more difficult for me, but I swear it will be in Italy. For now…”
For now, we just let ourselves be enveloped by the calm of this shower. It is as if the vulnerability of our souls also comes together in this complicity. As if we were letting go of everything bad about the year, as if we could shake off the accumulated sadness from our bodies and the brightest versions of both would remain.
Invincible and then as light as this vapor.
“They should put more restrictions on you like this from now on,” I say half jokingly.
“Can I come to your shower whenever I want?”
“Yes, whenever you want. And even more so when you are in a hurry, to give more emotion to the matter. Although I want you to know one thing. The emotion does not depend on whether we are without clothes or whether we are kissing; It just depends on you and me being there.”
He nods. His eyes shine. I succumb. We dry ourselves. The care in his gestures surpasses me. We’re both holding ourselves back from overstepping our limits, but sometimes it’s too much. Will I be in a dream? Maybe that’s a superpower of ballet dancers: they introduce boys like me to impossible dreams at will and then release them into mundane life.
“This is going to sound really cheesy, but do you need anything else before I leave? Is it too much of a stretch if I offer to cook you something? You’ll be fine?”
“I’ll be fine, Zilé,” I reply. I am blushing. “When you get home, text me, okay?”
“OK.”
“And don’t ever eat damn cotton candy without me, okay?”
“Sure.”
We kissed one last time that night, our lips now clean of dye.
Not only are my lips clean, I realize now.
I feel my life is clean as of today.
And overflowing with sugar, with Zilé under my clothes, with steam and kisses and kisses and kisses on a carousel.
I had never liked cotton candy so much before Zilé. I have never craved to touch someone else’s skin as much as I crave Zilé’s. I have never enjoyed spending time daydreaming about someone’s smile so much. I have never felt so alive losing sleep for someone as I do—and will continue to do so—for Zilé.
To tell the truth, I’m not such a ritualistic person. Sure, I fear many things and I’m somewhat superstitious, but I don’t believe in higher powers capable of preventing us from misfortune. What will happen will happen and that’s it. But if tonight, the last night of this year, I had to make a single wish, that wish is too clear to me. Like few things in my life. And a little luck wouldn’t hurt me now.
So mom and I don’t say no to a good Danish tradition.
Before the clock strikes midnight, we stand on the top edge of the couch, half dizzy from everything we’ve eaten and drunk, and we jump up.
We caught good luck on our descent.
We fall upon a new year.
I have never liked these dates. I feel them like an evasion taken by society to avoid slopes of all kinds. A fleeting escape and then returning to a bitter reality. The usual routine. In my case, I come face to face with reality.
I have finished my degree.
I have to invent a new routine; the one before, the perfectly regulated routine of university life, is already a thing of yesterday.
What will I be able to make with my own means?
Although the real question would be: What will I be able to make with my own fears?
I have abundant fears, like thousands of ants crawling through my body.
The fear of starting something and leaving it halfway.
Halfways terrify me. They have always terrified me. I try to complete each of my projects, but most of them don’t work out. I have a truncated life. My efforts are not enough to fulfill my commitments with satisfaction.
Now, for example, I want to open a piano academy for children.
I open my laptop and begin to scrutinize the handful of procedures to be carried out. This bureaucracy will never cease to overwhelm me. However, I think this must be worth it. If it is a dream that has kept me awake so many times and I see myself as a fulfilled person in the future by achieving it, I am sure that every sacrifice will be worth it.
When my mom comes home from work, I tell her everything in great detail.
“That’s a fantastic idea, darling! We can remodel the first floor. I know an interior designer who can help us. This way this house will no longer be so uninhabited. I love it!”
Her festive spirit sublimates me. She writes down the details of that designer on a card. And that’s it. It’s just a matter of time and patience.
A week later the appointment I made with Szymon, the designer, occurred. I have decided to see him first in a cafe and then bring him home so he can make his first sketches and give me an approximate budget.
Watching him sitting here in my living room, the tension is so solid and strange I can cut it with a knife. Also, a strange feeling that I know him from somewhere bothers me. Where have I seen him? Or is this just a trick of my crazy imagination? I shake that thought and put it aside. He has come solely for work purposes, I tell myself earnestly.
“Wow! This tea is really exquisite. If I had known, I would have come directly to your house.”
“Thank you, Szymon. I’m glad you like it.”
I try not to pay so much attention to his Polish geometry. And I define it that way because most of the guys I’ve seen on Instagram have those sharp features on their face and those dimples and that smile capable of freezing you or making you glow, dazzling like a morning sun. Szymon also has broad shoulders and his face can change from the most absolute seriousness to the most flirtatious gestures. I saw it when he smiled at the waiter. I hope I don’t fall prey to its charms. That’s all I ask for. And that hypnotizing hair? I’m about to ask him what shampoo does he use.
“I assure you that I’m better at the piano than I am at making tea,” I tell him later. “Well, how do you see this?”
“I have everything perfectly planned in my mind. According to the budget you told me, of course. I can do more than decent.”
“Great.”
He makes dozens of notes on his drawing pad. He also takes several photographs. I tell him some aspects about the acoustics and he takes them into account with strict adherence. He assures me that everything will turn out well and of course with that look of security in his almond-shaped eyes I have no doubt.
We say goodbye.
I spend the rest of the afternoon wondering what that avalanche of thoughts about Szymon was. It’s as if a short circuit has invaded my nervous system. Is this how I naturally behave in the face of beauty? And what happened to Zilé? Of course, I had it in mind. That’s what throws me off. And clearly, I haven’t gone further or committed anything that I regret, but what if the opportunity arose? The version of that disgusts me.
It’s just that I’ve been electrified by his presence.
That’s all.
Or not?
I go to Instagram and somewhat instinctively I look for his profile. I find his personal account, but it is just as I imagined it: professional to die for, perfectly balanced with his color palette and the tone of his photos. A photo of the waves on a beach, another of some interiors that look like the Palace of Monaco, another where he is sitting wearing a black sweater and with his hands almost crossed (this is the serious Szymon) and another cascade of interior photos—some pieces created by himself. I find another photo where he appears in full body in a museum room. Who took that photo? Will he have a boyfriend? He looks like the king of the universe in that picture. He wears all black. How much formality. And how good it looks on him.
When I see him again, I find myself, without a doubt, more relaxed. I have internalized the effect of his presence. In my college years that never happened to me with any boy. Why right now? Why with him? I have told myself on countless occasions that his formality will never be broken by someone like me. There are guys a thousand times better-looking than me that he could lose his sanity with. The Calamitous gave me his warning beforehand:
BALLET DANCER ZILÉ THORN BREAKS UP WITH ROB HILSEN AFTER INFIDELITY. WITH AN INTERIOR DESIGNER!
This morning the breakup between Zilé Thorn and Rob Hilsen emerged. Several media outlets claim infidelity as the cause of the breakup. Rob Hilsen would have had a torrid affair with Szymon Nowak, a young and prominent interior designer.
Clearly this dark omen is one of the most useful I have ever had, as it helps me—now more than ever—to not even touch that possibility. Zilé is my story, my destiny, my loved one, my soulmate. There is no one else and there never will be.
But every time I meet Szymon’s gaze it is as if there is an attack on my peace.
“I used to play the piano before,” he tells me, “But due to work and my constant travels I decided it was better to give it to someone who would use it more than me and get better use out of it.”
“Oh really? I would like to hear you!”
I’m afraid that won’t help anything, but it came out instantly. It’s my nature as a music lover acting out of inertia.
He sits up awkwardly and the fact of seeing him like that, out of his comfort zone and his formality, touches me. He begins to play, first unsure and then completely sure of his notes, with that serene countenance so typical. This is what music encompasses, I want to tell him, even the stumbles, even the security and the silences make up a beautiful spectacle.
“I don’t understand why you stopped playing,” I tell him, stunned by his talent.
“Did you like it? I thought you would destroy me with your criticism.”
“No, not at all,” I smile. “You have done it very well. You have the right stuff.”
“Coming from you that is a tremendous compliment. When I see you at one of your concerts, I will remember your generous words very well and it will be something beautiful.”
I blush at the pretty way it paints my future. Most people who have said something similar have only fueled my anxiety. He has made it seem like a bright, safe and possible path. I feel like a titan when he describes me or compliments me, just like Zilé does.
“Well, in that case, for me to get to that concert, I first need my academy for piano lessons,” I tell him, “so let’s get to work.”
And so, we return to focusing on the last details.
“Can we try, now with you?” says Szymon now that the study is almost ready. “There is no one better than you to give it the go-ahead.”
“OK.”
I carefully try each variation of sounds and the result is much better than I expected. I try to take in the good work Szymon has done; the floor with a beautiful wooden finish, the Doric borders and columns of the interior, the windows through which light enters in abundance and that have automatic blinds and the management of the space. It is simply the academy of my dreams and much more.
I am moved to tears.
“It’s great, it sounds great,” I say, trying to contain myself. He smiles as if he didn’t already know.
“With those words I am more than satisfied. And with that smile.”
He’s sitting next to me and I swear he’s getting closer and closer every second. I notice his fibrous hand on my lap and part of his bicep crumpling his shirt. I stop it before it becomes irremediable. I stop him before my heart bursts.
“I’m sorry, I’m dating someone,” I say firmly with his lips a few millimeters from mine, noticing his breath of cherries and fever. The atmosphere of disappointment stifles joy and euphoria. Our possible versions decomposing. What would have happened if I had found him first than Zilé? The thought knocks me down again and again.
