Chapter Eight

They drove in a multi-SUV caravan along U.S. Route 101, the ocean on the right and a lush thicket of trees on the left.  

"Damn," Enzo said. "My love life should be condemned and surrounded by yellow caution tape, like a crime scene."  

Ximena giggled.  

"I know. I'm being melodramatic," he said.  

“The ring was my grandfather’s,” she said. “It's my only connection to him, to my past. It is the most valuable thing I have.” 

“It's not the most valuable thing you have, because you can give it to me now. The most valuable thing you have is your heart. And you gave that to Theodore,” he answered.  

She looked out the window again.  

“Enzo. Life is not simple,” she said softly. “I was offered lifelong security for myself and my kids, if I ever have them. What was I supposed to do? How far can love get you if you can’t pay a bill?” she asked. “You know I came from nothing. I’m the bastard daughter of another bastard daughter. I did what had to be done. It has nothing to do with you or me. Life is fucking complicated. You know this.” 

Enzo felt tears welling up in my eyes as he gazed at the Pacific. The sun's reflection created a shimmering path leading toward the horizon, while the massive oil rigs loomed off the magnificent California coast. 

She placed her hand on his leg. He tensed, anticipating a blow.

She whispered: “I never gave him my heart. You know that. I am so sorry.” 

(This is a flashback) 

A debate rages between Peruvians and Chileans about one thing: Which country makes the best pisco sour?

It was January in Santiago, hot and very humid. They could walk only short distances before needing to head into a cafe, restaurant, or bar to cool off.  It was almost 2 p.m. They’d made it past lunch without a drink, which was a rarity for them on this trip.

"I know where I should take you," she said, holding his hand.

Down a winding street of Barria La Steria, she led him to the taverna “La Republica de Pisco.”

The floor and walls were aged and worn, softened with large plants and small potted trees. The bar was dark wood and zinc. She had been here many times; that was clear.  

“Dos pisco sours, por favor,” she ordered. “Con reserva.” 

Santiago is one of the most vibrant Latin American cities. Lapis, copper, steak, wine, fish, colors, love, and poetry. It is a Marian city, with a massive statue of the Virgin Mary, her arms outstretched, overlooking its inhabitants atop Cerro San Cristobal.

Enzo recounted, for the thousandth time, the first time they met. She was sitting beneath a large cypress tree in the Rodin sculpture garden on Stanford's main quad. He approached her, compulsively. He had never just walked up to a stranger in public, but she was magnetic.

“Sai che sei seduto sotto uno dei nostri alberi?” Enzo asked, mistaking her for an Italian woman.

She looked up at him. Her eyes brightened, validating his decision to approach her. Her smile was a receipt. 

“Piensa que todo el mundo habla italiano? Tipico. Estoy Chileno; Want to speak English?” she replied.

From that day on, they had never stopped talking. Not a single day had passed in nearly a decade where they didn't meet, text or talk. Their lives had been a tethered journey since that day. They had dated, fallen in love, and eventually broken up. Through it all, their bond was never in doubt.

The bartender set two pisco sours on the bar.  

Santiago was Ximena’s birthplace and where she grew up. They had just visited La Chascona Museum House, the home of Pablo Neruda. It is a magical place, perfectly preserved. He built the house for his mistress and eventual third wife: Matilde Urrutia.  The cobalt house, nestled into the hillside, is creaky and full of secrets. The walls whisper furtively. In her lifetime, Matilde’s hair was a disorderly nest of vibrant red locks. “La Chascona” literally means woman with disheveled hair. 

Dinner parties with Diego Rivera, Frida Kahlo, and other legendary Latin American luminaries were common. One of the rooms has an unforgettable portrait of Matilde with two faces, painted by Diego Rivera. One face is what the world saw, and the other is the one that only Neruda saw, representing their secret love affair. Rivera embedded Neruda’s profile in the flame red-orange hair of Matilde in the painting.  

Neruda was a self-proclaimed cosasista, a collector of things with no particular order or reason. In one of his cluttered studies, Ximena pointed Enzo towards a black and white photo of Neruda with a beautiful, smiling young woman. Raven hair, dark eyes, a moonlight smile.  

“That photo is the one I always look at when I’m here,” she whispered, her words falling gently on Enzo’s neck first than his ears. 

When they were back at the bar, Enzo suddenly remembered that he had brought a gift for Ximena all the way from Northern California. One of Enzo’s closest friends was an expert calligrapher, so he had asked her to write something special for Ximena. After getting the calligraphy just right, Enzo carefully folded the beautiful document, written on thick, ecru paper, into a cardinal-red envelope. 

They raised their Pisco sours in a salute.

“Before we say cheers, I want to give you something,” Enzo said, pulling the envelope from his leather bag that had been slung sideways across his body. 

She looked at it and smiled. Delicately kissed Enzo lips. Opened the envelope and read quietly. Here's what it said:

Te amo,  

te amo de una manera inexplicable,  

de una forma inconfesable,  

de un modo contradictorio. 

Te amo  

con mis estados de ánimo que son muchos,  

y cambian de humor continuamente.  

por lo que ya sabes,  

el tiempo, la vida, la muerte. 

Te amo...  

con el mundo que no entiendo, 

con la gente que no comprende, 

con la ambivalencia de mi alma,  

con la incoherencia de mis actos,  

con la fatalidad del destino,  

con la conspiración del deseo,  

con la ambigüedad de los hechos. 

Aún cuando te digo que no te amo, te amo,  

hasta cuando te engaño, no te engaño,  

en el fondo, llevo a cabo un plan,  

para amarte mejor. 

Te amo...  

sin reflexionar, inconscientemente,  

irresponsablemente, espontáneamente,  

involuntariamente, por instinto,  

por impulso, irracionalmente. 

En efecto no tengo argumentos lógicos,  

ni siquiera improvisados  

para fundamentar este amor que siento por ti,  

que surgió misteriosamente de la nada,  

que no ha resuelto mágicamente nada,  

y que milagrosamente, de a poco, con poco y nada  

ha mejorado lo peor de mí. 

Te amo, 

te amo con un cuerpo que no piensa,  

con un corazón que no razona,  

con una cabeza que no coordina. 

Te amo  

incomprensiblemente, 

sin preguntarme por qué te amo,  

sin importarme por qué te amo,  

sin cuestionarme por qué te amo. 

Te amo  

sencillamente porque te amo,  

yo mismo no sé por qué te amo. 
 

(English translation)

I love you, 

I love you in an inexplicable manner, 

in an inconfessable form, 

in a contradictory way.  

I love you 

with my states of mind that are many 

and change their moods continuously 

for what I already know, 

the weather, life, death. 

I love you... 

with the world I can't make out, 

with the people I can't understand, 

with the ambivalence of my soul, 

with the inconsistency of my actions 

with the doom of destiny, 

with the conspiracy of desire, 

with the ambiguity of what happens 

Even when I tell you I don't love you, I love you, 

until I cheat you, I won't cheat you, 

basically, I'm making a plan 

to love you better. 

I love you, 

without thinking about it, unconsciously, 

irresponsibly, spontaneously, 

unintentionally, instinctually, 

impulsively, irrationally. 

As a matter of fact I have no logical reasons, 

nor made up ones either. 

on which to base this love I feel for you, 

which arose mysteriously from nothing 

and which has not turned magically into anything, 

and miraculously, from very little, with not much and nothing, 

has improved the worst of me. 

I love you, 

I love you with a body that doesn't think, 

with a heart that doesn't reason, 

with a head that doesn't think straight  

I love you, 

incomprehensibly, 

without asking myself why I love you, 

without it mattering to me why I love you, 

without questioning me on why I love you. 

I love you 

simply because I love you 

and myself I don't know why I love you. 

Ximena looked at the paper for a few minutes. She said nothing. Enzo put his hand on her forearm. She looked up, her eyes full and close to overflowing.  

“Enzo, no one has ever done anything like this for me. I have only felt unloved in my life,” she said as the tears spilled down her cheeks. “Like I am unworthy of love.” 

Enzo placed his hand on Ximena's cheek, his mouth just below her eyes. "You deserve everything you have," he whispered. The salinity of her tears lingered on his lips. 

Her arms were suddenly around his neck, her head and face a frozen pendulum on his chest. She put her lips against his head. He could hear her muffled sobs. She then spoke softly, with an exposed heart. 

"Remember the photo I showed you at La Chascona? The girl in the picture is my mother, one of Neruda's mistresses. As his granddaughter, I've visited the house countless times with my mother, but never when Matilde was alive, of course,” she confessed. 

“When it opened as a museum, my mother saw that the photo had been preserved. Before she died, she brought me there one last time and revealed our story. My mother was a Matilde’s niece, who took pity on her because she didn't have a father. To earn money, she used to do chores around the house. Eventually, Pablo took a liking to my mother and started an affair with her, impregnating her at the very end of his life. For most of my childhood, my mother only told me that my father had died when I was young, which was true. But now I know the truth. Only you know my secret." 

"Is this all true?" he was stunned. “Ximena, right now, you are loved more than anyone has ever been loved at any time. I will always love you.”