The Typewriter. ®. (English Version)
Bartolomé decided to turn off the computer that sunny December morning. Christmas was just around the corner from the square, and he undoubtedly needed a good dose of love, he mused, as he watched from his balcony the Christmas lights, which had been put up in a lesser amount by the mayor’s office that year due to the severe economic crisis plaguing the country. He lit some tobacco in his brown “Sherlock” pipe, then sipped a drink of lovingly distilled almond liqueur. How long can a man endure such overwhelming loneliness? He wondered. He had to catch up for the sake of his own health. He reasoned.
In those days, his inseparable friend, whom he used to see once a month, had forgotten him, like everyone else. Where would he find a beautiful woman with whom to spend those snowy holidays in good company? He was pondering all this when he discovered among his jumbled papers from years ago, a commercial brochure from a famous company that sold typewriters—yes, the kind that had not been used for many years. He smiled and had the idea to visit a second-hand store to acquire one of those old devices with which writers of yesteryear performed literary magic. For months, the idea of writing the old-fashioned way had been on his mind, to thus discard the programmed virtuality of the computer where almost everything is so easy to find and so convenient to steal for hackers. Sometimes, out of suspicion, he would start his stories with a fountain pen but would eventually end up typing, as he added some images of his own creation to his stories and the computer made the task easier.
After licking a bit of strawberry jam left in the jar, he sat on the beanbag in his living room. Internet dating was not very promising. He told himself. He knew it from a couple of experiences he had on the net, once and never again, he needed a woman for a more stable relationship, but what if he fell in love? His bachelorhood could be in danger, as could his writing, of course, he couldn’t wait much longer. Since he was not a womanizer or fond of frequenting bars in the “Magdalena” area, as he was not attracted to whores, not even the most acclaimed ones, it was a bit more complicated for him, although looking at the matter from another perspective; in a way we all have something of a whore in us, selling ourselves for something. He discerned. My beloved “Watson,” he said to himself, calling the glass where he poured some of his favorite liqueurs by that name, you know as well as I do that this is a difficult business. He scanned his memory; almost all the women he knew were married or too young for him, maybe he should wait for one to get divorced. He drank, what if I chat for a while? Maybe my alternating love girl is waiting on the net, but no, he had already tried and returned to the idea of buying that typewriter, he dialed the phone number that was printed on the commercial pamphlet but that business had closed years ago. With that, he went to the yellow pages and after a few minutes, he located a company that still had those writing contraptions for sale on their shelves, a second before he picked up the phone to dial, the doorbell rang.
- Who is it?
- Advertising! – A male voice exclaimed.
- Leave whatever you have in my mailbox, please.
He put his eye to the peephole but there was no one there, he withdrew the bolt and took the flyer, giving it a once-over: “Disused articles at the best price,” the leaflet said. Exactly what he was looking for, he told himself. He called the number immediately.
- Do you have typewriters?
- Oh yes, sir, we have plenty.
- Thank you and he hung up.
He would take the next bus and go that very morning to the advertised store. The Christmas holidays can be sad for those who are alone in love, despite the day being sunny. The bus that went to the city center did not take long, and after half an hour he was walking through the narrow streets of beautiful Seville.
That place was dusty and the manager seemed interested in getting rid of all those second-hand or third-hand or who knows how many hands trinkets as soon as possible: Typewriters, classic coat racks of good wood, clothes in abundance, a mound of books of all kinds, mixed together, the smell of Ducados tobacco and dampness, a helpless cockroach, electronic objects, mobile phones, music CDs, a red poster with a black-eyed flamenco dancer, and so on…
- Choose the machine you like the most, remember that these contraptions are magical, ho, ho, ho, ho.
- How much do they cost?
- If you hurry, you can take the one you want for twenty euros.
- I want the purple one.
- It’s my favorite, you have good taste, ho, ho, ho, ho.
When he arrived at his apartment, he parked the typewriter in a corner and spruced up his “Sherlock” pipe, as he never smoked in the street; he had previously let out a grand fart that he had stoically endured throughout the return journey, undoubtedly it is bad manners, although one feels very relieved. He spat it out.
He opened his email and found almost the usual, advertising, spam, viruses, jokes, and forgetfulness. Of course, no editorial letter about his last mammoth manuscript he had sent. He looked at his online bank account; he barely had a few euros left. Just enough to face his “pale” Christmas without a tree or anything, Santa Claus will understand, he told himself it was already too late for the Three Kings.
After his repeated letters to a former cute friend, and others, none of them wanted anything to do with him, he had come to terms with it, closing the email. He needed a romance with a preamble of platonic coloring, at this point, he heard an echo similar to that emitted by old typewriters like the one he had just acquired. Where was that resonance coming from? It was not from his contraption. It must be the neighbor, and he smoked a little, trying to place himself in the last story he was writing:
[…] Yesterday I was in the park traveling with my gaze with the stroll of those swans, the levitation of the white and Christmas snow and the walk of an attractive woman. Her plane would take off shortly, and he longed for it all to end. Crossing a continent to meet someone can be an absurdity, Bernardo thought, it was too late he couldn’t back out […]
He stopped writing, he heard a sigh in the air that said: “Press space, press space”… He did as he heard but nothing different than usual happened, he laughed and returned to his story:
[…]. The flight attendant is very nice, he told himself, as he accepted that scented newspaper and the watery whiskey in a first-class glass.
- Good morning.
- Good morning. –
- Yes, I’ll sit next to you, you seem like a cool guy, I warn you I’m very talkative.
- It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, he exclaimed, as he reviewed the astronomical headlines of the new era. When will this humanity begin to enjoy peace?
- Don’t waste your time with those newspapers, it’s best to wipe your ass with them.
- Yes, but you run the risk of the headline being printed on your butt.
- Are you referring to the printed ink? […]
He removed the cover from his newly acquired typewriter that seemed almost new due to the little use, looked at the space key and pressed it, how clumsy he said, he had to dust it off…
He wanted to relive the experience of writing on the arcane contraption, then he saw that yellowish paper with something written on it rolled up in the black cylinder, the note said:
“If anyone reads this, please return this machine to the address noted below. Signed; Rita Pencil.”
Rita Pencil? What a name. Then he had the disturbing idea that that contraption had been stolen. He moved his eyes with a serious gesture; he had forgotten that he paid to acquire it and felt bad because he assumed it could be stolen or misplaced, he covered it up again and returned to his computer, where he was writing that story that helped him survive:
[…]. – What do you do for a living?
- Ah, excuse me, I was absorbed in the newspaper, I occasionally write scripts for a modest film and television production company.
- Oh, it’s a pleasure and an honor. And what titles have you written?
- Well, for now, I contribute to projects with short stories, but I haven’t achieved a great success yet. And you?
- Talk to me informally. I sell houses on the coast. It’s what I like the most, I enjoy what I do.
- Interesting.
- It has been in decline, it seems that there are signs of recovery.
- It was about time.
- Where are you heading on these special dates?
- If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.
- Well, surprise me.
- To meet someone.
- A woman.
- I think so, it could be one of those nasty Internet jokes. In any case, I’ll be back for Christmas Eve, I’ll only be gone for one day. – Flight attendant please two whiskeys with ice.
- I’ll accept that… […]
At that instant, the television turned on by itself and Bartolomé paused his writing, glancing at the monitor. The remote control was on the table, how could that have happened? He got up from his chair and decided to turn off the television, he also made sure the typewriter was well closed inside its cover, putting it away in a closet. Then he continued writing his Christmas story:
[…]. – Fasten your seatbelt.
- Very kind of you to remind me.
- Do you suffer from aerophobia? You should have said so before.
- It will pass.
- Sir. Do you need anything for motion sickness? – One of the flight attendants exclaimed.
- I need you, ha, ha, ha. The pedant exclaimed.
- Don’t take it as a joke, this man has turned pale, put your head down, soon it will all be over, I’ll bring you something when I get back, I have to go for takeoff.
- Thank you, young lady. And as for you, what you said is true, you talk too much.
- We’re going. […]
He heard a strange thud coming from the room where he had stored the machine, he went there, the contraption had fallen from the closet shelf, luckily it hadn’t broken, I’ll have to test if it works, he mused. When he had checked it, he slid the carriage silently until he placed it in its usual position and inserted an A4 sheet, he typed:
“I need half a kilo of coffee, a beautiful woman, also a bottle of mineral water and why not a bourbon…
The keys did not move, he checked all the keys, he knew the operation of those devices from years ago as he had worked with them for many years and everything seemed in order, it must be some minor thing, he decided. He stared at the paper and with his finger, he pressed the space key. At that instant, instead of advancing a space on the paper, the machine wrote the previous text, he did another test and wrote:
- “As soon as possible”.
But the carriage did not move, he repeated the previous action and pressed the space key again, the same thing happened as with the first note. I definitely have to take it for repair, he told himself, and he covered it up. After this, he set out to continue writing his fiction journey story on his computer:
[…]. Wake up, wake up, we have arrived.
- Where are we?
- Well, here. I have to go, it has been a pleasure, I would like to drink a coffee with you writer, but they are waiting for me.
- Don’t worry, I’ll manage. Goodbye, I hope you sell many houses on the coast…
- Thank you…
In that city, Christmas was very different from Seville’s and it was much colder, he was grateful to have remembered to grab his coat, where he kept the address noted on a piece of paper, he would undoubtedly take a taxi. He crossed the terminal with his hand luggage and got into a fast taxi that very soon headed down that highway adorned with snow due to the low temperatures.
- Sir.
- Yes?
- Are you sure the address noted on the paper is correct?
- Completely. Why do you ask?
- For no reason, for no reason…
When the vehicle stopped, his expression twisted as if he feared a trap, joke or deception.
- What does this mean? What is this place?
- I already told you and you said the address was correct, I know my city, you know?
- But this is an empty lot.
- That’s right. Decide if you want to come back or stay, if you decide to stay five hundred meters further up, along that path of thick snow, going up that trail, there is a forest ranger’s cabin, but I think it’s uninhabited and behind that hill, there is an abandoned and half-ruined palatial estate.
- Wait. Are you trying to tell me that no one lives here?
- Yes. Could you hurry up? Other clients are waiting.
- I don’t know. Okay, here’s what I owe you. Could you come pick me up tomorrow morning around ten?
- I can’t promise anything, I’ll try, take my card in case you want to call me, excuse my way of talking to you but; are you sure you don’t want to go back? It will be cold tonight and there are wolves around here.
- No, thank you, I’ll take my chances. Wolves, you say?... […]
After taking a warm bath, he drank some black coffee with cream and whiskey. In the bathroom, he reconsidered that incident with the keys and decided to try to continue his story on that old typewriter:
[…]. Bernardo was well-equipped and he walked that trail with youthful eagerness, for a moment he lost hope but his intuition inside the taxi was powerful. In the distance, the little house that that driver spoke of could be seen, smoke was coming out of the chimney and he smiled, he might not have been well-informed although he was almost certain it could be the shed that that message referred to, however, he found it strange not to have received any e-mail with photos. Fifty meters before reaching the small garden that bordered the house, someone opened the door, he looked up and saw a beautiful woman of medium height, who was waving to him. It was then that he breathed a sigh of relief. […]
Bartolomé stopped typing his story. What name can I give to that woman in the cabin? – The old machine now seemed to be writing well. He decided he would call her Rita Pencil like the woman who signed the note that came with the contraption, he wrote and pressed the space key, continuing his fiction:
[…]. Hello. You must be the man who almost always writes to me.
- My name is Bernardo.
- I’m Rita Pencil. Nice to meet you.
- And that feather embedded in that pretty hair?
- I am a native of these deep lands, that is, an Indian, my tribe is very old, you can come into my humble abode, make yourself at home. […]
It was at that precise moment when Bartolomé realized that he had been trapped inside his own story, disoriented he wondered what could have happened to him. He didn’t know what to say or what to do in that shed, with that beautiful woman, a product of his imagination, however, he tried to keep his composure as if nothing abnormal had happened. Now he was no longer in his Seville apartment typing on his typewriter, now he was in body and soul inside that cabin with that strange woman, a product of his imagination.
- Is something wrong? You have a poker face. If you don’t like me now, you have the night to think about it, I’ll pour a drink, the flight has affected you. You are pale…
- I was thinking about why that taxi driver who brought me said that this place was uninhabited.
- Was he a man with a wild mustache?
- Yes.
- Okay, I gI was thinking about why that taxi driver who brought me said that this place was uninhabited.
- Was he a man with a wild mustache?
- Yes.
- Okay, I get it. He jokes with foreigners, dark humor.
- Thanks for the drink, it’s very rich and it’s a good pick-me-up.
- So you’re my Internet love. My poet. You’ve blushed.
- You see, it’s not that. The truth is you are too much, I wasn’t expecting it, I have no words.
- I can tell you’re uneasy. Is something wrong with you?
- It will pass. What is that noise?
- My cat and my dog.
- Is it one of those man-eating dogs?
- No. It’s small but very intelligent and an expert sniffer, it often plays with the cat on the carpet when nights like this are approaching they both cuddle up.
- What are you referring to?
- It’s because of the cold, well, I think I’ll make coffee.
- Thanks.
- Are you happy?
- It’s like a snowy dream, you hadn’t told me in the chats that you were such a pretty Indian.
- And what importance does that have in love? Tell me.
- I’m not as romantic as you think.
- Do you think we should have slept together already? I need some time.
- No problem with that, but thanks for asking.
- I must go up to the turret to look through the telescope and send news, I already told you about my work. In the morning if you wish, I will take you to the reservation and you will meet my people. What shoe size do you wear?
- Hey, look, no, that thing about the family, no, I want to have a relationship with you, but there’s one thing I haven’t told you, I’ve been trapped inside my own…
He tried to tell the beautiful Rita Pencil what was really happening to him. But would she believe him? Better not.
- When I come down, you’ll tell me what’s blocking you…
When she left, he looked at himself, everything seemed to be in order, his clothes, his appearance, however, they were not the clothes he was wearing when he was writing in his apartment in Seville, after a few minutes she returned.
- I’m back.
- Ah. I have to tell you something before it’s too late, something very strange and supernatural has happened to me…
- Let’s sit near the fireplace and you can tell me what’s bothering you with a drink. Are you impotent?
- No, it’s not that.
- Then what?
- I’m not who you think I am.
- I’m not who I told you I was either.
- It’s just that, I was at home I was writing a story and then.
She kissed him surprisingly in such a beautiful and loving way that she thawed him out.
- Did you like it?
- Yes, but you must know that I don’t know if…
- I like you, Bernardo. Did you bring the poem you promised me?
- Yes, before that, I wanted to talk to you about what happened to me.
- I also wanted to tell you something, I haven’t told my boyfriend here that I love you yet.
- Hey, no, no problems like that. Seriously.
- He’s a good guy. Do you think a woman like me would let a violent guy into her life?
- I don’t know what to believe.
- What are you doing?
- I’m calling a taxi.
- No taxi will come here at this hour. You have disappointed me, I’m going to my room you are not the man I met online, I’ll leave you the sofa.
- Forgive me, come here, I like you and you are better than I imagined at first, the thing is that when I was writing my stories I always thought about what it would be like to be one of my own characters, I don’t know how long my dream will last, I don’t want to hurt you.
- Let’s go up, we’ll sleep together.
- Okay, Rita, maybe it’s better that way…
When he woke up the next morning, he felt the warmth of the fireplace, a beautiful perfume intoxicated him, delightful music was playing and the water from a nearby shower, he was naked. He got out of bed to get dressed immediately but he didn’t have time.
- Do you want to shower? Will you kiss me?
- Wait, I’m going to shower.
- Why are you running away from me?
- It’s not that, Rita.
- Well, kiss me… - They kissed so passionately it seemed like love –
- Look, the sun has come out, it’s a good omen for us.
- I don’t believe in those things.
- I’ll make coffee, I’ll wait in the snowy garden.
He was left alone, checking his documents, his same name, his same address from reality, however, he didn’t know where he was or what country it was and he regretted not having written it in the story, he had to ask her, he remembered the plane ticket, at that instant a small dog with floppy ears and a white color sniffed his feet, he didn’t remember much of the night before and he caressed the little dog, he got dressed and went down, when he saw her there with her back turned slowly sipping coffee and caressing her cat that was licking a little bread with honey, he realized that what he was living was reality and he could even be in love. Fear seized him, he undoubtedly had to return home.
- Hello, Rita. Will you invite me to a coffee?
- Here you go, handsome. You fell asleep last night, then you woke up and we made love all night.
- I’m sorry, these things don’t usually turn out well, we can be friends perfectly, I give you my word as a poet and fantasy novelist.
- What time does your plane leave?
- It must say on this ticket, in a few hours. Who would have bought this ticket?
- What did you say?
- Ah, it takes off in the afternoon…
- Then we have time to visit my people.
- I don’t know if that’s a good idea.
- It is. I think I’ve fallen in love with you.
- And you say it just like that. You just met me, if I were a sadist I could hurt you, don’t say those things.
- Now you sound like my father.
- Maybe that’s a good thing.
- I don’t know what you’ve done to me.
- Don’t say anything about this to your people, hey, do you still have those bows and arrows they have in the movies?...
She smiled at him and they smooched for a while, they made love until time ran out… Bernardo did what she told him. The Sun illuminated that path of pure white snow that yawned Christmas profiles from other places.
- Surround me with your arm so they don’t shoot you.
- I’m not going to the village. Don’t even dream it.
- It was a joke, man, I love you.
- I’m a little scared of how you’re taking this, we haven’t even had many relationships.
- Didn’t you know that men make love better when they’re almost asleep? Here comes my friend Feather in the Wind.
- Rita, hello.
- Hello, pretty. This is Bernardo.
- The one from the Internet? My, you have bags under your eyes, friend and so do you, Bernardo…
- Hello, you’ll see that I don’t fit in here. I miss Sherlock and Watson.
- It’s true, you told me you liked to smoke in your Sherlock pipe and drink from your Watson glass. Feather in the Wind, where is everyone?
- Did you forget?
- It’s true they went to spend the day in the riverside forests with the dogs. Who stayed behind?
- The sorcerer.
- Smoke is coming out of his chimney, we’ll go see him.
- Look, Rita, this is too much for me and I’m not going through my best moment. I thought you were independent, I’m not ready. This is not reality!
- I’ll tell you something, our tribe is very old, the sorcerer will look at you but don’t contradict him, take a drink of this.
- What is it?
- Fig liqueur.
- I knew that flavor didn’t sound right to me, I’m not going in there.
- First of all, you should know that the sorcerer is my boyfriend and that I brought you here so that you would release me from the commitment that binds me to him, you must convince him that I love you.
- Not in my deepest dreams would I ever do that.
- I love you.
- It can’t be, I’m sorry Rita Pencil.
- Is it that you love being begged?
- It’s not that.
- That sorcerer is an intellectual and a professor, what did you think? Ha, ha, ha.
It was the first time he saw her laugh that way and also the first time he felt something beautiful and deep for her and he was there in the flesh to feel it, he was not one of his characters. The sorcerer opened the door for them and both entered a carpeted and warm room, two critical-looking Alsatian shepherd dogs left the place when their owner entered with his guests. The three sat by the fire and the sorcerer took the floor.
- Let’s have a drink.
- Drink, Bernardo, this liqueur is made by himself.
- Thanks, thanks.
- Cheers.
- Cheers.
- Cheers.
- When will you come to live with me?
- I don’t love you, I love him, he came to tell you, because he also loves me.
- I didn’t say that. I mean I want you to release her from the commitment.
- Let’s have another drink.
- Okay, this liqueur isn’t bad. What is it made with?
- Better that you don’t know, Bernardo.
- Did you change me, a strong and wise Indian, for this half-white man?
- You know that’s how love is.
- Don’t go too far, sorcerer.
- Be quiet. Little white boy. What’s your name? Bernardo? Tell me something. Where do you get those names?
- Don’t believe him, he’s joking.
- Don’t worry, Rita, on second thought, sorcerer, being named Bernardo is better than being named Eye of something or Sigh of something. Rita, I don’t want to argue and I’ll leave.
- Sit down, have another drink.
- I have to catch another plane, this has gone too far.
- Okay, okay, you are released from the commitment, give me a hug. Congratulations Bernardo, you are taking the jewel of the tribe. What can I do, things of nature…
- Of course, Midday Light. Here’s your hug…
- Midday Light? What a name for a sorcerer…
- What did you think of our sorcerer?
- Very cool.
- I’m sorry, it’s my fault, ever since you arrived I’ve treated you as if I were hunting you. Do you forgive me?
- If you give me a hug, maybe.
- I’ll take you to the airport, I feel like I have failed.
- You haven’t failed, I’m the one who must resolve something very important and incredible. Tell me something. What did you see in me?
- The man of my life, it’s a very deep shame that you have to leave…
They both remained silent until they said goodbye at the terminal…
- Your hands are very beautiful, everything about you is beautiful but there is something I can’t tell you or even admit to myself, I want you to know that I feel very happy to have met you. I will always remember you…
- You look at me as if we weren’t going to see each other again.
- Goodbye, Rita Pencil.
- Call me when you get there… I’ll wait for you for as long as it takes…
Bernardo or Bartolomé, took his uncertain flight and slept during the entire journey, a flight attendant woke him up before landing. Christmas Seville was seen from the sky, bright and clear, he didn’t know what could await him, he took a taxi and the address existed, so he looked relieved at the traffic of the cars.
Upon arriving at his building, he felt his coat and checked that there were keys, before putting them in the lock, he heard footsteps, someone opened the door of his apartment from the inside, he stood frozen, cold, pale when he saw an exact replica of himself in front of him.
- I imagined that something like this could happen to me before I got here.
- You are my exact replica? – Bartolomé, the one who was inside the apartment, exclaimed.
- No. You are my exact replica! – The traveler replied.
- You are wrong. I am the writer, without me, you would be nothing.
- So you know what happened to me?
- I wrote it, I created you to find myself.
- No, this can’t be true. The thing with the Indians was awesome, but this, this is too much for me. Get out of my house right now!
- Calm down, come on, you’re just my other self. Come in, I’ll pour you a good drink.
- I can’t believe it, we’re the same.
- Wait in the living room, I’ll fill Watson with our favorite liqueur and we’ll meet again, on the table, I left you a smoking pipe just like mine. That is, ours.
- Are you referring to Sherlock?
- Yes. Besides, someone has been waiting for you for a while.
- Rita? Is that you?
- Yes. I am Rita Pencil. Hello. I came to pick up the typewriter…
END
Story author: Jorge Ofitas. ®.
A story from the book Amber and Jasmine.
Spain. 2011. ®. Europe. 2020. ®.
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