TWO
The Notebook
Past
When he woke up, he found himself seated at a long desk, surrounded by several open books on poetry, novels, and astronomy. In front of him was the notebook where he wrote his story. The sunlight streamed in through the grid-framed windows of the library, casting shadows that stretched across the desk. Wooden bookshelves formed aisles in front of and behind him, and if it weren't for a few readers passing through them, he would have been alone.
A young woman approached him with a hint of shyness. She looked like a first-year university student.
"Excuse me, do you know where I can find this book?" the young woman asked, extending a piece of paper with the title of the book she was looking for. Christopher noticed that she had a crossbody bag on her shoulder, similar to the one the woman on Neptune had.
He looked her in the eyes, wanting to know if that feeling from the train would return.
"I think I've seen it," he replied, getting to his feet.
Together, they walked down one of the aisles of bookshelves. Christopher searched among the titles while sneakily glancing at the young woman.
"Is this the one?" He pulled out a book and showed her the cover.
She took it and began flipping through the pages. Christopher examined her, especially that curious crossbody bag. He wanted to be sure she wasn't the disheveled woman he had seen on Neptune.
"Yes, thank you," she finally said.
He didn't feel the need to speak and nodded slightly with a smile. The young woman left and met a man at the reception desk, whom she took by the hand.
Christopher returned to the desk and contemplated the spread books. Maybe he had been trying too hard lately, believing things that belonged to his story. He impulsively pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked the time. It was getting late.
He hastily gathered the books from the table. Amidst the closing of the texts, he didn't realize that his notebook had become trapped between the pages of one of them.
He stacked them and handed them over to the librarian. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and left.
A few seconds later, another woman entered, wearing a crimson beanie and a crossbody bag. She approached the librarian and handed her a note with book titles. The lady selected a few books and placed them on the counter, including one that Christopher had handed over. The young woman picked them up without checking and headed into the rows of bookshelves.
*
Christopher gazed at the tall office buildings from the window of his workplace, trapped in a routine as monotonous as it was suffocating. It was a silent and formal place where employees barely exchanged glances and took refuge in cubicles with low partitions that kept them isolated from the world. Every day felt like a morgue. Laughter and enthusiasm were luxuries that didn't exist. Despite it all, Christopher found solace in his music, which filled his headphones and separated him from that gray world. While designing a sailboat sailing on a crystal-clear sea for an upcoming advertising campaign for a brand, his mind traveled far from that sad and discouraging place.
Finally, he arrived at his apartment, where he poured himself a cup of tea to admire the city lights sprawling before him. It was a ritual that relaxed him, preparing him to continue writing and drawing. With firm steps, he approached his desk, ready to take another cosmic flight to Neptune. But soon, he realized something terrifying: his notebook was not there.
*
The next day, Christopher arrived early at the library, worried that his little notebook might be lost in that place. There were never many people reading; if he had forgotten it, it should still be there. He approached the long table and began searching under chairs and in corners, but his notebook was nowhere to be found.
He decided to ask the librarian for help, but his anxiety increased when he saw the librarian's indifferent attitude toward his request.
"I see many notebooks, books, and pamphlets every day," she said with a sarcastic tone, not taking her eyes off the computer.
"It was a black one," Christopher insisted. She turned with a sharp look, blatantly showing that she didn't care about the notebook.
Although Christopher strained his memory, he still couldn't remember where he had left it, but he had an idea.
"Could you help me find the original book by Gustavo Bécquer, the one with poems?" Christopher asked, trying to see if he could jog his memory.
The librarian took a deep breath and reluctantly detached herself from the computer with a concealed annoyance. She approached to check the index cards in a small file. Time seemed to stand still as she passed the cards one by one, testing Christopher's patience. Finally, she found the book, but it was currently being used and not available.
Christopher knew that taking the original books from the library was not allowed, but he took a risk and asked hurriedly, "Where is it?"
The librarian searched for the person who had it at the main desk and the smaller ones, but it wasn't in any of them.
"I don't know," she responded, adjusting her glasses. "It must be around here somewhere."
Without wasting any time, Christopher delved into the library's aisles, checking each bookshelf one by one. He found a couple of readers but none of them had his notebook. When he reached the back of the library, where silence prevailed, his hopes began to fade. He visited the last two bookshelves and found them empty; the search seemed futile. But then, just as he was about to give up, he heard a metallic creaking noise that made him stop.
He cautiously peered into the last aisle. In it, there was a small metal ladder leaning against a wall shelf. At the end of the three steps, there were tiptoes of delicate and soft female feet clad in ballerina flats. Memories of calves and stretched thighs of that woman began to flutter through his memories of Neptune. When he reached her wavy chestnut hair, a tingling sensation ran down his spine.
Despite the possibility of it being just another one of those coincidences that often happened when he was immersed in his stories, like the young woman who had asked him about a book, he had to make sure that his notebook wasn't among the stack of books waiting for her at the base of the ladder. So, he approached cautiously, not to startle her.
"Excuse me?" he said softly.
However, she seemed startled, lost her concentration, and her foot stepped on thin air. She extended her arms to reach the furniture but couldn't quite make it and fell backward with a cry. Her buttocks hit the floor, and her back hit the bookshelf behind her, causing it to lose balance and topple over. Christopher hurried and managed to place his arms to support the shelf before it hit her, but the books fell onto her, covering her completely.
Christopher pushed the furniture back into position.
"Are you okay?" he asked with concerned.
She emerged from the pile of books with a furrowed brow and a hint of annoyance from the accident. She turned to face him. Christopher finally saw her: a delicate, refined, and proportioned face with not-too-thin rosy lips and a slight shine, a fine and slightly upturned nose, wavy chestnut hair that was shinier than he remembered, tousled from the accident, small and well-aligned ears with a pair of small white button-type earrings, naturally identical eyebrows forming a gentle arch over her clever, bandit-like, perfectly concealed eyes.
The first time I saw your eyes... it was like an electric shock, reviving my heart.
There was something in Christopher's gaze that softened the woman's furrowed brows naturally. They looked at each other in silence for a few seconds, and she broke eye contact with a bit of haste. Christopher discovered that at her feet lay the crimson beanie.
"We've met before," he said. It wasn't a question, but she didn't seem to care.
"No," she replied seriously. She wore tight jeans and a white top she had adapted by cutting off the sleeves of a T-shirt, exposing her navel and attractive hips. She brushed her legs, massaged her buttocks, and tucked her hair behind her ear while searching among the scattered books at her feet.
But the most mysterious thing is your movements, a bit nervous... something... clumsy.
"Can you help me?" she asked, placing a stack of books on the shelf.
She had a deep, contralto voice, slightly husky, giving her a wild touch.
"Of course," he replied, helping her organize the mess. "I was looking for the book of Bécquer's poems, the original one," he added while assisting her. "Have you seen it around here?"
She stopped, put her hands on her hips, and raised an eyebrow.
"It was one I had here," she reproached, pointing her eyes toward the stacked books. "I don't know now; it must be around here." She took a breath and continued to organize the mess.
"If we weren't so far back, they would have kicked us out by now," he said optimistically. He picked up the crimson beanie and handed it to her.
She took it and started to clean it.
"What's your name?" Christopher asked in a friendly tone.
"Why do you want to know?" she inquired.
"I would like to know the name of the person I nearly buried in pure poetry," Christopher said, alluding to the type of books that had fallen on her.
The woman let out a faint smile as she placed the crimson beanie on her head, but quickly masked it to make it appear mocking.
"Relax, you didn't succeed," she replied with feigned seriousness. "See, not a scratch." She crouched down and lifted the stack of books she had separated.
"Good," Christopher said, "because I wouldn't dare to harm poetry." And he raised the last book from the floor, which turned out to be the original copy of Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer's poetry. She approached him with an intense gaze.
"¿Qué es la poesía?" she asked ironically before leaving the hallway without waiting for an answer.
Christopher replied in a whisper as he watched her walk away towards the desk. Then he opened the book, flipped through all the pages, turned it over, and shook it, but his notebook was not inside.
So he went after her once more. She was reading in one of the chairs at the desk. As he approached, he realized it was his notebook and was overcome by a very unique feeling. He had no doubt; they had met before, but apparently, she didn't remember or perhaps didn't want to reveal it. It was a strange and wonderful synchronicity at the same time. His notebook was more than just an object to him; it was a part of his soul, his passport to the realm of dreams, and now it was in the hands of the woman in the crimson beanie. The same woman he had seen on Neptune. He had finally brought her to wakefulness.
There are moments that come to stay.
Comments ()