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Entry No. 3

Salvatore Narvaez did not wish to see his youngest son set out to sea, if not for the grave consequences that befall the young lad if he would stay, or to the danger of a life being constantly pursued, where one’s freedom is limited and has to turn his head every once in a while to guard against those who wish him harm. No, he reasoned, as he tried to search for another way. But they were poor. Hard enough as it was to be consumed by poverty, harder it was to be the subject of a cruelty designated between the impoverished and the rich. He could not blame Francisco, whose youth exhibited all the markings of an idealist, and the subterfuge offered by being young – invincibility – which made them feel safe from the aftermath of their folly. Neither could he blame Amelia, for she, too, can be considered a victim. Indeed, her deep blue eyes sparkled with the tears running down her cheeks when he and his son saw her, knowing that a simple glance could mean goodbye, and that love is not what it often seems to be, a package handed on one’s lap, a mystery that could never be fully comprehended.

There had been two attempts on the life of Francisco, both he narrowly escaped. If there’s one thing that Salvatore should be thankful for, it was the fact that his son was still alive. One fine morning, while the former was delivering candles that they made, two men charged at Francisco with daggers waiting to be plunged. If not for the quick response of the neighborhood, who quickly hid him at one of their cellars, the candles Francisco would deliver would have been lighted on his grave. After learning of the incident, Francisco confessed to his father why those men have tried to slain him.

It was on one of those long walks toward the market in Barcelona that Francisco caught sight of the most beautiful creature he saw. Standing by the window of her room, Amelia, who just came back from Paris with her father, tended to a pot of rose waiting to bloom. Like a child mystified by a sight he never saw before, for a moment he felt that he could not breathe freely, stop dead, suspended on where he stood. When the young lady looked out and saw him, she gave him light smile – the kind of smile that greets an early morning – and continued with what she was doing. Francisco looked around him, then behind him. He could not believe that an angel would take notice of his existence, furthermore, endow him with the sweetest smile he could remember. He slightly waved his hand and Amelia covered her mouth to laugh, such fine intricacy it was among women, able to wield even the movements of their body to define and redefine man’s concept of beauty. Then suddenly, an old man appeared behind her and motioned her to close the window.

For the cautious, boldness is a form of stupidity, cloaked in disguise of bravery - and passion, it’s biggest accomplice. Even before the sun was up, Francisco would pick roses and stealthily climb beneath Amelia’s window. Later, he would pass the same street as if nothing had happened, take a glimpse on where he left his precious flowers, and smile at Amelia if chance would permit. This he did for one week. Then one day, while climbing the low fence to submit his offering, a letter was tied to a string hanging on the pot of rose. It was addressed to “The Rose Bearer.” Quickly, he read the note and it said, “Meet me tonight at one in the morning. And thank you for the roses.”

Needless to say, Francisco did not sleep while waiting for the passing of midnight. Twice, he scrubbed his body with water and scented oil. With heavy steps denoting excitement and nervousness, he made his way to Amelia’s house. She was waiting for him.

“Thank you for the lovely roses,” Amelia, in a low voice, said while she smiled. “I knew it was you.”

He could not speak a word. It was as if everything stood motionless, and that fraction of a second seemed like forever. If moments could be seized and held within one’s hand, he would have kept this instant on his pocket, free from the harm of the outside world, and that certainty which is change. They say that love could be fathomed in different degrees, and the wise when confronted with it could not be as wise as an imbecile, but when their eyes locked in a trance, Cupid with his folly must have felt no responsibility. The choices we make are ours alone; Francisco and Amelia did not see any distance, for love they say is blind, blind enough to see what other senses have failed to decipher.