Carmen Ferreiro-Esteban - Immortal Love

Bcquer called Sunday morning.

I was arguing with my daughter at the time, because she wanted to go to a Halloween party and I said no. I said no, not only because the party started late, but also because the outfit she planned to wear would have been too small had she been five, and she was fifteen. Caught in the middle of my impassioned speech to support my refusal, I picked up the receiver and barked a sharp hello.

A voice, deep and beguiling, answered mine. Carla, this is Bcquer.

The dark eyes his name evoked sent my heart into overdrive so that my voice shook when I returned his greeting.

We met last Sunday at the Eastern College Writers Conference, he explained.

As if I could forget.

He had been the only agent to ask me for a full manuscript that day. The only male, too, in a sea of female agents, a fact that would have made him memorable even if he hadnt had the impossible good looks of a pagan god. He was older than most agents at the conference, mid-thirties was my guess, and, unlike all the others, he knew who I was.

I read Two Moon Princess, hed told me when I sat down at his table. His voice, loud enough to be heard over the noise of other attendees furiously pitching their stories, was warm, creating a comforting intimacy between us. An intimacy his words only enhanced.

He was the fifth agent to whom Id delivered my pitch that morning. Or maybe he was the sixth. Id lost count of how many had told me already, with canned smiles glued on their faces, that my project was not a good fit for their list. As for someone reading my published work, that was a first. Ever.

You did? I mumbled, trying to remember whether I had sent a resume with my application.

I ran a search on you. He answered my unspoken question. Im interested in Spanish history. Nothing personal, his words implied.

Your accent

Still there after all these years, he interrupted me as if to discourage further inquiry. Tell me about your new novel. Did the boy kill the queen?

Its a love story, I told him, reluctant to give away the ending.

Bcquer smiled, showing a perfect row of white teeth between his sensuous lips. Marvelous. I adore love stories, especially when they have tragic endings.

Bcquers voice came through the phone, bringing me back to the present. I finished your manuscript and would like to meet with you to discuss it. If thats all right.

Yes, of course. I tried and failed to sound nonchalant. When? I grabbed a pen as I spoke and faced the calendar on the kitchen wall to mark the date.

Caf Vienna on State and Main in fifteen minutes?

Fifteen minutes? You mean youre here in Doylestown?

Exactly.

I would have asked for more time, but I could hear Madison screaming her head off up in her room, probably complaining to a friend about her impossible mother. Because my mind was busy blocking her voice, I didnt have a lot of brains left for thinking. So I agreed, only to panic as soon as I hung up.

What was I thinking? I would never make it on time.

But I did. It took me a minute to run upstairs, give Madison an ultimatum either she could go to the party in another costume or wear that one at home and rush in, then right back out of my room.

Bcquer was sitting by one of the windows, a cup of coffee in front of him. He got up as I approached and, after inviting me to the chair across from him with a movement of his hand, asked me what I would like to drink.

An espresso would be nice, I said, taken aback by his old-fashioned manners. When was the last time someone, male or female, had offered to get my order? Yes, I knew gentlemanly manners were a sign of male dominance, and I had endured enough of the drawbacks of a misogynistic society as a child to be certain I didnt want to live in one. But the way Bcquer asked was not condescending, more like offering a courtesy to an equal. If he wanted to impress me, he succeeded. Somehow, I thought he wasnt trying.

Soon he was back from the counter and set the espresso in front of me: a small cup on a saucer, the European way. I thanked him for the coffee and for the fact that he had brought me a real cup. How did he know, I wondered, that I missed the Spanish cafs and the coffee served like this, in white porcelain cups? Maybe he missed them, too, and he had guessed.

How strange the little things I remembered from my old life, the one I gave up when I followed my ex-husband to the States. I shook my head to get rid of the memories, and sipped my coffee while Bcquer stared at me.

I loved your story, he said, when I put the cup down.

I waited, out of habit, for the unfortunately it doesnt fit my current list I was certain would follow, but it didnt come.

I hope you dont have an agent yet, for I would like to represent you.

You want to represent me?

Yes, of course. You didnt think I came all the way here to apologize for not taking you as a client, did you?

No, I suppose not.

I trust you have checked my credentials by now and know Ive run my agency for ten years and been pretty successful placing my clients.

He laughed when I blushed, for he had guessed right.

So?

I knew I had a speech prepared for this occasion stored somewhere in my brain. But when I searched my mind I couldnt find it. I nodded. Yes, I would like you to be my agent.

Good. Bcquer reached for the briefcase resting on the windowsill. He had beautiful hands, wide and strong, an artists hands. Long ago, when I was younger, I had looked at hands as a way to judge a possible suitor. Bcquers would have passed the test big time. Not that it mattered anymore. I was not thinking of a suitor now. Hadnt since Id married. Not even after the divorce. When you marry the devil you dont want to try again.

Are you all right?

I blushed furiously under his dark stare and nodded.

Bcquer pushed a paper toward me. I took the liberty of bringing the contract with me. Care to sign?

Now?

After youve read it, of course.

An alarm went off in my head. Every piece of advice I had ever heard told me to be cautious, to read the small print. But when I looked down and saw the contract, I frowned in surprise. It was handwritten, with the flowery calligraphy they dont teach in schools anymore. A style that would have been outdated, even in my time. Yet it was easy to read: the text was short and straightforward, the conditions better than the ones on a standard contract. No fine print to ponder.

I looked up. It seems reasonable, I said, and then stopped, suddenly aware of the total silence around us. Everyone, I realized with a start, was frozen in place, as if they were actors in a movie I had paused by mistake.

What happened?

Beatriz. Bcquer pointed at the door where a woman in a smart suit stood facing us. My personal secretary. She found me.

My stomach hurting as if the coffee Id just swallowed had turned to ice, I looked from the woman back to him, and then again around us, taking in the impossible stillness of the place.

Who are you? I asked, my voice broken with fear.

Bcquer sighed and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

Im Bcquer, he said. Gustavo Adolfo Bcquer.

He pronounced the name slowly, his eyes on mine, and I knew he wasnt lying. Yet the truth was unacceptable.