Ghost Writing

You should have seen their faces, Sophiia, as they sunk their scones into their sugar-loaded teas. It was rather amusing, I must admit. Faces so familiar to me contorted in shock at our encounter. It did feel like a performance of some kind. One where we tested the boundaries of the socially acceptable in the northern Portuguese town that likes to think of itself as cosmopolitan and non-judgmental. What exactly shocked them, I couldn’t be certain. Perhaps it was his age, almost triple mine. Perhaps it was the unusual color of his skin, matching the all-black Adidas tracksuit he wore with effortless swagger, disrupting the conservative dress code of the room. Perhaps it was the fact that I was one of them, or at least, looked and spoke like one of them. 

I’ll never forget the sight of him striding into the cafe, the glass walls surrounding us, revealing both the sea outside and the scandal taking place indoors. He scanned the room, squinting his eyes, and as soon as he spotted me, the only unaccompanied woman in the venue, he discreetly pointed at me, confirming I was the one he was searching for. I nodded, grinning slightly, and when he smirked back I felt more seen than I had in a while. He is one of those people, Sophiia, who can make you feel alive like that.

As he settled across from me, the waiter—the same waiter who used to take my grandma’s dictatorial orders for scones with raspberry jam and chamomile infusions—approached our table. The man’s demeanor remained as submissive and dull as before. Only this time he seemed to carry an extra layer of bewilderment. His eyes flickered between us as they might be watching a ping-pong match, while at the same time avoiding direct contact. My companion was unfazed by their scrutiny. I wondered what life would feel like if strangers reduced me to a projection of their discomfort like that all the time.

In case you’re wondering how we met, my former professor connected us. She knew he was based here now and looking for someone who could help him write a book—a memoir of his life, he later revealed. It was either that or joining law school, but even he thought he was too old for that. That was the sole instance he mentioned his age.

When I got home I realized I hadn’t shared all that much about myself. He hadn’t probed either. I know it’s a defense mechanism of mine, Sophiia, we’ve talked about it before. The more I inquire—the closer I get to unraveling the mystery that is another person—, the more I distance myself from them. It’s effective if only because most folks enjoy talking about themselves so much. He certainly did. In fact, he loved it so much that he hired me without even assessing my writing, let alone in English. I didn’t mind it, though. Have you ever noticed, how much we can learn about the world through other people? And he had seen so much of it!

One of the perks of my defense mechanism is how much people reveal about their lives so swiftly. The waiter hadn’t even brought him his pastel de nata, and the man was already telling me about the time one of his Black Panther comrades was arrested by the police just as they were about to set fire to an empty police building after their own office was destroyed. He ran and ran and ran, and unlike his friend, who’d later be imprisoned for a couple of years, managed to escape. He didn’t share this story with folks very often. Actually, now that he thought about it, he didn’t share this story frequently at all. It was just that I asked such good questions!

Anyway, he continued, after that incident, he left his activism days and nights behind and eventually sold his spirit to the corporate devil. That was also why he was so well-traveled. He rose from salesman to marketing director of the European and African continents at a prominent US car company. No small feat for a loner black boy who just a few years back was flipping burgers at McDonald’s to pay for school fees. I know what you were thinking, Sophiia. I don’t like when folks brag either. But his was a different kind of bragging: it was the bragging of human resilience, the kind of bragging that convinces you that you’re not just adequate; you’re exceptional, despite a world that dooms you to failure.

It was what happened after, once we left the interior of the cafe and found a secluded table outside, that solidified my decision to work with him. In truth, after that, he need not have paid me at all. I wanted to know more about him. I wanted to know more about myself through him. I had asked all my questions for the day, and once our eyes met presently, I had no idea how much time passed, maybe the seagulls or the waves knew. They weren’t particularly beautiful nor ugly, his eyes. They were large and brown, and the skin around them was a little too worn out from life. It’s difficult to express just how much I saw in them that chilly sunny day. He had the eyes of someone who recognizes the absurdity of it all, and yet still finds enjoyment in it. As I stared into them so nakedly, I yearned for their experience, even the bitter ones, especially the bitter ones. Each time our gazes met in the weeks that followed, I felt both less alone and more assured in my solitude.

When he opened the door to his home on our first day of work, the first thing I noticed was his change of style. He was still wearing black, only this time it was the black of a fancy turtleneck and slim pants. Even his glasses matched the outfit punctuated with a golden chain necklace and what looked like an expensive golden watch that was slightly too loose for his wrist. If I wouldn’t mind, he told me, it would be wonderful if I could take my shoes off. He offered me a pair of slippers, which I politely declined.

It was a bit surreal, Sophiia, to step inside an apartment that shared the same architecture of every other middle-class apartment I’d visited in my hometown, whose interior aesthetic was so alien to the values that typically define such a setting. Where I’d usually see chivalric art and all-white wedding photos hanging on the walls, here I saw tribal masks and contemporary Black art, its vivid colors animating the space, matching the liveliness of the many monstera and ficus plants scattered all over.

We settled at his dining table surrounded by his DJ gear. He launched into a story about the time he finally quit the car company and began spinning tunes for a ‘petite’ radio station in France instead. He became quite fam... I interrupted him before he could finish the sentence. I had a plan, after all. The plan was to ask him questions, good thoughtful questions, and record his answers. Then I’d transcribe the whole thing and edit it. He nodded, obediently, agreeing it was a good idea, followed by a Dam, girl. Ya know what you’re doing. 

As I set up the microphones, he reached for a sleek wooden box and placed it on the table. Upon opening it, the pungent aroma left no doubt about its contents. He then rolled a joint, skillfully, and offered me some after taking a few leisurely puffs himself. I politely declined. Maybe later. Ready?

By our third month, I knew most of the titles of the books he owned by heart. I’d read their back covers when he excused himself to the restroom. I even borrowed one of them, a hefty one, by Thomas Piketty, which I hadn’t been able to find at my local bookstore.

We greeted each other with a long hug now, Sophiia. I was never much of the hugging type, you know me, but I admit that I not only enjoyed getting lost in his enormousness, I actually began to look forward to such embraces. I don’t even like perfume all that much, but his, warm and spicy, blended seamlessly with his natural scent.

Perhaps it was the allure of his fragrance that compelled me to trace patterns on his hand the evening we finally shared a joint. Or maybe it was the glasses of wine we sipped, or John Coltrane’s A Love Supreme playing in the background, or the stimulating conversations about the evils of marketing, the saddening decline of attention spans since MTV and Facebook, and the roots of inequality. It felt like the crossing of a boundary, Sophiia, to caress his fingers like that, much the same way when I placed mine inside me as a little girl and was never the same after. He remained silent, expectant but not greedy, his huge deep brown eyes staring right at me and both of us melting. 

As we said goodbye that night, the pull towards him was so strong that I nearly kissed his lips. It wasn’t that I couldn’t do it, Sophiia; my curiosity is limitless like that. It was that my empathy, my care for him, was such that I didn’t know if I could put him in that position when I wasn’t sure his aging physique would arouse me as much as his youthful mind. Instead, I kissed his cheek and we hugged tightly for a good while. And even then, he yielded the decision on when to end the embrace to me.

We didn’t talk about it the following day, nor any day after that. We kept greeting each other with a very long hug. We kept recording, me asking the questions, him answering, only that now, sometimes, he asked one or two back. I did notice that after that day he began calling me ‘sweetie’. I eventually returned the Piketty book, and we shared our many thoughts on it. When we were not recording, we shared our thoughts on everything, no questions needed.

Of course, sometimes I thought and over-thought about the meaning of it all. I was writing for him, it was true. I was doing my job, editing each sentence with the same care I edited my own. Of course, I knew he was lonely, no matter how many traveled and eccentric and stunning friends from abroad visited, young and older. I knew he made me less lonely too. Had he hired me because I’m a woman? I don’t know, Sophiia, and I honestly didn’t care.

By the summer’s end, the manuscript of his life was ready. Leading up to publication and after, we met every other week at the cafe where we’d first met. Daniel, the waiter who knew my grandma, would promptly serve us our usual orders: an espresso and pastel de nata for him, a citrus sparkling water for me. Sometimes, not as often, people stared. We didn’t bother all that much about them. We rambled about anything, or simply sat in electric silence, and let the seagulls and the waves outside count the passage of time.

— Carlota Guedes