When nothing in society deserves respect, we should fashion for ourselves in solitude new silent loyalties.

― Nicólas Gómez Dávila

I was at a gathering. Certain kinds of people call a barroom a gathering. Certain kinds. Most everyone was familiar, although nearly no one is here. An extranjero to us, and everyone else, had appeared, friendly, gregarious. He’d been adopted into the brotherhood of the bar tab already. I tried to catch up.

He had been partially disassembled by his country, then put back together pretty well, thank God. But he was a ship of Theseus. He was the same person, but not the same. He was wandering the world in search of new silent loyalties, although he skipped right over the silent part.

A friend pointed to me and said that’s _________. He’s a writer.

No one had ever said that before. Never. I’ve been called every damn thing, but never that. It was way down the list of things to be called, on some second page of a resume that never gets printed.

Al was there. He wanted another copy of my book. He’s a philosopher, I guess. Or maybe a Buddha. A wandering ascetic. Whatever he might be, people sit next to him and feel better. I have. He had a copy once, and liked it, so he gave it to the library. He said he couldn’t do without it, even one step removed, so I gave him another one.

A young girl swam in our pool. When she comes she hugs us and says, “Mucho gusto,” instead of all the wan greetings we’ve learned from our lessons. She wanted a book, although she cannot read English. I signed it in Spanish, or maybe Italian, or both, the language is like that sometimes. She held it like a missal. I’ll never forget it.

No one speaks English here, but my book is in the library. It isn’t in the library where I pushed the rock of my life up its hill, over and over. I fashion for myself in solitude new silent loyalties.