My brother, my killer

Tanto el emisor como el destinatario de la carta que reproduzco son mis amigos. Se trata de una carta enviada hace ya un tiempo y que uno de ellos me la comparte. Por hacer referencia a una de las canciones de mi nunca bien admirado Leonard Cohen (Famous Blue Raincoat) y por tratarse de una historia que conozco con sus mensajes aleccionadores y sus devastaciones de hondo calado, obtuve el permiso del caso para publicarla. No es usual que los hombres involucrados en una historia de este calibre se hablen entre ellos. La carta es, por lo tanto, inusual. No tuve que hacerle cambio alguno pues no se hablan con sus nombres, que en caso de haberse presentado, los hubiera omitido.

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My brother, my killer:

Our beloved troubadour says so in one of his songs: "my brother, my killer." It's a song that it's actually a letter. It's addressed to someone who wears a famous and now frayed blue raincoat, someone who "treated my wife nicely."

I listened to the song but I didn't understand it. I googled the lyrics and followed them along. My English is just passable. Survival English, I would say. I am writing in my native French and asking Google to translate it for me. I want to be at the level of your impeccable English although both of us, as francophones are already on the same level.

Or were. Way before my wife blurted out her confession I already had this hunch that warned me that something had broken between us (toi et moi). It didn't come as a surprise to hear from her that it was you the man she was involved with. In spite of her popularity, good looks and that head of hers on her shoulders I still think that there is no man fit for her. If she ever were to get astray it would be for someone like you.

That leads me to my anger. Since you heard that I still am angry I decided to write to you. We have not spoken to each other since the night you called me and we spent two hours on the phone. After all these years it is time for me to do something I never do because I think it is useless and not that manly: putting my feelings in writing.

My anger has to do with the only virtue that I see in you. I did not feel threatened by you nor I considered you a rival. There is a reason why my wife saw the need to humble herself and ask me to let her back in. I am aware that I am fitter, more handsome, taller, funnier than you. I am what you are not: a good dancer, a superb cook, a pragmatic and down to earth guy, highly popular and sociable, outgoing, and as an engineer I am more inclined to find solutions than to raise questions.

But I am at odds with words. It angers me that you left in her, on her, inside of her, all around her, the indelible marks of your words. It is as if you stripped her off her old and worn out garments and delicately knitted for her a dress made of words, the ones that put her on another orbit, the dress that follows lines, curves along her body and her inner self that remain hidden to my superficial gaze.

After you, she is not the same. She is more of herself. I am not myself either. See? Now I can grasp nuances that I did not even care about before. Marriage counselors say that an affair is a good thing for a marriage, but in our case your affair with my wife has drifted us farther apart.

Perhaps I should rephrase that. My wife and I were already apart from each other. We have never been close. I was happy with that state of the art. Life was a breeze because our arrangement made it easier for us to mind our own separate businesses. As a pragmatic fellow I do not care about the niceties of love life. She did not seem to mind that either. The problem that our post-affair life brought about is that the gulf between us is the elephant in the room, now visible.

I hate your gift. My wife has not cast away the dress you designed for her. I cannot help but noticing her wearing it whenever I sent a wayside glance her way. I hate it that because of you the gap that rendered my life livable in the past stands today as a challenge I do not want to face.

Going back to the famous blue raincoat song, I can say that I also hear that you are building your house in the desert and that you are living for nothing. Let me tell you that hearing that gives me a sense of revenge. Yet, do not misunderstand me. Mine is also a house in the desert. I guess my wife's is located in a similar environment. It does not help me at all that with her confession my wife put the remote control in my hand. I can now sit comfortably on my leather couch and have her do whatever I want. My forgiveness is a debt she feels obligated to pay in daily installments although I have not sketched our daily lives out that way. She has become the loveliest woman a thousand miles around, which means that life is dull. Our respective houses are being built in separate deserts. We too are living for nothing.

But I needed to tell you, my brother, my killer, that I hate you

Sincerely,

Your brother and would-be killer

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