An Unlikely Connection

And a 99.9% true story

Photo by Wolfgang Hasselmann on Unsplash, rendered black & white by me

I met Vladimiro through Monica one evening at her place, where I ended up sheltering from the pouring rain with a bunch of others. It was spring, I think it was the spring of nineteen eighty-seven, but it might as well have been nineteen eighty-six. Monica and I used to spend whole afternoons going up and down the hills around our hometown on my Vespa. I’d drive, and she’d speak into my ear nonstop from behind, talking about so much stuff that I’d barely remember the first ten minutes of it by the end of our tours. She loved to talk, and I was a willing listener. Up to a point, beyond which I’d start drifting away and retreating into my thoughts. Her voice would go on and on, eventually turning into a distant, muffled sound coming from somewhere outside a bell jar I had deliberately lodged myself into.

And so when she introduced me to Vladimiro saying he was the one she talked to me about, I immediately figured it must have occurred on one of those partial blackouts where I’d stopped listening. Oh yes, sure, I remember, I faked. We were all soaking wet, seated on the floor in front of the fireplace in her house. It was an unusually cold and rainy spring day, and Monica’s house was a beautiful white villa on the seafront where all sorts of people used to gather. Her parents were almost never there, for some reason. I guess it was because they owned a number of other houses in that enlarged area, so they stayed a little here and a little there. A couple of rich nomads, so to speak. I never quite understood the reason why one would build and own several houses all within a geographic area of, like, fifty square miles or so. But that’s the way it was and, absent her parents, she operated that beautiful white villa as if she lived there alone, filling it up with friends and friends of friends and all sorts of people she somehow was mysteriously in touch with. 

Silvio lives in Milano, so you may want to connect with him, Monica said to Vladimiro by way of introduction. And he did connect. In fact, he connected so closely that, from that moment on, he became my shadow -- always by my side. Vladimiro was a nurse, about to be transferred to a hospital in Milano, and whenever he talked, he started with You know. He’d call me many times a day, just to say hi and ask what I was up to. Same as this morning, I often responded when he’d call in the afternoon. It’s not that I wanted to cut his calls short and dismiss him as soon as I could -- although one might consider this a legitimate aim, given the frequency of his calls. I told nothing but the truth when I said that I was studying. I was always studying. And when I wasn’t studying at home, I’d go study at the university library, especially the days I had classes. Every couple of hours I’d check my answering machine, though, and I’d invariably find at least four messages from Vladimiro. ‘You know, I’m bored; what’re you doing?’ Or ‘You know, I was thinking that maybe we could go to the movies tonight, if you don’t have too much to study.’ In hindsight, it helped that cellphones hadn’t been invented yet. 

But the apotheosis was reached whenever Vladimiro dropped by without prior notice. When he was on a night shift at the hospital, he had the whole next day for himself. And that’s when he hit on his favorite victim. I’m sorry Vladi, but I really have tons to study, I’d say on the buzzer when he’d ring. You know, I’m not due back at the hospital until nine tonight, can I come up anyways? I’ll be quiet. I had some of the most surreal afternoons with him around at my tiny studio apartment -- I’d be hunched over my books, furiously highlighting and taking notes, while he’d be seated on the couch silent, watching TV on mute. And this scene could go on for hours. Until, at some point, he’d get up, switch off the TV, stretch, and say You know, maybe I should let you study and get going. 

Despite his intrusiveness, driven by the need to fill an apparently empty and lonely life, Vladimiro was one of the most sensitive and generous humans I’ve ever met. He listened to whatever I had to say with the attention and engagement of someone whose life depended on every single word I uttered. And in the end, only once I was done, he would venture a delicate, discreet comment, as if tiptoeing to avoid making any noise. He’d say simple things that made me feel better if I was preoccupied with something or feeling a little down. He was genuinely positive and constructive, never faking or fabricating answers just to pretend he cared. His wasn’t an easy life, most likely: I never knew whether he had any family, or anybody at all, and he clearly had health problems. Yet he never attempted to transfer his difficulties onto me. 

Once, I told him over the phone that I had so much work to do that I couldn’t even see my then-girlfriend, let alone him. I said that I was exhausted and sleep deprived and that if things continued like that, I might have to start taking vitamins or something. After a few hours, the buzzer went off and it was him. You know, I thought about what you told me earlier; can I come up for a sec? I’ve got something for you. He carried a jar containing some dark powder and left it on my table. You know, this thing comes from the Amazon, in Brazil; a colleague gave it to me at the hospital. Take it, it will boost your energy. As my face evidently betrayed some skepticism, he went on: You know, I’ve been taking it myself for about a month, and last night I filled six condoms. I tried not to laugh. Six condoms? With whom? He looked down as if ashamed of the answer he was going to give, and said You know, I’ve been seeing someone from work. I never took the dark powder, but I was so happy for him.

Another time, I had been receiving some strange calls in the middle of the night. A synthesized voice on the other end repeated every word I said. I hung up, but after a few seconds, the phone rang again, and the same voice did the same trick. I eventually had to unplug the phone and spend the rest of the night awake, freaking out. I told Vladimiro about these calls one day, and he said You know, psychopaths thrive on these things; you should reply to the guy normally. The more you sound scared, the longer he’ll go on. A simple realization. He offered to spend the night at my place and handle the calls himself. It was three-thirty sharp when the phone rang for the first time that night, always punctual. Vladimiro picked up and started a conversation with ‘the voice’. A normal conversation; one you would witness between two friends. After about fifteen minutes, he hung up and said You know, problems always appear more difficult than they actually are, and went to bed. I never received those calls again.    

I went home for the weekend, eventually, and the first thing I did was call on Monica to tell her about Vladimiro. I know, he’s like that, she said. But you should treasure his friendship; remember what I told you about him? I didn’t. So I confessed that on our Vespa tours, after a while, I kind of tuned out and got lost in my thoughts. I told her I was sorry for not listening and asked if she could repeat those things to me. Vladimiro knocked on my door one day, saying that he worked at the hospital and would be there for me if I needed to talk. Right then, I dismissed him as one of those peddlers going door to door. But then I thought that I was going through such a hard time with my family and my brother that, yes, I could use someone to talk to. I reopened the door, and he was still there, as if he knew I would do so sooner or later. And he said ‘You know, when you need to talk about your troubles, you’re better off talking with a stranger, someone who doesn’t know anything about you.’    

Vladimiro, she went on, resembles a bum. He dresses badly, looks dirty, has teeth missing, and what have you. If you’re capable of looking beyond these things, though, you’ll see a bright light and a huge heart. Most people, however, stop at looks. This is the world we live in, sadly. He can be annoying, irritating, and intrusive at times. But I think of him as my guardian angel. And who says guardian angels have to be clean, well-dressed, polished, or even blond-haired? 

I couldn’t stop thinking about Monica’s words on the train back to Milano. Her guardian angel. And once home, I called Vladimiro. No answer. He must be on a night shift at the hospital. I tried him again the next day, still no answer. He’ll show up sooner or later, I thought, and desisted. Days passed, then weeks. Vladimiro was nowhere to be seen. I started to worry. 

One day, I found a message from him on my answering machine.   

You know, go ahead and study your ass off, one day you’ll be famous; I’m sure you will be. So when they interview you on TV, just say hi to your friend Vladimiro, and I will be happy for the rest of my life. Remember to do that, okay? I’ll be away for a while, maybe they will transfer me to another city, in another hospital. Who knows? I’m awaiting instructions. For now, you don’t need me around anymore. 

I never saw Vladimiro again. And I never saw Monica again.

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