Pseudonym

From the Many Notebooks of Mr. Leon Ray Aguilar

Part 2

Chapter 11: From the Many Notebooks of Mr. Leon Ray Aguilar

I cannot exactly remember how I came to find those notebooks. It was more like the notebooks had found me.

Mrs. Aguilar, still attired in black, had invited me to Leon's house. It was my first time to enter his abode—the fruit of his literary labors.

It was a beautiful, well-built house It was located in a cul-de-sac in a private village a short ride away from his mother and brother's house (which he built for them) and only a short walk away from the rather impoverished housing projects where Leon had grown up.

The house was quite homey, despite its being a bachelor pad. Telltale marks of Leon's lack of organization were there. There were books and notebooks everywhere. The kitchen looked clean and unused, and the cupboards were stocked with lots of instant- or quick-cook food.

There were no photo albums or picture frames, no little souvenirs and miscellaneous items. It was as if Leon had lived as a hermit, rarely venturing outside his house.

"Help me go through all of it. Look for special-looking things," Mrs. Aguilar entreated me. She was a small, fair, pretty woman who I had seen only twice before the funeral, but she had a knack for making strangers feel like old friends.

"Are they going to put up some shrine or museum for him?" I asked.

"No, no. We're thinking about selling this place," the kind lady said. We were seated on one of the plush sofas, going through various boxes and bags.

"But why? Why not live here instead?" I exclaimed, immediately regretting my last statement.

"Leon left enough money for his brother and I. It's not enough for us to keep this place, though. Besides…it hurts too much, you know?" Her voice cracked and her eyes filled with tears as she smiled bravely.

"Leon used to tell me about school and his friends, a long time ago. He mentioned you sometimes. I…know that it's hard for you, doing this. But tell me: you did love my son once, didn't you?"

Tears filled my eyes and my heart rose up to my throat, choking me. Here I was, talking to the mother of the first boy I loved, someone who never saw all the love the world had for him. He had passed on before his time; he had never been happy. I instinctively reached over and hugged Mrs. Aguilar—and we cried for a very long time. It was a special moment for both of us, the two women who had loved Leon the most.

When we had dried our eyes, Leon's mother said, "Whatever you think will be of use or comfort to you in this house, take it. Please…help me keep his memory alive. I know that you can do it best."

I spent an afternoon with Mrs. Aguilar. We ate sandwiches as we rummaged through Leon's fifty-something notebooks. I asked to borrow only five—those that had snippets of diary entries. I knew I would visit Mrs. Aguilar soon to borrow the notebooks filled with his stories. Maybe I would even look into a dead man's computer files, trying to get to know Leon all over again. I wanted to know him better than I did when he was alive and able to avoid the long conversations about life that he seemed to enjoy. Why had he avoided happiness for so long? He had only let me know him superficially. This time, I would unmask the man behind the smile, and the soul behind the pseudonym.