Jammin' the Blues

No words can describe what Federico felt toward Julia. You could say he felt as if he had butterflies in his stomach, or — relying on your listeners’ ability not to take you literally — that he had butterflies in his stomach; you could compare his feeling to a summer breeze, or a wintry ray of sunshine, as beautiful as unexpected; or you could discard this poetic nonsense altogether and simply say that he was in love with her.

But neither of these portrays the full scope and intensity of his emotions, emotions that even a thought of her stirred in him, let alone her presence. However, since this is a story — and all stories are, for better or worse, condemned to the words as their only means of expression — we must do our best with what we've got.

And no word describes his emotions better than the word blueberry.

***

Federico first noticed this overwhelming feeling precisely a year ago, on his family’s Blueberry Day, when the whole village had joined them in harvesting that juicy fruit and making a jam of it.

It was in the basement, as the two of them changed places in stirring the boiling cauldron of the blue concoction, that Federico noticed a dizziness that seemed to have nothing to do with the sweet fumes around him or the weariness from roaming the blueberry fields all morning. No, he didn't feel sleepy; quite the contrary, he felt a surge of energy rising in his chest like a swarm of bees, making him restless and shivery, prompting him to do something — something important.

But what that was, he couldn’t tell until the next morning, when Julia had left along with the rest of the village. He first noticed a void in the pit of his stomach, unlike anything he had felt before — particularly puzzling on the post-blueberry morning when he had usually felt fulfilled, satisfied with the job done.

It was as he was spreading the still-warm jam onto a slice of buttered toast that her image first popped into his mind, and as the sweetness glided down his throat, he thought of her long fingertips trailing sugar into the smouldering cauldron the day before. However, instead of following the sugar flow into the cauldron, his mind's eye turned in the opposite direction, gliding toward the hand’s owner, and as he chewed the toast, unbidden visions of Julia started to dance before him — her eyes, sharply focused on the pinch of sugar; her lips spread into a smile as she talked about Joni Mitchell; her blue dress, torn by the blueberry thorns, the strip over her shoulder barely covering the strap of her bra, under which her round breasts dangled as she danced to the music only she could hear.

By the time he had finished sweeping the house with his mother that afternoon, Federico was sure that his childhood friend was neither a child nor just a friend to him anymore. As he ate the blue jam for supper in the evening, he felt as though the swarm of bees in his chest had gotten out and was now whirling all around him, buzzing loudly in his ears. Once again, he felt a strong urge to run or fight them, which was overruled by his reason, telling him to keep still until they flew away on their own.

Julia had been part of his life for as long as he could remember; his earliest memory ever was of the two of them playing in a rubber pool his mother had inflated in the backyard, long before either of them knew how to swim. As their family spent holidays together at the seaside, it was she who taught him to swim; despite all his father's patience and persistence, it was her tenderness that gave him the courage to finally go where his feet could no longer touch the ocean floor.

He remembered her helping him with his geometry homework in the primary school, how cool he’d felt among his classmates knowing someone two years older who could spill out the precious secrets of what was coming next, what subjects to watch out for, which teachers were not to be meddled with, and which were safe to tackle.

Their paths split as they enrolled in different high schools, crossing only at family gatherings — birthdays, holidays, and the yearly Blueberry day — at which they exchanged only a courteous sentence or two, if that. Federico didn't recall paying more attention to Julia than to Martina, Isabella, Daniela, or any other girl in the neighborhood. If he was being honest with himself — as he was trying to be now — he had to admit that he even avoided Julia on such occasions, fearing that their company could sparkle some of the embarrassing anecdotes from his childhood among their parents, which would tarnish the image of the rock artist jamming the Beatles on his guitar he was building for himself among friends in his teens.

However, their relationship had blossomed again when Julia joined the Chess club in the fall of the previous year, and they had spent many Wednesday nights playing and analyzing games with the village’s biggest chess enthusiasts, comprising four of Federico’s college friends. They had met for the past year every week, often going to the pub for a pint and a game of pool after the meetings, even celebrating the New Year together when she’d gotten that drunk they had to carry her home, and yet—

And yet.

And yet, Federico had until this ominous Blueberry day only seen her as a part of the chess gang. What was worse, he couldn't even pinpoint what had suddenly stirred this whirlpool of emotions in him. They had spent the morning picking the berries in separate teams and had barely made any contact until his grandmother appointed them to the same jam cauldron. And nothing particular happened between them as they cooked either; she was telling him of this new feminist artist she had recently discovered, some Joni Mitchell.

No, there was no pinpointing any single thing that attracted him to her so suddenly, just like one couldn't explain what made blueberries blueberries. You can call them sweet, sour, or tart, and even know that ripening makes them lovely, while rotting makes them acrid; yet the same is true for raspberries, cranberries, bananas, and apples, none of which were blueberries. There are words to describe specific tastes, but the distinct aromas have always eluded language, as well as the mind.

“Her songs are like nothing I've ever heard,” she’d said, “This woman gives a totally new meaning to heartbreak for me.”

He told her he would give it a listen, but only out of decency, mentally disregarding this Mitchell woman as another soft-rock, cheesy artist.

However, when Julia moved to the city for a PhD a month later, Joni Mitchell was the only thing left of her in Federico’s life. He listened to her more than he'd ever listened to the Beatles, ironically introduced to this heartbreaking artist by the very woman who had broken his heart, spending endless mornings staring at the infinite blueberry fields and singing Joni’s painful words over his guitar.

***

When Federico opens the last remaining jar from last year’s harvest, his nose is greeted by an acrid stench. The jar has been too loosely sealed, and mold has gathered on the surface of the blue jam and on the inside of the lid.

“No worries, dear, we’ll have the new ones by nightfall,” his mother consoles him warmly, as she cooks the gravy for the guests, oblivious to the fact that the mouldy jam isn’t the wound that needs soothing. In fact, she's so unaware of the wound’s location that she accidentally pours salt over it with her following words.

“What a pity Julia's decided to have a bachelorette party today,” she says, “We’ll be eight lovely girls short-handed.”

Federico says nothing. He throws the jar into the bin and leaves the kitchen, inwardly glad that the last year’s stock is finally depleted.

But he is wrong. Although Federico's family always keeps most of the jars for themselves, they are not the last ones to finish their stock this year.

As Julia packed for the city the previous fall, her mother handed her a blue jar, “to sweeten her new place.”

While she disposed of all the things reminding her of him — burning her chess board and the Joni Mitchell LPs ceremoniously in a bonfire — the blueberries were to her, as to any Villager, too sacred to throw away, so she kept the jar at the bottom of her trunk, hidden from sight ever since.

For a year, she had been crying herself to sleep every night to the sound of Joni’s soothing voice, her soul yearning painfully for the boy she had taught to swim. She even learned to play that stupid chess to be close to him every week and had gotten drunk on New Year’s Eve, prompting him to carry her home.

But he was immune to all her efforts, either oblivious to her hints of love or openly ignoring them. Her soul worn out from the constant pain, she decided to play her ace on the Blueberry Day and talk to him openly about her love.

At least as openly as possible without incriminating herself.

Through Johnny's words, she told him all about her yearning for him and the suffocating pain she felt each time her love met his indifference.

When he only replied he would give it a listen — in a tone suggesting he wouldn’t even do that — the worn-out dam in her heart erupted, slashing it in two, and flooding her whole body first with cold despair, and then hot righteous anger.

She applied for the PhD the next morning, determined to leave for the city even if she didn't get it. But she got it, and upon receiving the letter, she packed her bags and got on the bus. Upon arrival, she burned all mementos of him and buried herself deep into work at the university, where she met Luiz a month later.

***

Julia hadn't planned on having the bachelorette party on the Blueberry Day, but she didn't oppose her maid of honor when the latter proposed the date.

“Orange, rosehip, or blueberry?” asks the waiter after the appetizer.

“Sorry?” she asks, confused.

“Which jam would you like served with your duck — orange, rosehip, or blueberry?”

She didn't know that they served jam with meat in the city. Yet, the choice is simple, for she hated anything bitter since her birth.

It doesn't often happen that the origin of our taste eludes us, while we know perfectly well where our taste for aromas stems from.

Yet that’s just the case with Julia tonight, as she shouts at the band boys, strumming Please Please Me for a warm-up, to remove the Beatles from the tracklist, her mouth full of rosehip jam.