We arrived and Camila's assistant stopped us. "How can I help you?" Herman Cain thought a moment and said, "Uh, we need to speak to the president. It's urgent." The assistant looked suspicious. "Who?" Herman Cain moved his feet like a little boy who needed to use the bathroom. "The president, you know, the president in there."
"What is the name of the person you are looking for?"
"The president of You-beki-beki-beki-beki-stan-stan. I don't know his name."
"Well, you will have to wait here."
We waited for Camila Vallejo to finish her meeting with Islam Karimov, the president of Uzbekistan. We had traveled to Chile in the heat of the presidential campaign because Herman Cain wanted to hook me up with my not-so-secret love, Camila, a famous Chilean student leader. Seconds turned to excruciating minutes. The more time rolled, the more anxiety rose inside of me.
Herman Cain could sense my uneasiness. "Listen niggahead, put your faith in Jesus. Everything will work out then." I looked at him cockeyed, "Mr. Cain, I'm Jewish. And you know that." Herman Cain shrugged. "Ah well. Things will probably work out anyway."
After nearly two hours of waiting, President Karimov left Camila's office. He gave both Herman Cain and I the stink eye in mid-stride and walked out of the building. Three minutes and 23 seconds later, she floated out of her office surrounded by an orange glow. Suddenly, the rest of the world disappeared and only Camila and I remained. Everything seemed to move in slow motion.
I stood up, awkwardly, and attempted to speak. "Um. Cam, I mean um, Ms. Vallejo. I'm..." But she was preoccupied and paid me no mind. She asked her assistant a question, grabbed a black leather jacket, and turned. Then, our hazel eyes met for a fraction of a second. I froze. I was overcome by the moment. I lost sight of her as she walked out the door. I had missed my chance; I cursed myself.I showed Herman Cain a frown. "I guess that's it. I blew it. Sorry to have wasted your time Mr. Cain. I really appreciate you..."
"Nonsense!" Cain stood up straight, his voice slow and booming. "You will win her yet. If you are truly meant to be together, love does not vanish after one missed chance. Come. We must plan."
Back at the hotel, Herman Cain and I were thinking of a way to set up a chance meeting with Camila Vallejo. He called his adviser, Rich Lowrie. Though an accountant by trade, Cain took his advice on everything, from economic policy to love. Lowrie promised he would think of something and call Cain back.
In a quiet moment in the hotel, I asked Herman Cain, "Mr. Cain, I'm wondering about one thing. Why are you helping me fall in love with a communist? I thought you were a diehard capitalist through and through." Herman Cain gave the question some thought. "That woman is a communist? Hmm. Well, at least that's better than being a socialist." I decided not to follow up.
In some ways, being in love with someone who doesn't love you back is like being in a prison. Your thoughts are confined to that person. As much as you try, you can't break free and think about something else. You are trapped. Every minute away from the person is a minute wasted. And those minutes crawl as if they had no arms or legs. I was so close to Camila and yet, that closeness seemed only to intensify the heartache exponentially. I was about to give up hope and ask Herman Cain to take us back to America when the phone rang.
It was Rick Lowrie. Herman Cain answered. Apparently, he had recruited Sarah Palin to the cause and handed her the phone. Palin yelled into the phone loud enough for me to hear. "Herb, she's a communist. The only way to attract a communist is to shave your mustache like Hitler's because those communists are Nazis." My head sank. That was a terrible idea. I would soon be headed back to America and seemingly lasting loneliness.
A knock on the door startled me out of my sad stupor. Head down, I walked to the door and turned the knob. "Hola. Me llamo Camila." My jaw fell off. My eyes drifted upwards like a balloon. Stuttering soon supplanted my speechlessness. She smiled sheepishly, cocked her head to the side, and batted her eyes.
Perhaps 45 seconds later, I managed to spit out, "I... I... don't speak Spanish. I'm sorry." And my head fell. A hand brushed my left cheek. "It's ok." I lifted my head and our eyes met again. She grabbed both of my earlobes gently between her thumb and forefinger and tugged me closer. Then, our lips introduced themselves. They fit perfectly as if both sets had originally been crafted as one, like two parts of a broken charm reunited.
Our lips reluctantly parted and we were locked in each other's eyes. Finally, I managed to ask, "What just happened? How do you even..." Camila put her left index finger on my lips softly, lovingly. "When our eyes met. I couldn't forget your eyes. I have spent the past few days tracking you down. In that quest, I learned so much about you. My dream guy has always been a hirsute neurotic Jewish leftist who loves Rocky, Slurpees, and basketball." A smile covered my face like Obama's hand over the Mongolian president in a recent UN picture.
I looked over to Herman Cain, who was standing on the balcony still debating the merits of the Hitler mustache plan with Sarah Palin on the phone. I walked over and tapped the glass with Camila's hand in my own. I threw up my free thumb. Herman Cain winked and smiled.
I woke up in my bed alone, my only company a picture of Camila Vallejo printed out from the internet. Herman Cain was leading the national polls in the primary race. It appeared as if he had a real shot at becoming the Republican nominee for President of the United States.
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