Sa dalawa kong matalik na kaibigan, aking ka-Bulaga, Kapuso, at kasandalan, isa
ngayo’y nagdiriwang ng kaarawan at ang isa naman’y may pinagdaraanan.
Maligayang bati, Tito kong Escalera, tulad ng pangalan, magsunud-sunod sana ang
mga biyaya ang mga pagsagana at magtagal pa nawa ang ating pagsasama. Tumpak ka, Pareng Kiko. Sa iyong tinuran sa landas ng buhay, isang lubak lamang yan.
Pagkatapos ng dilim ay kinabukasan. Awit mo, may bago na namang pagkukunan.
This is the final lesson of the late bloomer: his or her success is highly contingent on the efforts of others. In biographies of Cézanne, Louis-Auguste invariably comes across as a kind of grumpy philistine, who didn’t appreciate his son’s genius. But Louis-Auguste didn’t have to support Cézanne all those years. He would have been within his rights to make his son get a real job, just as Sharie might well have said no to her husband’s repeated trips to the chaos of Haiti. She could have argued that she had some right to the life style of her profession and status—that she deserved to drive a BMW, which is what power couples in North Dallas drive, instead of a Honda Accord, which is what she settled for.
But she believed in her husband’s art, or perhaps, more simply, she believed in her husband, the same way Zola and Pissarro and Vollard and—in his own, querulous way—Louis-Auguste must have believed in Cézanne. Late bloomers’ stories are invariably love stories, and this may be why we have such difficulty with them. We’d like to think that mundane matters like loyalty, steadfastness, and the willingness to keep writing checks to support what looks like failure have nothing to do with something as rarefied as genius. But sometimes genius is anything but rarefied; sometimes it’s just the thing that emerges after twenty years of working at your kitchen table.
“Sharie never once brought up money, not once—never,” Fountain said. She was sitting next to him, and he looked at her in a way that made it plain that he understood how much of the credit for “Brief Encounters” belonged to his wife. His eyes welled up with tears. “I never felt any pressure from her,” he said. “Not even covert, not even implied.” ♦