The afterward. Is there an afterward? Separation never stops. The last time, the endless night, you lying in silence beside me on the bed, or you behind me, sitting on the sofa, or you, dressed already, headed toward the door, the last time you headed toward the door in silence, my hand seeking out yours, something you didn’t say but that echoed there, something lost along the way, the people and the cars on the road, your hand on my arm and the mark of your hand on my arm, or long before this, the first look, something lost but that I wanted to be there, secret, still there, something lost infinitely, something unrecoverable but which was still there after everything, after the end. Something capable of transforming us.
Is that it, is that what separation is? I’m alone in this house; is separation a space that appears all of a sudden, the earth unexpectedly opening up, enraged, reconfiguring the landscape, this place where I now find myself? Or is separation just an empty space on the bed? An absence that used to be diffuse and now finally materializes there, beside us on the bed, and faces up to us, merciless, while the night comes into our room. Is that it? And if I were to tell you, no, separation can be anything, not just the earth opening up or an empty space on the bed, but anything, whatever I want, whatever we want, and your space can be any space, even an expectation, a clash, or even a blank space, an envelope, a sheet of paper on which I write these words, where every day I dream up a broad tissue of seductions and questions and answers, patiently, carefully.
There’s not just the letters and their epistolary forms, but also another story, that of the reader of these stories. Have I told you about this before? About that other story, this character I’ve invented, this character with a life so different from yours, someone who receives in error these written words that are directed at you, opens up these pages, careless or curious, and without realizing it, is gradually charmed and transformed. Someone who’s so different but who reads me the way I’d like you to read me. And why all of this, you must have been wondering from the start, and again I will answer you: the desire that I should have within me, in my words, something capable of touching you and transforming you, so that you will read me and turn and look at me and, without realizing, create a shortcut, a bridge between us.
So separation can be that, too, you reading on the sofa, or what I imagine you doing, reading on the sofa. My presence. The reflection and reverse of my presence. And I imagine there’s something in this game that intrigues you, that surprises you, with every phrase you are surprised and you think, How can I go on here, after everything, you think, How can someone after everything, after that night, after the end, the silence, the closing door, how is it possible, this obstinate presence, this tenacity. How could anyone return, go back over the terrain that I go back over in each letter, the interminable separation. And then I tell you that there’s always something left over, even after the end, something that insists and returns, in this space I am creating between what I write and what you read, there’s a waiting, there’s something that transforms us. When we thought everything was lost, when we thought everything was over, when nothing else can ever reach us, then it appears, this opportunity to recover the unrecoverable. Because hatred is never only hatred, hatred is never pure, intact, hatred is never only a passion. Something betrays us, something left behind. And what I write to you, these letters, their reflections and reversals, the impulse that started them off is no more than this, what is left behind. The hope that you will turn and look.
Which is why from here, from this space, I imagine that at a certain moment you might come through that door: I’d walk over, my hair loose, wearing high heels, and I see you coming through that door, the interminable separation. At any time of the night, of the day. You ring the doorbell. You walk across the hallway, climbing the stairs. You in the middle of the street. An enchantment. A call.
But why am I telling you this, you might be wondering, and I answer you: Because hatred is never merely a passion, and because you’re reading me, because you are still reading me, even now this letter is in your hands, isn’t that so? Perhaps, I could answer, because there is something within me that is very beautiful. Something terrible and beautiful. Something of yours, which appears in another space, in another story, so different and which you perhaps do not understand but which belongs to you. Have you thought of that? Something of yours, which belongs to you, even if you don’t want it. You carry an emblem, an invisible mark, that only the other person can see and recognize; strange, isn’t it? And so this sign I see and recognize and carry, this something of yours in me, makes me keep going. And I tell you that I will be here, every night. Time stretches out and I wait for you, my footsteps in the hall, the doorbell, and you arrive in silence.
So as I hate you, as I try to destroy something of yours in me, there will always be this impulse, this flaw, that I hate you and yet never hate you. The interminable separation. And when you finally return I would receive you—the uneasiness, the doorbell—and I’d take your hand, that same one, the one of the dagger, of the rose that was blooming, the very same, I’d take your hand between my hands, delicately, affectionately, your hand between mine, and I’d close the door and kiss the tips of your fingers, one by one, the tips of your fingers, and then, coming even closer, I’d kiss your forehead, very gently, your forehead, your cheeks, your mouth, at first just our lips brushing together and the breath from your mouth, and I would recognize your taste, as if it were yesterday, the taste of your mouth and your hand between mine. How was that possible? you might be thinking. And I give you my answer: there is something very beautiful in me.
So this is all it’s for, this last letter and everything I have written you, just to say that I would receive you, if you returned, if you wanted to, if you, without realizing, were to create a shortcut, a bridge, between us. That’s all. I’d receive you without questions, without demands, I’d kiss your hand and lead you to the bedroom, the same bedroom, ours, the same bed, remember? The sheets, the night opening up. The space of the previous night, of the war, the battles lost, I would lead you, withdrawn, silent, and you would go with me and rest your head in my lap, your head weighing on my lap like a stone, my fingers slipping through your hair, the silent tangle of your hair.
And at that moment, everything else will stop mattering, the last day, the last night, the separation, even the letters would lose their purpose, even the possible interpretations, that other story, the words I write you, this glossary of little seductions. All the rest would cease to exist, and nothing would remain but us, us and the forgetting and the calm of forgetting and of defeat. Your head in my lap. I would bend down and kiss your brow, my love, I’d very gently kiss your eyes and the dark color of your eyes, I’d kiss your neck, the back of your neck, I’d feel the taste of your mouth in my mouth and I’d feel in my body the growing velocity of time running on. And I would stay where I was, in that moment, hunched over myself, over us, your head in my lap, your fingers between mine, between my hands, like a knife, between mine, like a knife, my love, and I’m hunched over us, there’s something closing, something resting, like a knife, something very beautiful within us, the rumpled sheets, my hair loose, a smile, the dress you like, my skin, my lips, the taste of your mouth.
And you there, so submissive, surrendering, you would ask yourself, how is it possible, all this love. How is it possible?
A.
IX
The insomnia went on. A second night with no sleep. Sleep seemed an unfamiliar comfort to him now, as if it had been years and years, nights following nights, spread out in his memory. The sound of footsteps. A wait.
He got up in the morning, his body tired but alert. He got up in the morning, put on a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, flip-flops, and went downstairs. He didn’t even wait for the elevator. The stairs dazed him; he ran down eight flights. He didn’t even buy the papers as he usually did on weekends, didn’t stop by the market as he usually did; he went straight to the mailb
ox, and there it was, as he had hoped. He could have spent the night lying in wait, just waiting there all night, waiting for her to arrive, those quick footsteps, that slim body, hair tied back in a bun or a ponytail, he could have spent the whole night there waiting, but no, he was shut away on the eighth floor, wide-eyed with insomnia. All night long he knew that she was approaching once more, that she was walking into the building, crossing the hall over to the mailbox, putting an envelope through the narrow slit, with his address and a different name. The next morning, there it was, the last letter, a presence lingering.
He waited till he was back home, upstairs, before opening the envelope, the envelope that had seemed like it would never come, the blue envelope that enclosed a whole journey, an expectation. A whole night of insomnia. Somebody greeted him in the elevator but he was silent, his head down, he didn’t even smile, as though any gesture, any word could break this most fragile of links, this strange communication that had begun. Any word. The closeness of the moment had stretched out during his nighttime vigil, waiting for him. His sweating hands stained the envelope, the ink from the envelope on his fingers, the ink from a different name. He got out of the elevator. He walked into his apartment, closed the door, feeling safe as he closed the door, and at the same time feeling fear that at any moment somebody might burst in. He went into the apartment, put his keys down on the table, the envelope in his hands; he opened it carefully, sat down on the first chair he came to and there he stayed. The open letter stretching, lengthening. The open letter and time passing, beside him, time approached him and touched him, without ever really reaching him.
And as he read, for the first time in those recent few days, there was something that was his. It was as though she had moved, the direction of her voice, of the wind: she addressed him for the first time, really addressed him, it was no longer a mistake, no longer an appropriation. She wrote to him, holding out her hand. She was waiting for him. Not like his ex-wife, not like Fabiane, not like the others who came and went, even Manuela, a three-year-old girl, not like the world that surrounded him and made its demands, but a different movement, a different capacity; she was waiting for him and she held out her hand, he thought, she held out her hand, in spite of everything, in spite of the worst crimes, not in exchange for anything. How was that possible? Because it was him, not anyone else, not a stranger or an actor who looks like him, not just anyone, and if he had seen himself in the mirror at that moment, he would have been able to see himself—he was sure of it—if he looked at himself in the mirror, he would see a new face, the face of someone who has spent the last few nights awake. His face in the morning. He who’d always slept so well. He who had been transformed, something in him had been transformed and had emerged as a different image. His face. How was it possible, he asked himself.
Without her realizing it, everything had scattered and stretched for him. The rounded handwriting on the envelope, the fountain pen, the nostalgia for getting ink between your fingers, a whole past: she might be anybody, any woman, anyone who might walk past him and smile while he’s standing outside the post office, waiting in the street. Him, any man, waiting for her. He pictured this woman, very thin, almost ethereal, from the height of those heels, the dress he so liked, the loose hair falling over her face, a dark curtain. That woman who was so fragile, holding out her hand to him. Time passing. Slender fingers, ink, saliva to close the envelope, nostalgia, a secretion. And at the same time, something in the letter scared him. That woman, so fragile. How was that possible, he thought.
And there he stayed, afraid to make any movement, any gesture, afraid of anything that might break this suspended moment, this spell. Slowly, he was feeling as though something was starting to belong to him. And he felt something that was his in that letter, it was no longer just addressed to another person, with another secret, another declaration, but it was something addressed to him, something that was his. And he felt that his eyes were not obeying him, looking in every direction, sensing a whole desire he had no way of fulfilling, because things were happening without his comprehension, he thought.
He thought he needed to do something, at last, to act. Not just linger at the snack bar any longer, or check out the movie, or go by the antiques shop, or the post office, no more waiting and silence, but he had to do something real. Something real, at last, he thought. And he picked up his phone.
The owner of the apartment had a house outside the city and was hardly ever around. She spent her weekends up in the mountains. She loved the views and mild climate of the mountains. He had seen her only once, for the handover of the keys. She was a woman with very well styled red hair. Dressed in a suit and accessorized with a number of bracelets and rings. An impeccable lady, she reminded him of his own mother-in-law, and what his ex-wife would probably become in fifteen, twenty years, another impeccable lady.
He looked at the envelope, which at that moment seemed such a strange object. The letter on the table. The sheets of paper, the whole thing so nostalgic; he wasn’t even finished moving in, the apartment was still pretty much empty, boxed up.
On the phone the impeccable lady seemed surprised to hear from him on a Sunday, at that time of the morning, but it couldn’t wait till Monday, it was urgent, he explained, trying to find the words that would sound serious, thoughtful, elegant. What could be so pressing as to make him call on a Sunday morning at that time—she seemed annoyed behind her apparent politeness, and he apologized again, talked about the letter, there had been a delivery, an urgent letter, and wasn’t that the former tenant’s name? It was, yes, replied the lady on the other end, surprised in her house in the mountains. So someone who didn’t know that he’d moved had sent him something urgent, something old-fashioned, a letter, a letter, the owner thought this strange, a letter on a Sunday morning. That’s right, he replied, so you can see how urgent it is, he felt ridiculous saying this.
It felt childish saying this to her. Manuela would have once again watched him with disappointment from her lofty three years. There was a brief pause at the other end, And what do you want me to do about it, she replied at last. Nothing, he said, but I got worried that it was something really important, he said without needing to lie. It is something terribly important, he thought, making him feel almost childish in that ridiculous situation on a Sunday morning, and he recalled Manuela and her implacable gaze, that image of the inquisitive little girl. There’s nothing I can do, the impeccable lady concluded, but I can, he said, I could call and let him know; he tried to sound uninterested. Manuela was always so blasé, she’d be terrifying at fifteen, and why was he thinking about this right now, he thought. Or I could even deliver the letter myself, if he isn’t too far away, he added carefully. She was surprised, the impeccable lady: You could do that? Of course, he replied, almost glad, of course I would. It was somebody so different, someone waiting for him, holding out a hand, he thought. But he just said yes, he’d let him know if she would give him the new phone number, but no, she didn’t have the number there, it was in her other address book, she’d left it in the city; the impeccable lady was in her house in the mountains. He paused and said nothing; somebody was waiting for him, for the first time, and he felt one wrong word and he would lose all the ground he had just gained. Then she offered, I do have the address, if you really don’t mind, and he waited a few seconds, If it isn’t too far, he said, terribly afraid that it would be, yes, very far, but she said no, it’s very close. He thought, things are so easy sometimes, things were happening, somebody was waiting for him, and he felt unsettled. How was this possible? But he went on, of course, I’ll stop by, I’ll leave it with the doorman; the owner was pleased, Very good, most kind of you, perfect, she concluded, nowadays people don’t worry about one another anymore, they can be so selfish, you know, and he smiled, it had been such a long time, he agreed, It’s no trouble at all, since it’s so close by, the letter open on the table, the blue envelope, when I go out to pick up my daughter I’ll
stop by, the little girl so distant, but that didn’t matter now, I’ll leave it at the front desk. It’s no trouble at all, and she said, But people are so selfish, so when I come across somebody like you, of course, I just think, and she went on. And he thought of Manuela again, her inquiring gaze, this conversation that wouldn’t end, so early on a Sunday morning, this impeccable lady.
When he finally hung up, he had the bit of paper, at last, with the address and all its possibilities, and he put it in his pocket and went out. Just as he was, shorts, flip-flops, T-shirt, hair uncombed, his face still a mess from a sleepless night. He ran down the stairs. The address was in his pocket and he had a bundle of letters in his hands: nine letters, one for each day. The blue envelopes. The rounded handwriting. He got in the car, and anxiety began to settle in. The address on a bit of paper. That whole time he hadn’t really thought about what he was going to do when the time came, when the time finally came. What would he say, the bundle of letters open in his hands, the letters consumed, spent, read.
He drove on without thinking. The Sunday morning streets still empty. He could even forget about the whole business, chalk it up to one of those things that happen so quickly and then we just forget about them, but he didn’t want to, he wanted to go up the steps, or in the elevator, the elevator of the building that was nearby, no more than five, ten minutes’ drive, the woman had said on the phone, ring the bell and stand there with that bundle of letters, looking at the man on the other side of the door, as though looking in a mirror, looking closely, as though seeing something unexpected. And when this man saw the envelopes, the handwriting, and when he saw the envelopes open and the letters read, what would he say to him, that it had been by accident, that he’d opened nine letters by accident, because that’s how things happen, real things.
Blue Flowers Page 12
