by Marc Levy
“Not that I know of.”
“And do you recall it ever going out? Dying, even once?”
“No, never,” replied Julia, confused.
“A flashlight that never dies. Someone must have been changing those batteries. I’m saying: how can you really know if you can’t see the full picture? My sweet Julia, what do you really know about love? You’ve never loved anyone who didn’t just tell you what you needed to hear about yourself. Look me in the eyes and tell me about your marriage, your plans for the future. If this unexpected journey had never happened, are you really going to sit there and swear to me that your love for Adam was unbreakable?
“How could you know the first thing about Thomas’s feelings or where his life is headed, when you don’t have the slightest clue about the direction you’re headed in yourself? And all this, simply because a woman had her arm around his waist.
“Let’s be frank, dear. How long did your longest relationship last? I’m not talking about Thomas, nor how long your feelings lingered on, but a real relationship. Two, three, four years? Maybe five? They say love lasts seven years, for what it’s worth. Go on, be honest and tell me. For seven years, would you be capable of giving yourself to someone with no reservations, all that you are, no restraints, neither fear nor doubt, knowing that the person you love more than anything will eventually forget everything or nearly everything you’ve experienced together?
“Would you accept that all your care, every last move, gesture, and touch, all you’ve done to prove your love, will be wiped clean from her memory, and that nature’s aversion to emptiness will fill the void with blame and regret? Knowing this is inevitable, would you nonetheless be able to find the strength to rise in the dead of night when your loved one is thirsty, or has had a nightmare . . . to prepare her breakfast every single morning without fail, to make sure her days are full, that she’s entertained, to read her stories when she grows restless? To go out, because she needs air, even when it’s cold as hell. And at night, exhausted, would you come to sit at the foot of her bed to ease her fears, to tell her of a future she’ll most likely spend far from your side? If your answer to each of these questions is yes, then forgive me for having misjudged you. For you do truly know what it is to love.”
“You’re . . . talking about Mom?”
“No, my dear child. I’m talking about you. The love of a father or a mother for their children. Days and nights spent looking after you, protecting you from even the slightest danger, drying your tears, making you laugh, helping you grow . . . Do you know how many times we took you to the park in the dead of winter, and how many times we lugged bags full of toys to the beach in the summer, the miles and miles we covered, words repeated endlessly until you learned them? All this . . . before even your very first childhood memory.
“Try for a moment to imagine the love it takes to learn to live for you and you only, all the while knowing you would eventually forget your first years. All that we did, and for what? Despite the early years, you’d eventually suffer on account of our mistakes, and then one day, inevitably, you would move on. Proud of your freedom, leaving us behind.
“I know you’re angry at me for not being there enough when you were young. But you can’t imagine what it feels like to have your child leave home. Can you even fathom what that does to a parent, that rupture? I can tell you. You find yourself standing like a fool on the doorstep, watching them leave, trying to convince yourself that their departure is necessary and that you should learn to embrace the careless changing of the tides that sweeps your child away, and that puts distance between you and your own flesh and blood.
“So we close the door, and then we have to relearn everything. Learn to fill the empty spaces. Learn to no longer listen for the sound of your footsteps. Learn to forget the reassuring creaks on the stairs when you come home late and the sweet slumber of relief that would follow. When you left, I was all but certain I would never be able to sleep soundly again, knowing you wouldn’t be coming home, not then and not ever. You see, my dear Julia, a parent receives no prize and no reward for their endless dedication, and therein lies the very essence of what it means to love somebody. And we have no alternative, because by God, how we love you children. I know that you will resent me all your life for having torn you away from Thomas. So now, I must once more beg your forgiveness . . . I should have never kept that letter from you . . .”
Anthony raised his arm to get the waiter’s attention. Beads of sweat were gathering on his forehead. He took a handkerchief from his pocket.
“Forgive me,” he repeated, his arm still in the air. “Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Julia, her concern mounting.
“Forgive me,” Anthony repeated three more times.
“Daddy?”
“Forgive me, forgive me . . .”
With that, Anthony rose to his feet, staggered and wobbled for half a moment, then sank right back into his armchair.
Julia yelled for help from the waiter, but Anthony waved the man away, assuring them it was unnecessary.
“Where—where are we?” he asked in a daze.
“In Berlin, at the hotel bar.”
“But wh—what day is it? Tell me, what am I doing here?”
“Stop it! Just stop,” Julia begged in a panic. “It’s Friday. We came here together. We left New York three days ago, looking for Thomas, don’t you remember? It was all because of that stupid drawing I saw in Montreal. You gave it to me, you wanted us to come here. You can remember that, I’m sure you can. You’re tired, that’s all. You have to conserve battery power. That may . . . sound ridiculous, but you’re the one who said it first. You wanted to talk about us. All we’ve done is talk about me. Come on, focus. You can pull through this. We still have two days left, just for the two of us, like you said, to . . . to say all those things we never said. I want to know everything I forgot, to hear the stories you used to tell me . . . you know . . . the one about the pilot who gets stranded on the banks of the Amazon . . . and the otter that guides him back to safety. I can remember his fur was blue. That blue, the way only you could describe it . . .”
Julia took her father by the arm and gently led him back to his room.
“You don’t look so good. Just sleep. You’ll have more energy tomorrow.”
But Anthony refused to lie down on the bed, insisting the armchair near the window was all he needed.
“You know,” he said, easing down into the chair. “It’s funny how we always search for reasons not to love—fear of suffering, fear of abandonment—but the love of life, oh, how much you can take for granted until you realize that, one day, you’re going to lose all of it.”
“Don’t talk like that . . .”
“You have to stop projecting yourself into an imaginary future, Julia. There are no broken pieces to glue back together. There is simply life to live, the one thing that can’t be imagined or predicted. And I can tell you, it goes by at dizzying speeds. Don’t go wasting your time with me in this room! Go trace the footsteps of your memories. You wanted to take stock? Well, go on. Do it. You were here twenty years ago. Now go and find those years you missed, before it truly is too late. Thomas is in the same city as you tonight, and only tonight. Whether you see him or not, you’re still breathing the same air. You know he’s there, that the two of you are closer than you’ll ever be again. Walk endlessly, stopping under every window with a light on and asking yourself how you’d feel if it was his silhouette on the other side of the curtain. And if by some wild chance it is him, you shout his name to the heavens! He’ll hear you and maybe come outside. He’ll say he’s still in love with you, or he’ll throw you out, but at least you’ll know for certain.”
He asked Julia to leave him alone to rest. She shook her head and only moved in closer to her father. Anthony smiled.
“I’m sorry for that scare I gave you back at the bar. I shouldn’t have put you through that,” he said with a guilty l
ook.
“Wait. Are you telling me you were pretending to malfunction?”
“You can’t imagine how much I missed your mother when her mind started slipping away. You’re not the only one who lost her. I spent four years living by her side while she didn’t have the faintest clue who I was. Go—have fun! It’s your last night in Berlin!”
Julia went back to her room and stretched out on the bed. There was nothing on TV, and the magazines on the coffee table were all in German. She rose and decided to get some fresh air. What good was it to stay in her room? She might as well wander around the city and take advantage of one last night in Berlin. She fished around in her suitcase for a sweater. Toward the bottom, her hand brushed up against the blue envelope, the one that had long been hidden between the pages of the history book on the shelf in her childhood bedroom. She glanced at the handwriting on the front and slipped the letter into her pocket.
Before leaving the hotel, she went to the top floor and knocked on the door of her father’s suite.
“Did you forget something?” asked Anthony as he opened the door.
Julia didn’t respond.
“Don’t forget: tomorrow, eight o’clock, I’ll be waiting for you in the lobby. I reserved a car for us. We can’t miss that flight. You have to take me back to New York, young lady.”
“Do you think that . . . love ever stops hurting?” asked Julia, still standing in the doorway.
“If you’re lucky? Never.”
“Well, now it’s my turn to say I’m sorry. I should have shown you this a long time ago. I wanted to keep it just for myself, but it concerns you, too.”
“What is it?”
“It’s the last letter Mom ever wrote me.”
She handed the envelope to her father and left.
Anthony watched his daughter walk away. He looked at the envelope she had given him and immediately recognized his wife’s handwriting. He took a deep breath to steel himself; then his shoulders slumped, the strength seeping out of him. He sat down in an armchair to read.
Julia,
When you come into the room, I watch your silhouette against the light that streams in from the hall. I hear your footsteps as you step toward me. The lines of your face are so very familiar, but at times I have trouble putting a name to your face. Your scent is also very familiar to me; it’s an enormous source of comfort. That fragrance is the only thing that helps me breathe—sweet relief in the face of this panic that has been choking me for so very long. You must be the girl who often comes early in the evening, and I know that night is drawing closer when you arrive at my bedside. You speak to me with a voice that is gentle, and at peace . . . more at peace than my midday man, the one who comes to visit every day. I believe it when he says he loves me, because he seems to want the best for me. Everything he does is so gentle. Sometimes he gets up and looks out the window at that great light which shines beyond the tree line, then he hangs his head and cries. Why, I can only guess. I don’t have the heart to tell him that I don’t recognize the name he calls me by. The truth is, whenever I smile at hearing him call me that name, I can feel a weight lift in the room. And so I find myself smiling at him when he feeds me as well . . .
You’re sitting nearby, right now, at the edge of the bed. You graze my forehead with the softest touch. I’m not afraid. I can tell from the look in your eyes when you call my name, you’re hoping I’ll answer with yours. But there is no sadness in those eyes. That’s why it makes me so happy when you visit. Every time your wrist comes close to my nose, I close my eyes. The scent of your skin reminds me of childhood—my own, or yours perhaps? You are my daughter, my love. I know that right now, if only for a few short moments. So many things to tell you and so little time. I want to hear you laugh, my girl. I want you to run and go tell your father he should stop hiding by the window, and to dry his tears. Tell him I do recognize him sometimes. That I remember who he is, and how we loved each other. Tell him I love him all over again each time he comes to visit.
Good night, my love.
Your mother
20.
Knapp stood waiting for them at the front desk. Thomas had called on the way out of the airport to tell him they had arrived. After greeting Marina and giving his friend a hug, Knapp led them to his office.
“It’s a good thing you’re here!” he said to Marina, after the three of them sat down. “I need you to help me out of a pinch. Your prime minister is coming to Berlin this evening, and the reporter I assigned to cover the event and the gala dinner in his honor is sick as a dog. We have three columns allotted to it in tomorrow’s edition. You have to get changed and leave right away. I’ll need your copy before 2:00 a.m. to leave enough time for the proofreaders. I have to get everything to the presses before 3:00 a. m. I’m sorry if this is throwing a wrench into your plans for tonight, but it’s urgent . . .”
Marina rose swiftly and said goodbye to Knapp. Then, she planted a kiss on Thomas’s forehead, and whispered in his ear, “Arrivederci, my sweet idiot.”
As Marina slipped away down the hall, Thomas turned away from Knapp and rushed after her.
“Really? After all that, you just up and leave, because he says so? What about our dinner together?”
“You can’t be serious. What, you’re not at his beck and call, too? Remind me again, who is it that’s flying out tomorrow for Mogadishu? Career always comes first, before everything else. I’ve heard you say that a hundred times, Thomas. Tomorrow, you’re gone, and it’s anyone’s guess for how long. So take care of yourself. If the fates allow, our paths will cross again, somewhere out there.”
“Here. Take my keys. Come and write your article at my apartment.”
“I’ll be more comfortable at a hotel. I can’t imagine how I would concentrate at your place, with so much to explore, so much to get distracted by . . .”
“I told you, the place is basically one big empty room.”
“Idiot. My very favorite idiot, but still an idiot. I was talking about getting distracted by you. Who knows? Maybe I’ll change my mind and ring your doorbell tonight for a little treat. Bye now.”
Marina threw him a carefree “Ciao,” and walked away.
“You doing all right?” asked Knapp when Thomas came back, slamming the door behind him.
“You’re a real pain! I only came back to Berlin to spend tonight with Marina. It’s the last night before I leave, and you manage to take her away, with some flimsy excuse about not having anyone else to cover that story. What’s your problem? Do you have a thing for Marina? I thought you’d become such an ambitious bastard, you didn’t care about anything besides this newspaper.”
“Are you done?” asked Knapp flatly as he sat back down behind his desk.
“Admit it, you’re a real pain in the ass,” Thomas fumed.
“Thomas, there’s something I have to tell you. You might want to sit down . . .”
The Tiergarten glowed in the evening light. Two old streetlamps spread yellow halos across the footpath running along the canal. On the surface of the lake nearby, boatmen were tying vessels together, one to the next. Julia followed the path to the edge of the zoo. A little farther on was a lookout point over the river. She cut through the woods, with no fear of getting lost, as though she knew every last tree she passed. The Victory Column stood before her. She walked through the roundabout, and her feet carried her straight past the Brandenburg Gate. Then she stopped short, realizing all at once where she was standing. In that same spot, almost twenty years ago, a wall had once stood at the end of the row of trees. It was there that she had seen Thomas for the first time. In its place now was a simple bench beneath a linden tree, a welcome respite for passersby.
“I was sure I’d find you here,” said a voice behind her. “Same old Julia, same old wandering habits.”
Julia froze. She felt her heart tighten.
“Thomas?” she whispered breathlessly without turning around.
“How do you say hello in a situation
like this? Shake hands? Hug?” he said hesitantly.
“You got me,” she said, still too petrified to turn and face him.
“When Knapp told me you were in Berlin, I didn’t know how to find you. I thought about calling all the youth hostels, but there are so many now and we’re no longer ‘youth’ . . . Then it hit me. With a little luck, I could wait here, and you’d come to me.”
“Your voice is the same, maybe a little deeper,” she said, at last turning to face him with a fragile smile.
He took a step closer to her.
“If you want, I could scale that tree there. Drop down from a branch. Fall on top of you. For old times’ sake.”
Thomas took a few hesitant steps forward, then pulled Julia into his arms.
“Time goes by so quickly and so slowly, all at once,” he said, holding her tightly against him.
“Are you crying?” asked Julia, gently caressing his cheek.
“No, that was . . . a gnat that just flew in my eye. Are you?”
“I think those gnats must come in pairs. Though I don’t see any others around here.”
“Close your eyes,” whispered Thomas, his warm lips against her ear.
Then, as though no time and no distance had ever come between them, Thomas did as he had done every morning he’d awoken by her side. He gently brushed Julia’s lips with his fingertips and planted the lightest of kisses on each of her eyelids.
“That was the nicest way to say good morning,” she said when he was finished.
Julia burrowed her face into the hollow between Thomas’s neck and shoulder.
“God, you smell just the same way you always did. Just like I remember . . .”
“Come on, it’s cold. You’re shivering.”
Thomas took Julia by the hand and led her toward the Brandenburg Gate.
“Did you come to the airport earlier today?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“You were with your wife. I didn’t really feel like introducing myself.”
