A Story About Memories

And red hair

Photo by Marten Bjork on Unsplash, rendered black & white by me

In the locker room of the gym where I train, in the shower and bathroom area, one of the soap dispensers next to a sink had a card attached to it, with the message: 'Hi, I'm sorry but I’m not working today. Please contact the Club staff for more information. See you soon!', printed in white characters on a black background, and the Club's red logo underneath. Earlier, I had seen the same card on a treadmill. There, too, the Club had invited me to contact the staff for more information.   

Sometimes the universe sends you messages in the most peculiar fashion, I thought. So, on my way out, I stopped at the front desk to ask for more information. I’d like more information about the soap dispenser not working, I said. The young woman across the counter didn’t look older than twenty, maybe twenty-one, had straight red hair, freckles, and light blue eyes behind green-rimmed glasses. She reminded me of someone from many years ago. An ex-girlfriend, perhaps? It often occurs to me that I can’t remember an ex-girlfriend’s face in any precise detail. Of one of them, for example, one who I had maybe the longest relationship with, the clearest thing I remember is the way she walked away through the tables in the café where we last saw each other, her slender figure, her swaying clothes. But no face. It must have been someone else she reminded me of, then. 

Redheads are dangerous, I thought, recalling what my friend Pietro had once told me, when we were both twelve or thirteen. Something I never forgot, for I knew that whatever Pietro said shouldn’t be taken lightly. He was my age but had the benefit of an older brother, whose word he considered a definitive pronouncement on pretty much every topic. I was the eldest at home, and had to figure things out on my own, without guidance. When he said that redheads were dangerous, he further qualified the statement with a ‘my brother says’. The guarantee of an indisputable truth.

The thing about Pietro was that, brother or not, he always had something seemingly important to say, in any circumstance. Much like an oracle, or a notary. At times, you’d feel as if his was the word of law. His family owned a small hotel near the beach, at the end of a long and narrow street, way beyond what I thought was an imaginary line that, for some reason, shouldn’t be crossed. Kangaroo Hotel, it was called. His brother, Tiziano, was many years his senior. I never knew his exact age, but he managed the hotel with their father, so he must have been at least in his late twenties or early thirties. I remember that he was always with beautiful girls. Pietro said that they were mostly guests at the hotel. I remember Eva, one of them, was so stunning I couldn’t get my eyes off her. And it’s not like Tiziano was some incredibly handsome man. He was short and had a big nose. But he had charm, knew a lot of things, had a penetrating gaze, and when he talked to you, he made you feel like nothing else mattered. 

Eva was so in love with Tiziano that she decided to move here from Germany, her home country. She helped them at the hotel, doing some concierge work and a bit of translating. Every time I went there looking for Pietro, I saw her behind the front desk, in all her radiant beauty. And my head would spin, and she would smile at me and say hello, and I couldn’t manage to say a word. One day, I saw her seated on a red velvet sofa in the sitting area next to the hotel reception, talking with an old gentleman who, I later learned, was from Argentina. She seemed to be listening carefully to what he had to say, completely captivated by his words. He had a thoughtful, intellectual appearance, with an oval-shaped face, sharp features, white hair combed back, and small, round glasses. He walked with a cane, wore red suspenders, and held a pipe in his right hand. Nobody knew what he was in town for. Not even Eva, his most frequent conversation partner, knew. He spent most of his time sitting on that red velvet sofa at the hotel, reading or writing or staring into the void while smoking his pipe, which emitted a strong yet pleasant aroma.

A few days later, maybe a week, the old man mysteriously disappeared. Pietro told me that the only thing he had left was an envelope addressed to Eva, containing pages handwritten in dark blue ink. There wasn’t a single word written on them that directly concerned Eva, but instead a short story narrated in a sophisticated and engaging style. Pietro said that the story was weird, certainly not easily comprehensible to boys of our age. Did you read it? I asked him. No, he responded, but that’s what my brother said. I later asked Eva whether she would let me read it, and not only did she say that I could, but after I did and gave it back to her, she ripped it into a myriad of small square pieces. I don’t know what to do with it, she said, and threw them into the garbage can. 

I still have a vivid recollection of the story, after more than forty years. It revolved around a character named Hernan Perez, a young man from a rural area of Argentina who, having sustained a serious head injury in an accident, gains the ability to remember every detail of his life with perfect accuracy. His memory becomes so powerful that he can recall every moment and every sensory experience in astonishing detail, even the individual shapes of clouds or the exact number of leaves on a tree. However, this gift comes at a cost, as Perez is unable to generalize or abstract. He cannot form concepts or symbols to categorize and simplify information. His hyper-awareness of every tiny detail of life is more of a curse than a gift, as it prevents him from living a normal life or making sense of the world, leading to isolation.

A few days after she allowed me to read the story, Eva also disappeared without a trace. Except for a few strands of hair in her bathroom sink, clear evidence that she had cut them before leaving. Nothing else, just a few strands of her beautiful red hair.

I don’t know what happened to Pietro. We lost touch, as often happens. Many years later, driven by a dream I had a few nights earlier, I returned to the place where the Kangaroo Hotel had been. The building was still there, at the end of the street, closed and abandoned; a sign on the entrance door read: No entry / Building under sequestration. I wondered what might have happened. On the roof, the sign that read ‘Kangaroo’ was missing the K and the G. It was winter, and the silence was unreal. I tried to open the door and managed to get in. Inside, everything seemed as I had left it years earlier, the furniture covered with white sheets, cobwebs, and dust everywhere. In the dim light filtering in through the closed windows, my attention was drawn to something white on the front desk. As I got closer, I noticed it was a few sheets of paper, neatly stacked one on top of the other, handwritten in dark blue ink. On the first page, the title read Perez and His Memory.

We’re sorry for the inconvenience, sir; the soap dispenser will be fixed tomorrow. Is there anything else we can help you with? I heard the red-haired young woman say, pointing her light blue eyes at mine. I hadn’t noticed her name tag. It read ‘Eva’.

No, thank you.  

---

If you liked this piece, I’d be truly grateful if you shared it.

And if you’re not yet a subscriber and just stumbled upon this page because someone shared it or by divine intervention, and you liked it, please do subscribe to receive my writing every week in your inbox.