In one of the many Seinfeld episodes where George struggles to find a woman to meet and date, he says that his dream is to become hopeless, because the hopeless don’t care. And when you don’t care, that indifference makes you attractive.
“I’ve gotten to the point that I’m flirting with operators on the phone; I’ve almost made a date with one.”, he says. Highlighting the behavior of someone who keeps trying; someone who has hope. But hope is killing him. He doesn’t want hope. And yet, he unconsciously has it, whether he wants it or not.
I met Laura on the train from my hometown to Milano, when I was in my junior year in college. Going home for the weekend entailed that I had to take the Sunday night train back, an experience of sorts. It was always crammed with returning students, one on top of the other, carrying huge bags and weirdly packaged home-made food that was supposed to give them the illusion of having their mamas there cooking for them for a few more days. I would gladly have avoided that train, if classes didn’t start early on Monday morning.
But there I was, on a six-hour night ride that, for those sitting in the same compartment, and in a world devoid of cellphones or any other readily available screen, was often spontaneously conducive to conversation. Some immersed themselves in books or magazines or seriously limited music-listening activities (again, technology), but for the most part people talked. It was nineteen eighty-eight.
That night, the lights in the train went off about a quarter of the way through, and stayed off until the very end of the line. My compartment-mates couldn’t read and resorted to talking, their faces illuminated by the sporadic yellow fluorescent light we passed by. It was a moonless night and for long tracts voices couldn’t be associated with faces. Every time we stopped to collect more people, a flood of light poured in from the station for a few minutes. It felt like resurfacing from underwater to breathe all the air there is to take. Then dark again.
Laura got on in Pesaro, with the train lights already off. By a lucky combination of occurrences, she took the seat next to me. Lucky because, while trying to make her way through the wall of people standing in the aisle, she happened to pass right outside my compartment when the old lady seated on my left suddenly remembered she had to get off. This much I recall very specifically.
Before we left the station and plunged back into the dark, I noticed that she had long straight brown hair gathered in a low ponytail, and was wearing a black turtleneck. The kind of unavoidable details splattered in the face of those who don’t pay attention. And, as I was going through a no-other-female-humans-please phase following the traumatic breakup of a multi-year relationship, I wasn’t indeed paying attention.
But in a surreal scene with people sitting in the dark and talking with complete strangers, their faces visible for a fraction of a second every now and then like in those horror movies where lightning strikes during a thunderstorm, she turned and hugged me. And whispered in my ear “Hug me back, hug me back, please. Act normal, I will explain.”, by talking as fast as those reading the fine print disclaimer of a medicine in a TV commercial. I acted as normal as someone who gets thrown into a washing machine without prior notice. When she detached herself from the embrace, a glimpse of light from outside briefly illuminated her face, and I noticed that she looked kind of serious, but smiled with her eyes. I can’t say she wasn’t beautiful.
And she did explain. She reached into her purse, took a pen and a piece of paper and wrote: “The guy next to me held a hand on my thigh. Thank you!” I laughed; something I hadn’t done in days. Her calligraphy, I remember clearly -- a mix of cursive and block letters. There must have been a vocal conversation between us at some point, the memory of which escapes me. We exchanged numbers.
I don’t remember much about Laura, after that train ride. Which is curious, because we did see each other for a while. I wasn’t really in an ideal state, and kept relegating her presence in the background of my existence. I do remember that she was a wonderful human: sensitive, curious, well-read, energetic, ironic, and positive. Also, as Jerry Seinfeld put it in another famous episode, she possessed many of the other qualities praised by the superficial man. But I had other priorities and was behind with my studies, and had little interest in initiating a proper relationship. She, on the other hand, wanted to spend as much time as she could in my presence. It’s weird how, in a different period of my life, she would have been the ideal woman to be with, but the state I was in consigned the time I spent with her to oblivion. I’ll wait for you, she’d say from time to time.
I have flashes of things and words, of fragrances and colors. She studied design and had a little dog named Tequila, and lived near Parco Solari. Her flatmate was a mysterious woman who usually answered the phone when I called their place, with a nasal voice, as if she had a perennial cold. We never exchanged more than three words. I never saw her. When she gave me her number, that night right off the train at Stazione Centrale, Laura said that she’s usually out all day and I should never leave a message with her flatmate cause she’s always stoned and doesn’t remember things. I should call at night to make sure she’s in.
Once, towards the end of our parenthesis together, I went to her place with the idea of spending the night, but I woke at three or four and wanted to go home. I had lots of these paranoias during that period. My mind was just somewhere else. So I called a taxi. On the front door, she wrapped a big scarf all around my neck twice with maternal care. Take this, it’s freezing cold out, she said. A beautiful, black, cashmere scarf.
I went to her place to return the scarf on a rainy morning. It was weird to see the front door of the building open -- I’d always gone at night, out of concierge hours. Rushing my way in, I got stopped by the concierge guy. Who are you here to see, sir? I told him that I had to go up to Laura’s, third floor, to return something. Actually, you know what? There’s no need to go upstairs, I can leave this with you, I said. When he told me that he knew no resident with that name, and that, to the best of his knowledge, no one with that name ever lived in the building, my head started spinning. But I was here two nights ago, in her apartment. Please check again, I urged. I’m sorry sir, there’s no Laura C. here, there must be a mistake. Are you sure the person you’re looking for lives in this building? I slowly stepped out of the front door, spaced out.
When I called her number from a phone booth nearby, a pre-recorded, metallic voice said the number you have dialed doesn’t exist. Her scent was still on the scarf that I held in my hand. How strange, I thought weeks later, trying to make sense of this whole story. Right when I was starting to get less indifferent, to embrace hope again in my life, it seems like whatever attracted her to me vanished. Not only that: she vanished.
One morning, after she spent the night at my place, I wanted to be alone but she kept jumping around me as we walked side by side on the street, enthusiastically proposing different alternative meals that we could cook together for lunch. I don’t know, I’ll probably skip lunch; I have work to do for my paper, I said. She understood and kissed me goodbye. On my desk, back home, I found a folded piece of paper. “Remember to remember me” was written on it, in a mix of cursive and block letters.
I kept that piece of paper for years, together with the scarf. Until one day I couldn’t find them anymore.
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.
Enchanting Silvio, and beautifully told. I adore your stories
Beautiful, I particularly like the description of the intermittent darkness on the train. I think that nicely fits with the theme of the story, the way people flit in and out of our lives, how they suddenly disappear. Subtle symmetry.