The Light That Remains

In the flesh beneath the stars

Photo by Hamish on Unsplash, rendered black & white by me

Do you realize where we are?, he asked, laughing with a whispering laugh, like the soft rustle of wind through grass, his forearms resting on the railing of the terrace overlooking the sea and his hands clasped together, almost as if in prayer, though it wasn’t prayer but more like fingers gently caressing one another, or perhaps just a natural position, one of those a part of the body assumes when you’re not paying attention, or when alone, or asleep. The sky was full of stars, way more than could be seen on the clearest nights in Milano, and the calm, black expanse of the Adriatic stretched out before us giving the illusion of infinity. Inside, Anna's fiftieth birthday party continued as expected, following its well-known, eagerly anticipated script of clamor and sweat. Not my thing, never had been, but Anna’s fiftieth I couldn’t turn down, or dodge with a sapiently conceived stratagem. I craned to look at him, not at all surprised by his presence, then back at the sea, thinking that old friends can take all the time in the world before speaking.

On a terrace, facing the sea, I finally said, matter-of-factly but not too much, my gaze straight ahead in the inconspicuous effort to conceal the awareness of having given a stupid answer. Yes, here, on this terrace facing the sea, he said, but we’re also in a place enveloped by the past. All these stars, he continued, and paused there for a moment that felt like an eternity. All this light coming from them is dead, he resumed, it was emitted thousands or millions or billions of years ago. It’s a past occurrence that instead of remaining in the past, like all past occurrences do, it’s getting to us as if it were a wave that started far away and increased its impetus gradually, until it crashed on our shore -- see what I mean? When many of these stars cast their light, so long ago, we didn't exist, life on Earth didn't exist, Earth itself didn't exist. It's the past, we're blanketed by the past, everything that no longer exists or exists only in memory or conjecture is here now, embracing all from above, shining on the black night water of the sea and on this terrace and on us, and we can't do anything to stop it. Doesn’t the light of the stars make you dizzy, or want to cry? I remained silent, thinking about the question, about whether this whole thing, which I couldn’t even name, did anything to me.

Then I turned to him and asked whether he came all the way here from who knows where, but certainly not around the corner, to tell me this, and he gave a light laugh. No, I did not, he answered once the laugh subsided. Think about it, he said, how many times did you see me in the flesh since I died forty-five years ago? You’re saying that I’m not imagining you, or just feeling your presence, like I did so many times? That you’re here physically, and I can touch you?, I asked. All the times you imagined me or just felt my presence I was there too, with you, listening to whatever you had to say, and paying attention. We just couldn’t have a proper conversation, like we’re doing now. But this time I thought I would show up physically, for which I had to get a special permit. I reached out and touched his arm, then his hair, then his shoulder, and I got a little tense. Relax, he said. And please don’t tell anyone. Don’t tell anyone what, the thing about the stars?, I asked. No, not that, dummy, and he released a laugh that sounded like a cascade of ice. Don’t tell anyone that I was here, and that you could touch me.

So, why am I here?, he said, his gaze still at the sea. Certainly not to tell you all about the light of the stars, although that’s admittedly pretty cool. I’m here to recommend some readings, books you should get and absorb. That’s it?, I said. Let me get this straight: you came down here in flesh and bones and hair and goosebumps, which is the very first time you do in forty-five years, and you had to get a special permit for, to give me some book recommendations? Precisely, he said, turning toward me and making eye contact. No need for you to write these down, you will remember them: La Vie de Rancé by François-René de Chateaubriand, Les Cages Flottantes by Gaston Leroux, The Deluge by Henryk Sienkiewicz, Lourdes by Émile Zola, Letters from My Mill by Alphonse Daudet, Le Cataclysme by J.H. Rosny aîné, Luck's Favorite and L'Honneur d'Artiste, both by Octave Feuillet, and Béatrix by Honoré de Balzac. What’s special about them?, I asked. No point for me to say, he answered; maybe nothing, maybe everything. I was flustered.

Oh, and one last thing before I go, he suddenly said. I know you never wanted to hear, or give, any advice; I was like that too. There are things one understands late in life, and one should go through those by themselves, no matter how late, no matter how old they are. Some things, however, one understands only once life is over, in between incarnations. I was lost, but didn’t dare ask anything. And right there, he continued, in that brief space-time divider, brief on earthly standards of course, where incidentally I myself still am, one gets a number of epiphanies, or enlightenments, or ah-ah moments, that last enough for them to enjoy the limpidity of truth, the whiteness of pure light, before they forget it all to prepare for their next life. I can’t tell you much, but you were my best friend here and I know how much you’ve missed me and I have missed you too and I’ll reveal a little one; you do whatever you deem right with it. All I could hear was the distant, gentle crashing of the waves on the shore, no noise coming from the party inside, where everything seemed to be frozen.

The most important thing, he said almost whispering, is to never complain, never whine, never blame, never reproach, and never point fingers at someone who has done something wrong. That’s just how life is -- somewhere it gives you joy, and somewhere it makes you pay for the joy it gives you. It’s always like this, an immutable law of the universe: there is no joy or happiness that isn’t balanced by its loss. Sometimes what life makes you pay has such a negligible meaning to you that you don’t even notice, but it has the right meaning to the universe, and maybe you’ll comprehend later. Sometimes it has a great meaning to you, but not so much to the universe, like when you lose a large sum of money, for example. In the end, though, everything balances.

I listened with my gaze fixed on the horizon between sky and sea, clearly visible under the unusually bright light of the stars. The words still echoed inside my head when I turned toward him, but he was gone. In his place, balanced on the terrace railing, moving almost imperceptibly in the light night breeze like a paper airplane, was a photograph of the two of us, on that terrace, posed next to each other and looking up at the sky, taken from somewhere over the sea, by who knows who.

Who knows when.

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