Unsent Letters #13

The Encounter

Photo by Jacob Thorson on Unsplash, rendered black & white by me

Dear H.,

Something very strange happened to me the other day. Something I haven’t told anybody about. It’s not that there’s no one I trust. Au contraire, I tend to trust even those I’m just acquainted with, even those I’ve just met. After all, how could I decide that someone is trustworthy if I’m unwilling to trust them in the first place? A bit of a chicken and egg problem, you may say. 

So this isn’t about trustworthiness. It’s about finding someone who’d listen to me with a straight face, who’d take my story seriously. And instead of continuing to waste time thinking about who that might be, I cut to the chase and wrote to you. Why you? Not sure. In fact, I’m not even sure you’d listen with a straight face, if physically in front of me. But I have to take this off my chest and I’m usually at ease with telling you things about me.

My friend Sarah asks if I could go check on her cat while she’s traveling for work. Her place is five minutes away, and she’ll be back on Friday. I’ve been the official repository of the only existing spare set of keys to her place since that day she said ‘I have no doubt you’d know exactly what to do, if something fatal happened to me’. As flattering as that sounded, I’m still unsure of what she expects me to do in that eventuality. I never asked her to elaborate; she never thought she should elaborate. She must’ve left instructions for me somewhere, certain that I’ll find them and follow them to the letter. I guess she just trusts me, which is weird as I haven’t known her forever, nor I know any of her relatives. 

We met in that dog park near the elementary school down the road, when Zoe was still a puppy. Zoe is now twelve, so that’s the time span we’ve known each other. Eugenio, her pointer, is no longer around. That day, our dogs were the only ones with human names, and we talked about how nice it was. When Eugenio passed, Sarah got Lucrezia, a calico cat with unusually predominant orange patches. 

They say tri-color cats bring good fortune. Lucrezia’s vet said this matter-of-factly the day we took her there to get vaccinated. It’s ‘we’ because Sarah asked if I could drive them there, as her car wouldn’t start. I didn’t know much about cats; in fact, I used to hate them. I’ve always been a dog person and thought that cats were strange, selfish creatures that would stab you in the back if they got the chance. Lucrezia made me change my mind: I now have a tremendous amount of respect for cats.   

Sarah asked me to go check on Lucrezia before -- I’d go at the end of the day, stay for twenty minutes or so, play with her a little (if she feels like it), make sure she’s got food and water in her bowls, and leave a light on for the night. A routine I’ve repeated multiple times. When I went there a few days ago, I stepped in the front door and felt exhausted, as if I had just finished running a marathon. Weird, I thought, it was just a few minutes walk and I’ve felt fine all day. So I plop myself down on the couch, not even thinking of locking the door behind me. Lucrezia is nowhere to be seen; a bit unusual, as she’s always there when I crack the front door open, ready to go out if I’m not careful. She must be sleeping somewhere, I think. Next to me on the couch there’s a worn out paperback copy of Steppenwolf, by Hermann Hesse. I open the book at a random page and start reading a passage Sarah has underlined and scribbled something next to. This must be important, I think, and immediately fall into a deep sleep. 

When I open my eyes, the fatigue is gone. I must have slept a lot, I deduce. Still unable to fully focus, I see a woman seated on the couch opposite mine. Her piercing blue eyes are fixed on me. She’s got red hair, porcelain-white complexion, and is wearing black. A thick beige book sits on her lap, and her right hand rests on its cover. I pull myself up with a lumbar thrust and sit at the edge of the couch, my back straight and tense, my eyes wide open. She’s now in focus, and stunningly beautiful. Are you scared? Please, don’t be. She utters these words with a smile. Who are you?, I ask. 

I am Vahideh, but your friend named me Lucrezia. I am the direct descendent of Ardashir the first. Her tone of voice is silky and accent-less. My dynasty originated in Persia, thirteen thousand years ago. I am permitted to assume human semblances for only seven minutes every two hundred and fifty years, so please listen carefully and try not to interrupt. Words are failing me anyway, I think. So being silent will be easy.

Thank you for coming and checking on me while Sarah is away, first of all. You are a gentle soul. Second, I have an important message for you: that dream of yours about not having to go through all the unpleasant choices you think are being forced on you, you should pursue without fear. You will have the energy and the resources to realize it. There is a key revelation in a Pink Floyd song, find what it is and everything will fall into place. Third, this book is my gift to you. It will unveil who you are page after page. If you learn how to use it, it will be a channel of communication between us. Don’t lose it, and pass it on to your children, so that they can do the same with theirs. And so forth. My time is up, you can go back to sleep.

My eyes close again. When they reopen, Lucrezia is lying down on the couch next to me. I must have been really tired, I think: I slept for so long and had the weirdest dream. I yawn, stretch, and rub my eyes. On my phone screen, the time is eight forty-four. Gosh it’s gotten late; I’d better get going. I stand up, go replenish the cat’s food and water, make sure one light is on for the night, and when I turn to the couch I was lying on to gather my things before leaving, I see the beige book. Right there, next to Lucrezia. A shiver runs through my entire being like a gusty wind. 

It wasn’t a dream. 

While I step outside and lock the front door, I replay everything in my head a million times, but I want to write it all down somewhere. I open the beige book and it’s all blank pages, it looks like an empty journal. It will unveil who you are page after page. I hurry home to sit down at my desk and write my recollection of every small detail. On my way, I put my airpods on and the first song out of Spotify’s shuffle is The Gunner’s Dream. By Pink Floyd.

And no one kills the children anymore.

Thank you for listening. I hope you have your straight face on.

---

"Unsent Letters" is a series released every other week. These are imaginary letters to fictitious or real individuals who may or may not have influenced my life, not always mirroring actual events.

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