Unsent Letters #22
I hope this letter finds me well
Dear V.,
I have gone through the pages of my burgundy notebook1 multiple times now, entry by entry. No matter how hard I try, I am seemingly unable to fully reconstruct a period of my life I lived under strange circumstances, among equally strange people, whose identities are shrouded in a milky haze. Sometimes, flashes of scenes appear before my senses -- faces looking at me, words spoken, songs or sounds heard, lines of printed text read, streets walked down. Fragments of a universe that no longer holds any clear structure. I don’t even know where you are now, or if you still live here. Would we even recognize each other if we met? The only certainty I have of that period is your constant presence by my side. This I remember clearly. Were we in a romantic relationship, though? Or just close friends? The terms we were on, what were they? These questions disturb me.
And no, it wasn’t all a dream. The proof is that I still have this burgundy notebook full of jottings, names with telephone numbers next to them, appointments circled in red ink, and short texts that might have something to do with my thoughts or lucubrations, or with phrases I liked from books, essays, or interviews that I copied or transcribed. I used to write everything there, dating the top right side of the page I started each day on. With time, I lost that habit. But back then, it was as if I somehow knew that one day I would forget things -- in fact, entire periods -- and that those entries would be my memory compass. As I was leafing through the notebook the other day, trying to find a thread linking some of the entries, my eyes fell on an address: Via Etna 2, written in pencil. Your name was next to it, in block letters, encased in a rectangular shape. I still draw a rectangle around words or short phrases that I want to draw my own attention to.
There’s a post office at that address, and as I stood on the sidewalk across the street, I immediately remembered that I used to accompany you there often to get your mail. When I asked you why you had your mail sent to a P.O. Box there, you responded that you had once lived in the area and that, since then, you’d had ‘no stable domicile’. I walked there last Sunday; the city is almost deserted this time of year. But Sundays, especially in the summer, especially in late afternoon, if you’re alone, open a portal in time. All you have to do is slip into it, and things and names that lie dormant in your memory re-emerge intact.
It was a Friday when I accompanied you there for the first time and heard those words from you. No stable domicile. They threw a veil of mystery over you that I didn’t want to lift. I didn’t ask further questions, and you didn’t elaborate. I hadn’t even written it in my notebook, for some reason. What difference does it make, I must have thought. That evening, we drove to someone’s country house for the weekend, five of us in a small car, talking and laughing. Another entry in the notebook says Alzaia Naviglio Pavese 8, with ‘Andrea’ next to it, and a telephone number, underlined in blue. Were they the same people we always found at Andrea’s, when we went there on weeknights?
No, I believe they weren’t. I was tempted to call that number, and ask what had become of Andrea and everyone who used to frequent his place. These fixed line numbers have decades of history attached to them; they entered lives at different points in time and served them in the most disparate manners. I didn’t call, thinking that perhaps the number was no longer in service. An excuse to help leave things as they used to be, I guess. It would be nice if one could call one of these numbers and be presented with the option of listening to all the conversations that occurred on that fixed line, from the time it was first installed. A secret option, not available to everyone, but only to those whose dormant memories needed to be awakened. And how would you prove you were one of them? The phone -- a fixed, rotary phone -- would know immediately, the instant you brought the receiver to your ear. It would be like entering a time machine.
I didn’t want that time portal to close on me, and continued walking. The heat on that Sunday afternoon didn’t seem to give me any respite, and every now and then I sat on a bench to rest. I found myself at the Darsena, near the beginning of Naviglio Pavese. I resumed walking toward Andrea’s address as written in my notebook, a mere few minutes from where I was seated. As I stood outside, things started flowing back.
Andrea lived with Salvatore -- they worked in the same advertising agency -- as well as a couple of students who were always locked in their respective bedrooms. Late at night, they sometimes opened their doors, asking us to keep it down, pitch dark in the rooms behind, eyes semi-closed, and hair all puffed up. In any event, a host of other people were regularly present. Strange people, all connected by a subtle fil rouge which I couldn’t put my finger on, not yet. We gathered there and cooked, talked, and told stories. Andrea himself was an excellent conversation starter. One night, we decided to start recording our stories with an old cassette player that someone fetched from I don’t know where. Every night we filled a cassette and had dozens of them by the end of that year. Who knows where they are now. Andrea had a twin brother, Adamo, who looked totally different. He rarely took part in our gatherings. At some point, I had been summoned to a police station to answer a few questions about Giorgio, one of the regulars at Andrea’s, who disappeared without a trace. Memories poured back, scattered, as I stood there looking at the building entrance. A tall, modern building, unlike any other in the area. Those involved in the trip to the country house were completely different people. Their faces all irremediably blank, for now.
And us, what were we? We were close, but what exactly? And how come you are the only one I remember effortlessly from that period? I remember you, but not what we were. Isn’t this strange? One day, you told me that I struggle to remember the past because I wasn’t entirely myself, and that the farther away from the real me I was, the more difficult I would find it to remember. This came back to me as my eyes were fixed on a quote written in my notebook, by Bukowski, that you might have given to me: “The seats are empty, the theater is dark; why do you keep acting?” Or maybe I just copied it from somewhere because it reminded me of that idea of yours.
I wonder which one of your unstable domiciles you are in now. Yesterday, I returned to the post office on Via Etna to ask whether that P.O. Box is still active. I went in there hopeless, thinking that after thirty-five years, the probability of it being inactive would be close to one hundred percent. To my surprise, they said it is still active. Your P.O. Box is still there, but they mentioned they hadn’t seen you in years.
I might leave this letter there for you, or I might not.
"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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This letter is inspired by the novel "The Black Notebook" by Patrick Modiano. First published in French as “L’Herbe des Nuits” in 2012, it is, in my opinion, one of his most enchanting and seductive works. Those familiar with the novel will notice that some passages have been borrowed, revisited, and adapted to this story. Patrick Modiano is one of my favorite authors, and I’d be humbled if even a hint of the magic of his style transpires from my piece.
Gorgeous.
This has the subtle feeling of a lament, which I so love.
"And us, what were we?" I love this line and how it is central to this piece.
I also love how this unsent letter is nearly, perhaps, sent.
Another favourite line (plus also the notion of the telephones later on, which is just brilliant):
"But Sundays, especially in the summer, especially in late afternoon, if you’re alone, open a portal in time. All you have to do is slip into it, and things and names that lie dormant in your memory re-emerge intact."
I haven't read any Modiano – something to remedy – but a hint of magic is certainly tangible in these letters of yours.
"The phone -- a fixed, rotary phone -- would know immediately, the instant you brought the receiver to your ear. It would be like entering a time machine." The idea of listening to conversations past, forgotten, is indeed like a time machine.
Wonderful writing, Silvio.