Chapter IX - Blue Flowers

The insomnia went on. A second night with no sleep. Sleep seemed an unfamiliar comfort to him now, as if it had been years and years, nights following nights, spread out in his memory. The sound of footsteps. A wait.

He got up in the morning, his body tired but alert. He got up in the morning, put on a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, flip-flops, and went downstairs. He didn’t even wait for the elevator. The stairs dazed him; he ran down eight flights. He didn’t even buy the papers as he usually did on weekends, didn’t stop by the market as he usually did; he went straight to the mailbox, and there it was, as he had hoped. He could have spent the night lying in wait, just waiting there all night, waiting for her to arrive, those quick footsteps, that slim body, hair tied back in a bun or a ponytail, he could have spent the whole night there waiting, but no, he was shut away on the eighth floor, wide-eyed with insomnia. All night long he knew that she was approaching once more, that she was walking into the building, crossing the hall over to the mailbox, putting an envelope through the narrow slit, with his address and a different name. The next morning, there it was, the last letter, a presence lingering.

He waited till he was back home, upstairs, before opening the envelope, the envelope that had seemed like it would never come, the blue envelope that enclosed a whole journey, an expectation. A whole night of insomnia. Somebody greeted him in the elevator but he was silent, his head down, he didn’t even smile, as though any gesture, any word could break this most fragile of links, this strange communication that had begun. Any word. The closeness of the moment had stretched out during his nighttime vigil, waiting for him. His sweating hands stained the envelope, the ink from the envelope on his fingers, the ink from a different name. He got out of the elevator. He walked into his apartment, closed the door, feeling safe as he closed the door, and at the same time feeling fear that at any moment somebody might burst in. He went into the apartment, put his keys down on the table, the envelope in his hands; he opened it carefully, sat down on the first chair he came to and there he stayed. The open letter stretching, lengthening. The open letter and time passing, beside him, time approached him and touched him, without ever really reaching him.

And as he read, for the first time in those recent few days, there was something that was his. It was as though she had moved, the direction of her voice, of the wind: she addressed him for the first time, really addressed him, it was no longer a mistake, no longer an appropriation. She wrote to him, holding out her hand. She was waiting for him. Not like his ex-wife, not like Fabiane, not like the others who came and went, even Manuela, a three-year-old girl, not like the world that surrounded him and made its demands, but a different movement, a different capacity; she was waiting for him and she held out her hand, he thought, she held out her hand, in spite of everything, in spite of the worst crimes, not in exchange for anything. How was that possible? Because it was him, not anyone else, not a stranger or an actor who looks like him, not just anyone, and if he had seen himself in the mirror at that moment, he would have been able to see himself—he was sure of it—if he looked at himself in the mirror, he would see a new face, the face of someone who has spent the last few nights awake. His face in the morning. He who’d always slept so well. He who had been transformed, something in him had been transformed and had emerged as a different image. His face. How was it possible, he asked himself.

Without her realizing it, everything had scattered and stretched for him. The rounded handwriting on the envelope, the fountain pen, the nostalgia for getting ink between your fingers, a whole past: she might be anybody, any woman, anyone who might walk past him and smile while he’s standing outside the post office, waiting in the street. Him, any man, waiting for her. He pictured this woman, very thin, almost ethereal, from the height of those heels, the dress he so liked, the loose hair falling over her face, a dark curtain. That woman who was so fragile, holding out her hand to him. Time passing. Slender fingers, ink, saliva to close the envelope, nostalgia, a secretion. And at the same time, something in the letter scared him. That woman, so fragile. How was that possible, he thought.

And there he stayed, afraid to make any movement, any gesture, afraid of anything that might break this suspended moment, this spell. Slowly, he was feeling as though something was starting to belong to him. And he felt something that was his in that letter, it was no longer just addressed to another person, with another secret, another declaration, but it was something addressed to him, something that was his. And he felt that his eyes were not obeying him, looking in every direction, sensing a whole desire he had no way of fulfilling, because things were happening without his comprehension, he thought.

He thought he needed to do something, at last, to act. Not just linger at the snack bar any longer, or check out the movie, or go by the antiques shop, or the post office, no more waiting and silence, but he had to do something real. Something real, at last, he thought. And he picked up his phone.

The owner of the apartment had a house outside the city and was hardly ever around. She spent her weekends up in the mountains. She loved the views and mild climate of the mountains. He had seen her only once, for the handover of the keys. She was a woman with very well styled red hair. Dressed in a suit and accessorized with a number of bracelets and rings. An impeccable lady, she reminded him of his own mother-in-law, and what his ex-wife would probably become in fifteen, twenty years, another impeccable lady.

He looked at the envelope, which at that moment seemed such a strange object. The letter on the table. The sheets of paper, the whole thing so nostalgic; he wasn’t even finished moving in, the apartment was still pretty much empty, boxed up.

On the phone the impeccable lady seemed surprised to hear from him on a Sunday, at that time of the morning, but it couldn’t wait till Monday, it was urgent, he explained, trying to find the words that would sound serious, thoughtful, elegant. What could be so pressing as to make him call on a Sunday morning at that time—she seemed annoyed behind her apparent politeness, and he apologized again, talked about the letter, there had been a delivery, an urgent letter, and wasn’t that the former tenant’s name? It was, yes, replied the lady on the other end, surprised in her house in the mountains. So someone who didn’t know that he’d moved had sent him something urgent, something old-fashioned, a letter, a letter, the owner thought this strange, a letter on a Sunday morning. That’s right, he replied, so you can see how urgent it is, he felt ridiculous saying this.

It felt childish saying this to her. Manuela would have once again watched him with disappointment from her lofty three years. There was a brief pause at the other end, And what do you want me to do about it, she replied at last. Nothing, he said, but I got worried that it was something really important, he said without needing to lie. It is something terribly important, he thought, making him feel almost childish in that ridiculous situation on a Sunday morning, and he recalled Manuela and her implacable gaze, that image of the inquisitive little girl. There’s nothing I can do, the impeccable lady concluded, but I can, he said, I could call and let him know; he tried to sound uninterested. Manuela was always so blasé, she’d be terrifying at fifteen, and why was he thinking about this right now, he thought. Or I could even deliver the letter myself, if he isn’t too far away, he added carefully. She was surprised, the impeccable lady: You could do that? Of course, he replied, almost glad, of course I would. It was somebody so different, someone waiting for him, holding out a hand, he thought. But he just said yes, he’d let him know if she would give him the new phone number, but no, she didn’t have the number there, it was in her other address book, she’d left it in the city; the impeccable lady was in her house in the mountains. He paused and said nothing; somebody was waiting for him, for the first time, and he felt one wrong word and he would lose all the ground he had just gained. Then she offered, I do have the address, if you really don’t mind, and he waited a few seconds, If it isn’t too far, he said, terribly afraid that it would be, yes, very far, but she said no, it’s very close. He thought, things are so easy sometimes, things were happening, somebody was waiting for him, and he felt unsettled. How was this possible? But he went on, of course, I’ll stop by, I’ll leave it with the doorman; the owner was pleased, Very good, most kind of you, perfect, she concluded, nowadays people don’t worry about one another anymore, they can be so selfish, you know, and he smiled, it had been such a long time, he agreed, It’s no trouble at all, since it’s so close by, the letter open on the table, the blue envelope, when I go out to pick up my daughter I’ll stop by, the little girl so distant, but that didn’t matter now, I’ll leave it at the front desk. It’s no trouble at all, and she said, But people are so selfish, so when I come across somebody like you, of course, I just think, and she went on. And he thought of Manuela again, her inquiring gaze, this conversation that wouldn’t end, so early on a Sunday morning, this impeccable lady.

When he finally hung up, he had the bit of paper, at last, with the address and all its possibilities, and he put it in his pocket and went out. Just as he was, shorts, flip-flops, T-shirt, hair uncombed, his face still a mess from a sleepless night. He ran down the stairs. The address was in his pocket and he had a bundle of letters in his hands: nine letters, one for each day. The blue envelopes. The rounded handwriting. He got in the car, and anxiety began to settle in. The address on a bit of paper. That whole time he hadn’t really thought about what he was going to do when the time came, when the time finally came. What would he say, the bundle of letters open in his hands, the letters consumed, spent, read.

He drove on without thinking. The Sunday morning streets still empty. He could even forget about the whole business, chalk it up to one of those things that happen so quickly and then we just forget about them, but he didn’t want to, he wanted to go up the steps, or in the elevator, the elevator of the building that was nearby, no more than five, ten minutes’ drive, the woman had said on the phone, ring the bell and stand there with that bundle of letters, looking at the man on the other side of the door, as though looking in a mirror, looking closely, as though seeing something unexpected. And when this man saw the envelopes, the handwriting, and when he saw the envelopes open and the letters read, what would he say to him, that it had been by accident, that he’d opened nine letters by accident, because that’s how things happen, real things.

He’d say the letters were his, that they were his now, and he wouldn’t be lying. He would ask for the address, the return address that was never there, and the name, just an initial. He would say, correctly, that they were his now, they belonged to him, and what would the man on the other side say, as if in a mirror, he wondered. He was someone who left, because after all this was the man who had left, who had run away, running down the middle of the street, in the early morning, but not him, he’d stayed, he was there now, the open letters in his hands, in his hands, he would show them to him, what was now his, she was waiting for him, for him, and he would be the one to lie down in her lap, his head heavy as a stone in her lap after the battle, he’d say, looking at the other man like someone seeing himself and, at last, recognizing himself. He would say it was his, all those days, those words, that he’d been looking for her, right across the city, he’d been looking for her, him, the apartment, the movie, a cup of coffee, everything that belonged to him.

And so, when he took a good look at that man on the other side of the door, he would see nobody. He would ring the bell, the door would open, and there would be no one there.

When the man finally opened the door, it wasn’t him, that was the first thing he thought, surprised. He was in jeans and a T-shirt, any old man, a guy like so many others. This man gave him a look that was not exactly friendly. He was standing there on his doorstep, after all, early on a Sunday morning.

What letters are those, the man asked with a certain brusqueness. He had already explained on the intercom who he was and what he had come for, about the owner of the apartment, the address, the urgency, and he just stood there a few seconds, as though he himself didn’t know the right answer. What are those letters, he asked again. The letters weighed down his hands. He held out one of them, an envelope. Just one. The man took the envelope, examined it with curiosity, yet didn’t hide a certain impatience at the open envelope, somebody else’s letters. He wore an expression of distrust and reproach. He looked at the address, the sender, opened the letter, the letter a foreign body. He read it then and there, quickly, standing in front of him like a mirror, he thought. The man standing in front of him read the words he knew by heart, the pauses, the rhythms. He watched each gesture, each change of expression, however small, something that might give him away. He watched his hands, his fingers holding the paper, as if they meant something, and they did. He had read and knew every space, every line. And as the man read, it was as though the whole world were suspended; as he read, everything was still possible. He felt his breathing speeding up, his whole body contracting, his whole body waiting.

And when the reading was over, everything went back to regular existence.

“What does this mean?” The man held out the letter, the envelope, as though using the gesture to punctuate his question.

He was still standing there, unsure how to reply. Then he said:

“It’s a letter.”

“Yeah, that much I get.”

“It’s . . .”

“What does this mean?” His voice was turning impatient. “Some kind of joke?”

He rushed to make himself clear:

“No, of course not.”

The man looked at him suspiciously. He tried to explain:

“Is that not you? It’s got your name on it, the address . . .”

“Of course it’s me. But these letters aren’t for me. These letters, which—by the way—you’ve already opened, read, done whatever you wanted with, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I . . .”

“Well, I’m not the person you have to apologize to. These letters aren’t mine. In fact, I have no idea who she is, this woman.”

He looked at the letter one more time:

“It’s not even signed.”

“No, that’s right.”

“And now that I look more carefully, my name doesn’t appear in the letters, only on the envelope, or is it in the other letters?”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Well then?”

He didn’t know how to reply.

“You don’t want to take a look at the others?”

“No. What for? I’m telling you they aren’t for me.” His voice brusque, irritated.

Then, more conciliatory:

“Look, it must be some joke, some hoax, whatever.”

“A joke?”

“Yeah, someone’s playing a joke on you, I guess.”

“On me?”

The man nodded. He kept insisting:

“You’re absolutely sure the letters aren’t yours?”

“Absolutely.”

“But this woman, you don’t know her?”

“No.”

“But don’t you have any idea who she might be? You only read the first letter, if you read the others I’m sure that maybe . . .”

What had been impatience was beginning to turn into aggression:

“Look, are you deaf? I’m telling you I don’t know her, I don’t know who she is, I’ve never seen her, I’m not interested, I have no idea at all. And I’ve got better things to do than to stand here reading this pile of letters some crazy woman has decided to write.”

He stood there, looking at him as if he were no longer there.

“Look, I’m really sorry, but I’ve got things to do. You’ve come here, I’ve seen you, I’ve explained things. Thank you for the trouble, thank you for coming, it’s all great, but I’ve got to go now.”

“Ah, of course . . .”

“Here’s your letter, look, it must have been some kind of joke.”

“Sure, a joke, of course.”

The man closed the door, and he stayed there a while, the door closed to him. As though there were still a possibility of the man changing his mind, his memory returning, something he’d forgotten to say, or at least a clue, a curiosity. He felt heavy, the stress was only now starting to show itself. His own thoughts, the difficulty in getting them to take shape, kept disappearing before they even became a series of words or an intention. Eventually he gave up. He turned with some effort and made his way slowly toward the elevator. The bundle of letters still in his hands. The bundle of open letters, the blue envelopes, from one moment to the next, had lost their meaning, the meaning he had given them. These past days without sleep. And now there was not even any more waiting to do.

In the meantime, the street was full of busy people and their newspapers and loaves of bread and milk they had just bought.

He was moving slowly. The elevator door opened and he got in, pressed a button, stepped out, walked past the doorman without looking to either side, past the metal fence at the entrance and out onto the street. There was a hubbub of cars and people. The hubbub of a Sunday that was finally starting. And he kept on walking, as though he couldn’t hear it, or as though the sounds reached him muffled, the pack of open letters weighing down on him, his steps weighing down on him, his steps getting slower and slower. On his face, an involuntary grimace, a vein standing out, his hair clinging to his forehead.

He had been carrying the letters, had spent the whole week waiting, endured the recent days’ insomnia, and something dissolved away, right there, in his hands. The letters and everything dissolved away into the distance. The landscape, the cars and the muffled noise of the cars, and the people and the muffled noise of the people around him, and everything around him, circling, circling, at that early time of the morning. How was it possible. That urgency. How was it possible. That encounter, that battle.

How was it possible, he thought.