I turned down the narrow lane into a secluded alleyway, and upon seeing a seemingly deserted house,- plain and old -, I turned and knocked firmly on the unstable wooden door: the house shuddered. My knock was answered almost immediately by a contemplative man of seventy, with shining eyes that you couldn’t decipher, a white unkempt beard, and a philosophical expression of pure intelligence. We did not exchange any greetings, but only looked at each other for a few seconds; then, trying to break the awkwardness that was arising, I brushed past the man and began to take off my long coat and scarf. I did not hang them, but left them lying on the creaky wooden floor, which was much in need of repair. He closed the door, and stepping over my things, led me to a table where I said,
“She died, you know” sombrely. I was referring to the man’s wife, who he had not been able to reconcile his past feuds with in time, he had always wanted to forgive and be forgiven, had always been getting around to it, but had always forgotten. I said this because I knew he was in a state of denial, and was trying desperately to draw him out once more, to restore him to his usual theoretical talkativeness. His wife had lived in a country he had spoken of many times, one that he said was distant;- though he would not quite mention where. I was really unsure that he even had a wife, - though maybe he had, once -, but seeing as she was bothering him a great deal, he made me feel compassion in spite of myself; and so I humoured him, or so I thought.
“Well, no. Well, yes.” he said unsteadily.
“What do you mean? She is dead. It is final.” I said, much perplexed. I did not mind being quite frank with the gentleman, he required frankness from all, and could tell when one wasn’t being entirely truthful. It was no good to waste one’s words on formalities, and social duties: this old man, he wanted facts, and I had learned to indulge in his desire for them (and when one gets around to it, candidness is a lot easier - and more satisfying - than false cheerfulness).
“After she died, she died again” he said insightfully.
“But how could that be so, she was already dead”
“Ahh… but she died to herself”
“The first time?”
“The first time” he echoed decidedly.
“Profound” I answered, not quite believing what he had just said, but agreeing nevertheless, it did no good to argue with him.
“But,” I said hopefully, “you have no physical evidence she is dead”
He did not answer but kept on looking out the window at the swaying trees.
“But I felt it” the tears in his eyes glistened as they caught the last few remaining rays of light reflecting off the window.
“Also, when she was alive, she would get that faraway look in her eyes…” I did not know him to speak sentimentally, but this time he was on the verge.
“I know that look” I said.
“We all must. Let’s get going”
“No, because when she got that look, was she distant?” I gazed past him as I spoke.
“Haven’t I already said? Distant, yes. Gone, no.” he met my gaze.
“Stop, you are trying to repeat the unrepeatable” I finished gazing, furrowing my brow slightly.
“Ahh, but it must be repeated” he sighed.
“I know, but it is not pleasant”
“A world in which everything is pleasant is a distant one…”
“Which brings us back to…” I said hesitantly.
“That faraway look, yes?”
“Yes, it seems symbolic”
“Symbolic, yes.” he paused then, to think, and I saw again, the strange look in his eyes.
“You are almost sentimental, why is this?”
“Sentimentality…it is final, only final.”
“And seriousness isn’t?”
“Cannot be.” he corrected.
“And,” he added “Who’s to say that sentimentality is not serious?” I pondered this for a few moments and then said, quite sure of myself, and trying to impress him with my brevity and wisdom,
“False sentimentalism is a crime”
“Crime, yes. Sin, no.” he said decidedly.
“And what separates the two?”
“Sentimentalism” he nodded decisively.
“Ahh…yes” I remembered then.
“One may be imprisoned for teaching, that does not mean it is wrong”
“But it could be” Then, as if getting ready to leave, he stood to gather his things.
“Could be? Yes. Hypothetically” he answered, shifting his position uneasily as if the subject pained him.
“Profound” I said, confused. My brow furrowed, and he noticed; he shot me a considerable glance, a glance worth noting and dwelling on, and continued to gather his few belongings (an old tweed hat, plaid scarf, trench coat, and worn leather boots- all of which suited him pleasantly).
“Yes.” he said decidedly.
“But...” he said questioningly,
“But… I have forgotten it again”
“You must stop forgetting, it is a crime”
“But not a sin?”
“Crime, yes. Sin, no.” he said decidedly, these were his closing words, he looked at me solidly, and nodded.
He left me then, like he always did: without any warning, silently, and quickly; and I was alone. I wondered to myself, where the old man went when he left me. But, the room being cold, and seeing there was no use in staying, and finding no use in trying to reason with his ways: they were mysterious, I got ready to depart.
“Even so,” I said softly to myself, beginning to reason again, “-no, it cannot be discussed by one’s self…”
I closed the door behind me and, as if finishing the thought I said,
“It leads to self absorption” and then added quickly “-or self pity”. As I walked down the dusty lane, I thought hard about my conversation with The Old Man. It was the time of year where the weather could not decide whether to keep being chilly and brisk, or snowy and cold. My hands were numb with the frosty air, but a good kind of numb, a warm kind of numb. I thrust them into my coat pockets, fearing the cold bite of the icy wind that was picking up. The trees rustled above me, scattering their leaves throughout the narrow cobblestone streets of the small town. An old garden gate creaked on its rusty hinges, a window shutter slammed repeatedly against a house, the world seemed to have lost its color. I sighed heavily at a flock of passing geese, migrating. I felt as if my mind was flying away with them, that I was slowly losing it to the power of the autumn winds. I was terribly anxious about The Old Man, whom I knew so well, and, knowing him so well led me to think he would never be the same. I could not console him in the least since the day that he had announced to me in the most unorthodox and wan way possible to announce a death, that his wife (who I had no idea existed) had died. My walk led me to my house, which was located in the centre of the village, it was a small house, made of brick, and had a pretty gate (rusting pitifully) leading to a stone pathway overhung by vines. In was much branched in, so that you could not immediately recognize it from the street, but, being who I was, it was nice to know I was hidden from public view. I never did enjoy community securitization, especially since there was much in my life which could be scrutinized. Closing the gate behind me, I made my way through the forest of vines, ducking my head as I went. I opened the door, dust could be seen floating in the air where the light cast it rays, all was silent. I sat at my desk with a cup of cold, bitter coffee left over from breakfast which I had failed to observe (but now it was more of a routine to forget it, than a habit), opened my book, and after shifting my position several times, started to read. The sun was setting and cast brilliant shadows warmly upon me, adding to the sentimentality of the scene. I read for long past the time it took me to gulp down my coffee, as was my custom. But my mind kept straying to The Old Man, and I wasn’t paying much attention to what I was reading, it wasn’t making any impression on my mind, and so, once I had read a few chapters, I stopped abruptly: amid sentence, suddenly feeling very dull and idle. The only reason I had begun reading and continued reading was because it was my custom, and I never broke any of my customs (of which I had many). I finished the evening staring into space, watching the geese fly by, wondering, and finally, though I do not know when, sleeping.
~À ~~À ~~À ~
“You, why have you come?” I did not expect such a greeting, the man usually so kind was obviously agitated, his cold words surprised me.
“I have come to talk, to help you” I replied weakly. I searched his eyes, but they were different.
“Tell me, what is your name?” he looked terribly confused, and it scared me.
“You know me, Thomas, yes, you know me” I said, quite bewildered.
“Thomas…, yes, Thomas” he smiled slightly as if the thought had just dawned upon him, but now that it did I returned his smile and sat down on one of the few chairs in the oddly arranged room; which consisted of a bed, a table shoved taught between the wall and the bed, and three chairs, which were moved about as needed, in a mysteriously unorthodox fashion.
“Curious,” I said “how one can change so easily” I meant it as an afterthought but he did not take it as one, he looked rather offended, and before I could begin to make amends he replied curtly, and defensively:
“Change is not a sin”.
“No, I did not say so”
“Ahh, but you meant so” he turned his head, studying a small crack in the degraded plaster wall intently.
“Tell me, how is it that you are so sceptical” he asked, still failing to meet my desperate glance.
“Sceptical, yes, different, no.” I said, imitating his own manner.
“Do not mock me, boy” his head whipped around to look at me steadily, there was a harshness - a certain stern rapidity, in his old eyes; they were reproving... and I shrank from view.
“I was not meaning to do so..” I was beginning to be concerned for The Old Man.
“Tell me, have you seen Lydia lately?” he said, with that tone of indifference I knew so well. But his eyes were taking on that look, the one devoid of all thought and memory, it showed an audacity which stunned my nerves.
“No, sir, really, she is… no longer with us” I said, much disturbed by his coolness.
“She always liked the autumn the best - the leaves, you know” he added, and smiled a reminiscent smile.
“Yes, she did, but now…” I faltered.
“We used to make piles of leaves in autumn - us two - you know, together like” he smiled playfully, and tossed his weather-beaten head.
“Even so,” I said, trying to draw him out but failing terribly, “even so, - I’m... I’m Thomas!” I shouted in desperation, then, hanging my head so that my dark curls covered my anxious face, I wept silently.
“Sentimentality is a crime, not a sin” he said thoughtfully, then he also hung his head and muttered some curse under his breath. I suddenly realized that he did know who I was, it was in his tone. Knowing this, (or at least, assuming this) I ventured doubtfully,
“But… forgetting, forgetting is a sin!” I lifted my head. I looked at him, a look, I fancied, that showed pure respect and love.
“Crime, yes. Sin, no” he did not look up.
“Then remembering, is remembering a fulfillment?” I asked wholeheartedly.
“Yes, but only when you want to remember…” he lifted his head, but did not look at me, he stared just past me, his eyes glittered, his face was blankly absorbed, but in what, I did not know. His head was tilted upwards in a degree with which the suns rays caught it mysteriously.
“And when you don’t…?”
“It is a sin”
“Not a crime?”
“A sin”. This was the only time I had seen him deliberately, and concisely twist the truth to match his own devices, it was wounding my respect for him,- I tried to put the thought out of my mind.
“Profound” again I was saying it not out of truth, but out of formality, out of habit.
“Habit,” he said as if reading my mind, “is not truth, it may be at first…but…you aren’t real”
“How so?” I asked defensively, without knowing how brusque I must have sounded.
“You are not in truth, you are out of custom, you do not really love…”
“I cannot love” I bit off my words slowly, bitterly.
“Why is this?” for once we were talking as equals, the barrier between us broken, we were ageless.
“Because love, it is not one of my customs” I answered coldly, mindlessly, habitually.
“Customs, they are, well, no,…” he said, and then halted.
“No, what are they?” I was half resentful, half sarcastic, and a little curious.
“They are only, only crimes at first, then…”
“Sins. I do not love” I finished his sentence for him, knowing too well how it would have ended. The resentment in my voice now made itself quite plain, I felt like I had laid myself out.
“Ahh, but, but you love me” he then turned his head to me and looked at me decidedly, the full force of his eyes penetrating my wall of comfortable, easy, customary thinking. I could tell he was not all too sure of what he had just said, and was looking at me questioningly, and I knew that he was thinking how terrible it was for him to have to question it, and he was hurt. And I felt regretful.
“Even so…“ I started, then quickly checking myself, I exclaimed “The faraway look…” seeing his face leave his thoughts, his thoughts leave his mind, and his mind leave his body.
“Crime, yes. Sin, no.” he said decidedly, as if he were reminding me of something, and then, but not as terribly as I would have thought, he drifted into a world between reality and timelessness. I sighed heavily,
“Profound” and, for once, I really meant it.
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