The Lost Art of Letter Writing

by Praag, Menna van

  She coughs. Finn’s fingers freeze and he smiles before his eyes open.

  ‘No, please don’t stop on my account.’

  ‘I won’t,’ he says. ‘Since I came to play for you.’

  Greer smiles. ‘Thank you.’

  Finn nods, basking in delight that she’s returned to him, before settling his violin upon his shoulder again.

  ‘How does it feel?’ Greer asks suddenly. ‘When you play? I watch you and it seems, it seems … like the most heavenly thing on earth.’

  Finn smiles. ‘Well, I’ve not experienced much else to compare it with but, yes, I believe it is for me.’

  Greer sighs. ‘I wish I could feel it.’

  Finn considers this. ‘Well, perhaps it’s possible you can.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’m not sure. But,’ he nods towards her, ‘given your … transparent state, maybe – I imagine all sorts of things are available to you that aren’t available to everyone else.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Greer says.

  ‘Perhaps …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, can you disappear into things?’

  Greer frowns. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean,’ Finn says, ‘can you walk through walls, that sort of thing?’

  Greer shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘I’ve never tried.’

  ‘You’ve—well, why don’t you give it a go?’

  Greer wrinkles her nose. ‘I’m not sure. What if I get stuck? What if I can’t come out? I’m not sure I want to risk …’

  Finn considers. ‘I doubt you’d get stuck, I mean – you’re like smoke or mist or … clouds. I think you’d pass right through.’ He nods at the tree. ‘Why don’t you try it now?’

  Greer looks a little shocked.

  Finn laughs. ‘I’ve not seen that prim side of you before.’

  ‘I am not prim!’ Greer snaps.

  Finn just looks at her, still smiling.

  Greer shrugs. ‘Well, maybe just a little.’

  ‘Go on, then,’ he goads her. ‘Be brave, be bold …’

  Greer hesitates. Then she glances at the violin Finn now holds against his chest.

  ‘All right, then,’ she says. ‘Keep your fingers crossed.’

  Finn does so, holding up his hand to show her.

  Greer drifts across the grass, but wavers as she’s about to touch the trunk of the tree.

  ‘Go for it!’ Finn calls.

  And so she does.

  Finn holds his breath, praying he was right in his assumption that she’ll float straight through. The next ten seconds seem to stretch into the length of an entire opera. And then she emerges, his beautiful ghost, completely unharmed and looking exactly like herself: red curls falling over her shoulders, green eyes sparkling with delight.

  ‘I did it!’ Greer exclaims. ‘I did it!’

  The leaves of the tree all flutter at once, as if blown by a breeze, as if breaking into applause. Finn uncrosses his fingers, tucks his violin and bow under his arm and joins in, clapping, cheering and grinning.

  Greer drifts back to him. ‘You were right,’ she says, still beaming. ‘So now what, what’s the second part of your plan?’

  My dearest Otto,

  It has been less than a week since we’ve been separated – a week! Such a trifling amount of time. Ridiculous to complain about it, I know. And, usually, under ordinary circumstances, I could have borne it quite easily. But these circumstances are hardly ordinary, are they? They are the worst of all things. I can hardly believe that our beautiful world, the one that led us to each other, that held us in its hands, that witnessed our love and the love of so many, is the very same world in which people kill each other, in which people – members of the very same human race – hunt and shoot women and children in the streets. I am so scared that we’ll be found. And yet so grateful to those, to Mr & Mrs X who hide me, to their nephew who keeps our secret. And, of course, to whoever hides you.

  How is it, again I wonder, that the world can hold within it such great good and such great evil all at once? I can only pray that, ultimately, soon, good will triumph and people will be safe and we shall be together again.

  I don’t think that I shall be able to get these letters to you. So you must wait for me, you must stay safe for me. Until I can give them to you, until I can whisper in your ear, until I can hold you again. Will you write to me? Are you writing to me, right now? I feel that you will, that you are. Despite the fact that we didn’t say we would, that we never had a chance to say goodbye, I believe that you’re writing to me. Every night, as I close my eyes and imagine that I am looking up at a black sky full of bright stars, I believe I can feel your words floating up from the page, from wherever you are hiding, the little black letters drifting through the air and into the sky, touching the stars, then tumbling back to me, falling into my open hands.

  And I imagine you whispering your sweet words into my ear, your soft breath on my skin and I shiver and I smile. And then I long to hold you. My body yearns for you so deeply it aches. I press my hands to my chest and I cry, softly, silently, and I pray we will soon be together again.

  Ever Yours,

  Marthe

  Clara spends her last night in Amsterdam walking the streets. Although she has nothing particular to do and no one to meet, she wants to get to know her newly, momentarily adopted city as best she can before she has to leave. She should visit the Anne Frank house, the Van Gogh Museum, all those significant, important sites. But Clara finds she doesn’t have the inclination to do so. All she wants to do is walk and see everything else she’d miss if she were indoors or hurrying from place to place.

  Because she can’t help it, Clara glances into people’s windows as she walks past their houses, looking out for the lonely and sorrowful ones. Of course, it’s to no purpose, as she’s without her special papers and pens and the all-important writing desk. If Clara was to pick a recipient now, then go back to her B&B and try to write a letter with borrowed pen and paper on the rickety wooden desk in her attic room, she’s quite sure the results would be disastrous, certainly entirely without insight or inspiration.

  As it is, Clara doesn’t see anyone so is unable to test her theory. Lights are on in most of the windows of the tall, thin houses she passes, and in some of the houseboats floating on the canals, but she rarely sees a single person sitting behind these windows. At first Clara is disappointed, since spying on strangers is not only a profession but also a passion, but then she reasons it’s probably for the best. Perhaps she should take a little break.

  One thing Clara notices is how incredibly neat, elegant and stylish each house is – quite unlike English homes in their particular monochrome beauty. Clearly, the Dutch leave their lights on, even when they’re out, so they can show off their glorious homes to curious tourists, nosey neighbours and – in her case – strange spies. And Clara would do the same, if her house resembled the interior of Homes & Gardens, instead of an eccentric, eclectic clash of design and style.

  As she crosses another bridge, Clara thinks of the man and his daughter and wonders what they’re doing now. Playing? Reading? Eating dinner? She sighs. And then she looks up to find that she is standing outside The Amsterdam Archive of Paperphilia. She smiles, thinking she’s been drawn there like a homing pigeon, and wonders if Mr Akkersijk is still inside. She imagines him sitting at his desk, bent over her letters, his lips moving slightly as he reads. But, of course, he won’t. It’s far too late. He’ll be at home, probably eating a delicious meal cooked by his loving wife while entertaining their three beautiful and impeccably behaved children with stories of his day. With an even deeper sigh, Clara walks on.

  She ambles across another bridge and wanders along three more pebbled streets, under avenues of trees and past rows of bikes, until she stops in shock. For there, lit by the soft light of a lamp, and almost entirely hidden behind a pair of thick velvet curtains, sits Mr Akker
sijk in a deep-red leather chair. And he is, indeed, reading her letters. Now, Clara can’t be entirely certain that they are her letters he reads, but they certainly might be. They probably are. And he is alone. No beautiful wife, no impeccable children. Though perhaps they are off playing, hidden in other rooms. Clara stands on tiptoes to get a better look, peering through the crack in the curtains. From what she can make out, she’s quite sure this is the home of a man who lives entirely alone.

  Clara, given her habit of spying on strangers and writing them unbidden, unasked-for letters, has developed a good sense for people’s homes and is able to tell a great deal from very little. In the case of Mr Akkersijk, however, it’d be easy for even the untrained eye to ascertain that he’s a bachelor. His living room is sparse in terms of furniture – containing only the red leather chair, a small round table and a bookcase – and extremely overcrowded in terms of papers. Stacks of paper are piled upon every surface and across virtually every inch of the floor. A small pathway is carved out between the manuscript mountains, snaking from Mr Akkersijk’s chair to the closed door.

  Clara smiles. Mr Akkersijk is clearly something of a Dutch aberration, at least in terms of elegance and style. No wonder, unlike the rest of his countrymen, he hides behind his curtains. And, at least in terms of paper, they couldn’t be more perfectly suited. And the way that he read that letter, the way his voice curled around the sentences, weaving tapestries of words that shone and then disappeared, the way it felt as if, as he spoke, he was blowing softly onto her bare skin … A shiver of self-conscious pleasure passes through Clara at the memory. And it – this memory – Clara tells herself later, is the reason for the emboldened and distinctly out-of-character move she makes next.

  Clara reaches up and taps on the window. Lightly. Three times.

  Mr Akkersijk looks up.

  When he sees her, she suddenly wants to run. Instead she stands completely still, a deer caught in headlights. Frowning, Mr Akkersijk stands, places the letter carefully atop a pile of papers beside him, and makes his way slowly along the path to the door.

  Clara waits, anxiously attempting to conjure up credible and un-embarrassing reasons for doing what she just did. Why is she here? How is she here? How did she find him? How will she prove she isn’t stalking him? What urgent thing could she have to tell him before she left?

  When Mr Akkersijk opens his front door, Clara just stares at him, stupefied. When it’s clear she’s not going to break the silence, he’s forced to speak first.

  ‘It’s … It’s nice to see you again, Ms Cohen.’

  Clara nods. ‘Yes, thank you, you too. I was just passing and I saw—’

  ‘You were just passing?’ He interrupts. ‘But, I thought you were going home?’

  ‘Not till tomorrow,’ Clara explains. ‘I was just taking a walk through the city and I … I found myself here.’

  ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Well, it’s cold now – I suppose you should come in for some tea.’

  ‘Ah,’ Clara echoes, stalling, sensing that, in all politeness, she really ought to decline the half-hearted invitation. But being in a foreign city makes her feel like a bolder, more dream-like version of herself, so she does just the opposite. ‘Thank you,’ Clara says. ‘That would be lovely.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Finn considers Greer’s question.

  ‘It’s a bit silly,’ he admits, suddenly thinking that what he’s about to propose is too rash and too soon. He can’t risk scaring her off, he really ought to wait, so he stalls. ‘It probably won’t work …’

  ‘Well, it worked with the tree, so we may as well try.’

  Finn smiles at her sudden boldness. Perhaps it’s not too soon, perhaps she’s ready and he, in turn, wouldn’t want to lose the possibility, to let it slip from his hands because he waited too long. Perhaps he should simply seize the moment.

  ‘All right then, if you insist,’ Finn says, crossing his fingers and praying he’s about to make the right choice. ‘So, my theory is, that if I start to play and, while I’m playing, you step inside me—’

  ‘Step inside you?!’ She shouldn’t be surprised, of course, given what’s just happened, she should have foreseen it. But she’s shocked. It’s her prim nature, perhaps, but Greer feels this would be a betrayal of Edward – the circumstances are particularly strange, no doubt, but somehow it feels rather too close to adultery to be either proper or right.

  Finn stares at her, desperately wishing he could unwind the last minute of time and take a different choice. But he can’t and, as he sees it, his only choice now is to press on and try to salvage something.

  ‘Well … why not?’ he says softly, pleading. ‘After all, as you said, it worked with the tree so there’s no reason it wouldn’t work with me.’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  Finn takes a deep breath and prays.

  Greer dips her head to gaze at the grass. ‘It’s so, so … intimate.’

  Finn wants to gobble up his words, swallow them down as if they’ve never been said. Of course, he’s desperately curious to experience the sensation of Greer stepping into him. Perhaps it’ll be painful, being invaded in such a way, but Finn doubts it. He imagines it might be like making love. Something he’s wanted to do with Greer since the first moment he saw her, though he never thought it’d be possible. In truth, Finn would be content to simply be near to Greer for the rest of his life – to look at her, to play to her, to talk with her – but if he can have more than that, then … But her reticence scares him. If the only woman who’s ever stirred his heart disappears he’ll be truly bereft. It doesn’t matter if he can’t touch her, he doesn’t care either way. All Finn cares about is that, for the first time in his life, he’s starting to feel about another human being (or ghost) the way he feels about music. And Finn never thought that would happen. Not ever.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘You don’t have to, if you’re scared … Try it another time or don’t do it at all – whatever you want, I don’t—’

  ‘No,’ Greer protests, ‘I’m not scared. It’s just, I-I …’

  What happens next happens so quickly that it takes a little while for everyone involved to make sense of it.

  The sound of giggles lifts the air; then Tilly pokes her head over the fence.

  ‘Mum! There you are – what are you doing? Dad says you’re late for breakfast. He’s made something yucky again, you’re so lucky you don’t have to eat it.’ Then she notices Finn. ‘Oh, hello. Are you our new neighbour?’

  Finn just stares at the girl, unable to form words. His fingers clutch his violin and bow so tightly his knuckles turn white. Slowly, he forces himself to turn to Greer, who looks utterly mortified.

  ‘You … You’re—you have a family?’ Finn whispers.

  Greer gives him the slightest of nods.

  ‘But … I don’t understand,’ Finn mumbles, ‘you never, you never …’

  And then Edward appears. He comes up behind Tilly, smiling, saying something that’s lost on the breeze as soon as he sees his wife standing in front of a stranger. He looks from one to the other.

  ‘Greer?’

  ‘Ed. Till.’ She smiles at them and, with one last glance back at Finn, Greer drifts towards her husband and daughter and is gone.

  ‘What was that?’ Edward hisses, as soon as Tilly has left the table and they can hear her bounding upstairs to her room. ‘What’s going on?’

  Breakfast had been a strained affair. And, unfortunately, the dubious standard of Edward’s cooking meant that its consumption wasn’t quick.

  Greer looks at her husband. She knows what she’s meant to be feeling: guilt, contrition, sorrow and regret. But she can recall these feelings only very vaguely, in the deep recesses of history – she can pull on threads of memory and just touch the edges of the sensations with her fingertips. And yet now, in her current state, Greer can’t actually feel anything, she simply wants to.

  When she was properly alive – with a beating heart and br
eath – Greer experienced every range of emotion and, had she been forced to admit it, she’d say that she danced more often in the winds of the dramatic, darker emotions than the lighter. In her previous life, as she now thinks of it, it would have been unusual for a day to go by without a minor meltdown over the ripped seam of a dress or a tray of burnt brownies. But, since returning to this world, Greer has been upset by nothing. Even the act of rebirth itself, which admittedly came as a bit of a shock, didn’t sway her, didn’t elicit any physical rush or overspill of panic. Although it’s not as if Greer hasn’t felt anything. Indeed, she’s been suffused with a glorious sense of wonder, stepping newly into a beautiful, bright bubble of sights and sounds where everything elicits a fresh sense of sublime awe. Those delightful feelings haven’t yet subsided and they infuse her so fully that they haven’t left much room for anything else.

  ‘Greer. Greer?’

  She blinks to see Edward staring at her, his eyes brimming with tears.

  ‘Oh, gosh, I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t mean to drift off. I just, I was thinking. What were you saying?’

  ‘That I didn’t even … I wasn’t sure if …’

  ‘If what?’

  ‘If anyone else could see you but us, Tilly and me, I mean. I hoped … But now a total stranger …’

  ‘Oh, sweetheart,’ Greer says, ‘I understand. But that doesn’t mean anything. It’s okay, it’s—’

  Edward sighs. ‘I thought you came back just for us.’

  Greer’s spirits sink. This conversation is going to be harder than she thought and she suspects Edward doesn’t even sense the worst of it yet.

  ‘Is … Is something …’ Edward’s face crumples and he can barely get out the words. ‘Is something going on between—with you and …?’