Pisgah Road
Page 21
The words are scrawled haphazardly, not contenting to obey the lines on the page. I look at the letter and there are tiny watermarks. It was raining lightly that day and some of the droplets must have hit the envelope and seeped through as I put it in the mailbox.
Gabrielle has not said anything, allowing me time to reacquaint myself with my own letter. She’s facing the other side, away from Daniel and away from me. I wonder where she had kept the envelope these ten years.
I envision my letter amongst the rest of her prized possessions, wrapped with a silk red ribbon, and stashed in the back of her lingerie drawer. I imagine her, every once in a while, when she feels melancholy and nostalgic, walking in her room and locking the door before taking out my letter from the back of her drawer and reading it carefully. I imagine her crying over the lost times and at times a few teardrops would join my words. And she repeated this ritual once more before coming to London but this time instead of carefully returning it back to its home, she put it in her purse seeking the opportunity to share it with me. I imagine her carrying it the night before as we struggled to find opportunities to be honest with each other.
I look at Daniel and he likes this narrative. He nods approvingly. He tells me that this is exactly what happened. The letter was precious to her and a point of solace. It kept her going. He wants me to stop overthinking it and make a move as he had told me dozens of times before.
Gabrielle moves her body slightly and nestles her head tightly against my chest. I could smell her perfumed hair as it brushes against my nose and I remembered how much she loved her Spanish toilet water, dosing her body and hair in this lightly fragrant water. She’s still silent, wanting me to respond to her confession. She has said what she wanted to say and now she wants me to make a decision.
I imagine my letter sitting in the attic or in the basement — in a large moving box, forgotten amongst other discards. I imagine John cleaning the boxes a week earlier and showing her my letter and asking her if he should throw it away. I see her taking the letter from John and stuffing it in her purse quickly — the content forgotten after a decade, but still not wanting to share it with John. She had not meant to return it back to me but our visit to the Queens Arms the night before, and our rendezvous with Daniel today reminded her of our short-lived love affair. She had carried the letter, but not daring to read it and she handed it to me, perhaps wanting me to share it with her.
No, Daniel cries out. You’re an idiot.
There is no one in Pisgah Cemetery at the moment, as if everyone knew of Daniel’s anniversary and wanted to respect his private meeting with us. His new home sits on a small green hill so he has a wide view of the people around him. He can observe their comings and goings and he makes stories about their lives. He can lie back and identify the cheaters from lovers. He is making a story about Gabrielle and me right now. He has already decided how the story will end, but he isn’ t willing to share it with me. He wants me to find out by myself, his last lesson for me. But at the moment I can only think about the letter’s journey to my hands. Daniel tells me to let it go and enjoy the quiet of the place.
But the still tranquility shatters a bit as Gabrielle starts to cry softly and I could hear her heart beating rapidly against my own. Her sobs bring renewed sorrow and I cry silently with her. We want to be melancholy today, not just for Daniel, but for everything else that has happened in our lives.
I cannot help but imagine the letter living in London for the past ten years, staying in her parents’ home with all her other belongings that she didn’t want to take to Germany. She walked in her old room today and found the forgotten letter in an old shoebox and after reading it once or twice decided to share it with me as a remnant of our past and as a closure to our affair. I imagine her reading it and giving a sad smile, remembering our little romance that unwittingly overshadowed our friendship. She was thinking about giving back the letter so we could renew our friendship and forget about our mistakes.
Don’t be a fool, man. Look into her eyes, Daniel instructs me. But I can’t. I don’t want to read something I don’t like. She is nestled against me and I don’t want to move. I just want to sit next to her and hold her.
“Please, say something, Marty. Talk to me.” Her patience has run out and she wants a response. She is tired of my conversation with Daniel. She wants my attention on her.
I feel a raindrop hit the side of my head and it rolls down my neck slowly, like a little crawling insect. Another drop falls next to me and then another. I look over at Daniel and a few drops hit the wine that now has completely covered his name. He licks his lips. He loves the wine. He loves the picnic. He misses my company. The drops are diluting the wine though and before the hour the rain will completely wash it away. Daniel smiles and urges me on.
The rain makes us decisive.
“I’m surprised you kept this letter,” I say with such a forced casualness that I’m certain she saw through my transparent false modesty. She doesn’t respond, so I ask, “Where did you find it?”
Daniel shakes his head, disappointed in my silliness, but doesn’t say anything. He has all the answers but he still wants to hear it from Gabrielle. I want to hear it from her too. I need to hear it.
She says, “This letter is precious to me.”
I look over at Daniel and he looks happy. He wants us to be happy again as well. He’s content being here, watching everyone else around him. He’s done with us. I look down at Gabrielle and she is looking at Daniel too. He is telling her the same thing. She looks up at me and I kiss her and she kisses me back.
The End
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dr. Mahyar A. Amouzegar is the author of the novel A Dark Sunny Afternoon. His short story, Tell Me More, appeared in the Anthology of Short Stories as part of the Reading Corner Series. Mahyar has lived and worked on four different continents and currently resides in New Orleans.
Mahyar has authored over sixty scholarly publications, as an academician and a senior national security policy analyst with a prominent think tank. He has turned his attentions to his first true love, literature.
Look for more exciting books soon from this fabulous author.
www.fountainbluepublishing.com
If you would like to be notified by email when new books are released from Fountain Blue Publishing by this author or other authors, send an email to info@fountainbluepublishing.com with SUBSCRIBE in the subject line.