Venedig

July 22, 1961

“I love you but—”

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t say it.” I shifted on my feet uneasily, not quite knowing what to do with my hands. “Let’s just—let’s enjoy the time we have left.”

I took her hand and squeezed it, giving her a nod, but my expression must’ve been solemn. It’s hard to enjoy something when the end of it is fast approaching; in sight even, just ten hours on my watch. All you can focus on are the grains in the hourglass that are falling way too quickly. “Let’s find a shop, get some wine.”

The streets of Venice are like a spiderweb, but with a lack of structure. Everything is intricately connected with no apparent logic to it; it’s a labyrinth. Trying to find your way is futile and you’re better off just wandering until you stumble upon what you were looking for. There are tiny shops hidden in the alleys all over the city. Yarn, jewellery, carpets, literally everything has its own shop, but the tiny supermarkets are most common. Often, they are open until the early hours of the morning, and they’ve got exactly what you’re looking for. A quick snack, cigarettes, cooled drinks. Liquor was probably their main source of income, at least in the summer. People are wandering the streets until long after the bars and restaurants close their doors. Most of the youths don’t even go to clubs, they find some comfortable spot or a set of stairs and that’s where they’ll settle down until the sun comes up again.

As we were looking for one of these supermarkets, we passed two such groups. They were playing cards while music came from someone’s phone speaker and were speaking rapid-fire Italian between fits of laughter. I didn’t speak Italian. I was able to pick up some words that were similar to Spanish which I’d had in school for three years before flunking it, but that was about it.

When we stumbled upon the third group, Nikki asked them if they knew of a supermarket nearby. They gave her directions and a few turns later we found it. She’s only lived in Venice for a year and a half and had hardly had time to explore it. She grew up in a nearby town and the dialect was indistinguishable, but unlike the teens that were raised here, she didn’t know the city like the back of her hand.

I bought two bottles of white wine and paid the tired man behind the counter eighteen euros for it. Nikki went back in to buy a pack of cigarettes, Lucky Strikes. I’d forgotten I’d run out.

We walked through the winding streets and over the bridges, sipping from the bottle in the meantime, until we found a nice spot. It hadn’t rained in over a week and people had stopped putting the covers over their boats. We sat down in a gondola that calmly bobbed against the dock.

She took the plastic from the pack of cigarettes before tapping it on the palm of her hand, then shook out two fags offering one to me. I lit hers before my own and for a moment we sat in silence passing the bottle between us. It wasn’t classy, but we never pretended to be.

“What were your highlights of our time together?” she asked.

“Every moment spent together was a highlight.”

“Charmer. Give me a top three.”

“Let me think about it for a minute,” I said. I took a drag from my cigarette as I thought about the year we’d spent here. It was a simple question, but choosing just three… that was rather hard. “I’d say the night we met comes in second place. I had no clue how to dance, but it was my only chance to talk to you since you didn’t leave the dancefloor for a moment.”

“You were so clumsy,” she laughed. “You stepped on my foot twice, but you improved quickly in the weeks after though.”

“I took evening classes in secret.” I said, trying to contain a smirk as she laughed at me. “Third place would be meeting your dad and brothers. I saw a whole different side of you, and they pretty much took me in as one of their own. I’ve never had much of a family myself, so it was amazing to experience what it’s like to be part of one. If I’d known you longer, I would’ve asked your dad permission to marry you then and there.” I looked to the side and saw tears in her eyes. I continued before I’d get teary-eyed myself. “And my favourite was the evening we took the boat and spent the night together on the water. A clear sky full of stars, the music from the city in the background, and laying there with you, looking up while we talked all night. That’s definitely my number one.”

“Mine too,” she said. “Dinner at my dad’s would be my number two. The night we met number three. That night was a lot of fun, but the others meant more to me.” She scooted just a little closer to me so I could wrap my arm around her.

It wasn’t quite dark yet. The sun had set, but the city was cast in the afterglow, the streets painted in hues of blue and grey. I had no clue where we were, but it was probably close to one square or another because the twangs of a guitar could be heard between the smooth draws from a cello and violin. A woman was singing, but it didn’t carry as well as the instruments did. Nikki was listening, trying to make out the words, but shook her head. It sounded melancholic and bittersweet.

“I could drop out. Find a job here and learn Italian.”

“You’re halfway through, you can’t drop out now. Just the year off will make it harder to get back into it. If you drop out, you’ll never pick it up again,” she said.

“I’m not sure I want to. Maybe I’m just romanticizing it, but going back to Germany, it’s about the last thing I want to do. Studying neuroscience again… In all honesty, I hated those two years. All I ever did was study. Wake up at five, eat, shower, study, then go to class, and back to studying right after until it’s time to go to bed again.”

“You were at the top of your class though,” she offered.

“Yeah, but I sacrificed everything for it. I’m not sure I can do it again.”

“What would you do if you stayed here?”

I thought about it, then said, “I guess I’d just keep teaching English. I’d drop the afternoon groups and focus only on the evening classes while working somewhere else during the day.”

Then it was her turn to be silent. “If you do that, we’re over,” she said finally.

“We’re over if I don’t, so where does that leave us? You can’t come to Germany; you’ve got your family to take care of.”

“Without options. That’s where.” She started crying again. This time I couldn’t hold the tears in either. “I won’t let you throw your life away because you like me now. What if things don’t work out, you’ll resent me and you’ll hate yourself for the rest of your life. This opportunity is huge. If you let it go by now, you’ll never see it again.”

“Somehow that doesn’t scare me as much as the thought of not seeing you again.”

People walked by. One man paused for a moment, looking at us, then at the boat. If it was his, he decided not to say anything because after a second or two he too moved on. The laughter from earlier now felt malicious. Schadenfreude we called it back home. That’s what it felt like, despite my knowing they weren’t laughing about our miserable fate. I took another swig from the bottle, then got up. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

We walked a lot but said very little. What was there to say anyway? Thanks for the memories. At least we tried. We had a good time. All of them felt wrong, even though, in fact, they were true. We had a good time, we made tons of memories, and we gave it a good shot. It lasted this long. Maybe that’s why it felt particularly miserable, we’d done everything right. But that’s just life, isn’t it? You do everything you can, but you can’t have everything you want.

For a moment I ruminated about my life choices so far. The only reason I started down on the path of becoming a brain surgeon was because my dad kept pushing me. You’ve made it this far, why not take it further, you’re more than capable. ‘Yes, dad.’ I did good in school, but only because I pushed myself harder than anybody else did or was willing to. But at what point does your life stop being yours and turn into somebody else’s? Look where it got me now. Yes, I’d make a good wage once I was done. Yes, I’d be very successful, truly something to brag about at family gatherings. But I just might miss out on the love of my life. Actually, I probably will. Tell me dad, is it worth it? He’d probably say yes. Divorced twice and twice remarried, but once again trapped in a relationship that’s falling apart.

October 19^th, 1961

The wheels provided a constant white noise as they clattered over the tracks. I sat poured over the same empty page, only two sentences came to mind, hardly enough to compose a letter.

"You want a refill?" She asked with an Austrian accent for the third time that night before she topped me off again. "Lacking inspiration?"

"I just don't know what to say," I answered. I looked through the window that stretched half the cabin before it was interrupted by a single strut. The train rode between fields; corn on one side, something unrecognizable on the other. In the distance streetlights and a solitary bedroom light could be seen, but the rest of the world was swallowed by darkness. When looking up however, the sky was full of stars and devoid of any clouds to obscure them. It wouldn’t be long before it’d start snowing, already it felt like it was freezing at night and people had brought out their winter coats a month ago. 

"Who's it for?” she asked.

"A girl,” I said.

"Girlfriend?”

"I'm not sure to be honest,” I said. Like a shot of tequila, a mixture of uncertainty and emptiness made its way down and settled in my stomach.

"Just tell her how you feel. Whatever comes to mind is usually the best. Just promise me you'll be honest with her."

That's how I made a promise to a complete stranger I'd never see again, but the page remained empty. "What if your mind's blank? I can't very well send her a blank letter.”

“And what if you do? At least she’ll know you’re thinking about her; it’s better than nothing.” She brushed her blonde hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. Her face was sombre as she looked down at my table. “If you can’t think of anything to write down, would you mind telling me what the situation is? Maybe I can help. There’s not much else to do,” she said, glancing towards the man in the corner of the wagon. He looked as if he had fallen asleep, but the occasional movement in his arms proved the contrary. “Just a moment.”

She went back to the small kitchen area and prepared a fresh pot of coffee. I went back to wrecking my brain over the goddamn letter. Only women can make you feel these things; feelings even the great poets haven’t found the words for. Like a bouquet of chaos and darkness with just enough glitters sprinkled over it to make you stretch out your hand and be pulled back in.

The waitress brought the coffee pot over to the man in the corner and placed it on his table. He didn’t even look up, so she wrote him a note. Free of charge, I’m on a break until 3:00, she said when I asked her what she’d written. “Now then, what happened?”

“You want a complete stranger to pour his heart out?” I asked her.

“I poured you four cups of coffee so far. I’d say that makes us even—and a little bit less of strangers if that helps. I’m Emma.” She said, holding out her hand to me.

“Jack,” I said. “Well then, Emma, here goes,” I said, and told her everything from how we met to how we separated.

She was quiet for a moment, then said, “that’s—what’s the word?”

“A bummer?” I asked. She shook her head. “Shitty, rough?”

“Rough,” she said. She filled her own cup again and for the first time I noticed the wrinkles on her face. She didn’t look too old, somewhere in her mid-forties at most. The freckles under her eyes made her look younger, but she was tired. The train slowed down and came to a stop at another station. “Let’s hope no one comes in.”

It seemed unlikely. The station appeared empty from where I was sitting. Besides, it was past two in the morning. I put my pen down and rubbed my eyes.

“Don’t you want to get some sleep?” she asked.

“I can never sleep in unfamiliar places. Especially when there’s people around me. Also, my mind would just be racing anyway.”

“Can’t you ask her to meet up somewhere?”

“I’m not sure she wants to.”

The train took off again and we sat in silence taking turns sipping from our mugs. “When I was your age, I got into a similar situation. I had a boyfriend for a couple of months, we met in high school, but then we graduated and went to different universities. We’d said it wasn’t that far away, it would only be an hour by train and then a bit by bus. At first we met up every single weekend, but then the time between visits grew and grew. Every other week, once a month, then nothing. We didn’t even break up; we just slowly disappeared from each other’s lives.

“For years after, it didn’t feel right to see someone else, but I was afraid to go over or send a letter because it had been so long and that fear only became bigger. I still regret it. Even now. I’ve got a husband now and we’re happily married, but something about it still gnaws on me sometimes. I don’t think it really matters what you write, as long as you sent her that letter she’ll know.

“Don’t do what I did. The what if will follow you for the rest of your life.”

I nodded. Her eyes were pained, but I was unsure whether it was because of sadness or being sleepy. I picked the pen up again and put down those two sentence that had been stuck in my head for hours.

That was all. I folded the letter and put it in the envelope.

“That’ll do,” she said.

“That wasn’t so hard.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” she said, “It’s the second hardest thing you’ll ever do. The hardest will be to post it. You’re giving your heart away with no guarantee of it being returned.”

I looked out the window, past our reflection, and at the stars burning brightly. The letter wasn’t finished. I took it out again and added one more line, then put the pen down and turned it around for her to see.

She smiled, “that’s really nice.” With her confirmation, I put it back in the envelope and pocketed it.

“Get some sleep,” she said when we finally stopped at Berlin Central Station. “Don’t forget to put on a return address by the way.”

“I will,” I said waving the envelope. We said goodbye; I got off the train and she retreated to her cabin to finally get some shut-eye. The station was massive, but almost deserted. I left through the main entrance and soon stumbled upon a bright yellow mailbox. I held the envelope in the slit and together with the breath I was holding let it go.

I love you.

I miss you.

This is where I have to be for now, but you’ll always be my home.

October 1st, 1961

The letter arrived at her family house in Venice late in the morning. Almost four months had passed since they’d last seen each other, but she recognized his handwriting on the envelope immediately. Few days had gone by since they had last seen each other that she hadn’t thought about Jack, but the pain had dulled like the ink on an old newspaper.

She went to work, but was distracted for most of her day, thinking about what to write him. When she came home in the evening, the words were clear and all she had to do was put them on paper, and so she did. She’d have some time off in a couple of months, and in her letter asked him if he wanted to meet up in Berlin. When she was satisfied with what she had written, she put the letter in an envelope and wrote his name on it. She took the envelope his letter had come in from her drawer and turned it over to look for the return address that wasn’t there.