Dear California

The room was full of useless objects: dusty and scabrous racks, secular books with modern covers, a rotten apple at the varnished table, an unsorted pile of papers. The air was slowly flowing from one corner to another, marking every drop of wine on the floor. The setting sun was radiographing through the bobbinet, leaving thin stripes of light on everything she has once touched.

The woman took the envelope out of the box, smoothed the small mark in the right top corner with her red nails, and smiled faintly.

She hasn’t been reading them for several years now. New, coming scrolls she left untouched completely, but these… these she was keeping like they were her own child, as the most precious treasure in the World.

Taking out the old paper, that still kept spots of wine, the woman bowed her head – golden sparkling hair fell to her face, blue eyes colored into the azure of the sea. It seemed like her whole fragile figure shattered by tears that were flowing down her rosy cheeks.

She could have never answered that letter. Her nature didn’t let her. Too proud, too disobedient, too freedom-loving. She thought if she wrote just a word, her life would suddenly evaporate and start belonging to someone else. Now she was sure of one thing: if there was a person worthy enough of her life, it was him.

She sobbed for the last time and opened the first page.

“Dear California,

How are you there? I’m sorry I don’t write you often. I know I have plenty of time, as you see, and resources too, but lights beckon too much for now. Can’t resist it. Then, you can imagine it all too well.

You know, I met Chicago yesterday. He works too much, walks all day tired, and with that grumpy face, doesn’t drink beer in the bar. Oh, I haven’t told you yet. This bar, it’s very special, like it’s made just for us. The most beautiful and kind waitresses work there. Not as beautiful as you, of course. It’s located in the center of the city, but if you only walk in, you get into this atmosphere of silence and peace. You can laugh and cry and drink and no one will ever know you’re there.

I like this place. You, probably, are smiling suspiciously now. I know because that’s what I love about you. And you are, of course, right. I am who I am. Loud, sleepless, lighting with flames and floodlights, glistering with skyscrapers. But sometimes I have to rest. And when I feel down, when I feel like letting go of everything, I come here. You would like it, really. They give you disgusting whiskey, but keep you in great company.

Not long ago Orleans came to the city. He was somehow called new. I don’t know, maybe it’s a modern way of living. We were sitting late then, and when the alcohol started to mess my thoughts, I asked him.

‘Why are you New, then?’

He lifted his look, a spark flickered in the depth of his iridescent eyes. He reached for the matches and started smoking slowly. In the quiet bar it became really stifling, I felt ashamed of my question.

‘I don’t actually know,’ he said in time. His colored hair twisted into dreadlocks fell down to his face – he shook his head. ‘You know, people are, probably, too lazy to imagine a new name. They’re always like that. Reach out for new things and then don’t know what to do with them. I’m overflowed with tourists by now, feel sick of myself already.’

‘Why do you act like them, then?’ asked Chicago strictly.

‘Well, I’m made from people. Whatever you find in them, you find in me too,’ Orleans smiled softly.

Chicago hemmed. His bushy eyebrows joined in the middle; grey eyes suspiciously glistened. He has always despised Orleans and asked, why couldn’t I honestly tell him everything about his behavior. But I always only shrugged. This bar is a shelter for everyone, and those, who come here, are my friends. Sooner or later, my friends become my family. And I can’t expel my own family, can I? After all, I’m not like I was before. Orleans is young, but he’s still one of us. Chicago and I have aged already, so what – youth has all the time in the world. And in the world that belonged to us, there was no place for betrayal.

After the night, we couldn’t say goodbyes and when we got out of the bar, it was three in the morning already. Chicago hurried to go back home for sleep, excusing himself with tomorrow’s work. Silly… It’s the most beautiful time now. But Orleans didn’t support my idea to walk either.

‘I’m sorry, friend,’ he clapped my shoulder. ‘It’s time for me to get back. There’s still a chance to be back for breakfast.’

‘Say hi to your wife from me,’ I smiled.

Orleans factitiously threatened me with his finger and, without turning, quickly walked off to a bus station. Whatever scapegrace he was, Mississippi still loved him tenderly and loyally, even though sometimes squabbles were inevitable.

I looked at my friend disappearing with an easy smile and came back to the thoughts of the walk. Now, when everybody is asleep, you can’t see anyone in the street. Three in the morning – it’s, probably, early. Or late. Depends on different people. I was walking slowly on the road waiting for the cars to fly past me like on the

‘Route 66’. But the World kept completely silent.

I yawned, covering my mouth with my palm and then, I saw him. Quiet steps were spreading in my head with an echo like he was moving in my thoughts. The most ordinary man. He was walking past the bridge that gave the sight of another city, right behind the tall arch. This man had a long coat, his neck was covered in a bright, striped scarf. There was a greyish shade in his hair already, and his eyes were shining with silver flames. I remembered my own eyes. Violet, blue, yellow. Every day they changed due to my mood. However they changed their colors, they stayed mimic and shined only reflecting the lamps, but not the fire.

But this man… he didn’t notice me. I followed him for a long time, after taking the matches out of my pocket and smoking, without noticing the time flying by. Everything lost its touch: the place, the time, the sun, the moon, the darkness, the sunrise. Everything, that mattered, concentrated on this one little man, who somehow was walking during the night in a bright-striped scarf and was smiling.

I wanted so badly to come near him and ask, why he’s here so late… or early. Then, I suddenly stopped stone still. The cigarette fell out of my fingers, crashed by the asphalt, and went out in a puddle with a hiss. The man turned back and looked at the dispersing circles of water. He watched the fallen thing for a while, then smiled, raised his eyes to me, as if he could see me, and continued walking. I was standing without movement, feeling the warmness of his living eyes on me. He walked away quickly, scuffing the gum on the sidewalk.

At that moment I realized that he was my own reflection. At least, the one I wanted to be. This was me, real me, the one only you knew. And I’d like to show this to other people, but I can’t. See, the style has grown too deep in me – the capital of the world, ‘the Big Apple’ shouldn’t wander around in a colored-striped scarf like a redneck. So, I hid my scarf on the shelf, now it’s covered in dust and I wear it only on rare nights when I walk alone. Only then you can see me and not a perfect mask, a false wall.

The next day it started raining. All morning I had to listen to how the raindrops kept attacking my roof. I was sitting in the french café with a plain name, in which they didn’t know how to bake croissants at all. On the other hand, they had pretty good coffee, bitter and refreshing. I was sitting there with an opened newspaper and was silly looking on the other side of the street. The coffee was cold already, the croissant turned hard, and I was still sitting and thinking about that man. I imagined his scarf, uncomfortable, barbed, but so warm. Unlike me, he’s, probably now sitting in the comfort of his flat, on the balcony, surrounded by his favorite bright flowers and drinking tasty black tea with honey and homemade cookies. And then, he would go walking, taking a big umbrella with him and he would disappear for the whole night…

I’m sorry, it’s, probably my trouble sleeping. I can’t even think straight, different thoughts come to my mind, messy and aimless. I almost ordered a taxi yesterday when called to pizza delivery. That’s it, trouble sleeping. You know, it has been torturing me for a long time. Strange thing. Doesn’t let you sleep and gives you new thoughts to think about. Pulls you to the bar, to the street, where there’re many people and no friends. Then you can dissolve in the crowd, like Orleans said, become one with it.

Don’t you worry about me – I’m totally fine. This evening I’ll go to the bar with Chicago, he’ll frown, and I’ll tell him about the man in a bright scarf. He won’t understand it, no doubt, but he’ll at least make it look like he did. Also, Boston promised to come for the holidays. It’s only a pity you never have them.

But it’s fine, one day I’ll come for you myself, but for now, I don’t sleep enough. Or became too old to write long letters. Say hi to Miami from me, tell her to study more and party less. Although, we all know I’ve been just like her before I met you. Don’t tell me about yourself, it’d be more pleasant to believe that you live there and think about me.

With love,

Your New-York.”

The woman put aside one paper and took another one. It wasn’t covered in wine, but someone did cry over it.

“Dear California,

We had an accident a few days ago. Chicago fell sick. And not with the flu, like he always does, now he has a wound in his chest. Dirty, cruel wound, he only lies at home now, and I come to him every evening to bring fresh fruit and crispbread.

There’s no one in our bar anymore, the bridge is also empty, and I couldn’t see the man in a striped scarf anymore.

Chicago was coughing hoarsely, but noticing my look, smiled softly, and had small wrinkles in the corner of his eyes.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said to me. ‘It’s not the worst I’ve had to survive. And won’t be the last.’

I caressed his dry senile hand, but I had tears in my eyes. You know, I was afraid to lose him, because we’re just as mortal like everybody else. And we struggle the same when people shoot bullets at us.

I imagined torn bodies, the screams of dying people, and the moans of those who lived. People. People… Why do they desire war so much? I looked at Chicago’s open wound again. These scars don’t pass away with time, no matter how many seams the doctor makes. And they do not understand; do not know their power. What is built, you can easily break down…

But I won’t be annoying with such boring thoughts. Don’t worry – we can survive the worst. It’s better if you write me about yourself. I feel especially lonely right now.

Forever yours,

Dead or alive,

New-York.”

The woman covered her shivering lips with a palm. Who knew how much he could predict the future? Because usual people are much easier to kill, and they kill themselves even more easily…

“Darling,

Don’t tell me how you’re not reading. I’m too weak today, too tired.

Chicago got better, while I’m worse. Every day looking into his grey eyes I understand that it won’t be well anymore. He shakes me off, says, another week and he’ll be as healthy as he always was. But I don’t believe him. One way or another, there’s always the end to everything. And even for Chicago, and me the sunset will come. And even for you, my love… but no, I don’t want to speak of it now. It would be better if you’d stay like you are. A gentle flower and a bright loving memory.

I hope, you’re okay; wear warm clothes now. Winter is coming soon. Took out my scarf (I wear it now without shame), circled it around my neck, looked into the mirror, and found there that ordinary man I saw a week ago. This was really me, and the eyes were sparkling, and even the coat was familiar. And the scarf was pricking my neck, but pleasantly warming my soul. I smiled at my reflection, took an umbrella, and went for a walk to the city until the very morning.

Your ordinary man,

New-York.”

The room came again in smooth colors. The same varnished table, pack of documents, and a pencil lying on the yellow page, on which she tried to record her thoughts. The paper contained only one word now, revealed impulsively and written with pressing strength: ‘Dear’.

The darkness was grazing in the street already, the woman folded the last page of letters and placed all back in the envelope. It was time for the celebration on her road. Not a night went by without a party. She’s seen pretty much everything in the last few years.

The letters kept coming from him, but she, by a habit, threw them all away. Only these three letters she kept in her heart. She couldn’t resist him – after all, he loved her so and still loved.

His loyalty was always out of question, although he has never kept his promise to visit her here. That’s why she hasn’t kept hers. Never answered, never called, never thought of him. Well… almost never.

Except for the moments like these: when looking into her mailbox, she felt as her heart stops for a second while noticing the remarkable envelope. The paper still kept the smell of his expensive cologne and a little taste of whiskey with the hint of freedom.

These moments are the only ones when she knew he belonged to her. Her homeless wanderer and an incorrigible romantic, that dreamt of changing the world for the better and changing the world for her. Her lost love. Her New-York.