I'll be around

“The library is closed today.” Her lips were painted with cherry cream. Her skin was soft, and her teeth shone bright. He deftly avoided her gaze as he stepped away from the entrance. She looked at him tenderly.

“How can I help?” Her voice hadn’t changed. She hadn’t changed. Her red hair still waved at the back of her neck in a swift and calm motion. Perfectly defined, held up with golden clips. Her mother’s, if he remembered well. 

“I was looking for Mr. Roger.”, he said. 

Her cheeks weighted down and, as she retained a sigh, her eyes grew warmer. “I am afraid Mr. Roger has passed away." A spark wandered from her eyes to the hard hair on his cheeks. "Did you know him?”, she asked.

“A friend of mine studied here and he – “

“How kind of you.” Had she recognized him? She seemed to focus on the grey of his eyes. Women never forgot their clear tone. “Did he want to say goodbye to him?” 

“Not really, he wanted to say hi.”

She smirked, as if she had understood, yet with a pinch of elegance, she seemed to suspend her judgement. He had always liked that about her. What was her name again? 

From the pocket of her draped cyan skirt, she drew a key and hinted at him to follow her.

The stained glass glittered along the stone corridor, as if lightened by the falling snowflakes on the other side of the wall. He walked behind her – her waist was tight; her shoulders formed a graceful triangle that supplely swung from side to side as she walked. The tap of her medium heels echoed against the stones, against the glass and against the high arch. Unlike him, she belonged in that sanctuary. 

They climbed stairs, walked down aisles and tiptoed along whimsical battens. She never turned around, yet he noticed her hand was holding tight onto the key.

The building still smelled of ink, chalk and beef stew. How many times had he wandered through those corridors at night, looking for answers? About who he was and why the only person he had was Mr. Roger? A lone academic turned school director. A widower who had never been married and, most likely, had never loved. Or perhaps, he had. He had loved him.

“And your name is?”, she asked without turning around.

“Itzal.” 

“Itzal…” she mumbled. It sounded like she had frowned pronouncing his name, but he wasn't sure.

They reached a stone platform nestled in a light-beige alcove. The wood of the door was swollen - the plight of humidity, certainly. The rest was unchanged. How long had it been since he last pushed that door? His mind went on to count the years, assessing the width gained by the door with each year, akin to how one would assess the age of a tree by counting the wrinkles on its trunk. The counting ceased - it was too late anyway. 

The copper clattered inside the keyhole and the door squeaked open. She stepped back. A fresh wind came out of the dim room as if it had been preserved, waiting for him to return. Under her scrutiny and that of the dark cold ahead, he stood in silence. 

“My name, Itzal, means “shadow” in Basque.“ he articulated, answering a question he wished she had asked. "I am from -"

“The Pyrenees.”

He looked back at her. “Have you been?”

“I haven’t. But, somehow, I guessed.” There was a dreamy confidence about her – what had her life been in his absence?

“Did Mr. Roger live here alone?”, he asked.

She raised her light eyebrows - was his question unwelcome?

“As far as I know, he had a son. I am not sure what happened to him. My mother was in charge of the library downstairs so I grew up here, but I seldom spoke to Mr. Roger. I couldn’t tell you more, I’m afraid.”

He stared at her, begging for companionship and, at the same time, for solitude. He wanted to reach for her hand and drag her inside the memory room with him. But that was his history, not hers. He still couldn’t remember her name.

“Did you leave the town – “

The corners of her lips contracted and she looked down at the floor, as if slightly annoyed. That’s none of your business she would certainly throw to his face and she would be very right to do so. Itzal wanted to add something, but as with every step he was taking on that day, it all seemed vain. She looked back at him intensely and hinted at the knob on the door. 

“Make sure to lock it as you leave and bring back the key downstairs. I’ll be around.”

Before he could say thank you, or else, her draped skirt rustled, and her nonchalant demeanor faded into space. 

That was it.

Itzal stepped in and closed the door behind him, locking it from the inside. His forehead rested on the door for a minute, soaking in the remains of cloves scent that once inhabited the place. He took a deep breath. His jaws tensed as the contour of his adoptive father’s face, now blurry, appeared in his mind. A hook gripped the inside of his chest. He closed his eyes deep and turned around, muttering a prayer that even he could not understand.

The gilded wood of the desk at the center of the room rested under a thin curtain of dust. His fingers wandered across the surface – although he had received the note two months ago, he had arrived only today. And yet the desk was almost clean, Mr. Roger's tidiness was eternal.

To the right, on the desk, a portrait of Freud – icon amongst icons in Mr.  Roger’s mental temple. What was that essay again, something about the Gradiva? There was also that case of Anna O, something... Stories Mr. Roger browsed through at night marking the pages with a thin piece of charcoal. Stories Mr. Roger had told him, stories Itzal's mad rush had snapped off from his memory. Perhaps psychoanalysis was too tough of a topic for Itzal – implying his parents may have had legitimate reasons for leaving him behind. For denying his existence. Mr. Roger’s eyes were peaceful and his tone deep. His words wise. Mr. Roger was more than worthy of that silent sanctuary. No wonder he could not sense the boiling shame of the little boy he then was. That shame that boiled inside him, right here, in that then little chest. Itzal and Freud locked eyes through the glass of the silver frame and, for once, his stern traits did not seem so intimidating. 

The bottle-green leather mat on the desk was mild and supportive of handwritten notes and letters. Itzal sat down on the velvety chair behind the desk, it was somewhat worn out yet comfortable. He picked a fountain pen and a notecard so delicate it felt like flax. He drew a calligraphic “I”. With a deep buckle. A smooth curve. A strong pillar. “I” for Itzal and “I” for myself. “I” for a name he self-baptized with. "I", for who he was, whoever he may be. "I" for a shadow in a shepherd village high up in the Pyrenees. "I" for the little he knew about himself and all he could possibly figure. For all he could possibly make up. For what else could a puzzle of missing pieces be? If not ever-loose and plainly made up? 

To his left, by his knee, the drawer where Mr. Roger used to store the Finnish liquorice Niikka shipped every year from the North Pole. Itzal smiled – at least a story he remembered. He tapped on the drawer thrice, as Mr. Roger had showed him when he was 8, and the drawer broke open. It was empty, but its smell remained and Itzal caressed the invisible fragrance. Liquorice was probably what had given it all away - the first clue. The one that made him understand that Mr. Roger was no family. The one that shattered his sense of self from a young age by instilling doubt, resentment and despair. Longing also, perhaps, to some extent. That was all still there although, with time, it had morphed. But that was all still inside him. His nails tapped onto the polished wood inside of the drawer, he liked that sound. As he tapped, he thought. Had he grown to hate liquorice for its taste or for its hint? He wouldn't have minded trying it out a last time, to make sure - but the drawer was empty. Would Niikka ship liquorice to Mr. Roger’s new address? He shrugged and closed the drawer gently. On to the next.

Assembled with twisted ropes, a pile of letters awaited in the second drawer. Itzal’s hand reached for the pack and untied the strings with care. Letters, thoroughly unanswered and steadily returned, for countless years. Emil Roger, the recipient case read. Itzal studied the graphics of the letters on the first envelop. Mr. Roger had a peculiar way of drawing capital Es – they looked like a G: clef for some reason. Itzal blew chalk off the first envelope and cracked it open. Was now the time to uncover what Mr. Roger wanted to tell Emil years ago? When he ran away. When he denied both their existences? They say victims, with time, become executioners for their saviours. Perhaps Freud would have written a piece about fatal triangles, somewhere.

To the pine walls, around, hung faded pieces of newspapers, notes, and postcards. All over. Oil paintings here and there, that reflected the light almost vulgarly. But Itzal ignored their chiaroscuro – an aluminum box, right ahead, had caught his attention.

He walked across the room and sat on the stool to its front. He pushed and turned the crank to the side of the aluminum music box. A ballad arose from it, crinkling its notes onto an invisible scroll. Itzal hummed to the song, although he barely remembered the lyrics. Come and meet me at Bardborough Fair, parsley, sage, … la, la, la, la, la. He turned the crank hypnotically, watching the keys tip and tap inside the aluminum cage, in an endless round. As the crank turned, a warm cloud spread into his chest.   

On his way out, Itzal's eyes embraced the room for a last time. He had not checked out the encyclopedia shelves at the back of the room, but he now had to go. Although... their ebony seemed brighter than usual. He did not recall that detail.

Holding the pack of letters firmly against his flank, he crossed over the room. His steps sinking deep into the juniper woolen carpet. Amongst the burgundy covers and golden letters of the thick encyclopaedia volumes, a black rectangular box awaited. A bottle of wine? He frowned. Holding the precious pack tighter to his chest, he opened up the box. A tin soldier on a straw bed. The Rogers had been passing it on from generation to generation - for years, decades and perhaps even millennia. The colour had faded off the soldier’s face slightly, but Emil recognised the present he had pushed away on the gloomy morning of his 11^th birthday in a Cotswolds country house. Long ago. Itzal pinched his lips and closed back the box religiously. Without a word, he walked back to the entrance of the room where the door seemed to have flattened. He turned the key and his heart felt lighter. 

The night had settled outside, stretching a cloudy blanket around. The lights of the library were off and the draped skirt was nowhere to be seen or found. By the door, a rusty nail hang - waiting for the key. Itzal observed the nail for a second and pressed the key deep into the pocket of his duffle coat. 

His hoodie on, he headed towards the tree-lined alley that would take him to the main road where he would catch the last bus for the day. The wind was crisp on his cheeks and the air smelt of chimney wood. The letters were warm against his chest and the copper of the key tinkled in his pocket. The tin soldier, in his right hand, had forgiven him. His hand held onto him as firmly as she had onto the key.

Come and meet me at Bardborough Fair, parsley, sage…

… rosemary and time... 

Rosemary. Her name was Rosemary.