He & I

I came across this memoir entirely by chance. How? It is not that significant. This is a thick notebook, in which the “lost self,”—the author’s pseudonym—recorded his almost everyday personal incidents.

By skipping the dreary parts, I chose and turned into a short story only those notes that make the centerpiece of the memoir and paint the “lost self’s” tragedy.

Also, the “lost self” titled the parts that concern his degringolade “He & I.”

***

I

I loved her.

Should I repeat those graceful words that would seem so perplexing and tedious to the skeptics for whom life is a charmless and constant struggle? Not for me—these words as they were uttered, seemed to be priceless novelties. Every time I would look into her bright, big eyes and listen to her jubilant giggle, I could see the sun and hear the mischievous babbling of the rivulet. When in my arms, I could feel her pure, but heavy breathing on my ear, and on my face—the electrical resonance of her velvet hair. I was dominated by this preposterous feeling, under which I was ready to commit the most virtuous and the most alarming acts.

She loved me, or I thought she did. I absolutely believed it at the time. She would constantly promise that nothing could ever break us apart.

I was just a student in my last semester of law school. Full of hopes and confident in my powers, especially in my future career, I was overflown with positive energy and dreams. Excited with that future and stimulated by love, with vigor, without rest I was preparing my dissertation, which was going to be the steady stone of my future greatness and glory.

But . . .

That one but . . .

Now, when everything is lost and drowned, I still recall those memories and feel as if I am going to scream from agony. Those memories have the ability to sting.

Nonetheless, I’ll continue with my story.

One time I was sitting alone in my room, which was in the northern side of campus, working on the last pages of my dissertation when I received a letter. It was from her. With much frankness, she told me that I should accept her past assurances as regrettable misunderstandings and try to forget her for she is soon to be married. “I know this letter is not very pleasant to read, but what can I say—anything is possible.” Just like this? With this kind of ridicule? Or did she think she was doing me a great favor by concluding with devilishly ruthless lines?

For a moment I did not give much importance to the letter, for I thought it was a joke—being sure that the crazy girl was playing, or trying me. But how big was first, my astonishment, then, my anger, and finally, my desperation when all the letters I sent her remained irresponsive. After this startling silence, I unexpectedly received a laconic telegraph—“Married.” One word only—nothing more. Perhaps she wrote to let me know not to annoy her with letters and telegraphs.

For a moment I was unaffected by the telegraph, because I prepared myself for it. Then . . . there came apatheia. I started having restless nights; my brain was in morbid anxiousness. Before, when I never doubted her love and knew she was going to be only mine, I feel as if I did not love her as strongly as I do now, when I know undoubtedly that I lost her . . . lost her forever. It is always so—the object of one’s love becomes doubly precious when gone . . .

I could not figure out what was going on with me. I felt the stupor—almost as if someone had excavated my brain out of my skull, and had thrown me into the desert, to wander aimlessly in its desolate dunes, with no endeavors, with no ideals, and with no hopes for salvation. However, I felt one thing clearly and certainly—the venom of revenge—that, which drop by drop was accumulating in my heart, and was going to erupt at once. She mercilessly insulted my most cherished feelings and me as an individual. She destroyed my hopes and my future. Before all the drama, I was an eagle both in soul and mind, soaring in high altitudes. Now, I am just a miserable sparrow who lost its wings. Could I ever forgive her this? I decided to treat her with the same savagery.

I don’t exist, so let her not be with the perished, I thought to myself one day, and left the law school, the dissertation, all of it, in order to pursue my decree. But something unexpected was awaiting me—the traitor was overseas, with her, as I’ve been told, very wealthy spouse.

Hopelessness once again hit me like a million tons, this time with stronger force, for I was eager to inflict injury, which remained unsatisfied. The thought that I was absolutely disarmed was eating me alive. There was a moment when I thought of the easiest way to self-criticize—to end all the pain. But then decided that suicide would be a hate crime against myself and not her. I knew sooner or later our paths would cross.

All the hopelessness, anger, and hate were followed by extreme indifference. I needed shocks to bring myself back some of my emotions, and those shocks I found in nightlife. I started spending much time with some of my friends, or should I call them acquaintances, who wasted their every penny on prostitutes and cards. I was now completely penetrated in that swamp which was sucking me in, without me noticing it. When I finally realized this, I had already lost my self in it.

A once law school student, glorified future’s candidate, winged by dreams and love, I now had become someone who wrote petitions and clauses, an advocate of dark cases, a drunk and sleepy nothing, sitting in the benches of courts' hallways. I was someone disgusting, someone with all the negative characteristics. My whole tragedy lied in me realizing and feeling that dreadful fall. Yet, recovery and resurrection were not my options.

One time, I believe it was the fifth year since our relationship’s termination, when on the street, completely randomly, I was face to face with her. The meeting was so unforeseen that I felt as if I was struck by lightening. From extreme astonishment, I clapped once, involuntarily. In fact, the clap startled her, as she did not even recognize me at once. And I’m not surprised why: the twenty-five year old handsome young man, with wide shoulders and chest, whom she used to know, who was always neatly dressed was now someone whose unshaven face shone from dirt, who was lost in an outdated coat, and whose nose was red from drinking too much. She saw a hunchback who reeked of cheap wine, cigarettes, and garlic. And she . . . she did not change at all. Actually, she had changed for the better so that no aesthetician could find any fault in her appearance. The former skinny, mischievous girl became this tall, gorgeous woman whom was impossible not to notice. And her attire . . . no matter how much my glorified future’s goals have been justified and accomplished, I could still have never provided those expensive-looking clothes for her and embellished her ears with rare blue diamonds, and her chest with pearls. It was clear that she was in the hands of a man who spared nothing for her.

In my bewildered state I felt feeble, worthless, and gruesome next to her triumphant grandeur. For a moment I tried to search and unearth the malice that at some point in my life gobbled me down its muzzle, and under which influence I felt prideful and unwounded. But I found nothing.

And when confused and stammering, with a forgiveness requesting voice I tried to remind her of myself, she became entangled, then appalled, then without giving me a chance to speak, rushed to her carriage and left. Perhaps she thought I would follow her.

I spent the rest of the day in a bar, from where I was brutally thrown out later at night.

Further, after this meeting, during those seldom hours when I was not drunk and more or less could deepen into my thoughts, one condition was tormenting me—what was the main reason of my descent? The unfortunate love couldn’t have been the main reason, which would’ve confused me temporarily, yes, but culdn’t have completely demolished me. That would’ve been absurd.

The main cause must’ve been something else. I started searching for this cause in the exteriors of her betrayal, in my self, because it would’ve been impossible for me to have fallen this low, if I did not carry the seeds of that degradation inside me. But what were these seeds, and how did they find room in me? What were their roots? My excursions in this direction lasted quite a long time—I was not able to come to a conclusion. And then one day it hit me. After reading an Italian short story, titled Vengeance my entire world of darkness became enlightened. I knew. I knew it all.

Here, with word-by-word translation, I am presenting you that story, which I am titling “He.”

He

In Venice, in the enchanting city of canals, gondolas, and renowned artworks and astonishing architecture, in a very noble family was living that family’s only offspring—beautiful Julia. She was so lovely that one would think she was not human, but a goddess of the seas who just came out from the foams of the oceanic waves. Her eyes were blue like the Italian sky, her gaze—eternal, like Adriatic’s horizons. Her wavy, golden locks ornamented her head. When she smiled (but when didn’t she?), her cute dimples would appear, just like when one throws a pebble in a lake. She was always jubilant, always flying here and there like a papillon, always energetic like a little child. She loved two colors: red and white. Two flowers were always present on her clothes: rose and lily. She herself was a flower, red or white.

It was a spring’s beautiful evening, that which was only possible near Adriatic. Julia was in her father’s palazzo’s top floor, busy trying to attach a red rose on her dress, so she could go out for a walk in Ponte Realto’s surroundings. As she was getting ready, she heard a sound of music, playing outside. A masterful hand was playing a serenade on a violin. Julia ran to her open window with anticipation to find out who it was.

The violinist was a young Italian, wearing a fedora. The melody he played was so tender and majestic, that Julia felt as if he was playing on her soul’s strings. She mechanically got half of her body out from the window, and listened attentively. Her whole essence became aural, greedily consuming every note that the young man played. She held her breath, so she does not miss a pitch. The tears of awe were playing in her eyes.

Finally, the melody stopped, and every sound in nature seemed to have stopped along with it.

“Look up, maestro! Who are you?” exclaimed Julia.

The young man looked up.

“Take off your hat, so I can see your face!”

The violinist took off his hat at once, and cleared his forehead from his long hair. He finally looked up. His eyes were deep and contemplative like the music he played. He had a handsome, but sorrowful gaze, in which one could forever drown. What a proud face, on which was shining some celestial greatness . . .

“What is your name?” called Julia.

“Antonio.”

“Antonio, play something else for me.”

And again, the melody even more charming and gentle than before, amazed Julia who was nailed to the window, and who was thirsty for more, until the strings would groan and attenuate involuntarily.

“Antonio, tell me who you are.”

“I’m just an orphan.”

“Who was your father—do you know?”

“A laborer whom a machine killed under its force, in the factory he worked.”

“And your mother?”

“I never knew her.”

“Do you have a sister?”

“No relatives.”

“Would you like me to be your sister, and you—my brother? I’ll ask my father if you can live at our house, so you can always play your violin for me. My father is a very kind man, and loves me very much. He always fulfills my wishes. You don’t have to play for money anymore. We’re very rich.”

“I’m pleased to know that, Signora.”

“My name is Julia.”

“It’s a pleasure, Julia.”

“We won’t steal your pride from you, Antonio.”

“You will, when you give me a piece of bread.”

Julia threw a gold coin at his feet, and angrily ran away from the window. But then couldn’t help herself, and again appeared.

“Antonio!” she called.

The young musician who already took the money, and was leaving, stopped for a moment and looked up.

“Would you at least come and play every evening at my window?”

“I will, but not for this” said Antonio, showing the coin in his palm.

“For what then?”

“For beauty.”

This time at Antonio’s feet fell the red rose from the girl’s chest.

And he kept his promise.

Every evening, when the sun’s final rays were ornamenting the palazzo’s shiny, red rooftops, Julia’s ears were caressing new and even more enchanting melodies.

“Antonio, are you that conceited that you will not even agree to come upstairs, and play in my room?”

Antonio silently came up to her room.

“Antonio, are you that conceited that you will not even agree to take a walk with me on the beach?”

Under the milky moonlight, on the peaceful waves of the sea was floating the gondola, from where Antonio’s violin’s sounds were singing a lullaby for the waves, and after a while extinguishing in the air.

“Antonio, are you that conceited, that you won’t let me put my head on your knee?”

“Ah . . . ” sighs Antonio, and plays his violin more rigorously, with interestingly new and unheard nuances.

Julia’s head rests on Antonio’s knee, and her big blue eyes look at his face with awe. In the gondola, moonlight mixes with the sparkles of her loose, white dress, in which she looks like a real sea goddess.

The young artist looks at the celestial beauty, who lays on his knee.

The violin goes silent. The young man brings his head towards her face. Their locks embrace each other, and their trembling lips find each other . . .

It was another ordinary evening, when the young artist was trying to get Julia to look from the window by playing his melody. Alas . . . the window was closed, and kept that way for that evening.

Evening after evening, he would play at her window, without his lovely spectator. The young man would not become devastated. He would play his violin gently at times, passionately at other moments, and sometimes commandingly. And sometimes his violin would play a melody that would beg and cry hopelessly.

When his violin was about to play last of its notes one evening, the window opened in half, and a piece of paper flew out, dancing in the air like an autumnal leaf until it reached the ground.

Anotonio lifted the paper and read:

“My father said that there is an abyss between you and me. We’re up here, and you are down there. Don’t come anymore. Forget me.”

He read the note and stood there silently, looking at the paper for quite a while. Then he staggered, threw a lightning glance at the palazzo, and wanted to tear the paper into pieces, but held himself. Then gently folded the paper, and put it in his pocket. He threw away the golden coin she once gave him, and holding his violin firmly to his chest, left the premises with the bitterness of the insult in his prideful heart.

No one ever saw the young musician in the streets of Venice.

Years passed.

Again in Venice.

The entire media and everyone in the city were talking about the renowned violinist Antonio Bonvinni, who was going to have his big concert in the city. In the last few years, not only Italians, but many around the world were astonished by this new star’s talent.

During the concert, the theater was absolutely filled with fans. The entire nobility was there to witness this new phenomenon.

Antonio Bonvinni . . . Everyone was waiting for his performance.

And finally, he arrived in stage.

The entire audience groaned like one entity.

“Isn’t this the Antonio whom everyone knew—that medieval troubadour who used to walk around the streets of the city, and play his violin?”

“Yes, yes, that is him—same notes, but this time he is confident, even more prideful than before, reserved, and courageous.”

And those sounds of his violin . . . O, those sounds were still the same--enchanting and beautiful like the person who played them. Everything—his face, his figure, his hair were in perfect harmony with his melodies.

After playing last of his notes, maestro left the stage, leaving the audience in cemetery-silence, under some kind of a spell. And then, after seemingly eternal seconds, everyone stood at once, applauding, and applauding, and applauding . . .

“Antonio . . . Antonio Bonvinni . . . New Stradivarius . . . "

The crowd hurried outside, to see the young artist leave, and to press his hand, congratulating and letting him know their amazement.

Maestro was tired. He locked himself in his room, and told his secretary that he cannot speak to any fan at the moment.

But then she notified him that there is a woman who insists on seeing him.

“I am unable.”

“She is the wife of a very famous man” and the secretary gave a last name that was difficult not to recognize.

“Let her in.”

Beautiful as Raphael’s painting, dressed like a queen, a woman walked in who came forward and fell at maestro’s feet.

“Antonio, my dear Antonio, it’s me, your Julia. I love you . . . "

The young man, confused, lifted the woman up to her feet. His eyes were sparkling with strange light. It was the same gaze, very familiar to the one he threw on the palazzo when leaving its premises, insulted.

Without saying a word, he took out from his pocket a notebook, and from there—a folded paper. He handed this to Julia.

Julia took the paper, and blushed for a moment and became the color of the rose that was attached to her chest.

“Read it Signora, read it.”

She mumbled: “My father said that there is an abyss between you and me. We’re up here, and you are down there. Don’t come anymore. Forget me.”

Antonio took the paper from her trembling hands, gently folded it and put it in his notebook, and said, “Forgive me, Signora that although I stopped visiting you, I never forgot you. This paper you don’t know how valuable is to me. If it weren’t for this, I wouldn’t have become who I am today. I could never forget you, but you seem to have forgotten that abyss that separated us. You were up there, and I was down somewhere. You ignorantly looked at the ones who were down there, but you never considered that those ones sometimes get wings and fly high. I promised myself to take vengeance by flying higher and higher, constantly flying until those looking from their castles looked up at me. I accomplished my goal. But to love someone who insults one’s most cherished feelings, who finds a difference between the up there and down there, alas Signora, I cannot.”

This is how the Italian story ends.

A story that is very much familiar with my tale, with one striking difference: Here was I, who was born in the bourgeois class, always living in luxury, with many comforts in life, a softly raised intelligent who from one hit fell, and fell with no point of return. Then there was He, who was born in the proletariat, with his iron-built determination, who did not once falter from life’s strikes, but decided to rise and rise and rise, and then from the summit spread his venom of vengeance on those who talked about the differences between the haves and have nots. This is a revenge worthy of reverence.

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