For Anton

(1999)

It’s sunrise. What a cliché, but it is. You’ve left me forever, and I think I’m still in shock. I’m not crying; I don’t know why, but I can’t. The tears are stuck in my throat, and not just the tears.

All the old women from the village have gathered in our yard for the seven-year memorial feast for your father. It’s a crowd, a flood of people. They’ve come like to a circus. Everyone is shocked by your departure. Some manage to sincerely pity me, while others barely mask their joy.

Earlier, I wanted to run away. Right after you left. Left... what a simple word that cannot capture the immensity of feelings you’ve left behind, in the void you’ve created. I loved you madly, passionately, with every drop of blood. I hated you even more fiercely. I cursed you and adored you. You were never indifferent to me.

I always resonated with you in every tone of color, from the red of jealousy to the yellow of summer days when we first met, and the starry purple of nights filled with love. You were hope to me, light, warmth. And yet you were also the worst void, my abyss.

Anyway, earlier, I wanted to run. I walked out the door and was so shocked by everything that happened today that I forgot to close the door behind me the way you liked—softly, quietly. You trained me for so many years, and just an hour after you left, I forgot. What a great pupil! Anyway... I don’t know why I keep saying “anyway”! Because it’s not “anyway”; you left me, and I wanted to run away.

I flung the door open and stepped out, only to come face to face with Mother Smaranda. She’s rounder than ever. She looks like a summer plum—watery, swollen, bloated, and purple with anger. And I felt ashamed for wanting to run away. She didn’t slap me, but the look she gave me made me feel as though she had. Then she spat at my feet.

I recoiled in horror, and luckily for me, the door I hadn’t closed helped me get back inside faster. Now I’m a prisoner in my room. Another cliché. I’ve spent so much of our marriage in this room, right here on this divan. I could swear it knows all my secrets, every curse I’ve hurled at you, and all the hopes and plans I’ve made.

It’s not my fault that our life was so colorful. Not just mine. You took me as a child, a bud, and when I blossomed into a woman, you left me. My sin, your loss.

I poured myself a glass of cherry liqueur. I know it’s not good for me, I know it’s not a solution, but I can’t do otherwise. It’s going to be a long night. I’m assaulted by thoughts and sensations. Bittersweet memories. “How cold you are, beautiful one!” you once said to me. A chill runs through me. I take another sip.

We spent years together, and I’m almost certain you never felt for me what I felt for you. We lived two separate realities, side by side, each in their own, neat and orderly as you liked it. You probably thought I was stupid. Or maybe just naive. But I wasn’t. It’s just that you were always, eternally, more—bigger, greater than me—and I never found the courage to tell you my side. Another sip...

Did you ever truly know me? Did you ever walk through the big hallway and think, “Adela just passed through here; her scent still lingers…”? Or did you ever look into my eyes and understand my thoughts, or did they just seem large and beautiful to you, doe-brown as you used to call them?

God, I already miss you! How will I ever live without you? How will I breathe? I feel a wave of claustrophobia closing in, in all this heavy air of the big, empty room. Empty because it’s just me in it. As always.

An idea hits me out of nowhere. I ignore it. I wouldn’t have the courage, no.

A bigger sip of cherry liqueur...

Or maybe... at least now. I won’t ever have another chance, it wouldn’t make sense later. At least now, let us be one when we’ve always been two.

My love, come, get to know me!