Received, June 1993, in Rome. Canary-color onion-skin paper, folded crisply.
Dear Iovita,
Please do not spurn me. These days I am poorly. I know you do not understand it.We do not always see eye to eye. We, the both us, seem far apart even when we are together. I want to work upon it.
Please do not continue to blame my little birds for my condition. The fault does not lie with them. You say that you do not go travelling in order to put distance between us, but I hear from others that you have mentioned that you are weary of me.
What have I done to you? Tell me. Tell me. Is it about Marcello? My little "Mallo"? Is it because I will not send Alois away?
Do I talk too much? Am I always wanting to touch you? I miss you.
Big hands. Big heart. What will they do with you in Rome? What is there for you? Do you know what it is that I know, that Vasvius is there? But he does not want us.
When we were children, I will swear, I did not hide in trees so that you would get me. No. I hid because I hated the other children and my fingers were itchy to pinch them. These days I think about my anger. Why am I so given to passion? Cannot I be different? Cannot I be steady like you? And yet you hide so much from yourself, and you get angry when it is too much for you. You picked me up. You tossed me onto my carpet. Now you are gone.
I do not want to say anything that will make you feel guilty. I know that I am difficult to manage. I am ashamed of myself for how I have preened over you. Nonus, when I try to speak with him, only laughs at me, as if he has lost his mind. As if I have lost mine. Sometimes I worry that I have, and I will never feel so confident as I was. These last few centuries, I feel a scattering of my soul, as I have scattered my blood, and now I feel what I have left of my babyhood is too thin to taste. Come and say that I am your own, and I believe it. Oh do not listen. I know that you are your own, too. I am only frightened of what comes after I have lost the taste in its entirety. What comes?
When I am with Leechtin, he says, "My purple iris," but you are right that something is occupying him. Even I can see that he is discouraged and he is troubled. He says to me that there are fingers in the night, grasping him wherever he goes, tearing his clothes and gripping his arms, and that he cannot go outside anymore. He says that he cannot move forward without crushing finger bones. I do not know what he means. He is always speaking in riddles, repeating himself and calling me by the wrong names. If the fingers are real, should I direct my fear outward? Is it likely that he is speaking about the physical world? I doubt it, and yet, the more I am tired, the more I care nothing for fear. So, it does not matter. Perhaps these hands will grasp me, too.
Whenever a door opens, and the light from the hallway walks itself over my body, I think that it is you. In my half dream, I think that you are coming to get me, to pick me up from the garden grass at home in Herculaneum, and bring me to bed. My body thinks that soon it will feel you strong arms, and my face thinks about the toughness of your shoulder. My body wants to press against the cool skin that it knows, to warm it in the winter. I have memories of lighting the hearth with you, in the night. You always seemed to be awake, wandering. When you were with me, no matter the trouble, I felt safe.
You were very upset to learn about Marcello, about my Mallo. You did not like what I had to say. Since you learned about him, you have been colder to me. Deny it all you like. You are upset about Mallo because he is child. You are suspicious of my kindness toward him. You do not believe me when I tell you that my intentions are to help him toward the softer life I want for him. Will you believe me if I say that in the beginning, my intentions were pure? I know that you think I am despicable. In ten years, he will not be a child. In ten years, I will still be the same. For now, what does it matter if I am kind to him? And in ten years, he will decide to stay with me? You are thinking that I am luring him from loved ones, from my D, from Marcellus. They have left him in California. They send him to boarding schools. Why should he not have a friend? Why are you punishing me? You think that I have sinister designs? Why?
Maybe I am too upset with you for to see your face again. Maybe I am too upset with everything. You do not even do me the kindness of judging me, so I may be truly angry.
What do you want me to be like you? Why? I do not even know what it is that you do. What that I should dwell on the past? I do not have what you have. I cannot have what you have. I have no home but myself. You do not like the drugs that I like? You do not like that I will not drink of anything? Why? You seem to have so many principles. When the others are upset, I can understand it. You swear that you are only yourself and do not ask me to follow a code. I think that you are the most tedious sort of prude. The kind that has no idea he is one!
But now I am doing that thing you dislike the most, and that you are right in saying upsets me unduly. I am upsetting myself. I will not start the letter over. I do not have much paper. Oh I am taking myself through a row that you do not have with me. Oh I am talking too much. I know that you do not like to listen to me talk. You like for me to sleep. You like for me to be quiet, like you. What do we achieve with chatter? That is you. I am sad.
I go to Denmark next week to stay in Mini's house awhile. Do you know him? He is a different sort of doctor. He is a different sort of friend. His paramour has written to me, a Matteo. I hope that it will be quiet there. I do not know.
I am tired. I am sorry. Iovita, I won't sway you with tears, I know that. But you are the only person that I feel I can talk to. Won't you come back? Won't you at least say that you intend to? I promise you. I promise you.
When first I saw you again, my body said to me, "It is a friend. Here he is, a friend we thought had been forgotten." The hairs on my neck stood. My heart is still tender, like a bruise. You told me, "Don't be upset. Don't be upset." I am so sad. I don't know what else I can say. It is not only lately that I have felt tired. Won't you let me know at least if you are mad? I cannot stand to be so uncertain of you.
What can I do? What shall I do?
I don't want to be alone. I am without friends here, and nowhere to sleep. Please do not pity me, but I do not know what I am doing. I am so confused.
I am sending this letter, so that I can imagine that you are reading it. I am sending it, so that I can imagine that your hand touches what mine has touched. You do not have to read the words, only, will you please hold it for awhile? Please hold me for awhile.
What else to say to you? To you, my "you". Even in my mouth, even if I do not voice it, "you" about Iovita feels soft.
These days, I listen to many voices, but it seems they are all saying the same things. So I hear nothing. I close my ears. I say "you".
With care,
L