Thirty‑six

I hear his shoes stopping outside the door, silently observing, thinking, folding in on themselves and turning around, going on their way and leaving me on my own. My bed has never been so big or so depressed; it’s never been so deep and wickedly comforting. I can already feel his skin brushing mine, his tears mingling with mine, and it’s only a sensation, yes, a sensation, because nothing of anything that happens, nothing, absolutely nothing is real. He’s writing something, bent over the desk with his eyes drowning in his heart. I feel like a tiny ant, lying on that big, terrible bed. I wish I were even smaller and transparent. I wish he could squash me once and for all. I breathlessly seek warmth from a strip of duvet; my fingertips sense that it’s crumbling away and nothing is left. My body is just a piece of bloodless flesh, thrown into a refrigerated cell, waiting for someone to buy it and cook it and eat it and do with it what he will. My body alone exists and it’s a fictitious one.

The mattress yields to support a weight and I pretend I haven’t felt a thing.

Two blue eyes like yours look at me and smile at me. I whisper, “Mum, ” but she shakes her head and smiles sweetly at me.

“You’ve got to go, ” she says. “You’ve got to leave and you’ve got to understand. ”

I pretend I haven’t heard anything.

“Look at me, ” she cries, shaking me, “look into my eyes. ”

I look at her and there are words inside. At first they’re confused scribbles dripping with ink; then gradually the letters assume a concrete form and fit together into phrases. It’s a letter. It looks like a woman’s handwriting, young, showy writing. There’s an incredible vitality in the os and the as that inflates the letters like balloons.

The letter says:

Dear Melissa,

I’m a fan of yours. I know I’m one of many, but I hope you’ll read this letter, or perhaps you’ll even reply, who knows.

The story you told is not my story, it doesn’t belong to me. My life is different from yours, I’ve had different experiences, perhaps I’ve made bad choices, but at least they’re mine and no one else’s.

And yet, dear Melissa, I feel a kind of contact with you. It’s as though there were a rope pulling us tightly together. There is a connection, I’ve worked that out, and I hope you won’t think me arrogant or anything like that. I just wanted to tell you what I think. It’s something very powerful, I can’t explain it.

Yours,

Penelope

PS: I’m sending you a photograph. I think it’s important to give a face to someone hiding behind words.

“So? ” I ask the woman with eyes like yours. “Another one who thinks she’s me. So? ”

“So, you fool, this might alleviate all your suffering. Don’t you understand, don’t you see that the only connection between the two of you is him? The only point in common might be the love that links you to him. ”

“What the hell do you mean? That it wasn’t Viola but that bitch Penelope who was jeopardizing my relationship with Thomas? Are you saying I’m blind, as always? ”

Her eyes are sweet again and that makes me nervous. “No, ” she says, “she’ll come after you. She doesn’t yet exist in his thoughts. She’ll come if you decide, if you go downstairs, open the letter, and see the photograph she’s sent you. You’ll be able to decide whether to survive or to die…and quite honestly I don’t know which is worse, ” and she laughs, modestly putting a hand in front of her mouth.

“Shut up! Shut up…stop laughing. Tell me more clearly, ” I beg.

She composes herself and says, “Do it like this. If you want to die outright, the best thing to do is the following: you invite her over to your place one of these days, and a few hours before she turns up, you leave. You get out of there. But you really have to go for good. In the meantime make sure that he’s at home, so that when she rings the bell, he’s the one who answers the door, and she’ll be forced to accept his invitation to come in, because she’s just had a long journey…and that way you’ll die, but at least you’ll be happy. And you’ll know that everything’s real and nothing is imagined anymore. ”

I look at her again, think for a moment, bite my lip, and then whisper, “I’ll go and see her. ”

I open my mailbox and see that the letter’s there, and I don’t care, I don’t give it a thought. But when I see her photograph only one thought occurs to me: She’s more beautiful than I am. And my mind’s made up.