In the Woods and in Madagascar

«It was worth it», says the old man out loud as he seizes a bunch of envelopes from the mail box. On the first one, he recognizes his sister Hilde’s handwriting.

Next is the electric bill and some credit card advertisements disguised as personal mail. “You have won a big prize”. “An exceptional offer for you, Mr./Mrs. Bliter”. His name is written in bold, upper case letters on the last envelope. Interesting. Savoring the excitement palpitating in his chest, Hugues sets it on the table next to his coffee cup. He throws away the promotional ads, places the bill on the hallway dresser, then reads his sister’s letter. Her youngest daughter Savannah is moving abroad. Hilde is inviting Hugues to a going away party to honor her departure. Why not.

Savannah’s ample writing appears, filling up the whole page.  

Hugues no longer goes out much. The farm keeps him busy even though much of its maintenance is now the responsibility of the administrator. Two or three times a day, Hugues tours the outhouses, watching faithfully over the livestock. He verifies the animals’ water supply and the quality of their grain. He mounts his thoroughbred and disappears into the forest for hours at a time, bathing in the peaceful surroundings that echo deep inside him. Hughes loves to reign over his territory.

«I will miss Savannah» thinks the old man. He sits at the table. Amongst his sister’s four daughters, she is the one who resembles him the most. Although Hugues is godfather to one of Hilde’s sons, and not Savannah’s, he feels a special affinity towards her.  During family dinners, they will often exchange a wink in the middle of the big brouhaha caused by the abundant gathering.  Like he, Savannah functions better in solitude. Furthermore, she too never married.

So his niece is settling abroad. The letter indicates Madagascar. He suspects the preparations will be extensive; surely this will be his only chance to see her again. Hugues grabs the coffee cup, and his glance falls on the letter he has put aside. He takes a sip of his coffee, and with curiosity, rips open the envelope. Precisely, Savannah’s ample writing appears, filling up the whole page.  

Uncle Hugues,
Mom has asked me to post her mail, so I take this opportunity to write you this note. Through her invitation, you will find out that I am leaving.
How can I put it? You and I are the same, Uncle Hugues. I understand this now. We are people of few words, except perhaps with ourselves. This is our nature. What I long mistook for a character flaw, I finally accept. I no longer justify or counter it. I am ready to move forward.
It is important for me to tell you that I care about you. I admire the way you lead your life: I aspire to follow your example. A nurse can build her life anywhere. The smiles of the inhabitants over there give me confidence.
Take care, Uncle Hugues. 
I feel so light I could fly to the mailbox!
Savannah

A tear runs down the old man’s cheek. Without knowing why, he begins to cry. A bout of sobbing rips from his chest. Pushing back his cup, he rests his head against his arms, on the table, remaining this way for a long time.

Translation: Anna Di Vito

Photo © https://unsplash.com/photos/MYfV_d03Ty4

Rising Autumn

Sitting at the living room table, I sort the mail. A note from Henry, left on his way to work, expresses what a wonderful wife I am. Dear, dear Henry. 

A sheet of paper has the building management's logo. The letter, signed by the caretaker, provides recommendations related to the season changeover: the cleaning of balconies and windows, the air conditioning maintenance. It ends with this phrase: days decline, draping windows with crimped screens. I picture the sumptuous, although gloomy, mansion of the protagonist of Bruges-la-Morte, a novel written in the nineteenth century by Georges Rodenbach.

It seems to me that it is not the first time that the caretaker hints at it. I feel the urge to read a few paragraphs again, as the text evokes my native land. I head toward the office and search the shelves, in vain. I flip through the notepad in which I write down every loan, a habit I have not been ashamed of for several years. No sign of an entry for Bruges-la-Morte. Have I misplaced it? Sometimes I move my books around; for instance, cookbooks now lay in the kitchen cabinet on top of the fridge. I call Henry at work, but he does not know the answer to the riddle.

And the caretaker? Why would he quote a Belgian opus that, after all, is barely read today—even less so in North America—and which precisely happens to be missing from my library? I frown. I am not keen on lending things, let alone without authorization. I grab my keys and go downstairs to see him.

Mr. Rodebache is seated at a desk cluttered with documents. His thick brown hair competes with his shameless mustache. Behind him, the wall is covered with hammers, pliers, and saws of different sizes. I address him.

“Good morning, Mr. Rodebache! I am the owner of number 607.”

“Yes, hello. How are you, dear Madam?”

The man has always been friendly to us, so I have to come across gently.

“I just read the memo regarding the window cleaning.”

“Yes, was everything clear?”

“Absolutely, and beyond, as I recognized a marvelous sentence at the end.”

My interlocutor starts blushing. I put that down to the borrowed volume, but I am wrong, as an ample smile brightens his face.

“You give me much happiness, Mrs. Dupuis. For the seventeen years that I have looked after this building, you are the first to notice one of my quotations.”

As I put together the names Rodenbach and Rodebache, it occurs to me that I have set aside several books regarding Belgium, with the intention of arranging literary walks for a trip to come. I visualize the desk drawer dedicated to my previous home. Next to a Brussels public transportation map, the novel by Georges Rodenbach keeps company with Grégoire Polet's Excusez les fautes du copiste, as the latter mentions Uccle, Brussels, and Ostend.

I accept the cup of tea offered by the caretaker. We bring up his kinship with the writer, and this country that we have both left. When the moment ends, I realize that I am fortunate in my choice, and that Mr. Rodebache seems to feel the same way.

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