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My dear Barok…
Barok van Zieks had been vacationing in Brighton in the summer of 188x when the letter from Albert arrived. It came in a modest-sized envelope, the small, cramped, rushed scrawl on the back with his name and address familiar, and when he slit it open with his breakfast knife and unfolded the paper within to look at more of the same, he felt Klint’s eyes on him, and he looked over at his brother and smiled a little tentatively.
“I gather that it’s from Mr. Harebrayne,” was the genial statement.
“Yes, brother.” Barok wondered if he should be a little embarrassed that Klint only knew of one person who would ever bother writing friendly notes to him, but then Klint continued spreading marmalade on his toast and said, “Well, carry on. Tell me all about it later, perhaps.”
“Are you going?” Barok asked, trying not to sound too disappointed. “Only that you promised me that you’d come swim with me today.”
“I have to run back just for a bit to ring the Lord Chief Justice back,” Klint said, and smiled slightly. “Not to worry, I’ll be back before you know it, and then perhaps we’ll have a grand time as promised.”
“Very well.” Barok ducked his head, and glanced at the letter once more. Dimly, he heard Klint ask the footman for more coffee.
My dear Barok,
I write this to you in good health, and even better spirits.
I hope I have not been too forward by writing to you while you are having your holiday. I remember you mentioning in passing that you would be spending the rest of your summer in Brighton, so I have taken the liberty of knowing where to send this to, just to let you know that you are not forgotten. I am still in London while writing this, but toward the end of the holiday I will be popping into Berlin for a much-needed face-to-face with one of the professors that I have been intending to study under once I am done with university.
I have told you of him once already, if I recall. He is quite a dear old fellow, a friend of my father, who I really must take you to meet one day. Most people dismiss me when I talk about my hypotheses and my theories, but there are exactly two people in the world who have never laughed at me for it. One was, of course, my German professor, and the other was you.
Have I surprised you? I can see you now, shaking your head as you read that line over and over, as though you cannot believe that you have just read me correctly. (Barok paused as he caught himself doing the exact thing Albert wrote about, and quickly glanced at Klint—who was mercifully preoccupied with his newspaper.) But I am sure that you agree we do seem to be the oddest pair of friends on campus. How we came to find each other in such a fashion, I will never be able to understand. Far it be for me to turn to superstition for answers when I consider it my duty to find the truth with science, but I believe, and I hope you do too, to an extent, that it can be nothing but my great fortune that must have led me to make your acquaintance.
After breakfast, Barok found himself taking the letter outside to the patio, a cup of coffee in hand and a furrow in his brow, and scanned the second page of the letter. Overhead, the bright blue sky of Brighton beckoned to him, but too shy to go out by himself, he contented himself with just sunning himself on the patio and consuming the epistle he had spread over his knee.
“It is an awfully long letter,” he said to himself as he started with the second page.
The second page went on to continue waxing poetically about his friendship with Barok, which made the young noble blush as his eyes continued to glide down the page. Then, a line stuck out at him, and made him pause.
I want to know how you are, too. I know you are not the type to be social, but if you find the time to write back to tell me more about your summer, I would be only too happy to receive it.
Barok nibbled at his bottom lip as he considered this request. He has never had anyone close enough to consider writing letters to; his father may have despaired at this fact once or twice, wondering how Barok could be so taciturn compared to his more agreeable brother, who was the life of every gathering. But Klint had always assured him that it was a strength, rather than a fatal defect. “You’ll one day find someone that can appreciate you as you are,” he had said, though it failed to reassure Barok at the time, so preoccupied was he with wanting to be more like Klint—
So now, when Klint’s words proved to be prophetic, which they almost always were whenever Barok was concerned, he was a little at a loss.
He marveled at how such a simple request can stump him like this. At least, when it came to his demanding studies of the law, there was only ever one correct answer to the problems that his professors would quiz him on in class. However, faced with such a childish task as writing a friendly reply back to a—friend (he at first hesitated to use the word, but finally begrudgingly admitted that he did regard Albert Harebrayne as such), his usual eloquence evaded him. One can write the same thing with different words and appear to mean it entirely differently every time; one can be too polite, but one can also be too informal if one was not careful—
He had set out to write his reply, but when Klint finally returned to fulfill his promise and accompany his brother to the sea, he found Barok in the least angelic mood he had ever seen his little brother in, and a flood of crumpled papers up to his ankles. Wisely, so that Barok won’t hear his arrival, he tiptoed past and into his room.
Barok was unsure what kind of tone to take with Albert; perhaps it was wiser to just write the first thing that came to mind, like what the latter had seemed to do. Certainly it would spare him the pains that came with having to tread lightly like how he would write to someone of more seniority—and then, the last thought struck him, and he straightened up, his blue eyes slightly widening, and he took up his pen in hand, took a fresh sheet of paper, and dipped the nib in the inkwell.
Dear Albert, he began. Thank you for your note.
Let me start this off by reassuring you that I am quite well, and enjoying my stay here. The sea of Brighton is beautiful and calm as I write this letter, and the weather has been nothing but clear ever since we got here.
He wrote, unhurriedly and unhesitatingly this time, filling up a page quickly and gradually losing track of time. He did not notice his brother even as Klint peeked at him from within the cabin and smiled and moved on. The weather really was as beautiful as he had described; he heard the cries of seagulls in the distance as he paused to take a break, and then continued after a sip of coffee and a thoughtful look. First he had been unsure about what and how to write, but what he had realized, as he was reading over Albert’s letter, was that perhaps, truly, what Albert wanted him to do is precisely what he had requested—to know him—
To his surprise, he ended up writing much more than he had wanted to in the first place. He felt a little shameless as he realized some of the things he had blurted out in his letter—I am glad to have made your acquaintance, and consider myself lucky to have won your friendship, he said quite candidly in one sentence, and blushed horribly at being so straightforward. He wondered if Albert wouldn't mind, but Albert’s honest sentiments in his note had impressed so strongly in his mind, and he found that he wanted to return that honesty.
“I’m sorry, Klint,” he told his brother that evening as they supped, again at the same table, and Klint only smiled ever so slightly.
“You don’t have to be,” was the answer. “Have you finished writing your reply to Mr. Harebrayne, then?”
“Yes, I think so,” Barok said. “But I haven’t had it posted yet.”
It seemed a little embarrassing to admit that he would like to sleep on it first before finally sending it—but Klint didn’t remark on the oddity, and instead commented that it should be a fine day for swimming the next day. Feeling slightly more cheerful, Barok cut into his fish and enjoyed the glistening of the white wine that accompanied it, and felt as though perhaps he can post it tomorrow morning without worries.
Later that evening, he found himself rereading the letter on his desk one last time before turning in for the night. “Perhaps it will reach him in Berlin and he’ll read it in his room like I am doing right now,” he wondered out loud, and oddly, the thought cheered him more than it abashed him. A little boldly, he took out his pen and scribbled a quick postscript on it before leaving it on the desk and finally turning out the lights.
However, by the moonlight, the last sentence on the epistle was still quite clear—
P.S. Your friendship I value as much as you value mine, and I will be nothing but happy and proud to be able to keep yours for a long, long time afterward. Let us not forget each other, and support one another, for as long as heaven wills us to be next to each other. Barok.
