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As winters went by, Camilla stopped calling. The death of her grandmother had given her another chance to live a life in which her past, including myself, did not belong. As for Francis, his letters had become too anxiety-provoking for me to bother to reply. Perhaps it made me selfish, I liked Francis, but his constant struggles interlinked with his passiveness to resolve them had made him less tolerable. There was always a certain idleness to him that I began to loathe. I wasn’t quite sure whether he was too desperate and lonely to stop writing me despite my lack of response, or if he simply did not care, but all I knew was that I once again stumbled across his familiar and almost pretentiously elegant handwriting in my mailbox.
I was still living in Hampden with the ghosts of an undying sin as a company. Sometimes, I could swear that I recognized Bunny’s voice, or Henry’s silhouette down the street. I had started to find a certain comfort in my own nostalgic madness. My diploma wasn’t of much help in the job industry, which led me to pursue my path at university as a teacher assistant during my PhD. It provided an undeniable comfort, but also fueled my ostentatious sense of superiority, teaching students and highlighting my reminiscence of the past, of admirably mastered ancient Greek references.
I’d usually not even bother to open Francis’s letters anymore, but this one felt oddly different and thus despite its familiar appearance. Without even looking at anything else but the formal envelope, a sense of nostalgia encouraged me to open it.
I was a dreamer, both in the literal and abstract sense. My psychologist – that I ended up loosing interest in – had told me about how repeated dreams were often linked to the recollections of traumas. I had countless of dreams about Bunny’s fall and Henry’s gunshot. And if those were undeniably linked to the tragedy my life had become, they were never the same. The angle or the voices, the moment they’d stop had always been different from as long as I could recall. But if one dream had constantly been anchored in my mind like a pattern, it was that one dream I had of Charles the night Bunny died. A train, the two of us in it. Over and over again. Perhaps, having that same dream the night before Francis’s letter arrived further encouraged me to open it. Not that I cared much about his struggles, but rather I hoped to find something else, someone else.
“Dear Richard,
I am quite convinced those letters are a waste of my time. Nevertheless, the monotonous prison I am locked in leaves me no other choice but to write to you restlessly.
I wish I had more relevant stories to tell you, but I fear my life hasn’t much improved. I abandon myself every day to think, to write, to read, and to let myself die, really.
As I had told you before, assuming you had read it, I have been trying to get back in contact with Charles in vain for several months. The letters I would send to his address in Galveston remained unreturned. Though last week, I had surprisingly received a response, not from Charles but from the owner of the appartement he and his woman used to lend. They had the kindness to inform me that he had moved out to Beaumont, Texas. I assume he had been voluntarily ignoring my letters for the past few months since the owner had noticed me that their departure is no older than two weeks old.
To be frank, I am more annoyed at Charles than at you, as I know you are getting your life together, compared to him. I’d prefer to have him using me for money than ignoring me and leaving for an even more pitiful city than Galveston. It almost feels ironic imagining him out there.
I am not writing “hope to hear from you soon” anymore, so I will simply wish you the best.
Happily,
Francis.”
I took few seconds considering the letter, re-reading the passage over and over again. I haven’t heard about Charles in years and this sudden notice coupled with my dream was quite poetic, slightly romantic, even.
It seemed like events were aligning, almost as the universe was pursuing this reunion the same way I secretly was. I had the week off, and enough money to travel all the way to Texas.
***
I had come to realize as years went by that my idolatry for the Greek students had fostered by naïve loyalty towards them. But Charles was different. I had thought for a while that my affection for him was solely based on his manipulative patterns. “They are leading you on.” Francis had told me several years ago while talking about the twins. But the detachment of my brain from the others hadn’t been accompanied with the detachment of my heart from Charles. And if I hadn’t seen or heard about him in years, that recurrent dreams and countless memories kept on reminding me that he might have been my only friend.
Beaumont was a depressing city, and I felt not only pain, but also anger towards Charles for settling for so little. His long gloomy episodes and unstable sensitivity wouldn’t make him less brilliant. When we were twenty, I’d often pass time by projecting ourselves in the future. Charles always had the brightest one in my head. I wasn’t quite sure if such imagination was biased by my appreciation for him, or if he had truly met the fate of a fallen angel, but seeing the miserable life he ended up living was heart shattering. I stumbled around the pathetic streets of the industrial city, knowing deep down that I had more chances to be stabbed in the corner of one of them than to find who I was looking for. But my sweet delusion guided my steps, the same way it had guided me to open that letter.
After several hours of walking, as the sun set low behind the buildings, I had considered turning back to the pitiful hotel room I had booked before my nose met a familiar scent. The nauseating smell of weed and trash omnipresent in the city had made the smell of tobacco oddly enjoyable, comforting even. I had never picked up the habit of smoking and my few acquaintances weren’t smokers either. To that extent, tobacco was still strongly tied to the nostalgia of Henry’s lucky strikes and to deep night talks with Charles, his lips slightly parted to take a drag.
That’s when I saw him, leaning against the wall of a dead-end street next to a door from which emerged plates sounds and loud voices. His hair was slightly longer, and a bit darker than the last time I had saw him five years ago. He somehow seemed less thin than how I remembered him. To be honest, he seemed healthier and thus despite the undeniable misery he was living in. I remembered his fever dream about Dante he had had that one night he slept in my dorm room, drunk and sick. It seemed like his inferno had been his life in Hampden and that he had managed to reach the first stages of the purgatory. Still so far from salvation, an unreachable peace of mind, but still an escape from eternal suffering.
He turned his head to look at me, as I stood there, mind blank, unable to know what to do or say next. His eyes were still as magnificent as I remembered. His indifference felt like a blessing after all those years where all I could recall was his look of resentment in Henry’s hotel room. It took him a few seconds to recognize me. His frowned browns relaxed slightly as he said quietly,
“You.”
I felt ridiculous, standing there in front of him. Coming here was a desperate attempt at reconnecting with the last thing I wanted to hold on to from Hampden, but I had not expected to actually cross his path. Luckily, he spoke again, as he dropped his cigarette butt to the ground.
“I dreamed about y-.”
My strength to talk suddenly came back to me, as I cut him to complete his sentence.
“Five nights ago?”
He stayed quiet for a second, and I could swear that I saw a subtle smile on his lips.
“Seems like you did too.”
I nodded slowly before stepping closer to him. He sat down on the ground, back against the wall of the building and I joined him despite my perfectly cleaned and ironed clothes. There was something tragically ironic seeing him dressed up in dirty working clothes, when all I could recall were his white tennis sneakers and suits. I felt uncomfortable, the same way I had felt the first time I had joined the Greek class, where they all seemed so perfectly put together as I was sitting there in my old jacket. Now, I had the money to purchase much more decent clothes. I’d unconsciously look back on Francis’s fashion advice when I’d go shopping and often look at tennis shoes similar to Charles’s. And yet, I still felt in awe and inferiority towards him, now that I seemed so perfectly put together as he was sitting there in his old jacket.
“I hope Francis didn’t send you to talk to me.” He said with a slightly distrustful tone.
It reminded me of how he’d ask me about Henry, how I had guaranteed him he would never know where Charles was.
“God, no. I haven’t talked to Francis in months. Though he is the one who told me you were in Beaumont.”
Charles nodded and lit up another cigarette. He didn’t seem to believe me much.
“Why are you here, then?”
“Because I wanted to see you.” I replied spontaneously, perhaps even a bit embarrassingly.
He stayed quiet for a while, his eyes searching in mine for any signs of a lie, a lie that did not exist. As much as I tried to hide it for all those years, his disappearance had prevented myself from ever feeling at peace.
“So, you rode all the way to Texas for me?” His voice had this soft tone he’d have when he’d feel touched. And I felt so grateful that his unique sensibility had remained there. That Charles was still Charles.
“I am nothing in my soul if not obsessive.” I replied with a quiet huff.
Charles let out a subtle laugh too, as he took another drag of his cigarette before handing it to me. I’d usually decline the same way I did for all those years, but the desperate need I had to reconnect with him pushed me to ignore my principles. I took the cigarette, fingers brushing against his a second longer than necessary, before bringing the cigarette to my lips. Its bitterness got me awkwardly coughing as I handed it back to him. He smirked slightly as he took it back.
“Still not much of a smoker, are you?”
“Still not much of a smoker.”
I could hear agitation back in the room behind us, plates clinging, water running. Charles checked his watch hidden below his dirty jacket, and I was bittersweetly surprised to notice it was the same one he used to wear in our college years.
“My break is over. I have two more hours before the end of my shift.”
He stood up as he spoke and threw his cigarette on the ground next to the previous one. His sudden absence next to me felt like I had lost peace again as I immediately stood up too. I might have looked slightly too desperate to see him leave. He chuckled before speaking again.
“Where are you staying?”
“The hotel next to McFaddin-Ward house.”
“See you at 11?”
“See you at 11.”
He went back in the building as I stood there, unable to move for a while. I felt like I was twenty and had met him for the very first time all over again.
***
I walked back and forth in the mediocre hotel room for several minutes, before forcing myself to work on my thesis. Yet, everything was bringing me back to him. As much as I hated to admit it, my handwriting itself had been influenced by Charles. I remembered the days we would study together, and the few times he’d write my essays for me. He always had this talent of copying anyone’s handwriting, though with time, I had learned to notice few glimpses of his own persona underneath my name on the essays I would submit. The way he’d write his L with a small twist for instance is a habit I had noticed and undertook as well.
The knocks on the door were calmer than the violent outburst that emanated from his knocks on Henry’s hotel room on that one night. I opened up to find him standing in different clothes, used and old but not dirty at very least. His hair was still messy, but his tired face had the same angelic features I remembered. He reached for his pocket and handed me a half-drunk bottle of whiskey as he walked in and sat on the bed. I looked at him, slightly confused, worried even that his drinking habits got worse.
“Aren’t guests supposed to get gifts for the host?”
He said with a subtle smile. I chuckled, looking at the cheap bottle, already half empty.
“How generous of you.”
I closed to door and took a chair to sit in front of him after putting the bottle down on the nightstand next to the bed.
We stayed quiet for few minutes, something I wasn’t used to do with people anymore. Sophie said she hated my quiet observatory patterns, she felt like I was constantly dissecting her. I hadn’t heard from her in years, but her remark had struck me and forced me to accommodate to meaningless small talks. But silence with Charles felt natural, almost comfortable. I could tell he was taking it in as much as I was. He’d have the same quiet observatory patterns as I would, and I felt like he was dissecting me, which I didn’t mind.
“Je est un autre.” He said abruptly.
“What?”
“Rimbaud.” He glanced at my book on my nightstand, a collection of Rimbaud’s first poems. As he spoke again, his tone was colder. “I didn’t become illiterate, you know.”
He must have noticed my sudden surprise, almost relief, to hear him talk about a book. And perhaps it was indeed sending the wrong message on how I was depicting him. Charles always rejected pity in any forms, making him suddenly irritable. I shook my head with a sigh before clearing up my throat.
“I know you haven’t. What have you been reading lately?” I asked, genuinely curious to reconnect with him through what united us at first, literature and ancient languages.
“Oh, don’t get your hopes up. I haven’t opened a Greek books in years.” He leaned in to get the bottle and took a sip before continuing. “I just finished On the Road.”
“Beat Generation literature? Not really what I would have expected from you. Henry would have hated it.”
I instantly regretted my injunction, as I noticed his expression darkening.
He sighed and laid down on his back on the bed, staring at the ceiling quietly. He still had underneath his grown up features the same innocence and angelic gentleness that mesmerized me when we met. It even felt like the horrors of life had made him look even more child-like. I whispered some pathetic apologies, convinced that he’d stand up and leave. But instead, as he laid there, he asked thoughtfully though slightly bitterly.
“Do you still have a wound?”
It took me a second to understand what he was talking about. I then slightly lifted my shirt to reveal a discreet scar and lighter skin on the side of my belly.
“Nothing big.” I attempted to reply casually, awfully uncomfortable.
He sat back up to look at it for a second, suddenly gloomy. His emotions could change so quickly, it is what made him overwhelming, in the best and worst way possible. If no words were exchanged, this quiet moment was enough to share the same thoughts and memories of that one night, the gunshots, the blood, Henry.
“I’m sorry.” He finally muttered quietly.
And if his tone sounded like a child forced to apologize for a trifle, his genuine hint of guilt didn’t go unnoticed. I looked at him for a while before nodding quietly, in a form of silent understanding and acceptance.
“I’m sorry too.”
I had always struggled with an undeniable pride that would forbid me from ever considering myself as a bad person. But perhaps the only guilt I have ever felt was about betraying my only friend.
“You know, I really liked you.” He replied in an all too familiar tone where pain was lingering with affection.
“I really liked you too.”
“I’ve talked about you to my girl quite a lot.”
For a second, I thought he was talking about his girl, his Milly, Camilla, which had overthrown me for a split second before I remembered that they hadn’t been in contacts for years. Hearing him use the same nickname for his girlfriend as the one he used for his twin sister could have been repulsive to the normal minds. But to me, it solely triggered a feeling of intense nostalgia and perhaps a hint of envy.
“How is she?” I finally replied.
He sighed and shook his head before taking a sip from the whiskey bottle. Not frantic, but slow, almost enjoying it instead of seeking salvation in it.
“She doesn’t read much, nor like animals or philosophy. She’s a bit of a junkie and we had our lows. Her husband and kids…well, that’s another story. But she isn’t a bad person, so I’m assuming it is the best I could settle for.”
While listening to him, I had this sudden memory of us at a bar. Bunny was mocking Charles for his shyness when it came to girls. Despite his look, he was unable to ever talk to any girls, overwhelmed by a sensitivity that some people like Bunny or my dad would mistake for a lack of masculinity. Seeing him now with a woman twice his age dragging him lower and lower triggered in me a sense of protectiveness I’ve only ever felt the time I had confronted Henry about his behaviors while Charles was in the hospital.
We talked about everything all night long, from jokes to deeper topics, from ancient Greek to alcoholism, to Bunny, to Camilla, to piano, everything. And for a split second, I was twenty again, laying on a chair on the porch of the countryside house with my best friend, my dearest and eldest love.
As the sun began to rise, Charles stood up with a sigh. Despite the sleepless night, he seemed in a better shape than he was when he arrived yesterday. Less drained, less old, more like himself. After exchanging a polite yet affectionate handshake, he got to the door of my hotel room, this pathetic hotel room in this miserably uneducated town, far from everything he’s ever loved.
Every good action I had ever undertaken were fueled by the necessity to feed my narcissism disguised as altruism, the constant need of reassurance in the goodness of my heart. But when I stood up after him, when the words escaped my mouth so confidently, it was nothing else than my sincerest desire.
“Come back to Hampden with me.”
Charles turned around, and for a split second, his exhausted gray eyes were hinted with a childlike look of hope and gratitude. He then sighed, as if reality caught back to him faster than I would have wanted.
“I can’t.” He replied as he crossed his arms and looked down, leaning against the opened door.
“Listen, I’ll pay you the train. You could live in my apartment as long as you desire. When I get my PhD, we could loan a countryside house and get a dog, or a cat, or both.”
“Richard.”
I ignored his calling.
“We need to get in that train.”
A sad smile curved upon his lips.
“So that’s what you’ve been dreaming about?”
“It has to mean something.”
“You’ve always woken up before the end of the dream.”
I looked at him, almost breathless from my sudden rumbling to find a way to make him stay. He continued, his voice as calm and gentle as I remembered it when we met, when he made me feel included in a hostile classroom where he saw me as another human instead of a tool.
“I’ve been dreaming about that train too. Ever since the night Bunny died.”
“Then why aren’t you taking it with me?”
“You’re a bit of a dreamer, aren’t you? Your constant seeking of the picturesque, of a reality that only exists in books and in your head is even haunting your dreams. You keep on forbidding yourself to witness an ending you are unwilling to accept. But I know how it ends.”
I took a second to reply, overwhelmed by the reality of his words.
“And how does it end?”
“I get off the stop before yours.”
“What does that mean?”
He simply smiled, that gentle smile that would hide the tempest inside of him. He adjusted his coat and stepped outside the room. He looked at me one more time, and I could swear he got teary-eyed, or perhaps it was still my romanticization of a life that wasn’t mine.
“Be happy, beloved face of my great friend. For us that is impossible, but you can be-we dead lack any source of delight.” He replied, a slightly pretentious hint in his voice before closing the door. In my mind, his voice was echoing Henry and Julian reciting Euripides’s Orestes.
I never heard from him ever again.
“Orestes, beloved. As you die you destroy me. You have torn away the part of my mind where hope was.” Sophocles, Electra.