"What was this? Why did he write it down? What does it mean when a man picks up a pen and writes something? When something simply comes to him and it appears there, complete, in his writing? (...) And if you write something down, is it then lost, does it have nothing to do with you anymore, is there only a memory, an ache, left behind (...)."
~ Sandor Marai, The Rebels
I had found the café in a
hidden corner on a previous trip to the town. Its small menu had attracted me
straightaway and the little terrace with its wooden furniture and flowerpots
tricked the mind into thinking that this was Italy or Southern France. This town had been taken over by artists one day in the past. Their energy had collected
between the walls, every pebble stone overflowing with inspiration. That’s why
I had come here to write on this sunny morning. The city had nothing left to
inspire me – just tourists who moved collectively in groups from one corner of
a building to another. I avoided stepping on my balcony during the day just to
see them look up, wondering who it was that was living in these beautiful
buildings drawn by history.
No, was I to stay here,
in this country, I’d move to this town. I would sit in this café every day. How
perfect life would be.
A woman passes by with 25
yellow roses. She smiles, her face filled with a bright light. I didn’t count
the roses but I assume they are 25. Frank Sinatra is playing in the background.
The entire menu is
vegetarian. I am delighted. I choose a salad with locally produced goat cheese
and plums. It is perfect but I add salt. A lot of salt. Something very German
to do, to add salt to everything. A reminder of my roots from which all these
branches have grown.
I feel my skin burning in
the midday sun and put some sun screen. ‘Instant Protection’ it says on the
bottle. I remember that when I was small it had to be applied at least 30
minutes before going into the sun for full protection. Now it is instant.
I order a cake – though I
am allergic to gluten – and an espresso which comes in a beautiful, old, ceramic
cup with a delicate handle and golden ornaments. Just looking at it fills me
with joy and I carefully pick it up to take a sip. I want to take the café with
me, the feeling I get when I sit here.
I don’t want to return to
my apartment which I’ve decided to soon leave behind already. A new chapter of
my life is about to begin and I need to shed. The apartment is the past
already.
Time that I had recently
been wasting away has meaning again in this new chapter. I give it meaning.
What would time be without me anyway; if I am not there to witness it, to pass
it, to embrace it, to waste it or indulge in it? For all I know time might
stand still when I’m asleep.
A butterfly passes by,
maybe the 9th I have seen today. I haven’t seen any in the city. Who
would stay in the city if you can fly? I glimpse behind me to remind myself
that I have wings. How quickly I forget at times, them being so delicate and
invisible. For a few moments I lay down my pen to drift away in a flow of
melancholy.
I see clouds moving in
and wonder whether I’ll have to postpone my walk back to the city to another
day. A long walk it will be – but what is walking other than meditation?
Anything to lengthen the journey back to the city. Maybe I was going to walk in
the rain, if it rains at all.
Maybe I should open a café
like this one, simply for the selfish reason of sitting in it every day. What
other reason would one have to open a café? I won’t open one though. It is not
my path. I know this much. No need to know what you want to or will do if at
least you are clear on what you don’t want to do.
More clouds. In between
sun. Slow Jazz in the background. Maybe it’s Blues. Yes, Blues, not Jazz. Then
an old Italian song.
As a writer you live in
your head, 10 thoughts at a time. Every thought a story of its own. I have
difficulty remembering things accurately; sometimes I mix up memories with
surreal creations of my imagination. Right now I remember him dancing slowly
with me to old, Italian love songs. I fall in love all over whether it is a
memory or made-up by my mind. I got drunk here with a friend once, in this café.
I miss her at times. Just like anything can be missed for the sake of
deprivation of the now.
I can feel this country
bidding farewell by showering me with all its beauty – a sweet pain that feeds
the soul with light for any darkness to come.
The waitress goes around
and waters the flowers, and pours some water on my feet to fight the heat. We
all laugh. We – strangers who happen to be here at this very moment, united by
laughter. Maybe it is coincidence. But I choose not to believe in coincidences.
I am not sure what effect this belief has on my life, if any at all, compared
to someone who denies the existence of destiny. Maybe deny is too strong a
word, let’s say someone who questions destiny to the core of its existence. Far
more poetic.
It is the first time I’m
not wearing nail polish on my toenails – an unusual sight to me. I look at my
feet and feel like I am taken back to when I was 16. Am I? No, I’m 24. It’s
been eight years. Time passes quickly when you live, when you are awake. I had
been tired of life once, maybe twice – not now.
I am not the patient kind
but he is, so I have no choice but to divert my mind and seek pleasure in the
process of waiting. I smile, back to the now, to the café, to the question
whether I should attempt to walk back. I’m wearing flip-flops. I assume it
would take me 2 hours. I might get a heat-stroke. If I do walk, I will have to
buy water. It might start raining and I will have to stand underneath a roof for
a while. Or there might be a thunderstorm and I will be hit by lightning. I
will walk – at least for now, that I am still sitting.
Maybe the people I had
laughed with a few minutes ago will read this story and recognize themselves,
just like the man at the other table who stirred his lemonade until all the ice
had melted. That wouldn’t be coincidence, right? But maybe they won’t read it.
That wouldn’t be coincidence either. Either way, destiny – wether they read it
or not.
Before leaving the café I
ask the people next to me how long it will take to walk to Budapest. 20km – don’t
even try with those shoes. I won’t. Instead I stroll around the town, up and
down small alleys – a beautiful stillness everywhere. Time might as well be
standing still, I wouldn’t know. I pass by souvenir shops and fall in love with
a handmade, crocheted parasol and a dark-blue dress with traditional Hungarian
patterns – next time. Today I’ll just walk.
A museum. Another one.
Maybe dozens of them. I visit a gallery and the young woman explains to me that
there are 200 artists living in the town right now and every summer artists
from India come to stay at an art colony close-by. ‘I live in India’. She doesn’t
quite understand. It doesn’t matter. I had said it for my own sake, a thought
spoken out loudly. There are no coincidences.
I make plans to rent a
room here one summer to write. I will.
I walk on. Next time I
should take a boat back. Not today. I walk by a museum and remember Indian
music playing there many months ago when I passed by.
It is past 3pm now. Let’s
just walk a little more.
