I wish it was me sitting next to you on that bench. I wish I was the one who found you. I wish I could be there, listening to your heart-breaking story. I wish your heart would not break.
Would you be my friend, Leo? Like Bruno is to you? I'll slip a letter under your door. You'll stare at it, wondering whose it could be. You'll slowly get out of your bed, go round the toilet and the kitchen table and bend down clumsily to pick it up. I’ll invite you for a drink. A juice, of course. If I don’t have change, I’ll know you’ll lend me some, you always have plenty of it (I hope I won’t have to pick it up from the floor first). And then … No posing, please. But we could take some dance lessons, stepping on people’s feet? Oh, no, right, you have a weak heart. What about singing? A duo in front of the NYSE, performing “Over the Rainbow” and blowing soap bubbles? Or … we could try to get people to help us measure the Central Park with toothpicks? Or ask them to contribute some money for our raft expedition to Ellis Island? Or let a hippo out of the zoo? Or, my dear Leo, you could simply unlock and let me in. Let me see you. Let me look back into the heart of Europe with you. Let me follow you across those monstrous waves of war and separation. Let me close that pipe and bring the true characters of your book back. Let me tell Alma what happened. Let me caress the glass, admiring its frail substance, its transparency, its honesty. LetmeinLeo.Letmemakeabondbetweenyou&me. What will you get in return, you probably wonder? My reflection in the glass ...
Unlock your heart, Leo. But be careful. Don’t break it.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Nicole Krauss | The History of Love | 2005