Erne asked me to say a few words today. It’s a great honor, and I told him I’d planned on doing it whether he wanted me to or not.
We all loved Erne. Expressing that doesn’t require a long speech or thousands of beautiful words. Because Erne is sitting somewhere out there, glancing at his watch. And as we all know, that sight always lit a fire under the butt of whoever was speaking. So I’ll keep my comments brief.
The last investigation I worked on with Erne ended up being a case where one of the criminals was a famous writer, which is why—as horrible as it might seem—I want to talk to you about writing.
You see, I believe that each of us is the author of our own life. We write our own story each and every day by simply living it. By seeing, hearing, experiencing, by making mistakes and hopefully learning from them. The stories of some inspire admiration and envy, those of others pity or even disapproval. The number of literary tastes is infinite, and so are the critics who feel it’s their job to criticize the way in which others write their lives. I myself have always thought that my book doesn’t need to be a bestseller. The critics can make what they want of it. My story doesn’t need to reach tens, hundreds, or thousands of people. A limited audience is better: you see, I don’t want my book to be thought of as dull or trivial just because the reader doesn’t know me well enough. That’s why in this matter, as in many others, quality is more important that quantity. I want whoever opens my book to appreciate and respect the author, regardless of what is written there. I want someone who asks to keep reading even when there’s nothing more to say. I want a reader who is dedicated to my text. A faithful reader.
Erne was the reader, editor, and critic of my life all wrapped up in one package. We didn’t always see eye to eye about everything, but I knew he respected my text. Despite my meandering and erratic style, he always seemed to somehow know where the text was going. And the fact that he usually read it with a restful look on his face told me that, in spite of everything, I’m going to be just fine. Even with my punctuation errors.
Now that you’re gone, continuing to write feels hard. But that’s exactly why it’s important to keep doing it. The rest of our stories keep going, and your story lives on inside them.
Thank you, Erne. And bon voyage.
“I’m speechless,” Erne says as Jessica lowers the piece of paper to the table. Both of them wipe their eyes. Erne’s speech is labored, and it’s apparent that every utterance demands incredible effort.
Jessica blows her nose and then smiles at the gaunt man whose stick-thin hands are resting peacefully on the armrests of his wheelchair.
“You really know how to write, Jessica.”
Jessica lets out an involuntary laugh and blows the hair out of her eyes. “That doesn’t make me happy. Not now.”
“Thank you for reading it to me.”
“It felt somehow”—moved, Jessica takes Erne’s hand—“somehow important for you to have a chance to hear it. Because everyone else gets to. So you don’t miss out on anything. Especially because it’s about you.”
Erne smiles between wheezing coughs and waves dismissively. “Well, we’ll see if anyone shows up.”
“Of course they will. Don’t be an idiot.” Jessica pats Erne’s hand. The water is bubbling in the kettle. Frank Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon” carries from the living room speakers. It’s Erne’s absolute favorite.
“You want tea?”
“No, thanks. I think I’ll go rest now.”
“Are you sure? Maybe a sandwich?” Jessica says, and catches the panicky tone in her voice. She doesn’t want the moment to end. Erne seems so frighteningly calm and sure. Ready. He appears to be at peace with the world around him; he has accepted his own smallness, his microscopic role in the continuum of millions of years.
“I need to go lie down.”
“Sure . . . let me help you.”
“Jessica . . . ,” Erne says, then takes Jessica gently by the wrist and steers her gently back into her chair. For a moment they just sit there, Erne looking Jessica deep in the eye. “Thank you, Jessica.”
Jessica’s voice quavers: “You ought to get some rest now. Your boys will be here tomorrow.”
Erne smiles wearily. “So now they’re coming, to say goodbye. . . . I haven’t seen them in ages.”
Erne lowers his gaze to his hands. The sparrows chirp cheerily in the park across the street, where green has just appeared at the treetops. Spring is at its most beautiful right now.
“Thank you for letting me stay with you these few weeks,” he finally says, and smiles. He lets his placid gaze roam around the large kitchen, then shuts his eyes. The lids look so heavy when they’re closed; opening them again must take a lot of effort.
Jessica gulps and looks at the memorial speech resting on the table. Next time Erne won’t be around to hear it.
“Do you like that guy?” Erne suddenly asks.
“Who? Fubu? I guess. He’s fun. And uncomplicated.”
“Fun is good.”
“But it’s not enough?”
Erne smiles and shakes his head. “Promise me one thing, Jessie.”
“What?”
“Never look back. Only forward . . .”
“Because life only lies ahead.”
“Exactly.”
There’s a short beep, and Erne laboriously digs the thermometer out from under his arm.
“You have a fever?”
A euphoric smile spreads across Erne’s face. “Thirty-six point five.”
“Fantastic. Come on, Ser Davos. I’ll help you get into bed,” Jessica says, pinching Erne’s cheek. “Tomorrow is a new day.”