The mail truck came out to Mayflower twice a week, its blue hump surfacing like a tiny whale from out of the bush that lined the steep climb to the school gates. I grew attuned to its comings and goings, always the instinctive glance toward the gates on mail day mornings from the windows of classrooms, the small tensing of anticipation when it arrived; and then the trek to the administration block between classes for the quick furtive glimpse at my mail slot.
The school secretary, Mr. Johnson, sorted our mail with a painstaking slowness, squinting down at each envelope to silently sound out the name there and then seeking out some correspondence to it on our cubbyholes with the circumspection of someone seeing their foreign array for the first time. When there was nothing for me he’d avoid me, grow irritable, seeming to take my barely veiled expectation as a sort of affront, ready to defend himself against the accusation of it; but then finally something would come.
“Ah, Mr. Victor! I’m thinking you must be having a girlfriend in Canada, isn’t it?”
This anticipation in me seemed at first merely a kind of reflex: there was nothing of special import I had any reason to expect, no lover on whose words I hung, no final answer on which my future depended. The few correspondences I kept up, with people from university mainly, were little more than a matter of form – a letter or two to Michael, a few others to people who’d passed on their addresses in the last months of school in the quick, shallow intimacy that came before a departure; I wrote to these people at all, it seemed, only for that first fleeting pleasure of finding something more in my slot than the endless circulars from the Central Schools Board. Yet always there was the small unreasonable hope of some crucial message or change; or perhaps it was simply that I couldn’t abandon the proof some arriving letter gave that I’d existed before, that I’d come from somewhere and would one day return there.
Letters came from my family as well, from my father, from Rita. At bottom I hadn’t expected to hear from them, had imagined I had only to subtract myself from their lives and that would be the end of it, a sort of reverse insensitivity, the belief I could cease to have any meaning for them simply by leaving them; and yet I had written to both early on. To Rita I’d sent a postcard, falsely blithe and urbane, when we’d stopped in London a day on the way to Nigeria, making a joke about our planes crossing in mid-Atlantic; then a few days after I’d arrived at my post I’d sent a letter as well. I’d begun in the same false casualness, still trying to find some way around the strangeness that had marred our last parting; but then finally I seemed to find the right voice, the right distance, ending up with five closely written pages, a diary of sorts of all that had happened since I’d left Canada.
Her reply, when it came, even written double-spaced in her billowing script, barely filled a page.
Thanks for the letter, it was great! Africa sounds wild! It must be really different there, it sounds like it anyways from your letter.
It went on like that, breathlessly adolescent, saying nothing – its tone made me think of the girls in high school who I’d loved and despised from a distance, had nothing in common with, who talked about dates and played on school teams and struggled each term to get their marks into the seventies. The Rita I’d written to, with all my careful analyses and descriptions, seemed now merely a fiction I’d conjured up: each time I read her letter through I felt more irritated, each time more baffled, kept coming back to it as if some revelation I’d missed lay hidden in it as in an artefact, in the slope of the letters, the paper smell of the page.
“Gotta go,” it ended. “Elena says hi.”
I was almost ready then to cease writing to her at all, put off replying for a month, then two; but toward Christmas a card arrived from her.
I thought I’d send this off early to make sure you got it – I guess you won’t be getting much snow for Christmas! Write soon. Rita.
She’d included a school photo of herself, an odd gesture, inscribed “Hot Stuff!” on the back though she seemed imbued in it – posed awkward and smiling before a swirl-patterned backdrop – with an unfamiliar pathos, her eyelids drooping against the camera’s flash and her forehead scarred with acne. I felt a small crumbling in me at the sight of her, at this tentative handing over of herself, off-putting almost in the need it showed: it seemed once again I’d misread her, shifting from one imagined extreme to the other when she was merely this simpler, more complex thing in between, a sixteen-year-old, my sister, guarding her own unknown fears and half-formed hopes.
We began to write more regularly, exchanging responses every two or three months, about as much as the erratic mails allowed. Rita’s letters grew slowly more sophisticated, more thoughtful: what had struck me at first as simple-mindedness seemed now to have been merely a kind of probing, the first evasive manoeuvres of intimacy. Even now she remained forever gingerly, made concessions, kept always to what was neutral between us, adopted a cynicism toward things that seemed not so much a true bitterness as her instinctive deference to me, the deprecation of her own life to make mine seem the more interesting; but it was exactly in this, in the subtle texture of what went unsaid, that emotion seemed to take shape between us, piecing itself together like a puzzle whose definitions were in what was left out. At the back of my mind now there was always the thought of our letters like a tiny secret retreat in me; the weeks would pass after I’d sent my own and then I’d feel the slow pleasant mounting of anticipation at the imminence of her reply.
My father’s letters were more sporadic. I’d sent a brief note home a few weeks after my arrival, the barest facts of my situation delivered in plainest English, addressing it to both my father and aunt, listing their names in full one beneath the other, “Mario Innocente,” “Teresa Innocente,” reluctant somehow to link them more intimately. I half-hoped there’d be no reply, but then a few months later one came from my father.
Son, I write to you five line in Inglish but you no my inglish is imperfit I hope you will understand it. At the moment evriting is OK overhere. I wish you could spend a week at home and teste the wine that we made is real good. The grinhaus crop is almost finish but maybe thats the last year were gona do a fall crop, its not much money in it.
Then part way through the letter switched to Italian, grew denser, more obscure. There were words, whole phrases, I couldn’t make out, lost in his script’s whorling sameness: he thought of me, had been happy to get my letter; then an uncertain stretch and the phrase “ti voglio tanto bene,” literally “I wish you well” but more expressive than that, the equivalent, really, of “I love you very much.” It was a ritual phrase and yet it stung me like an accusation.
I sent off a reply in my same impassive tone, saying nothing really, merely filling the page; but then his next letter followed the same pattern as the first, began with his rote greetings and wishes and then veered abruptly into wrenching emotion. There seemed something generic in these sudden declarations to me, without basis in any knowledge he had of me; and yet still the same despair flickered through me at them. I thought of him sitting at his desk to write these things out, his hand against the pen, against the page, and couldn’t bear somehow then the brute existence of him there in his close far-away life, still connected to me though I had gone.
A sort of correspondence developed between us then for a time, a strange fretwork of engagement and avoidance. His own letters, all in his careful schoolbook Italian now, continued on in what seemed a twisted candour, honest and not, agonizingly raw and yet still seeming to be circling some unstated thing; and for a while I simply went on with my same empty replies, in my simplified English at first but then switching from time to time to Italian, borrowing his own rote phrases to try to forge some illusion of a common language between us. But he seemed to be trying to will some more direct confrontation.
“It makes me sad to think you’ve gone,” he wrote once, “and to know you don’t value the life I tried to make for you.”
I tried to respond to him directly then, careful and unambiguous, expressing my pride at what he’d accomplished, my gratitude at the possibilities he’d allowed me; but he seemed to miss the point, glancing from what I’d said still intent on his own trajectories.
Son, you say you value what I have done and I wish to God I could believe you but right now I wish I had never come to this country, it was the biggest mistake of my life and I have paid for it for twenty years and I am still paying for it. There are many things that have happened that you don’t know about and some that maybe you do, but I pray to God that when he takes this suffering away from me you will forgive me and remember that I tried to do my best for you but I was only human and that whatever happens I will always be your father.
In the end these swells of emotion began to wear on me. The reproach implicit in them, that I’d abandoned him, seemed beyond crediting, ignoring as it did all the intricacies of unspoken emotion between us; and even what was genuine in them, his pain, his regret, seemed diluted somehow by his excess. If he could have said these things to my face there might have been dignity in them; as it was they seemed more and more simply self-indulgent, as if the pain he’d held in all his life had begun to lose now the one thing in it that had given him stature, the restraint he had borne it with.
Then at some point I made the mistake of mentioning these letters from my father to Rita. “Perhaps we’ve been a little unjustly harsh in our opinion of him,” I said, or something to that effect. “Apparently the man has been tortured for years by self-pity and remorse.” But Rita’s reply made no reference to him. I began to think I’d been accusing, cavalier: there was a tone in her letter that seemed new, a certain hollowness, a restraint. I compared it to previous ones but couldn’t put my finger on what had changed, decided to let the matter pass; but then my next letters seemed always to be skirting this unmentioned thing, her responses to be skirting my skirting.
Our correspondence began to falter. The gaps between letters lengthened; the letters themselves grew slowly more falsely amiable, more superficial. There was no clear point at which I could have said things had changed definitively, irrevocably, just this slow estrangement, this gradual turning away, so instinctive that it seemed what I’d said about my father wasn’t really the point, had merely revealed a distance that had always existed, been what had punctured the illusion of intimacy that had first buoyed us like the moment in a relationship when it grew clear suddenly that the other person was a stranger. The whole course of our correspondence seemed to skew: what we had shared, it seemed now, had been not so much our lives as each other’s absence from them, the careful stripping away of any implication they intersected, she with her instinctive discretion and I with the distance she appeared always ready to let me fall back to, the worldly older brother, the mentor, recreating myself in the written word in the persona I lacked in life.
But by the time I’d seen these things, admitted to myself the change between us, the small perversity in me that had taken a kind of relief in it, we seemed already to have drifted back into separateness, forever more cautious and controlled. Already it was hard to remember the first timid promise of our early letters, the sense then of moving toward some imminent culmination, each letter now like a new beginning, taking nothing for granted, seeming to strain for a perfect neutrality. Rita’s were mainly litanies now of the trials of life in Mersea, the backwardness and the boredom, but she herself abstracted somehow, merely striking a pose, the disaffected adolescent. What had served before as the tissue of self-revelation, her sarcasm, her careful evasions, now seemed merely to obscure; and it struck me finally how much the voice in her letters had begun to resemble that in mine, ironic, detached, committing to nothing.
It happened one morning that I found a snake in my kitchen. It seemed to have come in through the window, had somehow crawled in under the shutter and draped itself over one of the crossbars of the window’s grille; and in the shuttered dark I didn’t notice it until a flicker of movement caught my eye, inches from me, as I poked a stick through the grille to prop the shutter open. I drew back, my heart pounding, the snake outlined now, a long, slim green, in the window’s light, a mamba perhaps, deadly. I seemed to process a thousand thoughts in an instant, seemed to need to kill it and yet take away from it some uncertain advantage or blessing, as if it had come like a messenger out of my own past; but the snake remained where it was, placid but alert, its tapered head flexed in calm tensed awareness of me. For a moment an absolute stillness seemed to settle over the room, I at my end and the snake at his, staring; and then finally the snake seemed to reach a decision, slithered an instant, and was gone.
Later, composing in my head the story I’d tell, I grew aware that the first audience I’d imagined for it was Rita, realized how she’d become for me over the course of our letters this constant inner companion, how then every event in my life seemed always to lead back to her as its final referent. For perhaps the first time I felt a genuine sense of loss at how I’d mismanaged things between us, of plain regret. Somehow I’d missed the simplest things, the simplest possibilities, that we might somehow have shared our lives, been human, that it would have cost us so little to be simply ourselves.