Nişka, would you like me to write you a sincere letter this time? Or do you prefer the lively ‘literary’ letters of this summer?
I did not want to see you, because experiences, long intimated and encouraged, threatened to upset my decisions. You probably won’t understand any of this; until the night of Christmas Eve, I was able to control and restrain myself without any doubt of victory. But then a crisis arose; it endangered the fruits I have been waiting for, and slowed my steps on a path that will lead me far from here. You cannot even imagine the fruits of my heroism, and you do not know the path. No one knows it, Nişka, that is why I won’t reveal it even to you. The power of the spell increases tenfold in silence.
I know you will deplore the obscurity, the metaphorical excesses, and unfriendly tone of this letter. But Nişka, I am your best friend, because I am much more to you. If I’ve stayed away from you for so long, I have done so in order to prepare myself for a great deed. And you love great deeds. Therefore you cannot upbraid me for it. Believe me, I have also felt your absence, albeit without the tears. But I’ve overcome it. Is it not right that I stay true to myself? Tell me, Nişka.
It is unjust that you remind me about the night of Christmas Eve. I have not forgotten a thing. Neither your arrival at dusk, with icy cheeks; nor my scouring bookshops to buy you presents; nor the way they looked at us inside that warm confectionary shop, thinking we were engaged, because you laughed too much and I bought you too many cakes; nor tea in the attic, followed by a bottle of old wine. You came at five, and left the next day – to me those moments meant too much. Do you remember, after midnight, when you were nodding off with a smile on your face, and I was talking to you about Søren Kierkegaard? You told me that you were happy but troubled. Nişka, you did not act like a friend; you let me believe many, many things.
And Radu came at around two, and we laughed awkwardly when he hinted at our supposedly having got engaged in secret. Do you understand why we laughed so much? And then the visit to the club, the room with couples, new and happy; the ailing chairman, the new committee, the girls in their first year, whom we had not met, the boys in their first year, who looked at us impertinently. How many of us had remained from the old club? The ‘Florenţas’ were married, Nonora had joined the medical students’ society, Gaidaroff, Viorica, Măriuca, Bibi … We were the only ones left, and another three mediocre law students. Your heart sank, and mine too, Nişka. But what if that is the way things are meant to be? They were all happy. And so were we, and so we are when we meet; but not with them. It would be stupid for us to be sad and shed tears over the past. We cannot forever be in our first year.
It is just as stupid of me nostalgically to philosophize rather than try to write you a beautiful letter. I should recount to you, just between the two of us, our walk home, near sunrise, happy we were alone again. (Did it remind you of our walk back from the monastery, down the same cold boulevards?). In the attic there was warmth, plenty of wine, and cakes. I expected we would stay up talking until morning. But that was not what happened. You fell asleep with your cheek resting on your hand, the way I used to as a child. Your short curls lent the pillow enchantment. Why don’t you ask me how I have slept on the same pillow, in the same pyjamas, during all the nights since then? You slept, with your hands held in mine, you on the bed, I in the armchair.
It was authentic, pure and raw; exactly how I like friendship to be. But that morning, something happened that terrified me. If I told you that our unexpected kiss just before parting, spontaneously erupting, achingly long, has been the cause of my confinement, would you understand? We kissed, Nişka: not like two friends; not capriciously, sensuously, or temporarily. We kissed.
Forgive me, Nişka, if I’m making you blush. I write that you might understand my solitude and see what I am going through. I too have suffered, Nişka, greatly, I have suffered with flaming eyes, with clenched fists, with tensed shoulders as I sat at my desk. Everything will have to regain its old equilibrium. I have so much to write, so many books to read, and so many visions to forget.
The crisis has not yet passed. My good friend, please do not be upset if, for now, I preserve my solitude. You do want me to be great, don’t you?
As you know, I receive nobody. I will gladly read everything you might write me. I am waiting. However, if you suffer nostalgias that are too depressing, tell me. I will visit you. Before I can find peace, I must ensure the peace of my friend. Your tears are childish and embarrassing. Why did you not take action against the family that held you prisoner? But then again, why cry, when you are still so young?