«I have no idea what you're talking about, Taska!» Eva said when, suspecting her of pandering, I called her without really understanding the essence of this strange and mysterious letter.
«Well then fine! I'll figure it out myself. The only trouble is… my English is very bad! Or, like they say: „I speak English a little!..“»
«Hey, bogey, send my best to dad! By the way… Mom was very upset that you did not call her. That's true, Taska! She has recently become some kind of sentimental,» Eva added before saying goodbye.
Having put the phone in the side pocket of the bag carefully imitating leopard leather, I returned to the letter.
I can't help myself, but this familiar crony American «Hi!» mocks me, to say the least. That is how the letter I received began. And then, despite the fact that the meaning reached me from the second or third reading, the hair on my head stirred.
At least it seemed to me.
There were two lined leaflets torn from a notebook and scribbled in small handwriting. However, despite the fact that it was written in block letters, it was incredibly difficult to perceive the text. I was tormented by a constant question, which distracted me from reading… Who was this? A man or a woman?
That's it, I won't torture myself like that anymore! After copying the letter, I sent it to an online translator. The translation was clumsy, but quick!
So:
«Hello!
I'm afraid to frighten you if I say straight away that I know you.
I'll just tell you one story today:
The Adriatic coast is far behind, with its deserted beaches and incredible shade of turquoise water. Bronze skin and light brown hair bleached under the sun are a reward for hours spent under the rays of the gentle August sun. I am among other tourists. There is some tour planned, most likely a boring one.
I am tormented: to go or not to go? Curiosity, or, I will not flatter myself, ordinary interest prevails.
I'm coming.
Museum. Just an ordinary museum. Our Romanian guide, Justin, is sincerely surprised. I ask:
„Is there something unusual? Moving pictures? Maybe revived statues?“
„No, can you imagine, He will accompany us through the museum.“
„Who's He?“ I ask, almost yawning.
„The director of the museum himself. They say for the first time in many years. Well, why?“ Justin says, still continuing to bewilder.
Foyer of the Museum of Local Lore. We are invited to go to the first hall. Suddenly I get a persistent feeling that we were placed inside a huge velvet box. Ripe cherry walls are decorated with swords and spades. Glass cases contain jewels and crowns.
Everything sparkles and shines, as it should. Insanely expensive and beautiful!
No one noticed him entering.
There's a tall man of about forty-five. Black hair, barely touched by a noble gray, dark blue suit, dazzling white cambric shirt.
As soon as I looked away from his elegant neckerchief, I immediately ran into his gaze…
It was not just interest in his eyes, there was something else. It happens when you suddenly realize that you have a representative of your clan, your like-minded person. A man who understands everything without words.
I don't know how much time has passed: an hour, a minute… I can't remember. I stayed behind the group, listened to the interpreter, poorly understanding the broken speech. The tour was drawing to a close. We were thanked for patience, and we headed for the exit.
„I want to show you something completely unique,“ he suddenly addressed me only in the purest Russian language, gently guiding me towards the sculpture of young Grace standing in the distance.
I listened to the vibrations of his voice and, as if under hypnosis, answered something.
Our guide, who counted everyone on the bus on their heads, and who did not count one, returned to the lobby. Seeing us, he was dumbfounded, and turned into a „salt pillar“… His face immediately expressed a whole gamut of feelings. When, finally, he restored the ability to move back, he grabbed my hand and literally dragged me from the hospitable museum director.
„Printesa, sunteti invitati si-au dat acordul. Mai mult decat nimic nu are sens![1]“ I heard…
„I studied the ancient dialects of our language, but I don't understand this one well. Where did you learn Romanian?“ Justin asked me, sitting down on the next bus seat.
„Are you kidding? We spoke Russian. He told me that many visitors rubbed Grace's foot to fulfill their cherished desire. It's a sign or something. Me too,…“ I suddenly stopped short, understanding what the last words said by the Grand Duke meant.
„I agreed…“ I whispered…»
This story seemed a little more romantic than the one that happened to me, but… My God, I again felt the light breeze playing with my hair and felt my heart fall down when our bus was looping around the Carpathian serpentine, rising higher and higher into the mountains. Everything was exactly like the unknown author stated, sending this letter to me…
In any case, the guide's name was Justin!
In addition to this mysterious letter, the envelope turned out to be an old newspaper folded several times…
So what do we have?
First:
Eva had nothing to do with it. Anyway, why would I think that she even lifted a finger, and that her words spoken at a rare moment of frankness would continue in some altruistic impulse. Eva can be consistent only when it comes to her directly.
Alas!
Second:
Nothing follows from the letter. Will there be a sequel?
Maybe someone just made a joke. I remember telling this story to Eva in details at least ten times when I returned from Romania, even when we had guests, and by phone, to somehow dispel my thoughts about being chosen and about the fact that nothing in our world is happening by chance…
And now when I finally calmed down a bit and decided that I had come up with all this unusually beautiful fairy tale and, perhaps, under the influence of «Twilight»… Is that possible? Sure.
Now I get this letter…
Taking an envelope and raising a magnifying glass to it, I began to carefully study the small stamp of the sender's address in the upper left corner of the letter. The firm conviction that someone deliberately smeared the print so that it was impossible to make out anything other than the last name strengthened with every single minute.
D. Frost.
Funny, because the name Frost can be interpreted as Russian 'Morozov'…
Well, dear storyteller, it means we are also namesakes!
But my address was written very carefully, as if a person was afraid that the letter might get lost or fall into the wrong hands.
What an intrigue.
My mysterious stranger can also be a good psychologist. After all, if he sent a letter to my email address, there's a probability of two hundred per cent that I would consider it to be spam and delete it, despite the fact that some signal word would be indicated in the subject of the letter, for example, «Important» with three exclamation points. Noone likes spam.
But I love paper letters. Of course, not official ones, with the text known in advance, or maybe with rare exceptions…
As for trendy Postcrossing, oddly enough, it inspires me little. I'm offline most of the time, unless I make purchases on my favorite Victoria's Secret[2] website.
So it turns out that the most reliable option is unreliable!
Sending a letter by mail. And just in case, the letter looks like this: beautiful, solid, with a newspaper with colored photos in it… And, of course, more «I LOVE YOU!» stamps.
That's all!
I swallowed the bait, as if hypnotized. And since at the end of the letter there wasn't any «I am waiting for your reply…», I could not calm down until this situation cleared up.
I spent the rest of the weekend reading an old book, constantly distracting and thinking about the letter. Suddenly an unexpected thought literally pierced me: «Is that old newspaper put into the envelope just for weight?» I expanded it, and stumbled upon an article dedicated to the Oscar award, which Leonardo DiCaprio had never received again as the leading actor in «The Great Gatsby». The interview was circled in red marker…
I looked at the sofa. The open book of Francis Scott Fitzgerald in red hardcover was waiting for me. What can I say?
It was «The Great Gatsby»…
I felt helpless. It was like someone was studying me under a microscope, just like me recently, trying to read the return address on an envelope with a magnifying glass. Someone knew more about me and my addictions than I knew… And now, he was gloating!
Unless…
Unless he was trying to say something, but carefully dosed the information. I was completely confused. I turned off the light and cried. And when I fell asleep, I persuaded myself in a dream that all this was an absurd, a stupid dream. The next morning, waking up, I would not find any letter.
Such a naive.
The letter did not go away in the morning. It lay on a windowsill on top of an open novel. I defiantly pushed back the curtains, warmed the kettle and had my breakfast.
I tuned in on Monday, dressed, fed a starving flock behind the aquarium glass as it chatted about the weather, and rushed outside.
Indeed, it was drizzling in the morning, adding colors, or rather, depths to the surrounding landscape. Trees and flowers, washed and elegant, could be depicted on a canvas… I was again agitated by the thoughts of my abandoned painting and saved from other thoughts of an unknown author.
Opening the laboratory doors, I finally calmed down. Strangely enough, I didn't remember about the damn letter until the evening…
Eva's diary:
August 23, 1998.
Sunday.
It can be very difficult to start a conversation, even with the closest.
It seems like the words are stuck in the tongue, clinging to its papillae, and the only thing left is to swallow them.
Mom, I hope you never read these lines.
I write all these words, because otherwise I will suffocate or burst under the pressure.
They are so prickly.
I hate myself because I allow these thoughts appear.
«The world is full of surprises!» you reassured me when I was bored. You made me believe in the most incredible stories in order to cheer me up.
You gave me new books, believing that they could distract me from sad thoughts…
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