The Postwoman Chronicles (4/4)
Here is the fourth and last story of the February/March series ! Each story can be read independently, but I highly recommend reading them in the right order for the full experience ๐
Have you read the third part, โDear Perโฆโ ? If not, you can read it by clicking here !
To fully enjoy the story in its proper formatting, I recommend opening it on your computer, on the Substack website. You can do this by clicking the โView in browserโ button on the top right hand corner of the email.
Enjoy the read !
Other paths
The nib of the inkpen slips and whines across the paper. It doesn't matter, it is only the last stroke of ink that is smudged, the one that underlines her name. Although the letter is now finished, she doesn't lift the pen โ this is the in-between moment, when you know exactly what's coming, what you're going to do next, but you haven't yet taken that first step which shuts out all thoughts of turning back. Moments like these are few, fleeting, and so immeasurably precious. Pia takes all the time she needs to savour it, the fullness of every movement, following it through with great care, right to the end, and only when it is entirely completed does she start the next one. She folds the piece of paper in half, along the existing crease. Slips it into the envelope, ever so slowly to stretch out the satisfying rustle of paper brushing against paper as the uneven dried columbine edges gradually disappear inside. Wets the tip of her index finger on the flat of her tongue, slides it along the sticky side of the flap, braving possible paper cuts. Presses the flap down, firmly, running her finger from one corner to the other in a triangular motion. The paper is just a little damp from her saliva, the glue holds well when she lets go to turn the envelope over. There is Mr Schrivt's address in blue, faltering calligraphy. Once more, she picks up her pen. In the top left-hand corner, as far away from the address as possible, she adds three letters in tiny, self-assured capitals: PER. Pauses to look at them, a stare that means: "Stay there, stay where I wrote you." Using the edge of the table for support, she pushes her chair back, herself up. Puts the chair back, straight and proper, facing the table. It's disconcerting โ it looks too tidy. She doesn't like it. Arranges it differently, slightly askew, trying to make it look as if she had just gotten up and, absent-mindedly, had left it as it was, frozen mid-movement. Better. Now, she goes to her shoes, neatly lined up next to the front door. Chooses her faithful pair of weathered boots, leather softened over time to take the shape of her foot. There are some things one doesn't part with, even when one is starting anew. She ties them with care, a little tighter than usual โ the shoelaces complain at first, but then give way to Pia's tender coaxing. Next, the coat โthe one which is just that bit too big, mid-thigh length, sleeves all the way to the fingernails. There's time for a conscientious buttoning down, top to bottom. A scarf โspring's footing is still uncertain. A pair of gloves in the pocket, just in case. No hat. There's nothing left to do, nothing left to delay. The next step will be the first, out the door, onto the yellow brick road.
That first step is the hardest. In its stead, the others come easily. As she gets closer to Goethe Street, Pia's walk becomes less deliberate, more natural. Before long, there is space for spontaneity, heels skipping from this side of the pavement to the other in a lopsided rhythm, here a triplet, there a semibreve, and with such a stave, it would seem strange not to spend a few beats twirling around the tree trunk, under the blossom-spangled sky. One arm has fully surrendered to this dance, swinging back and forth, back and forth. The other one is less daring โ it's too focused on its hand, and the hand on its fingers, and the fingers on the eggshell white envelope they are tightly holding on to. The knuckles are white โ it is the paleness of the small, unadmitted fears, like
โ imagining an unexpected spasm running through the fingers, they loosen, drop the envelope, reach out desperately to catch it but they are too slow and now itโs lying, soggy, in the remnants of a puddle โ or worse! itโs carried away by a mischievous wind which slips it under a careless foot, stomp!, a muddy footprint stamped onto the paper and just like that, it's over, the death knell sounds and all she can do is walk home sadly after the wake. โ
And so the worried arm protects its letter by rejoicing more soberly than its sibling.
Pia has arrived at Goethe Street โ there is the usual patch of shade left on the pavement by the solitary bay window. She goes into the building without looking up at the window. She left her postwoman's uniform at home, and it's strange to perform this well-oiled routine without it. She climbs the stairs two at a time, stops on the second floor, in front of the door on the left, and waits a moment to catch her breath.
Inhale โ โ โ
surrounded by past versions of herself, a gathering of ghosts out in the hall, each remembering the time when they too stood in flesh in front of this door, waiting with bated breath in that peculiar stillness after the doorbell has been rung
Exhale โ โ โ
waiting, this wait has been the same for seven years nothing has changed except her wrinkles six years smiling for her at the corner of her mouth five frowning for her in the fold between her eyebrows four lines of worry etched into her forehead three the skin under her chin two thinning lips one grey hair and always this same threshold where time grows wrinkles on her body
Inhale โ โ โ
on this threshold where she once thought she could hear footsteps approaching, and hid from fear of being able to deliver the letter (a postwoman hiding from the letter's recipient!); but there is no risk of that happening again
Exhale โ โ โ
because this time, she isn't going to ring.
Pia crouches to lift the mail slot's protective flap, without trying to peep through it to catch a glimpse, a sliver of what might exist inside. The door is thinner than the letter is wide, so there is a teetering moment where turning back is still possible, where she could change her mind and withdraw the envelope, even though the hesitation itself is imperceptibly biased in favour of the unknown, weighing down ever so slightly on the part that has already disappeared through the slot. This is another one of those moments which stretch themselves out to last โ oh! so much longer when measured in those seconds which tick by in the mind than the watch on the wrist is willing to admit. When it comes to an end, the balance is broken and the letter is falling through the echoes of receding footsteps in the staircase and the flap slamming shut, a sound of metal against wood calling out to the unknown resident of the flat. Nobody comes to the door; in the stillness, the noise is too loud but there is something comforting about it, like a lifeline of sanity inside this strange room that seems to be straying ever further from reality. The darkness of the room is not one of drawn curtains, alleviated by the odd sunlight or moonshine slyly slipping through the gaps. Nor is it even the total darkness of closed shutters through which one can only stumble and grope, hands seeing what the eyes cannot. No, in this room, the darkness is so absolute that it is nothing, and how could one even imagine moving forward in a space that is nowhere, where thoughts halt and existence ceases? This, however, changes with the letter's arrival, as if the opening of the mail slot had been the waving of the conductor's baton, a slight disturbance in the hitherto immobile air setting the overture in motion. All around the room, the darkness thins from impenetrable to silk mourning chiffon draped over the numb furniture. And as it thins, an invisible hand sweeps the fabric into the air and pulls at it. The shadows ebb, leaving only a dust of dried tears behind. They are gathering at the seam, where the living room becomes a bay window, forming an ever denser hole in the wooden floor. It's a perfect circle of that same nothingness, an impossible vacuum the size of a banjo pot. It would be entirely outside even the widest spans of understanding were it not for its borders: liquid, unpredictable, ever-changing eddies blurred by their own wild speed. If one surrenders focus and lets the eyes slide into that lost, unseeing world of sudden daydreams, then, in the very periphery of the vision, scenes start to unfold. Shapes seem to be bleeding out of the hole in concentric circles of ink โ first, pitch black letters that grow lighter and lighter, turn to blue, then the streams of ink become outlines of silhouettes, two-dimensional characters that look alive as they flow tall, shrink, shift on a backdrop of flat landscapes. Are they something more than simple sketches? There's a murmur like words whispered by imagined voices, like bark creaking in the breeze and leaves breathing. The silhouettes pulse irregularly, darting away from the centre, here or there, and in that minute moment of attempted independance, their outlines are sharper. Now and then, one of them manages to escape the vacuum's pull. Then, the ink becomes a torrent, frothing, overflowing. The more it surges to the breach, the more colourful it becomes, and suddenly there is depth, a third dimension. Look, there's one now! It is a ballerina, whirling around in a blur, further and further away from the nothingness. Weighed down by the flash floods of ink, her movements start to slow. She seems surprised to be able to stir as she pleases, feels her legs that are now thick enough for her to stand on. She stares as the pigments in her body find their place, changing from blue to brown, settling in the reddish highlights which give her the shine of freshly moulded copper. With the glee of newly found freedom, she jumps around in the ink puddles. One droplet splashes, lands on the ceiling and starts rolling towards the bay window. Keen to follow, the ballerina improvises a graceful dance of jetรฉs, sissonnes, รฉchappรฉs, leaping and laughing like the rustling of pages. The drop has reached the window and starts trickling down, falling like a tear suspended in front of the glass. Lost rays of sun find their way to it and it shines there, almost colourless, like the most precious of crystals. The ballerina reaches for it, but her limbs have grown weary. Each movement is a struggle now, as she strains towards the drop of crystal-ink, her fingers stretched out in desire. She attempts one last desperate leap โ
it's too late, the ink has become too thick, viscous as cooling glass, and motion eased to the illusion of a fixed scene. Soon, the magnetic pull of the abyss will take over again, ballerina and crystal will be called back, back through their dance, copper and crystal to blue, to black, spinning wildly, letters, dimensions shed, then nothingness, and the window sill, empty for just a moment, until some new character, some new scene or story dares to leak from the hole and settle there awhile for the eyes of certain passers-by.
Like Pia. Coming out of the building, she has stopped at the exact spot where, year after year, she has stood to look up and admire the metamorphoses of the bay window. Often, she thought it would be the last time, that the sceneries would tire of constantly changing, or that she herself wouldn't come back. But window and woman remained faithful to each another, and so it was never really the last time. Today, these thoughts don't bother her, for they have already gone elsewhere โ it seems that the window knows this, that it has strolled down the lanes of her daydreams gathering sketches and prints of the places where her mind has been dwelling to use as blueprints for the vast miniature panorama now unfolding in delicate details behind the window pane. Hill upon hill of vineyard terraces roll down to drink from a humble fjord, rippling blues and flowers of foam. On the first hillside, a sturdy stone house watches over its vines, sporadically flapping its wooden shutters as a reminder of its presence. The air must be cool, this spring, or else something is cooking, for a thin stream of smoke rises steadily from the chimney, and, meeting a friendly breeze, wanders along the winding goat paths down into the valley where it finally fades between the treetops of a welcoming forest. Through the branches, a glimpse of silver โ a stream. It meanders in and out of sight, out of the woods, swells, then timidly flows into the fjord, gurgling when the ferry chugs by, back and forth, from one bank to the other. When the night falls, the lights of the town guide the boat, flickering regularly as though to pass on some silent message. As soon as it is moored, the passengers disembark. They are a lively lot, but don't be fooled โ they are only santon dolls of Provence, finely painted into their Sunday best, moving around surely on cleverly concealed slide rails. Some walk along the coast, others stroll through the streets, a few hurry to the train station just north of the town. A three-carriage steam locomotive is waiting for them and blows its departure whistle as soon as the santons are safely seated. The little train stops in every village, every hamlet. One can see the tracks climb up to the hilltops and snake back down into the valleys. Even when it disappears from sight, the telltale billows of smoke and steam give it away, or the puffing of the exhaust at each turn of the wheel, or the slight tremors that shake the hills as it passes. Finally, after travelling through the whole model landscape, it stops next to the stone house. A santon dressed in a yellow jacket gets off the train. Slung over its shoulder, a bag of the same yellow, with the likeness of a post horn printed on the flap. As it comes closer to the house, the shutters open wide in a welcoming gesture. Standing two stories below, on the pavement, Pia is too far away to see the tiny, slightly crinkled eggshell white envelope peeking out of the bag, or the circle of nothingness and the thick streams of life-giving ink, building and eroding this tremendous, miniature piece of world.
She would have stayed there, on that exact spot of pavement, looking up, feet thickening to roots, if a sudden squall hadn't come banging against the window. Did the gust of wind manage to unlatch it, or carve a small tunnel in the frame, or did the weakest corner of the pane yield under the pressure? Whatever it was, before there was stillness, and now there was a breeze, only faint, pouring softly down the facade, then, a brisk bend to slip playfully through the branches of the neighbouring plum tree. When it emerges again, it is laden with blushing pink blossoms, swaying lyrically towards Pia. The waft of flowery air surrounds her, she is swathed in its hot, comforting breath. She feels a firm pressure in the small of her back โ the breeze, confident, is suggesting a direction. Why does she trust this wind? Perhaps it is the neat billows of rosy petals and their spring-like scents stirring up long-lost hopes from their lymphatic slumber. Perhaps it is those hushed whispers that reach her like the echo of rambling phrases, as familiar as the memories from a dream. There is something deeply magical about it, and something profoundly human โ and so the first step she takes is for the former, and the second one for the latter. In this way, step by step, Pia walks the full length of Goethe Street. As she reaches the street corner, she slows to a halt. The wind dies down instantly. The petals that had been dancing around her ankles fall to theground, lifeless. She exhales โ a long, earnest exhale โ then disappears around the bend without looking back.
Behind her, the faรงade is smooth. No bold bay window reaching out to the lingering gazes; only monotonous windows too fearful to step out from their ranks. And in these windows, no scenes, no decors, nothing to entice and captivate the passers-by. Goethe Street has become an uneventful lane, barely discovered, already forgotten.
After the third time ringing the doorbell in vain,
โShould we go in?โ
โNobody's heard from her in ten days โ not her colleagues, not her friends. I think we'd better have a look inside.โ
The door had been closed, not locked, so the two policemen don't have any trouble opening it. They walk into the silent flat, call out once, twice. No reply. They venture from room to room. Everything is clean, tidy โ no sign of struggle or tragedy. In the fridge, leftovers of a meal in a stainless steel lunch box, an open pot of coconut milk yoghurt, half eaten, not gone mouldy yet. Next to the sink, a pile of clean dishes. In the bedroom, the wardrobe is full of clothes. Hats and shoes are waiting by the door. In the bathroom, a fresh roll of toilet paper has just been started. There are traces of dried shower steam on the mirror, a toothbrush hanging from a little hook above the sink, slightly discoloured by stubborn marks of dried toothpaste, bristles looking a bit the worse for wear. Everything seems to tell the story of a perfectly normal, inhabited flat. Everything but the living room table, perhaps. It's a little too clean, a little too empty. Three chairs are neatly facing the table, one is a little crooked, as if someone had pushed it back to get up and then left it there โ but the angle is just a little bit off. On the table, in front of that crooked chair, a single sheet of paper and a fountain pen, uncapped, leaking onto the otherwise spotless table. The first policeman takes a step closer. Sneezes. This part of the room somehow seems more dusty, and in the air lingers the soft, sour smell of the mysteriously still shelves of an antique shop. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees something move, and he could have sworn it came from the ink blots staining the table. He waits for a few seconds, curious, sees nothing. He must have imagined it. He takes another step forward โ there, there it is again! He gently tilts his head from side to side, a deliberate, concentrated movement to try to catch the more elusive one hiding in the ink blots. With the neck and gaze held at a particular angle, the surface of the freshest drops of ink looks thoroughly polished, and shows the policeman a glimpse of an impossible reflection. He blinks, several times, but the reflection is still there: an entire cloud-village, complete with its cloud-fountain, cloud-cobblestones, cloud-bricks and stalls and striped parasols, a whole world of sparkling clouds hanging there in a black nothingness, growing out of dark, fertile soil by roots of wood and light.
โYou coming?โ The second policeman has come back into the entrance hall.
โYeah yeah, I'm coming. We should leave a message, right? In case she comes back.โ
โI can do it if you haven't finished.โ
โNo no, it's fine, I'll do it.โ
โI'll wait for you outside then, alright?โ
โI'll be quick.โ
Alone in the flat, the first policeman takes out his notepad and a pen. He writes quickly, just a few sentences to tell the person living here that she has been reported missing, that she should contact the police as soon as she reads this message. Date, signature, left in plain sight. He lets himself look for the reflection once more, but in vain, he can't find it. It must have been some kind of optical illusion. He runs distracted fingers over and over the sheet of paper lying next to the inkpen. Itโs expensive paper, heavyweight, grainy; it's very nice to the touch. Dried green and white snowdrops are inlaid along its edges. The paper itself is blank. An imperceptible hesitation, as the fingers slide back and forth. Then, the hands move suddenly, fold the sheet in two, in four, in eight, slip it into his pocket, he's in a hurry now, already outside, about to close the door behind him.
The ground shudders. The policeman doesn't feel that slight tremor, the echo of some terrible quake that, somewhere, has torn the fabric of an abyss, and that tear is a breach, leading from there to here; it is the quake of a new hope germinating, of a new story beginning, here, in our world, where all stories are written. Crumbs of these chronicles may trickle down through that breach, bringing the water of imagination to an inky world that depends on our tales to thrive. And in that shudder, before the policeman's outstretched hand could touch it, the door to Pia's flat slams shut.
Thank you so much for reading this story ! If you enjoyed, please like, comment and/or share it with friends amd family !
This story is the last one in โThe Postwoman Chroniclesโ series ! What did you think of it ? You can share your thoughts and comments with me here or by private message ๐ฎ And stay tuned โ this is but the beginning of our literary adventuresโฆ ๐
You can alsoโฆ
Pretty good.