Anamnesis, Zorina Alliata [the dot read aloud TXT] 📗

mean”, he continued, “they probably know that there is something wrong anyway, right? You’ll feel better if you get this off your chest.”

“I need just a little more time”, I said. “I know what I’m doing. I just have to find the 2-2-9. I think it still exists somewhere around here.”

Lou looked at me surprised. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “How exactly is the 2-2-9 going to reverse 30 years of underdevelopment?”

“2-2-9 is the big one”, I told Lou. “It’s the ancient spell, the little magic left over in the world by the old gods. It’s fixing and repairing all that needs to be fixed and repaired. It’s the magic number, Lou. And I know it’s around here somewhere.”

“Like, in Gaithersburg?” he asked. “There’s nothing in Gaithersburg. Only houses and boredom, and a train.”

“There are still farms”, I said. “There are still plants, parks and forests. I think it might still be here. I feel it sometimes, breathing easily, close.”

Lou went to the kitchen, still shaking his head. “Want some tea?” he asked.

“Okay”, I said.

It had taken me a long time to locate Gaithersburg, MD as the possible place where a little magic still lives, dormant. It was like a joke of the old gods; they had left all their spells across Europe, many in Africa, lots in South America, but they had never made it to the north of the continent. People here were rational and hard working but knew no spells. And yet, all the signs eventually pointed to Gaithersburg.

“You see”, I told Lou, “if I just find the 2-2-9, then I will be normal. I can finally take on my duty and give some meaning to my life. I can fulfill my destiny. I can fight instead of laying low. I will have all the aces, you see?”

“Well”, he agreed, “fine. So, have you looked for it?”

“Every day”, I said. “It’s just not working, for some reason. I looked everywhere and I see no clear patterns, no equations. It’s like a primordial mess here. Plants, trees and insects are mixing their lives together. I can’t single anything out.”

Lou brought in the tea in my favorite golden cup. “Don’t worry, you’ll find it”, he said. We both smiled. “I know you will. If I can help, let me know”, he added. I could always count on him for the right words; for the supportive words; for keeping me almost sane.

He was once young and blond; childish, pretty and fragile; a sick young man remembered by someone in another time. A lung disease had left blue, delicate marks throughout his face, his hands.

“You are so young”, I said tenderly. “When did you die?”

“I don’t know anymore”, he turned suddenly and left for the kitchen. “It was a long time ago.”

I lingered a bit more on the image surfacing from my memories; it was comforting, somehow, to finally put a face to my resident ghost.

I had bought the condo on the first visit, mostly because of Lou; I had seen him there in the kitchen, making tea out of old leaves that only I could smell. He was sad; tall, a shadow; a graceful presence that touched me. When the real estate agent left the room, I talked to him; he had his burdens, his prejudices, his wrong ways; but overall he was genuinely friendly and happy with interesting company – which I could definitely offer.

He had been taking care of me; baking cookies and boiling tea every night; keeping me company at the window when I was spying Nature’s territory outside; being the voice of reason in my hectic life. He was comforting; he had no desires, no unfinished business; no wish to leave my kitchen. He liked daily rituals and familiar places, and even though he was willing to listen to my stories he never believed me completely.

And he was always right too. That evening, I gathered a little more strength and I thought of new strategies for my search. I would wait for the fog before the dawn before driving into the park; I would cast a few Romanian spells for good-luck and for rain; I would ask people about unknown places around Gaithersburg. That night, I fell asleep full of new hope.

The next morning, both my grandfathers died.


CANTO III


If you can read this, I must have died too. I must have melted my story back into the very matter that we are all made of, and resurfaced gently in your genes, like a warning, like a lesson. You might just be remembering me.

I have a memory of the flesh; I live openly in the anamnesis. For short, painfully delighting moments, past becomes present and present fades into past. My body remembers; in slow movements, selective images and sensations from the forgotten collective unconsciousness come back ghost-like into my blind flesh and, through it, surface back into brief existence. The vanilla taste of a battle somebody’s won; the honey-like sweetness of another’s touch; and sometimes, late at night, the spicy, multi-colored, ecstatic force of lust.

The memories belong to me as much as they belong to those who have lived them; I am nothing but a mirror, an open gate to them. I am the keeper of the thread that cuts through all of us, linking us, remembering us; reminiscence is what makes us grow stronger and wiser with each generation. I may myself be only a memory of the flesh, brought back to life by someone’s reverie; someone or something might have remembered my life for a brief moment; and any moment now, I might just have to go back into their dream.

As my grandfathers died, their memories transpired immediately through my palms, sweating out small strings of equations and knowledge. They were living in me because they were now part of the collective memory.

My grandfathers’ sudden death, at the same second, in different locations and circumstances, was a heavy blow. Our family was losing ground fast, and I knew that it was mostly my fault; since I was crippled, I had refused to contribute to the family’s needs; I had left them an ocean behind, alone, older by each day, weaker by each day. They have given me so much and I could not give them anything in return. Nobody in my family was blaming me for their deaths; there were no accusations, even though, had I chosen another path of numbers, we could have all been alive for longer. And I would have had in a second if I could, and they all understood that.

Still, when my grandmother called me that morning, my voice was ridden with guilt and remorse. There was no need to put it into words; there was no need for a telephone either, but pain travels easier through technology in our family.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“We are okay”, she answered, voice muffled. There was only one telephone in their village and she had had to walk two miles to get to it.

I couldn’t think of anything else to say; we stood there in silence, I, in a condo in a suburb of Washington DC, she, in an old phone booth in the north of Romania. Thoughts exchanged fast; there was danger; there were mysterious blackouts and accidents; stars would appear overnight, new numbers would be born and changed every day. It was like Nature had put some resources into decoding our algorithms; trying out our defenses, hacking into our carefully constructed protection.

“It is unsafe for you there”, I told her. “Come move with me here in America. We can all live here for a while. There are few hidden dangers here; people are tough and blind to the numbers. We’d be safe for some time.”

“You know I can’t”, she answered. “We are nothing without our roots. You are different, you are stronger. You can live far away from here and still feed from these lands; but we can’t. We’ve built our patterns on these particular hills, our maps trace through these particular rivers. If we step away from here, we’d be unprotected.”

“I can come get you”, I offered. “I’ll take you through everything, I’ll hide you behind my own shadow. I can do it, I know I can.”

“It’s okay”, she said. “You better protect yourself and use your knowledge to survive and breed. We are becoming obsolete. You are the only one who has to survive for us to win.”

“I called you for something else”, she said after a pause. “Do you remember what I taught you when you were little? Our secret?”

“Of course I remember”, I said. “It’s one of my precious memories, you should know that.”

“I am not sure I can read you anymore”, she confessed. “Sometimes you are a stranger to me. It must be because I am so tired nowadays.”

“I think you can still read me”, I said. “I’m in you as much as you are in me. Nothing will change that.”

“My memory is failing me sometimes now”, she said. “That’s why I wanted to be sure you remember our talks. You have to remember.”

“Don’t worry”, I said. “I have no choice but to remember. I’ll remember for the both of us.”

“Good”, she said. “Because I think that I might have hit on something there, something we never relied on or took in our formulas before. I think I saw that as something that might help you. I don’t know what demons you are fighting, but I know they are strong and they keep you from your duty. Our talks – what we talked about – might be of help to you. Promise me you’ll explore that path.”

“But there are no numbers there”, I said. “I have no power there, you know it.”

“I don’t think it matters”, she said. “There is a chance you may find what you’re looking for, a slight chance, but one I can offer you before it’s too late. You know that is never very clear, but there is definitely a probability for success.”

“Okay”, I said. “I’ll think about it. I’ll run some of my checks, okay? I promise.”

But I had no intention of doing so. The subject of her religious outbursts was not interesting to me; I have heard that, as they get older, people tend to grow in their faith; for me, that subject was silly. When you have to fight for survival every day, you stop believing in angels.

I saw her through the eyes of my grandfather, as he remembered her. Young, beautiful; with wild green eyes, dark hair; a princess of royal blood living in poverty and silence in a forgotten village in the hills; carrying secrets and heavy facts on her small shoulders; deeply mysterious, dangerous, fluid like water; irresistible to him.

There was love of the divine type; there was love by not loving, by being beyond their beings; a touch was precious; it meant so much and it was so powerful, the numbers would cascade around them in sparks of light. Their embrace dressed up their bed in gold.

For the first time in my life, I was getting first-hand knowledge of my close family. My grandfathers were talking to me and filing their memories in a hurry, at once, overwhelming me with fresh, tasty information. They were breaking the silence. I laughed, harshly, guiltily. It felt good.

*-*-*

Dante knocked at the Medieval castle’s door with a blank