A Clean, Well Lighted Place


A European city: narrow masonry buildings on winding cobbled lanes, over which bicycles bump, along which tiny dun-colored cars are parked. The streets are interrupted by canals that no longer seem to serve any commercial purpose, but are undeniably picturesque. Into the pattern of the city are woven parks studded with personable trees and crisscrossed by walks and water.

When I visit I am returning to a familiar place, a city where I was student for a semester, a place where I was actually living on my own for the first time, separated from the intrusion of parental supervision and the improving ideas of a willful girlfriend. Away from the self-serving suggestions of others, following my own volition forward, struggling out of a cocoon.

It is October and the train has brought me from the business portion of my trip to the personal portion, to visit two old friends, the city and the man I met in this city a decade before: my co-conspirator, my correspondent, my traveling companion, my doppelgänger.

Like me he is a romantic (he thinks things are bad, but they could get better); like me he lives in his head (he is friendly, but many think him odd); like mine his first marriage is imperfect (his, unlike mine, still exists as my train pulls into the station).

It is 1992. He has not yet embraced the convenience of e-mail communication. We have kept in touch by letter and by a quasi-annual phone call on Christmas Day when he, several time zones ahead, has usually been quite potted. The greetings in train stations during the 1990s are therefore awkward and an immediate visit to a bar is, without discussion, the first sojourn.


The walk toward a beverage reintroduces me to my other long-unseen friend, the city. We move through crowds of people who are preternaturally alone, past storefronts that offer goods in a dignified manner, through a built environment constructed with varied textures and painted with muted colors that glow at odd moments when the light is briefly right.

In October the clouds are like a gray fabric, in motion and yet seemingly permanently in place. In mid-afternoon the sun drops below them, lighting up the top halves of ocher buildings, while in the streets the shadows merely deepen. As they darken the vended flowers seem to come on like street lights, popping out of their pots and bundles in their places next to piles of fruit along the sidewalks.

In this city you are perhaps never out of sight of a floral presence that is either being offered for sale or has been purchased and put somewhere to bring light and focus to the space. When we arrive at the bar, order glasses of lager, and my friend lights his fifth cigarette of my visit, there is a pewter vase in the window to my left holding a single aster.

His wife does not join us; there are unspecified difficulties and tensions. In the United States we have democratized the legacy of Freud; everyone speaks of others’ inner lives in a vocabulary that is simply in the air, like sports metaphors and Yiddish. In this European country psychologizing is for the upper classes. My friend is from a small island and proud of his agrarian roots; he has disdain for narrative tropes that douse for hidden causes. The problem in his marriage is a nameless cloud; it will blow over or it will not.

Their apartment consists of two rooms and a bath. The kitchen is an alcove off the L-shaped space that is their dining and living area. The bed fills the shorter end of the L that extends toward the street. A curtain provides a modicum of privacy. After two days the curtain is not sufficient privacy.

Neither my friend nor his wife is employed. They have a lot of time and not much money. I am informed sheepishly that periodically his wife feels the need to simply hole up in the apartment with him, away from the demands of interaction with her other unemployed friends. My visit has coincided with one of those intervals and I must go for a walk. It is time for me to spend time with my other friend, the city.

My walking takes me to old haunts: bookstores, museums, cafés, park benches, streets that crystallize the personality of this place. It is overcast, windy, and damp; it is beautiful. I buy a pair of gloves. I sit, drink fresh beer and read. I wonder what my life would have been like if I had bothered to learn the language and dared to return here to live.

On the way back to the apartment at the end of the day I see what I have seen repeatedly through the day wherever I have gone: potted cyclamens huddled on either side of the doorways of fruit shops and florists, their downward looking blossoms quaking in the brisk breeze. Around the corner from the apartment I select a white-flowered plant.

Their heads are hanging down, dragging on cigarettes; they have been here all day. The cloud of smoke drifts around the room. I tell her that I have brought her something. Her face is more bewildered than surprised. I hold out the cyclamen. She smiles.


Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s