SUPERFLUOUS INVITATIONS - Dino Buzzati

I would like you to come to me one winter evening, and, huddled together behind glass, gazing at the loneliness of the dark, frozen streets, we would remember the winters of fairy tales, where we lived together without knowing it. By the same fairy paths indeed you and I passed, with timid steps, together we went through forests full of wolves, and the same elves spied us from clumps of moss suspended from towers, amid fluttering crows. Together, without knowing it, thence perhaps we both looked toward the mysterious life, which awaited us. There throbbed in us, for the first time mad and tender desires. "Do you remember?" we'll say to each other, holding each other gently, in the warm room, and you'll smile at me trustingly while outside will give dreary sound the wind-shaken sheets. But you-now I remember-do not know the ancient tales of nameless kings, ogres, and bewitched gardens. Never did you pass, enraptured, beneath the magic trees that speak with human voice, nor did you ever knock at the door of the deserted castle, nor did you walk in the night to the far distant light, nor did you fall asleep under the stars of the East, cradled by sacred dugout. Behind the glass, in the winter evening, we would probably remain mute, me losing myself in dead tales, you in other cares unknown to me. I would ask, "Do you remember?" but you would not remember.

         I would like to walk with you, one spring day, with a gray sky and still some old leaves from the year before dragged through the streets by the wind, in the neighborhoods of the suburbs; and that it was Sunday. In such quarters melancholy and great thoughts often arise; and in given hours poetry wanders, uniting the hearts of those who love each other. Hopes are also born that cannot be told, fostered by the endless horizons behind the houses, the fleeting trains, the clouds of the north. We will simply hold hands and go lightly, saying foolish, stupid and dear things. Until the streetlights will light up and out of the dingy houses will come the sinister stories of the city, the adventures, the vague romances. And then we will always be silent holding hands, for souls will speak to each other without words. But you - now I remember - never said foolish, foolish, dear things to me. Nor can you then love those Sundays I say, nor can your soul speak to mine in silence, nor recognize at the right hour the spell of cities, nor the hopes that descend from the north. You prefer the lights, the crowds, the men watching you, the streets where they say you can meet fortune. You are different from me, and if you came that day for a walk, you would complain of being tired; just that and nothing else.

         I would also like to go with you in the summer to a lonely valley, continually laughing at the simplest things, exploring the secrets of the woods, of white roads, of certain abandoned houses. Stopping on the wooden bridge to watch the water go by, listening in the telegraph poles for that long endless story that comes from one end of the world and who knows where it will ever go. And pluck the flowers from the meadows and here, lying on the grass, in the silence of the sun, contemplate the abysses of the sky and the little white clouds that pass by and the mountain peaks. You would say, "How beautiful!" Nothing else would you say because we would be happy; our bodies having lost the weight of years, our souls having become fresh, as if they had been born then.

         But you - now that I think of it - you would look around without understanding, I'm afraid, and stop worriedly to examine a sock, ask me for another cigarette, impatient to return. And you wouldn't say, "How nice!" but other poor things that I don't care about. Because unfortunately, that's the way you are. And we would not be happy even for a moment.

I would also - let me tell you - I would like with you under my arm to cross the great streets of the city in a November sunset, when the sky is pure crystal. When the ghosts of life run over the domes and brush against the black people, down the pit of the streets, already filled with disquiet. When memories of blissful ages and new omens pass over the earth, leaving behind them a kind of music. With the candid pride of children we shall look upon the faces of others, thousands and thousands, streaming past us. We will unknowingly send light of joy, and all will be compelled to look at us, not out of envy and malice; but smiling a little, with feeling of goodness, because of the evening that heals man's weaknesses. But you - I understand it well - instead of looking at the crystal sky and the colonnaded planes beaten by the extreme sun, you will want to stop and look at the shop windows, the golds, the riches, the silks, those petty things. And so you will not notice the ghosts, nor the passing forebodings, nor will you feel, like me, called to proud fate. Nor would you hear that kind of music, nor understand why people look at us with good eyes. You would think of your poor tomorrow, and uselessly above you the golden statues on the spires would raise their swords to the last rays. And I would be alone. It is useless. Perhaps all this is nonsense, and you better than I, not presuming so much from life. Maybe you are right and it would be foolish to try. But at least, this at least, I would like to see you again. Be that as it may, we will be together somehow, and we will find joy. It doesn't matter if it's day or night, summer or fall, in an unknown country, in an unadorned house, in a dingy inn. It will be enough for me to have you near. I will not stand here and listen -- I promise you -- to the mysterious creaking of the roof, nor will I watch the clouds, nor listen to the music or the wind. I will give up these useless things, which I also love. I will have patience if you do not understand what I say, if you speak of facts strange to me, if you complain about old clothes and money. There will be no so-called poetry, no common hopes, no sorrows so friendly to love. But I will have you near. And we'll manage, you'll see, to be quite happy, with much simplicity, man and woman only, as is customary everywhere in the world.

         But you - now that I think about it - you are too far away, hundreds and hundreds of miles hard to cross. You are inside a life I ignore, and other men are beside you, to whom you probably smile, as to me in times past. And it only took a short time for you to forget me. You probably can no longer remember my name. I am now gone from you, confused among the countless shadows. Yet I can only think of you, and I like to tell you these things.