The Memory of Water

²⁸ CREATION OR DESTRUCTION

The cream-coloured letters started arriving about a year ago. They started off polite, even complimentary. They were delivered by hand so there were no stamps as clues. Always written in the same handwriting on the same paper. It was heavy, textured like watercolour paper, and the top centre was embossed with a decorative circle: perhaps a wheel of sorts. I always read my fan mail. My ego demands it. Also, I am always freakishly interested to see what my readers have to say about my work. Some letters are easy to ignore: the ones that say they enjoyed the book, it was okay, they would make the following changes, in fact they have also written a book, and they’re sure that if my meagre offerings are published then they also have a shot. And the ones that reprimand me: for saying too little; for saying too much; for being racist/liberal/chauvinist/feminist/dishonest/too honest; for being potty-mouthed; for being a gutter-brained, debauched sex addict. Some wish me a speedy trip to hell. These never bother me, and are usually mildly entertaining. God forbid a writer mentions violence or sex. Write about life, they demand, tell the truth! But God forbid you write about the creation or destruction of it.

But some letters I have kept. Some readers say their lives have been enriched by reading my work; that it led them to some kind of pint-sized epiphany, or made them think differently about an aspect of their lives they were struggling with. Some go further – these are my favourites – and explicate some thematic concepts or symbolism that I completely missed when I was writing it. I find it interesting that a novel is a different story to each person who reads it. It’s also different to the same reader, at different points in his life. As if the words are living, breathing. I’ve read somewhere that, à la Heraclitus, you can never step into the same novel twice. There is sorcery in the words.

The embossed letters started in a gentle trickle. I was flattered. I’m not exactly sure when the flattery turned to fear; probably when they began arriving every week and contained hints that the writer seemed to know private details of my life. He/she would make a passing remark about my car, the irises in my front garden, my hair that ‘needed cutting’. That was the last non-stamped creamy envelope I opened.

The words in the letters were never threatening in any way, and it didn’t seem that the writer wished me any harm, but those damned envelopes spooked the hell out of me. Eve laughed when I told her about them, she was sure I was overreacting. She accused me often of injecting more drama into situations than was strictly necessary, which goes without saying, I thought, taking my profession into account. She was sure it was just an ex of mine, having a laugh, or an overenthusiastic fan. Through the gap in the bedroom curtains I can see the sun is rising and the blue morning light comforts me.

I have an arm around Denise’s naked waist but I am thinking of Eve.