Dear mother
I recently remembered that Kafka’s mother never passed on the letter that he’d written to his father. Do you think she read it? Even if she opened it, do you think she dared to read it beyond that first sentence? – ‘You asked me recently why I claim to be afraid of you.’ I doubt it. I don’t think she needed to read a word of it to know what her lovely, intelligent son had written. And I suspect she might even have been a little bit irritated (just a little) that he’d written such a long letter to his father, and nothing of the sort to her. He wrote to her every now and again of course, telling her about his little outings to the theatre and the swimming pool, his days in the office, his minor successes and illnesses, all described in a dutiful tone that she liked (but which she now slightly questioned, thinking it might be more mealy-mouthed than was necessary). For the most part, these letters successfully reassured his mother that he was well, or well enough; and though he didn’t say so explicitly, she was confident that if he was in good enough spirits and could spare even a couple of hours in his busy and demanding life, he’d come and visit, and bring a little jar of her favourite tea and a bouquet of fresh flowers, which he’d selected after consulting with several of his warm-hearted female friends.
I’m writing this letter because you only ever reply to my messages (if you do reply) with banalities which amount to non-responses: ‘OK’, ‘sure’, or a thumbs up. A thumbs up? I’ve never seen you give a thumbs up in your life. I reply with punctuation – question marks, ellipses and occasionally even exclamation marks. No response from you, as if I’m what I’m sending you is insane or illegible. I try again, writing in a different style and adding details that I’m sure would interest you if we were chatting over a coffee in your front room, or talking on the phone. The same non-responses and perverse silences. And then, every few months, without provocation, the same message: ‘you never tell me anything any more.’
I tell you a lot in these messages (I almost wrote, ‘I pour my heart out to you’, which wouldn’t quite be accurate, since I learned quickly not to bother writing so freely) – which you’d know if you cared to read them. I know you’re fully capable of reading them. Apart from the fact that you spend every evening on your phone in the kitchen, playing solitaire and chatting to your friends, smoking endless cigarettes, which I imagine combining into one infinitely disintegrating cigarette, I also ordered you a new pair of glasses just a few weeks ago, and I received a notification confirming they’ve been delivered. (Though maybe you didn’t open those either? When the delivery driver hands over a parcel and asks for a signature, do you write ‘OK’?)
I tell you a lot more than I tell anyone else, even Willem, who (as you know) is unwell at the moment. He’s concerned for my health as well, particularly since I started writing letters. For example, last week, after you’d ignored my perfectly genuine questions about whether you liked the style of the glasses (even though I’m certain that they are identical to the pair that you lost and that you said you’d do anything to find) I sent a detailed message describing the layout of our new flat. I told you about each room, and what the specific furnishings reminded me of, since, as you’ll know if you go back and read the message and haven’t deleted it, the reason we bought the flat, despite the fact that it’s in a horrific state of disrepair, is that it’s extremely similar to our childhood home, which in fact is only two streets away.
Actually, that flat is more or less completely identical. As you’ll remember, every flat around here is identical. You’ll also remember that as a little girl I often got lost and wandered into the wrong house. You might remember that sometimes I stayed in other people’s houses and came back the next morning with detailed sketches of the floor plans and suggestions for how we might rearrange the furniture. There is one small deviation in this flat, which I didn’t mention in my original message, but which I know will interest you and that you’d notice immediately: one of the bedrooms (which as it happens, is mine) is slightly smaller than it should be. I’ve measured it several times and am struggling to account for the difference, but I think it has something to do with the skirting boards. Willem thinks I’ve made an error. But given his illness, and the pleasure he’s always taken in inventing and then pointing out my mistakes, I humour him, but don’t take him seriously.
I know you’d like me to describe these details, and to take you on a little tour of the flat, in person or over the phone. I know you don’t believe that I lost my voice. You think I’m putting it on, and claim I’ve intentionally constricted my own throat as a way of avoiding speaking to you. I know you’ll deny thinking this, never mind saying it. But Willem, whose reports on his own disintegrating health you listen to ever-so attentively on the phone, has given me reports of his own. I know what you say and how you say it.
I’ve tried to make it clear: I’ve had no choice, I’ve had to write to you. I can only hope I’m addressing you appropriately. You used to like the stories I wrote as a child, maybe because I had to stop talking to write them. Now I can’t talk, you pretend you can’t read my writing. But maybe your heart will be touched when you see my handwriting is still a replica of yours, and you’ll be more inclined to reply. Maybe I will be more believable in your handwriting – just as your voice is much more believable than mine. If I try to talk now, straining as hard as I can after several glasses of warm water and lemon, the only noise I can make is a ridiculous and squeaky cough that sounds like yours when you have a bad cold. (Willem, whose voice has gotten much deeper since his illness, has confirmed to me: you sound just like your mother).
I’m going to stop myself from writing a very long letter. I’ve been writing letters to people all day and my hand is beginning to seize up. I need to use my other hand to hold the rickety table still, and occasionally to bat away flakes of wallpaper that fall from the ceiling. But I’ve told you a lot, or at least enough, and I’d like you to tell me something back. It can be anything: tell me what you’re having for dinner, or who you bumped into in town. If you’re afraid of me, or ashamed of me, or maybe even disgusted by me, tell me. I don’t want to know, not really, but I’d prefer that you confirmed this with a sentence written in your own hand. And if you don’t want to open this letter, you can tell me that too.
My new address is enclosed. There’s also a sketch of the floorplan. I’m going to write a separate letter to dad, but I know his eyes are more or less gone at this stage. The letter will either be much longer or much shorter than this one; it’s difficult to know these things in advance. There’s no need to pass it on, but maybe you could read it out loud to him?
Fleur
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Dear Fleur
This is a lovely letter. I appreciate the sentiments and the handwriting is perfect. But I think you’ve got the wrong address.
Please don’t contact me again.
OK?
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