Mysteries of eyes, lips and us

“We’re on our way!” The message blinked on his phone. He was finished with his tea and toast, and simply wandered through his memories while lingering in his reading chair.

The Symposium, he was only eight the first time he visited, he had run away from his parents’ house and waited for the bus for what seemed an eternity, now, in retrospective, he knows it was only about thirty minutes. After riding the bus, he found a family and walked close to them, not too close to draw their attention, but close enough to not get lost. He knew everyone in the bus was walking towards The Symposium.

The bell ringing brought him back to the present, he buzzed them in. “Jacket, snacks for the drive, a book just in case, water and comfy shoes.” He checked in his mind, his friends entered the apartment and Daniel ran towards the restroom.

“I told you honey that you were drinking too much of that.” Carolina said in a preaching tone, “he found this new energy drink and is now victim of a soft addiction.” She hugged him and kissed him on his cheek. “I am so excited, I have lived in this city and never thought about visiting the Symposium, I heard it is quite the villa.”

“It is quite big, the story goes that Leonardo received the villa from some of his patrons after his daughter was born, he moved there with his wife and daughter, and spent the rest of his life there writing. His wife was interested in nature, and created refuges for birds, foxes, restored the health of the streams by recovering the native flora.”

“You were there already, right?”
“Yes, but I was eight, and by myself, I just walked around the gardens and the open spaces,” he said, and his voice trailed off, his thoughts navigated back to the memories that were his alone, him peeking through that window, glimpsing just one room of that mansion, the prophetic voice of the gardener’s daughter, “you shouldn’t be there, my father doesn’t like where we step on those flowers, he spends most of his time caring for them,” she was as young as him, she gestured him to come, “do you like tea? You can go inside and ask for tea with cookies.” She held his hand and walked him to the entrance.

“I don’t know how I feel with what you did with the hall,” Daniel joined them, he was a practical guy, into cars, bikes and displays of testosterone-puffed mindsets, “I would’ve hung something different, on those walls, if you know what I mean…”

“Oh shut up Daniel, when I met your house was a permanent exhibit of naked women, and racing cars.” She punched Daniel on the shoulder and paced towards the hall, “I love the quotes, but I think you overdid it, maybe some of them need to go, and you just printed out, honey the font is… well… I can help you with some calligraphy.”

That was them, Carolina her friend for over twenty years, and Daniel, the best fish she could catch twelve years ago.

“He saw no point in containing a kiss, and let it die in her lips.[1]” Daniel read the quote, “this can be the caption of…” Carolina hushed him by throwing her jacket at him.

“Don’t start,” she walked by the hall evaluating the quotes, “I like this ‘Dismissing is a choice, the free will that comes in every Bereshit, and also the yoke of longing what is lost. Sadly what is lost, rather than who is lost.[2]’ But it is too long, we’ll work on that.”

“Ok, ok, enough of my hall, we can work on that later, let’s get on our way to avoid the traffic.” He said with a commanding voice.

Once in the car, Carolina was in charge of the maps and the music, Daniel drove letting Carolina make the calls, and he could see that healthy dynamic in that couple, he sat back and focused on the trees parading by the side of the road, the hypnotic flow that asked him to remember, “I am Tamara, what is your name?” He didn’t answer, she didn’t wait for an answer, she kept talking about the cookies and the tea, by the entrance a lady stopped them, “Tamara, who is your friend?” And looking at him, “where are you parents young boy?” Cold fear. Sweat. Run! He ran out of the villa, he hid among cars as he saw the lady and some of the security guards looking for him, hours later he walked back to the bus station and went home.

Twenty five years later, he was about to enter the Symposium again, this time there was no bus, only parking; the walk across the city had conversations, jokes and pistachios, and at the entrance he paid his ticket, there was no need to sneak in.

“Leonardo, known as the poet of in-betweens, lived here. He received the mansion from the Rivas Family, the terms of the agreement are not public, some people claim that it was a donation, others that Leonardo bought the villa with some illegal money he wanted to get rid of, some say that his last poetry collection, ‘Mysteries of eyes, lips and us’ granted him a big contract with the publishing house and part of the deal was the acquisition of this villa. In any case the Rivas Family were always openly supporting the arts and fond of Leonardo’s work. Now if you follow me, we will visit the common areas that are public from the house, and then we will make our way out to the gardens.”

All the rooms of the house had a distinct colour, if felt like walking through a well balanced palette, the aura of the rooms were different, yet they clearly belong to each other. Daniel kept suggesting that a calendar with Ferraris was missing from the decorations, and Carolina was excited to learn more about the gardens.

“The Symposium, was the name that Leonardo gave to the villa, there are no legends or speculation about the reasons, as you can see here’s the letter Leonardo wrote to his wife, I will read the core text and you can read the rest later, ‘Diotima said to Socrates: when a man has been educated in the matters of love up to this point... he will suddenly catch sight of something wondrously beautiful in its nature—this is the final goal of all his former efforts. This place, this house, my room, your gardens, all these were once a dream, and all this is for her, our treasure, here is where we drink together from each other’s lives and love. This is our symposium.’ For those whose greek is a bit rusty, symposium comes from the Ancient Greek and literally translates to “drinking together.” And the quote Leonardo uses in the letter is from Plato’s Symposium.” The guide was very mechanical at telling the story, and the group took turns to take pictures and the follow her again.

“Are you ok?” Carolina asked him, “I thought you’d be more chatty here, telling us facts about Leonardo, that the guide is missing, and you know, being your classic ‘too smart for school’ self” She poked with a soft punch.

“I am just a bit tired, I think.” He lied, he didn’t know why this tour around the villa felt odd and fake. Leonardo was one of his favourite poets, he grew up reading him, and escaped his house to visit this villa, back then Leonardo was still alive and he had hoped he would see him, now it felt artificial, and that broke something inside him.

“The last thing I will say about Leonardo, before we go to the gardens, as you know he made a name for himself writing poetry, and after ‘Mysteries of eyes, lips and us’ he wrote only novels. In interviews he said that poetry in the formal understanding of poetry didn’t move him anymore, and he found a new poetry in his life. Now, here’s where the rumours start, it is said that Leonardo wrote a poem, one that is not published, the one he considers his opera magna, and it is hidden in the villa, some had suggested digging the gardens, some believe that is written on the walls, under the wallpapers, the wife denies the existence of the poem, but the daughter only smiles and shrugs when asked, so who knows. Anyway, let’s pause on Leonardo for now, and let’s talk about ecosystem, his wife and the gardens, hope you have water with you, because we’re going to walk for the next 4 hours!”
He stepped out of the house with the group, but didn’t feel like walking with them, without excusing himself he just drifted apart towards the window. As a child he didn’t realise that the entire villa was a mosaic of small gardens and mini-orchards, as he walked around the house he remembered what he had seen when he peeked, and a room with a desk, bookshelves, and frames with quotes on the walls. Twenty five years later the flowers by the windows were the same, and the room behind those curtains looked the same. That is the connection he was seeking, glimpsing into the creative landscape of one of his heroes.

“Sir, you shouldn’t be there.” An old voice said to him, he turned around and saw an old gardener walking towards him, “this part of the house is not open for visitors, may I ask you to go the public area.”

“Yes, sorry.” He said, without meaning it. He walked back to the tour path but his group was long gone, instead of trying to catch up with them, he thought about getting some tea with cookies, and join the next group. He walked back to the entrance, this time there was no one guiding his path.

He approached one of the staff and asked, “sorry I was told that it is possible to get tea and cookies somewhere here, can you help me with it?”

“No, that’s not the case, I think you’re mistaken. However there is a coffee shop just outside the villa.”

He laughed, silently at himself, “seeking tea and cookies promised by a seven years old girl some twenty five years ago.” He grinned and just paced around.

“You seem happy and lost, is that on purpose?” The feminine voice was sweet, yet inquisitive.

“I just asked the staff for tea and cookies, that made me happy, the request came from a childhood memory.” He noticed that she was neither staff, nor a visitor, she noticed those eyes, and the rcurl in her hair, “Tamara?” He said.

“The one and only, last time you ran like a demon,” she said signalling him to follow her towards the private areas of the house, “my father and I talked a lot about you, it was a big deal, a lonely boy that came, talked to me, and ran away, my father said: ‘I hope that all guys that fancy you, behave like this one.’”
“I realised that you were not the gardener’s daughter only when I was fifteen, when I was reading the news where they mentioned Leonardo’s daughter by name.”
“He was always very protective of the family, he kept names and photos private, at least from the media.”
“What do you mean?”

“Come, let’s go to his study, let me offer you some tea and cookies.”

Once in Leonardo’s study, he could read the quotes hanging on the wall,

“He wrote this novel, probably you know it,” she showed a book with golden font and bird flying on the cover.

“Yes! The Golden Gift, where art, in the shape of a fairy comes to three humans, one channels her and creates life, one can’t never understand her but transform the world to make it better for her, and one accepts her promises, but the fairy is not capable of delivering, he’s the frustrated artist roaming in life, and she becomes a fairy unable to manifest her magic with the one that accepted her without hesitation. I love that book, I read it so many times.”

“Well, in that book I am the fairy, my mother is the first one, my father is the second human, and you are the third, the boy who was promised tea and cookies.” Silence, and then water pouring into cups. “For the first months after your scene, I would ask my father if you were alive, or real, or if you would come back.” She shook her head, and put herself together “then I moved on.” Her eyes had the ghost of longings for his father, and then she broke in tears. “Sorry, I forget the cookies, hope you like the tea.”

She excused herself and walked out of the room.

He sipped calmly and he floated, the scent, his blood, his breathing, all was eerie, it was there, and it was not. He was not drugged, but he was whole somewhere in his soul.

She came back with cookies, she smiled, hesitated, and asked, “so what do you think?”

“This tea.” He paused, “it has the flowers that are by the window, the ones your father took care of. His small garden, his tea.”

“Yes, I would see him there and run towards him, he would ask me not to step on it, and would take me in for tea, and cookies. He would read me the last poem of ‘Mysteries of eyes, lips and us’ while I was sipping my tea, and then would close my eyes with his fingers, kiss my forehead, and hug me whispering…”

She didn’t know what got into her, she walked towards him, closed his eyes with her fingers, but instead of kissing his forehead, she kissed his closed eyes, and whispered the poem…

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Until it is Sunday again,

—Rene

[1] Let’s go dance, the night is young and also a woman…

[2] Genesis… nee… Bereshit

[3] “Her legs escaped from me like startled fish, half full of fire, half full of cold.” Federico Garcia Lorca

[4] Ukhamampi Munataxa, Kjarkas

[5] Sonnet 116, Shakespeare