I Don't Live Here

I don’t live here, you know? Don’t be fooled by my knowledge of these streets or by the people looking at me. I come and go. I visit often, though. And each time I see this place under a different light, each time I see things I missed on my previous pilgrimages. I can’t recall the year it all started, and I can’t seem to remember how many times I have come down here ever since. But I do know I always find my way back. 

It’s a strange feeling to know a place by heart, yet to still be amazed at those tall green trees and the sunlight leaking through them. 

The city is built uphill, and streaked by roads seldom encumbered. It’s just as well. Here you don’t have to worry about crossing the street, you don’t have to worry about anything at all. People here always keep an eye on you. They make sure you’re all right with a gentle nod or a quick glance, but they know how to keep their distance and they never bother you.

My little pilgrimage is always the same. I come down on the right side of the main road, inhaling incenses from the New Age gift shop, followed by the strong scent of ground coffee at the café next door. 

Then I come across a few grocery stores, with people oblivious to their surroundings, wrapped up in their own issues I guess. They see me, acknowledge me sometimes, and then go back to their wondrous minds. 

I walk past a few restaurants, a few small habitation buildings with wooden panels and glass windows, and before long, I reach the lake.

There is a breeze coming from this lake. It’s soft and comforting. Although today there is some sort of howling in the wind, something I had never heard before. I look at the road over my shoulder and I see the mountains at the far back, masked by snow and a distant haze. Perhaps this isn’t a breeze but gale ringing in my ears, or perhaps it’s an animal in the wild. No one else seems to have noticed. I resume walking and cross the little road separating me from the pier. 

This lake, I was once told, is twice the size of a country. I don’t remember which country, though. I apologise – my memory isn’t what it used to be. I know it destabilises a few, and many fear that dreadful moment when they understand they no longer remember things as well as they used to. I’ve learned, however, that it doesn’t really matter. Most of the things I can’t recall were not that important anyway. I remember the people I love, the places I like, and isn’t that the true essence of life?

I used to come here with my son. Back when he was still mesmerised by everything I said. We would sit on a bench facing the lake and read for hours, with the rummaging of the waters for sole background music. He is an architect now. He destroys and he builds, and his legacy will be left in the skylines of cities around the world forever. The last I heard, he was somewhere in Asia. I could go see him, you know. I could, but there’s a time when parents ought to leave their children live their lives. Or so I was told.

Well, I come here instead. Here, where lands have been infused with the memories of a lifetime. Here, where I can still see him learning how to ride a bike. I recall him reading aloud, and me listening discreetly though he had made me promise not to.

I also remember coming here with his father, we would walk along the lake, and somehow it was sunnier. It was ages ago, mind you. But now the mountains enclosing the city seem to retain light in their heights. 

There is this faint sunlight bathing the streets, but when you look hard enough you see something is missing. At times it gives me the impression of an old picture, you know there must have been a ray of sun, but instead an opaque veil is obstructing the view. 

It’s quite all right. I do not mind. 

The howling is getting louder, as though it’s approaching. I look around and I see the streets are emptying; even the benches are left behind in a hurry. My knee hurt. I had forgotten about my knee. 

I look down and I press my hand against the light skirt of my green and purple dress. My legs have swollen again. If I don’t mind my memory, I certainly do mind those bloody legs of mine! The ache is too much now and I have to sit down, only my chest is tightening. 

I gasped for breath as I reach a bench nearby and almost stumble down. My landing makes a few pigeons scatter. They look annoyed, staring at me as they settle a little further. 

With one hand grabbing the back of the bench and another clutching at my heart, I feel like the weight of time has finally caught up with me. Perhaps it was my wanderings through this uphill city. Those ups and downs seem easy at first, but the minute you rest, your body reminds you you’re not as strong as you once were. The throbbing in my chest continues, and a high-pitched noise replaces the howling in the air. 

‘Isadora?’

This is my name. But I am too frail to look up and see who is calling me. It triggers something, though. It’s a distant memory. 

When I was little, children were perplexed at the mention of my name, and I would always say: “Why, yes! Isadora! Like the dancer! The American dancer!” I pretended it was evident, that my name was special, that I was as cultivated and elegant as it sounded. I didn’t want to feel left out or pointed at. I didn’t want to feel different. In many ways, I still don’t.

‘Isadora?’ the voice calls me out again. It is kind, though firm, and perhaps a little emotionless. I narrow my eyes and look into the feeble light. There is a face, now I can see. I think I know this woman. Her hair is cut short and she wears a light blue uniform. She is holding something to my forehead and looking at her watch. When she sees me looking back she continues. ‘What day is it?’

My chest tightens a little more. I hear people laughing. Are they laughing at me? I try to look around but my vision is blurry. And there comes the howling again. What day is it? I don’t know. I want to but I can’t remember. The more I want to, the more I feel like I’m entering some dark cave from which I’ll never be able to escape. I wish the howling would stop. And I can’t stand these people laughing anymore.

‘Have you eaten yet?’ The woman’s voice comes down slowly to me. Something is pinching in my chest and I can barely feel my legs. I want to get up and leave. I need to call someone. I open my mouth but I can’t speak. I hear my heart thumping up until my temples. 

I rub my face before looking around. I see a little better now, but I don’t recognise this place. It’s a long rectangular room with three windows at the back protected by steel bars. A man at a table nearby is crying episodically, his shrieks roll around the walls, and I feel entrapped. ‘Calm down now, Isadora,’ the woman says and her stare is funny. She looks at me as though I am about to transform into a bat and fly away. She is dubious and expectant. But I say nothing, and she relaxes. ‘Someone’s here to see you,’ she adds.

I heard her. I think I did. There’s a weird smell and it takes all my attention. It’s like someone has tried to cover something filthy with chemical products. I feel a bit nauseated. The woman in blue looks down on me. She is waiting for an answer. At least I think she is. Shall I give it to her? No. Something tells me no because it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because I understand what’s happened now. 

I look behind me and I see a middle-aged woman with fuzzy hair gazing blankly in my direction, saliva drooping down her opened mouth. A man in a blue uniform comes and wipes her face. 

Yes, I know what’s happened. 

It’s all been just a silly mistake. I don’t belong here. I never did. 

The woman in the blue uniform is moving away from me. I grab her wrist and hold strong until her brown eyes are locked deep into mine. And then I tell her. I have to tell her. ‘I don’t live here, you know?’