Chapter Text
───────────────────────────────
زندگی گر ہزار باره بود
بار دیگر تو بار دیگر تو
And if life is repeated a thousand times
Still you, you, and again, you.
— Forough Farrokhzad
───────────────────────────────
Somewhere in Northern Italy.
Crema, 1983
The scent of ripe fruit and the sound of clacking sandals on cobblestone lay thick over the entire town for the months of the humid summer. A layer of sweat made everybody sticky, much like the juice from the tender flesh of the peach that was pouring down Paul’s hand as he bit into it, chasing a breeze by his windowsill. There was none; the stagnant air swathed him in sweat.
The new houseguest of the summer was going to pull into the twisting driveway anytime now. What a boring nuisance , Paul thought. For six weeks, he was to move down the hallway into the cramped guestroom as his room was overtaken by his father’s guest for the time being. That bedroom was used as a storeroom of sorts; everything their father had brought home from his archaeological findings that weren’t worth turning over was kept in there. Presents from previous houseguests: paintings, sculptures, stacks of letters, miscellaneous objects like rackets, et cetera, but not the books.
The houseguests were always young academics who were working on manuscripts like their dissertations for the summer, so the most recurring gift was a collection of books, often leatherbound in calfhide, sent to them after they’d found their footing in the world. Those were always kept haphazardly in the mahogany bookshelf in his father’s study. Though he could saunter down there and retrieve any leatherbound volume of his liking, they were still not in the vicinity of the immediate four walls that ensconced him. He was stuck looking over at the firm-handed virgules of paint on the framed artworks, and bumps from unsure hands cast on the sculptures.
He watched intently as a taxi pulled in. Out stepped a man, a good head or so taller than him, dressed in a gauzelike pale blue button-up and khakis. He stuffed some cash into the driver’s hand through the rolled-down window and hauled a suitcase, and a gigbag from the boot of the car.
His father appeared in the driveway, receiving him formally. Perhaps the most formal one of his actions towards the houseguest, apart from the goodbyes. Once their stay began, they were treated just like family. The same indifference and caring natures were employed towards them as were to him and Mike. And to the plethora of people who came by. Their doors were always ajar, and windows flung wide open. The veranda was huge, always bustling with company sitting on the chairs and enjoying chilled booze with spirited conversations. The pavement to the house was always lovingly littered with ice-cream cones and apricot pits. The kitchen was always bountiful with food made by Concetta. She also made a point of setting fresh fruit that the gardener picked on the same morning into a fruit bowl atop the dining table.
No part of the house was empty; the tennis court was used by anyone who held a racket and a polite greeting. Summer was meant for loving, and later on, leaving.
Paul took his time going down. Introductions were always a drag; the guest would either go on rambling flustered introductions and thank yous, or worse, they’d speak pompously, acting like being chosen for this was a birthright.
He knew of the new houseguest. John Lennon, twenty-four, graduate student at the Sorbonne in Paris, writing his dissertation on pre-Socratic philosophers. He had pored over the applicants with his father, helping him decide. Despite his riveting accomplishments and polished statement, John was an easy choice only after his father saw that the man was also from Liverpool.
A familiar face would be nice, don’t you think?
He paused on the stairs. John was standing in the hallway, chatting animatedly with his father and Concetta. She was asking, in halting English she’d picked up working for them every summer for almost a decade now, what he wanted to eat. He only grinned and said, “Whatever you fancy the most” . He’d won Concetta over and hadn’t even set foot in the house properly.
───────────────────────────────
Apparently, Concetta fancied much. She’d cooked up a feast for dinner. Her grandest welcome yet, Paul couldn’t remember the last time she made a welcome dinner so divine. The table was lined with an embroidered linen runner, and atop it lay prosciutto and melon drizzled with honey, sat on platters, next to marinated artichokes and anchovies that Marcello had caught that morning. A handwoven basket was full of warm bread and homemade rosemary and thyme butter in the ceramic butter dish. Paul’s father was deep in conversation with one of his other professor friends and his wife. The table, seated by many regular visitors of the residency who had gathered around to see the new guest, which had become an annual tradition.
The guest, though, came in late. John joined them about twenty minutes later, not that Paul cared or anything, with damp hair and smelling strongly of spiced citrus. He took the seat across from Paul, right next to Mike.
He immediately joined his father in his conversation, without even skipping a beat. Paul felt himself get jealous at that. He was never regarded as serious during these dinnertime conversations with his father’s peers, so on the nights he had something important to add to them, he’d speak fast and with hand gestures. A subconscious motion employed by his brain to garner attention. It often came off as timid, just a seventeen-year-old kid stumbling upon his words. But John had to do none of that. He slipped into the conversation like he was greased with oil, no pauses, just adding onto their discussion of Italo Svevo.
A few moments later, Concetta brought out the main dish. Ossobucco alla Milanese, in a large ceramic dish, holding the sides with a dishcloth. She set it down in the flat center of the table as everyone praised her skill. Ossobucco took time to prepare and was always a well-loved meal on the table. She thanked everyone with a polite smile and scurried back to the kitchen, as Marcello brought the wine. Recioto di Soave, a sweet white wine, was the pick for the night. No doubt, Paul thought, it would pair well with braised veal.
The chatter picked up again after everyone served themselves. Paul took a sip of the wine, and his face contorted immediately, as a reflex. It was too sweet, too rich. Like the syrup Concetta made out of peaches and figs.
“Not a fan of wine?” Paul’s head turned dizzyingly fast towards John. This was the first time he’d spoken to him at the dinner table.
“No, just not a fan of the overly sweetened ones.”
John hummed in response, averting back to his father. Paul felt nettled at the loss of attention from him. He coiled into himself, wondering if he’d said the wrong thing. Thinking if he’d said something else, perhaps a touch wittier, he’d have impressed John, and then they’d be conversing. The sound of the noisy cicadas chirping outside turned up in his ears as he ate, not bothering to speak.
After dinner, Concetta brought out a spongarda, glistening with honey. John took a slice, looking at its muddled filling, and asked what it was.
“It’s a cake, the filling is dried fruits, nuts,” Paul explained, “and whatever warm spices are in the kitchen.”
He took a bite. “It’s incredible.”
Afterwards, they relocated to the living room. Everyone sprawled on the sofa, bellies full with warm food and leftover wine in hand, talking languidly. Jim asked Paul to play something on the piano, the way he always did every time Paul stuck around after dinner instead of rushing to the beach or back to his room.
He sat on the small bench, playing a piece he’d finished composing the night before. And once he was done, the room broke out in light applause and praises. Paul glanced at John, awaiting his reaction, maybe a smile, or a nod. But he was just greeted with a placid stare. His lip thinned, and he excused himself, going back up.
He stood in his, now John’s, room, shoving some things he’d need into a duffel bag to take to his new space. Paul regretted not doing this earlier; he could’ve been in bed if not for his previous lethargy.
The door opened, and Paul assumed it was Mike. Here to give his first impressions of the new guest. But to his surprise, he turned around and saw John standing in the doorway.
He mumbled a hello and resumed taking shirts from his dresser.
“This is your room, then?”
“Yeah, yours for now, though,” Paul replied.
John walked towards the balcony of the room. It was a shared one, attached to both his temporary room and John’s.
“What was that you were playing downstairs?”
“Hm, why?”
“Sounded good,” John replied, turning towards him. If he had sounded good, John had a funny way of expressing it with the hollow look on his face after he finished playing.
“Guess,” His lips curled at the edges, and John mirrored that.
“Why don’t you just tell me? Er–okay, if I had to guess…” He paused for a second, “Bach?”
“No,” Paul gave up the schtick quite fast, “It was my own piece.”
“An original?” John nodded, impressed. “You compose?”
Paul had been composing for years now, and he couldn’t even clearly remember when it started. Maybe during an unavoidable torpor afternoon a handful of summers ago, when he had nothing else to do, he combined Mozart and Bach. Spinning his take on the two maestros’ work.
He only nodded in response.
“You play anything else?” John inquired.
“Guitar and bass.” Paul contemplated asking for a second, and then went for it, “You play the guitar too, right?” In hindsight, maybe it had been a stupid question, considering John’s gigbag was right there next to the bedside table.
“Yeah, I do. I compose too, here and there.”
“The piece I played downstairs was originally written for the guitar,” Paul zipped the bag.
“Will you play it on the guitar?”
“Right now?” Paul asked.
“Yes.”
“My guitar strings need to be replaced. I can’t play it now.”
“Play it on mine.”
John zipped open the gigbag, pulling out an acoustic guitar. He handed it to Paul, who sat on the edge of the bed and began loosely strumming.
“Left-handed?”
Paul hummed in response.
The piece was immensely different on the guitar. When Paul had played it on the piano, it had sounded elegant and deliberate. Each press of the key thought out and rigid. But on the guitar, the same melody ebbed and flowed. His fingers stumbled at first, but then found their footing. The music breathed, the tune more rounded. It was easy to tell that the composition was written for the guitar and translated for the piano.
When the tune trailed off, Paul did not dare to look directly at John, for when he’d done that not even half an hour ago downstairs, he was met with a blankly poised stare.
John spoke first, “I can tell the guitar is its mother tongue.”
“Mother tongue?” Paul chuckled.
“Yes, mother tongue. On the piano, it's a translation, a borrowed piece remoulded on something foreign. It sounds better on the guitar.”
Paul blinked. John had worded what he thought every time he played something intended for one instrument on another.
“Drives me mad, y’know,” John continued, “when I read a translation of something because I don’t understand the language it was published in.”
“Sometimes I think it’s a literary crime to transcribe a text to another language.” Paul agreed, “It’s what my dad and I do so often, but I feel like I’m giving people false hope. It never sounds as profound once the vulnerability of the native tongue is stripped from it.”
“‘S too bad we can’t learn all the languages in the world, and from the past too.”
“I mean we could try,” Paul smiled, “think I’ll start with finding a tutor for Persian,”
“Or Russian?”
Paul got up from the bed and grabbed his duffel bag. He mumbled a goodnight and went to his new room through the conjoined balcony.