Sitting in an empty auditorium at a time when the evening rays gently touched the board on which was written in chalk "Nostalgia" seemed the most pleasant pastime.
I love evenings. Especially like today. When after heavy rain, in the evening the sky becomes clear and thin rays of the sun pierce the atmosphere and touch the roofs of houses and everything around.
On such evenings I feel at peace with the world.
With a pleasant feeling after a long lecture, which slowly turned into a debate, I looked at the word written on the board.
Nostalgia, memories, the past. It was all alien to me. I had no past to remember. I don't know if it's good or bad, but one thing I know for sure, the memories didn't haunt me, the past always lagged behind me at a time when all the arrows of the clock are moving forward.
All people give their memory too much meaning. It feels as if everyone lives in order to accumulate as many memories as possible, and then live inhaling them and missing them. Thus, creating the impression of a full life.
If there are memories, things that people can remember, then life was full.
Memory is perhaps an important component of human. If someone asks what the person is made of, you can answer as follows:
Human consists of soul, heart, mind and memories.
People are willing to do anything to create happy memoirs, but when their memory is full of pain, suffering, it is an occasion to feel sorry for themselves and be angry.
Memory turns a person into a different being.
But I didn't know anything about my memory.
Maybe I'm the same person who only lives in the present. Yes, such people exist.
When the sun slowly began to hide behind the clouds that foreshadowed another rain, I put on my black coat and gathered my hair in a bun.
Taking Leon's book with me, I went out into an empty hallway.
As I walked past the auditoriums where Ikuta's lecture was going, I waved to him and he smiled back at me.
It was nice to inhale the evening coolness. It was nice to look ahead and see the houses still painted in the orange tones of the sun.
Holding Leon's memoir, I repeated in my head his words. He wrote beautifully and intelligently. But the more I read the book "The Good Man," the more I wanted to see him. I was interested in him. And that was the first time. This is the first time I've felt interested in anyone.
In his memoirs, he did not write about his childhood. Rather, he captured his memories, thoughts and experiences there. Reading his book, it seemed as if he was just an alien who fell from another planet. Maybe he didn't have a memory, like me. Maybe we're both aliens...
Walking along an alley filled with students who were rushing home or planning their weekends, I caught their gazes. Everyone smiling at me wished me a good evening.
Once in the crowd, I felt like an island again. By nature, in my heart, I always feel like a loner.
But lately, I began to notice that around me, around the island, began to slowly gather ships.
And the closest ship that almost reached me belonged to Leon.
Reflecting on this, I sat down on a bench which was in a small gazebo.
It was getting dark and I closed my neck from the wind with my collar.
Looking at the people who were walking after work, at the people who expressed their unhappiness, I suddenly felt a tear in the corner of my eyes. But I didn't dare cry.
But that was until someone interrupted my meditation.
Ethel, standing behind me, said, "Good evening Professor."
"Hello Ethel."
"Didn't expect to see me?"
"I felt like I'd see you today."
She sat down next to me and at that very moment I thought of Leon. Maybe I was wondering, what would happen if he saw me and Ethel?
This strange question made me smile.
"You smile. That's good," Ethel whispered.
"I'm surprised by that too."
"And what made you smile?"
I didn't know what to say. But she clearly felt something.
"It looks like you were made to smile by someone named Leon," she suddenly said.
"What?"
"Your book, you smiled and looked at this book. It's probably a very good and kind book."
I didn't say anything.
Ethel smiled slightly and buttoned up her leather jacket. A few drops of rain were still lying on the strands of her hair.
For a while, we just sat silently and watched a man play with his dog.
"Would you like to go to the theater?" she asked, holding out a ticket.
"Have you already bought tickets?"
"Yes. I wanted to invite you."
"And this, The Play of Romeo and Juliet?"
"Yes," she said.
"Do you like this work of Shakespeare?"
"I'm just wondering your opinion," she said, and stood up from the bench. "If you don't mind, let me invite you to the theater."
Shakespeare's creations were little familiar to me, and I was curious.
And I said yes.
"Professor, after the theater, I have one conversation for you," Ethel said as we took to the central street.
"I'm curious now."
"And so am I."
Surprisingly, she walked very fast. Her red shoes were flashing at a rapid speed.
At this pace, we quickly found ourselves in a theater that was a tall building with many columns.
Five minutes later, the play began.
Ethel looked at me and smiled, that second the lights were turned off in the big hall and the scene was filled with the gloomy glow of the little light bulbs.
And for the next few minutes, I saw how two people fall in love and then turned a tragedy out of their love.
The meaning was clear and simple. I looked at Ethel and noticed boredom on her face. While almost all the people around us were crying.
The acting was impeccable, there was no dispute. But I was in a hurry to get out of here and share my impressions with Ethel.
Perhaps only the two of us were cold-blooded and insensitive of all people.
The love shown on the stage, perhaps, did not touch our hearts, but most likely on the contrary, made even more cautious and cold.
It was probably the most boring evening of my life.
And when it was finally over, Ethel and I were the first to run out of the hall.
Stopping in a cafe at the theater, she sat in a chair.
Her eyes sparkled by the light of the lamps.
"How was the play?" she asked, looking at a small menu with different kinds of coffee and cakes.
"It's quite interesting."
"The truth? You can tell, it was boring."
"But those girls didn't seem like that," I said, pointing to girls her age who still wiped away tears.
"Have you seen the love, professor? Did you hear the real voice of love in this play?"
"No. Although I don't know anything about it."
"You don't need to know anything. People have been destroying love for a long time. And now they're just dancing on its shards. And they call it feelings. What they call love is a kind of just trying to be like everyone else and be happy."
"You say like if you were never in love," I said, and at that moment they brought us one cup of coffee and a mug of green tea.
"My love and knowing love don't end in meeting someone and trying to be happy together," she said, bringing her chair closer to me. Her eyes shone with delight. She loved being a skeptic about romance. She continued, and I listened intently, "Professor, do you know how people choose each other? When a person is looking for a soulmate, he or she do it as if they choose a sofa. Maybe they don't think so, but subconsciously it is. The sofa should be beautiful, comfortable and most importantly light. Man, if he or she sees in another person all these qualities, they immediately fall in love. Because he or she found their cozy sofa."
Here I could not contain my laughter, I was amused by what I heard. "Do you really think that when a person falls in love or chooses a person for life, it is the same as going to a furniture store in search of the perfect sofa? And why the sofa?"
"What I want to say is that a person makes a choice, he looks for a quality product in the market of mutual feelings. And if people still think that love is something truly majestic and honest, they are actually mistaken. It's just another selfish thing. Fear of being alone. Why is a man afraid to be alone? Because a person is not able to come to terms with his quirks, with his thoughts. Now think professor, what kind of love can we talk about if a person is not even able to love himself before letting someone into his life? Doesn't that mean that all this time, people did not live with each other, but with only frightened echoes of the past?"
I liked what she said. I didn't find the right words. But still, some part of me, to my surprise, believed in the existence of non-selfish love. That love that exists on its own, like the Moon in the sky.
And then I said, "What about soulmates?"
She moved even closer to me. Her facial expression became serious. Her eyebrows frowned and she whispered, "If you ever witness the existence of soulmates, let me know."
"So, you're a skeptic in everything in life?"
"Yes," she said.
She looked at her watch and looked out the window.
It was already dark and the Moon was hardly shining through the heavy clouds.
There were people around us and each of them sat tiredly and looked at each other, probably trying to understand themselves and the person opposite.
"It's too late. Professor, I have to go."
"Ethel, thank you for tonight. And for that conversation."
She bent down to me and looked at me for a minute as if she had seen me for the first time.
"Professor, can I paint your portrait?"
"My portrait?"
"Yes. But more, I want to paint your soul."
"My soul?"
"Yes. In a week, I'd like you to come to my house. Unless you mind."
"I'd love to come. No one has ever painted my portrait before. I'm all excited."
"Then until next week."
"Goodbye."