« After my wife died, I no longer wanted to get up in the morning. »
I remained silent.
« The house was empty. The days seemed endless. I no longer knew how to fill them. There was a period when continuing required an immense effort. »
I felt my chest tighten.
« Then you arrived with this soup. »
I watched it without understanding.
« I took it, I threw it away, and I thought that would be the end of it. But you came back the following Sunday. And then again the Sunday after that. And, at some point, I realized that every week, someone was expecting to find me here again. »
Her hands were folded and her eyes remained lowered.
« I thought that, even if I were no longer here one day, you would still come knocking on my door. You would wait outside. You would worry. You would wonder if you had missed something. And I didn’t want to leave you with that burden. »
Tears welled up in my eyes.
« You continued for that? »
He answered me softly:
“At first, yes. Not for the soup. Because someone came by. Because once a week, I existed for someone. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get me through to the following Sunday. Then Sundays became months. Months became years. And, without really realizing it, I started living again.”
This time, I couldn’t hold back my tears.
He let me cry before uttering a sentence I will never forget:
« Your soup didn’t nourish me, Teresa. But your steadfastness did. What was in the bowl wasn’t important. What mattered was knowing that someone would notice my absence. »
I slowly made my way home, completely distraught.
For six years, I had believed I was providing my neighbor with what he needed.
In reality, I had brought him something else.
Proof that, if he disappeared, someone would notice.
I was thinking of offering him a meal.
But I gave him a reason to arrive until the following Sunday.
The first Sunday without soup
The following Sunday, for the first time in six years, no pots were simmering on my stove.
I had woken up early, as usual.
At seven o’clock, I was already in the kitchen. I opened the cupboard, looked at my large saucepan, then closed the door.
The carrots, celery and onions bought out of habit were always on the table.
I stood for a few minutes with my hands resting on the edge of the table.
My house seemed quieter than usual.
When you repeat the same action for years, the body continues to want to do it even when you know it is no longer necessary.
I wanted to wash the vegetables, put some water on to heat, and get out a clean container.
Instead, I made myself a coffee.
I drank it slowly near the window. Every time I heard a noise on the landing, I looked through the peephole.
It was absurd, but I felt like I had lost something too.
Not Carlo.
He was still there.
I had lost my way of being there for him.
Around noon, someone knocked.
I jumped.
I was expecting to see Elena, a delivery man, or a neighbor.
But when I opened it, Carlo was standing in front of me.
He was carrying a small paper bag from the bakery and two mismatched cups nested one inside the other.
« Can I come in? » he asked me.
I immediately stepped aside.
He entered with the caution that well-bred people have when they enter someone’s home for the first time.
He placed the bag on the table and took out four very simple dry biscuits, with a little sugar on top.
« No soup today, » he said. « I thought that, for once, I could bring you coffee. »
I don’t know why that sentence almost made me cry again.
Perhaps because it was so simple.
Or perhaps because she arrived at exactly the right time.
I turned my back on him to get the coffee maker, just so he wouldn’t see my wet eyes.
When I turned around, he was looking at my kitchen as if he were discovering it for the first time.
And that was indeed the case.
For six years, we had spoken to each other on a threshold.
Never really inside.
We finally started to get to know each other
We drank our coffee in silence for the first few minutes.
It wasn’t an unpleasant silence. It was simply a new silence, one that didn’t yet know what form to take.
Then Carlo said:
» I’m sorry. «
I looked up.
» For what ? «
« For letting you continue for so long without telling you the truth. »
I sighed.
« I felt ridiculous. »
“I know,” he replied. “And I’m ashamed of it. But every year that passed made the truth harder to tell. At first, I thought: I’ll tell her next Sunday. Then next Sunday became the following month. Then the following year. And, at some point, the soup wasn’t just soup anymore.”
I understood perfectly what he meant.
« It was a date, » I replied.
He agreed.
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