TCOTNK 2.3 Letters 9 and 10
TCOTNK 2.3 Letters 9 and 10
If you haven’t read the first season of TCOTNK the following writings will not make much sense. I suggest you read those fifteen chapters first….
Season 1 is also available as an e-pub (compatible with most readers) for paying subscribers.
back to chapter 1 (of season 1)
The 9th Letter
9th letter
Sweet Charlotte,
Do you know that salutation is also in your book? I hadn't paid attention to it at first, that scribble on the flyleaf has faded a bit, but there's something curious about that. I think it says;
"Sweet Charlotte, I dedicate this book to you in the hope that you will read and live."
Did you raise one eyebrow? Strange huh? That wasn't what really triggered me. First there's that dedication, an old-fashioned way of putting something sweet in a present, but I read it differently. Especially when I deciphered your grandmother's flamboyant signature. That puts the whole book in a completely different light and I suspect you didn't know it either, given the reactions and your attitude, which I remember, towards this darling of a print.
I think it says Sapi. And that means your grandmother is the writer and illustrator of that amazing picture book! In several drawings, with a magnifying glass, and by god you need one for these pages, those five letters can be seen. Yes, five. Capital letters and two a's. SAAPI. I don't know how to put into words how special this book is. I had already discovered that, but the shortest angel flight in history intervened and I was momentarily absorbed in more earthly matters so that I forgot again for a while. Who the hell is your grandmother? It's the kind of story that enchants you the first time, but still seems odd and incomprehensible. Incomprehensible books abound but this, I believe, is one of those rare arcane stories that require a key, or even several, to open the treasure chest it actually is. I also think my sudden fascination with memory comes from here. Something in the book triggers that. I had a ‘record’ or two like that, the vinyl ones, each time you played them their weird content crept deeper into you. This book is a record to play over and over again.
Why is it not famous? Why had I never heard of it? The assignment in the front sounds like she wrote even more. Where is that? I want to read it. I want to see it.
The discovery has shifted my research in a new direction. Because the astonishing thing is that it shows a large overlap with my chosen path. Nothing is separate. You would, I think, consider this coincidence obvious. I can almost hear you say it; shhh, Michelangelo, listen....don’t you hear what is just ahead? Yes, Scarlotte! I hear it now too!
I will keep you informed of my findings.
see ya,
R
10th letter
Dear Charlotte,
I had to leave in a hurry last night. A shame because I hadn't received my weekly wage yet. I had gone to bed early — following the light more and more — and was just about to fall asleep when there was a pounding on the door. I peeked through the curtain. A police car. There you’ll have it, I thought. And for a moment I felt my fear attempting to take over. Then I thought of you. Imagining how you would deal with this. The officer was a friendly one. It was just him, on his own account. He wanted to tell me that the scrap-metal workers wouldn't at all be happy if they started at six the next morning —back from their summer break— and found a gypsy snoring on their doorstep. It might be wise to continue‘my writing’ elsewhere.
The local police were informed! Under the radar? Silly me. Fortunately, fear does not yet reign in the countryside. The man preferred that I pack my bags right away. I saw him check out the state of my vehicle and was dead nervous but he chatted away and waved me goodbye when I drove off. It almost was as if you sat beside me, bare feet on the dashboard. That little knowing smile curling into your cheeks.
Me and my sleepy head, off into the night. With my global heading, away from the sun, I always know which way to go. Unless you have no navigation, no compass and it's two o'clock in a moonless cloudy night. Then even due north is untraceable.
So I just did whatever, meandered in the dark until I saw a light in the sparsely populated area. I drove into the yard. The sharp smell of manure met me head on. Drawn towards the light I entered a large barn where a pair of pink construction lamps illuminated the rear part like a Rembrandt painting. The farmer was spreading hay with a lance-length dung fork. Black rubber boots, a tanned sinewy body, a two-day stubble and nothing but a pair of slouchy snow-white briefs.
'Yoa,' he said, not at all surprised at my untimely visit, 'it's not going well with Gudrun's delivery.'
He resumed his work. I waited a moment.
"Can I help you with that?" I asked.
"Sure DaVinci, she's in the corner." He pointed his three-pointed spear.
I just walked over. The huge blush coloured sow lying in the straw seemed to be very frightened by me and started to scream. Long screeching hauls. Pure pork panic. The farmer came over, looked at me in surprise, and said, "Well, that's settled then," in Joe's tone. How funny is that? Well, maybe not at all, but he had mistaken me for the vet, which he then immediately called off on a squeaky white smartphone that he manifested from god knows where. Because, as he said, it saved him a wheelbarrow of change.
“DaVinci,” he said, pinching my shoulder like a vice, “I couldn't get it to move but that mug of yours did the trick!” He scratched his testicles, slowly removed his hand out of his underpants, let the elastic snap against his fatless stomach and leaned contentedly on his trident. Together we watched the first piglet pop out.
I helped clean nineteen of those filthy slippery mutts! Cut umbilical cords and disinfected the ends. Within the hour it was as if they’d already grown. When they dry up under the infra red bulb and drink, they're like puppies. All drawn differently like variegated Dalmatians but from when the printer ran out of ink. Subtle soul soothing shades, just as Scarlotte likes them.
I had breakfast with the farmer. (the best bacon ever, but it also tasted strange with this experience fresh in my mind) He doesn't say much, never answers questions directly, but doesn't seem to object to my spending the night in his yard.
Sleep well,
See you tomorrow.
R
I believe the man always works. As long as it's light, he's busy. He's a handsome man, could easily have become an actor in a hospital series from twenty years ago, but I think he lives alone.
The weather is horrendous. It switches between showering sideways and a sticky gray drizzle that turns all colours to mud. I sit inside and feel trapped. I desperately want to go online. Looking up things, look you up. Because, you know, the book might lead me to you. When I find Sapi, I find you. Those bound pages are my paper trail. The thought won't leave me. In addition, I would love to meet the woman behind this seriously bewitching story. If she's still alive. I do not know anything. And I can do so little. Here among the piglets. (and the goats, there is a trip of two hundred but they stay mostly in the fields all summer)
—-
You know what? The farmer's name is Ferdynand and he owns a big smart screen tv and has a fiber optic connection. I surfed for a few hours. Delicious, but the yield is meager.
—-
I don't believe the picture book ever was published. For whatever reason there is nothing about it on the web. And what about Sapi? That's some mysterious crone! Sorry for talking so disrespectfully about her. But who is that person? It seems that some attempts were made to nose her out a few decades ago. Sapi says; "my creation is not for this era." That's the only quote I can find. No footage or pictures of her. It is not even certain whether it is the same Sapi. I can't even tell if it's a man or a woman. The search term TCOTNK also yields nothing useful. No publisher is listed in the book, and it has no colophon or ISBN. Is it from before that time? I think so. That means 1960s or earlier. I should dive into newspaper archives and not lean on the search engines so heavily. That’s the filter, not the archive. A map of a map of a map....copying the copy is not this artist's job. I must find the source.
—-
So now I'm back to the book itself and its cryptic texts. You said it was about knights, but that's not right. Yes, there are knights and knight affairs in it, but the story is not about them I believe. They certainly don't have the leading role. A large part is about children. Girls. But the book consists of five parts, maybe six, each of which is separate, but there is still cross-fertilization, and nesting. Both textual and visual. In addition to the sometimes funny dialogues, the action does not seem to connect as if the scenes have been shuffled. It is full of symbols. At several levels. It's maddeningly rich. It covers a long period of time. Not a defined era but several generations. Even centuries? With every round of reading I see different details, I get distracted, I get lost in the different layers. It's like the book doesn't want you to focus, to see through its secret. It invites you and then deceives you. Without venom, without malice but loving and mischievous. Whooaa, I'm in love with your grandmother!!!
Lots of love, R
Michelangelo’s next letter will arrive on the 10th of December