Jhumpa Lahiri - In Other Words

I hate analyzing what I write. But one morning a few months later, when I’m running in the park of Villa Doria Pamphili, the meaning of this strange story suddenly comes to me: the sweater is language.

There was a woman, a translator, who wanted to be another person. There was no precise reason. It had always been that way.

She had friends, a family, an apartment, a job. She had enough money, and good health. She had, in other words, a fortunate life, for which she was grateful. The only thing that troubled her was what distinguished her from others.

When she thought of what she possessed, she felt a mild revulsion, because every object, every thing that belonged to her, gave proof of her existence. Every time she remembered something of her past life, she was convinced that another version would have been better.

She considered herself imperfect, like the first draft of a book. She wanted to produce another version of herself, in the same way that she could transform a text from one language into another. At times she had the impulse to remove her presence from the earth, as if it were a thread on the hem of a nice dress, to be cut off with a pair of scissors.

And yet she didn’t want to kill herself. She loved the world too much, and people. She loved taking long walks in the late afternoon, and observing her surroundings. She loved the green of the sea, the light of dusk, the rocks scattered on the sand. She loved the taste of a red pear in autumn, the full, heavy winter moon that shone amid the clouds. She loved the warmth of her bed, a good book to read without being interrupted. To enjoy that, she would have lived forever.

Wishing to better understand the reason she felt the way she did, she decided one day to eliminate the signs of her existence. Apart from a small suitcase, she threw or gave everything away. She wanted to live in solitude, like a monk, in order to confront what she couldn’t bear. To her friends, her family, the man who loved her, she said that she had to go away for a while.

She chose a city where she knew no one, didn’t understand the language, where it wasn’t too hot or too cold. She brought clothes that were as simple as possible, all black: a dress, a pair of shoes, and a soft, light wool sweater, with five small buttons.

She arrived as the season was changing. It was warm in the sun, cool in the shade. She rented a room. She walked for hours, wandered aimlessly, without speaking. The city was small, pleasant but without personality, without tourists. She heard the sounds, observed the people: some hurried to work, some sat on benches, like her, with a book or a cell phone, taking the sun. When she was hungry, she ate something sitting on a bench. When she was tired, she went to the movies.

The days grew short, dark. Gradually the trees lost their colors, their leaves. The translator’s mind emptied. She began to feel light, anonymous. She imagined she was a falling leaf, like every other.

At night she slept well. In the morning she woke without worries. She didn’t think of the future or of the traces of her life. She was suspended in time, like a person without a shadow. And yet she was alive, she felt more alive than ever.

One rainy, windy day, she took shelter under the cornice of a stone building. The rain poured down. She didn’t have an umbrella, or even a hat. The rain beat on the sidewalk with an insistent, continuous sound. She thought of the water’s eternal journey, falling from the clouds, penetrating the earth, filling the rivers, arriving, finally, at the sea.

The street was pocked with puddles, the façade of the building opposite was covered with illegible signs. The translator noticed various women going in and out. Occasionally one alone or a small group would arrive, press a bell, then enter. Curious, she decided to follow.

Beyond the entranceway she had to cross a courtyard, where the rain was confined, as if it were falling in a room without a ceiling. She stopped for a moment to look at the sky, even though she got wet. Farther on there was a dark stairway, the steps slightly uneven, where some women were coming down, others going up.

On the landing stood a tall, thin woman, with a wrinkled yet still beautiful face. She had short fair hair, and was dressed in black. The dress was transparent, without a precise shape, and with long, diaphanous sleeves, like wings. This woman welcomed the others, with open arms.

Come in, come in, there are a lot of things to see.

Inside the apartment the translator left her purse in the hall, on a long table, as the others did. At the end of the hall was a large living room. A row of black dresses hung on a clothes rack next to the wall.

The dresses were like soldiers, at attention, but inanimate. In another part of the room there were couches, lighted candles, a table loaded with fruit, cheese, a rich chocolate cake. In a corner was a tall mirror divided into three, in which you could look at yourself from different angles.

The owner of the apartment, who had designed the black clothes, was sitting on a sofa, smoking and chatting. She spoke the language of the place perfectly, but with a slight accent. She was a foreigner, like the translator.

Welcome. Please, have something to eat, look around, make yourself comfortable.

Some women were already undressed, and were trying on clothes, asking the others for their opinions. They were a collection of arms, legs, hips, waists. Unceasing variations. They all seemed to know each other.

The translator took off her sweater, undressed. She began to try on all the garments in her size, one after the other, methodically, as if it were a task. There were pants, jackets, skirts, shirts, dresses. All black, made of soft light fabrics.

They are ideal for traveling, the owner said. They are comfortable, modern, versatile. You can wash them by hand in cold water. They don’t wrinkle.

The other women agreed. They said that now they wore only clothes designed by the owner. You could get them only by going to her house, only by private invitation. Only in this way, secret, hidden, festive.

The translator stood in front of the mirror. She studied her own image. But she was distracted by the presence of another woman behind the mirror, at the end of the hall. She was different from the others. She was working at a table, with an iron, a needle in her mouth. She had tired eyes, a sorrowful face.

The clothes were elegant, well made. Even though they suited her, the translator didn’t like them. After trying the last thing she decided to leave. She didn’t feel like herself in those clothes. She didn’t want to acquire or accumulate anything more.

There were piles of clothes everywhere, on the floor, on the couches, on the chairs, like so many dark puddles. After rummaging awhile, she found hers. But her black sweater was missing. She had looked in all the piles but hadn’t found it.