1001 Nights Cast

A letter arrived yesterday. I am not sure from whom. Or rather, from where. The envelope looks as if it has come a long way, through many hands. Through rain perhaps. Certainly its journey was circuitous. There is no stamp, no postmark, no date, no return address. My name and address were written in an unsteady hand, in large uncomfortable block capitals, as if with great concentration by someone unused to writing, to writing in English at least, in blue ink. At some point in its journey, the envelope had gotten wet, and the ink had run a little. My name was blurred, streaky. I actually wondered, momentarily, if it was indeed addressed to me. It would be more convenient if this letter were directed to someone else: knowing that what is in the letter is uncomfortable, even dangerous. The letter itself is written on seven tiny scraps of paper, some of which appear to be a kind of industrial strength toilet paper—the sort of stuff you might imagine they used in Romanian prisons in the 1950s. Other sheets, not much larger, might be the lining of cigarette packets, teased away from some foundational layer of cheap cardboard. Each little page has been folded and refolded, is creased and greasy and grey. The writing is tiny, some of it in pencil, different pencils, different inks.

It took me the better part of two days just to read it, another day to carefully transcribe it. Then I placed each sheet inside a separate plastic sleeve, and put them altogether in an envelope. I walked ten blocks, caught a bus and then a train to the centre of the city before making my way to the Prado. I spent an hour walking through the main galleries. I then bought a postcard, and went to the nearest post office, where I bundled it with the originals of this letter and sent it all to my lawyer in Australia. I did not appear to have been followed. You will understand I am nervous about this. Really, I should say nothing. There are those, I know, who would be happy to see the contents of this letter lost forever. Perhaps these same people are prepared to silence anyone who seeks to make the letter public. But equally, it is impossible to remain silent. And, even if I were to forget all about the letter, to burn it even, another one, one similar, would find its way to someone else, and eventually, some other recipient, willing or otherwise, would take courage, and sit down in front of a keyboard, and transcribe these few desperate lines. Or sit down in front of a camera, as I am doing now, and read them to you. I know I am not the first to pass on this story, and nor will I be the last.

‘Friend’, the letter begins, ‘I write from a place of always light and always darkness. I am not longer sure of either way. Forgive me. I cannot write to you like a real person. I cannot tell you my name. I have forgot. Once I was teacher. I teached English. Now I am a forgetting man. Everything I have I forget. Except my child, who is 10 years old and girl. Her name is Nina. It is a good name. In the dark or the light I say this name many many times. It is like a small prayer. I have not slept for days, perhaps for weeks. Sometimes I dream I have sleep but then a very loud noise starts and I am still waking. Waking all the times. Nina her name is very good. She has dark hair. Her mother hair has also the same colour but longer. Nina was student in the same school as where I teached many many students. All English. And the love of God. For which I have many many names, but only Nina I remember. Please to tell Nina to keep practice English. It is the langauge of our hope and future. Freedom language. I tell all student this. Freedom language. Forgetting language. I yell this also the men and one women very young blond girl who come to ask me my name and why I am instructing freedom our younger men. Always the same question. Name. Why. Who. How. Sometimes one man, sometimes three or four. Once the young blondey head girl alone, she takes off her top and points to my genitals and laughs. I was crying then. I have cried many times and say ‘Nina Nina Nina Nina Nina’. The young womans laughed at me. I cried. One man—someone I have seen before never—he came in and said he was Authorised for Immunity from Persecution. I begged him to stop the persecution, I will say anything. I said Nina Nina Nina, and remembered my name and school address and wrote list of all books we read together. Alice in Wonderland. Poems by John Dunn. Jane Austen. And he laughed too and left. I am feeling terrible about shit everywhere, there is a bucket but it is not always there. Or sometimes always full. I must keep this tiny piece of paper to write or maybe I will be mad. Nina tells me sleep papa but then the noise starts and it is always light except when it is always dark. Please find my Nina. She has dark hair. Dark eyes. She loves very much English poetry. She will studied in England one day. We are all proud of her. Now it is very quiet. They are play with our nerves. Tomorrow I will make this letter go away. Please find Nina tell her Papa loves her and I will be back soon, and I will remember my name.’

That is what was written in the letter. I will finish here. I hear footsteps outside. If you meet Nina, say her father loves her very much. But he has forgotten his name.