I remember the church in winter.
Not the one next to the market. A different one. Smaller. Older. The walls were stone, gray, the same gray as the sky. The door was wood, dark, the handle worn smooth. I went there sometimes. When the other church was closed. When I wanted to be alone. When I wanted to sit in the dark and not pray and not think and not do anything except be there. In the cold. In the quiet. In the place where no one knew my name.
It was in that church that I met him. Daniel. He was sitting in the last pew. The one by the door. His head was down. His hands were in his lap. He was not praying. I could tell. He was just sitting. Like me. He had a paper cup in front of him. On the pew. Empty. He was wearing an old coat. Army coat. Green. Faded. The left pocket had a hole. I could see the lining. Gray. Worn.
I sat at the other end of the pew. Not next to him. Far enough that we were not together. Close enough that we were not alone. The church was cold. The candles were low. The air smelled of stone and dust and something else. Something old. Something that had been there for a long time. Waiting.
I remember the first words he said to me.
It was not that day. It was days later. A week. Maybe more. I came to the church. He was there. The same pew. The same coat. The same cup. I sat at the other end. He looked at me. His eyes were dark. Not brown. Not black. Something in between. Like the river at night. Like the water when you cannot see the bottom.
"You come here," he said. His voice was low. The words were slow. English. Not good English. But English.
I nodded.
"Why?" he said.
I didn't know how to answer. Why did I come to the church? For the warmth? There was no warmth. For the silence? There was silence. For the candles? The candles were low. I came because I had nowhere else to go. I came because the basement was dark. The restaurant was loud. The streets were cold. I came because I wanted to sit in a place where no one asked me anything.
"Why?" he said again.
"To sit," I said. "To be quiet."
He looked at me for a long time. Then he nodded. He looked at his hands. They were thin. The fingers were long. The nails were dirty. He was young. Younger than me. His face was thin. His hair was dark. His eyes were dark. He looked like someone who had been walking for a long time. Someone who had not stopped.
"I come here," he said. "To sit. To be quiet. To remember."
He looked at the altar. The candles. The cross. The figure on the cross. Thin. Wounded.
"I remember," he said. "That is all I do. I remember."
He picked up his cup. It was empty. He put it down. He stood up. He walked to the door. He opened it. The cold came in. He went out. The door closed. I sat in the pew. The candles were low. The air was cold. I remembered. I remembered Chongqing. The fog. The river. My father's noodle stand. My mother's hands. My sister's laugh. I remembered the basement. Old Li's cigarettes. Anna's bread. Mariusz's vodka. I remembered. That was all I did. I remembered.
I remember the day he told me his name.
I was at the church. He was there. The same pew. The same coat. The same cup. I sat next to him. Not far. Next to him. He looked at me. His eyes were dark. The river at night.
"Daniel," he said. He pointed to himself. "Daniel."
"Shanhe," I said. I pointed to myself. "Shanhe."
He repeated it. "Shanhe." The sounds were strange in his mouth. The 'sh' was too soft. The 'he' was too hard. But he tried. He said it again. "Shanhe." Better. Not good. But better.
"Where are you from?" I asked.
"Romania," he said. "A small place. In the mountains. Near the river."
He looked at his hands. The thin fingers. The dirty nails.
"I am from China," I said. "Chongqing. A big place. Also a river. The Jialing. It is brown. Fast. It carries things."
He nodded. He did not ask what it carried. I did not say. We sat in the pew. The candles were low. The air was cold. We did not speak. We sat. We remembered.
I remember the day he showed me the postcard.
It was winter. The snow was falling. The church was dark. The candles were low. He took something from his pocket. A piece of paper. Folded. Old. The edges were soft. He opened it. It was a postcard. A picture. Mountains. Snow. Trees. A river. Blue. Clear. The kind of water you can see through. The kind of water that shows the stones at the bottom.
"This is my home," he said. "The mountains. The river. I lived there. When I was a boy."
He held the postcard in his hands. His fingers were thin. The nails were dirty. He looked at the picture. The mountains. The snow. The river.
"My father built the house. With his hands. The wood was from the forest. The stones were from the river. He built it before I was born. I grew up there. I swam in the river. I fished. I walked in the mountains. My mother made fish soup. It was good. The best. She would cook it on Sundays. The whole house would smell. My father would come back from the forest. He would sit at the table. He would wait. We would eat. The soup was hot. The bread was fresh. My mother would smile. My father would not smile. But he was happy. I could see it. In his eyes."
He stopped. His hands were still. The postcard was in his fingers. The mountains. The snow. The river.
"I have not been back," he said. "For a long time. I do not know if the house is still there. I do not know if my mother is still there. I do not know if my father is still there. I do not know."
He folded the postcard. Carefully. The edges were soft. He put it back in his pocket. The left pocket. The one with the hole. He put his hand over the hole. His fingers covered it. He sat in the pew. The candles were low. The snow was falling outside. The church was quiet. I did not ask what happened. I did not ask why he left. I did not ask why he did not go back. Some things you do not ask. Some things you do not need to ask. You sit. You are quiet. You remember.
I remember the day he taught me the word.
We were in the church. The same pew. The candles were low. He was looking at his hands. The thin fingers. The dirty nails.
"In my language," he said, "we have a word. 'Acasă.' It means home. But not the house. Not the building. The place. The place where you are from. The place where your people are. The place you want to go back to. Even when you cannot. Even when it is not there anymore."
He said the word again. "Acasă." The sound was soft. The 'a' was low. The 's' was like the wind. The 'ă' was like a breath. He said it like a secret. Like something you only say when no one is listening.
"Acasă," I repeated. The sound was strange in my mouth. Not soft. Not like the wind. Not like a breath. He did not correct me. He did not say it was wrong. He looked at the altar. The candles. The cross. The figure on the cross. Thin. Wounded.
"Acasă," he said again. He put his hand over his pocket. The left pocket. The one with the hole. The one where the postcard was. The mountains. The snow. The river.
I thought about the word in my language. "Jia." It meant home. Not the house. The place. The place where your people are. The place you want to go back to. Even when you cannot. I thought about my father's noodle stand. The smell of oil. The sound of his voice. My mother's hands. Red. Cracked. Carrying the basket. My sister's laugh. Her missing tooth. The fog on the Jialing. The water that carried things. I thought about the word. "Jia." I said it. In the church. In the cold. In the dark. Daniel looked at me. He did not ask what it meant. He did not need to. He knew.
I remember the day he told me about the soup.
It was after the church. We were outside. The snow had stopped. The streets were white. The old town was quiet. We walked together. Not talking. Just walking. Our shoes made sounds in the snow. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
"My mother made soup," he said. "Every Sunday. Fish soup. From the river. She would catch the fish. Early in the morning. Before the sun. She would come back. The fish would be in her basket. Still wet. Still shining. She would clean them. On the table. The wooden table. My father made it. Before I was born. She would clean the fish. Then she would cook. The soup would take a long time. The whole day. The house would smell. Like the river. Like the mountains. Like something that was always there. Something that would always be there."
He stopped. We were in front of the church. The stone walls were gray. The door was dark. The snow was on the ground. White. Clean.
"I have not eaten that soup," he said. "For a long time. I do not know if I will ever eat it again."
He looked at the church. The door. The walls. The snow. He put his hands in his pockets. The left pocket had the hole. I could see his fingers through it. Gray. Worn.
"I will go back," he said. "One day. I will go back. I will eat the soup. I will see my mother. I will see the river. I will see the mountains. I will go back."
He said it like he was telling himself. Not me. He said it like a promise. A promise he had made a long time ago. A promise he was still keeping.
I remember the day he left.
I came to the church. He was not there. The pew was empty. The cup was gone. I sat in his place. The wood was cold. The candles were low. I waited. He did not come. I went back the next day. He was not there. The day after. Not there. A week. Two weeks. He did not come.
I asked the woman who cleaned the church. She was old. Her hair was gray. Her hands were red. She was mopping the floor. The water was gray. The tiles were gray.
"The Romanian boy," I said. "He came here. He sat in that pew. Do you know where he is?"
She looked at me. Her eyes were gray. Like the floor. Like the tiles. Like the water in the bucket.
"He left," she said. "Went to France. A week ago. He was here. He said goodbye. He said he would not come back."
She went back to mopping. The water was gray. The tiles were gray. I stood in the church. The candles were low. The air was cold. I thought about Daniel. His dark eyes. His thin fingers. His army coat. The hole in the pocket. The postcard. The mountains. The snow. The river. The word. "Acasă." The soup. The fish. The wooden table. The house in the mountains. His mother. His father. The promise he made to himself. "I will go back."
I remember the sweater.
It was in the pew. The one where he used to sit. A sweater. Gray. High collar. A few holes. I picked it up. It was soft. Worn. It smelled like him. Like the church. Like the candles. Like the cold. There was a note. Folded. In the pocket. I opened it. The writing was small. The letters were strange. Romanian. I could not read it. But I knew what it said. He was saying goodbye. He was saying thank you. He was saying "I will go back." He was saying "Acasă."
I put the sweater on. It was too big. The sleeves were long. The collar was high. It was warm. I wore it to the restaurant. Master Zhang looked at me. He did not say anything. Xiao Liu looked at me. He did not say anything. Old Li looked at me. He was smoking. He squinted.
"New sweater," he said.
"A friend gave it," I said.
Old Li nodded. He put out his cigarette. He lay down. He did not ask who the friend was. He did not ask where the friend went. He did not ask if the friend was coming back. He knew. Some things you do not ask. Some things you do not need to ask. You lie down. You close your eyes. You remember.
I remember the years after.
I wore the sweater for a long time. In Warsaw. In Berlin. In Paris. In Naples. In Amsterdam. It got older. The holes got bigger. The wool got thinner. The smell faded. The smell of the church. The candles. The cold. The smell of Daniel. His dark eyes. His thin fingers. His army coat. The postcard. The mountains. The snow. The river. The word. "Acasă." The soup. The fish. The wooden table. The house in the mountains. His mother. His father. The promise. "I will go back."
I did not know if he went back. I did not know if he saw his mother. I did not know if he ate the soup. I did not know if the house was still there. I did not know if the river was still blue. I did not know if the mountains were still covered with snow. I did not know. But I remembered. I remembered the word he taught me. "Acasă." I remembered the way he said it. Like a secret. Like something you only say when no one is listening. I remembered the way he held the postcard. His thin fingers. The edges soft. The mountains. The snow. The river. I remembered the way he walked in the snow. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. I remembered the way he said "I will go back." Like a promise. A promise he had made a long time ago. A promise he was still keeping.
I remember the last time I thought about him.
It was years later. I was in another country. Another city. Another language. I was in a room. A small room. A bed. A table. A window. It was winter. The snow was falling. I was looking at the sweater. It was on the bed. The wool was thin. The holes were big. The collar was frayed. I picked it up. It was soft. Worn. The smell was gone. The smell of the church. The candles. The cold. The smell of Daniel. It was just a sweater now. Old. Worn. Full of holes. I held it in my hands. I thought about Daniel. In France. Or maybe he went back. To Romania. To the mountains. To the river. To his mother's soup. To the wooden table. To the house his father built. I thought about the word. "Acasă." Home. The place where you are from. The place where your people are. The place you want to go back to. Even when you cannot. Even when it is not there anymore.
I put the sweater in a box. With other things. The cloth from the priest. The jar from the old woman. The lighter from Old Li. The postcard from Daniel. The one he left in the pew. I found it later. Under the sweater. The mountains. The snow. The river. The water was blue. Clear. You could see the stones at the bottom. I kept it. I still have it. Somewhere. In a box. With other things I do not know what to do with. I do not look at it often. But sometimes. When it is winter. When the snow is falling. When I am in a room. A small room. A bed. A table. A window. I take it out. I look at the mountains. The snow. The river. I think about Daniel. His dark eyes. His thin fingers. His army coat. The hole in the pocket. The word he taught me. "Acasă." I say it. In the room. In the winter. In the quiet. "Acasă." The sound is strange in my mouth. Not soft. Not like the wind. Not like a breath. But I say it. Because it is the only word I have. Because it is the word he gave me. Because it is the word that means home. The place where you are from. The place where your people are. The place you want to go back to. Even when you cannot. Even when it is not there anymore.