A friend

When Tommy told me he was leaving, I was driving. We were in the car, heading to ‘Da Arnaldo’ for our usual aperitivo. ‘Da Arnaldo’ was a small restaurant just outside Milan that, on Fridays, served what Tommy and I considered the best aperitivo in the area. We had been going there for a year, every Friday without exception. After the first time, when we stumbled upon it by chance, we decided that this aperitivo would be our thing. That we would never miss it, and no one would come between us to ruin it. Friday evenings were sacred, not for our families, friends, or even our girlfriends, Clelia and Gloria.

It was the second week of September, one of my favorite times of the year. People had just returned from their holidays, and the tan on their bodies was proof of it. During the day, temperatures were still high enough for people to wear summer clothes. In the evening, temperatures dropped, and you needed to put on a sweater or a light jacket. I loved observing the contrast between the tanned skin and a heavier garment. On the radio, they were talking about the Eurozone crisis, countries facing severe economic difficulties, on the verge of failure. They said “default.” The word “default,” associated with a country, would stay with me for many years. I couldn’t understand how a state could fail.

I had picked him up about ten minutes before. We had chatted about this and that, taking a few seconds of silence. Then, out of nowhere, Tommy dropped the bomb.
“I’m going to Berlin. I’ve received a job offer I can’t refuse.” He paused for a few seconds.
“I’ll be leaving in November,” he concluded.
A deafening silence had taken over my head. My ears were ringing. The radio DJ’s voice sounded distant and impossible to decipher. Tommy had started talking again after what felt like minutes. He probably expected a reaction from me. Not getting one, he started another conversation, shifting to a completely different topic. He dismissed the Berlin matter in a few seconds as if nothing had happened. He spoke, but his words reached me late. I couldn’t and didn’t want to understand them. I stayed silent, focusing on the little energy I had left for driving, even though it felt like I was driving solely out of inertia. I didn’t have full control of what I was doing.

I spoke little that evening. Don’t remember what we ordered to drink. Also don’t recall what they brought for us to eat. I uttered a few words with a detached and absent tone. I would have preferred to go home immediately and lock myself in my room instead of pretending as if nothing had happened.
I felt hurt, humiliated, betrayed.

Why had he decided to leave?

What was wrong with his life here?

And why had he made such a decision without talking to me first?

Wasn’t my opinion important anymore?

The wound of that betrayal would burn for an excessively long time.

November 3rd would arrive too quickly. One day he was my safe haven, the next day he was a thousand kilometers away. I retreated into a silence that lasted for months. I had no desire to do anything. Performing the smallest of actions caused annoyance and fatigue. The only source of well-being was Gloria, but I missed Tommy, and I didn’t know how to fill his absence.

At first, he would return for every holiday and some weekends. During the first year, we often communicated, but then the conversations began to dwindle. Something had broken in me. In him, however, it seemed that nothing transcendental had happened. He always spoke of the future—experiences he wanted to have, projects he had in mind, countries he would visit. I, on the other hand, tried to bring back our past together to his memory. I was anchored to the past. My gaze was turned backward. But he didn’t like to talk about the past, and he quickly grew tired of recalling our experiences. For me, though, it was like medicine. The mere memory of happiness was enough to make me feel better.

One evening at dinner, months after his departure, Dad had tried to wake me up.
“He’s just gone to live in another country; he’s not dead. There’s no need to react like this. Life goes on.”
I ignored his words, keeping my focus on the food. His way of reading the situation seemed so trivial and superficial. The typical unsolicited advice from someone not involved in the matter. He probably expected a response, and not getting one, he upped the ante.
“Look, in life, there are much worse things. If you react in this way to something like this, what will you do for more serious events?”
I had stared him straight in the eyes. I wanted to spit in his face, but I continued eating the steak. At that point, he lost patience, and his tone of voice increased.
“What the hell do you think, that people make life decisions thinking about you? Would you have stayed here for him? Wouldn’t you have accepted such an opportunity?”
He had managed to touch a raw nerve. I let out everything I had kept inside for months. “Yes! I would have stayed here for him. I would never have left for a job offer! Why the hell did he need to go to Berlin? Can you explain it to me?” I yelled.

I seethed with anger. I wanted to punch something or someone. For a moment, I considered taking a plate and hurling it against the wall with all the force I had. I could hear the plate shattering, accompanied by my furious scream and heavy breathing. I didn’t have the courage to do it, just as I hadn’t had the courage to do many other things in life. The absence of courage would only allow me to excel in one thing—collecting regrets.

“Never do it. Never base your life decisions on another person. People are there one day and gone the next. Everyone pursues their dreams. Each of us has our own interests. And all we can do is follow them. You have your dreams, and your interests too. It’s just that now your mind is clouded, and you don’t see them. One day you’ll start chasing them, and that will involve losing relationships, people, places, and much more,” Dad said before getting up from the table. He never brought up that conversation again.

In the following days, I pondered what my dreams and interests were. I was happy where I was. Had no desire to go elsewhere. Gloria was the love of my life, and I already knew I would marry her. We would buy an apartment in Milan, not too far from our parents. I was comfortable with the routines that had developed with our families—the week in the mountains with hers, the one at the beach with mine, spending Christmas Eve at her place and Christmas at mine. On New Year’s, we always visited a different city in Italy. I was ok with it, and didn’t need anything else. I wasn’t interested in learning foreign languages, gaining work experience abroad, or making friends around the world.

But Tommy was different. His returns became less frequent. However, his happiness seemed to increase. He brought one or more friends with him whenever he visited. People who didn’t speak Italian, and conversations had to be in English. A language I didn’t grasp, so I never managed to have a proper conversation with Tommy’s new friends. None of them called him Tommy. Everyone called him Tommaso. And the way they pronounced his name deeply annoyed me. No one could pronounce the double “m” correctly. They said his name as if it had only one “m” and two “s.” Tomasso. What bothered me even more was his attitude toward all of this. He said nothing, didn’t correct anyone. He enjoyed and relished the limited time he spent in Italy with his international friends.

The height of my annoyance toward him manifested at my 25th birthday party. He had come alone, and before the party began, in front of everyone, he announced that he would be going to Japan. He had secured a scholarship for a master’s in something—I don’t remember what; I wasn’t interested. My attention had halted at the name of the country, Japan. Even farther away. And who knew if we would ever see each other again. What bothered me, more than Japan or the decision to tell me on that occasion, was the sense of how our past relationship seemed to influence his life choices less and less. It seemed he didn’t realize the time we were losing, how distance was preventing us from enjoying our friendship. None of this seemed to affect him; perhaps he didn’t even think about it, and it was destroying me. It caused physical and mental pain. I wanted to tell him and ask him many things, but I could never muster the courage. The more he distanced himself, the more I felt myself sinking, and it seemed there was nothing that could save me.

He said something to me before flying to Tokyo.

“You’re afraid. You’re rigid, tense like a string. Take it easy, and enjoy the life. And try to get out of this hole. Go somewhere for a while, have an experience. Then come back; you’re not obliged to stay away forever.”

So, I did it. I got out of that hole too. For six months. Six months which the company I had been working for since I graduated offered two spots for volunteers who wanted to experience Paris. I went. I responded to the email immediately. I applied urgently as if someone were chasing me. I hated Paris. I hated those six months. I didn’t bring anything beautiful home from that experience. I spent those months counting down. It didn’t take me long to realize that I hadn’t done it for myself. I had done it for him, for Tommy. He called me many times during that period, and it made me happy. I began to think that we were finally getting closer. Maybe going to Paris would work. In reality, things didn’t change. I couldn’t increase my influence on his life choices. I had gone to Paris for him, to show him that I was trying to become what he had advised. It was my last, desperate cry of pain. I hoped that my experience, for some stupid reason, would convince him to come back to Italy. Looking back now, I realize how far from reality I was. He continued his life, regardless of what it caused our friendship. I was no longer a factor. No one was for Tommy. He was immune, independent of everything and everyone.

My dad’s words echoed in my mind, words he had repeated tirelessly while teaching me how to drive.

“You’re the one who has to drive the car; it’s not the car that has to drive you.”

I obtained my driver’s license without the slightest hitch, but I never understood the meaning of what he meant by that phrase. I would only understand it by observing Tommy and trying to grasp the reason that drove him to stay so far from home and hop from one country to another.

Thanks to him, I understood that in life, there are two types of people. Those like Tommy, who have their own light, who drive the car, who bite into life, who seize everything they want. Those who have no fear. Those who enter your life, disrupt it, change the way you look at it, and you will never forget them. And then there are those like me. Those who let the car drive them, those who wait, who are afraid, those who don’t exist, whom you don’t notice, and if you happen to meet them, your life doesn’t change. It continues and remains the same as before you encountered them. I remained the same since Tommy left, while he became many things. Languages, cultures, people, habits. His courage and curiosity in undertaking new experiences had made him excessively interesting. It was beautiful to watch him being alive. He existed in a way different from others.

On nights when I couldn’t fall asleep, I would ponder and wonder how much a life like mine could be worth compared to one like Tommy’s. I knew the difference was immense. If only I could go back ten years, if only I had the courage. Instead of wasting my time trying to understand his decision, I should have followed him. I concluded by thinking of him, hoping my thoughts would reach him.
Before closing my eyes, the image my mind created was always the same. The two of us happy having our aperitivo. I knew it would happen again. That we would go back, that we would start going there every Friday night, and everything would return to how it was before. And as I dreamt of that moment, I repeated to myself the words he had written to wish me on my 30th birthday

Since I left, you’re the person I think about the most.

Gezim Qadraku