The Human Connection

5. May 17, 2007

I spent a few hours on the beach, just as Umberto had prescribed. The gentle warmth of the sun felt good on my skin, but I imagined it falling instead on the tanned skin of my lover, Gaia. And I imagined her being by my side. I had to rely on my memory and imagination for that, a thought which left me in pain.

In time, bored with the solitude of the beach, I marched up the steps to Casa Albertina and entered my room. The gossamer curtains were drawn apart and a gentle breeze blew past them and lazily wafted into the room.

I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor. After a few moments, I stood and wandered around the bed, making circles circumscribed by the pattern on the carpet. Although this was “my” room, in fact I shared it with others who had resided there in the past, ghosts of other memories, an eerie presence borne out by past guests" journals stacked neatly on the bookshelf by the desk.

I wasn"t the only one who captured small moments of his life by scribbling words on a blank page. Pierre from northern France left his thoughts in the pages of one journal, and Rita from Chicago filled the lined pages of another one.

I had often read through their writings, feeling somewhat like a peeping tom but recognizing that they left their journals in the room so they must have wanted others to read them. I was not so brave. Although I kept the journal my sister had pushed me into, I kept it close, packing it with my things and carrying it back with me when I left Positano.

I also knew that Casa Albertina trafficked in this journal writing game. The owner knew that a guest book unfolded to the present date, filled with cryptic comments tossed off when the guest was hurrying out the door, was only slightly amusing to others. So he encouraged his guests to fill the pages of their own journals – blanks of which he provided to anyone who asked – and leave the books behind for a later visit.

The owner, Piero, was careful to keep a supply of these blank books in a range of colorful covers and sizes. In this way, everyone felt that they were collecting individual thoughts in an individual journal. And the wondrous covers and page designs made the books more interesting to be perused by occasional guests staying in the rooms of Casa Albertina. It was also easy to see how the journals, once left behind, might serve as magnets to draw guests back for future visits, to see Positano again and to add more words to the pages of their own journals.

I walked to the narrow shelf that was perched above the dresser opposite the bed, and picked up a book with a floral theme on the cover. It was made up of about a hundred pages, and as I flipped through them I could see that it was about half full. The writing was consistent, as if only one person rendered the narrative that appeared there.

On the inside the cover, two names were inscribed: Mike and Katherine, and below them in a notation obviously added long after the original entry, there appeared another name: Serena.

I thumbed through the book"s pages, noted that the tight, thin strokes of a ball point pen filled the first twenty pages, then yielded to the softer felt-tip ink for the remainder. The first set of pages came from 1988, and the others began with the year 2003. A break in the writing, but from the penmanship I could tell that the author was the same.