I love browsing in second-hand bookshops. Each time I search a new shelf, it’s in the hope I’ll discover something unique, a book with a second story to the one printed on its pages. But if I find anything at all, it’s usually a forgotten bookmark, dog-eared pages or an underlined phrase.
As much as I get a kick out of these traces of previous readers, they’re small prizes. Sometimes, though, you strike gold. I once found an old edition of Herman Hesse’s Narziss and Goldmund with a curious inscription on the title page, a quote from the prog-rock band, the Alan Parsons Project, and an inscription, “Christmas 1981 in Germany. I’m with you ... Karin.”
I paged through to see if there was anything else and there, perfectly preserved between the pages were three notes written in the same hand.
Friday
your departure on Tuesday
is a fact
I can’t realize
Time is running
one week only
countdown
I will miss you already
before your departure
Now you’re with me
but not before you would have left
I know you have been here
Celebrating our hopes now?
New Year’s evening 1982
and the impossible if it is possible
Vagui and Karin 1981-1982
What makes this find memorable is not just the book itself, but where I found it. I wasn’t in Berlin or even in Europe, but in Cairo. It was mid-2012 and Egypt was tensely awaiting the result of its first presidential election since the Arab spring swept Hosni Muburak from power.
Large sections of the city were still shut down but a few of the old weatherboard huts that lined a narrow street of the Azbakeya market remained defiantly open. Surrounded by dusty, precariously balanced piles of books and a half-finished bottle of Auld Stag (Egypt’s best attempt at whisky), my find seemed so unlikely.
I walked to the metro station, my mind full of questions. How did this book make it from Germany to the back streets of Cairo and survive intact for 30 years? Where were Karin and Vagui now? Did they still even remember each other, let alone the book? What happened between them?
The only clue I had was the book itself but I knew it could tell me a lot. Because when you give a book to someone you love it’s never a random selection. It’s usually to tell them something that you are unable to articulate yourself. So why would Karin choose this book?
In Hesse’s story, Narziss runs away from the regimented life of his monastery school in search of love, freedom and adventure. Narziss loves and is loved by many women but none can satisfy the yearning in him. When one woman asks what the future of their relationship will be, he replies unashamedly that it will end. “There is no happiness that lasts long,” he tells her.
Narziss’ search for the elusive, transcendental love he craves leads him to take greater and greater risks until an affair goes wrong and he almost loses his life. He returns to the monastery and tries to reform but cannot stay settled for long. He ventures out again, but having lost the beauty and youth that once drew women effortlessly to him, he finds only pain.
I reread Karin’s notes. There is a sense of hope and longing in her messages, which suggest she was looking for a sign that Vagui felt the same way she did. I wonder if their story was a holiday romance. The relationship starts as something casual because both people know it will end. With no need to worry if things will or won’t work out, everyone is open and uninhibited. Ironically, the lack of pressure and feeling of freedom result in Karin and Vagui falling for each other and suddenly the inevitable departure is the only obstacle standing in their way.
Unless that is, Vagui didn’t feel the same way as Karin. Perhaps for him, like Narziss, it was never meant to last. Or Karin gave Vagui this book as a cautionary tale, but with the offer of a second chance Narziss never received.
It’s impossible to know if Vagui took that chance or how Karin and Vagui’s story ended. But the book’s thick coat of dust and its second-hand pricetag of 12 Egyptian pounds suggests it wasn’t a happy one. It made me think of my own one-that-got-away story and how differently things might have turned out in a different time.
I met Julie when I was 19 and studying on exchange in Florence. We crossed paths one night at a bar and I fell head over heels in love. She was like no girl I had ever encountered, beautiful, adventurous, exotic ... and interested in me. Eventually, though, we had to go our separate ways. I was heartbroken but fortunately for me our parting coincided with the launch of a new website called Facebook.
After not speaking for two years we re-established a connection until that faded too. We’d barely spoken for six years when I decided to drop her a line. I was going to be near the city where Facebook told me she now lived and I thought: “Why not?” I was surprised she even responded to my message and it was even more surreal when we met up.
The attraction of the one-that-got-away story is that it can remain an untested and ideal love forever – but perhaps not anymore. Social media gives us a window into people’s lives even if we have nothing to do with them anymore. And our curiosity makes sure we look through it.
The truth is that today, your one-that-got-away is never far away. You’ll see when they get married or have children or announce they’re gay. If you’re lucky, you’ll meet up again but you will both have changed and, as Julie and I did, find an old friend rather than a lover. Karin and Vagui would be in their 50s at least now, probably married and not to each other, but they’ll still have the memory of Germany in 1981.
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Have you ever left or found a note in a book? Share your experiences in the comments below
