Part of me might want him to realize that nothing had changed since he'd been here last, that the orle of paradise was still there, and that the tilting gate to the beach still squeaked, that the world was exactly as he'd left it, minus Vimini, Anchise, and my father.
This was the welcoming gesture I meant to extend.
But another part of me wanted him to sense there was no point trying to catch up now—we'd traveled and been through too much without each other for there to be any common ground between us.
Perhaps I wanted him to feel the sting of loss, and grieve.
But in the end, and by way of compromise, perhaps, I decided that the easiest way was to show I'd forgotten none of it.
Sometimes, the old saying rings false.
Sometimes you can't go back home again.
- - -
And just for fun:
"Come, I'll take you to San Giacomo before you change your mind," I finally said. "There is still time before lunch. Remember the way?"
"I remember the way."
"You remember the way," I echoed.
He looked at me and smiled. It cheered me. Perhaps because I knew he was taunting me.
Twenty years was yesterday, and yesterday was just earlier this morning, and morning seemed light-years away.
"I'm like you," he said. "I remember everything."
I stopped for a second.
If you remember everything, I wanted to say, and if you are really like me, then before you leave tomorrow, or when you're just ready to shut the door of the taxi and have already said goodbye to everyone else and there's not a thing left to say in this life, then, just this once, turn to me, even in jest, or as an afterthought, which would have meant everything to me when were together, and, as you did back then, look me in the face, hold my gaze, and call me by your name.
Powerful stuff, this book.
* Aciman, Andre. Call Me By Your Name. New York: Picador, 2008. Print.
