21 November 1998
Dear Theodore,
I shall spare you my wild exclamations on the state of your arms, though be assured that they were heard throughout my little garret by whatever spiders and scrabbling creatures inhabit it with me. This is a grim guessing game indeed.
You are quite alright, though?
Exclamations for breakfasting at lunchtime, too, were had, and I was much amused at the idea. I have never been an early riser when given a choice on the matter, though am guilty of excess in other things. I shall not rule it out. Might I still have coffee, though? I have a terrible weakness for it.
Zelma and I paid a visit this morning to an elderly wizard living in Troyes, France. He has been fifteen years retired from the Ministry, and offered us along with harrowing stories the very best ginger biscuits I have had in ages. They were the only sweet thing of our visit, and I did my very best to take detailed notes - Zelma's sight is going, and is her main reason for having agreed to take me on - and to keep my responses quite to myself. I must say his experiences with the Imperius curse do make me feel shameful for how undone I was by our limited implementation. Still, I should hope never to grow accustomed to cruelty, nor to take for granted the liberties of having charge of my own person. I am most frightened, I think, of growing complacent.
I enjoy working with Zelma for her writing, I feel, is objective. So much it seems literature on this subject must fall decidedly on one side of things or another, bemoan the lowest depths of loss or crow the loudest of victories. There is hurt and perspective and patience and hope to be had in a well documented history, and I do hope I will be of assistance to her in this, and not prove myself too dreamy or useless for such work. It is not like poetry, mine least of all, but there is a sense and angle to it I find I am comforted by.
Dreamy I am, however, in thinking forward a few scant weeks. It will be a greater comfort to speak in a fluent tongue with friends, hours crowded with reunions and merry outings. When shall you shake the sand out of your shoes and join me? My foolishness may lose its charm, if what you say is true, if it is not very soon.
Padma
( . )
22 November, 1998
Padma,
Im fine, the hospitals here are luckily used to such things, which I find strange. Even just a few hours as a patient though does confirm my non interest in the medical profession. Far too much pressure, having peoples lives - and arms - in your hands.
Will you tell me the stories of these people you meet, or will I have to buy the book, as they say? I feel impartial for both courses of this same fight - having just been born during the first, and finding myself disagreeable to both sides for the second. It is hard to form a conclusive opinion when you cant form your own name, and hard to commit to a viewpoint that is fundamentally based in prejudice. Im glad you enjoy the work, and Zelma. Surely, she would keep you on if only for the fun of teasing, but I think you are likely more qualified and well suited to the position than simply that. Have you told her with whom you correspond?
You may have as many late mornings and as much coffee as you like, Im happy to oblige on both of those fronts, as well as whatever else you would enjoy by way of reunions, merry outings, and familiar tongues.
Theodore( . )
23 November, 1998
Boozy Padma,
I thought this was a bargain we had already struck long ago? If not, then I must file a complaint for a backlog of stories, as Ive been sharing mine all along. Rarely in the same state of senselessness, or as the subject of a party that offers hats, but all the same. Sounds like a brilliant party.
What language am I going to teach you? My English is satisfactory, the French fairly poor. I am not, whatever you say, fluent in wickedness. I have very little time to learn whatever this language is, as I return on the first. Only than a week left with the sand, only six days to become proficient at a whole new language?
Full of innocence and light,
Theodore( . )
23 November 1998
Dear Theodore,
I will share with you any stories that you like, though you must share, too. Tales and secrets are best traded, I've found. I want to ask Is this a fair bargain?
This afternoon has rendered me quite senseless. Zelma has been entertaining and I have been both party and sometime object of it. She calls me names I cannot translate, and I know not if they are good or ill, and the laughs that follow do little to offer context. She likes me, I think - or I hope and so then do I say that I think so that I might better believe it - for she bought me a sturdy hat, the kind that the witches here wear out of doors. It is very handsome.
I cannot write in this condition. I tried to take a photograph and dropped my camera but thankfully it is not broken. I would be so very sorry to break anything you had given me.
You are wicked and not I. I had thought you would teach me a new language once I had my fill of fluency.
When, sakha, when? I will be home 7 December.
Padma
( . )
25 November 1998
Theodore,
Perhaps I have things quite turned around, and I am to teach you. Tell me, should you prefer Hindi, Telugu, passing Greek or Latin, or a wealthy vocabulary in your native English?
I feel as though I shall write you my last letter before seeing you again and want to pick up where I have left off, with great, uncomfortable pauses where I simply wait for your response. Our conversations will be monstrous, unwieldy things, and we shall drive off all sensible company. And you, bearded and shorn of head, shall be hardly recognizable, and I will feel utterly out of place. I suppose I shall have to give over all of the stories I have been withholding - I spoke of English modesty, and was speaking of course of myself - and then I shall be unrecognizable, too.
Zelma does not know to whom I write, nor do I think she is much concerned with what I do when I am not assisting her. Like a cautious little mouse, of course, I remain nestled in my hidey-hole, scribbling and watching and dreaming. I am beginning to believe that one must be at least forty and possessed of some great accomplishment to be worthy of her special note, though I do not very much like the test of claiming over breakfast, 'I am writing to Theodore Nott,' and waiting to see if she turns on me the critical eye she has in company with her resources, or slurps her coffee without so much as acknowledging that I have spoken. My fondness for such a taciturn creature quite escapes logic.
Six days is a very long time, Theodore. Twelve is even longer.
Disbelieving,
Padma
( . )
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