XI. THE UNRECORDED AFTERNOON

XI. THE UNRECORDED AFTERNOON

N. visited his mother the following Sunday without bringing a camera. They ate late. She complained about the price of fruit. A neighbor drilled into a wall for twenty minutes. Nothing important happened. N. noticed how difficult it was to inhabit an unrecorded moment once he had learned to imagine its future absence. He kept mentally framing scenes: the cup near her hand, sunlight on the table, the way she mispronounced the name of a television actor. “Stop,” she said. “Stop what?” “Saving everything.” “I am not recording.” “Your face is.” N. smiled despite himself. She pushed the bowl of fruit toward him. “Eat. Let one afternoon have the dignity of disappearing.”

They sat on the balcony after tea. N. asked, “Do you ever think about people you knew long ago?” “Yes.” “And wonder if they are alive?” “Yes.” “What do you do with the question?” His mother looked down at the street. “Sometimes I call them. Sometimes I cannot. Sometimes I say a prayer. Sometimes I continue washing the dishes.” N. waited for a deeper answer. None came. Then he realized the answer was deep precisely because it did not require a theory. A mind can acknowledge uncertainty without building a courthouse around it. Below, an old man crossed the road carrying bread. N. wondered where the man had been in 2003. The question arose. He let it arise. For once, he did not follow it.

On his way home, N. passed the site of the Department. The building was gone again. Only a fenced lot remained, filled with weeds and broken concrete. A sign announced a future apartment complex. N. stood there for several minutes. A security guard called, “Can I help you?” “There used to be a government office here.” The guard shook his head. “Not in my time.” “How long have you worked here?” “Nine years.” N. almost argued. Instead he thanked him. As he walked away, he felt something loosen. Not because the Department had been imaginary. The distinction no longer mattered. Some institutions exist only because a question has become too large to remain inside one skull.