The Deepest Request

A young and budding journalist writes to a woman of his inspiration a very personal request:

Dear Suzie,

Or at least I sure hope so.

I’ve just returned home to California after a trip to Milan; to the front and then back entry of a bookstore cafe as I searched for what may have looked like some sign of a residential door; window on the second story, or a private parking space outside. The cafe was full of no name journalists looking for some place to put their passion. Myself and the baristas stood alone, before I thanked them for the coffee and checked the back door for what I came for.

I’d gone to Milan to find you.

I landed at the FLE and rented a Fiat 500 in the economy day lot, and on big wheels, I felt the true definition of zipping; down the Milano-Laghi motorway with my GPS speaking perfect english-- accent with just as much of a zip.

On my way to you, my biggest concern was missing an exit, I did not anticipate what would happen next. I blew a giant flat tire that took me to the curb with an overall sense of deflated, a map, and nothing to do with it.

I sat on the side of the highway watching other little cars zip on by, until a nice pair of locals on bikes stopped to help me assess the damage.

“Pneumatico sgonfio?”

Two Italian locals looked at me seated in my fiat at eye level. They were short, and with short replies…

“Pneumatico sgonfio?” They asked again.

“Sorry?”--

I looked at them blank.

“I have a flat tire”...

“Scusa?”

Only the first man talked, the second looked over his shoulder with flickering eyes-- back at him, back at me-- and then the tire--

“Scusa?”

“Pneumatico sgonfio?”

He says again.

We looked at each other blankly.

Out of desperation, I made the sound “skzzzzzzzzhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh”

The man followed with an understanding nod.

“Si, si…!” “Skzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz”

“yes yes”--

“Si, si”--

I think we were both saying I had a flat tire.

Anyways, I had a flat tire and the two men helped me out.

The one that did all the talking was not the one that knew how to speedily change a flat. The quiet and more petite man standing comfortably behind suddenly jumped on my back left wheel like a pit crew-- he wore a motorola racing jacket and red leather sneakers, I first thought it was a conscious nod to city style before I considered he may have industry experience in a racing pit--

--the two men changed my tire.

We were getting along well and they seemed curious about my tourist energy. They asked how long I was in town for, or so I assumed, by means of

“ quanto tempo sei in città?“

They asked me for my license and I showed them my passport and rental papers. The pit crew fellow patted the back bumper and exhaled, I assumed, to say “let's give it a go”-- they hopped in with me on the side of the road, and took the car for a test drive to see how the tires were aligned. The car drove smooth and fast, and kicked up dust in my face as they sped away in my rental, and left me on the side of the road with their bikes; and them, with my passport and my rental papers.

Still, I had a destination. I hopped on one of their abandoned bicycles and peddled in the direction of downtown Milan.

Down the Milano-Laghi motorway, as fast as I possibly could, I was determined to get to you.

I must have been gunning it; I got stopped by the polizia. Pulled to the side of the bike lane, they stopped me, looked me up and down and after I couldn’t flash my ID, they loaded me into the back of their van.

I stole a bike, they told me...

“From two little boys”.

I knew the two italian men were small but their rat tails really aged them out of boyhood.

I asked the polizia politely: “scuza?”

The bikes were stolen from two little boys. The same guys I presumed, that stole my fiat.

Let me tell you, the police questioning I endured did not go as I always hoped it one day would.

There was no intimidating spotlight, and they were drinking iced tea rather than hot -much-needed- coffee.

The questioning didn’t roll off the tongue but rather stuttered out “how you says” from both ends. We played a nice game of charades that led to me being released and assisted in me finding your listed address- the cafe.

20124 Piazza duca d’Aosta 1

Finally. I arrived at your listed address. My new buddy polizia's dropped me off and watched as I searched for you, who’d of course, never show.

The polizia laughed out of miscommunication and assumed I'd been stood up. I left with a similar feeling of heartbreak--of let down, I must admit.

I did wish to have the chance to ask you some of the questions they asked me, such as:

How did you feel when you first arrived in Milan?

With a page break, the young journalist attaches section 2, as if it had possibly been the first words he jotted down, before writing out the formal beginning:

Suzenta Kustramov.

I’ve read all about your travels out of Russia in the spring of 1948 in a caravan. As a young girl “dressed in what you’d usually wear, hair how you’d usually wear it”... Your day was not unusual, other than the fact that you’d “never find your brush again or the remainder of what was in your wardrobe.” Still, you hadn’t known that to be true at the time. You just roade away in the caravan- eyeline hitting the chests of all the railroad men that took the same way out of Russia that you did.

You described those men in some of your later works as “their eyes looking at you with sorrow; Seeing their own daughters in me that they left behind”.

They knew what they left behind.

“Their eyes were heavy. [You] didn’t understand why, as they remembered to bring with them their daughter's hairbrush.”

I know from your infamous sketches you're not a writer; the words you composed to describe the heaviness in the men’s eyes did not do justice to how you sketched them.

In anycase, you sketched them. You unknowingly served justice to the future of journalism. The understanding of how to capture a story of true warfare and the great efforts one will take to seek shelter. You encapsulated true honest humanity in search of better living.

You sketched that, just to pass time on the long drive.

I’ve spent many an afternoon in my local California cafe searching for a place to put my passion. I found you, in the pages; your story, who you are, and how you got to where I thought I’d find you. I wish I had the chance to ask you in person, but this is, still, a formal letter and the best I can do...

So I’m asking now. In a final attempt, I mustn’t give up so easily on telling your incredible story. I would like to formally ask you if I could have the right to relay your story; to tell the rest of the world who you are and the story behind your incredible sketches.

I’ve dreamed about turning you into a movie or a news story special with cinematic elements and a nice hair light on your youthful curls.

I want the world of screen viewers to fall in love with what we readers have already had the pleasure.

Dear Suzie,

With the rights to tell your life story, I’ve been offered a grant of $20,000 to start the production.

It would be my greatest honor even to just hear back and find that I did reach the correct address.

Sincerely,

Jerome.

The letter did reach the correct address. Suzenta Kustramov read Jerome’s story; she felt his his exhaustion and his undying excitement. She felt a little bit of herself in his words and his effort to breathe art into life.

Suzenta replied. She sent Jerome a letter back-- a note, written in the first page of a small black notebook:

Dear Jerome,

You are a delight!

Jerome searched the notebook’s every page. He looked for an insert with the signing of her life rights, the ok, the go ahead; anything to appease his one request.

He checked the back pocket of the notebook while holding his breath.

He felt a loose paper inserted in the pocket; his heart skipped a beat and he pulled it out upside down; flipped it around, and read...

A check written for 16,557.00 Euros-- $20.000 dollars.

Jerome finally gets the reply to his deepest request. In the memo line on the check, Mrs. Kustramov replies simple and honest:

“tell your story.”