“For a long time, I went to bed early,” begins the first page of Marcel Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu (In Search of Lost Time), written in exquisitely-formed cursive by an unknown reader, whose second-hand folio I found for two dollars at a used book sale.
In this day and age, however, it is only an enviable minority who can relate to the protagonist of À la recherche du temps perdu. The rest of us, whether by necessity or habit, are ill-acquainted with an early bedtime.
But, whether lying in bed or roaming the quiet, palely-lit streets, Proust writes, we are not quite ourselves at night — no, we are no longer the person who left for school all those hours ago.
For it is at night we are most alone — even our neighbour has withdrawn her cacophonous presence in fear of another noise complaint, and we are under no obligation to be the self others know us by.
If most nights are spent similarly — studying, cooking, showering, eating — it is perhaps in our interest to imagine these things when we are urged to, in today’s vernacular, “touch grass.” So we fabricate a pretense of tasks simply to allow ourselves the privilege of a quiet walk at night.
As usual, it’s raining in Vancouver, but not intensely enough to deter us from our adventure. In fact, we may forgo the umbrella in favour of a waterproof jacket and enjoy the light touch of falling rainwater. After all, presentability is of little interest to us at this hour.
At around 9 p.m., we leave the building with our backpack on, of course, giving reason for this excursion. As the door opens before us, we hear a little patter on the pavement, like the uncertain knock of a tiny hand — multiplying, pulsating, swelling into spheres of syncopated sound.
Of course, it is raining harder than expected, but we will not be stopped. It’s still possible to take a walk, with no need to retrieve our umbrella.
Lingering under the porch, we put in our earbuds, searching for music that complements the current atmosphere.
“I’ve been running around in circles / Pretending to be myself.”
“Look in my eyes, tell me a tale / Do you see the road, the map to my soul?”
“'Cause honey I’ll come get my things, but I can’t let go / I’m waiting for it, that green light, I want it.”
A Chopin nocturne: “Chinese Satellite” by Phoebe Bridgers, “My Eyes” by Travis Scott and “Green Light” by Lorde, all imperfectly heterogeneous yet individually sublime. Now nothing stands between us and this moment — we need not worry about an errant call, nor an urgent email. As Virginia Woolf writes, “this self having shed its attachments was free for the strangest adventures.”
An approaching street sign informs us we’ve reached 3rd Avenue. Having started at York, we are four fifths through the journey. Looking up, the fluorescence of 4th begins to reveal itself.
Finally, the caution in our step is relieved — the street slackens its acuity. Now the puddles are illumed by cones of amber light, and our shoes shall be spared another soaking of stormwater.
Here we are reminded of our initial alibi; yes, we were visiting the grocer. Having journeyed to the shopping hub that is West 4th, we should find one without much difficulty, perhaps more interested in a smaller produce market we have yet to visit.
So, thrown into relief by a welcome current of warm air, we peruse each fruit basket with the utmost curiosity under a flickering yellow light bulb, the sole source of movement within the store.
When we turn around, smile apologetically at the cashier and step back out into the rain, feigning surprise at having bought nothing, we’re unable to fool ourselves. There’s no disappointment in coming home empty-handed, not even in the time we’ve wasted walking through the rain.
For even as we trudge through the soggy autumn leaves, feeling those crystalline, pear-shaped water droplets rolling softly through our half-drenched hair (we had forgotten to raise our hood upon leaving the store) — we may yet recall the day we went to the store to buy nothing.
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