“THERE ARE PEOPLE IN THE WORLD FOR WHOM "COMING ALONG" IS A PERPETUAL PROCESS, PEOPLE WHO ARE DESTINED NEVER TO ARRIVE.” — James Baldwin, Go Tell It on the Mountain

MARKUS KNEW HE SHOULD HAVE found out sooner. The universe had given him signs, after all.

Two weeks after it happened, he woke up (as usual), made a depressing breakfast (as usual), and went to his new job (as usual). He had established his new routine without a problem. He flew through his eight hour shift, bored out of his mind. He got home late that day, since he had to do groceries at the other supermarket — twenty minutes away from the one he worked at — because the prices were lower there. All day, he had somehow managed to avoid all the newspaper stands standing out in front of the shops.

The first sign was given directly after that boring shift. It was in the form of a small note, lying on his kitchen table. He must have forgotten to put it away earlier that week without ever noticing it again up until then. On it was written a quote from Go Tell It on the Mountain, a book he had read thrice, but no longer owned — sadly, he would probably never read it again. He had left his copy at Dante’s, when he departed in a hurry and idiotically left everything behind. All he had left from that evening were the clothes he had worn, his wallet and his old key which he would never get to use again. Sometimes, he wondered if Dante had gone out of the way to change the locks. Or if he knew that Markus wouldn’t have the courage to return.

He had written the quote a few days after, when he finally found himself a place to stay, and also when the gravity of what he had done hit him. He had been too busy to buy another copy, but too afraid to forget the quote, to let the words he had once appreciated slip from his mind. So, he carefully wrote the words down from memory.

A part of him assured himself that he could some day go back and retrieve it. When all the pain passed, Dante would invite him over again. So, there was no real reason to buy it again and waste his money, all he’d have to do was wait to get his possession back. Another part of him wondered if he truly wanted to get the book back in the first place. The brunet had always wanted to read it himself, too, but Dante had always been occupied by other things. Markus worried that if he went back for the book too soon the other man would never get to reach the end.

He would never get to choose between those parts of himself. After he heard the news, he began fantasizing about Dante sitting in bed late at night, holding the old copy in his hands for the first time ever since Markus left, wiping the dust from the cover, admiring the same pages he himself had once admired. He hated that he would never get to find out whether or not the brunet had ever picked it up. It was likely that he hadn’t.

The second sign was barely there. A dream he had the day before he found out, a dream he wasn’t able to recollect, even immediately after waking up from it. But he had the feeling that it must have been about his old friend.

After leaving that dream, he felt the familiar sensation of a crippling love crashing against him, pinning him down. In the middle of it, while wrapped around the emotion’s intensity, he found himself reaching out beside him; only to be met with air. His bed was not big enough for two — neither was the one he had shared with Dante — but he, for some reason, expected someone else to be there, sleeping soundly and ready to comfort him if needed. He wished for that someone to be Dante. The dream must have been more of a nightmare.

It was embarrassing how often — mainly in the aftermath of his departure — Markus woke up in a daze, in an ideal world, which his tired mind had formed for him. A world in which he still lived in Nijmegen, in which everything was calm, and most importantly: in which Dante was still there, wrapped around him every night, or in another city, performing with his band. When the latter was true, the world revolved entirely around his own impatience, around waiting for his lover to return.

This ideal world would never leave him, even after he found out about the other’s death. But it did shift, he no longer waited, or wished for the brunet to be beside him. In that new world, he just wanted for the brunet to be anywhere in the world, still alive and well.

The third sign wasn’t a sign at all, and yet he felt inclined to call it that anyways. Just so he could think about yet another thing he had missed.

The day of the discovery, he woke up (as usual), and went to his not-so-new job (as usual). He had a six hour shift, but he did not fly through it that day. It passed in boring moments, which could be categorized in different trains of thought — thoughts all about Dante (not usual, he had never thought so much about the brunet at work, especially during a busy Saturday shift). That day, on his way to work, he had not managed to avoid the newspaper stands standing annoyingly in the middle of the stoep.

Markus probably needed glasses, but he never went out of his way to get them. So, when he first saw the big picture of his old friend, right on the front cover of some music paper, he couldn’t read the smaller announcement next to it. He just assumed that the brunet must have done something great, again — perhaps his band was announcing a new tour? Maybe they were finally going to Amerika? Despite the complicated feelings he had towards Dante, Markus had always hoped for the band’s success. How could he not? He had been there since the beginning, since before the beginning, even. And yet, he did not bother to read the tiny text, in fear of being once again washed away in Dante’s glory.

He, for once, went home straight after work that day. He had been too tired to get groceries. On his path home he saw the newspaper with Dante on it multiple times, but he did not pay them any attention.

When he arrived at his flat, he did something quite uncommon for him: he checked his mailbox. He always neglected the task, unless he knew that bills were waiting to be paid off. He hated the advertisements that kept coming in, despite the fact that his mailbox made it clear that he did not want them. Shiny papers wanted him to buy cars and wedding rings he could not afford, treats for children he knew would never exist — even if he sometimes wanted them. He did not need reminders of the traditional life he could have lived, if he had not been born a homosexual.

He found the letter there. He opened it immediately, not caring to wait until he was inside. The sight of the nameless envelope created a sense of urgency within him. The letter itself did have a name written neatly in the top corner: Dante Kuiper, no date. A spark grew in his heart, but it quickly diminished when he realized that the handwriting didn’t belong to Dante. It was familiar, the curly swoops, the old fashioned way that made every word look like a signature. It was the way of writing only taught to children in small cities and dorpjes, far removed from places like Nijmegen or Amsterdam.

It was the handwriting of Bregje — Dante’s girlfriend.

Markus had a strange relationship with the woman. She was kind, and he’d often been in her presence when she came over to the flat he had shared with Dante. He saw her at other places, too — even sometimes after he left, right before he moved to Wijchen — but he never tried to befriend her. It felt strange, knowing the things he had done — and, it was terrible to admit, continued to do even while they were dating — with her boyfriend. It made the letter weird, because what could she have to say to him? She had never tried to befriend him, either, and he had never given her his new address, nor did he let anyone from his past know that he would be leaving Nijmegen. He wondered who had given this information to her without his knowing.

Dear Markus,

Your relationship with Dante wasn’t the best when you left, or something like that — I know this, but I still feel the need to tell you this news.

I don’t want you finding this out from anyone else, so I do hope that this letter reaches you on time. If it doesn’t; I apologize. Dante died October 18th, late at night. I don’t really want to discuss this with you any further. It’s shameful. But I can assume that you can gather that it certainly wasn’t old age, and let me tell you: it wasn’t an illness, either.

His funeral will take place at Begraafplaats Jonkerbos, on November 2nd. If you wish you can come at 11:30 for the wake (it takes place in the little building out front, to the right of the entrance), where you can see the body. It's an open casket, and I understand that you might not want this. You can come at twelve for just the burial. He will rest near his mama, as he might have wanted. You can give a speech if you want, either at the wake or during the burial. But please don’t make it too long.

Again, I know vaguely of the problems between you guys, but I also know that you must have really liked him. I hope the best for you during this time.

My condolences,

Bregje van den Berg

(p.s. If there’s anything you want back from the flat, please contact me — same address as before. We’ll be cleaning it out before the lease ends).

He had missed the funeral by weeks, by nearly a month, even. He was unsure of whose fault it was: the post office, who could have delivered the letter way too late, or him, who neglected checking his mail for such a long time. Longer than socially acceptable for an adult.

Had Bregje expected a reply? A letter in turn, expressing his own grief and condolences, his decline or acceptance of the invite, confirmation whether or not he would give a speech, if he’d come to the wake too, or just the burial. Had she expected him to turn up at the wake, a speech in hand about what a great friend Dante had been to him — white lies sprinkled all throughout? Had he broken her good impression of him by not doing any of those things? He couldn’t know, and he certainly couldn’t write back so late, after having missed such an important event — not even just the event, but the knowledge of it in the first place.

The worst question was one he had for himself: even if he had known, would he have gone to the wake, not just the burial, with a speech in hand? Was he upset because he had missed it, or was he upset only because Bregje might have drawn the conclusion that he was an inconsiderate man, a terrible friend?

That day, he had no dinner, once he came upstairs he gave no thought to any kind of relaxation, which he would usually offer himself after a boring day at work. He just went to bed, way too early, and thought of the postscript first, not the death.

The flat’s lease was a month long, and would have already ended, he was sure; Dante had renewed it shortly before Markus left. He wondered if Dante had made any changes to the flat in his absence, if Go Tell It on the Mountain still remained untouched on the bookshelf, if his clothes still hung in the closet, if his little trinkets still stood the windowsill above the bed — a seashell from Zeeland, a cat made from clay, a cool guitar pick he had found on the ground somewhere. He wished that he had taken greater care before he left, he should have made a plan and moved out slowly, instead of leaving suddenly on impulse alone.

Most of his adult years had been left behind in that horrid looking flat. And he could not help but ponder what Bregje had done with it. Had she carelessly boxed it, not knowing which things had belonged to Dante, and which to Markus? Or had she known exactly what was his, and because of this, threw everything away, thinking that he no longer wanted it? God, all of those things, they were practically an entire life on its own — a life he could never look back on again. He could not, would not, contact Bregje for any of it, not after having missed the funeral.

Perhaps, she had liked something of his, and thought that it had belonged to Dante. Markus would not be the one to tell her that it hadn’t.

He could do nothing but stay in bed and think. Never again would he enter that flat and greet Dante, never again would he pull on the old jacket he had left behind, which had been his favourite and also the first one he had brought with his own money instead of his mama’s meagre income. It was absurd, he had known the brunet for so long, and yet he had missed his death. He had not, like books or movies often described, felt some intimate knowledge which told him that Dante’s time was over. He could not think about the fact that, given the letter’s information, it might not have been an accident.

Markus did not want to be egotistical, but it could have, in some way, been his fault. His departure might have shaken something loose within his old friend, something that had threatened to come undone for as long as he’d known the brunet. He knew that Dante had been fragile, and he might have caused so much emotional damage that the other decided to — he could think no further than that.

He could not think about the boy — he could no longer picture Dante as a man, instead he saw only the teenager that he had first met years prior — taking a bottle of pills, or slitting his wrists, or jumping off the bridge less than five minutes away from his home.

The thought of death kept him awake that night, and without sleep he could do nothing but think about death. He wondered, and wondered, and wondered: what had Dante done that day?

Had he gone through his birthday celebrations, knowing that he would not get to see the next one? Had he eaten more cake than usual, no longer caring about seeming greedy, knowing that he would never get to taste such sweetness again? Had he waited, entirely aware of how he would end his day? Or had the plan formed suddenly all throughout the songs and the food and the birthday wishes?

Or, had he woken up in the morning, knowing that he did not want to see the day further? Had he put on his jacket — perhaps Markus’s old one — and taken a walk, just to never come back?

If the former was true, he wondered obscenely whether or not Dante had pleased himself that day, one last time? If so, had he thought about Markus, just like he had done in the past, when it was just them? Or had Bregje been on his mind? Maybe he hadn’t thought at all, too lost in the knowledge that he would shortly never get to use his own body again.

Markus could, of course, not find an answer for any of the questions he formed that night. And he hated it, hated that he would never get to know how the last day of Dante’s life had gone by. In the past, he wouldn’t have been able to imagine this as a possibility.

It took days for him to be able to go back to work. Luckily he had never called in sick before. So, suddenly — at first, he had almost thought that he would never be able to return — he went to work, and he stayed there for most of the day. All throughout his shift, he knew that he would never get to discover the truth of what had happened. Surely Bregje didn’t have all of the answers either. Nobody did. After work he went to the supermarket, even though his appetite had entirely disappeared. He shopped until his basket was half-full, and then he put it down on the floor, no longer interested, and left without anything.

After that, in almost a daze, he went to the nearby train station and got on a train to Nijmegen. Then, he got on a bus to Hatert. All throughout the journey, he felt wind press against his cheeks, and he almost couldn’t believe that Dante was dead. Couldn’t believe that, despite everything, the world was still turning, the wind still blowing, public transport still going.

Despite his fear of facing everything he had left behind, he went to his old flat and lingered outside, uncaring of how strange he must have looked. Minutes passed, and no thought came to him, and then he finally walked to Bregje’s.