Me: Hi! Just these two today?PL taps on one of the cans with a long, plastic nail.
PL: Just the sample.
Me: Both samples? Or just this one?That's understandable. I live in one of those areas where there are a few smaller "cities" (towns, really) are clustered together, so here are a few of the stores in the general area. If one store doesn't have something, you might be able to find it in the other.
PL: Just this one. I went to another [store name] and got it, but I got the wrong shade so I came to get another one.
Me: Alright m'am, may I see your receipt?PL looks genuinely surprised.
PL: Receipt?PL continues to search for the receipt in the purse. While she looks, I check the sample she brought. There were a few small bits of paint that you get from accidentally brushing the, well, brush against the side, and the lid was loose. Inside, about a third of the paint was gone. I really should have continued to insist for her receipt, but it was pretty clear that she'd used part of the paint already.
Me: Yes, sorry. It's store policy.
PL: I didn't think... I don't know if I...
Me, laughing: It's alright. I trust you.I made sure to tighten the lid for her before putting her samples in the bag. I forget what exactly she said, but it was something about me asking for a receipt.
PL: I'd think so.
Me: Sorry, it's just store policy. Would you like a bag for this?
PL: As long as this one is secured tightly.
Me: Sorry again for the inconvenience. It's just store policy. Your total is $X.xxPL grabs her purse, putting it on the conveyor belt so I can see it. I should mention that this entire transaction, she made her purse very visible to me.
PL: Right.
PL: You're interrogating me. That's funny.As a side note, I would like to say that this is one of the most mediocre purse designs I have ever seen. It was a pale tan with white markings on it that may have been logos. You couldn't really see what they were, and they looked random. I mean, if you're going to spend that much money on a purse, at least take the time to pick out a nice one.
Me: I'm sorry for the inconvenience. Like I said, it's store policy, and I'm not in control of these things.
PL: See? This purse was twelve-hundred dollars.
Me: That's a lot! My purse was only twelve dollars. Although I did get it in Laos!I know that seems like a weird detail to include, but I was hoping that she'd take the bait and change the subject.
PL: That's right. I should be checking you.PL spent about a minute telling me the above sentence. She was not quite so succinct about it, although she made it very clear that her purse made her superior to me. We have customers that barely speak any English that could string together a sentence better than she could.
Me: I'm sorry. Here is your bag.I didn't stop smiling this entire transaction, except to show concern when I asked for her receipt and while I was apologizing.
PL: Finally.
Me: Have a nice day!
Roses and apples and snow continue to fall while the living carry their keepsakes: their small bouquets, their trophies, their testimonies, their diplomas and scrolls--and pale birds swoop. Roses and angels, the century, fall on the horizon, and snow. Feel them now as they move slowly into you. Their sweet and round--everything for a while--and you are getting, you are--undeniably--you are getting sleepy. Roses and apples and snow, angels, while the living in this place cradle their symbols and myths, their bowl of infinite tears, their fierce bouquets, their inventions--all they have made: pyramid and wheel, lint brush and paper clip, knit 2, purl 3, their names: Sophie and Rachel and Rose and Petra and Hannah and Hildegarde, Renee Benededetti, Mavis O'Malley, Fisher, Shoemaker, Goodman, Rosenbloom--their pockets overstuffed with apples and roses and poems. They've wrapped them in brown paper so that they might survive, placed them in the shelter of shoe or museum or leather box. And they remember their stories with longing: we used to take the rabbit path. Photographs in lockets and locks of hair. You had the most beautiful--But you are getting sleepy now. Roses the century and so many apples . . . angels. Songs written for a duduk in the time of Christ. And you are getting sleepy as apples and roses move into your pale bird bones: they are hollow, they are lighter than air and snow. You are sleepy . . .
. . . And now the Madame. The mad concierge, with spinning wheel and metronome approaches through angels and snow, with hatbox, with pendulum and rose, chalice and motive and oblivion, ditch and glass and hanger and forceps.
Help.
Feel your opaque bones which remarkably, even here, still emit small quantities of light, get sleepy now, heavy with snow and the century which undeniably falls while the unborn drag their empty baskets of souvenirs and roses, their silver baby cups engraved with tears, and the living with their oaths, their vows, their slang, their desperate code. Limoges will stand for help, and danger will be called The Closed Book. And death is near will be called Rien a Faire. Peas in a Pod will mean the coast is clear. S.O.S. will mean meet me please, it's urgent--at the Hôtel de Ville. And Stabat Mater will stand for look after the child should anything happen.
And the living carry their kettles, their hot water bottles, their compasses and barometers. And the living, wearing disguises trudge through the landscape of the dead and say never mind--cherish whatever has been left behind. A rhyme from the Hundred Years War, a song: I never thought you'd leave in Spring. A memory: we made perfume in the garden while our father watered the roses and wept. Tears continue to fall. Cling to your pencils. Hold out your small cups.
And when I tell you the story of Pierre and the cafe it will mean Run! Go quickly and hide. It will mean I am afraid.
Rosy angels and apples and roses and all we loved continue to fall like tears, move into your bones, mementos and bouquets, while they weep and bargain and plead and she appears dressed in a little Chanel suit and veil, carrying her wishbone, her black hourglass and metronome, counting the snow, and the centuries, while apples and roses, and you are--you are, aren't you?--sleepy. And okay, okay you are pregnant and hungry, and there are roses to tend--but not now--even those who love you would say as much, and it is and you are getting undeniably sleepy now--while the living try to nudge you awake with promises of bon bons and tobogganing, the Etude #12, the Symphony #3, their dreamy catalogs and you're undeniably moved by them but who can resist the Madame with her bobbin and abyss and book of numbers and sleepy now.
Une femme chaque nuit Voyage en grand secret.
And the living with their pettiness and greed, their small and large cruelties, their harnesses--their thread and lampshades, and alligator handbags. And the men with yellow hair collect blood in their little blood collectors, and vowels in a jar. And the living with their brothels, their New York publishing houses, and locks without keys and you are getting sleepier. Sleepy. Shhh. Shhh. Go to sleep now.
And I ask the men with yellow hair, why do they put up their windshield wipers when the squeegee men come? And the living bow their heads in acts of contrition and the living say forgive us and forgive us our trespasses and the century shatters. And the Madame says come with me and entrée libre and roses. And apples and snow which I try to catch on my dreamy tongue: I was always hungry there.
And the living say: twelve fish. And eleven are the stars in Joseph's dream. And ten are the commandments and I am getting sleepy. And the living carry their miracles. In the beginning was the word . . . On the seventh day . . . And in the desert . . . And the living stripped of everything still say, still whisper: When we get there, and it's as if as if--and then no more. And the living will soon be dead. And the living, madly scribbling will fall into procession. Life may be a cylinder of tears then, or the sorrowful mysteries, or flowers pressed in a closed book. Life may be a heart shaped box or a blindfold or the closed book the women are forbidden. They can never open it. But the men say never mind. And the living pack their suitcases of roses and diplomas and apples and snow and whisper, when we get there and they wait for their instructions in the gray square.
And she says to me hurry as I pack my last alligator bag, and put on my sun hat. And she says very chic, very smart, and she says you are getting so very--
Sleepy. Roses and dark apples and the century falls into your innocent lap. And you remember once more late coffee and oranges and a sunny chair. And the baby you've carried these long months about to be born into roundness and snow. She takes her pendulum and sighs, your breasts like bread, she says. Your belly. . . . She takes out her blurry numbers, her box of fat snow and says count with me, count backwards with me into oblivion or love, into the as if, and if only and last hope with me, as the century shatters all around us and the living become the dead and pale birds swoop. Breathe, breathe--
Deeply now. Dissolving.
Almost but not even. Leave this life. Why is this night different from all other nights? Leave this life behind. Say bye-bye, say bye cruel world. And she holds the closed book in her hands. Say good-bye undeniably cruel and beautiful world. Just walk away Renee. Walk away now.
We used to take the rabbit path.
She engraves no fear on my forehead, no harm on my forehead in snow. Count backwards now. Count apples. Count roses into forgetfulness. Most undeniably beautiful world where we used to--say good-bye.
And nine are the months of childbirth. And seven are the days of the week. And you are getting sleepy. She takes out her metronome and thorn. She takes out the third inversion of the seventh chord and goes down one note a perfect fifth lower. She takes out her black hourglass and catechism, she reads Lamb of God and World without End. She plays the murdered chord, touches my round belly and says please forgive us, someone forgive us our sins. The century falling and roses on an unmarked grave. Best to--What was your name there? she asks.
Sophie, I say. Best to count backwards. Sophie. Best to forget. She holds up an enormous flash card: TEN
TEN
Ten. Where you were happy. Breathe deeply now. Yes, where Father would do his funny walk that would make us laugh so hard we fell in the grass. His black overcoat. His hat . . .
Where there was do, re, mi, where there was a,b,c and world without end. Where I learned to write my name: Sophie. The thrilling, the dangerous S. Where I was left breathless.
And the living carry their precious alphabet. Their nominations and prizes, their laurels and accolades. Their diplomas.
Mother I've gotten triple stars on the end of term exam!
When Mother was so proud.
And the living with their monuments, their tributes. Yes, Madame says, putting her feet up, their monuments: the North Pyramid of Senefern; Dashur, that was our pleasure. The Temple of Luxor. The Sphinx of Chephren decked in royal headdress, false beard and cobra brow ornament. The Baths of Rome. The Baths of Greenwich Village. The pagodas and pallazzi and pallazzini. Bauhaus, apse, forget about it. Gaudi, Frank Lloyd Wright. The Eight Great Wonders, the Six Senses, the 32 Temples, the 1,578 Pleasures, leave this life. Everything ever made. You are getting--
The Bridge of Sighs. The Hôtel de Ville which was our paradise--the endless corridors of desire--more and more and little more--your milky skin and honey. I was always hungry there, where we were left breathless every time. Once more con brio and entrée libre and L'amour fou and we were alive.
NINE
Nine. At the table, table songs. The table that held more food than we could ever finish. Bread and fish. Goose and hen. Apple butter and strudel. Rejoice. May I have more? And the apples and honey and wine that lit the night. And we danced in a circle. The Madame remembers the dervishes, the line dances, the minuet, the tango, the two step. Ecstatic dancing to nonsense texts. To klezmer and prophets. Celebrate. Hold hands in a circle. And my sister, Rachel singing. She had the most beautiful--
My milk bottle, my chatterbox. What did you learn in school today, my dear one--Sophie? The laughter, our happiness, bread rising silently in the dark, a circle dance, table songs we sang by heart.
Where Mother was so proud: The joy has been in watching you grow. The joy has been in loving you.
And roses continue to fall. And apples. Apple butter and strudel in the warm kitchen while outside snow fell. And out the wavy glass snow collecting on his shoulder--a shoulder you loved. Father with his shovel and glove. He grew roses. We made perfume from petals and rosewater. Snow continues to fall. And ashes, ashes. Let them all fall, the strange one with the pendulum, with hook and eye, says. Glass that shatters. Sorry, she whispers but you are sleepy. And the mad dervish sings a drugged lullaby, leave this life, and the glass whispers, leave your precious life behind. And the table songs you knew by heart. And all human thought. Quaquaqua she says and dogmatic rationalism. Radical empiricism, transcendental idealism. The Cartesian Circle, the Golden Rectangle, a priori, Madame chants, epistemology and you are getting sleepy. The role of virtue, forget about that, Kierkegaard, Kant's Imperative, the young Hegel, the old Marx, Spinoza and geometry, forget about Heidegger already. She goes up an octave, shrill, forget about free will. God speaks his eternal No to the world. For Christ's sake forget about God. Dasein and Entfernung. Gerworfenheit and Gezundtheit.
"That we are still not thinking stems from the fact that the thing itself that must be thought about turns away from man, has turned away long ago," Madame reads from the Heidegger pamphlet. So don't worry about it.
a) Nothing is. b) If something was, it could not be known, c) If something could be known, it could not be communicated. EIGHT.
EIGHT
Given the existence as uttered forth in the public works of Puncher and Wattmann of a personal God quaquaquaqua with white beard quaquaquaqua outside time without extension who from the heights of divine apathia divine athambia divine aphasia loves us dearly with some exceptions for reasons unknown but time will tell and suffers like the divine Miranda with those who for reasons unknown but time will tell
Your alphabet was Roman. Your numerals were Arabic. Your language was English. Or was it? Once in your language there was a word for longing and wandering and sadness. Once there was a word for black stallion. Once there was do, re, mi and a, b, c. Ring around the Rosy. And roses. Once there was a book.
Check in your name here. Your place of birth. Your handful of dates. Hand in your passport. Your Michelin Guide. Your video and MCI cards, your library--and the card for the piscine.
Once we sang. Once we came to this square of gray dirt and sang.
She was knitting a baby blanket with pink wool when the men followed us up the rabbit path home after our game of Hide and Seek. The little cat asleep in the basket.
When I enter a cafe in search of Pierre and he is not there, he is no more not there because of my expectation, than he is not there when I had not thought of him.
And she babbled her apple vowels in any order they wanted. The air grows vaguely sweet. Yes, he grew roses. Check in your name, your place, your licenses and pedigrees, your small dates.
Snow falls. Snow falls all over the world tonight. Say goodbye. In your language there were one hundred words for snow. Five. Five. No not yet, six. Six, then.
SIX
Windows and mirrors and crystal, good nacht. Candelabras. The Venetian chandelier and lamps and glass trays and eyeglasses but how shall I see, my vision is weak? Her collection of demitasse cups. And the window that framed the shoulder you loved. And the glass flowers. Her small ornamental birds . . . Shatter. Limoges. A border of roses.
And the Madame magnifies her metronome and pendulum. Pumps up the volume. Give over, give over now to tick and tock. To quaquaqua. She opens the box. Let snow fall like silence on your pretty, on your drowsy, your undeniably sleepy head.
Water was your pleasure once. So what? You loved to listen to your sister talk about the birds. You swam across the lake. She and Father would follow you in a boat. / never thought you'd leave in Spring.
Love might be a circle or a chandelier, but not here. Or dancing--your hand entwined in mine. Your happiness may have been an S or an 8 or the sign for infinity. Dried fish or a wurst or a knish. Candles on fire. A bit of Schnapps. Your happiness one day may be a word for black stallion or a Mercedes or the TGV or the sleek autobahn or Berlin Alexanderplatz--but not now. A toboggan or a boat. Or the roses. He grew the most magnificent--
Winter roses and the century continue to fall. You can stop your wandering. You can stop your wandering now.
Love might be--And the little cat Schnitzel comes back after--after so many days away we took her for dead. And her shining fur and that first glimpse, after complete resignation, after hopeless--through the pane of glass--come home in the snow--ice and stars on that radiant frame.
Mamma, come quickly to the window, she is back'.
And his return, and the snow on his shoulder after the Many Years War. Home.
Your language was German. Your color was red. Your day of the week was Saturday. In your language there was a word for wandering and sadness and homesick. A word for black stallion. Your number was three. You had the most beautiful singing voice. Younger sister. You could call the birds from the trees.
May I interrupt this quaint revery for a moment, she laughs? The Madame stands by with her tar and feathers. Blood sausage and embers and looks at the dead. They were once my friends. Come with me she says come with me to five where you will not starve, where you will not die.
FIVE
Where we will not starve. Forget the dead who are so hungry they cannot close their eyes. They bite down on air. Sitting at the long table. Biting down forever on air. And they can never close their eyes . . .
. . . They used to say after a particularly bitter winter that it made the spring all the more tender and dear, all the more sweet.
In the fragrant, wild, rainy springtime. It could have been the day of your birth. The house covered with roses again. The brass water tap turned green. The snails have left their shells. Black trees on a green mountain. Birds swooping
Let it all fall--a) nothing is; b) if something was,
FOUR
I wish we had the time to have Rachel tell you about each bird, where they are from, where they migrate to, the habits of each . . .
THREE
Where there was fa, sol, la, ti, now the silent table. Where there were table songs sung from memory, now the silent table.
Where there were the apple vowels that once saved you oooooh and ahhhhh and ohhhhhhh, now the silent table.
TWO
When they came from behind the trees while we were playing Hide and Seek and followed us through the woods and up the rabbit path home, I understood it as I hadn't before: the x was on my house.
ONE
And now like a cat gone out on a long journey and come back, your second lids close, and then your first, and you are asleep finally at the silent table and you rest your head. Mamma and Pappa have gone--nothing can be done.
And the glass shatters backwards into silence. One. Where the open graves suture themselves closed into beautiful earth, undisturbed. And the river flows free of blood for once.
And the kicking and healthy child on the verge of her birth floats back into remoteness, curls back into a circle--you will remember none of this--just as well.
I was seven months pregnant there.
But she is up to her elbows in red, now wielding her mad forceps, her tongs, her claw. Her fishbone and kill. Singing a Stabat Mater. Almost but not
And she says, the Madame pleads, the maker of angels begs, You will remember nothing. At the number after One ... I was seven months pregnant there, you will remember none, nothing of this. Almost but not. And there's blood everywhere and she waves her pincers and star magic and wand. Almost but not even. Have mercy. Apples and snow and roses are falling. The century. The child falling forever. Have mercy on us.
And the Madame catches the almost but not, the seven months in a hat box, falling.
Almost but not even a baby yet. Angel. And it falls kerplunk into the hat box. We all fall. Rien a faire. Nothing can be done now. And the mother stands, falling.
And we, invisible for a prolonged moment embrace in that all but evacuated square. Where has everyone gone? Say goodbye.
Falling. My daughter forever. Where are you?
Once there was almost a child with apple cheeks conceived in snow and she was called Rose.
Apples and roses and snow. Angels at our feet. Mercy.
You will remember nothing. Zero. Zip. Nothing now. And she is waiting there in the place after One. And she takes off her red soaked gloves and she shakes my hand and smiles--coltish, coquettish and girlish and blushing a little. Enchantee. She asks, What is your name? I shrug. Says, What were you called there? I shrug. Says, What was the configuration of your village?
I do not know.
What do you remember?
Stabat Mater and autobahn. We were going to go to the--numbers that descend. She smiles and opens her palm. A bon bon. Inviting me to the place where we will not starve.
What was your name there?
I shake my head no. I do not know.
She sings, "Hail wind from afar, desert and you, forgetfulness!"
And now like a cat having used up only a fraction of your possible lives--your light--
My Remoteness, My Amnesia, she says--the only place still possible to live. Her hands flutter across her face and she offers bittersweet chocolates, bits of honey and apple and nuts. Bon bons. Come here my Sweet. And she is clucking and cooing and taking teeny, tiny baby steps backward. Baby steps. Bon bon steps backward. Baby. This way that way yes, here, yes, no, as we step and step and she says go lightly, and she says heads up and she says come quickly, step gently, and we traverse over fields and fields and fields of the dead. And she says go lightly, they were once my friends. And darkness streams from the open eyes of the dead. We'll need a torch, she says. And the dead say Someone shaved our heads at night while we were sleeping. Someone collected the gold from our throats and we will no longer sing. Someone stole all that could be stolen.
Father would do his funny walk--of course.
And the Madame says with her notebook and abacus, step quickly, come quickly. She brandishes a butterfly net. She says bon bon and yo yo and figure eight. She says home and safe and soon we'll be home.
And the dead shall be called Invisible Cities and Rien a Faire. And the Madame says p? Suffis, and Entree Libre. She says Come quickly and Faster, but then stops.
Yes, she hisses, but is it you? Is it really you? She asks me for the note I have carried all this way in my shoe. And she points her torch at it while the dead without opus number recall table songs and sweet wine and ask what was our crime? And the dead who are, dear God, now everywhere just want to know. And she cheers and applauds and does a pirouette. Reading again and again the note written in a language of stars and glass. In a language of dots and dashes. Shatter and flame. In a language of ash.
I follow her, this moonwalker, to the soon we'll be home. To the soon we'll be at the door called No Harm, the door called Safe. Over this path of shattered glass.
I step over last stories, songs, wishes, recipes, requests, questions, small leather boxes, candles on fire, arms and legs and heads, and bottles of Schnapps.
The skull sings a boating song. Alone at last with you, wiving . . . twilight approaching ... the willows . . .
Shut up, she screams. Shut up already! And she turns to me, step quickly, go lightly.
And the skull remembers her mother. Such beautiful hair. Each night. One hundred strokes.
She writes No Harm in a language I do not understand on my forehead. She writes No Fear. And she suddenly notices my luggage. We'll need a chariot, a chariot, a chariot for your bags, all the while taking little baby steps, cha cha steps back. Baby. Viens ici, my sweet, my pet, swinging vaguely in my direction the butterfly net. Hurry.
Come with me I promise you anything you want. Dancing boys and minty drinks. Odessa. Nice and Antibes. A spa! Anything you want. She's shameless. She says I like your sun hat, but I know Madame would say just about anything to get me on to that chariot.
What do you recall?
I remember only the mystery of book and rose. Rose and baby snow. A shock of red. Numbers that descend.
She smiles, I promise you memory one day.
I remember Hide and Seek and forceps and thorn. And red and red. And the x.
The Madame whirls around midnight wearing micro mini and veil, alb and stole, and pumps and lines she has painted up the backs of her legs, saying the darkest evening of the year, cradling skulls, weeping, checking pulses with a gloved hand. Numbers that descend. Chaque nuit, une femme--
Madame is exotic--night blooming. Beautiful in her Houdini suit. She sings a mad aria: HURRY. And the dead say bring us back. Let us dance. And the dead say listen to us for once. And the dead say write this down and get it published. And Madame screams Enough in a voice of dissolving lines and shattering glass, Maria Callas and baby blanket and Diamonda Galas, as the numbers drain and the hatbox turns red. The voice of five, four, three, of blood and frogs and cattle disease, of boils and hail and darkness and I promise and I'm sorry and I promise and no harm now and life without end.
The x was on my house.
And apples like heart beats continue to fall. She says hurry now, into the chariot. She says what's this with the sun hat and where the hell do you think you're going anyway? And quaquaqua and her legs dissolving no, and she shrieks as the snow turns to rain and the dead become deader, hurry. And the living with their vows and promises, their half-baked schemes, their novels and French lessons and charm schools, and guidebooks, their footnotes and postscripts, their small escape hatches.
She coaxes me onto her foul rag and bone shop, singing in a falsetto, we're peas in a pod! We're Fred and Ginger, we're Cagney and Lacey, we're--we're--And I collect my alligator bags in the night in the rain in my ridiculous sun hat and step onto the horseless carriage. What choice do I have? And she whispers Safe and No Harm and Home. And she makes a cross in ash on my forehead now. She turns on the torch. Lifts her half glasses from her breast. Sighs and squeals. Gurgles, coos, laughs. Does a triple pirouette. My beauty, my future, my savior, my best idea yet!
What were you called there?
I shrug.
She holds my small forgetful hand in hers. What was the configuration of your village?
I do not know.
What can you remember?
Nothing now. How odd.
Excellent! she says and does another spin. My Beautiful Forgetfulness.
And she settles into the rickety chariot and puts on her kidskin gloves. Repeat after me, she says. The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain. As flip flops and forceps and bikini bottoms and bon bons tumble out of the chariot. The rain in Spain . . . And the child Picasso appears for a moment drawing infinity and figure eights and the dead whisper Guernica there. Again: the rain in Spain stays mainly . . . I think you've got it!
She revs up the chariot, and a squeegy man comes by wanting to clean the window for some bread, and she puts up her windshield wipers and screams, GO!!! as the glass shatters and her voice does the forty lashes.
She prepares for departure. Only at midnight, she whispers, only on the new moon which is no moon at all. And no stars. Shall we take the upper or the lower corniche?
What are angels, she asks, shining her torch.
I shrug.
What were you called there?
I do not know.
Say Petra.
Petra.
Say Petra, again.
Petra.
Say Petra.
She snips a glittering lock of hair and smiles pure gold and places it in an envelope. This must be my lucky day. Say life everlasting. She opens a black catechism: say world without end.
What is the true cross, she asks, thumbing madly. She screams. Raises a small periscope. Checking the darkness for danger. Prepare for blast off! In the new moon which is no moon at all and all the stars out. Roses continue to fall. Don't linger. Don't linger quite so long. They are alas--they are undeniably dead, sadly, yes, for God's sake dead!
How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?
Une femme chaque nuit, Voyage en grand secret.
What is your name?
I forget.
Say Greta. Try Greta.
Greta.
Say Greta again.
Greta.
Try Gretchen.
How many angels . . .
She peers through the periscope at something and shrieks into the black rain with her red veil and fang, with her garlic and cross. You're a collaborator's collaborationist!!! To the manor born! Groomed since birth for the post! You're a one trick pony. A wolf in a sheep suit. I know all about it. I heard it through the Arab's telephone. And she whispers blood sausage, and she whispers how much and she whispers, what have you done for me lately? And she exchanges hair for bread, gold for bread, anything for bread. And she holds up the metronome and bargains for time--and the black hourglass shatters.
The true cross may be a wishbone or an x. Numbers that descend. It may be the stain left on the sheet or the apple vowels that saved her--
When I enter a cafe in search of Pierre and he is not there--
The true cross may be the pregnant woman standing, her arms outstretched--before the pit she will be shot into. The true cross may be the Stabat Mater or the Madeleine qui pleure. The true cross may be the book the women are forbidden ever to open.
The true cross may be a woman with no home, who hoists her child into the air pleading for money or just a morsel of food--an apple, some bread, in one of your cities. The true cross may be a tortured figure hanging upside down so that his Shylocked pockets can be emptied of everything.
She holds up her bony hand and cackles. She says she carries a bit of the true cross in her ring. She says when we get there and she says if you're good--she's got papal vestments galore, just wait and see!
It may be 1945 or 1993 or 222 or 12 BC or World War I. It may be the end of the world or just the middle, and the skull sings a boating song. Remembering the Seine and moonlight. And the French say j'ai faim and the French say cassoulet and pomme frites. Pate and pate brisee. And the French say send more Tabasco Sauce when you get a chance. Fewer American films.
And the dead have four questions and three cups and five sorrowful mysteries. And the dead carry the sixth book of the Aeneid: their words are shadows now and they long for their long distance telephone cards. And the dead recall the true cross as they chew forever on an imaginary mutton leg. They are so hungry, still. And the dead remember the true cross: chemotherapy and shock treatment and ddl. And some of the dead remember being in the capriccio of health--except for one thing: someone was hurting them. Or they were starving or--
Gas pellets release a strange perfume. It's as if--as if . . .
And the dead ask what was our crime? That we sang, that we loved sweet wine? And the dead cry.
Someone stole all that could be stolen.
The skull says when I was a boy we used to take the toboggan up to Mount Ararat . . . And in the spring that same mountain covered with wildflowers.
And the skull sings a song of Odessa . . . pearl of the sea ... Remember me . . .
And the Madame weeps and performs mouth to mouth and Stabat Mater--Late magic and recruitments and resuscitations. And I'd like to do a little CPR on you, she grins, a little mouth to mouth on you my sweet she says with glee, and dreams of her after-hours bars and redemptions and charms. And the dead whisper we are smoke, and Madame says enough already and enough already with the jokes.
And the dead gnawing on an imaginary mutton leg--
Bite down on air. And the silent table. And the quiet.
There was a child once . . .
The joy has been in watching you grow. The joy has been in loving you.
And the dead whisper, set us free now. They used to carry their miracles. Their faith. Grace. Go to the desert and pray for your true name. Take back the vowels. And take back the consonants too. And the dead hand us back the alphabet and they say help us if you can; they say do something--or nothing--and shrug. And the dead whisper we are tired now. Let us go.
And the dreaming dead, crucified to a wishbone think when we get there . . .
I never thought you'd leave with the roses in bloom.
Love may be a child. Conceived in joy. Imagined with hope. Someone stole our beautiful hair . . .
And the dead shall be called Rose and Rosen and Rosenberg and Rosenbloom. And the dead shall be called, God help them--God love them for once--they shall be called Invisible Cities and Rien a Faire and Rabbit Path.
They used to say after a particularly bitter winter that--you know.
The inevitable nostalgia for 10.
The true cross may be the healthy and kicking apple child, shattered. Or the black book, unborn in them, that they are forbidden forever to open.
The true cross is the vowels and the vowels she spoke. When the men came with yellow hair and red breaking on their arms, she feigned ecstasy every time--oooooh and ahhhhh and ohhhhhhh so she would be spared. And the men came back with yellow hair over and over for more.
Someone stole all that could be stolen.
What is an angel, she asks?
A woman x'ed to a bed.
In the all but evacuated square.
The angels shall be called Rachel and Nathan and Sophie and Sol. And the angels shall be pictured holding goblets and chalice and waiting for Elijah or Godot to show. They are so patient.
Tears have fallen for centuries. Cling to your pencils. Hold out your small cup. Dream.
And the angels shall be called pagoda and pyramid. And the chorus of angels shall be called Cambodia. And children of Cambodia. And the chorus of angels shall be called Sarajevo. And Children of Sarajevo.
And the angels shall be called Egarian, Kavafian, Bedrosian, Zakarian, Agoyam, Sarkisian and they shall play duduks instead of harps and they shall dance again.
The angels shall be called Alphabet and Song. Pray for us. And the angels shall be called Baby and Baby Blanket. Hear our prayer.
The true cross is the silent table where we are asked to sit quietly forever. And the true cross is the stain left on the sheet in the shape of an "a" or a "u." Une femme chaque nuit pinned on a bed of vowels.
The true cross is the body of a woman nailed to a closed book.
Please take my hand for a moment, and come here to this feather bed: under the eiderdown, the duvet, the perfumed sheets, the pillows plumped--come close--and before we go any further--before you admire my loops and curves and curls, take my hand and whisper in my ear, tell me
What was our crime?
The x was on my eyes. The x was on my mouth.
But the angels shall be called Desire and Peas in a Pod and Chatterbox. Sophie and Ava and Rose. And they shall live on the earth again some day. And they shall dance.
And the living press apples and roses to their breasts remembering. Snow falls all over the world tonight. Close your eyes.
What is your name?
Say Greta. Try Greta.
What is your name for now?
Greta.
As far as I can remember, I've always been afraid of anything that might give me any trouble; I thus was successively afraid of the bogeyman, wax figures in the Dupuytren museums, places overly frequented by vehicles, hoodlums, flowerpots that fall on heads, ladders, the clap, the pox, the Gestapo, V-2S. Peace did not, of course, in any way ease these alarms; thus, the other evening, I'm eating some chestnut puree, and I begin to dream that I'm in a djip and that the driver wasn't going to avoid a thick pillar, I see it coming, I tell myself that we're crashing into it, there it is, we crashed into it, everything goes black; in the blackness, I say to myself: I'm dead, I say to myself: so that's what it's like when you die, and then I wake up, my stomach distended and my heart beating. I turn the lights on, I look at my watch, it's two o'clock, two o'clock in the morning, still pretty early, and I get up to take a piss. As I don't use a chamberpot, I have to go to the toilet. There's a long corridor. I go down it saying: if this, if that. I manage to scare myself, and I go into the john quite happy to be able to close the door behind me, to make this long story short, and feel at home, and not only to close the door, but also to turn the lock.
I piss.
I pull the chain.
When the hygienic gurgling quieted down, I sensed the presence of nothingnesses in the corridor, without any atmosphere of existence, which made me warm in the teeth, cold under the fingernails, general horripilation. An abject fright grabbed hold of my soul, and, putting my head in my hands, I sat down on the toilet seat, bemoaning my vile fate. The presence of these nothingnesses without any atmosphere of existence was obviously the fruit (immaculately conceived) of my imagination taken to the brinks of shittery under the influence of the chestnut puree. This explanation, valid from the point of view of many an ism, could not help, of course, but fully satisfy my penchant for philosophical studies, but did nothing, alas! to prevent the existence of the nothingnessing atmospheres of presence from lurking about in the corridor, thirsting after cerumen and depravity, swollen with their labile pointlessness and their inappropriate onanism.
An hour passed.
I felt the ambiences full of the nothingness of their present existence flatten themselves against the door of the bog, dribble their loathsome purulence against it and twist around the doorknob, like a lemon upon the cone that will extract its acidic and citric liquid. They deeply disgusted me. And as for myself, I remained seated on the toilet seat, bemoaning my fate, and I could see, blurring through my tears, the parallelepipedic shape and the downy touch of my sack, where I had dreamily smashed in my face in a djip.
I would very much have liked to have gone back to it, to go to sleep, to try to, but there was the atmosphere of existences without presence and without nothingness that, lurking in the corridor, prevented me from giving the lock the 1800 rotation that would have been the first step toward hitting the hay in which I was longing t'snorze. I'm timorous, certainly, as I said, I realize it, but I've never sought to avoid bitter reality, I've always looked it inna face. Since I was stuck for more than two hours in this spot that is sometimes described, and childishly so, as "little," I had to resign myself and found a society there of which I would be at once Robinson and Friday, and, just as the hero of the British novel saw trunks full of workman's treasures brought by a sea both benevolent and subject to a Neptune named Defoe, I thus discovered in a little cabinet the first elements of my Robinsonism in the form of a toolbox very decently stocked with nails, hammers, pliers, screws, and hooks, not to mention a folding rule that measured twelve decimeters, an archaeological trace of a duodecimal-based civilization.
But the presences without nothingness of ambient existence continued to lurk in the corridor, leaving their trail of preternatural, abulic, and subperceptible snail-slobber.
Five hours trickled along the toilet chain, which communicated, through some architectural subtlety, with the Empire clock next door.
The discovery of the toolbox restored my courage. I got up, I took a second piss, I pulled the foresaid chain and began to hammer nails into the wall, this attitude having at that moment, for me, no precise goal. I simply demonstrated in this manner my ambient presence of existing nothingness. And as I overheard, at my bedroom doorstep, having gotten up in the middle of the night from having eaten too much chestnut puree and desirous of having a piss, the muffled sound of the hammer being wielded in the toilet by a nothingness present in an existing ambiance, I made an about-turn, scared shitless, and went back to bed.
I go to a mathematicians' luncheon. The first guest who arrives is carrying a cello. Although we are in one of the inner suburbs, we find ourselves before a brook with water lilies sprouting from it. One of the mathematicians present points out how Heraclitus was mistaken in saying that one never bathes in the same river twice: when one drinks a glass of water there are surely several molecules of H2O that have already passed through our body. The others agree.
I run into an Arab and tell him about the death of a Spanish worker with whom he was acquainted. He isn't surprised, for this worker was working on a building site where an iron ball had fallen on his head. I approach the neighboring building site: the Seine has overrun the foundations. They've had to cut off the water.
My sister-in-law brings back the books I had lent her. I was unable to remember their titles. She is driving a little car with automatic transmission and complains of rheumatism.
I am in the country at the home of a doctor. He is grilling some eggplants and cutlets, which catch fire, then he plays the lute.
One of my friends is dead. Another of my friends whom I haven't seen in a long time goes to kiss him on the forehead. A third asks me the identity of a lady who is present. I tell him: "She's the head of manufacturing." He: "The head of manufacturing's wife?"--"No," I say to him, "the head of manufacturing." He goes to shake her hand.
The butcher's wife writes me a letter, asking me to leave the shutters a L'italienne. I wonder why and what she means.
I am in a little town whose topography is unfamiliar to me. I try to follow the same route as the day before. I venture, however, down a narrow alley whose buildings seem abandoned. There is a barbershop there without barber or clients. I wonder what he could have been thinking to have set up shop in a spot with so little traffic. Leaving this alley I see a fat lady in pants who is walking a cat at the end of a long leash and who is accompanied by a Siberian spitz.
I enter a church that is still adorned with a traditional altar. On a sheet of commercial-sized paper posted on the confessional there is a list of the members of the brotherhood of Saint Rose. I read it carefully. Then I examine with equal care the foot of a Romanesque column decorated with a hare and a snail. As I am about to leave, a priest in a cassock enters. I ask him what the Saint Rose brotherhood is. He explains it to me, but I have only retained a confused recollection of his explanations concerning the brotherhood (it's a matter of consecrated bread ... of masses spoken . . .); as to the saint, he stresses that it is not the Saint Rose of Lima, but a local saint. A little later, I find myself in an isolated hamlet. There is a church there that is associated with the Hôtel de Sens in Paris. The neighboring farmer has lent the key so that it can be visited. He arrives bare-chested, accompanied by his wife, who is wearing shorts. Before us there is a pond; the ducks and drakes are going to sleep for it is very late. The moon is almost full.
I ask in a cafe where the Saint-Baudel chapel is located. No one knows except for the proprietress, who shows me the way. I find it without difficulty. Inside I see two nearly nude boys on mattresses; pennants of the Jeune Garde on the walls, but the sixteenth century paintings that I was expecting to find are still on the ceiling.
In an absolutely deserted village, a countryman in the main square is trying to make a parachute-shaped kite rise up into the air.
I have rented a house, which I leave in order to go into the garden. I am surprised to find a lady there in the midst of shelling peas. She is settled on a rocking chair: "Come over to our side, then." I apologize, stammering, and close the door behind me.
I see a poster kept under glass over a grave. It is the speech made by a miller in 1896; a speech that he had printed: a eulogy to his mother who died at the age of eighty-two. He is the third of eighteen children. The word "fatal" is in the text, and others of the same sort. I go into the neighboring church, which has been restored with shiny exposed beams and handrails with neon lighting. Two little gothic carved figures, however, remain. I go out and again find myself in the cemetery. They have grouped together the graves of those who died in the war. There are four of them. The crosses that surmount the graves and the chains that join them together are in wrought iron of a peculiar style. I go to reread the miller's speech.
Some parents visit Saint-Benoit with their little girl. I am looking attentively at the capitals when the father says to me (addressing me familiarly): "Explain to her what mass is." I look at the little girl. She must be six years old. I ask: "Has she received a Christian upbringing?" "No," he replies. I feel rather muddled and keep quiet while the father launches into explanations that the little girl listens to with round eyes. The mother smiles. She has purchased some cakes: they are good, it seems, at Saint-Benoit-sur-Loire.
Seated at a table on the terrace in a little provincial town, I am looking at the statue of a physicist and, in spite of the twilight that is transforming into night, am trying to make out the inscriptions on the pedestal. All of a sudden, sirens. People come to the windows. Some time passes. The shutters close again. There are no more onlookers when the fire engine passes by. Then an individual suddenly appears from the darkness, whose face reminds me of that of a mulish alcoholic of Depot 24 during the phony war. He comes up to me and holds his hand out, calling me master.
Of course none of these dreams are any more real than they are invented. They are simply minor incidents taken from wakened life. A minimal effort of rhetoric seemed sufficient to give them a dreamlike aspect.
That's all I wanted to say.
1—Would you like to know the story of the three lively little peas?
if yes, go to 4 if no, go to 2.
2—Would you prefer that of the three tall slender beanpoles?
if yes, go to 16 if no, go to 3.
3—Would you prefer that of the three medium-sized mediocre bushes?
if yes, go to 17 if no, go to 21.
4—Once upon a time there were three little peas dressed in green who were sleeping soundly in their pod. Their oh so chubby faces were breathing through the holes of their nostrils and one could hear their sweet, harmonious snoring.
if you prefer another description, go to 9 if this one suits you, go to 5.
5—They were not dreaming. In fact, these little beings never dream.
if you prefer that they dream, go to 6 otherwise, go to 7.
6—They were dreaming. In fact, these little beings always dream and their nights secrete charming visions.
if you want to know these dreams, go to 11 if you’re not particularly keen to, then go to 7.
7—Their dainty feet were dipped in warm socks and they wore black velvet gloves to bed.
if you prefer gloves of a different color go to 8 if this color suits you, go to 10.
8—They wore blue velvet gloves to bed.
if you prefer gloves of a different color, go to 7 if this color suits you, go to 10.
9—Once upon a time there were three little peas knocking about on the highways. When evening came, they quickly fell asleep, tired and weary.
if you want to know the rest, go to 5 if not, go to 21.
10—All three had the same dream, for they loved each other tenderly and, like good and proud thrins, always had similar dreams.
if you want to know their dream, go to 11 if not, go to 12.
11—They dreamed that they were getting their soup at the soup kitchen and that on opening their billies they discovered that it was vetch soup. They woke up, horrified.
if you want to know why they woke up horrified, look up the word “vetch” in Webster’s and let’s not mention it again if you don’t think it’s worth going deeper into the matter, go to 12.
12—Opopoï! they cried as they opened their eyes. Opopoï! what sort of dream did we give birth to! Bad omen, said the first. Yah, said the second, you said it, I’m all sad now. Don’t get in a tizzy, said the third, who was the craftiest of the three, this isn’t something to get upset over, but something to understand, to cut a long story short, I’m going to analyze it for you.
if you want to know the interpretation of this dream right away, go to 15 if, on the contrary, you wish to know the reactions of the other two, go to 13.
13—That’s a lot of hooey, said the first. Since when do you know how to analyze dreams. Yeah, since when? added the second.
if you too would like to know since when, go to 14 if not, go to 14 anyway, because you still won’t know why.
14—Since when? cried the third. How should I know! The fact is I analyze them. You’ll see!
if you too want to see, go to 15 if not, go to 15 anyway, because you’ll see nothing.
15—Well, let’s see, then, said his brothers. I don’t like your irony, he replied, and you won’t know anything. Anyway, hasn’t your feeling of horror dimmed during this rather lively conversation? Vanished, even? So what’s the point of stirring up the quagmire of your papilionaceous unconscious? Let’s go wash up at the fountain instead and greet this happy morning with hygiene and sacred euphoria! No sooner said than done: there they are slipping out of their pod, letting themselves gently roll along the ground and then, jogging, they merrily reach the theater of their ablutions.
if you want to know what happens at the theater of their ablutions, go to 16 if you would rather not, you go to 21.
16—Three big beanpoles were watching them.
if the three tall beanpoles displease you, go to 21 if they suit you, go to 18.
17—Three medium-sized mediocre bushes were watching them.
if the three medium-sized mediocre bushes displease you, go to 21 if they suit you, go to 18.
18—Finding themselves eyeballed in this way, the three nimble little peas who were very modest ran off.
if you want to know what they did next, go to 19 if you don’t want to know, you go to 21.
19—They ran speedily to get back to their pod and, shutting it again behind them, went back to sleep.
if you would like to know the rest, go to 20 if you do not want to know, you go to 21.
20—There is no rest the story is over.
21—In that case, the story is also over.
They were each speaking two different languages, agglutinative languages with bitter roots, and at first that didn't bother them. Moreover, the rolled words in their rocky inlets spread mauve reflections, but little information. They tried various categories, faux nemes, pure verbs, clicks, moos: every time some eggs of sumethin' else hatched under their words.
It was completely baffling.
They were each speaking two different languages, agglutinative languages with bitter roots.
If I were what I think I am, I would not be here making my bit of goose slave away in the ink, unsticking the ballpoint pen, cementing the scrapers, hardening the soft bits of bread. Where would I be, not here of course, I've already said so, letting my waterman rule my sergeant-major, capulating with some she-fur, training my park-curs, sojourning my elephants. You have to admit it, art has severe principles that go beyond the fame of the haughties. The haughties: those who believe they have a bit of it. They distinguish. They paradigm. They perpend. They sneakify. They gaudify. With my quill in the air, I say no and put three ens to my name and innumerable "o"s.
A little thicker at the chin than at the corner of the spleen, that was the first thing that struck you when you didn't look at him too much from the side. Still old enough, though of a Venetian luster, he appeared to be bathed in more sweat than his boxing wanted. His eye fresh, but hung up, his look slightly stringy, ear at ease, nose green, mouth twitching, corners of the kennel decidedly too pronounced and Achilles tendon constantly at rest, his face thus made a shifty sound that the jolting curve of his shoulders was unable to glue up. A chestnut brown detail corroborated his ventricles. The nourishment of his striking feature also fed the corn on his cob from which he suffered every seasoning. Nothing had ever been able to heal it, not even the dreary pension of an old tuna-meat pedant. His salad fermented over a slow heat between the schnozz and the ballast, but without loud singing so as not to awaken the eagle of the dulcimer, tough and quick tempered.
He would light up through auto-kept rotation of the pyrophor. The ribs of his pen cap, made well enough to disgust a dandy, enveloped him from head to toe in a thin latticework of nags.
It was still no better.
Two fingers of fatigue, one of them too short and the other short enough, allowed him only the most sparing of waltz steps, but not always. To the right of the box of his biennial bone, there was nothing much to do, for him as well as for others, but to the left. He constantly heard himself talking, with a fillet of soil that sometimes descended to the hollow of the yew.
To every heart, he answered tails. That was the most caudal aspect of his behavior and the one that sometimes in his melancholy led him to screw down the asphalt of his first kernel. The passersby, disconcerted, hit the bull's-eye.
Few men keep abreast, all women have two.
He was smoking so much pot he was going to it.
Atop the Eiffel Tower, we got one of Paris.
While smoking a butt, he scratched his.
He drove away from the park because he couldn't.
Dressed in crepe, she flipped several.
He turned red after his report card was.
Removing her veil, she descended into it.
To ensure that the drunkard wouldn't whine, they gave him some.
Being well bred, the child ate his buttered.
He made a call to the delivery room and learned that the baby wasn't born with one.
Jesus told Paul not to expect to find him in one.
The duck didn't and hit its head.
Sometimes my heart is to the right, or even completely under my arm, as if it were growing hair. At times I feel it in my elbow, near the funny bone, I'm afraid it might take root there, I'd no longer be able to put them (my elbows) on the table, I prefer that it drop a little further down. Then I see it beating under my wrist, in the spot where palmists locate the line of longevity. Sometimes, it's rare, it reaches the ends of the fingers, the pulp. But it never stays there for long. Then it comes back up, and, if I'm not careful, it travels unforeseen distances; I have to search for it and find it under a kidney, one of my nuts or the root of a hair.
That's why I'm going to the doctor.
O my heart, if only you'd be more quiet.
That it gets ready, far from, the what has to be said, then the echoes that to the cock-a-doodle-dos of an innate, but laughably long card the limits reply, reply. It's midnight. Some write, some dream. The ink flows through the fingers of the moon in its coaches of algebras. Next to, almost, thereabouts, the stopover point is announced by the blatant chimes of a five-franc piece. It's still noon. Time hasn't changed since the Silurian age. It's barely changed. Barely: just enough to no longer become a troglodyte.
I was in the midst of writing when I got tripped up in a litotes. It lay on the ground, feeding on the new goo of blue hue, to embue, too, the zoo's poo-poo with dew, to truly view the flue, to rue, moo, coo, and even mew.
This hen wanted a cat. She was a real hen, gallinaceous, a poultry hen, farmyard poultry, a farmyard of the Beauce, of the Beauce in France. This hen was named Amélie and her man, the rooster, his name was Clarion: a real schmuck. He scratched the mud while clucking, gesticulations meant to lead some fool under his feet so he could pork her. What Amélie wanted was a cat, a purring cat that she could pet and that would mew for its chow.
She would have had it fixed: no fuss.
But there it is: no cat consented. The melancholic Amélie wondered if she wouldn't choose her pet among some other species; she hesitated between the earthworm and homo sapiens.
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