Did you ask him what he was looking for on the square?
"No."
Why? You should have...
"I don't know... I didn't want to ruin our trip by confessing to lowly espionage."
I understood that. But still, to start off with silence!
"The following day was our last. He had insisted that we go to the movie theatre, which pleasantly surprised me, since he isn't much of an entertainment-seeker. I impudently cut the ticket line to spare him the wait. He seemed bothered. On the way out, I lose him in the crowd. He loses me, deliberately, in the crowd. I don't know what happened afterward. I don't know anything, other than he must have gone back to the area around Saint-Paul, and that perhaps he had a meeting with a shadow. I wanted to catch him by surprise there at midnight, but my watch had been set back an hour - by him, naturally - and so accurately that I arrived when the clock struck one in the morning, after having wandered and waited in two cafes, one after the other. I don't know what happened. All I know is Basile didn't come back to the hotel until the wee hours of the morning. He was as pale as a ghost. Then a smile came over him, a pretentious smile, but his was always that way. He told me that he loved me, and loved only me, and that never in his life would he hide a thing from me, except the reason that would prevent him from ever speaking a word again. I guess you could say that he... kept his word."
The end of Odile's story is clearly final. I respect it, even as I notice a look of worry in her eyes, one that has been with her since he stopped speaking. I wedge my raised knees against the seat in front of me, a good meditative position for a perplexed traveler. I abandon the inhabitants of the bus for a moment to float back into my bad memories once again. I think about my own Idol, the queen, my wife, who hasn't said a word to me for day. Everything brings me back to her. I believed that I took this abandonment as a relief. But it weighs on me already.
[My Beautiful Bus, Jouet, J.]
Wednesday, 4 June 2014
...of a bus driver
As soon as you get on the bus, you're greeted with three rules clearly posted on a written sign: no smoking, no talking to the driver, and no exiting the bus while in motion. Hello, good listener and good reader!
The second rule is rendered unnecessary by the bus driver's own attitude. He certainly must hear what his customers say to him: a hello, a good-bye, an expressed curiosity, and the destination, for which he must calculate the correct amount due. Basile hands over the the right tickets, hands back the change, gives a "thanks" with a nod of his head, and moves on to the next customer, but he never answers questions.
"Where are we headed?"
It's written on the sign on the front of the bus.
"Where are we coming from?
Is it possible to know where one is coming from, at a point between the chicken and the egg?
"Where are we?"
You should know just as well as I do, you who have consciously boarded the bus at this precise location.
Basile remains silent. Everyone knows this. But although he's silent, he isn't completely mute. He speaks with his habits. Basile doesn't sing, doesn't yell at the road or his vehicle, other drivers, or the cops. He doesn't disseminate the usual banalities. He doesn't hold long conversations about the unpredictability of our era. Basile is far away.
[My Beautiful Bus, Jouet, J.]
The second rule is rendered unnecessary by the bus driver's own attitude. He certainly must hear what his customers say to him: a hello, a good-bye, an expressed curiosity, and the destination, for which he must calculate the correct amount due. Basile hands over the the right tickets, hands back the change, gives a "thanks" with a nod of his head, and moves on to the next customer, but he never answers questions.
"Where are we headed?"
It's written on the sign on the front of the bus.
"Where are we coming from?
Is it possible to know where one is coming from, at a point between the chicken and the egg?
"Where are we?"
You should know just as well as I do, you who have consciously boarded the bus at this precise location.
Basile remains silent. Everyone knows this. But although he's silent, he isn't completely mute. He speaks with his habits. Basile doesn't sing, doesn't yell at the road or his vehicle, other drivers, or the cops. He doesn't disseminate the usual banalities. He doesn't hold long conversations about the unpredictability of our era. Basile is far away.
[My Beautiful Bus, Jouet, J.]
Tuesday, 3 June 2014
...of being caught with your pants down
"No," she said. And I knew she meant no. She didn't fight but just lay rigid. From there on in I knew it would be a question of cold-blooded rape. At that age I wasn't up to it, especially since I wasn't exactly sure what to do next. "Why?" I asked. "What's the matter. There's nothing wrong with it."
"I know. I know. I don't know."
We got up. She was crying, sobbing in bitter spasms that shook her body. I rocked her in my arms and ran my hand up and down her long back. After a while she calmed down, wiped her tears and put her arms around me. I put my head down between her breasts, I licked her nipples. She stared into space, absorbed, expressionless. She moved onto my lap. We were calm, sad, fraternal in defeat, cradled together in a melancholy equilibrium of lust and misery. I sighed and looked up. In the doorway I saw, barefoot in a strange, old-fashioned white nightshirt, hairy legs, skinny neck, his fringe of hair tangled his glasses askew, her father, silent, motionless, staring at us with a look impossible to decipher. Without saying a word, without changing his expression, he looked at me, turned, and disappeared up stairs.
Putting her sweater on, straightening her skirt, quickly, no time to talk about anything, in a panic, she hurried me to the door. Before I knew what was happening I was outside in the sad Brooklyn night fumbling with my tie. I could have vomited on the doorstep. I should have. And they call this a free country.
[Up, Sukenick, R.]
"I know. I know. I don't know."
We got up. She was crying, sobbing in bitter spasms that shook her body. I rocked her in my arms and ran my hand up and down her long back. After a while she calmed down, wiped her tears and put her arms around me. I put my head down between her breasts, I licked her nipples. She stared into space, absorbed, expressionless. She moved onto my lap. We were calm, sad, fraternal in defeat, cradled together in a melancholy equilibrium of lust and misery. I sighed and looked up. In the doorway I saw, barefoot in a strange, old-fashioned white nightshirt, hairy legs, skinny neck, his fringe of hair tangled his glasses askew, her father, silent, motionless, staring at us with a look impossible to decipher. Without saying a word, without changing his expression, he looked at me, turned, and disappeared up stairs.
Putting her sweater on, straightening her skirt, quickly, no time to talk about anything, in a panic, she hurried me to the door. Before I knew what was happening I was outside in the sad Brooklyn night fumbling with my tie. I could have vomited on the doorstep. I should have. And they call this a free country.
[Up, Sukenick, R.]
...of the condemned
He took another drink of brandy, and getting up with pain because of his cramp he moved to the door and looked through the bars at the hot moony square. He could see the police asleep in their hammocks, and one man who couldn't sleep lazily rocking up and down, up and down. There was an odd silence everywhere, even in the other cells; it was as if the whole world had tactfully turned away to avoid seeing him die. He felt his way back along the wall to the farthest corner and sat down with the flask between his knees. He thought: If I hadn't been so useless, useless. ... The eight hard hopeless years seemed to him to be only a caricature of service: a few communions, a few confessions, and an endless bad example. He thought: If I only had one soul to offer, so that I could say, Look what I've done. ... People had died for him, they had deserved a saint, and a tinge of bitterness spread across his mind for their sake that God hadn't thought fit to send them one. Padre Jose and me, he thought, Padre Jose and me, and he took a drink again from the brandy flask. He thought of the cold faces of the saints rejecting him.
[The Power and the Glory, Greene, G.]
[The Power and the Glory, Greene, G.]
...of resistance
The lieutenant said, 'Is no one willing to help?'
They stood silent beside the decayed bandstand. He said, 'You heard what happened at Concepcion. I took a hostage there... and when I found that this priest had been in the neighbourhood I put the man against the nearest tree. I found out because there's always someone who changes his mind - perhaps because somebody in Concepcion loved the man's wife and wanted him out of the way. It's not my business to look into reasons. I only know we found wine later in Concepcion... Perhaps there's somebody in this village who wants your piece of land - or your cow. It's much safer to speak now. Because I'm going to take a hostage here too.' He paused. Then he said, 'There's no need even to speak, if he's among you. Just look at him. No one will know then that it was you who gave him away. He won't know himself if you're afraid of his curses. Now... This is your last chance.
The priest looked at the ground - he wasn't going to make it difficult for the man who gave him away.
'Right,' the lieutenant said, 'then I shall choose my man. You've brought it on yourselves.'
[The Power and the Glory, Greene, G.]
They stood silent beside the decayed bandstand. He said, 'You heard what happened at Concepcion. I took a hostage there... and when I found that this priest had been in the neighbourhood I put the man against the nearest tree. I found out because there's always someone who changes his mind - perhaps because somebody in Concepcion loved the man's wife and wanted him out of the way. It's not my business to look into reasons. I only know we found wine later in Concepcion... Perhaps there's somebody in this village who wants your piece of land - or your cow. It's much safer to speak now. Because I'm going to take a hostage here too.' He paused. Then he said, 'There's no need even to speak, if he's among you. Just look at him. No one will know then that it was you who gave him away. He won't know himself if you're afraid of his curses. Now... This is your last chance.
The priest looked at the ground - he wasn't going to make it difficult for the man who gave him away.
'Right,' the lieutenant said, 'then I shall choose my man. You've brought it on yourselves.'
[The Power and the Glory, Greene, G.]
...of contrition
The lieutenant yanked his horse's head round towards them. He said, 'We know he's in this district. Perhaps you don't know what happened to a man in Concepcion. One of the women began to weep. He said, 'Come up - one after the other - and let me have your names. No, not the women, the men.'
They filed sullenly up and he questioned them, 'What's your name? What do you do? Married? Which is your wife? Have you heard of this priest?' Only one man now stood between the priest and horse's head. He recited an act of contrition silently with only half a mind - '... my sins, because they have crucified my loving Saviour... but above all because they have offended...' He was alone in front of the lieutenant - 'I hereby resolve never more to offend Thee...' It was a formal act, because a man had to be prepared: it was like making your will and might be as valueless.
[The Power and the Glory, Greene, G.]
They filed sullenly up and he questioned them, 'What's your name? What do you do? Married? Which is your wife? Have you heard of this priest?' Only one man now stood between the priest and horse's head. He recited an act of contrition silently with only half a mind - '... my sins, because they have crucified my loving Saviour... but above all because they have offended...' He was alone in front of the lieutenant - 'I hereby resolve never more to offend Thee...' It was a formal act, because a man had to be prepared: it was like making your will and might be as valueless.
[The Power and the Glory, Greene, G.]
...of the Garden of God
Padre Jose went in, under the big classical gateway marked in black letters 'Silencio' to what people used to call the Garden of God. It was like a building estate where nobody had paid attention to the architecture of the next house. The big stone tombs of above-ground burial were any height and any shape; sometimes an angel stood on the roof with lichenous wings: sometimes through a glass window you could see some rusting metal flowers upon a shelf - it was like looking into the kitchen of a house whose owners have moved on, forgetting to clean the vases out. There was a sense of intimacy - you could go anywhere and see anything. Life here had withdrawn altogether.
He walked very slowly because of his bulk among the tombs; he could be alone here, there were no children about, and he could waken a faint sense of homesickness which was better than no feeling at all. He had buried some of these people. His small inflamed eyes turned here and there. Coming round the huge grey bulk of the Lopez tomb - a merchant family which fifty years ago had owned the only hotel in the capital - he found he was not alone. A grave was being dug at the edge of the cemetery next to the wall: two men were rapidly at work: a woman stood by and an old man. A child's coffin lay at their feet - it took no time at all in the spongy soil to get down far enough. A little water collected. That was why those who could afford it lay above ground.
[The Power and the Glory, Greene, G.]
He walked very slowly because of his bulk among the tombs; he could be alone here, there were no children about, and he could waken a faint sense of homesickness which was better than no feeling at all. He had buried some of these people. His small inflamed eyes turned here and there. Coming round the huge grey bulk of the Lopez tomb - a merchant family which fifty years ago had owned the only hotel in the capital - he found he was not alone. A grave was being dug at the edge of the cemetery next to the wall: two men were rapidly at work: a woman stood by and an old man. A child's coffin lay at their feet - it took no time at all in the spongy soil to get down far enough. A little water collected. That was why those who could afford it lay above ground.
[The Power and the Glory, Greene, G.]
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