André
(continued)

Little Girl, a child still, one day walked out of her home, never to make return. Without desires, without memories of a past she didn't have, Little Girl took on the threshold, that day they had left her alone at home. She left the door behind; in the street she wandered through the sleeping city. Little Girl was walking and nobody saw her. Curious she stopped, looked, stared at the shut down stores, the barred shop-windows, at the locked front-doors, the closed dark windows. Hostile; from her curiosity bleak and grey houses were hiding, barren, on the asphalt, no longer red-hot, she walked on that summer night. Walking and walking, after so much walking she realized had left the city behind. It's open countryside, clouds covering the stars, night. She's walking and she's cold. She's walking and she's alone. A young man crosses her road and stops. He smiles, the handsome youth, inspiring trust in her. She follows him.

The young man is walking across the countryside and she follows him. He arrives, up to an old house, deserted, decaying. He enters, she stops at the gate, a gate that doesn't exist any more, red the rusty iron betraying glorious days of a distant past. A past Little Girl never knew. She now sees its ruins. The young man turns and says, come in. Without scruples or prejudices, Little Girl enters his deserted hall, dirty with fallen plaster and pain, dust everywhere. She looks around, uncertain whether to stay or go. The young man drags himself into a large sitting-room, all furniture covered with dusty white linen sheets. He sits down, thoughtful, dark.

So, you live here, André? You like it? Much better than the place I've got. I know. You sleep here? No, over there. I sit down, I would like to take off these clothes that constrain me. Easy André takes a purple little box out of a cute sewing table, he withdraws a syringe and a vial. He rubs his arm with alcohol (trivial useless detail within the plot, but certainly endearing to the hygiene-fanatical reader) and drills a hole into his white flesh. The hole. The myth of the hole. A myth construed by bourgeois mentality. The hole. The hole helps you live through the day. The hole gives you emotions that you alone cannot get for yourself, that the others cannot give you. To live for the hole. A sense of pudency drives my head round to the other side, but still I'm curious. His skinny arm shows traces of previous holes, blue and purple stains of life. Tall lady roller-skating on sidewalk, joie de vivre bleeds from her. "Life begins where it ends," says Pasolini. "Life ends where it begins," says André. I look at him, he's done. He starts resuming his vigor. André, do you have some left? You want it? Yes, thank you. You don't need to be a bourgeois with me, you know, I'm still me. I see your friends at the Cafe' de Flore tamed you real well. Mais non, André, qu'est-ce que tu dis? Come, let me show you, you know how to do it? Shake my head. But if you want, I can show you other things I can do. Bitter smile. I drill a hole too, in my arm. After all, isn't it a hole what I've already drilled into my stomach?

Burn away, burn, my child, faster faster and faster,
impossible spinning color shapes,
visions of colors sounds pitches notches
swindle swindler, pockets and valves,
vulvas sex six flowers on the roof,
flush, flash touch kill blood guts blasting
over the floor noses and fingers and skin
fluid water descending throne prone adjust mean

Undecided Little Girl stands still by the door of the room, looking intensely at the young man staring down at the dirty floor, in anguish. She's moved by the sight of this young man so sad, so handsome. Instinct drives her to his knees and grabs them. Touched, the youth returns the hug with tenderness and starts weeping. Why are you crying? He doesn't answer, but continues to sob desperately. Don't you have your mom? The sobs grow louder darker gloomier. Is she like my mother? Sobs slow down. My mother doesn't live with me any longer, she didn't love me, so she left me, a long time ago. The young man stops crying, through a veil of tears looks at the little girl with curly hair, staring at him through serene peaceful eyes. Maybe she'll come back, she might have had a good reason to leave you. I don't care. What about your dad, where is he? He's dead. Who do you live with, then? Aunt Schylla. Does she take good care of you? Yes, when she's around. I'm always by myself, I like it that way. She's always busy with her friends; when she drinks she gets angry at me. But you're not crying now. Why were you crying? Can you tell me? Such insistence, the young man had no reason to lie or hide.

Do you see that tree over there? They both looked out the window, in the middle of the plain a large old tree shadowing erect, its figure drawn against the lunar light. Yes. My great-grandfather planted it. A long long time ago. Before I was born? Yes, before you and I were born, even before my parents. And where are they now? They're dead. Grandpa used to say, this tree was born with our family, and when it dies, the last of us will die too. It's dead now. But you're still alive. He didn't comment on that. He said, when you're big enough, you'll climb this tree up to the top and you'll see the whole world at your feet. So I kept trying, but my mother was afraid I might fall and kill myself. So she died. I was still little, I wanted to reach the top of the tree, I wanted to see the world from above. I fell down, but still I climbed to the top. There was no world, there were animals, flowers, fields, all things I already knew, but there was no world. He had lied to me. Then what happened? My father remarried and sold the house. And the tree? That too, was sold. He went to live in the city, then my father too fell ill and died. I'm sorry. But you got your tree back now. Yes.

Are you spacing? I was a little girl. You still are. Everything is trembling, shaking in front of me, yet I don't feel any vibration from the ground, things are trembling, lights vibrating. It's rather cold here, it doesn't matter. Actually, I think I'm going to take off this jacket oppressing me. Much better now. These ceilings are really beautiful. Grandma designed them. Ich kann nicht mehr, André, I'm tired. Stay here tonight. I will. André is crouched in his chair, all clenched like a shell. Feel like taking off the rest of my clothes. A whispering voice says, go ahead, you're at home now. Yes, I'm at home again. I'm completely naked, wrap myself into dusty sheet. Naked like a worm, naked like a newborn baby. You think Marcel will return? For sure, he always comes back, and we wait. You're not Marcel, are you? Sometimes I think I am. You know I slept with him, don't you? I wouldn't have told him, but now everything is so beautiful, even pain is beautiful, actually I'd like him to hurt me. I know. Were you jealous? No, none of my business. Besides, of all the women he's slept with, you're the only one I respect. No, I don't respect you, because I love you. I love you too, André, everything is so beautiful. I think we should do something for Marcel.

Yes, with all the poems and scripts he's left we could reorganize, publish them, put them on stage. Have you ever loved anyone elese? Not like that; you? No, it's kind of tragic, comic actually that the only person I should really love is homosexual, and... How about women, have you ever loved a woman? I never thought about it, but you're right, I did once. I fell in love with a friend of mine, no, she wasn't a friend, but she was really beautiful, so lively, so full of life, she had red hair. André comes to sit next to me on the couch. I'm cold, let's huddle together, close, like this. I'm not sleepy, are you? No, me neither. How are you? Strange, but I like it; you? I'm fine, I'm fine now. Time has stopped, everything has stopped, even the trembling has stopped, life has come to a halt. My heart has stopped beating, I've stopped aging, everything is still. Still we are in this eternal union in the name of Marcel.

I killed Marcel. No you didn't, Marcel is still alive. No, I mean, really, it's all my fault. That's all bullshit, this stupid idea of fault, and you listen to all these things psychologists tell you? Why did he do it, then? Jacques was jealous, he wanted to hurt you through him, knowing Marcel depended on him. But he had you, and the troupe. He thought everything was his fault. You see that's all bullshit? I thought I acted for the best of all. We all did, Marcel did. Then I'm going to kill myself too. What would you solve? Why, do we always have to solve something? The way things are I'm still not solving a thing. Not like this, not like Marcel. Why not? You want to do something, you want to make a difference? Break their institutions, offend them, push them, break them, piss on their face. You got something in mind? We could... no, nothing, pretend I didn't say anything. Good girl. I don't want to be a good girl, I've got nothing to lose. He smiles with affection, hugs me soft. Yes, if you were a man, yes I would have been jealous. Sex is life, you know André? It doesn't matter with whom, it doesn't matter the sex, or the blood or the age. When desire moves you, just do it; consequences don't count.

You know, I was afraid I would lose Marcel if I slept with him; it turned out to be only a stupid moral problem. When we did it, we got even closer. Did you ever make love to a woman? Yes, once. Was it good? It was different, there were other messes in it. Were you in love? Desperately. Was she? Yes, she was too. What happened then? Our step-mother separated us, she sent her to a boarding school in England, she escaped almost immediately afterwards. As for me, I was sent to study in Switzerland. Where is she now? I don't know, I've lost her traces, I think she's alright. You know, I have a brother too, but Aunt Schylla disliked him, she always was mean to him, she sent him away, I hated her. Let's not talk of sad things. Yes, we shouldn't be sad. Let's keep quiet. It's nice to stay here, close like this, silent. Like this, tight together, one with the other, in deep silence, infinite this silence so sweet, comfortable, soft, candid.

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Next morning, a fat ray of dawn's red light invested them, huddled together it found them, squeezing into each other's arms, enveloped in dusty white sheets, the couch. Silence broke down, a bird sang, a flock of birds passed by, vultures or seagulls or sparrows, high they flew in the sky, scattered light cotton clouds the wind swept away. A light breeze entered through the open windows swelling the white lace curtain like a pregnant womb rise. Thick the draught carried white light over two no longer sleeping faces. He felt observed; two lively wide morning blue eyes staring at him happy. Good morning! He looked at Little Girl as if he had seen her for the first time. Then he remembered. Are you hungry? Yes, a lot. Good, then let's go out and eat. Come. They left the house, proceeding along the winding road, it was full day already. Day comes fast in the summer. The road was long, and winded, but they were in no big hurry, a young man and a little girl. A strange tie held them together, a rather strange couple.

They reached the borders of the city, entered a caffe'-bar in the outskirts. Sitting down at the little table, Little Girl with a bowl of milk in front of her, an expresso for the young man. Little Girl finished two almond brioches in a flash of the eye. They talked, talked so much it irritated the big fat bartender, for they were holding a table from other customers. Look, feller, you still got more, or what? No, we're dont, thenks. Here, I pay for two brioches, a cup of milk and a coffee. Sorry about the table. Come, now. Little Girl descended from her chair, offering her little hand to the young man, looking up to the big man who was kicking them out.

Why are you looking at me like that? For a second I thought I saw Marcel's face. Maybe it was the light... I slept so hard, it must be quite late, I feel like I slept for days. Are you hungry? No, not at all. Do you want to go home. No, I am at home. Maybe I should go there all the same, though. What for? I need my toothbrush and my books. Let's go then, together. On the road again, back in town in no time. The sun is warm, everything smells like resurrection, the stench of death winning over the stench of life. I feel very light. Only now I realize André is limping. What did you do to your foot? Oh nothing, I just fell from a tree, it'll pass. We get to rue Mozart, André doesn't even flinch. All that luxury doesn't bother nor please him. I, instead, feel a little ashamed, embarrassed for I still think I sold everything I believed in for all this, but now it's different, I throw it to the sharks, I don't want it, it's not mine. Open a suitcase and in it throw books, note-books, a few pieces of underwear (I need it, they only fit me...), take all the money I've got, plus Jacques' credit cards and bank card. Come, says I, let's take all the money and run. André is very cheerful. Then we give it to the clochards, or better still, we throw it in the Seine. Wonderful, but I must tell you, I don't have much money. Me neither, who cares? We'll find it somehow, somewhere. We get on the quai de Conti, bad memories. Why here? Down goes a handful of banknotes, down another one, down goes Jacques' wad! One by one all the notes fly, gently land on the waters, the last fallen leaves, sinking, immersed carried by greenish current, darkened. Que c'est beau, André! We sit on the little wall, joking, laughing at passers-by, mocking them aloud, yelling our insults, and, oh the superior beings, they don't even turn around. André starts reciting one of Marcel's poems screaming it to the air. He's chosen a good one, really powerful; some people stop by, listen and throw a few coins. You see, no matter how many you throw away, they always come back. Ah, young people, to work, they should go to work, time-wasting loafers. Why, you like your job, old timer? So what? Give a little, take a little. You, instead, never give, always take, you want it all and you want it now. And what if you die tomorrow, what's the use of sacrificing your life? Ah, with the likes of you one can never reason. Go to work, work for a change.

As we are doing our theater, just the two of us, many other youths join in our activities, devoting our spare time to the cause we have embraced, the restoration, organization and publication of Marcel's materials. We do it with love, for love and in love. Get high, do some coke, find a passage, or a line would strike us for its shocking truth. Look at this, André, isn't this one just great? How could he know this? How could he envisage that something like this would actually happen? If only everybody could understand him... ("as we do" was obviously implied) We would start discussing, talking, letting our thoughts take us to foreign lands, spacing through the ether left behind by Marcel, immersed in his spirit, that like the "Western wind" was guiding us to the ultimate truth (or so we thought), and this trip that Marcel was still donating to us, his humble heirs, was a neverending adventure, a risky enterprise full of surprises, to seek confirmation of our existences, looking for that raison d'être we didn't have, the life we didn't have.

Expected he comes somehow beautiful
handsomely posture, pure beauty he comes
comes to visit me. Plain, square steel walls
reflect dear images of beauty around he comes,
approaches me, welcome expected he comes,
now is moment is end now life beings,
dream over, piano piano, non cosí,
sta ferma ora, no mettiti dall'altra parte,
cosí, va meglio cosí, piano piano, eccomi.

Two big men dressed in black one day appeared at the gate that is no more, dark their faces, threatening ghosts. They saw them through the window. Little Girl was scared, she didn't like men in black. The young man understood. The two men looked around, investigatively, determined not to leave empty-handed. As they reached the house, they stepped through the doorless threshold. Anybody home? A command it was, more than a question. The young man appeared in front of them. Who are you? I live here, and this is my house, but who are you? We've been told you're hiding a little girl here, where is she? A little girl? I don't know any little girl. Don't play stupid, chum. We're not leaving 'til we've found her. Sorry to hear that, but I told you, there's no little girl here. Then a very bad thing happened. The two beat the young man, who collapsed to the floor, little red rivulet flowing from the corner of his mouth. Little Girl was shaking like a leaf underneath the large armchair, by white sheets protected. She was frightened, she was totally scared, she was trapped and she didn't want to go back. The two figures searched everywhere, not a single trace of Little Girl. They even looked underneath the chairs, removing the sheets, but nothing. Furious they returned to the young man, who just got up from the floor, shaken. Grabbed him by the jacket, shook him real well. Where is she? Where did you hide her? Who? When? Where is the little girl? I don't know what you're talking about, I've never seen any little girl, I told you. They hit him again, punches in the stomach, fists in the face, until they realized they weren't getting anywhere. They left.

Little Girl was still shaking when he, hardly moving, bent in two, soaring, lifted the sheet that hid her and got her out. He could hardly stand on his feet. Did they hurt you bad? Maybe you should go back to your mom; she's looking for you, that's why she sent those guys. Why didn't she come herself? I don't know, maybe she couldn't. No, I want to stay with you. Are you sure? we'll have to keep hiding, and running away, and those two will be back. And they'll hurt you again? They might, but that's not the point. Do you want to live like this, like a fugitive? Yes. The two creatures hugged with fervor, with love, quite a strange family.

Present n. That part of eternity dividing the domain of disappointment from the realm of hope. (ibid., p. 103)

We were at the Champs de Mars that day, we were doing a thing inspired to Paul Klee. Quite a crowd had gathered to see us, cheering, applauding. We were using flags of all nations, with which we wrapped our bodies. It was coming out very well. Among our audience there were two strange men, dressed in black, making their way through the crowd, here and there talking to strangers. They drew closer, approaching us, one of them pointed his finger at me: it's her, catch that woman! I recognized him, Achilles, that scum. Immediately panic dispersed the show. I turned around toward my friends, one second, I was on the run. Catch her! Cherchez la femme! André had understood it all, with the others he started messing up things, holding the two guys, harness their pursuit, give me time. Running, I was running like hell, not knowing where to go. I was afraid, I was scared, I was fear. Streets were passing under my feet like rolling belts, shop-windows (met before, different eyes, different time) scrolling by my sides, flashing doors and posters and rockets of dashing colors, undefinable fuzzy stains, unrecognizable ghosts commodities can't buy. Cutting my way here or there, in the hope of disseminating them, lose them no time to think. I was lost. Saw a crowd marching down the street, a student demonstration, I took shelter among them. They were yelling, and screaming their chants, excited walking their mottos, incited to revolt globs of passers-by, completely deep into their youthful ideology. Comrade, hide me, protect me, I'm followed. Two girls took me, each by an arm. Don't worry, you're safe here. In front of me a providential banner shouting slogan, a couple of signs carried over by comrades all around. The two arrived at the demonstration, they looked through it, they asked questions left and right. I couldn't even breathe.

(2 - continued)

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