André
(continued)
But Little Girl liked that, she already loved this grandma, so warm and friendly, so fat and soft, so present. She gulped down everything the old woman gave her, happy and cheerful. You are hungry, my poor creature! And when you're done, I'll give you the best bed you've slept in for quite some time (this, giving a reproachful look at the young man), you'll see. I bet you'll sleep like a log. And what about you, son? Aren't you hungry? No, grandma, I'm fine. No, you're not fine. Look at yourself, must you go around like that? I bet you haven't shaved in days and days, hein? I should still have your grandfather's razor, God bless him. Do you still remember how to shave with a razor, loafer? Here, take this. Here's some soap, and a cup. And take a bath, will you? you're stinking like a rat. Hey, what's wrong with you, you look so pale. Mon dieu, you are sick, son, you're sick as a dog! No, grandma, that's quite all right, stop fussing. I'm just tired, that's all. Ah, at your age your grandfather, God bless him... but what am I wasting my breath with you, you never listen. A good bath and a good solid sleep should repair all damage; you know what they say, a good night's sleep feeds you like a meal.
The old cast-iron tub, still lustrous, still beautiful, grandma took very good care of things, the little paws protruding underneath the fat round belly, shaking at the slightest movement, a bit narrow for fully grown men, a bit too short for tall men like him. He immersed his fatigued body in the boiling water, it didn't feel hot, somehow. It didn't even feel warm. He was shivering, he was nauseated. Water felt like oil, a black kind of oil like petroleum, it sucked him inside, it enveloped encased his body in a soft, smooth magma. The bathroom was spinning around him, towels and tiles vorticiously twirling about his head, it was frightening. He felt guilty, hunted down, like a criminal. Ah, you rascal, now you do it with children?... with children, with children... His stomach hurt, as if all his guts were being squeezed tight by an invisible hand, as if they were going to rot inside, while he was still alive, as if punches were still blown into his chest... you are hiding a little girl here, where is she? where is she, where is she, where is she???
Little Girl, Little Girl, spinning around two dark faces, two killers, two vipers, spinning spinning around Little Girl, Little Girl where is she? I don't know, I don't know, I swear, I don't know any little girl... leave me alone, I don't know!! Where are you hiding her, where are you hiding her, answer you bastard! I don't know, please stop hitting me, I don't know, I didn't do it, you're lying! All four of them, the persecutors, Little Girl, grandma, they all spun around his head, they wouldn't leave, fast, quick, rapid words, accusations repeated and repeated as if he didn't know already, but please leave me alone! I did it, yes, I did it, stop this torture! Accusations spelled more and more clearly, more and more slowly, more violent, more acute... he couldn't stand it any more, he couldn't tolerate these voices beating over his head, and over and over and over, shut up! Thousands of faces moulinelling around and around his head, around him, faces all around, grandma's face among these enemies, and Little Girl too was an enemy. Help, stop it, help me, shut up! Fixed in his eyes, she was looking at him, severe judge, she was sentencing him to death, to eternal death. Stop looking at me like that, stop it, I say! A young new face appeared. A beautiful face, so sweet, so quiet, she was not reproaching him, she was not accusing him, she was forgiving him, because she loved him, she alone loved him... mother! No mother, I'm not ready... yet. The black oil became warm, pleasantly warm, it was ingurgitating him in its black arms, softly surrounding him, sweet kisses, quiet and peaceful moment, almost happy, almost perfect, everything was love, everything was beautiful again.
Run, run, never stop, never a moment's pause, run, can't go to the "marquise", can't go anywhere, he's after me, he could find me anywhere, where to now? Still running, running without pause, just run, even if you've got to think; run, even though you don't feel your legs any more. A blue-light theater blocks my way, no exit. One of the pictures advertising tonight's movie shows a young man standing over another young man, who is naked, seems dead. The one standing is tall, dressed in black, his hair is black malcoupe', pale, emaciated, serious cold distant look in his eyes bent over the naked body, familiar look, André. I'm shocked and intrigued, I stand in front of this picture eternally staring at it. A voice breaks the spell. At last, I've found you. Turn my eyes, near me, right around the corner, André is standing, leaning against the wall, his head enveloped in a cloud of smoke, puffing a cigarette. André, you here?! Where were you? I was waiting for you, I knew you'd come sooner or later. These sybilline words don't make me suspect, I hug him tight, finally relieved, finally safe, home at last. I dive with abandon into his chest, ultimate shield. What's the matter? I'm so scared, you wouldn't imagine what I've gone through. He's squeezing me hard, I almost suffocate. Try to loosen his grip. What's the matter, pussy, why were you running away from me? Look up, he's laughing, he's laughing obsessively, the proboscis, the proboscis again appears gross, vulgar, obscene, protruding into my vision. You're back, pussy, you're back for good, this time.
No more running around, hein, pussycat? No, it can't be, not again. I struggle to set myself free, but his grip is cast iron, he won't let go. The more I struggle, the stronger the grip. It's true, little pussy, it's true. Two strong arms pull me from behind, hold me tight prisoner. Jacques takes a syringe from his pocket and pushes it into my arm. He's laughing with cold-blooded satisfaction. Stop laughing, stop laughing! What are you doing to me? Just making you more tame, you know I like tame women, you're a bit too wild for me. You'll be all right, ha ha ha! Let go, let go of me! No, pussy, that's not the way to treat a gentleman, cool down. The proboscis whips my face, again it whips my face. No more running, pussy, no more running away... I start feeling numb in every part of my body, confuse his laughter and his words and other words coming from behind, and André’s words, and Marcel's words, and the "marquise" and Georges and everybody confusedly meddling into my brain. I float in air, slide down into a car, sitting next to Jacques, up in front two other men, I think those he sent after me, they're laughing too, they're laughing at me and they turn toward me, laughing. Welcome, wel-l-l-com-m-me... Marcel and André are laughing at me. La commedia č finita, la commedia č finita...
Marcel died, and André, and Marc, and Paul, and
Jacques, and demon also died, dead musketeer
dead prince, dead son of Sun, John also dead.
Madeleine dead too?
Death true life chrysalis crystals faceted diamonds
glasses transparency of souls. Here there
everywhere plains colors temples Greece. Grace
his hands touched hers. Together holding mutual
Wake up, says a voice, wake up, I want to wake up. It's only a dream. Where? Who? André near me, am afraid, no more. Nothing to be afraid of any longer. It was only a dream. True, how true. It felt like an eternity. How late is it? Only dawn. I'm dripping sweaty. Wet the sheet that encases us, naked in this abandoned house. From the window light is filtered through the white curtain. What's over there? It's a tree, they're felling the tree. Two big men in large black overalls are cutting down the tree with blows that are shaking the ground. Oh no, don't, don't, I'm running out of the house, to warn the two men, don't realize I'm still naked until I'm out in the sun. The two look at me and laugh, they think I'm funny, I wave at them, I yell, I scream, leave that tree alone! Down the blows go, down one after the other, inexorable, persistent, homicidal. Stop, please! Stop, stop... Open my eyes... Grandma, why aren't they stopping? What's the matter with him? Why is he looking so pale? Why are you crying, grandma? Grandma?!
Wake up, wake up Madeleine, you're just having a bad
dream. André? Don't worry, it's all over now. I feel like I slept for
ages. It was nice seeing you sleep, you're so defenseless when you sleep,
but you seemed a bit too scared to let you sleep any longer. Thank you. My
whole body is sweaty and damp, damp the sheets that wrap us. Red light
bleeding through the curtains, promise of new life. Feel better now?
Quite, what a nightmare. It's all over. I dreamed I left Jacques and he
was chasing me down, he had sent two men after me, and I was running, and
Jacques was everywhere, even you were Jacques, and Marcel too, and
grandma... Why do you feel guilty for his death? It was not your fault. He
deserved it, and I did it. No, you didn't, it was an accident, do you
understand? How do you know? He was going to kill you, he was going to
destroy everything you loved, everything you had saved and cherished, he
was going to crush your life. Remember, how fierce he was, standing close
to you, furious, grabbing your life by your arms, by your neck. His eyes
into yours, his face against yours, and you were frightened, we were lost.
André, how can you know all this so well? And he wanted to push you over
the edge, it was only a matter of who should survive, either you or him,
either your life filled with love and memories of happy times, Marcel, la troupe,
all that is beautiful, or his mean devilish mind trying to suck the last
drop of life that remained in you? You made the right choice. I look at
him, looking for an answer to this trance, fearing to see his face change.
No, no fear now, and he doesn't even know how he knows. He's dead now,
Madeleine. How do you know all this, André? Yes, he's dead, what
difference does it make? Marcel is dead too, I didn't resurrect him
although I tried. [What happened to the tree? What tree? There was a tree
out there, I know, I remember. Subtly he smiles, I must seem quite funny
to him. You must have dreamed it, sorry.] I tried and still nothing's
changed. [No tree.] Take me to grandma, André.
3 - After-word
He was back, back again wearing his old uniform, again sitting in his old office-chair, in front of his old desk, in his old room. The old friend desk was empty, the red leather not even slightly scratched, not even cut, not slightly changed, not even worn out. New but for a thick layer of dust and plaster from old ceiling fallen. Fixedly, he stared at the surface of old friend, red leather spread. Planted his palm into the dust, bathing his nine fingers in the layer of dust, spreading it in lumps, not trying to remove it, not even trying to even it out, feeling with his skin the smoothness of the area, squeezing the dirt between his fingers, bringing it to his nose, examining it with thorough care, putting a finger up in his mouth, as if to taste the unfamiliar substance. He looked around uncertain, vague his eyes rolled over the uniform he was wearing, still wearing his cap. Raised his left hand, reached the top of his cap, lifted it from his head, good old cap, he tossed it from hand to hand, fingering round and round, spending indefinite time on space of cap. Stretched out his gaze, around, about the room, expansion of territory already conquered, mental transcription of ambiguous reality.
His gaze came to a halt, focussing on a green panel, framed in barbed wire, fixing it on the wall, everything else faded, melted in the general whiteness of flowery wallpaper. Repeated rhythmic sounds blasted outside inside his years, howls and machine guns, orders issued, orders followed, frantic pulse, hammering again and again on his temples. Both hands gripped, grabbing the arms of the chair by the corners, his eyes still pointed at the green panel hanging from the wall, the face constricted within the green framing. Slowly he rose from his seat. His long thin legs, weak, soon were pain. He collapsed back in the chair, softly he sat again. Now only chirping chants of flocks replaced, banged, dangled downstairs, in the kitchen, frizzing, sizzling, frying and stirring. Flocks up in the sky, how can they fly? Clanging noises, pots and pans and forks, the maid had promised a good hot meal. Corned beef and red cabbage and Irish pudding smells up the staircase, leaking underneath locked red door.
He was back again, removed from pain, vague clouds of noises, cottoned soft memories hard banging inside his head. Trails of visions, flashes of light, high-pitched voices, screaming, shrills shivering, thunderbolts striking out blossoms of pale blue rock against black background, piles of books, books and books everywhere, walls made of books like bricks heaped, casually stacked without ligaments, jammed and panned, paired impaired, sagged, stacked, slashed, slapped in the face, she should have been nice to me, I had to do it, I had to stop it. Screams, shrills hurdling, buzzing still inside his ears.
Beating, banging, that bitch, she deserved what she got, she scratched his face, wild, savage beast she was, she was so beautiful, love goddess she was, why did she force him to do it? So luscious her limbs, voluptuous sinuous forms, delicate shapes, lascivious her poses, erotic her curves, swinging around her hips like that, softness her red turgid lips, softness her breasts, oscillating so provoking like that, her look, so mean, so cold, the fluid wave of her long hair, honey let loose over her tiny white shoulders, a face of sweetness love innocent, perverse devilish lure.
He rose from his chair again, slowly, very slowly cautiously standing on his feet, dragging his steps around the desk. Unintentional he raised a cloud of dust, foggy air screening window panes, window sills, picture frames, but one, alluring, inviting him inside. A leading force, something or someone guided him through yet another journey, a trip across things yet unknown, familiar, jets of passion gone. Suffused dim lights, faces, smiles, laughter, back haunting him again returned the laughter, argentine, silvery, evil, she never left him, always with him, that laughter. Clinched finger fist flung into the air, a desperate gesture to shut that laughter, whammed, whammed it, whammed it with violence, bang, it clashed, bang, it clashed against the glass, bang, it clashed the glass into millions of smithereens, the source of his pain, bang, the source of his pain tortured his bleeding wound, open bleeding wound long cut along the long thin leg, bleeding heart, bleeding image red purple living blood pulsing, everywhere, crack, a crash, tingling nails of thin glass exploded, bursted, irradiated everywhere.
Past, n. That part of Eternity with some small fraction of which we have a slight and regrettable acquaintance. A moving line called the Present parts it from an imaginary period known as the Future. These two grand divisions of Eternity, of which the one is continually effacing the other, are entirely unlike. The one is dark with sorrow and disappointment, the other bright with prosperity and joy. The Past is the region of sobs, the Future is the realm of song. In one crouches Memory, clad in cackcloth and ashes, mumbling penitential prayer; in the sunshine of the other Hope flies with a free wing, beckoning to temples of success and bowers of ease. Yet the Past is the Future of yesterday, the Future is the Past of to-morrow. They are one--the knowledge and the dream. (ibid, p. 97)
Imaginative figments fragments sparked on his buttered face, sparking in last blast of passion, last blast of pain. Echo of that laughter, of that laughter still persisted, persisted the ring in his tympani, piercing his tympani that scream, that scream, lacerated the membrane, through the glass still smurking at him. Why? Shut up! Shut up!! High-pitched scream, peevish shrill, ringing, dingling, howl absurd pain in velvet grain faint, faint you must. On the wooden floor, supine, aching, bleeding, enjoying the pain, wishing it to grow, mixture of pain and pleasure, erotic pleasure. And it was then that she came. She came in through the door she came. A spicy morsel tightly wrapped, encased candy in red leather straps, sinful snake of orgy waltzed inside, up to him, up above him she came, tall, towering, so beautiful, so forbidden, tantalizing, teasing, luring him in, he wanted her so bad... but he could not. There she stood, imponent, impotent said she, sneering, laughing, piercing him inside with devilish laughter. Her round womb hopping up and down with laughter, resounding low, trembling, shaking her very limbs. Quick he raised his hand, up her thighs, up up, along the inside of her thing, up high, he felt the wetness, the hairy situation he was in, laughter she stopped, down she looked straight, straight in his eyes. You can't have it, honey, you can't have it... resounded her echo. Little he was large was she unzipped her dress, red leather opened exposing, exhibiting her naked white beauty. Irresistible body, curves sinful to watch, erotic urge, he was hard, hard and strong, strong and big, big and blood ran to his head. Swollen with pride, he was proud, a proud soldier he was, ready to attack, furious with just wrath, furious to ram it into her, to rod thrust into her red, hot leather flesh.
She sat on him, widespread legs she sat on top of him, on him so hard, him so hard against her soft wetness irresistible, unwanted he had an orgasm. Impotent, si? She laughted, she laughed so hard, so long she laughed, he had to stop her. He tried, he tried and raised his arm up against her face, but he couldn't, she stopped him, she grabbed his hand, a grip he couldn't escape from, he couldn't infer the blow. She bit his wrist, she bit it so ferociously it bled, she sucked his blood, she milked his life away, until he was cold, so cold he felt alone, dipped in snowwhite hale. Sitting she was, still, looking at him, sneering at his powerlessness, hiw prowess gone on the field watching him die. He had to do it, god had forgiven, pale phantoms reiterated dreams her blond hair flogged his face, her blond hair swiftly flogged his face, his lips, his nose, his eyes, hairs all over. Blood, red he saw. His hands surrounded her neck, made her prisoner, his own very thing, forever. She struggled, striving to survive, don't cry baby, don't cry any more, it'll be all right, everything will be all right forever, you here forever, she went into a frenzy. Stop it, don't cry babe, no longer beautiful she was crying, she was gasping in vain under his powerful grip. Her face swollen, red and puffed her skin, her tongue sticking out of big open mouth, red, intensely ugly, erupting guttural noises animal striving for survival, signs of a life fleeting away; her eyes almost popped out, in a clicking noise her neck broke, one final suffocated noise, he dropped her disgusted.
He dropped her disgusted and she was calm, very quiet now, she wasn't sneering at him any more, she wasn't laughing, she needed his love now and he was ready to give it to her, now she would have let him give it to her. He caressed her white flesh, so beautiful, even more beautiful now, pure and innocent, virgin, smooth her skin, velvety smooth childish almost delicate he cuddled on her, trying to warm her up, to cover, to shield her with his body, to protect her from the horrors of life, from the dangers of sinning, from the injuries of lust, she needed him so bad now, him so full of power, so full of life, he could help her now. Demonic faces far away, no longer threatening, violence a thing of the past, not for long, her cold body was getting warmer, he was irradiating heat, she feels alive to him, without pain now, she's warm and remissive, she's there to welcome him, he only has to get in, the door is open, he's hard, very hard, stiff and powerful, he only has to enter the door without even knocking, he trusts inside, he conquers her flesh alive again, he wins over her, he's the king and she's his subject, he is conquering death, he is winning, he has won over death now, he is alive. Everything is quiet, very quiet, peaceful silence reigning above all, he rested, for a while he rested, lying on the floor alone.
André. Dinner with André.
Malle malore, male al di lá del bene
so Nietzsche and Brecht and Sartre
Living Theater but Grotowski
1980 and France, ergo Marcel again Pierre.
Today egg for tomorrow, chicken, I die.
Carpe diem.
(finis)
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