Moment © Ludmilla Armata

Tous les quelques jours, en marchand sur Quattro Venti, je croise un vendeur de bricoles itinérant. Ils sont pour la plupart Nigérian dans mon quartier. Je traverse via Raffaelo Giovagnoli, quand à ma droite au haut de la pente, je vois ce type à casquette me sourire. Il approche avec urgence et je ralentis légèrement le pas. Je lui rends son sourire en laissant comprendre que je n’ai besoin de rien. Je continue à marcher lentement et il fait quelques pas avec moi. _« mutandine? Non hai bisogno di mutande?» _« No Grazie. » Il insiste un peu pour que j’achète ses calçons, mais sans conviction. Il semble bien parler l’italien. Je lui demande d’où il vient. « Nigeria » me dit-il avec ses cils retroussés. Il a l’air sympa et engageant et je crois qu’on a tous deux envie d’un brin de conversation. J’explique que je suis du Canada et mon italien est limité. « I can hear you if you speak English. In my country we speak English and many dialects. » Dit-il avec un accent que je reconnais. On se présente, on se serre la main et l’on parle de choses et d’autres en avançant sans hâte. Il est en Italie depuis six mois, n’avait aucun italien en arrivant, pourtant il comprend tout ce qui se dit. Je ne peux pas en dire autant, malgré mes méthodes Berlitz et les dictionnaires que j’ouvre un peu tous les jours. La langue italienne lui vient plus vite et mieux avec la vente de caleçons. Un type sort du magasin devant lequel on s’est arrêté. Il fait signe à sa femme avant de s’adresser à David. Je ne saisis pas tout ce qu’il lui dit, mais il parle de tapage et que les carabinieri viendraient immédiatement. À son ton, je n’aurais pas deviné qu’il menaçait mon compagnon. « Se fai rumore come ieri, chiamo i carabinieri! » David explique qu’il n’était pas là hier. Le type se contente de cette explication et freine les accusations qu’il faisait, sans animosité il est vrai, mais s’excuse sans gentillesse. Il a confondu un noir pour un autre, ou pire, il a voulu confondre un noir pour un autre et s’éloigne sans remords, en chuchotant quelque chose à la femme à son bras. On se déplace de quelques pas pour ne plus être devant cette entrée, tandis que David continue à me raconter son histoire.

Ils étaient vingt à quitter Abuja dans une Jeep. Après le Niger, ils ont traversé le désert en s’accrochant tant bien que mal aux deux potos viscés sur la structure de la camionnette; vingt à éprouver les ressorts de l’essieu en alternant entre des positions plus ou moins précaires. Penchés dans le vide, ceux du bord s’agrippaient fermement avec une ou deux mains, parfois vingt minutes à la fois. Dans les positions plus sécuritaires du centre, on avait le désavantage d’étouffer entre deux corps suintants. Les huit places assises étaient tacitement réservées aux femmes qui cédaient volontiers leurs prérogatives pour laisser les hommes somnoler. C’est ainsi que jour et nuit ils ont roulé, passant d’une température extrême à l’autre. Deux chauffeurs alternaient. On ne s’arrêtait qu’à certains points convenus pour faire des provisions de gaz et d’eau. Un soubresaut violent sur la route les faisait parfois se bousculer comme dans un jeu de quilles et le dernier du bord tombait. D’autres fois, l’un d’eux somnolait debout amollissant sa prise; cédant à la fatigue et à l’implacable soleil, les doigts glissaient et il se retrouvait sur le chemin. Quand cela arrivait et que les autres réussissaient à alerter le chauffeur assez vite, ce dernier s’arrêtait et faisait demi-tour pour ramasser le malheureux. Si le blessé était encore vivant, on le soulevait à quatre ou cinq et on l’assoyait sur un des sièges sans le soigner. L’énergie des plus empathiques ne tenait qu’à un fil. Il fallait continuer à rouler et à garder l’équilibre bon an mal an. Lorsque la personne tombée d’épuisement avait moins de chance et semblait morte, le chauffeur prenait les autres à témoin pour confirmer qu’il n’y avait plus rien à faire. Musulman, il faisait une prière avant de la couvrir superficiellement de sable à quelques mètres de la route. On ne vidait les poches du trépassé que s’il était accompagné. Quand il s’était lié d’amitié avec un des passagers, ce dernier cherchait une adresse pour prévenir la famille du défunt, mais on n’insistait pas beaucoup là-dessus. Certains passagers, comme le chauffeur, marmonnaient une prière, mais personne ne versait de larmes pour le pauvre égaré. Pendant quelques heures suivant ces incidents tout le monde restait éveillé en silence. C’est le mieux qu’on pouvait comme marque de respect. Il y avait deux grands cylindres d’eau dont on se servait parcimonieusement, surtout quand le soleil était au plus chaud. L’eau s’évaporait si on laissait le contenant décapsulé trop longtemps. En tardant à refermer le couvercle, on se faisait regarder de travers par les autres. Au bout de deux semaines, on est arrivé en Lybie. Comme il y avait la guerre civile, on évitait tout contact avec les gens armées. Il s’agissait de rester là le moins longtemps possible pour éviter de dépenser le peu qu’on avait. Il n’était pas difficile de trouver le contact recommandé pour la suite du périple. Si on ne le localisait pas assez vite, on devait se fier à ceux qui nous approchaient. C’est un circuit fait de segments isolés mais interdépendants, ou chaque maillon a besoin du suivant et du précédent pour survivre. Les passagers de la Jeep s’étaient tous dispersés à l’arrivée, mais on avait pour la plupart la même destination : L’Italie. C’était chacun pour soi, mais on finissait par se croiser.

Le type qui a approché David pour la traversée en bateau l’a assuré qu’il l’avait faite plusieurs fois sans problème. Il fallait montrer les trois cents dollars U.S. que ça coûte. On nous fixait un lieu et une heure. Deux cents dollars à l’avance, et cent à l’embarquement; il n’y avait pas de négociations. Toute l’affaire était convenue en cinq minutes. À 4 :30h du matin, deux jours plus tard, David était surpris de voir qu’il y avait soixante personnes toutes prêtes à s’embarquer; des femmes, des enfants, quelques vieux mais surtout de jeunes hommes dans la vingtaine. On ne parlait pas beaucoup. Tous savaient le risque encouru de voyager en haute mer. On avait entendu des histoires de bateaux chavirés, mais il était trop tard pour reculer. Il faisait froid et certains n’avaient pas de quoi se couvrir. Tout ce qu’ils possédaient au monde était visible et mis à nu face aux éléments à la merci desquels ils se trouveraient bientôt. Malgré la sévérité de la situation, il y avait des boute-en-train sur le bateau et par moments on se serait cru dans un camp de vacance. Ceux qui blaguaient étaient jeunes et désinvoltes, mais même eux fronçaient souvent les sourcils. La traversée ne dura que deux jours. Beaucoup moins longue que le temps passé en Jeep, elle était pourtant beaucoup plus tendue. Dans les premières heures après le départ, les estomacs les plus fragiles ont capitulé. Bientôt, en haute mer, avec des vagues de plus en plus menaçantes, plusieurs tournaient la tête pour vomir. Comme il n’y avait pas de prise où se tenir, on risquait à chaque lame d’être éjecté hors de sa place. Le premier à tomber à l’eau était un gamin qui s’est penché au mauvais moment pour pisser. Avant qu’on ait pu le secourir, il était couvert par les ondulations marines. On le voyait émerger et essayer de nager vers le bateau, mais il s’éloignait petit à petit, inexorablement. On connaissait tous la consigne. En tombant à l’eau, on était perdu. Risquer la vie de plusieurs pour en sauver un était hors de question. En deux jours, on a vu plusieurs personnes chuter. On les regardait dans les yeux sans broncher alors qu’ils paniquaient en disparaissant dans les flots. Chacun à sa manière se recueillait ensuite pour prier son dieu. Impossible de savoir si on priait pour les disparus ou si on suppliait de ne pas être le prochain. Ici, il n’y avait pas de blessé. On était soit faible, soit mort sans autres options. Sur les soixante personnes entassées sur le bateau au départ, cinquante-quatre ont abouti sur la rive de Lampedusa. Aucun de ceux-là n’était particulièrement heureux parce que ce port achalandé n’était que le commencement.

Là-dessus, J’ai offert à David de prendre un café avec moi. À sa manière d’hésiter, j’ai compris qu’il préférerait avoir l’argent du café. Le camion de recyclage passait. Il faisait un boucan fou en ramassant le verre. On s’est déplacé un peu sans que David ne cherche des yeux de potentiels clients, même s’il n’espérait plus rien de moi. _« Mais qu’attends-tu de l’avenir? » Demandai-je. _« M’en aller d’ici, il n’y a pas d’argent en Italie. » _ « Où est-ce que tu veux aller? » _« Au Canada peut-être! » Il m’avait expliqué qu’il faisait juste assez d’argent pour payer son lit dans une chambre à la station Termini, qu’il partage avec d’autres réfugiés. Cent cinquante Euros par mois, plus les dépenses pour la bouffe quotidienne ne lui permet aucune économie. C’est ainsi un mois après l’autre. Mais comment pense-t-il s’en sortir? Ils ont organisé une loterie là où il habite. Ils mettent chacun cinq ou dix Euros quand ils peuvent et le gagnant emporte la cagnotte. Un ou deux mille Euros, avec quoi commencer une nouvelle vie! C’est la seule porte de sortie. Il est pourtant ébéniste de métier. Il dit que chez lui, il faisait de belles chaises solides et des meubles, mais ici personne ne l’engagera sans papier. Alors il continue d’acheter des caleçons et des chaussettes et de les vendre sur la rue. Face à l’impatience des passants, il ne se lasse pas de sourire. Je demande si la police le tolère sans lui coller d’amende. Il rit à voix haute en guise de réponse, n’ayant rien à perdre. « I cannot pay, I have no money. How am I going to pay? » Quand ils l’accostent, les carabiniers ne confisquent rien. Ils lui ordonnent de ranger son matériel dans son sac, puis lui tournent le dos. Il les laisse s’éloigner, change de rue et recommence sa sollicitation sans trop perdre de temps. Plusieurs heures sans vente signifient un repas en moins. Ce qui est frappant avec David, c’est qu’il n’est ni morose, ni démoralisé, ni fatigué, ni ne semble particulièrement envieux de la vie de ceux qui sont en règle. Malgré ce qui lui manque, il apprécie ce qu’il possède: sa jeunesse, sa force, sa santé. Il peut marcher, il peut apprendre, il peut rigoler. Chaque repas est une bénédiction et chaque journée un accomplissement. Il prie et la vie est devant lui. La force et l’espoir lui viennent sans doute de plus grandes misères qu’il a vues chez d’autres. Peut-être est-ce la cruauté de l’éphémère, ou la brutale et imprévisible fin qui guette à notre insu qui l’inspire, comme celle de cet enfant que David a vu plaisanter et rire un moment, et l’instant d’après basculer hors du bateau pour être avalé sans recours par les vagues impassibles.

One usher insists on giving us, not just Ivor,  more rice…because Ivor’s so tall? How tall is he really? The other guests  watch us. Ah, Ivor finds the fare tantalizing, his English taste buds are now stirred, he tells me.  Alloo, pumpkin cooked with masala.

Ivor drools,  licking the dhal on his fingers mixed with rice.  He’s bound to tell his students it’s authentic fare.

But do I hear one feisty student, Miriam, asking: “Why are there no genuine Caribs left on the island?”

“Caribs?”

“Yes, Caribs.”

Ivor shrugs. And I must know more about everyday Britain, I figure. Another student: “Are there only Africans and Tamils on this coast with French history intact?”

Miriam is berating Ivor. Nothing’s ever real in the Caribbean, she says. Oh? Take my word for it, I was born there. The other students come on her side.

–You’re missing the point, Professor Ivor. You really are.

Ah, it’s again about race: black and white, in England or the USA.

What about South Africa with apartheid still at work despite a Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Miriam waves with a tremor of her hands. Her language of life, she  calls it. Echoes are now everywhere. And does Ivor really want to go to South Africa to meet ANC  members, if Nelson Mandela himself? Not meet  Zulu Chief Buthelezi or  Cyril Ramaposa?

Ivor’s mouth is yellow-stained; he’s slurping, more like it.

“Eat up,” I say. And the sun’s heat begins to make us uncomfortable. I want the ocean to come closer.  “Yes,” Ivor says,  his “plate” still  primed. Rice falls like confetti, as the male ushers come to him again. Ah, curried goat–the same animal I’d earlier seen tied to a shrub and had seemed irritable on this the hottest day of the year. Who’s the real vegetarian now among the Hindus?

“Eat all,” a food-ladler urges with glee.

Ivor slurps once more.

“Eat all or they will  be offended,” I murmur. “It’s the custom to eat everything on your plate.”  It’s the way of the French in the Caribbean, no?

Ivor laughs at my deduction; he calls me Ravi, as everyone hails me.  Not call me Shiva?

“I am not from India,” I say.

One guffaws.

–What d’you think, Miriam, with your armful of books  weighing you down?

Ivor’s now just  the object of everyone’s  curiosity. One distinctly thin woman with truly dark features laughs loudest.

–Hey, Ivor, she isn’t the real thing, says Miriam.

Ivor scrapes at the edge of the banana leaf, his makeshift plate.

“I’m really enjoying it,” he says.

–You’re not.

“I’ve been looking forward to it, to Carib-creole food.” A gargoyle’s face; everything keeps overwhelming Ivor, if only because of his ingrained English ways.

Miriam laughs. Multi-coloured South Africa is also laughing?

Canada now…the same?  I hum to myself.

Believe me.

Ivor boasts that he will become the most “knowledgeable man”  in England, with knowledge of the authentic Caribbean. Oh? Now, though,  it’s really the  urge to eat more with such appetizing local fare around.  But the banana leaf-plate is bitter, it’s not  salad.  Christ!

Ivor burps.

The others watching him applaud.

Will he start eating the edges of the leaf, his way of complying with local custom?

“It’s the heat that makes you swelter so much,” I say.

Ivor scoffs, “Maybe not.”

Then, “You’re just exotic to them, Ivor.”

The word “exotic” has its own special appeal or resonance; and maybe he will again bite into the banana leaf, as the locals keep encouraging him…to eat all!  Hand-gestures, drama being acted out, I imagine. Ivor is playing along, isn’t he?

Ritual, more like it.

–Stop making a fool of yourself, man,  Miriam’s voice is in my ears. Ivor’s lips twitch. “Maybe we’re fated to be here,” he says, his   eyes lighting up against the umbrella-slanted sun.  He  points to my own empty leaf-plate; then he tells me that I am also a foreigner here.

Anonymity intact?

The surge-slap of water at Pointe des Chateaux, like a distant sea, I hear.  Buccaneering days, ah, long-gone in the Caribbean.

Now the crowd drools, one almost pulling Ivor’s hand.  Pulling him up. As the women make faces.  They really do!

I simply incorrigible Miriam’s voice again: Ivor, run for it. It’s your only chance.

“Eh?”        

–Run, man!

Cymbals clashing. Kali-goddess and Maria-ma–the twain meeting.

A Hindu and Catholic mix in Guadeloupe, see.  Where else are people  really changing everywhere around the world?  Ivor’s own Germanic tribe, in the mix, I imagine. The Madrasi-headed women in the market are yet laughing. Imagine someone coming at him with a crude spear. Heads being unceremoniously lopped off!

–Run while you can, Ivor. This is no National Geographic special, you better believe it.

Palm trees thrash and hurl,  like another hurricane coming. There’s no denying what occurred here not so long ago.  Trade winds literally kept  brandishing swords.

Nothing to deny?

Ivor looks at the thin but attractive swarthy women with their  particular allure.  Miriam makes a face, a genuine Caribbean face, eh?

Oh, to live in England…longer. But I unconsciously long for Canada’s cold. Do I really?

Gosh, we are multicultural everywhere.

***

A mixed-race TV crew, all American, with media link-ups across America and Europe, who will buy their “feed”–who tell us there’s always interest in people of the Caribbean, don’t we know?

A tallish woman with sallow skin forces the tripod in place. She looks through the lenses, eager for magnification.  The interviewer, a handsome  male mulatto, smooth or just glib in his manner, first addresses Ivor. Not me?

–What d’you think is the importance of this festival you’re attending here? You’re a professor of cultural anthropology in Britain, aren’t you?

–I am.

–What brought you here?

Go on, tell the truth, Ivor.

–My students want me to be here. What I mean to say is that this is a good opportunity for the people in the region, all the races, as I will tell everyone back in Sussex.

– About the real Caribbean? But how real?

–Well, er…. Asia.

– Go on, please.

–The European powers have had a long history in this region, which can’t be denied or ignored. But…

–Continue in this vein, Professor.

–I mean, there’s an interest in ideology, too. Your American audience will understand that.

–Ideology?

–Don’t get me wrong, it’s not about terrorism only we should be interested in.

– Muslim fundamentalism, or drug-pushing, eh?  Tell us, Professor.

–I believe all the races are one…before the time of slavery and  indentured labour. Indeed sugar is the Caribbean’s only legacy, nothing else. Here now it’s a wonderful mixing of people, I mean…blending. It’s  why I am here, so I can tell my students.

–What about the Natives, have they disappeared?

–Natives?” Ivor’s eyes rove around. Where are the swarthy-complexioned females now?

–D’you feel any responsibility, Professor Ivor Jones, as an Englishman, I mean?

–Not at all. But, er…the Natives, they’re still around; they will be eager to talk about their ancestry, if you ask them.

–Arawaks, d’you mean?

Ivor contemplates; as Miriam and the other students seem to be  urging him to it. My own inner ear at work.  Do I next see a  man astride a horse with whip in hand in a slave plantation…somewhere?

Do I really?

–It’s always a  question of race, isn’t it, if it’s what you’re asking, no? Ivor is taking his time, bemused as he is.

Slowly the camera shifts away from Ivor, and turns to me. The tallish TV woman before her tripod smiles.

–You are from Canada, are you not?

I nod.

She wants me to articulate, to keep on talking.

–You’re considered, er …a black Canadian, are you? And is the Caribbean a place you feel you must return to?

–The last time I came here was eight years ago.

–Seen many changes as you look around:  the music, the food, Indian lambada?

Really lambada?

A crowd comes around; they  expect me to tell it as it is.

What?  The TV  tape will soon be played around the world; but not in Canada? Space and time, for students only, who will want to hear everything…about actually being here, no?

Ivor looks at me.

What about South Africa that you want to visit next, mate?

The TV tripod starts unfolding. Oh, the matronly Madrasi women in the market are in the background, but coming closer.

A close-up shot with more magnification, only. What’s now more exotic in a tropical island-place with drums beating everywhere …pounding.  Echoic sounds I hear. A special journeying now.

And who will eat what next? Another goat tethered not far away, in the sun, waiting to be “sacrificed”  by Hindus here in Guadeloupe. Oh, again the ushers will ladle out food on banana leaves spread out under the zinc-roofed tent. Ivor will keep a careful eye on everyone one, you see; he will want me to fo the same because we are indeed two of a kind.

The heavy aroma will begin to be oppressive in the heat: sounds and smells, which the TV camera will never capture, I know.

My heart starts beating faster.

(It’s not fair that you should do this, for what’s to be edited out, you know.)

–So Professor Ivor, tell us what d’you really feel being here in the  Caribbean? Waves come crashing down on all sides now.  And, you see,

I will conjure up winter, with ice-crystals  coruscating in the sun.

But beaches I want to be on, as I will go once more to Pointe Chateaux, then wander around Guadeloupe, including to Marie Galante.  All the while Ivor will contemplate visiting South Africa as Miriam keeps being at his heels. Will he want to shake Nelson Mandela’s hand  because of a Truth and Reconciliation Commission’s hearing?

–Do not go there, Ivor. Nothing’s authentic anymore.

Why not?

Indeed the  races will mingle,  I say to myself. And I will  keep thinking about  ancestry, if only about the Tamils in Pondicherry, and then about the first Indian man or woman who came here.

Who? Now natives all.

Bones, relics.

*

Voices keep calling out, like twittering sounds I will keep hearing everywhere; as Ivor will also relive his genuine experience of the Caribbean,  with creole food in him…as he also thinks of Asia and Africa being less  exotic, won’t he?

His students like now laugh louder, some indeed dark-hued in Sussex and others coming from across England.  Coming from Canada too? Tabla sounds again beating, and a crowd is marching…being ready to embrace Ivor and me, I know. A close-up snapshot…the Caribbean, indeed.  Then it’s also South Africa we’re talking, aren’t we?

Will you really go there too, Ravi?

Because of where I might have come from, you see. Come from other parts of India too, like Uttar Pradesh, Bihar, or some place else…now being originally from Guyana.

Ah, I know I will head back north again, where I watch Ivor’s face on the TV screen from time to time and dwell on more authentic meeting ground, everywhere. But never mine.

Soledad ( 4' x 6') by Ludmila Armata, Oil, from series entitled "misfits" exposed in June 2011 at the Gallery d'Este, Montreal.

Il était une fois un petit monstre très laid et très méchant, qui portait en lui des pensées si tristes et si funestes qu’il n’avait aucune envie de grandir pour devenir un grand monstre avec des pensées encore plus tristes et plus funestes que celles qui le tourmentaient déjà.

Très vite, il avait envisagé le suicide, mais ne trouvait ni le courage, ni n’avait développé l’ingénuité de mettre fin à ses jours. Le seul espoir de murir suffisamment pour former des idées sûres et achevées, lui permettant de concevoir un moyen efficace de s’enlever la vie, l’emplissait de joie et l’engageait à persévérer dans l’attente de cette maturité.

Les jours passaient bercés par cet objectif, au point qu’il en oubliait l’aboutissement fatal. Chaque soir devant le miroir, le spectacle de sa laideur et le reflet de ses intentions involontairement perfides déclenchaient d’insupportables maux de ventre. Mais les nœuds dans ses entrailles semblaient se défaire aussitôt que le traversait la pensée que bientôt, il cumulerait la force et le moyen de supprimer l’horreur dont il était le supplicié. Cet espoir de réconfort, était son seul refuge de grandeur et de beauté.

Ainsi, l’avenir était devenu son échappatoire et le baume unique contre son état détestable. La vie se déroulait devant lui comme un tapis, où chaque jour lui offrait un nouvel espace où poser le prochain pas, qui le rapprochait d’un lendemain enivrant et d’une perspective avenante.

Orpheo ( 4' x 4') by Ludmila Armata, Oil, from series entitled "Misfits"

C’est en descendant de la montagne que je l’aperçus pour la première fois. Mon premier réflexe eût été de m’en éloigner en ignorant sa présence. Mais plutôt que de le fuir, je m’approchai sans crainte et m’assis calmement à quelques pas de lui. J’en avais beaucoup entendu parler autrefois, mais depuis quelque temps, je sentais que la communauté évitait d’en faire mention. On insinuait involontairement son existence à travers des gestes, des dessins ou parfois des interjections dont la référence semblait échapper à la plupart d’entre nous. Ceux qui, comme moi, s’en rendaient compte, levaient à peine les sourcils et laissaient couler la conversation dans un mode dénué de controverse. Les enfants questionnaient, mais les adultes cachaient leur agacement et détournaient l’attention des plus petits en chantant une chanson ou en faisant quelques pas d’une danse familière qui les distrayaient invariablement.

Moi, j’étais là, assis à côté de lui, si près que j’aurais pu allonger le bras et le toucher si j’en avais eu l’audace. À l’inverse de ma nature engageante et animée, je restais muet avec le regard fixe, respirant l’essence qu’il dégageait. Cela m’emplissait d’une extase et d’un bien-être qui ne m’étaient pas inconnus; qui rappelaient l’éveil des sens pendant la copulation. Je n’étais aucunement troublé. Le respect que j’éprouvais me gardait de le regarder directement ou de tenter un geste de rapprochement. Je restais inerte, comme il était inerte et cependant, on communiait par la voie de l’immobilité et du silence. J’aurais voulu que cela dure éternellement.

Soudain, avec lenteur et détermination, sans crainte et sans hostilité, il se dressa. Du coin de l’œil, je devinais qu’il me faisait un signe. Je sentis qu’il souffla dans ma direction, et avec une sérénité profonde, sans la moindre agitation, sans aucune brusquerie, il entama un premier pas pour s’éloigner de moi. Lorsque je levai la tête, il n’était plus qu’un point dans l’horizon qui disparut dans le tremblement de la distance. Je ne le revis plus.

Maintenant, sur le point de m’éteindre, tous les noms, les images et les souvenirs deviennent des taches informes qui se dissolvent graduellement, sauf cet instant passé avec lui, que je peux solliciter à tout moment et qui semble si tangible. Chaque respiration me ramène cet effluve que j’ai sentie une seule fois et que j’emporterai avec moi quelle que soit ma destination, après que mes fluides auront cessé de circuler.

Los Angeles, February 1972

Dear children:

When I myself was a child, in Italy, and toured the country with my parents, we would visit churches, basilicas, and cathedrals. Either for religious fervor or as a cultural duty I was always compelled to enter those dark cold buildings, smelling of pungent incense, and stand in front of ancient paintings which looked to me all the same, admiring painted glass and mosaics with vibrant colors and listening to boring speeches (only later did I learn that they were “sermons”). If I had to do the same thing with you, I would take you instead to tour banks. Do not laugh! First of all because nowadays the bank is the venerated temple of the materialistic society, but also because it is inside and in front of banks that one can find the art treasures of our time; those institutions can afford to pay any price for a masterpiece, mostly if it is tax deductible.

I am back at Westwood, ready for my lecture at U.C.L.A. tomorrow, and my retina is still impregnated with vivid images of gorgeous façades along Wilshire Boulevard. I took a bus heading to downtown to do some research in the Public Library. On my right, for almost one hour, I saw beautiful modern buildings, mostly banks. I decided to ride the same bus on my way back and this time I started rating those buildings like one would do with restaurants in France: three stars for Crocker Bank, two stars for the Bank of California, and so on.

Wilshire Boulevard is one of the largest avenues in the world, it could be one of the nicest if there were some more benches for pedestrians to rest, some cafés to sit at, sip an apéritif and look at the passerbys, and a little less garbage in the non-built zones (flowers, fountains, and children playing instead). Here finally is an American town with sidewalks (and broad ones) made on the human scale!! Unfortunately people use cars to drive on it instead of walking. But one day I will still come back and walk along it from downtown to Santa Monica!

The jewel was a sculpture in front of a bank with iron bushes, extended like crooked arms, and water cascading with an interesting and beautiful play of lights. It looks like one of those modern sculptures of Brazilia by Bruno Giorgi or Maria Martins.

I wish I could come back here with you someday, to run altogether along Wilshire Boulevard, the future Via Appia Antica (or Moderna) of America, up to Santa Monica where your mother would be waiting for us on the large, clean, sandy beach in front of the deep blue ocean.

I kiss you,

Father

Los Angeles, November 1973

Dear children:

I left San Francisco last evening and upon my arrival at the International Airport I rented a car (despite the warnings to the contrary of Richard who was afraid that I would get lost in those “complicated” freeways) and went immediately to Wilshire Boulevard to see “my banks” at night. I know that you are going to laugh as you did last year when I sent you a letter about my pilgrimage to the Mecca of capitalism. Later, when you will be older, I am sure that you will understand either the wisdom or the humor of my observations, Anyway, I was very disappointed last night because I could not find “my” water—sculpture, although I went twice over the long avenue in both senses, although it was 1:00 AM. My only consolation was to rent a room in a motel near the Ocean Beaches and smell the sea.

But this afternoon I unraveled the mystery, and discovered my “poor” sculpture. I call it that because, deprived of light and of water (the energy crisis!) it has become an arid bush, undecorative, lost in a corner, abandoned like a blind paralytic stray dog. I went to console it and talk to it (in Italian, of course, the only language that birds, pets and wild animals understand, as Saint Francis proved). When I asked her her name she didn’t even know, I wanted to take a picture, but I had forgotten my Polaroid. I decided that I would ask somebody in the bank the name of the sculptor and of his (her?) artwork. Unfortunately California banks close earlier than Oregon’s and I was about to give up when I noticed that there were people entering by a door in the middle of the building.It gave access to upper floors. I entered. A security guard stopped me, I felt like a thief but I stammered the information I was looking for. The man looked at me even more suspiciously (the damn accent!) but gave me a telephone number and indicated to me a public booth in the same corridor. A very kind feminine voice answered that I was talking to the wife of the President of the Bank, that her husband was still in his office, and that I could reach him at such and such a number. I was so intimidated that I felt that she must have thought that I was a bank robber and should have hung up the phone on me or, at least, not volunteer so much information on her husband’s habits. It might though be that she was so intelligent and intuitive that she understood what it was all about. I dialed the second number. The secretary said that Mr. Sheehan was at an important meeting of the Board of Directors of the Bank and could not be disturbed. All I wanted to know was the name of the artist, and perhaps she herself could answer. She couldn’t. She had me talk to half of the people in the buildings nobody seemed to care or even know about the sculpture, much less the name of the artist. Therefore the same secretary had to admit that only Mr. Sheehan (still in his meeting) would be able to satisfy my curiosity. Can you imagine the conversation between her and her boss? “Mr. President, there is a crazy nut, down here, with a strong accent, who lives in Oregon and wants to know the name of a statue. What should I do?” She certainly expected him to say “send him to hell” but probably Mr. Sheehan was bored with his figures and stockholders and even a brief distraction was welcome. He came to the phone. The sculpture had been made ten years before by Clair Falkenstein and was worth one million dollars. Why was I so interested? I don’t like to lie, even to my wife or to the police, but was Mr. Sheehan going to be able to understand that a romance languages professor was in love with a piece of metal? Nobody would see me blushing and saying immodestly, “Well! I am a college professor up in Portland and deal with art…” “But… Do you really like that sculpture?” “Oh yes, very much. I discovered it last year…” and I told him the whole story. “Well, if you like it so much YOU CAN HAVE IT!” I can’t tell you how long my silence lasted. Was he joking? Was he crazier than I was? Was he so rich and so generous that he was moved by my odyssey? After all we were near Hollywood, where all dreams become true…. The explanation came very logically: “Due to energy problems we have been considering offering the sculpture to a College or University. We have two or three institutions interested but they are all in California and go through the same difficulties with energy. Your College has a chance. Of course, you would have to pay for the transportation. Talk to the people who administer your college and let us know.” I was laughing and trembling and visibly emotional (the security guard was watching me more and more suspiciously through the panes). I could swear he had his hand on his gun ready to pull it out and he was talking all the time on the telephone while tracing all my movements on the TV screen in front of him. Was he talking to the police? To the insane asylum? Perhaps I was being bugged. (It was anyway before Watergate) but I dared ask Mr. Sheehan if he had a picture of the sculpture. I figured that a man who would play Santa Klaus and offer you a one million dollar sculpture, could also offer a photograph. Yes he had a post­card, and if I would come up to the 11th (?) floor the secretary would give it to me. He was sorry not to be able to meet me but he had to return to his meeting.

I have the picture, you will see, although it is not as impressive as the original.

Useless to say that after all this I was in such a good mood that I danced in the car while driving and ignoring all the red lights.

Love to all of you.

Father

December 1973

Back home. My son receives me with a skeptical shaking of the head: “You should have used your American Express credit card, take a U-Haul truck and loaded the fountain!” Although born in Switzerland and raised in Brazil, the little brat had quickly acquired the pragmatic mentality of his rich peers at Jesuit High School. My wife does not see any fun in the situation. For her it is more a confirmation of my day­dreamer’s attitudes: “You were never able to make an extra buck, how do you think you can make a deal with bankers? Are you so ‘naive’ (censorship impedes me of using the real terms of the conversation) that you think somebody is going to offer you a one million dollar present? How can I go on living with a Utopian like you? Why don’t you pay the telephone bill instead of running after your delusions of grandeur?” And so on. My daughter gave me a little more comfort with one of her enigmatic smiles which nobody at home ever knows what they mean (like Mona Lisa’s): condescendence, derision, sympathy? My close friend, an art historian, said that after all that piece of art was not so marvelous and that I would have a “lot of trouble” with the propulsion engine and so on, but that it was worth pursuing the matter, for the fun of it (with cynicism, I thought).

Where should I start? Chairmen? Deans? None of them would dare to take the responsiblity of making a decision. I should hit right at the top. I asked an appointment with the President. Fifteen days after the Big Man received me. He doesn’t share my taste or my enthusiasm for the sculpture but admits that it would enhance the aspect of our campus. Where would I install it? Under the library in the space where stones, gravel and plants form a small patio in front of the first floor exit. The President sees it looking better where the Kiosk is. I am easily convinced: there it would be more visible, more central, more decorative.

My task, before leaving for a long Overseas assignment, is to make sure that the deal is feasible, his to study mechanical condition: how many horse—power has the motor, how much energy and water are needed. Very experienced in administering funds the President tells me “To a given horse I do look in the mouth!”, And tells me the story of a gift received by a University he was administering before. It was a huge computer worth one million dollars. It looked like a luxurious present. But it took two years to approve funds in order to construct a building to house the computer. Two years and two million dollars. Plus, the Japanese industry, in the meanwhile, had invented the pocket computer that could perform the same task. The masthodontic device was obsolete. What would be the trick behind the fountain?

I called Mr, Sheehan who was vacationing in Acapulco until after New Year. The secretary recognized my voice and my “case”. Yes we are serious about the deal. Yes your application will be given proper consideration, Yes your interest has been discussed.

Before leaving for France I wrote them a letter confirm­ing my conversation with the President and asking them to deal directly with him and, if possible, to send me a copy of all correspondence.

In Paris, the story amused my friends very much as being symptomatic of what they called “the energy hysteria in the USA”. They were more receptive to my Californian adventure than my Oregonian friends or my own family had been. New worries made me forget the whole story. No letter ever came, neither from Mr. Sheehan, nor from my President.

Nine months later I returned to campus: no visible fountains. After interviewing the President I learned that he had gone to Los Angeles, had seen the sculpture, had talked to the responsible party. The energy crisis ended and the wave of panic was over. They were not concerned anymore. They would keep the fountain.

The sculpture is still there. My last pilgrimage was the saddest one: energy is back, water is back, but “my” fountain is still an arid plant, forgotten in a corner, a dusty, occasional refuge for ants, birds, leaves, pieces of paper. Once a year a crazy nut deposes a bouquet of flowers at its feet, But the fountain does not know. She does not know her own name, she does not know who her father or mother was. Is Clair a masculine or a feminine name in English?

His days went relatively quickly as a routine that was almost infallible. A very early wake-up call by the nurse. She would invariably find him deeply asleep, and wouldn’t believe his claims to have spent an interminable sleepless night. How could he make her understand that he did not want to be caught by death in the dark, abruptly? That he superstitiously or fearfully waited until dawn before closing his eyes and telling himself: “I survived one more night”?

The nurse would take his temperature and give him a blue pill, the first of a  dozen multicolored tablets he was obliged to ingest every day, weekends included: pink, yellow, many that were white — all of different shapes. They looked like candies. Yes, the nurse was like a mother, like the mother of his childhood that would bring him mint, lemon and orange candies to placate his restlessness when he had to stay in bed for a full day or more. But the nurse did not smile, was not affectionate, and was very matter-of-fact.

Then it was time for his bathroom routine. At first, they shaved him and washed him in bed, but he was very uncomfortable being touched by a human being other than his wife, and insisted that he could make an effort and get up to groom himself. The room was spacious because he was alone and he enjoyed his own private bathroom. The matter was debated by the family: could they afford paying a small supplement in exchange for comfort? They said “yes”,  (perhaps?) because they knew he would not last long.

Then it was time for breakfast, and, with it, more  medication. Coffee or tea were both undrinkable and were accompanied by unappetizing canned fruits swimming in a barrel of syrup, eggs that he hated, cereals immersed in milk (cream, for some reason, was not available). He hardly touched any of it.

After the ceremony it was time for therapy. He had to sit in a wheelchair and was pushed through a labyrinth of corridors to the “Blue Room”. Perhaps that was not the real name of the place, but he called it that because of the color of the lamp that had ultraviolet rays which would burn his stomach for exactly 60 minutes. At least, he had a tan, but the heat was worse than the hot August sun of his younger days partly spent lying on the beach.

When the session was over, he usually would run to the bathroom; his breakfast was then eliminated, one way or another.

After that came the massage session, which he hated because the big, muscled woman turned him around like a pawn and rubbed him energetically with her heavy, vulgar hands, trying to make jokes to which he did not laugh at all. Next came the “socializing” session. All the guests of the clinic were pushed into a big salon when they could play chess (everybody would beat him because he knew only one opening move or one defense strategy), cards (he had never learned that kind of game), sing (which he abhorred) or chat (nonsensical small talk about their state of health), TV programs or sad whisperings about fellow inmates (if that was not a prison, why couldn’t they go home?). It was even murmured that some were betting on who would die next. Everyone was spying on everyone else’s appearance, visible loss of weight or hair, hand trembling and anything else, including things that were imperceptible to the “normal” people (visitors, doctors, staff). The “happy hour” was not conducive to better humor on his part. Soon it was noon and time to return to bed for lunch, another excruciating moment: he expected a better choice of cooks in such an expensive private clinic, but no matter how hard they tried, the food was bland. There was a complete inversion of value: everything that needed to be well cooked was undercooked, while what was best eaten “al dente” was overcooked. The gravies were ugly and tasteless, the color of meat or poultry was always grayish. Happily, his son would occasionally bring him a Camembert with a baguette and a flask of Médoc. On those days, he could even take a nap. Otherwise he would try to watch some stupid program on TV, which had the effect of a soporific. He was amazed at the idiocy of television – an international phenomenon because even the more culturally ambitious countries did not fare better. He always thought that television would be visible only when it would work as a short-wave radio and one could zap for some specific country and channel. This was technically possible but against the interests of too many multinational companies.

That day, his son came and brought the usual presents. The giver was as happy as the receiver. The conversation was brief, as usual. His son could not stand the atmosphere of a hospital. Moreover, he always had an appointment, a telephone call, an urgent meeting. Such was his life, and he had to watch time nervously in order to be punctual for the imminent commitments. If he only had a little more time, he could listen to his father’s premeditated confession. He would be the only man left in the family, and the one in charge of taking care of all the details: the life insurance, the safety boxes, the personal library, the correspondence, the manuscripts. Perhaps they could have a talk during next weekend, but he didn’t want to postpone his decision too long. Why did he hesitate? His destiny was marked, it was only a question of months, perhaps less. Why shouldn’t he take charge of his own life himself? Why wait for the big event? Why not decide when to finish it?

He had already inquired, had written to Dr. K. who agreed to assist him during his last moments. Why remain attached to this vegetative, non-productive existence? Why not die with dignity, having made an independent and mature choice? There was nothing he could do anymore for anyone. At times, he regretted not seeing one more time his far away daughter, but, why? After all she shouldn’t see him in this condition. It was much better to lie to her as he had done so far: signing letters that had been typed by his son. She had called, occasionally, long-distance, but they were able to hide the truth: “no, your father is not home tonight, he is gambling until late”, or, if earlier in the day, “he just went to a concert”, or, in the morning, “he just left  to go to a dental appointment”. It was much better that she kept an image of her father like he was in their last photo together when he was still smiling. Suddenly,  he realized that his son was no longer there: had he fallen asleep? The TV was on but silent; only a succession of colored images, very indefinite, since he was not wearing his eyeglasses.

It’s amazing how his life, at the end, was so colorful! As a matter of fact, the best abstract paintings he ever saw was the projection of the slides containing a reproduction of his malignant cells. Seen with polarized light, they looked like paintings by Ginna, Kupka, Pollock or Mathieu. Had the electronic microscope been invented earlier, one would suspect that the artists were inspired by those cancerous images. The film on TV — which was it? — reminded him of the ten beautiful last minutes of the Rickasha Man, the Japanese movie showing the final visions of a perishing man. He was in the same state. He was dying. It could happen at any moment. He should send that letter to Dr. K., the one setting the ultimate appointment. Meanwhile, he thought of what would remain of him once gone. Very little, indeed: he didn’t change society as he had hoped to do when still an adolescent, he was unable to create a big, harmonious family, the trees he planted gave no fruits, the books he wrote went unsold or unnoticed, he was unable to give joy to his companion. Not even a decent failure: a banal, useless, sterile life!

And what would he carry with him to the grave? A lot of bitterness, frustration, anguish and a few flashes of happiness: the sweet voice of his mother, the strong hands of his father, a weekend in the Alps caressing his wife’s belly bearing their first child, the first cry of his son coming out of his mother’s womb, a choreography by Béjart, a short story by Borges, some shots of Antonioni, Kieslovski, Bergman, Vajda’s films, scattered notes from his wife’s piano playing: Corrette, Böhm, Bach; Rostropovitch cello music in a Menton square on a summer night; Clara Haskil curved on her piano in a Lutry’s church; Gades dancing Carmen; Liberation Day’s joy in April 1945; Felix Ayo playing Vivaldi; Cesco Baseggio as Sior Todaro Brontolon in the Goldoni play; Jean Vilar as Pirandello’s Henry IV; some of Botticelli’s women figures.

What else? Lust, applause, scenery, metropolises. . .all forgotten.

A new interruption by the nurse, more pills. Did they really cure him? No, he knew that no cure was possible. Did they alleviate his pains? He wouldn’t know, since he was always in pain, if pain would be even stronger without those drugs.

Time for phlebos. Why all those cables going up and down, those needles penetrating his veins? He could find no answer to all of that.

Another interminable hour.

His wife came unexpectedly, earlier than usual. There was no more conversation between them. Strangely enough, since she was very loquacious in the past. She had become pale and silent as she never was. They would hold hands and cry. Look into each other’s eyes for hours, or for what seemed like long hours. Silent, and crying. Perhaps each one regretted one’s sins, or was it a presentiment of a sudden definitive separation?

Dinner came, more abundant but even more obnoxious than lunch, if that was possible. He shared most of it with his wife, who could digest no matter what and would eat anything provided she didn’t have to cook it. More pills, but the pain was always there. It was as if someone dilacerated his skin, his stomach, his bowels, like pouring rubbing alcohol on an open wound. This was not life. He couldn’t endure that anymore. He hugged his wife more closely than usual and walked her to the elevator.

Yes, right now, it was time to write to Dr. K. The letter need not be long, nor flowery. A few essential words, an appointment, and that would be the end of it. He would not give it to the night guard, but would wait until the following day, at 11:27 a.m. when the carrier would arrive punctually to empty the yellow box at the main door of the clinic entrance. He had done this once after having timed the postman’s arrival for days. The mail delivery man came invariably at the same time, rain or shine, in the middle of his certainly complex but well chronographed itinerary. The letter would be placed in the large bag, right at the moment of his departure: no one would notice the fact, or they would not attach any importance to it. Anyway, a letter is a letter, as long as no one could read the name of the addressee, who is known and controversial enough to be easily recognized. So, tomorrow at 11:27, or a few seconds after, there would be no way back.

He compiled a short but dignified text, sealed the envelope. He would buy the stamp the day after, at the vending machine, in the foyer lounge.

He felt relived, sighed deeply and took the last pill, the sleeping pill that never worked, just to obey the doctor.

He started dreaming, or daydreaming, or dreaming of dreaming, whether asleep or partially awake or in a state of wake. First, he dreamt of being in a garden (his backyard?) with a cutting instrument in his hands. Was it a tree pruner? There was a long worm, like a snake, in the middle of his flowers. Instinctively, he cut the long worm into two shorter worms. Something strange happened: the front part (or what looked like the upper part of the worm’s body) first rose toward him as if it wanted to threaten him, then disappeared into a hole (to die? to lick its wounds? To hide from further aggressions?) while the lower part started a series of long convulsions. Was it agony or did worms have seven lives like cats? Perhaps it was only the miracle of life: animals didn’t have a conscience, didn’t have a soul, didn’t have metaphysical dilemmas — they just lived as long as they could. Their only essence in life was life itself.

The dream changed suddenly. In front of him was Dr. K., or someone who resembled the photograph he had seen of that controversial man in a magazine. Dr. K. was holding his arm and was pronouncing indistinct but reassuring words. But someone put a mask on Dr. K. and it was the face of the actor who plays the owner of the clinic in Frankenheimer’s Seconds. At this point, a dozen or so naked women started flying around him. No, they were not flying, they were floating around, as if gravitating into space in slow motion. He seemed to recognize some of them as women he had known or desired in his youth, but before he could see better, there came a monstrous gnome who chased them with a whip. “I can read your mind. You think I am the devil. How naïve can you be? The devil cannot look like the devil, otherwise how could he seduce his victims? Did it ever occur to you that the devil could disguise himself as a temptress woman or even as a Saint? The devil has to make believe he is someone else, and for sure trustworthy. Did you ever notice that serial killers are all handsome? Otherwise, how could they attract their victims so easily? The killer or the devil disguise themselves as priests, as policemen, as father figures, or even as Christ himself.”

Here, his dream returned to his garden, his flowers. The half worm was still there, debating whether or not to die. How long ago had he cut him? He looked for his watch, on the night stand. As light in a tunnel he saw some clarity. It was the torch of the nurse who, from the dark, murmured “time to sleep!”. Was it a nightmare? How long did that last? At some point, he awoke: he was all sweaty and his alarm clock marked 5:45 a.m. Soon they would wake him up anyway. Dream or not, nightmare or not, he had slept for many hours. Perhaps with some  interruptions, but longer than he could remember since he had been at the clinic. He felt no pain, or he thought that he had become abruptly insensitive to pain. Perhaps that was a sign of the end. Death was approaching and giving him some respite. He shaved himself with joy, took a full bath, indulged in spraying some cologne on his body.

He tore up the letter. He had decided that he wanted to confront death face to face. He was ready to die, but let it not be there, let it be in his garden, like a worm, cut down by destiny or by a superior force.

He left the “Blue Room” and the “Massage Parlor” and went straight to talk to his doctor who could not care less if he wanted to leave, empty rooms were rare in the clinic, and someone else would replace him the same day, chosen from the waiting list, as long as he signed a release form, that’s all they requested. Everything else would be taken care of by his son, later. After all, he was a lawyer. His son was surprised at his request, but not shocked. He couldn’t disapprove; after all, that might mean fewer expenses and a larger estate.

If you can pick me up before noon, we’ll leave today. Don’t tell your mother until it’s done!”

His wife, who didn’t want to remain alone in the large house, had retired to a hotel room where she could remain if she wanted to. He planned to be self-sufficient and didn’t want any witness to his agony.

At 12:30 they were already home. The house had not changed, only the garden had been neglected.

He did not feel like eating, but gave a shopping list to his son, telling him that there was no hurry. As for the medications prescribed for him by the doctor, he decided to buy none. “Let nature take its course!” He told his son that no matter how many days he clung to life, he wanted to live them in peace.

He found his favorite armchair and sat in it, not before surrounding himself with pounds of correspondence that had accumulated — mostly junk mail and some neglected bills. There were also lots of “Get Well” cards dating from his surgery. He would call his friends one by one, for a last farewell. Fell asleep again. He was awakened by the noise of the car entering the garage. It was his son with the items from shopping and a cellular phone. He was not opposed to new technologies, but cellular phones seemed a bit exaggerated for a house where there was a telephone in almost every room. But he understood that his son wanted to make sure that he could call at any time from anywhere. His mobile phone could be pre-programmed to call certain numbers for emergencies, so he and his son selected a dozen: hospital, doctors on call, police, fire, ambulance, taxi, family members and intimate friends.

Everything seemed functional in the house: water, electricity, radio, TV, doors, windows and heating. There was a walker, a pair of crutches, canes of all sizes, boots and slippers. He could wander around the house and even go outside to get the newspaper and the mail (eventually).

Because the house was empty, he could occupy any room he wanted to. He chose the bigger bedroom, in case his wife decided to leave the hotel room (but she had her own ailments) and to be more comfortable. He asked his son to bring in empty boxes — lots of them — so he could sort out his clothes (he had lost so much weight that all his shirts and pants were too big for him now) and get rid of all kinds of heteroclite objects, dusty, distasteful and useless.

He gave himself a task to do: clean, redecorate, refurbish and/or embellish one room every day. This would keep him busy and would improve the look of the house for whoever would come to rent or buy it when he was gone.

A month passed and nothing had changed. The doctor had given him from zero to four months to live. He felt the same amount and type of pains as at the clinic, but he was not taking any drugs. And at least one thing was better — his digestion.

His dwelling was now comfortable. He had filled two trucks (he counted 96 boxes) of “garbage”, replaced pieces of furniture and moved things around.

There was a music corner prepared for his wife’s always possible return. The grand piano in the living room with a shelf of books and another for sheet music and a table with several small instruments: piccolo, pan flute, recorder, small drums, metronome, etc. His absent daughter’s room had become a studio: file cabinets, shelves, desk, computer, index cards and an armchair for relaxation.

The corridor had been transformed into an art gallery with paintings hanging on the walls. His son’s former room had a TV with multi-system VCR, a collection of  cassettes representing all videographic standards (PAL, SECAM, NTSC, etc.), a turntable and piles of vinyl records and CDs.

The dining room was, at last, a dining room and no longer an office. The kitchen had all the necessary utensils and lots of vases and pots for spices and herbs. The family room had become a combination library-bar. He could venture into neither the attic nor the shack — but, who knows, maybe some day?

Meanwhile, he had started experimenting with all kinds of herbs, tree barks and bitter rots. Not that he had anything against allopathic medicines, but he could not abide most drugs. Besides, he could get along just fine with infusions and natural products.

The laboratory analyses to which he had been subjected earlier in the clinic indicated some improvement in his condition, and he had gained back some of the lost weight. But his doctor was not at all optimistic. In other words, the state of his health was not worsening but was not improving either. He spent hours looking outside the bay window from the living room. The snow had melted and the rain had tired of being incessant. He was looking at the apple tree that hadn’t produced fruits in years.

“There is too much foliage” he told himself, “it needs to be pruned. If I survive until spring, that will be my next chore.”

“Spring, yes, spring.” Until then, why not keep a diary?

“April 2. Spring is late, but it is on its way. Tomorrow I will prune the apple tree. Yes. Tomorrow. . .

In a café somewhere a light switch clicked behind a blue paint-chipped door. The bright light which crept out from between it and the worn wooden floor disappears and two men watch from a small table across the room. They quietly sigh, raising their eyebrows at each other as if both feeling a sense of relief that something uncomfortable had finally left the room. Shuffling a little back into rusted metal chairs they jump back into their conversation over espresso cups and crumb covered plates.

There was a difference in age between the two friends. The older man had a stained white beard and his clothes were worn and short on him. While he lit and puffed on his wood pipe, he casually spoke about his children back at the village from where he was visiting and his younger friend was also from. The tidily dressed young man wore a collared white shirt, trousers with suspenders and had a stylish coat hanging off the back of his chair. He listened to what his friend was saying like an intellectual with his sharp facial features and tiny spectacles that he pushed up with his fingers. He was a student at the local university and besides the two of them the decrepit European style café where he would normally come down to study in was empty. This was not unusual tonight due to the recently enforced curfew and the fact that this small brick building that he also lived in was on a quiet snow packed side street. The old man paused for a moment to gently tap the ashes out of his pipe against the metal table onto the wooden floor. The young man seemed to have found a chance to speak when the old man’s eyes darted over to the entrance of the café. The front door creaked open ringing the tiny bells that hung from them.  As the door slammed shut the old man stroked his beard and looked the young man straight in the eyes. The young man whose back was facing towards the entrance became nervous, looked down and folded his hands on the table.

A couple who looked like they had just come from the theater or maybe a nice restaurant in town stood at the entrance of the small café. From their car parked in the front and the way he was dressed, the large middle aged man was most likely an Official for the region. Officials or soldiers were the only people who would be out past the curfew. He brushed the snow off his coat shoulders with his gloves while inspecting the room and his wife stood behind him rubbing her hands from the cold. Both seemed relieved to have found something open and warm at this time of night. While his wife took her tiny black hat off her head to remove the snow from it, her husband looked directly at the men who surprisingly hadn’t acknowledged them. The young man continued to look down at the table while the older man stirred his coffee looking seemingly out the window behind them at the snow falling. The woman looked up from her hat to see the men, felt uneasy and suggested to her husband that maybe they should go somewhere else to ask for directions. Also from her husband’s mood from the recent political climate and the way he was taking the time to look the men over she knew that there was potential for trouble. Ignoring her, the man walked up to where the two men were seated.

He immediately focused on the young intellectual and hunched down slightly to try to get a better look at his face. After pausing for a second he firmly stated who he was and asked the young man if he could give him directions back to the main road. The young man remained silent and the old man continued to look past him out the window while stroking his beard. The Official looked satisfied as if he had figured something out and then asked the young man again, this time louder and closer to his face.  This almost seemed to have woken up the old man who looked up at the large man as if seeing him for the first time. Noting his agitation, he smiled and explained that his friend was just studying here. He then turned his attention to the young man and asked him to kindly provide directions to the Official since he was more familiar with the area than he was. The young man had only a few words leave his mouth when the Official interrupted him to harshly ask the old man what his young friend was still doing here. He didn’t wait for a response before telling the old man that he was also a traitor and would have no problem reporting the two of them.

The young man went quiet and the old man peered up at the Official stroking his stained beard, this time pensively. He sighed and apologized that their presence here upset him. He told the Official that there was not much he could do to help him with that but that he did notice however that he and his wife were lost and that he could for now help them by telling him where they were. The man’s wife continued to watch from the entrance hoping her husband would let the situation go so that they could leave. She repeated that they should go and again he ignored her. He briefly wondered to himself how he forgot that they were lost. He decided for now the old man was right and that he would inform the soldiers as soon as they got back onto the main road. He straightened up and asked the old man where they were. The old man again picked up his small cup and in a hushed voiced said a few words before he took a sip. The Official became startled as if by a loud noise. He then quickly turned his head as if he had suddenly noticed something behind his wife. He stood fixated looking past her through the window onto the street behind her. Turning ghostly pale his eyes turned to her. She didn’t hear what the old man had said and nervously looked behind her to see what her husband was looking at but there was nothing there but the falling snow and their car. She called over to him asking what he was looking at while not wanting to leave where she was standing. She was hoping that whatever frightened her husband would make him have the sense to walk over to her to leave the café.

The old man slowly pulled himself up to barely stand up by his chair while it screeched against the floor. He gestured to the Official to come closer and he began murmuring into his ear with his thin lips and pointed at the wooden blue door. The man started shaking, glanced at the door and then back at his wife. The young man who was still sitting looked up and reached back into his coat pocket.  He pulled out something bright and metallic which he gave to the old man, who then proceeded to place it in the Official’s hand. He then nodded to him to make his way towards the door across the room.  While he began slowly walking across the cafe his wife this time took a few steps towards them and he urgently gestured with his other hand to stay where she was. Not looking back once he continued until he reached the door and turned the iron knob to open it.  All there was behind the old solid door was a small empty dark closet except for the single metal light fixture hanging from the ceiling that was missing a bulb. He looked down at what was in his hand at what turned out to be a simple light bulb and then back at the old man with a look of fear and confusion. The old man gazed down at the floor and nodded once more encouraging him to continue. They all watched the man from behind as he stood in the dark closet, reached up to the hanging fixture and carefully screwed in the light bulb.

When he was done, not looking back he closed the door behind him. A few seconds passed before a click could be heard from behind the door while no light appeared from the space underneath it. The old man sat back down. A few more seconds passed as the woman not believing or understanding what she had just seen stormed over to the two men demanding to know where her husband went. The young man looked up at her with soft eyes. He began explaining to her where she was while reaching again back into his coat pocket. While listening to the young man, she noticed some movements from the street and turned her head to look. Outside the café window sitting in the darkness and falling snow was their car engulfed in orange flames with the silhouettes of two people in the front seat. Shadows of soldiers and locals could also suddenly be seen running past the café window against the flames. With the sounds of cries and gun fire resonating in her head, she slowly turned back to face the two men. As she was doing so from the corner of her eye she thought she saw against the glowing wall behind them what looked like the shadow of wings.

…I don’t know why I’ve agreed to this… but here I am… here we are… he briskly raps the knocker.  We’re standing in the corridor by the stairwell, with its dank smell and hollow sounds.  There are 3 locks.  Each bolt is slowly turned. The door cautiously opened.  She peers up at me.  “Hello?” her voice falters. She’s very slight, with white wispy hair, in a small bun.  Her eyes, egg shell blue would fly away if they could. These two people are so different… and yet…I don’t know.  The security chain is doing its job; keeping problems at bay.  Doubt there’s much it can do about this one though, the one standing next to me.  I imagine he’s not good with door keys.  There seems a good chance he hasn’t got any.

He says, “You’re my mum, ain’t you”.  “Yes,” she says faintly, “Yes I am.”  With a nod in my direction, he declares, “See, like I told you.”   I register the tone of one not often taken on his word. “All right mum.”  She takes a step back.  I stumble, “Sorry…sorry to bother you”.  Sorry for not making her life any easier. “Ta mum.”  The door clicks shut.  Bolts turn.  “So you know,” he continues, matter- of-fact, “that I’m not going to lie to you.  Not with my mum being a neighbor of yours.”  “Okay,”   I agree, vaguely aware that if I want my bike back I should stay the course.  There are other reasons to be sure… but I’m not clear about them.   

We are negotiating for the release of an old red bike that I bought the week before for only £5.  The lock cost twice the bike and I doubt I’ll be seeing it again.  He’s  asking  £15 but I’m only going to agree to 10 because then I’ve still only paid 15 for a bike that works, fits my frame and is the right color red.  I block memory of the lock because that would remind me that the lad before me is, in fact, the thief… that he’s costing me… and if that’s all I think then the situation begins to irk. 

But what to think?  If I think of him as the drug addicted son of the poor woman upstairs, then the story is a tragedy.  There’s nothing to be done.  I withhold the £10 and let him keep the bike. .. or I let him keep the bike and give her the money.  I post it perhaps… anonymously. 

But the truth is, I prefer to leave out the hapless mum…and not think of her at all…and leave in the feckless son, who’s stolen my bike for the purpose of selling it back to me, on the pretense that he is mediating with the thief, on my behalf.  Now this is a story with a comic twist that I can play along with in the spirit of the piece. This way I also stand to get my bike back.  He regards the £10 note lying in the palm of his hand and mutters, “I’ll see what I can do”.  I have to admire his cheek.

He’d rapped on my door much like he rapped on his mum’s.   I opened it on a fair, longish-haired lad, mid 20’s, in a tweedy coat, 70’s lapels.   Breath… bated, “Hello. Did you have a red bike locked up outside?”  “Yes, why?”  “It’s been nicked.”   ”Oh …but how do you know it’s been nicked?”  “I know the bloke who nicked it. I just saw him wheeling it away.”  “Where”?  “Over there.   But look, don’t worry, I can get it back for you.”  “Yes?” “Just give me £15 and I’ll go and talk with him.”  “…Look…” I say, with the inertia of someone who knows none of her lines, “… Thanks for your help but…”   “…I didn’t take it… if that’s what you’re thinking. My mum lives upstairs. And you don’t queer your own patch, do you.”  “…How do I know your mum lives upstairs?”  “Come on.  I’ll show you.”  “I don’t know…”   

I’m standing at the bottom of the stairwell, waiting for the son to return with my bike, when three or four lads come hurrying by.  As I make way for them one turns to me and says,“Don’t trust that geezer, will you.  He’d shop his own mum.”  Later, filling the kettle, I think of her upstairs.  She too must fill her kettle by the kitchen window, over-looking the market on a Saturday morning…with the hawkers hawking…the murmur and the milling. Waiting for the water to boil…I’ve been here two years and I’ve never noticed her.  Two years without a neighbor to talk to. I wonder how she gets by…what with the worry of him.  Does it empty her life?  Does she love him as much? I wonder what sustains her…if she has any faith.  She’ll never trust me now.  I know too much.

            Years later I understood that he was an immigrant from Poland and still groping with the English language, he had been sent back a grade.  I just thought he was silently cool.

            At recess and at lunchtime, I would look for him in the corridors, trembling when I spotted him.  He was not aware of me at all.  I had an intense and purely imaginative relationship with him during the school fall session.

            In the winter evenings of that year, I would walk up Van Horne avenue to Pratt Park to skate on the pond.  This rink had a small cabin, heated by a small stove, where we changed from boots to skates and skates to boots.

            On the ice, we skated in the same direction, singly, in pairs and in groups.  I was skating around one evening with the others and noticed Eric on the edge of the ice.  The first time I had seen him at the park.  At every round, I peeked at him, creating romantic scenarios.

            On one round, a boy I didn’t know skated close to me.  He grabbed my hand, forcing me to skate with him.  I didn’t like him.  I stopped in the center of the moving circle of skaters and as he stopped with me, I jerked my hand out of his and yelled at him, leave me alone.  Go away.  I yelled louder, go away.  I pushed at his chest.

            What’s the matter with you, he said.

            Just go away, I screamed, I don’t like you.  Go away.

           He stood there confident and assured.   I was furious.  How dare he presume?  He hadn’t asked.  He had just grabbed me.

            Eric arrived, five inches taller than the kid who was offending me.

            What’s going on, Eric said.  Eric loomed over him and raised his hand.  The boy disappeared into the moving circle of skaters.

            Eric took my hand.  Do you want to go around with me?

            I wrenched my hand from his.  How dare he? I thought.  How dare he think I can’t take care of myself?  Did Eric think I wasn’t capable all on my own?

            No, I said and skated off.

            Later, in the cabin, changing to go home, when I removed my skates, my feet ballooned to double their normal size.

            I limped down the hill to home only in my rubber galoshes unable to feel my feet or my toes.

I was a teenager the last time I saw Fatma. I had just returned home for my summer vacation after my first year of university and she had come to visit us with her two children. One was a small boy of three or four, the other one still a baby. We sat in the living room of our cottage, facing the bay of Izmir while she changed the baby’s diaper on the sofa. It was one of those searing July days when the lodos blows down from the mountains, making the air dry and the sea, icy cold. She was wearing a sleeveless lilac dress with ever-growing sweat stains under her armpits and milk leakage over her breasts. It had taken god knows how many dolmus minibuses to finally get to Kalabak from where she lived. I watched her pick up her baby and place him on her left side, so that he could look around over her shoulder. His head was bobbing as she rocked around the room patting his back to prevent possible wails while at the same time telling her little boy to sit still and behave, which he was already doing. In fact, he spent his time mostly looking at his toes until he was told to run along and play with the sand. At that point, he furtively got up and went to the beach where he gingerly crouched so as not to dirty his immaculate shorts and sandals. Fatma, whom I always called Fatosh, placed her finally sleeping baby on a bed in a room. When she came back, her face was harsh. “Do you have a fiancé?” She asked me, frowning. I smiled and said, “No, but I’m going out with someone.”

“No!” she shouted, alarmed. “No! Don’t ever get married. Listen to me. You’re going to school, you’ll get a job, why marry? Don’t let men near you.” Her eyes were wide open; she looked so exasperated she could hit me.

“You’re not happy, Fatosh?” I asked furtively.

“No. I was stupid. I was so happy here with you all, and I didn’t know it. Now, I’m sorry every single day.  Men are awful. All of them. They’re animals. You stay away from them, you hear?”

I was heartbroken, as a child, when she had announced she had a fiancé that she was going to marry and started preparing her trousseau every evening. She had no time for fun anymore. She no longer secretly passed me her tabloids filled with pictures of scantily clad second-rate Turkish actresses having steamy affairs with mustachioed leading men, because she now spent her money buying sheets, tea towels and other boring objects. She didn’t show me how to squeeze pimples or my all time favourite, how to squeeze your nose to get tiny white worms of grease to jut out from the pores. She could get a hundred to squeeze out simultaneously like charmed snakes simply by moving her nose upward. But she no longer had time for such frivolities. When she finished her trousseau, she got married and moved to her own house far away, and I hardly ever saw her after that until this final meeting in Kalabak. I thought she had come to see me, especially, as I had left the country and had been gone for a while. Years later, I found out she had come to ask my mother for help because she was having serious financial problems. Her husband had lost his job at the textile factory where my father had placed him through connections. He was a hot-headed, good-for-nothing fool, apparently. And so Fatosh scolded me, wagged her finger and pushed my face away in lieu of a slap even as we kissed and hugged goodbye, making me swear I would never marry. 

 As a small child I must have been a nuisance to her, second only to my nonagenarian grandmother who suspected Fatma was stealing her immense white cotton boxer shorts and therefore kept asking her to return them, in Greek. She had learned a few words of Greek from my granny and would shout “ohee, ohee, Néné.” Néné would calm down for a while, then start again, pulling at Fatma’s sleeve, taking her to the dresser to show her drawer filled with a dozen ironed shorts. Fatma would nod her head once backward going “tschk” to mean “no”  and would shout “ohee Néné, ine poli megalo”, meaning ‘no, granny, your undies are too large for me.’ Néné would mutter something under her breath and shake her head as if to say, ‘you think you’re clever, but I’ll get you next time’. Fatosh would leave the room going “Öff, aman be Néné, yeter artik!” (Enough with this, Néné!) shaking the front of her t-shirt with her fingers to indicate how terribly fed up she was. When she saw me observing her, she would say “Va jouer dans la chambre!” She had a knack for languages. I was in awe of Fatosh and would not be dispensed with easily. So I interrogated her.

“Where is your home Fatosh?”

She would shrug and say, “here with you.”

“Do you have a mom and dad?”

“My mom got very sick and died.”

“Do you have sisters and brothers?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In Soma.”

“Where’s Soma?”

“North of here.”

“What does it mean, Soma?”

“It’s just a name.”

“What do people do there?”

“They work in coal mines.”

“Your father too?”

“No, he’s an imam.”

“What does an imam do?”

“I don’t know… He prays, I guess then there are circumcisions, weddings, funerals… He tells people what to do.”

“Do you miss him?”

“No. He beats us too much.”

“Do you miss your mom?”

“She’s dead I told you!”

“Do you want to go back?”

“No.”

“Why do you live with us?”

“You don’t want me to?”

“Sure I do. Do you go to Soma on weekends?”

“No.”

“Where do you go?”

“My aunt’s house.”

I would spend hours sitting beside her as she scrubbed something or other, drilling her with all manners of senseless questions to which she responded in curt, irritable spurts.

We slept in the same room. We gave each other good night hugs and colds and had to do steam inhalations with eucalyptus, putting towels over our heads at the kitchen table. She would show me her white nose worms once in a while and we would giggle putting our noses back into the steaming hot bowls.

Fatma struck me as the picture of solidity in those days; she tamed brooms, buckets and chairs into submission with her quick determined movements. She had a wide open face with high cheekbones and a low forehead, thin eyes slanting upward, a soft wide nose, and well-shaped taut lips.  Her arms and legs were muscular, her fingers stubby and her toes, plump and square. Her dark brown hair was parted in the middle and tied into a pony tail. I enjoyed the timbre of her voice when she laughed. It gave a sense of thoracic fortitude and of being connected to the earth where edible things grew, like the rest of her. She wore mini shorts in the summer, like my older sister, but I don’t remember what she wore in winter. I loved her wooly smell, and the look of her. I admired her for learning Greek and French and felt secure when my parents repeatedly told us that she was part of our family. I wanted to know what she would do later on in her life, being so smart. If she was part of our family, I expected she would get an education, get a good job, then marry someone educated and refined, while at the same time suspecting this was not really the plan for her because she was working as our maid and had a life outside of our home which involved a vague family in Soma and an aunt on mysterious hills. I worried that one day she would inevitably grow up to live a sad life- marry a brutish uneducated man and live in her aunt’s hills where her intelligence would wither away.

I used to do as she bade when I was young except this one time, again in our summer cottage in Kalabak, where our house had an ‘upstairs’, unlike most of my friends’. The wooden staircase was a fascination for us, first for sliding on the banister and also, for spying quietly on happenings in the living room without being observed. The rooms upstairs intrigued my friends, who were deprived of such mysteries in their own cottages. We had two sets of bunk beds in the children’s room which served as sailboats during afternoon naps. My brother, cousin and I would deck the sides of the beds with sheets for sails and have seafaring adventures against pirates. It did not occur to us to be pirates ourselves; we were, invariably, the good guys and whenever we caught the dastardly pirates, we would magnanimously let them back into the sea the way fishermen release unsavory fish into the water, issuing warnings to change their ways “or else…” There were falls from heights in the middle of the night, cousins sleepwalking into attics to pee on suitcases, vomiting sessions from eating too many lokums, and all sorts of drama that only seemed to happen on the second floor of our house. We had two long attics flanking the sides of the second floor, filled with strange objects and cobwebs. Naturally, these places needed further exploration and I proudly offered tours to my eager buddies.  One had to circumvent Fatosh for this, and it wasn’t easy. She was the keeper of the ‘upstairs’ and under my mother’s strict orders no kids were to be allowed there to play, or hide, on account of bringing sand to the rooms with our dirty feet. So Fatosh somehow heard us as we tiptoed up the stairs and ran to the living room to chase us out. “Shht!” She shouted. “ Get down and out you go. You’re not allowed upstairs.”

“Yes, we are!” I shouted back feeling cocksure.

“No, you’re not and you’d better come down this minute!” she yelled back.

“No, I won’t!” I insisted louder to impress my friends and stomped my foot.

“You will get a spanking if you don’t!” She countered.

Then I said the words.

“This is not your house, it’s my house, and you can’t tell me what to do.” They hung in the air for a moment. No one moved. Her eyes widened, as if she had unexpectedly been slapped very hard. Quickly, she recollected her face, shrugged and muttered I was a spoiled brat with bad manners before walking away.

The words continued hanging there, small, deflated and loose like balloons on sagging garlands after a birthday party. They trailed after me upstairs to the attic where my friends squealed and giggled irritatingly in their afternoon dresses and white socks. I found an excuse to make them leave and sat alone in the semi-darkness of the waning afternoon, wanting to punish myself and not knowing how. I never apologized to her from sheer embarrassment. I wanted her to forget that moment as soon as possible and the apology would serve to remind her of the insult. She would pretend to forgive me while nursing the wound I inflicted on her, in her deeper thoughts. She would perhaps pretend to love me, out of a sense of duty, as part of her job. I hoped she would say something mean and hurtful to me, so we could get even. But she didn’t. That fall, she started looking for a fiancé.

Fatma’s contact with my mother became sporadic over the years. Once in a while, she would visit; occasionally she would call or send word. Whenever she resurfaced, there were issues like joblessness, illness, hunger, need for clothing and my mother would put together money and packages for her. A few years ago she got word that Fatma was very ill with a kidney problem and had no money to go to the doctor because her husband had left her and her sons were jobless. An envelope was sent to her via the son who came to collect it. I don’t think she ever heard from Fatma after that again.

Recently, while reminiscing about earlier days, my mother told me the story of how Fatma came to live in our house. She was a teenager, barely thirteen, when she was brought to our house by some lady’s acquaintance, as a girl looking for work. My mother hired her on the spot. On her first day, Fatma told my mother she was never to be left alone with my father in the house. It was her condition for working with us. At first she would not say why. When my mother pressed her, she said she was afraid he may do something bad to her. Like what? My mother asked. Like rape me. She said. Why do you think he would he do such a thing to you? My mother asked, cautious. Because men do these things. She replied. Did someone do this to you, my child? My mother asked. Fatma looked down. Did someone rape you? She insisted. My older sister is pregnant. She said. Who did that to her? Fatma looked up, her chin trembling. My father… My father… and I was next.  I ran away. I ran from the house. My sister gave me some money. I took the bus to Izmir, to my aunt’s house. Please don’t leave me alone in the house with your husband. I will sleep with the kids, in their room. Never alone. I will sleep on the bare floors, I don’t care.