The Endless Week, page 12
Sara was chewing blackcurrant gum, and the smell was bothering him. He cracked his jaw, he asked for some water. No one had any. There were colors on the objects around him, but the objects didn’t have any color, he could understand that. On the other side of the square, water was running in a fountain shaped like a saucer, as if it had been placed here by aliens. He said the word fountain without making a sound. He typed the word fountain into his phone and he touched the screen. He looked at images of fountains, they spouted water, clear and docile. They never stopped being born. He imagined a long fountain that flowed and flowed, it flowed above the world, in the sky, above the universe, it flowed above everything and he opened his mouth. All he had to do was open his mouth. He touched his screen several times in random places and he put his phone down, he got up, he crossed the square.
He walked slowly and the world vibrated in an irregular, irritating way. The faces of passersby quivered in the middle, around the nostrils, everything was wide, the faces were long, they curved. People could have walked through him, through his chest, through his face because he didn’t really exist, not 100 percent, he could feel it. Reality felt malicious, evil, he muttered: Mean, really mean. And he plunged his hands in the fountain, then his arms, then he lay down in the fountain, on his back, eyes open, fully clothed, mouth open, and he flowed, flowed, he sucked in, he swallowed, his body filled in the fountain. Underwater, he imagined crabs in the dark, crazy, neon crab-scientists wearing glasses, crabs around his body, smiling crabs, crabs in clothes eating him, they were swallowing him. He forgot to breathe. Finally, he remembered.
When he stuck his head out, an old man was leaning on the edge of the fountain. He didn’t have eyebrows, but bristles, like hay. He said: Luckily the air doesn’t have a face.
What?
Luckily the air doesn’t have a face. A face like yours or mine, I mean. Luckily it doesn’t have one. We’re lucky, right? You and me, we’re lucky.
Jonathan said: What do you mean? And the old man replied: Luckily, the air doesn’t do faces. That’s what I was getting at. Air doesn’t have a face, right? The old man threw a coin in the fountain, he said: Superstitions are an eternal feeling of the soul, but if the air had a face, we’d be miserable, I’d kill myself, you know? We’d be crazy, it would be unbearable, and I’d end up killing myself.
Jonathan didn’t say anything. Water flowed over his shoulders.
Everything is made the way it should be, right? Don’t you think? Just imagine, you open your eyes, and you realize the air has a face. Awful, right? How horrible. An eternal horror, always the same face, always the same horror, for our entire lives. We’d look up, we’d see this face, the air’s face, always the same. If the air had a face, we’d see this face from birth to death, continuously, just imagine, in front of us, just imagine if the air had a mug, a kisser, a visage, a pie . . .
Yeah, yeah, I got the idea.
The old man moved his eyebrows like a wave from left to right. He rested his cane against the fountain, and he said: I’m old. Then he tried to take off his jacket, but his body was dry. He said: I’m old, look at my hands, you see them, they hurt, just like my back does, my legs, my ankles, my low back creaks, can you hear it? It’s impossible for me to get this jacket off. I’m stiff, see for yourself, I’m an old piece of bread, bread from 1802, an ancient baguette. That’s what I’ve become, an old piece of myself, an old, dried-out, hardened piece, my poor lad. And if someone offered to help me, I wouldn’t say no, oh, I’d say the opposite, young man, I’d say just the opposite. Yes, the opposite of no. Do you understand? The opposite, you see? He gestured to Jonathan who got up with a sound like a wave. He tried to help the old man, he touched him, he touched his jacket. He put his hands on his back, he manipulated his arms, he grabbed him by the elbow, he tugged on his jacket, and the man cracked. It was a definitive cracking.
He said: It’s my left arm. You just broke it, but don’t worry, it’s not important. You really hurt me, but it’s nothing, it doesn’t matter. I’m not a wimp. The bones you just broke will never be able to regrow, but that’s not important. I wasn’t that attached to them. Besides, I have to admit, I never liked that arm, I’ve been suspicious of it since I was a child. It’s one arm too many, as they say, one arm too many.
He spoke without moving, his body stuck in his jacket, his arms twisted, his elbows close to his head. Jonathan said: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. And he tried to pull on the fabric, he folded the jacket back, it got harder and harder, as if the jacket were shrinking. It clung to the old man, it was glued to him. He suggested borrowing scissors from a bar to cut it. The old man refused firmly: Out of the question, my good fellow, it’s my jacket and I’m attached to it. I don’t have any memories without it, you wouldn’t understand. I keep my objects close, I’m very attached to them. I used the same plastic bag for over thirty years. I always had it with me. I took it everywhere. It fell to pieces, completely to pieces, over the years, to pieces, and I still keep a few of those pieces in my jacket. I think about it every day. About the bag, I mean. What time is it, my good fellow? Don’t answer that, I’m going to unwind myself. And like a flash, the old man shook out his body, he shook it with great flexibility, he spread his arms in the air like two doves. He arranged his jacket, which slid like oil. He leaned over and touched his toes nimbly, with grace. He made chaotic gestures with ease and beauty. He multiplied his positions, raising his legs, turning his head, and Jonathan blinked. He creased his forehead, he couldn’t follow all of it. The old man capered then did a cartwheel on the edge of the fountain, he folded in on himself, his heels touched his thighs, and his knees touched his nose. He took off, as if he were flying, then he stopped dead, and he once again became old, very old. He lowered his head. He coughed several times with his dry mouth, and he almost choked.
Jonathan asked him if he was sick, and the man replied: I’m fit as a fiddle. He squinted his eyes. Then, he took his cane, he grabbed Jonathan’s arm as if it were part of a merry-go-round, and he said: Onward.
Jonathan felt this fragile body on his arm. He leaned slightly to be the same height, he curved his back and neck. He tried to smile and the old man gripped his arm with his old hand. Jonathan moved forward at his pace, in his pace. He paid close attention to each step, as if his steps were new people, small people who were short, weak, breakable. He calibrated his entire body to the body of the old man, and then, his own body started to weigh on him, his strength bothered him, his youth burdened him, it was too big, too heavy on the old man’s arm. He felt too strong, capable of killing.
*
On the steps, the old man didn’t say anything, Salim and Sara didn’t say anything. Why weren’t they saying anything, why wasn’t anybody saying anything? The Earth deformed around his body, his clothing soaked the ground, the cement. The ground is like cement, the sky too, the sky is like cement, he saw it, he felt it, Sara’s face was expressionless. Salim was looking at his phone with his face tilted, maybe sad, and the old man was moving his dry mouth, he muttered, then he spoke. He said: I’m wondering what you’re doing on these steps. Are you beggars? He emphasized the B, he repeated: Beggars? Are you begging? Then he patted his abdomen. He said: I don’t have much in my jacket, maybe a banana. I’d give it to you, but it’s an old friend, I’ve had it for years, yes, for years, it will give you warts on your tongue. They are very painful, the warts, they explode, if truth be told, the taste isn’t very nice. Of the warts, I mean, I have them every morning. They pop, every morning, in my mouth, every hour. Have you ever tasted moldy lemon? Have you ever tasted it? Are you familiar with moldy lemon, lemons green with mold, rotten lemons? Have you ever seen lemons white with rot? Lemons covered in white fuzz, does that ring a bell? The warts in my mouth taste the same, it’s almost the same taste.
Sara sneezed and her eyes brightened, she looked all around like someone just waking up. She pulled out her earbuds, it was a shock, the light, the people, the sounds, the old man, his face, she went from one thing to the next, the way you always do, unprepared. So many times in a day, all throughout the day, we go from one thing to the next thing. When we sleep, we wake up. And when we aren’t sleeping, we go from one image to another, one impression to another. Every time we walk, we go forward, we go from one step to another. Every time we speak, we go from one word to another. Every time we cry, we go from one tear to another, we forget the previous tear, here comes the next tear. Every time we make gestures, every time we blow our noses, we go from one substance to another, one texture to another, one frown to another, and one wrinkle to another unprepared. We look at people, we go from one skin to the next, one eye to the next, one forehead to the next, one behavior to the next and one voice to the next. Every time we scream, every time we fight, we go from one sentence to the next, one wound to the next, one sting to the next. Every time we walk in a forest or in a park, we go from one tree to the next, one trunk to the next, one mushroom to the next. In maternity wards, every day, people go from one newborn to the next, one birth to the next, one bracelet to the next, one nurse to the next, one stretcher to the next always unprepared. Every time we learn, we go from one idea to the next, one thought to the next, one discovery to the next, one year to the next, we go from one season to the next, one piece of clothing to the next, we go from one flower to the next, one lawn to the next, and on the highway, from one accident to the next, from one car to the next, from one gear to the next always unprepared, one color to the next, one person to the next. We shift our eyes but our eyes have already shifted. We absorb things, but our eyes are absorbed.
Jonathan said: Let me introduce you to this man, we’ve just met. I met him in the fountain. The old man said: Nice to meet you. Yes, nice to meet you. But, if I may, you two look alike. In a negative sense. You have what we call a common deformity. It’s in your nature, the way a triangle has three angles. You are like two plums from the same plum tree. A plum tree crawling with parasites.
Sara didn’t say anything, she looked straight ahead. With his old, twisted index finger, the old man pointed at Salim. He was close by, so he was almost touching his cheek, he said: This young man here, this one, is he disabled? Is he with you? He’s disabled, I think. He looks like the girl. They must be brother and sister, are they disabled? Him especially, he’s disabled, I presume?
No, he’s looking for his mother.
Oh really? Maybe. Maybe he’s looking for his mother, but I think he’s disabled. He looks disabled to me. Why doesn’t he ever look up? Can’t he hear us? Hi, hello there! Can you hear us? Say something! See, he doesn’t react. If I were his mother, I would have abandoned him too.
He repeated: I would have abandoned him. Abandoned him straight away.
Salim slid his thumb across the screen and the old man stared at him with contempt across the upper half of his face. He said: Look at this. Look at this young man, this boy, this young man, god, he’s ugly, he’s so ugly, his mother, his mother has a problem, I guess, I imagine, I suppose, I’ve deduced this systematically by analogy. And thus, if he has a problem, I imagine that his mother has a problem, that’s how I work. I’ve always relied on another object to construct my thoughts, that’s my way of doing things, I create links, I construct thoughts. I don’t know what the first thought in the world was. But if we found out, we’d never have to think again, right? The first thought contains all the others. I’ve never really thought, I’ve never thought for myself, I only link ideas to ideas that have already existed for millennia. I admit it, though, I don’t mind admitting it, I’m modest. Is his mother crazy? Is your mother crazy, my disabled friend? Boo hoo, is your mother crazy? The old man turned his old head toward Jonathan. He said: You know that crazy people aren’t crazy. They’re not any crazier than other people, they just don’t do things at the right time, that’s all. You know that. I can see in your eyes that you know this, my good fellow. Your mother was also crazy, I suppose, like all mothers, of course. When a creature comes out of your stomach, when it comes out from between your legs, what happens to you? You become crazy. If you weren’t already, you become crazy then, that’s nature.
Yes, it was true, Jonathan’s mother was crazy, but his mother was dead. Jonathan’s mother used to clean, she cleaned fast food restaurants before they opened. And at night, Jonathan’s mother kissed the big screen in their living room, on the mouth of a singer. She was in love with the singer, he was like a member of the family, he was like a member of her life. On screen, in pictures, she loved him, she talked to him, she talked to the screen, she closed her eyes, she talked to the singer. She said: I love you, I’m your biggest fan, your biggest fan. Every Sunday, the mother printed pictures of the singer. She glued them everywhere, she covered the walls, she wallpapered the apartment, the doors, the hot water tank, the radiators, the refrigerator, she covered everything. Sometimes, when Jonathan was sleeping, she glued a picture of the singer to his head or his hands. In middle school, in high school, Jonathan often arrived with a picture of the singer stuck to his neck or his back, his mother did it, she made an effort. She measured, the pictures made sense, she didn’t go overboard. On bananas, she pasted pictures of the singer in a yellow sweater. On packages of mashed potatoes, pictures of the singer dressed in white. On the stove, pictures of the singer posing in flames. On the radiators, pictures of the singer skiing while wearing a scarf. On her son’s forehead, a picture of the singer as a young man, and on her own nails, she glued tiny pictures of the singer sprinkled with glitter.
One evening, they were eating artichokes. Jonathan and his mother weren’t speaking, they never spoke. Jonathan was pulling the leaves off the vegetable, layer by layer, but the two of them weren’t speaking. They were eating. They dipped the leaves in vinaigrette, they put the leaves in their mouths, they licked, they bit, the leaves became more and more tender, thinner and thinner, and they said nothing, their fingers shined. And then, in the heart of the artichoke, Jonathan found a picture of the singer, miniscule and precise. The mother said: Please, do it for me. And Jonathan put it in his mouth. He ate it.
Later on, in a big city, the mother spent fourteen days on a sidewalk in front of a concert hall. The mother drew green lines and black lines on her face like a soldier. Every day, she sent pictures to her son. In the photos, she smiled with her mouth open as if she were screaming. She was wearing a baseball hat with a picture of the singer and a T-shirt with a picture of the singer. She was surrounded by people like her, covered in pictures of the singer. The night of the concert, the mother was in the front row and the singer threw his shirt. The mother fought, she lost her earlobes. The mother came home with a piece of the shirt.
From then on, every morning, the mother kissed the piece of shirt. The mother fell asleep every night on the piece of shirt, she spoke to it, she whispered. Jonathan saw her crying in her bed with the piece of shirt, she said: I live for you.
In the beginning, Jonathan couldn’t stand his mother anymore, she drank, she talked to the shirt, she didn’t have earlobes, she hung around in bed, she kissed the screen. She was crazy.
But he slowly understood that things were just not where they should be, they were out of sync, displaced, they weren’t in the right spot. They were true, but they weren’t in the right place. You just had to shift things to understand them. You just had to shift things for them to seem right.
If a child kills someone to defend themselves, we can understand it. If they kill a random person ten years later, we don’t understand it anymore. If someone is hurt, they should shout, if they shout two years later, nobody will understand. You have to be punctual. Cry when things are sad, tremble when it’s cold. It was the same thing with the mother and the shirt. There was a time, there were scenes, but she messed up the location and it wasn’t a big deal. Her name was Monique. Maybe she was crazy.
One evening at a casino, it was raining, a woman entered, she was tall, bald, wet, she came up to her, she said: Monique? She moved her hand toward the mother’s forehead, she said: Monique, is that you? The mother replied: No. She wasn’t lying, she was far away, out of sync.
Everyone tells the truth, that’s all they can say. People don’t always tell the truth in the right place, but they always tell the truth. When the mother told the shirt that she loved it, it was true. Nobody understood, but it was a love as good as any other. And then one day, the mother died of a common illness.
*
Jonathan swallowed two pills because the sun was white.
He swallowed two more because it was bright, and his legs were shaking. He said: Why won’t you talk? Can you tell us something, can you tell us something, please? Can you tell us a story from your life? Can you tell us any story from your life, please?
The old man cast sideways glances, his eyelids laughed, he crossed his arms. He said: Why not. Why not, my good fellow. Of course, I can tell you my life story, if you insist, if it helps you relax. Because you seem anxious, don’t you? About to explode. There are life stories that aren’t worth telling, the vast majority, to be honest. However, mine is worth telling. He emphasized the M, he repeated: Mine is worth telling. Note this diachrony: things take a long time to tell, but take a short time to live through. When we’re living them, we aren’t telling the story. In reality, things take place. If we had to tell the whole story, if we wanted to tell the story as it took place, honestly, to be accurate, we would need a language for each thing, yes, a language for each thing, for each situation. For example, a language for greeting, a language for asking for forgiveness, a language for giving compliments, and a language for my life, of course. I would need a whole language for my life, but that’s okay, I’ll tell you the story in our common tongue. Here we go: I was born to a quiet family, my parents were mute. At the age of thirteen, I discovered language through a priest in my village. I realized I was different, that I am divine. When I was younger, I saw the future in fields of grain, wheat, rice, oats. Even today, if you give me some spelt, I can tell you the day you will die. And so, back then, I read misfortunes in the barley and the rye. Tragedy strikes all the time, it always will, but I knew what would happen, I saw it, I read it, and people ran from me, they said: He’s the one who makes death come. But I was innocent. And I can prove it: in the countryside, there is a lot of grain. Wherever I looked, it was misfortune, misfortune, misfortune. Every second, I could read disaster. I had to leave my village. One morning, I moved into the city and I got into singing.
