Smiling, he was running away from your expectations, likeness and light, greedy for a violent and total gesture to shatter reality, the out-of-tune melodies of submission and hypocrisy, the deaf-and-dumb complicity of the suspects — finally ready to kill the grotesque caricature of the fat, needy, puerile dreamer and the places for senile caresses.
The room of topsy-turvy objects, piano keys yellowed by blunt fingers, solemn candlesticks standing like telephone poles, jam jars near the towel stained with shoe polish, teaspoons choked with grease. Strange little creatures with five eyes and thirteen wings, oozing yellow liquids. In such a cell he will try to remember, but the past is without return. Pencils tipped with marmalade, socks wrapped around sugared rolls, needles perforating the pages of books, scores with sticky covers. He’ll pull a book off the shelf and find a knife blade between his fingers, he’ll move the chair and clay buttons will plop to the ground, he’ll look for the electric outlet and an alarm clock will ring, his hand will be swallowed by dust, and his shoulders will hunch as though weighted down with heavy armor. The fugitive will pound the walls to find out if the fruitless day isn’t just a mistake or some hallucination, if destiny has prepared the right place for crime and salvation.
You know his story. You see him. You foresee him. You are the shadow that pines for betrothal.
The stranger — the absent one trapped between the four hundred walls of a random cell (as among four or forty mute winds) — will be refused the answer left behind with the second person, the counterpart from whom he has fled.
• • •
A summer morning, a vast marble staircase, a white screen catching the faintest glimmer of light. . somewhere a dark corridor. . somewhere, fragile windows continued rotating the light. The girl in the dream leaned on a wall somewhere, just as she had once leaned on the thick, rough tree trunk in the east of the plain. The encounter was announcing itself, finally: there, at the end of some infinite stairs, the victim awaited the end of the summer day. In the sunless tunnel, a hand had clutched the walls. Suddenly, a cheek appeared: impatience illuminated moist eyes. Then the blue shirt gleamed. The familiar rustle, smile, the momentary hesitation. It seemed he was remembering something. He stopped, came closer.
— Won’t you come with me to the movies this afternoon?
You understood: it was no longer the customary wandering among books and chimeras and questions without answers; it was no longer the circular residue of coffee in which you looked without the courage to pronounce the name of the expectation, in which you continued your precautionary wandering. You squeezed the ticket stub between your fingers. You were smiling, relaxed, as the chosen of the gods used to await the fulfillment of their foretold deaths. The death sentence should be fingered, fondled, ridiculed, chased away like a phantom, like a false storm, but the victim is smiling, the mistress of fatality. She’s the princess from a fairy tale, from a living and lucid dream whose finale will freeze the readers’ blood.
You laughed, you joked, you dispatched words — that was the game. The palm of your left hand rubbed against the oily wall. The ticket fluttered between the trembling fingers of the other.
The summer afternoon halted as the lights came down. Suspended hours, whitewashed air: windows open, the rooms seemed to float in the inertia of the day. In the silent corridor, a thin, elongated being with a white face and wide-open eyes floated freely, until swallowed by thin, aromatic winds.
The new movie theater’s waiting room was high and long. Because of the burning heat, only a few people attended — many people were at the stadium or dancing in the outdoor cafes. Or perhaps it was because of the obscure Russian title of the film, or because it was about war, and somewhere else they were playing movies with romantic knights and beautiful ladies.
Words had breathed their last that morning, so you took your seat mutely, glad to have nothing asked of you. Images flowed from the screen, so you couldn’t look at anything else: the mirror of the well, the bucket drenching the boy’s fair cheek, then the powerful, fresh-faced mother, laughing — the two of them momentarily reflected then blown apart by the explosion of water under the smoke of war. Little Ivan passed through the nights to the gentle purling of occupied rivers, his face increasingly fierce and aged. You gave a start without looking at your neighbor, who didn’t seem to react in any way.
— You were a child during the war, weren’t you?
Your whispered words came out like a tremor. He didn’t reply. On the screen, the boy’s fair face eclipsed the darkness and silence, along with the long, sad horses eating apples down by the seashore. When the darkness dispersed, the audience rose, reconciled, ready for other stories.
You stood. You kept silent. It was almost evening. Together, you crossed through a long, deserted street, passing under the tall buildings. Cars rushed by. Steps resounded on the sidewalk as if on glass. The shop windows were coming alive. To the right, a side street opened. He followed a step behind, a step below. You opened the apartment door. He came from below, a step behind you.
The opening of the door should have made a noise. You knew the sound exactly. You expected it, heard it, and yet you didn’t. You stepped across the threshold with your hand on the switch. The room appeared. The door was hinged to the frame, rotated with caution, almost closed and yet only pulled to the edge.
To the left of the door, the wide bed covered with a red blanket. You sat on the bed; he sat on the chair, both in silence. You looked at the wardrobe, the wall facing the door, the one narrow bookshelf, high on the wall. The small table. The balcony. You turned on the radio to break the silence but couldn’t find the right station and gave up. You rose and leaned into his chair. Keeping quiet, he propped himself for an instant on the lap of your skirt. You passed a hand through the buttons of his blue shirt. You turned off the light.
Fragmenting the darkness, horizontal bands of light from the street came through the slatted blinds. Penumbrae traced outlines of objects. Evidently looking at you, he stayed on the chair, motionless and probably absorbed in his own thoughts. Without looking at him, you moved toward the edge of the bed, where you remained standing. You unbuttoned your light, short-sleeved blouse. You took it off. It fell to the ground. Your hands parted the zipper of your skirt, which slid down and fell on top of the blouse. You lowered your arms. A small clump of silk coiled over the white skirt. Starting at the waist, you moved your hands down along your thighs, over your small round haunches.
There was no movement, not a sound. Maybe he looked at you. You remained in front of him, a naked statue. You were beautiful — your small breasts, full warm shapes. Long, toned legs. His eyes dilated in his lunatic face. You knew you were beautiful then. You looked at him, smiled timidly, guiltily. You raised your arm and slid your fingers through your hair, letting it flow down your back. When you brought your hand back down, your hair came with it, clenched in your fist. You let the wig fall over the little heap of clothing gathered at your feet, and shrugged your shoulders slightly as if to say, what can you do? And went on smiling the same level smile you’d worn all along.
You were truly naked now, and so you remained straight and silent. Your short hair — like an army recruit’s or a pale, adolescent prisoner’s — increased the intensity of your gaze. . The body of a Greek statue, slim and unreal, with sweet breasts and rigid legs. . Naked, whole, ready: you spread out on the bed, crucified under the whitewashed ceiling, oppressed by the total silence. . Later: something or someone rustled. The pain of hearing made you close your eyes. Something or someone was moving nearby, and it hurt, unbearably.