He was dark, he was filled with stories like the serpent in myths; each white tooth contained a story and each story a hundred others, they were all within him, intertwined, sleeping. The stranger, flashing with legends, he cannot be overcome. Once they have escaped him, these hymns, these jokes, these lies join with air, they are breathed, they cannot be filtered out. He is like the prow of a ship cutting through seas of sleep. Silence is mysterious, but stories fill us like the sun. They are like fragments in which reflections lie like broken pieces; collect them and a greater shape begins to form, the story of stories appears.
“My father is dead,” Jivan said, “but my mother is still alive. She’s a wonderful woman, my mother. She knows everything. She has a house, a little garden, not far from the sea. Every morning she drinks a glass of wine. She’s never left her town. She’s like… who was it, Diogenes. In that little town with its trees in the square she’s as happy as we are in the heart of the greatest city.”
“Diogenes?” Viri said.
“Yes, isn’t he the one that lived in the barrel?”
Two
1
IN THE MORNING THE LIGHT came in silence. The house slept. The air overhead, glittering, infinite, the moist earth beneath—one could taste this earth, its richness, its density, bathe in the air like a stream. Not a sound. The rind of the cheese had dried like bread. The glasses held the stale aroma of vanished wine.
In the empty dining room hung the expulsion from Eden, a painting filled with beasts and a forest like Rousseau’s from which two figures were emerging, the man still proud, the woman no less so. She was graceful, only half in shame; she was irreverent, her flesh gleamed. Even in the early light which deprived the marvelous serpent of his colors, the trees of their fruit, she was recognizable, at least to the painting’s owner, her legs, the boldness of her body hair, its very life. It was Kaya.
He had noticed it only by chance. He had been drawn one day to its lambence, unthinking, as one is drawn to the worn spot on a relic, to a white face in a crowd. He had discovered it as if in confirmation, as if objects were proving his life.
On another wall was the famous photograph of Louis Sullivan in Mississippi, taken at Ocean Springs, his summer home. In white shirt and pants, a white cap, with a mustache and beard, he looked like a river captain or novelist. A large nose, delicate fingers, leaning almost daintily, posing, against a tree.
He could not be Sullivan, he could not be Gaudí. Well, perhaps Gaudí, who lived to that old age which is sainthood, an ascetic old age, frail, slight, wandering the streets of Barcelona, unknown to its many inhabitants. In the end he was struck by a streetcar and left unattended. In the bareness and odor of the charity ward amid the children and poor relations a single eccentric life was ending, a life that was more clamorous than the sea, an everlasting life, a life which was easy to abandon since it was only a husk; it had already metamorphosed, escaped into buildings, cathedrals, legend.
Morning. The earliest light. The sky is pale above the trees, pure, more mysterious than ever, a sky to dizzy the fedayeen, to end the astronomer’s night. In it, dim as coins on a beach, fading, shine two last stars.
Autumn morning. The horses in nearby fields are standing motionless. The pony already has a heavier coat; it seems too soon. Her eye is dark and large, the lashes scanty. Walking close, one hears the steady sound of grass being eaten, the peace of the earth being milled.
His dreams are illicit; in them he sees a forbidden woman, encounters her in crowds with other men. In the next moment they are alone. She is loving, complaisant. Everything is incredibly reaclass="underline" the bed, the way she is arranged…
He wakes to find his wife lying on her stomach, the children on top of her, one on her back, the other on her buttocks. They are sleeping on her, clinging, head to foot. Their presence absolves him, slowly he grows content. This world, its birds in their feathers, its sunlight… reason, at least for the moment. It consoles him. He is warm, potent, filled with impregnable joy.
What passes between them, this couple, in the endless hours of consort? What finds its way, what flows? Their bedroom was spacious, with a view of the river and waist-high windows, double-opening, the glass cut in diamonds, uneven, bowed outward, distorted as if by heat; here and there a sliver was missing, a lozenge escaped from its soft rim of lead. The walls were a faded turquoise, a curious color he no longer disliked. Beyond French doors was a white sunroom, white as linen, where, feet upward, on a wicker couch their dog was asleep.
Their life was two things: it was a life, more or less—at least it was the preparation for one—and it was an illustration of life for their children. They had never expressed this to one another, but they were agreed upon it, and these two versions were entwined somehow so that one being hidden, the other was revealed. They wanted their children, in those years, to have the impossible, not in the sense of the unachievable but in the sense of the pure.
Children are our crop, our fields, our earth. They are birds let loose into darkness. They are errors renewed. Still, they are the only source from which may be drawn a life more successful, more knowing than our own. Somehow they will do one thing, take one step further, they will see the summit. We believe in it, the radiance that streams from the future, from days we will not see. Children must live, must triumph. Children must die; that is an idea we cannot accept.
There is no happiness like this happiness: quiet mornings, light from the river, the weekend ahead. They lived a Russian life, a rich life, interwoven, in which the misfortune of one, a failure, illness, would stagger them all. It was like a garment, this life. Its beauty was outside, its warmth within.
For Franca’s birthday there was a marvelous tablecloth Nedra had made, a jungle of flowers she had cut out of paper and then glued flat, piece by piece, the richest ferns and greens imaginable. She also made invitations, games, hats. There were chef’s hats, opera hats, blue and gold conductor’s hats with names painted on them. Over the table hung a great papier-mâché frog filled with gifts and chocolate coins. Viri played the piano for musical chairs, scrupulously careful not to look at the nervous marchers. Leslie Dahlander was there, Dana Paum whose father was an actor. There were nine little girls in all, no boys.
A cake with orange icing. Nedra had even made ice cream pungent with vanilla, so thick it stretched like taffy. The house was like a theater; there was the performance, in fact, of Punch and Judy to end the day, Viri and Jivan kneeling behind the stage, the script strewn between them, the limp forms of puppets arranged according to their appearance. The children sat on couches, screaming and clapping. They knew it by heart. In the midst of them was Franca. On this day of her birth she seemed more beautiful than ever before. Her face was filled with happiness, her white teeth shone. Viri had a glimpse of her through an opening at the edge of the stage. Her hands were in her lap. She sat attentive, hanging on every word.
“Where is the baby?”
“Why, didn’t you catch him?”
“Catch him? What have you done?”
“Why, I threw him out the window, I thought you might be passing by.”