There you have it: I fled from myself and am now putting my love to the test.
But I know that I am going to return a light-year older (I didn’t say “wiser”), and I know that I will once more put my arms around my lute and my love, Eurydice.
Igor, I wanted to describe Eurydice, to compose a poem worthy of her name. You were the first to tell me, Capricorn, that I should drop the joking and stop chasing rainbows.
Do you remember that conversation of ours in the attic?
I said: “Fine. I will take your advice. I’ll move down to the ground floor and write a novel about Marija the Prostitute. About her lovers and her abortions.”
You: “All right. Do that. I’ll be sorry to see you leave our attic, but do it — for the sake of the poem!”
Me: “It’s not a poem. It’s not going to become a poem.”
You: “A poem about a whore named Mary Magdalene.”
Me: “No. A story about the abortions of a certain Marija, known as ‘the chaste.’ A novel about the socio-historical, material, (a)moral, ethnic, and ethical causes of her ruin. A novel about Marija’s aspirations. A novel of the city.”
You: “You’re making fun of me.”
Me: “God forbid!”
You: “You know very well that I wasn’t thinking of a fable but rather of ambiance. Are you with me? An atmosphere nourished on debauchery and hope. That’s what I was thinking of.”
Me: “But how do you envisage this atmosphere nourished on debauchery and hope? Won’t that turn out to be a fable? But I want to write a book, Igor, a book! Without Marija’s maxipads and without her lovers, without dialectics and ethics. Even without Eurydice.”
And in conclusion, Capricorn, haven’t I told you a hundred times that I am writing in order to emancipate myself from my egoism?
RETURN
In late autumn I returned to the attic. I climbed the stairs excitedly, lugging my heavy backpack loaded with shells and the seeds of exotic plants. I had brought a gift for everyone: for Eurydice a necklace of dolphin teeth and a conch named Mandragora, for Igor a shrunken head from Equatorial Africa, and for the old cleaning lady a seven-colored reed mat.
“This is for you, Madame Witch,” I said. “It can be used as a doormat.”
“Where did you swipe this from?” she asked darkly.
She looked closely at the iridescent rainbow in the folds of the mat.
“I got it from an aborigine. His name was Tam-Tam. In return, I had sex with his wife.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” she said.
“Alas,” I replied, shrugging my shoulders.
“But where is the Billy Goat?” I asked. “Surely he hasn’t yet learned to walk quietly in the corridor and wipe his feet at the door?”
“I’m sorry, who?” she asked, blinking.
“Igor,” I said. “From the attic. Billy Wiseass.”
“Oh, him. You know, he moved down to the second floor. He’s working now. He says he’s writing a novel. ‘So why are all these women coming to see you?’ I ask him. ‘Those are my models,’ he says.”
“Well, how do you like that!” I said. “I’m going to have him thrown out.”
“Watch your step or I’ll have you thrown out, dearie!” the cleaning lady snapped.
“I just meant,” I said in appeasement, “that I would have to ban him from my place up there. What the hell am I supposed to do with that confabulator?”
“Don’t call him that! He has talent.”
“How do you know?” I said.
The blush of a teenage girl spread across her pockmarked face.
“Well, you know, I’m also, um, like. . a model,” she said, almost in a whisper.
“A model?!”
“Yes,” she said. “In that thing that Mr. Igor is writing, I will be a — a cleaning lady.”
“But you are one already!”
“Yes, but Mr. Igor says that in his novel I will be the prototype of all cleaning ladies. Me as myself, plus all the rest.”
“And how does Mr. Igor plan on accomplishing that?” I asked, out of both curiosity and envy. “How does he intend to make a ‘prototype’ out of you, when you’re already what you are? Surely you’re not going to pose nude for him?”
She thought about this for a while, then she just shrugged her shoulders:
“I trust Mr. Igor,” she said. “He’s so sweet and so talented.”
The first thing that took me by surprise when I opened the door to my good old attic was the odor of dankness and urine. Igor’s black trousers swayed on their hook, and I flinched. It’s not easy to see one’s good friend hanging. Even if it is only symbolic.
Otherwise — at first glance — nothing had changed.
Yet the cranes had flown from the walls. And there wasn’t a trace at all of the wild doves; the mastodons and reptiles lorded over the place by themselves. Their teeth had grown alarmingly long.
“Well, now!” Igor said unexpectedly behind my back. “As you can see, old boy, nothing has changed.”
We embraced.
“Where is that stench coming from?” I inquired.
“From the rat poison,” he said. “Vermin and rats are rotting in the cracks.”
“How clever!” I said. “The things you keep coming up with!”
“There’s that derision again,” he said.
“I brought you something,” I said, to avoid a fight. “Hang on just a second.”
I proceeded to dump the shells into the middle of the room, and moonlight spilled out of them like crystals.
“What the hell is that supposed to be?”
“What the hell is what the hell supposed to mean?”
“But those are just ordinary shells!”
Then I picked up the loveliest conch, the one with the richest sound, which was about the size of a chamberpot, and tilted it up against his ear. “Listen,” I said. “Do you hear anything?”
Gradually his eyes filled with tears and shame. And possibly with remorse, too.
You birdbrain, I would’ve killed you if you’d remained consistent. But now what can I do? It’s utterly inconsistent of me, but I’ll tolerate your affable presence and your help.
I prized the shell away from his ear. “Here’s a handkerchief,” I said. “Wipe your snot. This is hypocrisy and Europeanness. You’ve grown a touch sentimental.”
“That’s because of the novel,” he said with a sniffle.
“What kind of novel?” I asked, feigning astonishment. “You don’t mean you’ve given up astronomy?”
He started stroking the conch shell disconcertedly.
“No,” he said. “You know, old man, it’s like this. . I’ve fallen in love.”
“Bravo,” I said. “That’s a good thing. It’s no reason to cry.”
“Her voice is like the moonlight from the Bay of the Dolphins.”
I winced. How did he know anything about my orgies in the Bay of the Dolphins? Then I saw the luggage tag from Tam-Tam’s native land on my backpack.
I let out a laugh.
“That’s the last thing I need,” I said. “For you to fall in love too. Then who will stay sober and track the phases of the moon, and the constellations? It’ll be pure hell.”
I was too tired and agitated to go out searching for Eurydice that same evening. By the way, our European custom of only receiving visitors until 8:00 p.m. is most irksome. It doesn’t even take into account whether the moon is full or in its last quarter.
I hung up my trousers on the peg next to Igor’s and dutifully brushed the sand out of my tattered tropical coat; then I shook out the stardust. Afterward I washed my feet and lay down to dream. I was fed up with prose.