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Your face speaks to me of vagrancy once again. It
brings with it tang of rainfall on beaches, tender with its sadness and warmth.
Your face. Anguish in the green of your eyes, the lusts of t4 behind your stern features. How long will the beloved curse follow me? When will you no longer appear in the gloom of my room when I turn out the light to go to sleep? For it is then that your strange laugh; which smells of your cigarette smoke, comes to me and then I long to dissolve in its scent, disintegrate like a cloud that nobody regrets.
Midnight. The comic programme on TV has just finished
and the innocent, unforced laughter of my grandfather and younger brothers and
sisters has come to an end. I gaze at him, laughing among the children, the
expression on his face as naive as theirs in spite of the traces left by the
slow, forceful gliding of the vipers of time. I am deeply fond of him: I long to
bring back to his lips the smile that was buried with the body of his only
daughter, my mother.
He, too, watches me, with contentment in his eyes as
I sit there beside my fiancé, Kama]; his glance steals to my hand lying
lifeless in that of Kamal. Lying there only so as to bring a smile to that dear
face at any cost.
My weary, broken-down grandfather never once
complained of me and my brothers and sisters. Not once did he show any sign
irritation from the day my father left to go to a distant country with a woman
who was said to be very beautiful; he left my sick mother b ' die soon after.
In spite of his annoyance at my passion for singing,
my grab never once tried to stand in my way, though he could not conceal his
pleasure the day Kamal, a well-to-do engineer, offered me his heart and fortune.
Will I have the strength to go through with it ?
Wearing
for
his sake, the mask of an innocent girl ? Will I have the strength to
go
on for the sake of my grandfather's smile?
Your face is a dearly-loved tale of vagrancy; it
lures me toward itself, it draws the lost gypsy within me. In your laughter I
hear the ring of golden anchor-chains when a vessel strikes landfall. Your arms
are my haven, and how can I escape ? Night imposes its routine.
My grandfather and my brothers and sisters have retired to their rooms;
my fiancé has left and every one of my masks has fallen away. I lie bed and
suffer my nightly agony.
I plunge my face under the pillow in search of sleep,
for it might be lurking there, but I only find your face--so near, yet so far. I
open my eyes and contemplate the curtains. Sleep might be hiding there. My mind
searches behind them--behind the picture--behind
the dressing-table.. with my eyelashes. I shut out the faint beam of light that
steals in through the small window and casts a shadow of bitter reproach over
everything ‑ over the image of your face which I see in all things.
It is a procession of faces that I watch in my room,
images merging me with the other in my head, thrown up into it by my
sleeplessness--a score of incidents, a score of scenes, your face, adored in
spite of everything that has happened.. yes, in spite of everything. I feel you
waking up within my veins as you wake up every night to become one me, your
smile on my lips and the smoke from your cigarette
out of my mouth.
Those faces, angry vindictive faces, sad faces that
scream at me, other that have not yet learnt how to scream. I curse the
hallucinations of insomnia I curse the city of fears it awakens in my head, this
weary life of mine torn into shreds of memories.. broken up into scattered
whirlpools.
There's nothing left for me but to remember. .re-live.
The sea lay indolent, glistening, naked and bored,
heavy with the rays of the sun on her. You were so considerate, so charming that
I quite forgot it was our very first meeting: you, the great composer who could
make the city laugh and weep, and I, the young girl who longed to be asked to
sing one of your songs.
"This is how I love the sea," I said.
"Solid and naked, lazy and bored, and not shrouded in the masked veiling of
moonlight. Groaning under the weight of the sun on her bosom, the sun that she
loves so much."
"Yes, the sea loves the sun when the sun is far
away. Have you noticed the sea by night ? She has the face of a person in love,
and shadows and fears and sighs.
"And when he is near ?"
"She loves him all the more, knowing that he
will soon leave. That’s what true
love is: it's longing, it's the search for security; it's the to an end, not the
end in itself. It reaches its climax the instant before the moment of meeting,
then, after a few seconds, it is over."
"What a tragedy. To spend one's life reaching
out for a cup that will be the death of us if we don't drink from it. And yet
once we take it, and sip from it, we die even so. First it's love and longing
that kills us, then it's the lack of love. It kills us simply to know
ourselves.”
"But you're still so young. Do you really
believe what you’re saying ?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Sing me something ! Anything !"
And I sang. I sang of the virgin depths that no man
has ever penetrated. I sang of the loneliness that no person has ever escaped.
Every one of us lives isolated in a glass case. .each of us talks but not one of
us listens. Our life is spent wandering in woods, on seashores, in and out of
islands, without haven or retreat. Even when we sight a harbour in the distance,
we realize it is not for us.
"There's a strange agony in your voice; there's
a bitterness that is deeply stirring. You'll go far. I can understand you so
well."
Happy. Happy with our tale of vagrancy. Why do the
faces attack me so ? Wretched sleeplessness, peeling away from my eyelids the
shreds of the happiness we knew. Faces springing out of my weakness and my
cowardice, faces that I love and hate. I know what you are.
You're part of me. just as his face is part of me. And like some fabulous
beast with two heads, each facing a different way, I'm torn apart.
If only sleep could quieten the whirling city within my head. If I only
forget.
Once, when the night was a shimmering fairy tale
flowing from your eyes and jetting itself into the sea in front of us, you
stretched out your hand and your palm held a thousand tales of loss. I didn't
hesitate. My hand clutched all
those tales of deprivation and for the first time I knew the joy of the clouds
that moan out thunder when the ecstasy of their meeting rends them. Lightning
sprang from our eyes and I felt the fire moving from my hand to my throat. I
found it difficult to breathe. But I would not have needed to do any breathing
to stay alive, if only we could have stayed like that. I made as if I wanted to
pull my hand out of yours, only so that your grip would hold it tighter, so
tight that my fingers would knead themselves together and become one single new
finger that could join itself to your hand for ever. The delicious battle
continued for a few moments, and like a fish that is delighted at being caught,
my hand finally relaxed in yours, and you were gentle with it: you took it
tenderly by the fingers and brought it close to the red candle on the table we
were sitting at, whose soft light crept up the side of your face. I felt its
kindness like a book filled with warm words, rich with the glow of harbours
basking in the exciting magic of oriental evenings.. and I, a tramp in search of
a warm harbour.
You pretended to read my palm. You held my hand in
yours and your look sank deep into the wilderness of my eyes. You tried to read
the unending misery that you saw in them, to smell the tang of the sad rains
that pursued the vagrant tramp and to hear the creak of rusty doors that had
remained closed too long and round which thorns and creepers had grown, making
the place desolate and unattractive.
"I see a bored gypsy," you said.
"Who loves her boredom."
"'Who has no home..
"And who does not wish to have a home because
she hates masks. The city is a mask
on the face of the wild forest. She is still the daughter of the
wilderness."
"There are two men fighting for her. One wants
to give her a home.”
“And her mask loves the home; and she wears her
mask to bring a smile to the faces of those she loves and feels obliged
to."
"As for the other man, he has nothing but a new tale of vagrancy to
give."
"That is what she wants. Because a home is a
transitory thing while exile and sorrow are the real truth of human
existence."
"She is like a child, searching for fame with
her sweet singing voice, but no one knows the deep sorrows she has to bear; she
goes on living a life of indifference, of vagrancy, of longing for a tenderness
she knows she will never find."
"That is why she loves the man who resembles
her, who carries his face a tale of indifference and vagrancy and tenderness. In
loving him, she is idolizing her own self."
"It's an admission of her own artistic
narcissism.”
"What else do you see in my eyes, my palm, I
mean ?"
"I see a tramp who loves her quest for a haven
more than she 1 the haven itself. She will hate it if she finds it--if she has
to drop anchor
among its rocks."
"I'm
sorry for this tramp who drags her anchor and her so along, lost and at
sea." "No you're not: you envy her. Because to you she represents
truth of life: she is a naked totem of human reality. You would miserable if you
let her go."
"What else do you see in my eyes ? ‑ I
mean, my palm ?" .
Maybe you saw the truth, for you kept silent.
But why do I go on brooding over everything ? This
sleeplessness opens up old wounds and with its sorcery raises from their graves
tales, revived with the warm blood gushing from their wounds. a wasted life I
How can I forget ?
Your face was aglow with hope when you said to me,
"Let's away together--anywhere."
A splendid plan. Not to have to suffer agonies of
jealousy every time I think of your wife lying next too you all through the
night and robbing my bosom of your breath, sucking it in from the pillow you
share. Always together, tramping about together; your breath would belong
to me only and your arms would be a haven for me alone. I saw you out walking
one evening, you and your wife and children.
I
watched you from a distance. I walked behind you like a wolf that had made up
its mind to snatch the shepherd away from the fold. Quite simply I longed to
tear your wife to pieces, to devour her. I
did not hide myself from my own eyes behind a mask of false pity and tenderness.
I hated her. Then one of your daughters tripped and fell.
I heard her crying, as you bent down to pick her up--so tenderly--then it
was I who wept.. cried in the street. . cried because of tits many times I had
fallen down and found no one to lift me up, father to take hold of me, for he
had run away with a woman lost as I am.
That evening, Kamal offered me his life. I would not
have to rob someone else in order to have him. That evening I accepted him, not
because of your wife, but because of the little girl that I had once been.
I consented so that your daughter would not grow up like me and bee a tramp
without a haven. But I cannot believe myself--how can I leave you and
go away ? t about our happy moments spent together, and the people I to sing to
with your voice in my throat, with your melodies in my ..the courage you gave me
to face them. .the sweet taste of con
quest,
the great success I had when I was able to make strangers respond
'b
the feelings in my breast. I was able, then, to create for myself a unknown
family with whom I could share my loneliness, my of being lost..And you..and the
little trifles we shared..and laughter. .
Once when I was sitting beside you in your car which
was littered, always,
with the things you kept strewn there, I looked at the streets, passers-by and
the gay shops, and suddenly cried out, "How yours!"
"What ?" you asked. As it some attractive
young man ?"
“If it were an attractive young man, I would have
stifled the sound of my throat."
"A pretty girl, than ?"
"If it were, I would have kept quiet and stolen a glance at your
face to see if you too were looking at her."
You burst out laughing. You are mine alright. You
will look at all faces and still only see me. You will hug dozens of bodies to
but it will be my hand only that you will feel in yours. You are mina You were
mine. Why do I torture myself so ?
What then you sleepless, night, that is tearing me to
pieces? bed feels heavy to me, as though I were carrying it on my back. must
escape from this bedroom.
I get up . .wander through the rooms of the dark
house murdered ghost that had not been avenged, and the shabby ribbon of my life
trail behind me on the floor.
I was sitting in a cafe with a few friends. The
discussion grew heated one of them addressed the visor-face of the stern looking
girl.
"Tell us," he said. "What shall we do
? How shall we distribute the leaflets ?"
Full of enthusiasm, the silly fool planned and
acted.. like an maton that is under some ideological hypnosis.. a city girl with
parts to play
and many masks to slip over her face. But this is my true face, the face of the gypsy who
makes fun of people's idealism. The noise of argument sounds like the buzzing;''
a gnat in the ears of eternity. Nothing can move the street woman her dark,
deserted beat as her footsteps stumble along over the rough pavements.
She loves goodness and truth and freedom and the
principles that all parties call for; but she does not feel responsible for
anything . anyone in this wide world. No one is really interested in anyone we
are individual grapes that have dropped off an unseen bunch no legislation or
belief or order can put us together again. Why contradict myself ? How can I
explain this overwhelming desire. bring a smile to the lips of my grandfather ?
Why is it I care about your daughter and do not wish
her to come like me if you were ever to leave her--a gypsy without haven. Why
do I pretend that no ties bind me to anyone ? But
this is no pretence--I really do live the life of a comet that loves loneliness.
Maybe it is only my mask that clings to them, the mask of a well-brought up girl
which has now molded itself to my face. Who knows what I would find underneath,
if I were to pull it off ? the gypsy's face decayed with time ? If I were to
fling off my mask d I find I had any face at all ?
The image frightens me and I escape from it on to the
balcony, with the bubble of feverish faces still pursuing me.
Your face dissolved in the rain..your face and our
tales, your melodies and the gypsy
who missed her haven when she lost her face.. who lost her face when she
realized that the haven was not for her.
"From now on you will sing for me alone,"
Kamal whispered.
The mask laughed with the joy of a young bride on the
threshold
Ira
new life. Your face dissolved in the rain. The day after tomorrow
I go away with him. When will this night be over ?
Tired and
I
am, as the gods and the demons are. I go back to my room. dress not knowing what
I am doing. I go to the street door.. I open 'to go out. . where to ?
I go back to my room.. exhausted, I fling myself on
the bed..
world
of insomnia crumbles over my head . .the faces leap around, howl, laugh, scream,
closer and closer. I fall into a bottomless I give myself up to this
indescribable torture ‑ not a pain in one of the body only, not one that
is caused by any one particular but an all-consuming pain, which is tearing at
my whole being. I give away.
With difficulty I open my eyes. The
gray dawn comes in at the window. Out
of my coma I rise, my pain purified like a rock washed clean by the wind and
rain. I must go out for a walk, alone; this newly acquired peace needs to be
strengthened. I have to resign myself to the fate I had no hand in
preparing.
I softly open the street door; my grandfather and brothers and sisters
are fast asleep.
Alone in the street, in the long sad road, where the
darkness creeps into corners while the metallic dawn spreads itself cot"
pavements and shines down off the windows that stand here and above me,
dispersal and staring.
No one is awake: the city is still deep in slumber,
enjoying its limited span of death.
And I, a lost tramp in a brazen city of legends weep
for a. haven.. weep for roads I am forced to tread and strangers with whom .y I
have to keep company on the journey through life.. pretending I am happy and
making believe I enjoy being with them.
I see a man in the distance. He is walking slowly at
the end of road. He comes towards me. Nearer. With a stick he taps the ground My
companion in the deserted street .. my companion in the brazes., city, the
companion of my wanderings at dawn..in a dawn that will:' not brighten. He comes
nearer. Lost, he wanders towards me, he not see me. . He is blind. My companion
is a blind man, who the ground with hi! stick, walking along unseen ways. Dawn
and d are all one to him. I feel a strong link between him and me..I beside
him..He does not hear my footsteps..
I walk beside him and feel my way along with my
glances as feels his with his stick. He walks and talks to himself ‑ it
does matter what he is saying. I also mutter and talk to myself. We on and on
and at a distance we look like two friends.
A fearful satisfaction fills me. Together we
represent the closest human tin.. no pretences, no forced conversation..
Beside the blind man I walk. each one of us talking
to himself. The sun rises, people pour out on to the street, a stream of bubbles
which are faces fuzing up all around me. I lose my blind man in a side-street.