by Victor Serge
Her eyelids never blinked. Nothing about this sudden denouement had taken her by surprise, as though it were merely the fulfillment of her night’s dream. When Doña Luz carefully broke the news to her, she accepted it with childlike simplicity. Except that she seemed to dry up then and there, like a plant that has consumed its last sap. “It had to happen, Doña Luz, I’ve been expecting it for so long! But why was I left behind, why?” The old woman regarded such prescience as a gift that came naturally to the simple-minded. “You must give thanks to God, my little girl,” she said. “Oh no,” Noémi said harshly, with a peculiar laugh.
The burial took place during the late afternoon, in the desert cemetery where the dead of some thirty families sent into the wild lay sleeping along with several of the plantation workers’ children. It was Harris who insisted that the remains should not be moved to San Blas. “If I croaked here, I’d want them to put me to earth here too … They’d agree with me, you know they would!” The priest made no objection. Our perishable remains can rest anywhere, so long as the soul has been taken care of … It was an invisible resting place halfway up to Las Calaveras. A rugged slope climbing toward the sierra. The hillside contained pockets of soil which were impossible to farm, since they were deposited at random among sharp outcroppings of naked rock. Thus, a very big cemetery for a few scattered dead. Few crosses to be seen. A merciless sun quickly burned the flowers. Cactuses pushing up here and there. After the rains the field was covered in a glorious profusion of wildflowers, submerging the tombs, for this was only intermittently a graveyard! On All Saints’ Day the families who came to share the midnight meal with their dead enjoyed an incomparable seclusion; their fluttering candles seemed closer to other stellar worlds than to one another.
Don Bruno’s workmen dug a single pit. Padre Maclovio, in his white surplice, spoke the prayer. The women and children of the solitudes formed a speechless group. Monica and Doña Luz were supporting Noémi, who had no need of their support but who was murmuring, amazed, “Sacha, Sacha.” (At moments she imagined that none of this was real, that Sacha would turn up by and by, as he always had throughout life … Why should he be there?) Thirty clay-brown faces, tragically concentrated, were massed behind the important people: Don Gamelindo, Mr. Brown, Don Harris, and the elegant doctor in his gray gabardine coat. The rites performed, Noémi cast the first spadeful of earth — since they told her to — clumsily, between the two coffins. Doña Luz, like an ancient fairy with sharp, dark features and a silver mane, told her: “On your husband’s coffin, little girl” and guided her hand for the second shovelful. The oldest friend, Don Gamelindo, came next and acquitted himself like a true gravedigger — and what gravedigger could be better than the truest friend? He grunted “ugh” and the back of his neck turned crimson as he stooped to drive a spade deep into the dry, light earth. “Adios, Don Bruno!” The whole circle heard his authoritative voice and the noble, machine-gun clatter of earth showering onto wood. But now Don Gamelindo realized that he did not know Daria’s first name, so he stepped back and wiped his face with a red bandanna so as to inquire it very quietly from Harris. Then, voice raised, he intoned “Adios, Doña María!” and once again the earth fell nobly. Mr. Brown’s shaky shovelfuls made a stealthy sound, while Harris’s, rageful, produced a dull thud. The peons finished the job off energetically. Vultures circled low in the pink sky.
Don Gamelindo, taking his leave, said humbly to Noémi, “If the Señora is considering selling her land, there’s no one who would offer her a better price than myself.”
“What are you talking about?” said Noémi, vaguely frightened.
“The Señora is not selling anything,” said Doña Luz, squaring her thin shoulders.
Don Gamelindo kissed both women’s hands: the strange white hand, the old brown hand. He swung into the saddle, saluted the onlookers with a gallant wave of his sombrero, reared his silver-studded mount, and made off at a high-stepping trot … The land will be sold off one day or another! I have plenty of time … Life is patience, money is patience, the land is patience! Adios …
Mr. Brown left one hour later, at nightfall. Harris and Monica walked with him as far as the road. A thin crescent moon was rising over the transparent lake. Harris, trying to be friendly, asked, “Will you be returning to Las Calaveras, Mr. Brown? You’d be most welcome at our place … It’s not as comfortable as here, but …”
“I don’t think so,” Mr. Brown replied in a feeble voice. “Anyhow, my work here is done.”
“The main thing is to get your strength back Señor … Adios, Señor,” said Monica with emotion.
Mr. Brown let up on the clutch. The headlights projected their objective glare over the hellish little stone piles.
Harris enclosed Monica — softly resisting — in his arms. The crescent moon shimmered twice, in the sky and in the water. “Monica,” he said in a deep, unknown voice, “Monica.” The young woman felt, as never before, that he loved her. A pulsing surge of joy spread throughout her being. She saw his face disfigured by suffering, and lifted her own broad, dull, massive face toward it in calm exaltation. “If you want to cry, Harris, go ahead and cry … It helps.” She felt a flash of anger harden him. “Me, cry? Are you kidding?”
Mexico, 1946
1 Phrase appears in English in the original text.
THIS IS A NEW YORK REVIEW BOOK
PUBLISHED BY THE NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS
435 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014
www.nyrb.com
Copyright © 1971 by The Victor Serge Foundation
Translation copyright © 2008 by Richard Greeman
All rights reserved.
Cover image: Antony Gormley, Waste Man, 2006, presented as part of The Margate Exodus, a film by Penny Woolcock, commissioned and produced by Artangel, 2006; courtesy of the artist and Jay Jopling / White Cube; photograph by Thierry Bal
Cover design: Katy Homans
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Serge, Victor, 1890–1947.
[Années sans pardon. English]
Unforgiving years / by Victor Serge ; translated and with an introduction by
Richard Greeman.
p. cm. — (New York Review Books classics)
ISBN-13: 978-1-59017-247-6 (alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 1-59017-247-7 (alk. paper)
I. Greeman, Richard. II. Title.
PQ2637.E49A813 2007
843'.912—dc22
2007029479
eISBN 978-1-59017-427-2
v2.0
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