The Book of Flights
Page 7
Y. M. could see two women in front of a bookshop on the other side of the street. They were standing there on the sidewalk, one beside the other, waiting. They were both very young, they were beautiful, and they looked highly respectable. Wearing lovely costumes, gold and silver jewellery. They had intelligent, refined features, innocent eyes, smartly styled hair. From time to time, they spoke to each other and laughed, one could hear their high-pitched voices burst into the laughter of young girls who have scarcely attained puberty. Delicate hands, delicate smiles, graceful, supple bodies. Their movements were full of elegance, as they crossed their long legs, tugged at the shoulder-straps of their handbags, played with a necklace or a bracelet. Faces full of grace and modesty, necks set haughtily, aloof expressions. The light from the shop windows enveloped them, carried them in its halo, made them almost transparent. And when a man passed, some portly gentleman with a protruding stomach and bald pate, his breath reeking of cigars and wine, they tilted their heads a little to one side, and without a word, with their eyes alone, offered themselves for sale.
Y. M. left the bar and started walking again. Suddenly, this is what he saw: passing in the night, a mulatto woman wearing a metallic dress, gliding haughtily through the crowd, like an armoured car. Her long, lithe body, moulded by the steel-coloured dress, cast reflections. She turned her head, and Y. M. saw her brown face, her coal-black eyes, her thick hair drawn back from her brow. She crossed the street and stopped to light a cigarette. Y. M. walked toward her very quickly, his eyes focused on her alone as he got closer and closer to the shining silhouette. She was so tall that she towered above the crowd as she stood there, moving her long arms to choose a cigarette and make a small flame spurt from her butane lighter. When Y. M. came up beside her, he was surprised to see that she really was very tall, six feet three inches probably; her muscular body was squeezed inside the tight dress covered with little metal scales. When she saw Y. M. she stopped smoking for a moment and studied him with those black eyes in which the whites gleamed harshly. Then, without saying a word, she was on her way again, moving with a long stride, swinging her arms alongside her hips. The heels of her shoes rapped the ground, the scales of her dress clinked together. Y. M. walked by her side, without saying a word either.
He glided along, attached to the mulatto woman’s body, drawn along by the rhythmic movement of her legs, by the sway of her hips, by the supple oscillation of the nape of her neck. She kept her mouth closed, breathed silently through her nostrils, and from time to time brought the cigarette up to her lips to inhale some smoke. Reflected lights from the shop windows flowed over her black skin, over her thick tresses, bounced back off the steel of her coat of mail. People stepped aside as she, as he, approached, voices fell silent. It was like walking beside a machine, sharing the violence of its regular movement, while the engine turns soundlessly, while the hood breaks the air’s obscure resistance with its chrome-plated muzzle. A machine become woman, with an unknown system of gears, a dangerous body, an invincible rhythm. She advanced up the street, in the night, without unnecessary gestures, without swerving an inch from her path. At one moment the mulatto woman stopped at a traffic intersection; she waited there for a second, staring straight ahead. Then she was off again, drawing Y. M. along with her. The walk might last for hours, days. The woman’s body was capable of moving forward across miles of town, crossing asphalt streets, passing bridges, tunnels, barbed-wire frontiers. Then continuing under the sun, and the metal dress would glitter with a thousand sparkles, like an airplane. In the rain, and the water would stream down the coppery cheeks, drip from the hair made of some plastic substance. The body was capable of crossing oceans like a submarine, or crossing cloud-filled spaces like a nickel-plated rocket. It would grow cold in the frost, it would burn in the desert heat. Nothing could ever graze this sleek skin, pierce this iron shell. The woman would always be triumphant, walking the streets at night, swinging her long naked arms, holding her brown head high, staring unblinkingly with her bright eyes. Y. M. walked beside her for a long time, without looking at her. Then he slid inside her, melted into her body, inhabiting the machine with the metal fuselage, moving his legs forward inside her own, breathing with her lungs, looking at the crowd with two eyes like searchlights.
Later, he entered an empty bar and sat down with her at a table. On the walls of the bar, the mirror panels were lit by the reflections of the metal dress and the copper skin. She spoke with a funny sort of husky voice that vibrated deep in her throat. Each time she had finished speaking, she looked at him for a few seconds, then turned her head away and stared at the entrance door. They discussed matters rapidly, like the words written in red and blue letters on the fronts of buildings.
‘What are you drinking?’
‘You got money?’
‘Yes.’
‘How much?’
‘Here, look.’
‘O.K.’
‘So?’
‘Rum and coke.’
‘Cuba Libre.’
‘What?’
‘That’s called a Cuba Libre.’
‘Don’t know.’
‘It’s true.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Young Man.’
‘What?’
‘Young, Man.’
‘That’s not a name.’
‘It’s what people call me.’
‘Hmm.’
‘And you?’
‘What?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Ricky.’
‘Ricky?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Tobago.’
‘Been here long?’
‘Two years. And you?’
‘Got here this evening.’
‘Staying here?’
‘No.’
‘Where you going?’
‘Maybe Tobago.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Or somewhere else, maybe.’
‘Yes, oh yes.’
‘And you?’
‘What?’
‘You going to stay here?’
‘Don’t know. Might go to London.’
‘Yes?’
‘Work as a dancer. You know the Six Bells?’
‘No.’
‘It’s a nightclub.’
‘Ah.’
Later, the mulatto woman got up and left the bar. They walked side by side in the street, stretching their legs and swinging their arms. They passed through streets of yellow light, vanished into holes of darkness. The cold air struck their faces, swirled round the metal dress. People in front of them continued to draw aside. Then the woman entered a house without even glancing behind her. She climbed steep flights of stairs, lifting her long black legs very high. At the second floor, she opened the door of a room and went in. Through the drawn curtains a red glow infiltrated the room, then died away. At regular intervals the glow lit up a bed with white sheets on it, a table, a few chairs, and a cracked washbasin with dulled brass taps. Without saying anything, she sat on the bed, and Y. M. sat down beside her. They spoke a few more words, in metallic voices, and Y. M. brought out some money. The woman counted the notes and tucked them under the mattress.
From then on, everything became mechanical. The dress covered with thousands of little scales slid down the brown body and crumpled, clinking, at the foot of the bed. In the room, with the red light blinking on and off in an indeterminable rhythm, there was no longer a man, nor a mulatto woman. There was a sort of whirlwind, a wrestling match, which traced great horizontal movements. There was a desire to kill, perhaps, to crush the world, to trample the crowd underfoot; nameless things receded at tremendous speed, mountains of time, and space, and thoughts. The copper-coloured skin vibrated under the tremors of the engine, the belly hollowed itself, the hands opened and closed, the long legs pressed downward with all their strength. The air was dense with floating dust, particles of iron filings, no doubt, the odours of motor fuel and hous
ehold gas. And the breaths came in ever quicker pants, raking the walls of the room, filling the world with their efforts. Hhhh-Hhhh. Hhhh-Hhhh. Hhhh-Hhhh. Without words: the whirlwind became hollow, it must have tunnelled right through the earth by now, vertiginous channel through which the red-hot lava would be flowing. The flight is desperate. It is gathering momentum in every sense, every direction, by every possible means. He lights a cigarette with his red-and-yellow flame: he flees. He takes up a book called A Nose for Trouble, The Tragedians, Lord of the Flies. He flees. Moving gently forward over the path of black dust, listening to the whistle of the cold wind: he flees. He thinks of the infinite number of years that separate him from his budding image: he flees. He eats day-old breadcrumbs from the hollow of his hand: he flees. Seated in the dentist’s reclining chair, he contemplates his tooth, as though the steel needle were eating away the only tooth in his head. He is fleeing, don’t you understand, he is fleeing. The path is explosive, its eternally winding course covers the surface of the earth. It is soaring through the sky, too, like the darting midges, or else fixed solidly, like a B52 jet engine. It passes through the depths of the sea, on the snout of a shark, silent, prompt, effective.
Rape is tragic, because it is the outcome of a pursuit. In the room there, on the white bed, the enemy has been overtaken and vanquished. Its body has been hammered, broken with blows. Its loathsome autonomy, and that of all women, has been destroyed for a few seconds’ duration. Now the machine ceases to advance. It is ticking over, has stopped vibrating, is grinding to a halt. Somewhere among the rumpled sheets, so far away that it seems like miles, floats the head of the mulatto woman. She is not looking. She has no desire to see anything, disdainful, indifferent, bronze mask, with fibrous tresses. And suddenly, while the man works away furiously, the long arm reaches out, the hand gropes around the table to the right of the bed and returns holding a cigarette. The distant head starts smoking calmly, puffing grey smoke-rings up toward the ceiling, and it is not of the least importance if, lower down, on her body, the engine has been ripped out and the parts dismantled.
Ten minutes after he had climbed the stairs, Y. M. went down again and found himself in the street once more. He wanted to light a cigarette, but noticed he had lost his lighter. So he decided to play at asking people.
‘Do you have a light, please?’
Just to see what they would answer.
DIARY OF IMPONDERABLES
MAY 30TH, 1967
Column of ants advancing along the centre of a long furrow.
Two black ants dragging a straw along.
Gipsies.
Hedgehog.
To be sitting on a bench, in the sun, with the town spread out at one’s feet, and wait.
The earth and the sky are born of the gods’ saliva.
AND NOW, A few insults:
Slob! Cocksucker! Chiseller! Fourflusher! Stumblebum! Peasant! Monster! Imbecile! Pig! Moron! Slut! Lout! Guttersnipe! Fatso! Clodhopper! Peanut! Gargoyle! Skinflint! Greedyguts! Boob! Torpedo! Blackguard! Creep! Sawn-off runt! Blockhead! Pimp! Son of a bitch! Swine! Squitty asshole! Shitface! Snot-nose! Mushmouth! Drivelling idiot! Lunatic! Buffoon! Hobo! Beachcomber! Sourpuss! Quack! Scoundrel! Yellowbelly! Birdbrain! Shylock! Yahoo! Punk! Dinge! Nitwit! Uncle Tom! Chicken! Dirty rat! Hairy ape! Squealer! Road hog! Freak! Bumpkin! Hooker! Finagler! Old bag! Bastard! Prick-teaser! Hustler! Floozy! Tramp! Scrubber! Double-crosser! Human wreck! Traitor! Stinker! Bully! Gallows bird! Drizzle puss! Chucklehead! Drunk! Lush! Dope fiend! Gorilla! Twerp! Slowpoke! Backbiter! Assassin! Fanatic! Unfeeling brute! Dodo! Nonentity! Oaf! Nincompoop! Boss-eyed monster! Slug! Meatball! Numskull! Fag! Pansy! Blimp! Crackpot! Butterfingers! Sissy! Profiteer! Barbarian! Jigaboo! Coon! Nigger! Chink! Jap! Limey! Frog! Eytie! Blowhard! Blatherskite! Spik! Shine! Smart aleck! Schmo! Jew boy! Goon! Malingerer! Judas! Screwball! Creeping Jesus! Foreigner! Con-man! Egghead! Paid hack! Dauber! Prig! Pain in the ass! Snob! Sucker! Fathead! Zombie! Dumb jerk! Idle layabout! Black marketeer! Holy Joe! Tightwad! Bourgeois! Loan shark! Skunk! Dumbbell! Boozehound! Heel! Crapper! Peeping Tom! Snake in the grass! Dirty Commie! Ugly mug! Louse! Crank! Gimpy! Schizophrenic! Trollop! Whore! Ogre! Epileptic! Fascist! Gigolo! Dumb Dora! Syphilitic! Jailbait! Hippie! Stalinist! Procuress! Manic depressive! Neurotic! Hysteric! Sap! Cuckold! Kaffir! Boogie! Stoolpigeon! Sodomite! Heathen! Cheapskate! Stuffed shirt! Roughneck! Brat! Parasite! Sponger! Cadger! Fop! Wanker! Grifter! Beefbrain! Softy! Hayseed! Dogmatist! Reactionary! Capitalist! Imperialist! Liar! Hypocrite! Old fogy! Crumb-bum! Prude! Oddball! Drip! Slave driver! Drudge! Shyster! Bimbo! Phony! White trash! Pussy-chaser! Bigot! Fink! Brown-noser! Dimwit! Pickpocket! Fleabag! Panhandler! Schnorrer! Bohunk! Greaseball! Shamus! Croaker! Pulpit-pounder! Chowderhead! Lunkhead! Pantywaist! Pollack! Skivvy! Bullshita rtist! Cutthroat! Rubberneck! Scrounger! Cow! Shrew! Flatfoot! Gunsel! Dumb cluck! Fat frump! Blabbermouth! Wise guy! Fuddy-duddy! Spook! Pirate! Anarchist! Jawsmith! Armchair warrior! Puppet! Toady! Kook! Cream-puff! Carper! Cockney! Fraidy-cat! Deadbeat! Wobblie! Proletarian! Goofball! Blubber-face! Bloodsucker! Flim-flammer! Turncoat! Atheist! Heretic! Fairy! Clip artist! Bonehead! Hag! Bindle stiff! Clown! Rapscallion! Beanpole! Funk! Sad sack! Queen! Bluenose! Hermaphrodite! Nympho! Cootie! Penny pincher! Beatnik! Square! Maoist! Troglodyte! Kibitzer! Grundy! Boche! Kraut! Fritz! Jerry! Sawbones! Charlatan! Gunfodder! Casanova! Madam! Sneak! Two-timer! Donkey! Scandalmonger! Weary Willie! Potbelly! Moneygrubber! Balloon! Slowcoach! Humbug! Mongrel! Gringo! Nip! Yankee! Redneck! Canuck! Highbrow! Slum-rat! Dipso! City slicker! Gook! Racist! Twat! Schlimazel! Street Arab! Gollywog! Tub-thumper! Sky pilot! Gink! Little squirt! Urchin! Whippersnapper! Freeloader! Clip-joint operator! Shill! Dummkopf! Pisspot! Turd! Crowbait! Skunk! Schnook! Dude! Tourist! Motherfucker! Gash-hound! Milksop! Greasy grind! Wino! Abortion! Tomcat! Peewee! Fartface! Busybody! Mouthpiece! Stooge! Crackpot! Wog! Pusher! Cokie! Finger man! Blackleg! Skid Rower! Snowbird! Pinko! Lunatic! Cannibal! Bat-ears! Foetus! Lummox! Crone! Horse doctor! Meatball! Hash slinger! Pothead! Cretin! Fruit! Shrimp! Geek! Junkie! Cardsharper! Plater! Tapeworm! Stick-in-the-mud! Mafioso! Mobster! Jughead! Jelly bean! Al Capone! Tigress! Meanie! Plug-ugly! Pettifogger! Sponger! Wop! Nazi! Sunday driver! Gasbag! Broad! Heel! Martian! Half-wit! Don Juan! Pushover! Swellhead! Spendthrift! Tattletale! Momma’s pet! Slag! Left-wing intellectual! Coward! Yes-man! Bedbug! Spermatozoon! Lickspittle! Frankenstein! Cadaver! Witchdoctor! Succubus! Vandal! Plagiarist! Freethinker! Devil’s advocate! Front man! Pigmy! Riffraff! Mongoloid! Adventuress! Sheeny! Dike! Goody-goody! Calamity Jane! Sob sister! Randy bitch! Pariah! Jesuit! Painted hussy! Mucker! Poof! Harridan! Chippy! Sow! Whoremonger! Bum! Nut case! Liar! Liar! Liar! etc.!
(Dear Ricky)
SAVAGERY OF THE relationships between people. Here, everyone is on the make, all of them doing their damndest to take someone else by surprise, to relieve this man of his property, to enjoy that girl’s flesh. There is no gentleness, there are only pleasures. Eyes which already devour the easy prey offered them, eyes which seek out the chink in the armour, the weak point, the little patch of pale skin into which the nails can sink and bring blood spurting out. Spying eyes, fierce eyes, sharp eyes which loathe and wound. A look which passes summary judgment, a knowing look, one which wants, not to understand, but to keep at a distance, to consume at a distance. A kind of tentacle, eye-sucker clamped to the intellect’s stomach. The world is not pure. The world is free, roamed by wild animals, inhabited by greedy, hate-filled monsters. Loneliness, indifference: hatred.
The young woman wearing a fur coat crosses the room, and she is weighed in the flesh like any hunk of meat.
The man enters the restaurant, stands under the light from the white ceiling; and the woman’s glance, flickering over him for a fraction of a second, is harsher than this light. It indicates indifference, terrible indifference, rapid evaluation, contempt, rejection.
The three girls entering the store are squeezed into nylon dresses that look too new. A woman is standing on the steps outside the entrance, yo
ung, pregnant, her belly swollen, a sleeping baby in her arms. And she raises her wide, brown face with its narrow eyes, holds out her hand. The three girls in their too-tight nylon dresses dart a glance at her, then burst out laughing. And their glances have anticipated their mouths’ laughter.
Among the endless streets, with their horizons that are constantly opening out, then closing in again, like series of sliding doors, he who is walking without going anywhere advances into the devouring jungle. He leaves scraps of his skin, fragments of his flesh on the thorns and the hooks. There is no emptiness more empty than this abundance, there is no cruelty more cruel than this security, everywhere.