by Drago Jancar
Nonetheless, he prefers to cite the elephant as an example, tender heart and damp eyes under its muddy crust.
At the pharmacy, he also buys an aerosol bottle of herbal elixir. Two sprays in your mouth and your confidence will be renewed, serenity will return, love of self; your wise little, shrewd little nerves, like termites, will have nothing left to consume of your body’s squishy interior, they’ll stop their quivering, you’ll feel good, peaceful, you will swim in euphoria.
He drafts his will.
Torn to shreds by a crocodile, he will no longer fear the fangs of degenerate farm dogs deep in Auvergne. He talks nonsense to himself to encourage himself. In front of others, he acts flippant. At times he even feigns impatience. I can’t wait to be there, he says. Give me the African sun! But in reality, if he’s counting the days, it’s more as someone would if his doctor had just given him only a certain number of days to live.
Rhinoceros, my friend, shall we exchange shirts?
In January, no, impossible, I’ll be in Africa. Might as well take full advantage of the prestige that this position grants him (he figures). Wait, wait, you said end of February? No, I won’t be back from Africa yet. Yes, I take off like that from time to time. I have to leave, it’s imperative, get away from all this. Sometimes I just can’t take France anymore. God, just to get the hell out!
As a matter of fact, his plane ticket and visa arrived this morning.
It’s a rude awakening. He never really believed it, of course. He won’t actually go to Africa. It’s a joke, a game. How could the airline company have taken him seriously? Even the consulate of Mali fell for it. Clearly nobody can take a joke anymore. It’s a sad world when even humor’s out of bounds.
One satisfaction: at the bookstore, he found a small black moleskin journal, with an elastic closure.
Truly a beautiful object. He looks at it sadly. He cries for the new shoes that one takes into the country, on the muddy paths, into the brambles. He has an entire collection of upholstered boxes, containers, cassettes, that he uses to protect his belongings. He has a little foam container for everything, or else a globe. He can even imagine himself quite easily in a wetsuit, like a deep-sea diver.
If such reckless creatures didn’t go carelessly gallivanting through the heights and the depths.
It’s the night before his departure for Africa, and he still has to protect himself from the rain. But instead, he throws his head back, opens his mouth, and drinks in the storm until the last drop, he refreshes himself as much as he can, he drenches his flesh, he fills his pipes and tubes, his bladder is a precious wineskin, a pear for his thirst.
He tries to sew the water into his pockets.
Winter will never allow such a frail creature to escape. Better to freeze such a magnificent specimen. Snow covers the airport. Traffic is slow, almost stopped. After waiting two and a half hours to check his luggage, he’s finally at the gate. And so the hope for a better life persists in us, from one enclosure to the next. But for him, wouldn’t it be a better life not to leave, to remain sheltered by winter?
Passengers traveling to Bamako are invited to board through door C.
It’s a rude awakening. He gets onto the plane and sits down, miserable. His neighbor is a highly agitated young Malian who fidgets in his seat and nervously clutches his tray table. In mourning or withdrawal, he tells himself, thinking with the inward smile of a lexicographer that it’s more or less the same thing. He offers his help but gets no response. At any rate he won’t be able to revive the poor guy’s father, or provide him with a fix. The plane still hasn’t taken off.
They announce that there’s ice on the runway.
Maybe they won’t leave. There now, all is not lost. His confidence returns, even while his neighbor sobs compulsively and yanks on the tray table, mangling it. Then he curls up around his knees and rocks back and forth, moaning. It becomes more and more difficult to act as though everything is fine. Is something wrong? The other stands up suddenly, and he must stand up as well to let him pass.
He didn’t see it coming. The fist flies and everything spins.
Decapitation in the guise of departure. This is what he gets for sticking his head into the unknown. They take him off the plane. He watches an air traffic controller work, leaning over him, as he stitches up his lip. He brings back a black mask from his little trip, which makes quite an impression. Women nurse those fierce invalids, home from hot countries.
His suitcases left without him. They’ll tell him about Africa.
TRANSLATED FROM FRENCH BY KATINA ROGERS
[GEORGIA]
GURAM DOCHANASHVILI
A Fellow Traveler
A little train is running from Bakuriani to Borjomi. There are only three men in one of the compartments, sitting facing one another. Two of them are younger than the third. The guys are wearing ski boots, tight trousers, and sweaters—one in red, another in light blue. The third man is actually somewhat old. He is playing with a cigarette holder, balanced on his knee, and looking out the window. The man is sitting with his back to the engine and his eyes seem to be following something out there. Whereas the young men’s eyes are wide, as though welcoming something they see coming up. Of the three of them, though, it’s the old man who seems most interested in what’s going on outside the train. The guys are bored with Bakuriani, really. It was amazing at first, they were skiing, throwing snowballs at one another, just generally having fun, sliding down the slopes on their toboggans. They enjoyed their nighttime promenades, the snow crunching under their heavy boots. Dogs would bark just for the sake of barking, off in the distance, and sometimes the lights in this or that cabin would go off as they passed by, sleepy Bakuriani. As though to make up for it, the stars would light up in the sky . . . The guys were pleased with their entire trip, but those long strolls through virgin snow were their particular favorite. At some point, though, the guy in the blue sweater hurt his leg and had to be confined to bed. The holidays were over, then, all at once. Bakuriani saw off its visitors. The guy in the blue sweater would lie in bed, trapped, looking out the window of his room. And the guy in red stopped going out as well, except for food. This is what their fun got reduced to: looking out windows, one sitting, one lying down. Outside, the snow covered everything . . . Sometimes they would tell each other old stories to pass the time—they would begin in fits and starts, uneasily, then they would remember something or other that seemed especially pressing, and then they would pick up steam, proving a point, making a case for this or that. The more their subject was exhausted of enthusiasm, the more they would turn back, slowly and surely, to the window. Outside, the snow covered everything. The guys were already bored with the snow. They would turn their heads and look at the wall instead. The walls were pocked with spots of various sizes. Some of the spots had taken on various shapes: a bearded man, for example, or a bear, or whatnot. The guys would look to the wall for a little excitement.
And now they are sitting in front of the old man.
And the man is mainly looking out the window. One can see only snow and trees out there, nothing else. And the trees are welcoming our three men of various ages, standing (the trees) in pairs, or one by one, or in large groups. The old man is following the trees with his eyes, in pairs, or one by one, or in large groups. The younger men are soon bored with looking out of the window. They’d like to find something amusing to focus on; they’re looking the ceiling over, they’re looking over the floor. The ceiling, unfortunately, has received a recent coat of fresh white paint—now, try to find any fun up there . . . it’s spotless and smooth. Whereas the hardwood floor has narrow channels running across it, between the planks, which at least has some potential, humor-wise.
I wish the skis would fall down, so I could stand them up again, the guy in the light blue sweater is thinking.
The guy in the red sweater would love to do a little singing, but he’s bashful in front of the old man. Is he doomed to boredom? And if the old man weren’t there
, he’d talk to his friend, Temur, about Maia. He’d tell him what a caring soul she is. So caring that she even pities the hen they saw for sale at the market fair, hanging there upside down. Someone should cut it loose, she said. But, look—what can he say in the presence of this weird old man?
He’s a real nuisance, the guy in the red sweater thinks, looking down at the old man’s boots. Not that the fellow is doing anything wrong. No, he’s just sitting quietly and looking out the window. His eyes taking in the sight of all those trees—in pairs, one by one, or in bunches . . .
The snow is losing its whiteness little by little, going gray. The lights have switched on in the carriage.
The guy in the red sweater wants to get a closer look at the old man’s face. He knows, however, that if he steals a glance, the old man will notice. So he is gradually sneaking little looks, making a composite portrait. There’s the cigarette holder, then the button on his shirt pocket. One peep more and . . .
What a long nose he has, the guy in the red sweater thinks.
The old man is still looking out of the window.
What a vacant expression he has, the guy in a red sweater thinks. The small train stops at Sakochao. The two guys look around out the window with renewed interest—maybe here they might catch sight of something funny. The platform is lit up. There is a bell hanging on a wall. A man is standing at the bell, so smothered in winter clothes that no one could have guessed whether he was thin or fat. The guys are staring out of the window with avid eyes, first it was only trees and snow and then, suddenly, there emerged this platform, its bell and man. This is new, or somewhat, and interesting, somehow. The muffled-up man feels the insistence in the guys’ stare, and it bewilders him not a little. He doesn’t want the guys to notice his bewilderment so steps aside and spits as nonchalantly as he can manage.
How I wish there were some spots on the ceiling . . .
The snow is now grayish. The snow is glittering in the place where the lights from the train touch the ground.
The two guys hear, distantly, the peal of the muffled-up man’s bell. The muffled-up man has performed his duty and is now on his way—somewhere. He is still aware of the insistent stares coming from the train, following him, and is trying to walk as gracefully as possible. He swings his arms only moderately, and he finds himself lifting his knees a bit more than usual; well, there’s a funny tension in his gait. The guy in the red sweater is smiling and turning his head toward his fellow travelers. Temur is smiling too. The man isn’t playing with his cigarette holder anymore, but has rested it on his knee.
What a vacant expression . . . what a long nose . . .
The man is looking—somewhere.
I wonder what he sees out there?
But the man isn’t actually looking at anything in particular. He is simply watching.
And now the little train is on its way again.
The man is toying with his cigarette holder again—or he’s resting it on his knee, pointing this way or that, with the cigarette end forward, or with the mouthpiece, depending.
—Do you like it? Temur asks the man.
—What? The old man smiles, because he can’t figure out what he’s being asked.
—The snow . . . do you like it?
—Oh yes, the snow is great.
—You must really love snow, the guy in the red sweater says. You haven’t looked away from the window the whole trip.
—Yeah, sorry . . . I do love snow, very much.
—Why? the guy in the red sweater asks, but his tone is so ingenuous that the irony behind the question is wholly inaudible.
—Well, I don’t know . . . the man says. When I look at the snowy ground and the trees I feel peaceful. There’s so much peace in the snow, an overwhelming amount of peace . . . can you call peace “overwhelming”?
—Sure, why not . . . anything can be overwhelming.
—All right, then. That’s why I love snow.
—Because it feels peaceful? Temur asks.
—Yeah. Peacefulness is . . . peaceful. I look at the snow for as long as I can . . . then I start staring at some fir tree. And there’s snow on the branches of the fir tree. And though they neither bend nor sway, I feel afraid on account of the fir tree, because it could always move in the wind, or get too weighed down, and then it would shake the snow from its shoulders . . . and the peace would be broken.
—Peace is a little too boring for me, the guy in the red sweater says.
—Yeah. You’re young. You’re not supposed to like too much peacefulness. If you love snow, no doubt it’s because you love to ski, or throw snowballs.
—The guy in the red sweater doesn’t like the man’s answer much. He gets angry and is trying to find a way to show the old man up without his noticing.
—Excuse me, but you don’t by any chance write poetry, do you?
—No. The man is smiling. Why?
—It’s just that you described the winter landscape so sensitively . . .
—Ha! I guess I didn’t do too badly at that. Still, the old man goes on, if I was really a poet, I’d have known whether or not you can call peace “overwhelming” . . .
The man is smoking a cigarette now, fumigating their compartment.
—Overwhelming, he says thoughtfully. A tremendous word.
—Tremendous how?
—I don’t know how to explain it. It’s just that . . . well, it seems to me that some words fit so beautifully, so particularly well with their respective definitions. I mean that the music of the word, its sound, happens to fit what it means. Take, for instance, “antiaircraft” . . . there’s something so strong, so formidable in the sound of it. Or, like “bird” . . . when you say it, you can almost see a little, delicate, feeble . . . and, well, the sound of the word “overwhelming” too, I think fits its meaning. Do you follow me?
—Not entirely.
—Well, say “overwhelming.”
—Overwhelming.
—Can’t you feel it, something big, maybe too big?
—Nope.
—I think, Temur says . . . I think “lion” is a good one too.
—Lion? asks the guy in red. Not at all. I think “lion” is way too delicate. Effete, even.
—Yeah, said the old man. I don’t think “lion” works at all. Think of it: a terrible beast on the one hand, and that little wisp of a word on the other: “lion.”
—All right, all right—what about “moon”? (Temur is trying to play along.) I think that works very well. But not “sun.” The sun should have been given some other name, something bigger . . . more euphonious . . .
—Yeah, exactly, the old man says, and feels happy that Temur understands him.
There’s a lull in their conversation. The guy in the red sweater stands up.
—Where are you going Dato?
—I’m going to warm up a little. I feel cold.
—Why, it’s not cold in here, boy, says the old man.
—Maybe not for you . . .
Dato starts shaking his hands to and fro, then he turns around a few times, sits down quickly, and stands up even quicker, Temur recollects his hurt leg.
—It’s so good to be young, the old man says to Temur.
Without any particular reason, Dato feels awkward now and sits back down.
The train stops.
—Which station is it, I wonder? Temur asks, looking back to the window.
The snow is blue. It glitters only where direct light falls.
—Little Tsemi, the man replies and looks through the window as well. Yeah, it’s Little Tsemi.
Dato stares at the old man, fuming. Why did he stop his calisthenics? Why does the man make him feel so awkward?
That big nose . . . that idiotic expression . . .
Again a bell rings. Again the small train moves on.
—It’s actually getting colder in here . . . there must be a draft coming from somewhere, Temur says.
—Do you remember, Temur, how stuffy it was wh
en we were at the sea, panting at the open window for even a little breeze. Do you remember?
—Sure I remember, Temur says.
—How awesome it was, the sea, Dato says, cheering up. Nothing beats the sea!
—We got bored with the sea too, eventually, as I recall.
—Not at all, I wasn’t the least bit bored.
—Sure you were.
—Never! How could I get bored with the sea . . . ? Ah, the sea is so gorgeous . . . Just the pleasure of lazing around on the sand makes it worthwhile. No, you don’t laze, you stretch out onto it, entrusting your body to the sun . . . The sun will burn you, will calm you, will take you over, till you can’t think of anything, can’t remember anything, you’re just feeling the sun. Eventually you get up, and you’re . . . can one say, “saturated” with sun?
—I’m not sure.
—Well, in any case . . . You’re saturated with sun, and so you step into the cool, pleasant sea. The gorgeous sea! Now the sea, the sea really is overwhelming. The overwhelming sea . . . The word “overwhelming” actually fits the word “sea,” I think, Dato says, looking at the old man.
The man is looking through the window. The snow is now dark blue.
What a foolish expression he has, Dato thinks, feeling compelled to engage the man in conversation nonetheless.
—Do you like the sea? he asks.
—Well, now, I don’t really know . . .
—What? Have you never seen the sea, then?
—Yes, I have . . .
—How could you not love it, then? The sea is amazing, awe-inspiring . . . That’s like saying you don’t like sunsets. You’ve seen the sun set, right?
—Yes, certainly I’ve seen it . . . the man says uneasily, without taking his eyes from the window.