The Candidate

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The Candidate Page 11

by Zareh Vorpouni


  “I need your name, so that I can walk around with it, lie with it, take it with me everywhere, when you’re out of sight.”

  “You’re crazy,” she had said, standing up.

  “Your name, Miss. Your name.”

  Conquered by Minas’s tenacity, she unhooked her arm from around her friend’s shoulder and gestured as if she were tossing him an apple.

  “Nicole,” she said. “For you.”

  Since then, whenever an emotion crept into his heart and blood rushed through his veins like a fawn chased by a hunter, Minas sounded that name in his chest like someone in danger screaming, “Help!” He did it just as he took hold of the letter in his pocket.

  Dear Sir,

  I just received your letter and I wanted to reply right away by express mail. Your letter was entirely unexpected. I’m frantic, Sir. Forgive me for bothering you, but I don’t know whom to open my heart to about this. Since you’re a friend of Vahakn’s, you can understand what I’m feeling. Look at what Vahakn has done to me. I don’t know where to go, where to run.

  Once again, please forgive my candor. My soul was stifled and needed to scream. Now it has, but not without causing you this annoyance, for which I apologize.

  Your friend’s inconsolable wife,

  Arshalouys Vahakn

  Two boats collided. Sails drenched, the boats toppled into the water and took on the sad look of fragments.

  “It’s windy,” he thought, shrugging his shoulders. Was he cold? Whenever a sense of loneliness came over him, he would feel cold. A little later that evening, that inescapable conqueror would suddenly come down from the sky and lay claim to his land. Minas would be left all alone before the “open heart” in Arshalouys’s letter with a chill that would drive him to enter it and find solace in its warmth.

  That began in him an endless monologue before the image of this inconsolable stranger, gently turning it into an outline of a letter, which he stood up to write, already picturing himself in front of the desk and throwing himself head first into the “open heart.” He left the park and walked down the sidewalk along Saint Michel at the busiest time of day. The words in his mind quickly followed one after the other, making it impossible to form sentences. He wanted to give them poignant twists based on the needs of his own heart, but the shoving of the passersby chased away a terrified word here, another there, as Minas worked to collect them and squeeze them into a sentence. The letter became necessary to stubbornly rein in disobedient words, despite his hidden fear that they would take his freedom prisoner. An indistinct, faint premonition hovered in the expanse between his mind and heart, leaving the shadow of a ferocious bird with its claws spread, and creating an unformulated second reality that fed greedily on the reality that had already begun to shatter around him. He stopped in front of one of the cafés where the great poet—almost always by himself at the same corner table, his exiled forehead leaning over a pocket-size notebook, pen between his fingers—chased a word, a comma, a verb for years, so that the poem that burst out from within could reach completion—neat, polished, and refined, suddenly illuminated from within like a diamond in the hands of a jeweler. Every time Minas passed by his heart pounded—a pounding that prevented him from approaching the poet, to whom he owed his first feelings of pride. He didn’t know how, but that day, he found himself standing in front of the writer’s table—something had brought about his boldness, which was not boldness at all, but an escape to the only refuge that could make him forget the persecution at the hands of the ghost lingering inside him. Now his entire field of vision was filled with the pensive face of the poet, who stared at him, his heavy head tilted upward, controlling his annoyance at being disturbed, but affording an imperceptible, forgiving smile, after he took off his glasses and held them in his hands.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Tekeyan,” he said finally, at once firm and wavering. “I know I’m disturbing you, but I’ve waited a long time for the chance to express my gratitude to you. Do you remember? You published my first poem in your newspaper in Constantinople.”

  “I do remember. I do,” the man said. “I think the next day you left for Europe. For Marseille, right? I was there, too, when I was your age. I was in the same situation. The day before, we were passing by your house in Scutari and Shahan showed me your front garden. I remember it well. You were sitting under an acacia tree. But you’re a poet.”

  The blood buzzed in his ears. It rushed to his brain and he lost his sense of time and space. He was walking through the streets of the gigantic city that had borne witness to his anguish, where he had felt its cruel, ruthless tension. Now he felt bigger. Now he was the giant in whose eyes the city seemed tiny. Then he saw himself sitting at a desk between the four walls of his room, where the silence rocked him in its arms late at night and drifted toward sunrise. The piece of paper was in his hand and he read the lines he had tossed onto it over again. They didn’t form a letter, but had now turned into a poem.

  At that, he took his hand to his chest and breathed deeply, like an inmate just released from prison who opens his arms into the air, breathes, looks up at the sky and at the life ahead of him.

  Then he rested his head on his folded arms and fell asleep.

  He wouldn’t pay, even if he could. It was a matter of principle. It was an immoral sense of morality that drove him not to pay for anything. Therein lay its pleasure. What am I saying? That was his way of protesting against the ugliness of life. This is why he had invented the feet game. Sitting outside the café, he would play the feet game—a marvel, really—with intense concentration. He kept an eye on the comings and goings of the waiter, so that he could “fold his tail” at a moment’s notice.

  Even when he was asleep, Minas couldn’t find peace. As soon as free space opened up in his mind—sleep was the best way—Vahakn’s past would storm in and lodge itself in Minas’s present, which is life itself, since the past is no longer life and the future has yet to be. The future is calm and patient, that which will become tomorrow’s present, and it waits inspired by the confidence of not yet having failed, whereas the past—always turbulent—comes to a boil and rises, torturously steaming swirls of incense up to the gallery of the present.

  Look, with his head on his arms and surrendering to his inner vision, Minas won’t move until morning, until his alarm clock wakes him. It’s the alarm of reality, unforgiving and cruel, that puts people in front of the interrogator of existence.

  The act of “folding his tail” was not as simple or as easy as it sounds. Sometimes it took hours, like a game of cat and mouse. The longer the game lasted, the closer pleasure inched toward perfection. It wasn’t always the people in the café who fell victim to his mischievous games. Acquaintances, friends, especially friends, would fall into the trap he set. “Excuse me,” he would say. “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to get myself a pack of Gauloises.” And he would get up to wander the streets with the utmost sense of calm, cheerful, his head held high, his face contorting, chewing, and swallowing the act with ecstatic delight. “I pulled a fast one,” he would muse, even as he rehearsed the reasons and excuses he would give the next time they met, which meant that a flicker of human frailty remained in him despite himself.

  “Pulling a fast one” was a complicated thing that required constant vigilance. It was not a straightforward act, rough and primitive, but rather a convoluted one, serpentine and insidious, pampered and relished—a civilized act. “Pulling a fast one” was more than a struggle for existence; it was also a game, a diversion, but above all, an addiction whose tail was tied to the navel of life.

  “After all,” he would say. “What am I really stealing? A cup of coffee, a couple of pieces of bread, a ride, a room?”

  And so he wandered from city to city, preferably large, crowded urban centers, with his mouth half-open—probably the result of his habit of mocking—stretching his legs and exploiting the gullible, who, as he said, were born for his tricks. He lived in a mysterious state of waiting, in th
e future to come. It would certainly come and save his soul from the pettiness, taking aim at the target hidden in his line of sight.

  Never had his dark conscience been visited by a flash of compassion. He had an explanation for each misdeed. Minas, awestruck, listened and laughed “like a crazy person.” Vahakn sometimes took on superhuman proportions. If he didn’t pay for his cup of coffee, the waiter probably would. If he didn’t eat the food he didn’t pay for, it would end up in the trashcan. The trains would leave with or without him. Nothing changed. The balance remained the same. As for the hotel manager, he didn’t lose anything, because the room would have been vacant otherwise, since Vahakn always came at the last minute, around midnight, when the rooms would all be rented. There were many, many issues with the linen, but that was a different story, since hotel managers are not keen on changing the linen. Only idiots are affected by the word “theft.” For the serious-minded, this is not theft, because in no way has the economic balance been disrupted. Only its base has shifted. Since long ago, people have declared theft a sin, a despised threat to the public order, as if the public felt anything when, for instance, Vahakn ate a meal he didn’t pay for. Whose stomach went hungry that night? The rich have come up with a law and imposed it on others to protect their property. The powerful have reserved legalized theft for themselves. And, my God, what kind of theft that is! The theft of your strength, your blood, your life, your dignity. “But Minas, careful.” Stealing from a big thief requires genius. Sometimes I wonder why the greatest geniuses don’t concentrate their power on theft but instead waste their time on works of art. I mean, why don’t they focus on the great art of theft? Because I think rather than taking the plunder for themselves, they would distribute it to everybody by the handfuls. Whatever is yours is mine, because whatever is yours is everyone’s. What an ingenious idea! What do you say? Heroic theft and plunder—think of François Villon.14

  “Do you know of François Villon?” he asked suddenly and, without leaving time for an answer, added, “Him? No? But what is your profession?”

  Minas was taken aback. His mind quickly reviewed the situation before the “events,” but a fog had settled on the past and he couldn’t see anything as he searched for the traces that would one day become him. A beam of light fell on the darkness surrounding him—clear, pure light. His heart ached. His sense of guilt came to life and grew in the darkness that the light had cracked open. Yes, why didn’t he have a profession? How could Vahakn have managed to have one? When had he had time to learn accounting? Curiously, these questions gave way to the surprising revelation that he was prone to a constant numbness, or to be absent from the world. Where was he? Where did he live? It was as though he didn’t belong to this world. And now Vahakn’s question, which he hadn’t shown any particular interest in, had taken him by surprise and brought him face to face with the present. But the present was not just facing him; it stood against him, fierce and accusatory. He lowered his head toward his chest. Was he embarrassed for not having an answer? As he lowered his head, he felt that there was conflict between them. Like him, Vahakn was divorced from the present, too. The difference was in the fact that while Minas lived with harsh inner tension about the future, Vahakn was immersed in the chaos of the past, which explains his ravings and jumbled mental images.

  “I . . . I,” he stuttered, almost apologetically. “I don’t have one. I’m a poet.”

  No, his answer was neither a justification nor an assertion of superiority. He didn’t even know why he said it like that. His lips didn’t express his intention. The proof was in his cheeks, which immediately flushed and burned. It was as though he had confessed to something shameful and was at a loss as to where to turn and hide his gaze, which distanced itself from Vahakn.

  Suddenly, in an effort to scatter the discomfort, he slipped into a laugh and said, “In a word, I don’t have a profession.”

  He was going to go. He had made the decision just like that, all of a sudden. At ten o’clock, he would walk through the revolving door, the one protected by caryatids on either side. By then, Hortense would be ready to make her official entrance into the day’s affairs. Dressed and ready, she would come down the marble staircase covered by a narrow strip of carpet, walking tall and elegantly with slow steps, as though she were counting them one by one. Hinging slightly on her hips, she would look down at the tips of her toes and into the foyer, where the employees would be lined up in respect. She would prepare her face with a smile and walk toward the hotel guests, extending both hands to say, “Bonjour! Bonjour.”

  Yes, he would certainly see Hortense descend the staircase like a countess. He was going precisely for this. Submitting his letter of resignation was just a pretense. A lie. He wanted to fill his eyes with this beautiful sight and offer an image of his own pride to her eyes. The rich don’t realize how fortunate they are. Had sorrow entered her heart? She would get away, travel, and come back with her heart cleansed and pristine. Sorrow is born of environment and circumstance. It sticks to the layers of the heart like glue and spreads slowly and stubbornly, drop by drop. Sorrow doesn’t like to migrate.

  He would go. He would walk in silently through the revolving door and watch Hortense’s arrogant descent down the staircase. Today he would make the trip, his eyes wandering between the folds of her dress, trembling wave by wave as her delicate knees and slender legs grazed the fabric. As she moved from one stair to the next, her body seemed to stretch toward the ceiling and her gray eyes filled with insolent reverence. That was enough. He wouldn’t be able to resist. He has no strength left to resist the coffee, milk, hot chocolate, porridge, omelets, and Apkar. Apkar? And this tiny woman crouched behind the door, her lovely, mouse-like chin lowered toward her chest, which watched and followed your each and every move. He wouldn’t reply to Arshalouys and her paper factory. His eyes yearn for beauty. Yes, yes, he would quit his job. To hell with the factories. But where would he go? He would go to the Fouquet. He would forget about the Billard and Boul’Mich. He would walk along the Champs Elysées, calm and unmoved. He would go to the Fouquet, yes. Finely dressed waiters would be at his beck and call. “What does Monsieur desire? Duck à l’orange?” Ah, duck à l’orange! Very well, duck à l’orange it is. The wine list, please. And then? Then he would retire to his foul-smelling room, and to make it even more nauseating, would open the window that had been closed for months, the one facing the “courtyard.” And when the stench from The Ani would rush in, he would sleep on the floor, exactly where Vahakn had been.

  The screech of the alarm clock made him jump out of bed, although it wasn’t the usual sharp, resounding, overwhelming screech that made him jump in fear. Instead it was a hoarse, timid sound, like an apology, that buzzed around his head, seeking a crack to slip into. The sound of the clock was so sad that morning. He was struggling to reach someplace, to settle someplace, and without it, he would be self-serving, aimless, and above all, dishonorable. This is why he passed through the crater between sleep and consciousness, like a worm undoing its rings in the damp earth. He was a worm that tried with great difficulty to clear a path in his mind through the thick night, while Apkar, unusually chatty, told a story in a sweet, saccharine tone—entirely unlike Apkar.

  He said that one day, nearing evening, they were sitting outside the Billard, you know, at the corner table, on your left when you go in, at their favorite table. At the table next to them, there was a girl, a student I think. Vahakn was very witty, very personable. He struck up a conversation with her right away—a discussion about literature. I can’t understand those kinds of things, but I was amazed when the girl said, “That’s very interesting. Very interesting!” That was the power of the way Vahakn spoke. Bravo! The girl was amazed. “Those authors of yours,” Vahakn said. “I couldn’t care less about any of them. Art is for cleansing the soul. If it’s not for that, what else is it for? Life is constantly dirtying the soul, art must constantly wash it. Of course, it’s not like washing your hands. It’s hard. It�
�s hard to cleanse the soul. But what a wonderful thing it is to live with a clean soul.” What did I see next, Minas? The girl’s hand on Vahakn’s. They talked without moving their hands. When Vahakn gently pulled his hand away, the conversation hung for a moment. When it started again, it wasn’t the same. The flavor had changed. It was like food without salt. After she left, I laughed as I said to Vahakn, “I think it was about to happen if you hadn’t pulled your hand away.” “Oh, no,” he said. “Everything is good until that point. Beyond that it’s dirty, Apkar. Dirty. Women are dirty things. It’s the emotion they give that’s wonderful. Can I tell you something?” he continued after a period of silence. “We’re all wasting our time. My mind was only preoccupied by the prospect of having someone pay for our coffee. I was deceived like an idiot.”

  “How did it happen?” I asked.

  “Emotion, Apkar,” he explained. “It was emotion.”

  Right then, Hortense came in. The work had been done. Everything was in order—washed and cleaned. As usual, Hortense said in a tone of voice equal parts request and demand, “Minas, don’t forget my coffee before you leave.”

  Minas handed the tray to Apkar and left. He didn’t go to the Jardin du Luxembourg or to the Billard. He wandered outside the city until evening—in the forest where spring had awakened nature and tree blossoms had started filling the air with their sharp fragrance.

  His feet stepped lightly on the sidewalk, where evening had begun to make way for night. There hadn’t been any wind or rain that day. The sun had slid freely across the sky, from east to west, while above the Colline de Chaillot, its palette had decorated a few clouds with bright patches of color. They reminded him of lost lambs that had strayed from the herd. Clusters of sunlight hit the glass windows and here and there the houses smiled at one another.

  His feet were slower than usual and more hesitant. There was a whole list of enigmas to which Vahakn remained indifferent, since his mind was thoroughly preoccupied. In a forest of feet, his eyes searched for the particular pair that would finally make him call out, “That’s it!” He directed all his energy to his eyes and ears. The other parts of his body had ceased to exist. He bundled them up and tossed them aside, telling them to wait for him over there. He was all eyes and ears. Even though his coffee cup wasn’t empty, he didn’t know where he was. His mouth, his stomach, his intestines were not a part of him. He had left them in that bundle. When the waiter asked him if he wanted to order something, his mouth answered from inside the bundle: coffee with milk. His being had divided in two: past and present. His eyes and ears ran with time. The rest came to a halt with the bundle, which was separated from him not only by time but also by space. The night before, his feet had taken him all over—from bench to bench, street to street. He hadn’t felt his feet or his body. He knew he wasn’t a ghost. He definitely must have become a ghost. The money he earned at Les Halles was still in his pocket, but he was saving it for the next day’s two cups of coffee. No, he must have definitely gone crazy if he was actually thinking of paying for something. He couldn’t sit still as he tried to get rid of that idea, but he couldn’t shake it off completely. All of a sudden, he stopped in front of a hotel, went in, rented a room, and got into bed in an attempt to use sleep to flee his obsessive thoughts. But he couldn’t fall asleep. He collected his strength. “I will fall asleep,” he said, but his eyes defied him and stayed open. The night stretched out in his mind as morning was about to break. Suspicion stayed perched on the edge of his thoughts. Where could Minas be at that moment, the moment that was constantly renewing? But for Vahakn it remained unchanged, clinging to an awareness of guilt that lasted through the entire day. In the evening, Minas finally arrived with the shadows, leaning against the post of the streetlight. Vahakn couldn’t bring himself to yell, “Hey, compatriot!” like the first time. He choked on his own voice. All he could manage was a little jump—a jump forward that remained suspended, incomplete, with his ears attentive and a stare that was more of a scream, an unvoiced scream like a fish’s stare. Minas’s eyes looked at him through a haze and, of course, didn’t see anything. Vahakn’s image didn’t reach his pupils. Between his eyes and his image, there was an unnecessary haze and yet he was staring directly at the spot where they had sat together the night before. His gaze—as heavy as lead—gradually sunk below his eye sockets, despite his effort to pull it back up. This is why he couldn’t see. He looked, but couldn’t see. Looking is not the same as seeing, especially since he was convinced that he wouldn’t be able to see for the simple reason that Vahakn wouldn’t be there. He couldn’t have been. “Why did I come here? Why am I lingering around the café? I know he won’t show up. He’ll stop coming because of me. His sole purpose was to deceive me. He’s already done it once. He deceives everyone. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s irresponsible. He made it clear that he could even kill someone without a strike to his conscience. The minute after committing a crime, he can forget his despicable act and, with this sheer ability to forget, he can be ready to commit new criminal acts.

 

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