In my mind now I believe in only this one factor arising from the swarm. The swarm. And spiralling. I can finalise that. These demons cannot devour me. I may devour them.
I knew we were to become the perpetrators. The parents had prepared us, the men but not only the men. From such phenomena we draw inferences concerning our own behaviour, occasional conclusions. I could be an elder, would become so, it could not be avoided, as some thought.
Yes, cowards, those who will not look to reality. I say cowards
Women and men both. We say children, if what children are, if what they do, if they are not irresponsible
I was weaker then. Not physically, working on the stone and earthpits, my muscles in use, muscles of my body as a younger man, I was so.
They are now not in use. Our bodies are now not in use. I say it, that I say
41
“girl too close”
She moved closer to me, not against my leg but very close so that I felt the presence, blood into my veins, and looked again and the girl must not have been older than twelve years, younger older, I thought so. She was humming a song. This was close to the market, I was looking to buy tea and water, this stall had coffee, other items. Children are dangerous. I stepped aside if to let her pass but she only edged closer again and the woman of the stall here I looked at her I think to share confidence but she did not notice what happened. This is a girl, simply a child. I knew it, understood it, resisted, not encouraging sexual thoughts but her presence was physical, her body touching in some way, pressure of herself, perhaps her arm and the urge in me was real enough.
I paid for tea, other items as purchased, water, left this part of the market, but this girl came behind quickly and was walking more quickly and then she was on in front of me, now as that she was loitering, humming the song, no, not smiling, absorption in herself, projects, yes what projects of her own self, I looked to the side, other side, behind, in front, but not to attract attention to myself but if accomplices were there, people of her. Yes, perhaps older than twelve years but a little only, her legs so thin, childish, her skirt short, short. I knew that she slowed now so that I would reach her, turning her head, seeing back to myself and I could not stop my action that I did, staring into her eyes but how she managed this making it be that she had not looked to myself but only I looking to herself and she skipped on more quickly, then slowed again, touching her leg with her fingers, turning her head to one side.
I was not allowing this that this might happen but if an arousal was there, it was so, affecting my walk and there were many people, this was closer to the central market area, more tourist area and securitys of course dangerous places and moments, of course, it was this, I knew this but could not think what was taking place, if something more had begun, this girl slowing again, looking behind now to myself if my eyes were on her, did she look to my groin, I imagined this, she had done so, not smiling, yes, not so, fully in herself, now looking to the front direction and this moment I moved to the side and a portal there entranceway and if she saw me I do not think so, entering quickly, throughway, stepping ahead and by a corner and waited there by a wall, now seeing a vendor was here at my side, their stall here, I had not seen, materials, such articles, cloths, gauze-materials, the vendor was a woman, two women.
Yes they watched me, they did so. I was there moments, it was a pillar of stone bricks. I rested my head against there, cooling my head, eyes closing. If the women vendors watched me, if they might wonder that I was ill, fainting, steadying myself. I saw there to be no exit other than by return, other than entering premises within this yard. What I would do if this girl entered here. If the girl had led me to here. Or if she waited for myself and with others, accomplices, or securitys, pointing at me that I had followed her. What to say it was dangerous, of course. I stood there, moments. I had a cigarette, match for it, smoked some of it. The women vendors had no interest, seeming not so to have, two more women now were at this stall. I heard sounds, footsteps hurrying along as of outside, and the alleyway, if they would enter to here and if I was to move, quickly.
42
“homecoming stories”
by his absence, so much, by virtue of that. I have said he died younger than I now am, this colleague. So of course not moments, more such of slow periods, periods of time we can have that are of peace, we cannot deny that such moments as these are of peace, in that connection, when he was killed, my mind
when she was young, had not married his grandfather, her lover. My colleague talking so, his homecoming story to me
Lover, former lover, as he said to me, she met with him, speaking of his grandmother. This was before the first explosion.
His disappearance was posted.
I have said of it.
What is required. I am to tell this. What is it that it may be. What I am to tell. It is pain.
My body now is hurting it aches yes. What I am to say now, what account it is to be, I can speak if I should speak you can listen, I shall speak, speak now, let me speak, I wish to
when she was young
his grandmother, I think, mother, father’s mother, and former lover, I think, wife may be.
These are histories, lives of our people, peoples
what are histories
we are to tell them I can recount them, listen to me of them. It was nothing from me. Only himself. He said he would tell me a story of his grandmother, it was in some hovel or other. What could I do, listen. I did not want to listen. Homecoming stories. I cannot listen to them. He had one strange eye, so squinting one way now another. It was known of him as the identifying factor. Yes I listened, trying. Also I was exhausted, we both. Why we did not sleep. We could have. I said it to him, repeated, repeated. No, he said, we stay awake.
He said of his grandmother when she returned to her district she was met by an old friend, perhaps former lover. He was uncertain. Former lover of his grandmother.
So many stories of people returning, events that have taken place. These events lie in the past. Yet it is their future, it is what they see, over our mind, beyond. They tell old stories and they are of the future. They do not know what it is for, this that they hope. Their minds become occupied by it. Then too these images in this region where we were, spurring the story, any story, the light after heavy rain, the sky now so clear, entering into a reverie, anyone, away. I say beautiful. Something that I knew, from where I do not know, these things gone from my life, my own past, own stories. I looked to him, seeing his face and his eyes, worries there.
He said, Why do you smile?
I was smiling. I thought to smile again but could not. So, and he continued, his story set in some hovel in some village, or town, as he told it, small town, speaking of his grandmother. As also where we were at that moment, hovel in a village, and its ghosts, yes, it came to me of other old people, those who had lived where we now were, old people and their bygone relationships. I even could hear the noise of them, such it seemed. The dampness there in stone walls, old brickwork, its plaster crumbled and fungus growing, wooden beams, a whiteness. This had never been a good place. I am not superstitious more than others, not religious but I do not like these things, unnatural things. I could say it more strongly, immaterials, talk of spirits. Why had we stopped there, I do not know. I also had my map and saw nothing. But he knew the land, had thought to disguise this knowledge, leading me here to this village as though stumbling on the unknown. Now telling me stories. I could tell stories to him. This place would tell them, itself alone. Ghosts, old moments, ghost moments, everywhere around us, no people, broken buildings, silences. Of course there are these things. It is not in dispute. There were times I lay down to sleep and these filled my head. I could have said to him but no, instead loosening my boots.
I ask that you listen, he said, only that.
He reached to shake hands with me, sealing the trust, but what trust, how sealing
Humanity, humanity. Yes, we are human beings, I shake your hand. Th
ank you. Yes, not an animal, we none of us. On other occasions also he would do it, the strange eye to me, reaching suddenly, taking my hand, now relaxing.
Please, you can listen.
I am exhausted, we could sleep. We must sleep.
We cannot sleep.
I could be first, you second.
His eyes had closed. He did not wish to fight me. We cannot sleep. But also it was exhaustion, exhaustion, we both of us.
Now he spoke again, We cannot sleep, and his eyes were open, staring at me. I did not like it, both eyes red, black rimmed, the dried mud. I touched my chin and the mud there also, I picked at it. Now he gripped my wrist, but lightly, as the father holds the child, settling the child, and he said to me. I speak, you listen. He smiled again. Better than sleep. My stories to give you energy. You will sleep, later.
I will sleep later. Good. Thank you. I looked down to his hand and he took it from my wrist. The tale would be recounted. I sat with my shoulders straightened, the air into my lungs, deeply, breathing it, breathing it, blood will circulate I shall be strong. For now I stay awake, later I shall sleep.
Yes, he said, we two, good.
I listened to him, also wondering about him, many days now together. This story of his grandmother. I did not know my grandmothers, parents of my parents. I did not wonder about them. Nowadays yes, who they might be, how they fought, if they did so, perhaps never. Not my father, he did not fight, never. It did not dominate my mind. It is true that I wondered, about him, yes, wondering, of course, and becoming clear, it becomes so, these lucid moments, lengthening moments.
You are not listening, he said.
I am listening.
You are not, no. He stared at me. But I could also stare, his behaviour did not intimidate me. He continued staring. He could not intimidate me. Homecomings, I said, tales of family and community, yes, but a world now gone, a world now dead.
Not dead.
Yes, dead, as my own world is dead, my own grandmother. I could speak of her. Also grandfather, my mother, my father, uncles, I can speak of all them, my son also, what of him, you do not ask of him, listen to stories of him, he is alive, living and breathing, if he is, a little child, we see the children, what of my son.
Aah.
But that world is gone.
No, you are not listening.
I am listening, it is you who are not
Please, he said, and he stared at me.
Your eye traps me.
Yes. He smiled. This is the magician’s eye. It was given to me by an angel of God.
Female angel, spirit-lady, you saw her?
He looked at me.
I am sorry. It is this place.
He now was silent.
I said, Continue the story.
Of my grandmother?
Yes, your grandmother, tell me why she is so distinct, unlike other grandmothers such a beautiful woman, ninety-nine years of age, and beautiful.
Beautiful, yes, beautiful woman, and also there was her lover, when she returned to her town after many many years
Lover?
Yes, this is why I tell you, why I want to tell you of her when at last she was coming home, after so many years.
Your grandmother’s lover?
Former lover, yes, when she was not my grandmother, I was not yet born, a young healthy woman.
Aah
And now you interrupt
No I am listening I am listening
Yes you are listening, as you make comments listening, two things.
No, it is different now.
Sexual relationships are different.
Yes, young healthy woman, I am concentrating to hear this story, sexual relationships
And so you now laugh at my grandmother.
I am smiling. Tell me. What age was he, this lover
Former lover, a young man, thirty, thirty-five.
Thirty-five is not young. I had a grandfather, he was thirty-five.
Yes.
What age was she?
You are not listening.
I am asking her age, of when you speak.
I told you she was young, I said it. Now listen, listen to me, do not interrupt. Please.
I am tired
Yes, so you are telling me.
It is a homecoming story. I know homecoming stories. My life is full of homecoming stories
Your life, no, I do not think so. Listen to me, when my grand-mother returned to her town she was met by her former lover. She had not seen him for a dozen years, more. She had returned by air and had come unannounced.
Of course, I said, this is what we do.
Yet also she had wanted to see what things for her own self, wanted to journey into town by bus, from there disembark, continue the journey by foot, through the streets, she wanted to be among her people and see how they were in this new way, especially so the people of her little district, the places, buildings that stood or not, she would see the absent ones, absent people, she knew this, wanted it, from among her own people, from where from when she had been. I was not yet born you see
And he continued with this story, family story, his beginnings. There was the strain in telling it to me, and resignation, all familiar to me, now speaking of how his grandmother walked through her little town, seeing her world made anew. It was dreams, dreams. I would have closed my ears. Dreams dreams dreams. Whose story was this, his father’s, mother’s. I was not wanting to hear him and his dreams, dreams. I also have my family, families, their lives and thoughts and their future to be, not to be, as this, as he had, him to become, dreams, dreams. I could not listen to him. Also to sleep, so sleep, I was exhausted he was exhausted why not sleep, none would be there, none would find us, we were safe there in that hovel for that time what was his worry, there was none, worrier, I saw it in him, magician’s eye, give sleep to us, strength to us.
What is wrong?
Nothing is wrong.
Yes, tell me.
I cannot listen to you, I cannot, dreams, I cannot listen. Dreams are also in my head. I survive with them, but they are only for myself, I do not ask that you share them, that you receive them from me. I do not want to hear these dreams that are your dreams, family dreams. I want to sleep and must do so, you may watch I may sleep
What is wrong?
I cannot listen to you. Dreams of homecomings, I cannot listen. You wish to go back but there is no such going back it is not possible does not exist, dream world. Live in this world which is a real world, where we now are in this decay, destroyed building, destroyed lives and dreams of life, deaths of children, killings of children, live in this world, this is why we now exist continue to exist spiting spiting, this is why, not for dreams, lives as once they were, what of my son and his story my story, where is his mother is she dead where I do not know now for three years so tell to me and his family to come, where are his mountains and rivers
I was now onto my feet. I walked around, kicked at the old old plasterwork, the rubble, perhaps something was to be found. Hiding places. Articles secreted there from years gone by. A woman hiding these from her husband, treasures. For the coming family. Thus to astonish him years later, their first daughter now to marry, and from this secret place she would bring out these treasures, hand-me-down trinkets, jewellery of ancestors, the husband dumbfounded, looking on her with amazement. These are for our grandchildren.
Stories stories, ghosts
I had not known of this place, this place where we now were, hovel, hovel as I thought
I was to the other side of the room. He was by the hole where had been a window, seated there, looking to the sky. I would apologise to him. He did not understand me. I did not make myself known to him, thoughts that I had, we were not so far apart. If these stories were so upsetting to me, they were so, I could tell him. Perhaps to others he might tell them, not to me, I could not hear them.
I had respect for him. But in that place there can only be ghosts, as in all places where humans are, and we ar
e our ghosts also, they are within us, it is within us, as also death to come, his death my death. My question to him
yes, I had such a question. Certainly I was no stranger to this region. I had come so and again. He had respect for this. And so my question, what of my death, did he see my death? I had questions for him. And why I was there. These are not dreams. Why there is continuation. So many questions. I could ask him. Also his own death, was this true, did he feel this before him. As I did. We all of us, all, ourselves, every one, who did not who did not
Where does this come from. Do ghosts exist. What questions, may we ask them, all such any such, I have no God, gods
What is wrong? he said.
Nothing is wrong.
Sit down.
I have to walk.
You are tired.
Exhausted, yes, we both
But you make my nerves on end
I do not enjoy your stories
My grandmother when a girl, I was telling you of her life, but you cannot hear, you are not able to hear, you cannot listen
I can listen
You do not
Yes, if it is your grandmother. You say you are telling me of her but no, it is another subject, she is become so. This is a story for you, a story for why you continue to exist, a story that must exclude myself, such as myself, it can only exclude.
I am sorry.
I have no grandmothers, grandfathers, mother of my child, I have none.
I am sorry.
Why. I am not. I do not seek reasons, it is not important to me. I do not want these stories.
Translated Accounts Page 22