Rock, Paper, Scissors

by Naja Marie Aidt

  “But what poem are you going to recite?” Alice asks sleepily, staggering to the coffee table and scooping up a handful of almonds. She pops them into her mouth.

  “Right. Okay. Listen . . .”

  “Haiku,” Luke interrupts tensely, leaning forward in his seat. “You’re talking about haiku.”

  “You’re a very bright young man,” Helena says following a brief pause. She smiles warmly at him. “But do you also know the poet and the publication year? That’s the question, after all, as I understand it.”

  “You don’t get any points for guessing the genre,” Patricia says, shifting her arms from her face to the crown of her head. “You didn’t say anything about that anyway.”

  “No, I know” Luke says defensively, “I just knew it was haiku.”

  “Luke’s so smart he doesn’t need his head,” Alice giggles.

  “Listen to Helena!” Kristin can’t help but shout.

  And Helena recites her poem: “Midfield, / attached to nothing, / the skylark is singing.”

  “That was short,” Alice says, lifting her eyebrows.

  “It was beautiful. Beautiful!” Kristin, still boisterous, pats Helena’s thigh.

  “Learning that kind of poem by heart would be easy, I think,” Alice says, rubbing her head.

  “It’s Basho,” Luke says. “1644-1694.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Thomas stares at Luke’s pale, rapt face.

  “That’s correct.” Helena smiles at Luke. “It’s the year of his birth and his death. He died in 1694. Basho’s probably Japan’s most important haiku poet. You could say that he invented the form.”

  “What kind of bullshit is that?” Alice mumbles.

  “What you recited reminds me of Buson’s most famous poem. The one with the temple bell.” Luke leans back in his chair. “Do you know it?”

  “Of course I do! Everyone does!”

  “Not me,” Alice says.

  “Me neither,” Thomas says, fishing a black olive out of the ceramic bowl.

  “Well, it goes like this: ‘Butterfly / sleeping / on the temple bell.’”

  Helena ecstatically twirls a lock of hair around her index finger.

  “Because there are winged creatures in each poem? Is that why you think they’re similar? I don’t get it.” Alice sits cross-legged, hands around her feet. “But I think I could definitely write those kinds of poems. It wouldn’t take longer than a few minutes to write those, tops. Hey, maybe I can be a poet!”

  “Basho said that haiku is what happens at this place at this moment,” Luke says, and Helena nods, understanding. “That’s exactly right,” she says, her index finger twirling faster and faster around her lock of hair.

  “What’s happening right now is that we’re piss-drunk in this house!” Alice says, throwing herself back onto the couch. Thomas stifles a laugh. She’s right. But Helena continues enthusiastically: “That’s what it’s like working at the loom. Basho had this theory about the clash of the eternal with the transient. He said that each element should be present in every single poem . . .”

  “Okay, that’s enough.” Alice covers her ears. “No more haiku for me.”

  “Especially no more haiku theory,” adds Thomas. Helena laughs, winking at Luke. “Okay. We can talk about it tomorrow then.”

  Kristin raises her voice: “And the winner is Luke! But he didn’t say the name of the poem. So he won’t get any points for that.”

  “We need special rules for haiku. They don’t have titles and it’s hard to know precisely when they were written, or where they were published.”

  “Luke’s absolutely right,” Helena says.

  “Of course you can,” Patricia suggests, “if you’re an expert.”

  “But Helena and Luke apparently aren’t,” Thomas blurts triumphantly. They all laugh, and Helena shakes her head, smiling at the boisterous, ignorant lot. Thomas stands, roaring: “I HATE HAIKU!” Which causes Alice to get to her feet and hop up and down on the couch, so that the pillows slide to the floor as she howls: “Hi-ya! Haiku-Helena!”

  “That’s enough!” Kristin cries. “STOP!!”

  Helena decides Luke should get ten points for knowing the poet’s name, birth year, and death year—though everyone else protests vociferously. Helena also suggests that he should get a special bonus for his “surprising knowledge of haiku,” but that’s shot down immediately, with boos and foot-stomping. Kristin’s about to leave the room, scowling at Helena. “It’s undemocratic,” she hisses, standing with her arms at her sides. “You can’t just introduce an absolute monarchy!” Helena pulls her down beside her, then plants a kiss on her cheek. “The children are here, you can’t just leave.” Luke preens at hearing Helena’s praise. He stretches his arms toward the ceiling and cracks his knuckles, and for one moment that’s the only sound they hear. Then the wind whooshes outside. Like a storm. The wind blows and whistles and drives a branch against the roof, clawing it. Helena walks to the window. “Some weather . . .” “Who are you going to pick, Helena?” Luke asks. Kristin, no longer agitated, fills everyone’s glass. They toast. The heat in the living room is intense; it feels as if it’s coming from inside themselves. Though he’s a little dizzy, Thomas’s mood improves; he lights another cigarette and exhales long, blue spirals, columns of smoke, he thinks woozily, a fucking skylark pips, and then he’s overcome with such a forceful laughter that he swallows his own spit down the wrong pipe. With her flat, strong hand Kristin repeatedly claps the coughing, half-choked man on his back. “What was so funny?” Alice giggles when he’s finally more or less himself again. She takes the cigarette from him and pulls at it until the cherry glows red. But before he can answer, Luke repeats in a firm voice: “Who do you pick, Helena?”

  Helena points at Patricia, and Patricia sits bolt upright in her chair. Her hair is untidy, tousled, and she’s a little unsteady. While lying on the couch her dress has slid up her legs, and now she tugs it down, so that it lies smoothly over her hips and thighs. She’s fetched a book from the shelf. Holding her hands over the title and the author’s name, she says, “Ladies and gentlemen! Listen to this music!” She giggles, doubling over. She rolls her eyes. Then she reads aloud, hesitantly, clearing her throat from time to time; the tequila sings all over her Ss. “Saxifrage, the great horned owl, milk, / irrefutable as lightning, the rock, / thick with doves, the southerly wind, / yolk, bromine, why not, / and as far as I’m concerned, lightning, yes, / whale and lightning, they stand firm, / let us build upon them, / they are worthy of an ode.” Patricia inhales and holds her breath, then she smiles and curtsies, but as she leans forward her chair tips and she screams in fright, flapping her arms, and Thomas barely manages to grab her before she falls. The book thumps to the floor.

  “Enzensberger,” Luke says mechanically. “‘Ode to Celery.’ First published in The Local Language, 1960.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Patricia says, impressed. She sits down. “You’re not a newbie at this, are you?”

  “Are you hurt?” Helena asks worriedly. Patricia shakes her head.

  “It’s totally cheating to read from a book. Anyone can do that!” Alice is upset.

  “Normal people can’t remember every possible poem by heart, can they?” Kristin says. “We’ll just have to bend the rules.”

  “I didn’t know you read poetry, babe?” Thomas says, his voice still rusty following his coughing fit.

  “I don’t. But I did once. You know that. I was very into Enzensberger at one point. For a long time.” Patricia stares dreamily at the night-darkened window, which mirrors her image like a veiled angel or a ghost.

  “Sounded a little like haiku to me,” Alice sniffles.

  “But it isn’t, my dear,” Helena says with a sigh. She stretches her legs.

  “You’re all so smart and well read. All these old poems . . . Why isn’t anyone reciting new poems? Some recent poems? It’s sad.” Alice groans. Then she yawns, so that everyone can see her reddened uvula.
“Oh, how sad . . .” She crumples into a fetal position and watches the group, her eyes half-closed. From time to time they glide shut.

  “You’re the one who should know new poems, Alice. You’re young. You should teach them to us,” Helena says gently, touching Alice’s ankle.

  “What I like about the poem,” Patricia interrupts, straightening abruptly, “is . . . the celebration of life, you know? The earthly life with egg yolks and southerly wind and owls and celery. You know what I mean?” There are red blotches on her cheeks now. She crosses her legs.

  “That’s how the other poems were too,” Alice mumbles. “Southerly winds and midfields and soft-boiled eggs . . .”

  “Twenty points for Luke. You’re in the lead.” Kristin picks up her nearly-empty glass.

  “He’s led the entire time,” Helena smiles.

  “Do we have any candy?” Alice asks sleepily.

  “We’re here now, aren’t we?” Patricia looks at Thomas, narrowing her eyes. “You and me.”

  “That’s right,” he says. “You and me. We’re here right now.” And then he adds, “No matter what. Right?” He holds her gaze, wanting her to give him a sign. But she lifts her head, tilting it all the way back, a mysterious smile etched onto her lips. Then she stands and wobbles out of the room.

  “The big question tonight,” Helena says, “must be how in the world Luke knows so much about poetry. You should study literature, man!”

  “It’s Jacques,” Thomas says. “It’s all because of Jacques.”

  Helena shakes her head. “Unbelievable . . .”

  “Thomas is right,” Luke smiles, moving onto the couch beside Alice. “It’s all Jacques’s fault.”

  “It’s my turn now.” Kristin sets her glass down with a thud.

  “But you’ve had a turn, Kristin!” Alice peers from behind the pillows, wagging her finger—no, no, no—clucking her tongue, glowing, smiling, laughing.

  “Yes! But now it’s my turn again! Listen up. This is how you capture life. This one is . . . like the waves on the ocean. I hope I don’t stumble over this. I only recall a small chunk of it by heart. It’s difficult stuff, this . . . No, I’m getting the book.” And before Luke or anyone else can protest, Kristin has begun reciting. She has removed her scarf and wrapped the book in it, so they can’t see the title. She’s on her feet. Standing in all her grandeur in the middle of the room. The tall, straight body, the sinewy arms. The effortless elegance she carries around like something she was born with. She recites loudly and lucidly, bobbing her head rhythmically and systematically, which, considering her growing inebriation on tequila, defies all reason. Her hair, thick and gray, swishes from side to side. “Even the children remember that as a year in the slums, threatened with change, where the speakers in the vans invited theft. Sticky finger licking chicken. Clichés and lamentation. We were floating the logic in a rushing medium. I want to be free of you, in order to do things, things of importance which will impress you, attract you, so that you can be mine and I can be yours, forever.” Kristin rolls through the text. My mother could have been here, Thomas thinks, right here, beside her sister. She could have resembled her. She could have enjoyed Kristin’s ferocity and enthusiasm. She could have loved it or recognized it. Or she could have been irritated. But then he thinks about what Patricia said about his mother, that she was wild and decadent; that’s not how he remembers her. How does he remember her? Was she distant? Was she loving? Was she gentle and motherly or high, drunk, strange, unreliable? Was she irascible? Did she play with him for hours? Did they build things with blocks? Did she teach him how to draw a house? Did she leave him to fend for himself? He doesn’t remember. He remembers only these tiny glimpses that have always haunted him: the feel of her raw tweed dress when he sat on her lap, the smooth nylon stockings, her rounded knees, the distracted way she ran her hand through his hair. But what was her hand like? He can see her standing in the little kitchen, her back to him. Now she turns her clear blue eyes to him. She hands him a plate of sliced apple. He closes his eyes. The stories about her brothers, her soft voice. He would often reach out his hand and touch her earlobe, rubbing it between his index finger and thumb; sometimes she let him do this, sometimes she didn’t. And her laughter, which seemed to come from somewhere else, another room, maybe the living room. Her laughter, and her light, easy footsteps across the wooden floor. He hears Kristin: “A child is a real person, very lively. They are like plump birds along the shore, standing, watching the local flags snap. It is the sea salt in our blood. A mere drop in the cup. A mirror makes it turn over.” He’s riding in a bus with his mother. She’s wearing a light-blue jacket. The baby is Jenny, and the baby’s drooling. He hears clearly the chugging of the bus’s motor, the swoop of the door opening and closing, every time the bus stops. Can hear someone talking in the seat behind them. He feels lonely or insecure and clutches his mother’s jacket. She stares out the window. She’s wearing sunglasses. But it’s raining outside, the water’s sliding down the glass. And it’s dark. Where are they going? And is this really a memory? Can it be considered a true memory? No. He shakes his head and empties the bottle into his glass. She’s nothing but a jacket and stockings and a plate of apple slices that are already turning brown. He cannot grasp her presence. It doesn’t work. “It seemed that we had hardly begun and we were already there, watching people for an instant framed in windows, never finding out what happens to them, or what they mean.” Kristin beams. Alice is asleep on the couch. And Luke, deep in concentration, sits on the edge of his flimsy chair. Patricia has returned now, and she leans against the doorframe. She looks spent. “The air we breathe: the air we breathe ranging in size contains flakes of sound, dark, silence, and light.” Kristin claps the book shut and glances around the room victoriously. Helena begins to gather glasses and bowls, which she places on a black lacquered tray. No one says a word. “None of you know that poem?” Kristin asks, shocked. “C’mon! That can’t be. Patricia?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Luke?”

  “Never heard it before.”

  “Ignoramuses!” Kristin plops into the beanbag chair, sighing. She squeezes the shrouded book against her chest.

  “I’m going to bed now,” Patricia says, exhausted, “It’s 1:30 in the morning. Are you coming, Thomas?”

  “No,” Luke says firmly, unexpectedly. “He’s staying. We’re not quite finished with the game.”

  Thomas looks at Luke, and Luke stares insistently at him, insistent and challenging. “Luke’s right,” Thomas says. “But I’ll be there soon.” He wants to stand up and take Patricia’s hand, he wants to apologize, to do something, kiss her, but she’s already gone. Luke covers Alice with a blanket. Helena helps Kristin out of the beanbag chair and hands her the empty bottle of tequila. After they’ve said goodnight and are on their way out of the room, Kristin turns abruptly in the doorway, yelling: “It was LYN HEJINIAN, YOU MEATHEADS! From My Life! A masterpiece! First published in 1987. Three hundred thousand points for me. You don’t know shit about poetry!” Her eyes glow. She gestures threateningly with the empty bottle, so that the dead, alcohol-soaked worm bounces up and down, smacking against the glass. She shakes her head resignedly. From the kitchen Helena calls for her, friendly but firm, and Kristin curses under her breath, tromping off in her soft moccasins.

  Thomas and Luke go outside to piss. Standing side by side in the wet, cool night air, they splash their urine against something that, in the dark, resembles a bank of earth or an anthill. Wind cuts through the treetops. They stand close to one another. They’re quiet. Thomas’s mouth is dry. Wind whips through his hair and his shirt, which fills with air and lifts from his back like a sail. He shivers. The sky seems pale with light. Huge cloud masses scuttle swiftly toward the northeast. Luke zips up his fly. They walk single file back to the house. They get beers in the utility room. “Let’s go to the sunroom so we don’t wake up Alice,” Luke suggests. The bench is hard and the sunroom cold, but Luke pulls pillows
and wool blankets from the couch in the living room. Thomas lights the candles resting in some small, amateurish ceramic candleholders, which the twins must have made when they were in kindergarten. A gust of air wends its way through the glass partitions, causing the flames to shoot up until again they shrink, flickering weakly. The wind howls outside, shivering in the trees. Luke uncaps the beers with his lighter, and they light cigarettes. Thomas lays a quilt across his legs, and Luke drapes a blanket around his shoulders, now like an Indian chief. Although Thomas feels less drunk, a headache already thumps behind his left eye. An awl in his head. He stares at the plants in the room, standing in pots, their branches and leaves outstretched. It smells strangely of geraniums, smoke, and candlewax. Luke turns abruptly toward him. With a soft, low voice, he says, his words threading the air between them: “What did I / do? / Seminated the night, as though / there could be others, more nocturnal than / this one . . .”

  “Celan,” Thomas says, interrupting him. “But I don’t know the name of the poem, or what year it’s from. I just recognize the tone.”