by Leena Krohn
The sight did not agitate me.
‘It looks to me,’ I said to Doña Quixote, ‘as if they’re measuring something. Probably the roof will be replaced soon.’
‘Yes, they’re measuring,’ Doña Quixote conceded. ‘That’s exactly what they’re doing. But I know more. For I know the name of their measuring tape.’
I was amazed.
‘Do you? How could you know that?’
‘Because I happened to read it this morning, just after I woke up. It is the measuring line of Zerubbabel.’
She fetched a black book from her book-case and began to read:
‘And I lifted up my eyes and saw, and behold, a man with a measuring line in his hand!
‘Then I said, “Where are you going?” And he said to me, “To measure Jerusalem, to see what is its breadth and what is its length.”
‘And behold, the angel who talked with me came forward to meet him,
‘And said to him, “Run, say to that young man, ‘Jerusalem shall be inhabited as villages without walls, because of the multitude of men and cattle in it’.” ’
She read in a deep, carrying voice, and whenever she wanted to give a word a particular emphasis, she gave me a sharp look.
‘ “For who has despised the day of small things? They shall rejoice, and shall see the plummet in the hand of Zerubbabel. These seven are the eyes of the Lord, which range through the whole of the earth.” ’
She slammed the book shut.
‘What do you say?’
‘Well. It certainly is . . . ’
‘’’It certainly is, it certainly is,” she mimicked, ‘When will your ears open. And your eyes – ’
‘Is there something wrong with them, too?’
‘You look at me with sceptical and cold eyes,’ Doña Quixote said accusingly. ‘The eyes of the world. Where have you hidden your own?’
‘I don’t know, yet, which are my own, Doña Quixote,’ I said, a little ashamed. ‘There are so many eyes. Many more than seven.’
‘It is time to choose,’ she said slowly. ‘Truly, it is high time.’
‘And what’s more,’ she flared up once more, ‘don’t come and talk to me about eyes.’
I fell silent.
‘Not eyes,’ she said, ‘not eyes, but the seeing gaze . . . ’
Her eyelids closed.
‘How bright it is today! Today, today too, it is a day of small things . . . Look, can you still see Zerubbabel there?’
I got up to peer out of the window.
‘No, he has gone.’
And Doña Quixote refused to speak any more of Zerubbabel.
When we went out to eat, it was already growing dark. In the last light, the light crescent moon was floating, and it had begun to freeze.
On the street we walked along almost all the windows were lit, just as in the street that ran across it, and in the square where the street ended. It looked as if the entire city, encircled by darkness, had stayed at home that night.
‘There are so many people there, so many . . . ’ I seemed to hear Doña Quixote mutter as the ice on the puddles cracked under our shoes and one circle of light after another moved toward us.
TAINARON.
MAIL FROM ANOTHER CITY
1985
Translated by Hildi Hawkins
You are not in a place; the place is in you.
Angelus Silesius
For Elias, J. H. Fabre and the house of the Queen Bee
The Meadow and the Honey Pattern
the first letter
How could I forget the spring when we walked in the University’s botanical gardens; for there is such a park here in Tainaron, too, large and carefully tended. If you saw it you would be astonished, for it contains many plants that no one at home knows; even a species that flowers underground.
But most of all I like the meadow attached to the gardens, where only wild flowers grow: cornflower, cotton thistle, toadflax, spiked speedwell. But you would be wrong if you supposed them to be ordinary flowers of the field. No, they are some
kind of hybrid, supernaturally large. Many of the knapweeds are as tall as a man, and their corollas are as broad as a human face; but I have also seen flowers into which one can step as if into a sunny bower.
It gives me pleasure to imagine that I might one day take you there, beneath the thistles. Their lovely corymbs are veiled by a downy web, which floats high above like the crowns of trees on a beach promenade.
You would enjoy a visit to the meadow, for in Tainaron it is summer and one can look at the flowers face to face. They are as open as the day itself and the hieroglyphs of the honey-patterns are precise and clear. We gaze at them, but they gaze only
at the sun, which they resemble. It is so difficult to believe, in the warmth of the day’s heart – just as difficult as before the face of children – that the colour and light of which they are made are matter, and that some time, soon, this very night, their dazzle will be extinguished and will no longer be visible.
Much happens in the meadow; it is a stage for fervent activity and a theatre of war. But everything serves just one purpose: immortality. The insects who are pursuing their own interests there do not know that they are at the same time fulfilling the flowers’ hidden desires, any more than the flowers understand that to the insects, whom they consider their slaves, they are life and livelihood. Thus the selfishness of each individual works, in the meadow, for the happiness of all.
But it is not only the ordinary hover-flies and sawflies that come to the meadow of the botanical gardens to amuse themselves: the idle cityfolk spend their free moments here, whiling away their time in a way that is undeniably strange to us.
‘Admiral! Admiral!’ I heard Longhorn shout delightedly one Sunday, when once again we were wandering along the paths that criss-cross the meadow.
I looked around me past the flower-stalks – some of them were as strong as the trunks of young birch trees – but I could not see whom Longhorn had been talking to until he pointed to the corolla of an orchid-like flower. On its brilliantly red, slightly mottled lips there sat – or rather, skipped about on the spot – someone who seemed very anxious and very happy.
This Tainaronian waved all his legs at Longhorn, and began to whine earnestly: ‘This way, ladies and gentlemen, please don’t be shy!’
I must admit that his behaviour bewildered me, for he went on with his unsteady dance, bouncing from one petal to another and from time to time rubbing his backside against it. All of a sudden he dropped limply flat on his face and seemed to chew enthusiastically on the fine, downy fluff that straggled around the base of the lip. Well, we were in a public place, and I turned my face away from such debauchery.
But Longhorn peeped at my face and began to smile; and that only made me more angry.
‘What a puritan!’ he said. ‘You disapprove of lonely people’s most innocent and cheapest weekend amusements? They make love to the flowers and the flowers make them drunk; they go from flower to flower and at the same time pollinate them; is that not beneficial to the entire meadow, the entire city?’
At that very moment Longhorn’s friend leaned over toward us from the broad, generously curving lip of the orchid, which swayed and rocked violently beneath him. Now I could see that he was stained from head to foot with sticky pollen, and when I looked upward, shading my eyes from the sun, a sweet droplet trickled from his long, fumbling proboscis and on to my lips. I licked it away; it was not unpleasant, but at the same time I remembered some lines I had read long ago.
Appeased, I would have liked to have recited them at once to Longhorn, but his friend was now speaking incessantly.
‘My dear friends,’ the Admiral stammered, ‘I wager you have never seen nectaries like these, aaaah, follow me, quickly, I know the way . . . ’
And with that he disappeared into the depths of the huge corolla, so that I could make out only one of his hind legs, wriggling deep in the quivering cavity.
‘No,’ I s
aid finally, ‘I will not go in there.’
‘Well then,’ said Longhorn amicably, ‘let us continue on our way. Perhaps I may introduce you some other time. Let us continue now, and see whether the meadowsweet has flowered.’
As we wandered beneath the flowers, I knew their desire and their thirst, knew that what was visible of them, all their finery, was merely a stepping-stone for their seed. And I could not stop myself from teasing Longhorn by reciting the lines that the foolish Admiral had just recalled to my mind:
For what are anthers worth or petals
Or halo-rings? Mockeries, shadows
Of the heart of the flower, the central flame!
He seemed absent-minded as he listened, and finally he interrupted me.
‘Can’t you hear?’
Quite right, I thought I could distinguish a desperate howling that came from the south, from the other side of the field. This was what Longhorn had been listening for, throughout my recitation.
We had turned in the right direction, for we did not have far to go before we heard an anxious voice panting, ‘I’m here, here!’, and we saw, once more, a flower as big as a room, this time a glowing ultramarine, where a little mannikin was struggling, apparently stuck in its funnel-like stigma.
‘Well, well,’ said Longhorn, glumly, ‘this is just what I expected. This is a vincetoxicum, a fly-trap.’
And he directed his words to the ensnared creature: ‘You are not the first to have met this fate.’
And Longhorn climbed nimbly into the sparkling blue corolla, leaning on the axils of the stem. Without delay and briskly he grasped the victim beneath the arms. Hup! – and at the same moment there was a hissing sound like silk tearing, the corolla sagged downward, and both the helper and the flower’s prisoner rolled on to the lawn.
But before I could reach them under the broken herb, both had risen to their feet and were brushing pollen off themselves, so that the air was dusty with a glittering haze.
‘But you are limping,’ said Longhorn sternly to the shy creature he had saved.
‘Just a little accident,’ said the luckless one, glancing at the ravaged plant as if a sudden attack could still be expected. ‘There was some kind of trap in there . . . ’
‘Never trust a flower,’ Longhorn advised. ‘Next time, think where you put your head.’
I do not believe that the flower’s victim intended ever to return to the meadow. He was already limping off under equally treacherous plants, and had forgotten to say thank you. Longhorn linked arms with me, and I was grateful, for I felt I needed support, as if it had been me who had suffered in the prison of the vincetoxicum.
The meadow murmured around us as I thought, and its scents began to make both of us feel faint. We walked under a cloud of meadowsweet – they were indeed in full flower – but at that moment I would rather have been walking on regular, hard, reliable paving stones.
But before me there constantly rose new eddies, glowing with light, strange, incomprehensible in their silence. I saw the silky glimmer of the flowers, their wings and carinas, I saw their dull down and their purple lustre and their seeds, which a gust of wind hurled from their tight capsules. Ouch! One of them hit my cheek, hurting me; it was as big as a cartridge, while others popped as they opened so that I jumped into the air. I heard thuds as nutlets fell from their open hulls, and sulphur-yellow spurs and swollen lips barred my way. My neck was tickled by the fleecy tips of bracts, bristles and
seed-down, and the searing colours forced their way in through my pupils, however much they tried to shrink, and into my nostrils, palate, ears the cries of the honey-pattern and thousands of impudent scents.
‘No, we do not know them,’ I said to Longhorn, and he inclined his head silently.
Across the ground, which hid all the roots, the cold of the approaching evening began to move. While the sun still blazed on those large faces, which were now closing, I had not doubted or asked. But as soon as the first pale portent of withering rose toward the sky and we turned toward the city, all I knew with certainty was that I was as lost as I had been before.
The Hum of the Wheel
the second letter
At night I awoke to a rattling and a ringing from the kitchenette. I am sure you know that Tainaron is located in a volcanic zone. Scientists claim that we have already arrived in a period when a large eruption is to be expected, so fateful that it may mark the destruction of the entire city.
So what? Do not suppose that it affects the lives of the Tainaronians. The shudders of the night are forgotten, and in the dazzle of morning, in the market-place through which I often take a short cut, a honeyed haze glows in the fruit baskets, and the paving beneath my feet is eternal once more.
And in the evening I look at the enormous Ferris wheel, whose circumference, centre and radii are marked out with thousands of points of light, like stars. Ferris wheel, wheel of fortune . . .
Sometimes my gaze fastens itself to its spinning and I seem to hear, until sleep comes, the constant humming of the wheel, which is the voice of Tainaron itself.
I do not believe that I have ever seen so many ages and so many gods at the same time as in Tainaron. Where else but Tainaron can the eye encounter, in a single glance, the vanishing spires of cathedrals, the liquid gold of the cupolas of minarets and the pure capitals of a Doric temple? Here they rise, side by side and yet incomparable, each of them alone.
But in many buildings here there is something ill-proportioned, something that is almost ridiculous and makes one think of theatrical scenery. Where does that impression come from? The decoration of the friezes of the palace of supreme justice is ridiculously ornate, while essential parapets and canopies have been omitted from the chamber of commerce. And sometimes, when I begin to grow tired on my walks, I feel dizzy in streets and at crossroads, for the buildings look as if they are leaning and moving in the wind . . .
Yesterday I walked through an arcade, airy and light, stepping on paving laid by a master, and my gaze caressed the resilient columns, the glittering mosaics of the window recesses. The arcade came to an end, I crossed the square – and got a slap in the face. Before me there swaggered a concrete wall raised on elephants’ feet, a featureless, gloomy variation of the colonnade I had just left, insulting and crushingly heavy. But it, too, is part of Tainaron, like the piece of ancient stone wall at the eastern edge of the city, in whose crevices a sand martin nests.
Do you know, I am sometimes startled when, from amid the throng, a snout-like face sways toward me, above which nimble antennae, supple as lashes, or when, in a café, a waiter approaches my table, his mandibles protruding just like those of a dragonfly-grub. And yesterday in the tram, a creature sat down next to me, his form recalling that of a leaf; he looked so light that I could have blown him away into the air like a dry weed.
I have met someone who supplies a special thread for the needs of the whole of Tainaron. It is so fine, so durable and so elastic that no industrially produced thread can bear comparison. He secretes it from the rear of his body, as much as 150 metres in 24 hours. The glittering filament, finer than a hair, is far less than a denier in thickness. When a ray of sunlight struck it at the window at which I was examining it, I saw the thread blaze with all the colours of the spectrum.
I should like a dress made only of this thread; a garment lighter, more festive or more beautiful I could not imagine.
But it is a childish dream: I shall never have such a dress. For the filament is so sticky that it would stick to my body like a corrosive glue.
So what is this thread used for? Do not ask me; I do not know, and I do not wish to know.
Shimmer
the third letter
And then the lights of evening are lit, with hundreds of reflections in water and eyes and windows. You know, don’t you, that there are creatures who light up their vicinity with the glow of their own organs or parts of the body: fireflies in the gardens of the south, the glow-worm on its blade of grass and the
creatures who live in moats, who carry lamps on their monstrous foreheads. Colder still is the vast lustre of rotten wood covered in honey fungus . . .
But here in Tainaron, too, there are those who, at evening, draw glances because they secrete a fine veil of light and at times, when they become agitated, glimmer and flash. I gaze at them with admiration as they hurry past me in the street – always quickly, with almost dancing steps. They emerge from their houses only at evening, and I have no idea what they do until then, the livelong day – perhaps they merely sleep. I have never seen any of them alone; they move in flocks and free groupings as if participating in some kind of formation dancing in the squares. But if it rains or if there is a fresh breeze, the sparklers go out like candles and disappear beneath the roofs. Difficulties and a severe climate, tiring work and unexpected upheavals are not for their sort. Whenever I see them I find myself thinking that there must be a party somewhere and that lots of fun is to be expected. They look so cheerful and carefree, and their rose-pink or yellowish glow would embellish any ballroom.
In the middle of the city there is a stairway around which Tainaronians gather in the evenings to converse or merely to watch one another. It is here that the most colourful, the strangest, the most elegant, the richest and the most tattered of all meet, on these broad steps, worn over many centuries. The Fireflies, too – is that not a good name for these little shimmerers? – are seen here as soon as darkness falls, as long as the weather is calm and warm.
I feel melancholy when I look at them, but I have never tried to approach them. I do not even believe that they speak any of the city’s official languages; I do not know whether they speak at all. They are as graceful as down, as fine and light as the first flush of youth that no one has ever lived.
Recently I have betaken myself on many evenings to the steps to rejoice in their glimmer. They do not notice me, but when they pass – dance! – past me and past the beggars and past the pomp of the blue-belted knight, hope quivers and the spirit of spring gusts around them as freshly as if nothing had ever yet been lost forever.
