— Ah. Je ne sais pas. Je n’y avais pas pensé. Ou plutôt—
— Plutot vous aviez pensé—
— Oui.
— Well if you thought that much in advance you might have thought it out properly. You don’t suppose the hotel cares two hoots which room you spend the night in as long as you don’t visit late at night in a room booked for one and stay there free of charge. What did you expect, that we should sneak up like a guilty couple and you sneak out again past the night watchman at crack of dawn?
— I, I didn’t think. Pardonnez-moi.
— Hmm.
— Oh, vous avez l’air si fâchée. Vous, fâchée contre moi. Mon dieu, qu’allons-nous faire?
— Calorifère, as my mother used to say. She liked terrible puns.
— Hein?
— Ma mère, elle aimait les calembours. Elle disait: Qu’alors y faire?
— Je t’aime. Je t’aime. Je t’aime.
Grand comme le ciel. Moi aussi. Mais tu as dis plus. Oh le ciel a ses hauteurs tu sais. Et papa? Ah ça ton père j’sais pas où il a fichu le camp. And suddenly he returns in a language of burning eyes and dumb show with a tip of tongue moving slowly round his lips in and out and around, la langue et le langage which finds itself delicious spiralling round the seven-terraced tower anticlockwise undoing the magic wall which crumbles to the horror of all concerned turning l’altra cosa più tardi into now why not the long veined bony hands moving nervously up and down each knee on the white linen suit or curved around the breast and along the belly up and down the thighs qui s’ouvrent to the brush-stroke fingers into vos profondeurs où je vous prends j’entre en vous vous criez de plaisir tumultueuse amante oh ma déesse et vous m’aimez jusqu’ à l’explosion en vous du glaïeul blanc in the depth the cavern the vessel of conception with the confusional sliding from active to passive which we find in all intense situations true or false when the language of a long-lost code of adoration breeds plants or parts of plants that stand quite still in a suspension of desire and disbelief saying well, you’d better go and book yourself a room. See you later. 414. Au revoir, monsieur, enchantée de vous avoir revu, alors, à demain.
— A demain madame. Bonsoir, bonne nuit.
Bonne nuit, hélas non. Le glaïeul a fichu le camp in a language that finds itself delicious par avion but force-lands on a clay-like sea you could cut with a knife pick up in handfuls to mould perhaps a worn-out middle-aged goddess aghast at the death of love desire and limbs that find each other revolting in an abstract study of seduction watched with exhaustion horror delusione to the despair and shaking dry male sobs irritating merely until it comes to a standstill. Et pourtant je t’aime, je t’aime, tu ne peux pas savoir comme je t’aime. Pardonne-moi. Je t’aime trop, voilà. Et tous ces mois d’attente, de rêves fous, followed by explanations promises that ça viendra tu verras plus extractions of promises patience gentleness and self-blame to save the other’s pride a form of love perhaps aghast at the catastrophe it has provoked. Tu viendras à Venise avant ton départ? A Venise? Je voudrais tant que tu voies ma maison, que tu connaisses tout de moi, mon jardin, mes livres, ma femme même. Ta femme?
— Mais oui. J’ai toujours eu une femme. Enfin, toujours, depuis longtemps quoi. Trop longtemps. J’ai même trois filles, mariées.
— Ah?
— Tu ne le savais pas?
— Non. Mais du reste, ça n’a pas d’importance.
— Tu as raison, oh ma sagesse, l’amour ne se soucie pas de telles choses. Et puis tu sais, si tu voulais bien, moi je ne rêve que de ça, de vivre avec toi, je la quitterai, ça tient à un fil, ça ne dépend que de toi ma douce amour, oh comme tu me comprends, si douce, ma gentildonna und so weiter weiter gehen in the sheer impertinence and vanity of the mouthpiece or the freedom of the imagination totally at odds with any real situation in this man-dominated myth within a cubic room the white suit neatly folded still on the chair gleaming in the half-light the bathroom straight ahead running caldo-freddo as the body lies a desiccated alleinstehende Frau fingering a medal symbole d’intimité dans le voyage in quiet suspension of anger between total indifference and a mild desire to pick up the broken bits with a great tenderness above the footsteps walking in Italian Gothic Lombard down the first capital of the Western Empire after 00147 Roma.
The dark shape of the cupboard unrounds in the slatted noise coming through the shutters on the left. The bathroom door faces the bed in which the body floats in a numb pain of exhaustion untraced between sleeping and not sleeping out of what dream shaken up with nein danke no thank you in a long lost terror of someone offering something not ordered. Soon some bright buxom chambermaid will come in with a breakfast-tray unless perhaps she can’t or has a master-key to open the shutters and say buenos días Morgen or gün aydin oh no, buongiorno hell Ravenna. And all that. No one comes in offering anything.
The light has quite unrounded the corners of the cupboard made of teak or rosewood built up to the ceiling and therefore without corners. The bottle on the bedside table says Acqua Minerale San Pellegrino and all the rest about battericamente pura which means that the light looks much brighter than bright and the traffic noise sounds much noisier than noisy for whatever hour hello? Pronto? Che ora avete per favore? Comment! Non capisco, parla francese? Dix heures et demi madame. Dix heures et demi! Et le réveil par téléphone, demandé pour huit heures? Ah? Si. Scusi signora, er nos excuses, la réception a eu beaucoup de slam. Train missed thank god no worse congress over damn allo? Oui madame? A quelle heure part le prochain train pour Venise? Un moment madame. Oui bien dépêchez-vous. Oh damn and blast quelle idiotie quelle idiotie why go. Ah? Bon merci. Et un déjeuner tout de suite and the tooter the sweeter. Er …? oui madame.
Quelle idiotie why go on a mere courtesy promise to show no resentment humiliation revenge non-fraternisation no sex but he will think just that quelle idiotie after two nights of bumping down the steps of air undercarriage down crash-landing on the clay-like flesh aghast at the death of more than the five senses to the shaking dry male sobs until they come to a sickening standstill as he tells of his wife’s sexual adventures in great detail of un membre énorme told on their conjugal bed which gives him il confesse great shudders of sensual pleasure raconte-moi les tiennes, ton mari, il te prenait comment et depuis, tu en as eu d’autres? Rends-moi jaloux, rends-moi jaloux, je t’en supplie, raconte-moi and failing even there falls back even he like ton mari on a crude story out of Rabelais the language of his fin amor lonhtano collapsing like a hallowed structure C for cold, no caldo quick, hurry avanti, ah grazie tanto. Sulla tavola grazie.
And yet languages flew straight across and words met loins. But this undeniable principle remains a principle, optimistic in its wild vanity, cruel in its application and totally at odds with any real situation in the past or renovating present. We have no evidence that live human beings, let alone bitches, can so embody this divine principle of words descending into matter in any behaviour sufficiently organised not to disarm a would-be conqueror of his desire or emasculate him in advance. Most people need to eat, to love and to this end will either knuckle under or more often, persuade themselves that the vital lie contains sufficient simulation of desire to reintegrate him into totality compared with so many beautiful façades that plunge into the water as the vaporetto chugs along the Grand Canal, crossing it diagonally from one stop to another past the Casa d’Oro tu te rappelles, ma troisième carte? Ma première carte de Venise. Ah dieu, comme j’ai hésité, si longuement hésité. Je n’aurais pas dû. Mais quel doux plaisir de t’avoir ici, de te montrer cette belle ville d’amour et d’art splendide où j’ai décidé de vivre, où je voudrais vivre avec toi und so weiter weiter gehen in the wild vanity of the mouthpiece and the freedom of the imagination so totally at odds with any real situation in the unrenovating present. Unless perhaps, who knows, what difference does it make? In, out, down, up, exits and entrances, Eintritt, Sortie, Salita, Ausgang, Entrée, Fumatul oprit. No Smoking beyond this Point Kindly fasten
your safety-belts. Please do not leave the aircraft until it comes to an absolute standstill. Push Tirez Ziehen Pchnąć only to rest a little stop, just stop transmitting other people’s ideas on which nobody ever acts into the earphones and out into the mouthpiece in simultaneous German-ugh to stop, so tired, so old if well-preserved but not much younger than him after all why feel so outraged in this belle ville d’amour et d’art splendide vivre avec vous avec toi, to bask in adoration in French however crude collapsing and never out in simultaneous anything at all, only to touch a little until perhaps with gentleness and affection as a natural process in the marriage of tradition and progress in French en français je t’aime je t’aime je t’aime. Tu ne peux pas savoir ce que j’ai pu imaginer quand ton train—oh non, j’ai pensé toutes les folies, à ta fureur peut-être, ah ça faisait mal, tu ne me pardonnais pas, tu me haïssais, tu me méprisais, et je ne te verrais plus, ah mon amour tu ne peux pas t’imaginer.
— Mais si. Du reste, vous me le dites.
— Hein?
— Puisque vous me le dites, alors pas besoin de l’imaginer.
— Vous, encore?
— Puisque tu me le dis.
— Ce vous qui me glace, ce tu qui m’enchante. Et puis vous vous moquez encore de moi,
— Mais non.
— Mais j’adore ta moquerie, tes yeux rieurs, tout de toi.
— Même ma fureur?
— Hein? Ah. Non. So he does hear then and he says it only for time to think of some answer truthful in the eyes of some god of love totally blind, du moins, oui peut-être, une fureur amoureuse?
The vaporetto bumps against the jetty of Santa Maria di Salute at the mouth of the Grand Canal that gives out on to the wider waters between San Marco and the unanswered question which remains unanswered for the non-existent future unless perhaps what difference does it make. The narrow street along the narrow canal leads to another narrow street just room for two lined with peeling façades in grey orange yellow and old grey wooden doors that here, nous voici. Le corridor. Je vous mène tout droit au jardin, pour commencer. Car il y a des jardins à Venise, on ne le dirait pas. Hein? Des jardins secrets. Vous connaissez cette belle chanson du quinzième siècle—Quinzième? Ah, vous avancez! Hein? Oh, vous vous moquez de moi, ancora. Mais non, quelle chanson? L’amour de moi. He sings en-clo-o-o-o-o-o o-se. Dedans un jo-o-li-i-i jar-di-net. Comment on the gender of amour. The French say jardine, the Gairmans say jardine und so weiter you see all have the same word so we have no differences. What has love to do with botany or plants that grow on this blessed earth from Persia with the oil-bearing rose ah mademoiselle they have not blossomed yet the season has not yet come unless it has quite passed in the agro-lunar drama and the domestication of Chronos. J’adore cette chanson. J’en ai un disque, je vous le jouerai. Vous aimez mon jardin?
— Oh oui. Je vois que vous avez des glaïeuls blancs.
— Shshsh.
He looks up nervously at the shuttered window. So! The blood drains from the courteous attitude of the middle-aged woman playing at a gracieuse inoubliable dame who suddenly grows cold and pale even as a little girl she always did look pale uninteresting then suddenly hot and flushed as the language that found itself delicious crash-lands in a jardine full of white gladioli shshsh and acid-bearing roses that die have never blossomed Great Scott and gone followed by mais où allez-vous?
No need to run undignified from his absolute standstill to avoid a scene perhaps or out of stunned surprise incomprehension pride humiliation revenge non-fraternisation of a language qui peut se contenter de l’opposition de quelque chose avec rien. The marked term say the feminine, the unmarked say the masculine or vice versa can derive from the marked by an absence which signifies eine Abwesenheit die etwas bedeutet.
The visitor’s attention turns immediately to lower things such as the absence of any vaporetto at the jetty and the convenient presence of a gondolier just depositing a female grey-haired tourist ready for another alleinstehende Frau with a glint of a hint of a tint. San Marco per favore. Bene signora and no attempt to look again in an Italian way at a worn-out woman with a slept-on look or unslept-on according to the enemy viewpoint Marianne Lilibet or die Heimat who gets no second glance from any man or boy in the piazza in an Italian way at the flesh between the zest of youth and the wisdom of old age where lies a not so long period of relief repose and resignation called the middle ages that wouldn’t mind having got stuck in the sixth century with the virile Goths in Italy but the twelfth—ugh. And the fifteenth ugh-ugh. Nothing deserves a flow of rash enthusiasm my sweet, not even San Marco, which, begun in 830 and completed in 1484, preserves more perfectly than any existing building in the territories once belonging to the Eastern Empire the quintessential spirit of Byzantine art. Inside the porch three red marble slabs commemorate the spot where Henry Otto Friedrich or Barbarossa knelt to receive the kiss of peace from whatever pope non si ricorda esattamente after thirty years and plus conceding however no point of vital substance. The popes have no power now. We have no evidence whatever that any human being, let alone an alleinstehende Frau, can so embody the divine principle descending into matter in any behaviour sufficiently organised to prevent empires falling between one war and another to the scheme of l’ourobouros, not merely as a ring of flesh but expressing life out of death, death out of life that turns immediately to higher things, such as the blue temperature of minus fifty degrees or so around the enormous wing, the jet-exhausts invisible in their power or the propellers invisible in their speed save for a hinted halo and from this seat no cloud no man-made object no rectangles of agriculture or jardines passing to show that the heart flies immobile at a speed of nine hundred and ninety kilometres an hour towards the rue du Four.
Inside they have pressurised the comfort. The people sit hidden in their high armchairs that stretch interminably towards the distant brain way up behind the tabernacle and beyond no doubt a little door, except for a few headtops bald fluffy red sleeky black between the port and starboard engines, looked after cradled in their needs, eat drink smoke talk doze dream. Votre filet de sauvetage se trouve sous votre siège. Ce filet peut servir pour une personne privée de connaissance et per assistere anche una persona priva de conoscenza. This life-jacket self-rights itself to maintain the head above water. Omo Schaum-Stop reguliert sich selber, 1. Le sortir de son logement et l’enfiler par dessus la tête. 2. Serrer les cordons autour de la taille. 3. Ne pas gonfler le filet avant de sortir de l’avion. Pour gonfler, tirer la poigneé rouge (1). Pour gonfler à bloc souffler dans le tube (2). Allumer la lampe en tirant à fond la poignée jaune (3). The air-hostess in blue with short fair hair and un amour de soutien-gorge puts down the plastic tray covered with various foods in little plastic troughs representing not a ring of flesh but Poulet Sauté, Epinards, Pommes Frites, Poire Belle Hélène, Fromage/Biscuits, Café. Vous avez de l’eau minérale?
— Non madame. Du Perrier seulement.
— Bon, un Perrier s’il vous plait. Sans glace.
L’eau follement pétillante. The body stretches forth towards some thought some order some command obeyed in the distant brain way up as the wing spreads to starboard motionless on the darkening temperature of minus what, forty-seven, the metal shell dividing it from this great pressurised serenity and absolute calm she translates with from a dead language that compels no passion no commitment no loyalty to anyone and out in simultaneous quiet suspension of judgment as the sky grows dark over the chasms of the unseen Alps and the bright red bar of sunset slices the navy sky like a hot poker in the twilight of the soul and sweet evening conversations. Vénus vous boude. Mars vous contre. La Lune vous rendra particulièrement sensible. Mercure vous donnera des idées plus claires through a swift reintegration into totality by virtue of an ontological recognition that we belong to all of the signs all of the time as the green light winks under the stars on and off in the enormous black behind the rectangular window. It looks like a light on earth but travels with the body of the lit-up plane full
of stimaţi pasageri at a speed of total immobility between the invisible wings. The plastic tray remains full of half-eaten sautés skin and bones between the crumbs of roll the cellophane paper and the gulliverised salt and pepper containers. Between the port and starboard engines the body floats, the plastic tray takes off above the breasts of the air-hostess in un amour de soutien-gorge.
The ship bumps down the steps of air, losing height slowly as it nears its expected minute of arrival, the distant brain obeying innumerable instructions that translate time speed height into locality and channel and descent into bright lights. Mesdames messieurs, nous allons atterrir dans quelques minutes à Orly. Prière d’éteindre vos ceintures—excusez-moi prière d’éteindre vos cigarettes and laugh as the elegant blue-haired lady next to you laughs so that old age has its attractions still in the freedom of the night lights and the imprecision of nationality through the brightlit signs in French such as MILKBAR Parking Tearoom SOLDES de SWEATERS et de TWINSETS Teinturerie LAVING PRESSING for the improvement of migration statistics and the circulation of such reports to member governments. Nous n’allons pas considérer cependant les très simples instructions de certains codes—le code de la route par exemple qui ne représente qu’un intérêt dérisoire pour la sémiologie nevertheless and necessarily understood immediately and out in simultaneous German. As soon as we pass to other systems of objects and images—as for example the cinema, the press, comics, or, equally interesting, the codes of furniture, of fashion and of food, we find a doubling of the iconic message by language which supports the significations. Above Times Square five letters have gone dark in STU ANT with the eye in an imprecision of nationality reading STUPEFIANT—The International Passport to Smoking Pleasure. Let us return for a moment to the central Saussurean dichotomy of Langue et Parole. La langue in a dumb show consists of le langage moins la Parole, une institution sociale, un système de valeurs which escapes from all premeditation since the individual cannot create it or modify it. La parole on the other hand consists of an individual act of selection and actualisation. This fruitful dichotomy has suggested many others, notably that of Code and Message, or the famous duplex structures which of course you all know and understand immediately because the thing understood passes away together with the need to understand.
The Brooke-Rose Omnibus Page 48
