Just before the third tour of the square ended Chancelade had time to make up a poem for the green and blue lizard lying on its back in the dark wooden coffin with brass handles. This was it:
For my Lizard.
Your eyes are so big lizard
Your nose is so flat, lizard
Your teeth are bad, lizard
Your tail is broken, lizard
The cat killed you, lizard
You were trying to steal, lizard
So you got what was coming to you, lizard
Now farewell, lizard
We’re going to bury you, lizard
In the black coffin, lizard
You asked for it, lizard
You’d been told often enough, lizard
That you must never, lizard
Never never lounge, lizard.
It was also from about this moment that Chancelade began to understand that he would never be alone.
AND THE NIGHTS
In the room with closed shutters Chancelade has lain down on the bed and gone to sleep. He lay on his right side with his head near the edge of the pillow. He drew his right leg up so that the knee was touching his stomach and stretched his left leg out to the bottom of the bed. Though the room was stifling hot he pulled the sheet up to his chin and tucked it in round his neck so as not to leave any gap. He flung his right arm out across the mattress and bent the left one up so that the wrist was against his nose. Then he shut his eyes and waited in the darkness for the vision that comes every evening to announce that he’s going to sleep.
This is how it always happens. First the endless fall past the walls of a house, with the windows flashing by one after another. It’s always the same building—a huge block with a white frontage and lots of little square windows without shutters or blinds, through which you can see nothing but darkness. There are hundreds of them. Thousands. Millions. They fly past, and all the time you’re falling, falling, falling.
After that there’s this strange room without any furniture, without floor or ceiling, just two windows, one behind you and one in the wall facing you. And this is where you have to be careful. What you have to try to do is be simultaneously with your back to the inside wall and at the same time right up against the opposite one. It’s not easy, but it can be done if you know how. What you have to do is draw the walls towards one another with all the force of your will, gradually, without ever relaxing, as if you were pulling on a huge piece of elastic. And at the same time, inch by inch, you have to swell out your body to meet the wall. You have to invade all the space in the room, seize every cube of air, blow yourself up by breathing in, drinking, devouring the atmosphere. All means are justified so long as you succeed. You can imbue yourself with the colour brown, or the warmth of wood and plaster, or eat the specks of dust in the air, or touch the draughts. But the most difficult is this: when you’ve pulled the bit of the wall with the window in it right up to you so that it’s touching your legs and stomach, you must also have remained as small as an ant lost in the enormous empty room, so that you see the same grey wall with its bright window distant and far away as if through a dozen mirrors. You see, it’s as if you were in a room small as a coffin yet at the same time vast and chill as a cathedral. Then, when you’ve succeeded in doing this after seconds, minutes, or hours of concentration, there suddenly rises up the sheet of fog that extinguishes the body. First your arms go unconscious, then your chest and stomach, then your back and the nape of your neck and your head. The fog keeps mounting—heavy, thick, uncoiling in great cold whorls. Your head topples and evaporates. There’s nothing left on the bed but the rumpled trace of someone who has become invisible. You’re asleep.
A long dark plain / Grass standing stiff as knives / Sound of water / Sound of footsteps walking through the grass / The heart beats fast, fast / ‘No need to be frightened’ says the voice / ‘No need to be frightened no need to be frightened’ / ‘It’s the wolves prowling’ / ‘Or the sound of the wind’ / ‘Perhaps it’s the rain falling’ / ‘It’s stopped raining’ / ‘Then perhaps it’s the sound of your footsteps’ / ‘I’m not walking I’m not walking’ / ‘You see’ / The clouds are driving across the sky / It’s night and day at the same time / ‘Watch out there’ / You can see the light / ‘There’s a fire in the forest’ / ‘What forest what forest’ / ‘I want to get away from here’ / ‘I want to get away from here’ / ‘I want to go let me go’ / ‘Why won’t my legs move’ / ‘I want to get out of here’ / ‘I want to get away’ / The night is black / The smoke is black / The grass is black / The fire is black / The forest is black / The wolves are bla / ‘Quick what’s the time’ / The night is black / The smoke is black / The grass is black / The fire is black /The forest is black /The wolves are b / ‘Look out I’m falling’ / The night is / ‘Stop, stop it, stop it’ / ‘Don’t you see it’s raining now’ / ‘The rain will put the fire out’ / ‘The wind’s dropped it’s going to rain’ / ‘Listen’ / ‘See the lightning over there’ / ‘My mother said she’d be along right away’ / The night is black / black / black / ‘She’s on her way’ / ‘Yes she’s coming I can see her’ / The night is / ‘Yes yes the night is black the smoke is black the grass is black the fire is black’ / You’re forgetting something / ‘The moon is black’ / And / ‘The spiders are black’ / Yes and / ‘The ink is black’ / The ink is blue-black and / ‘The glasses are black’ / The glasses are black and / ‘The water is black’ / And you were going to say / ‘I can’t’ / Yes / ‘No’ / Yes / ‘No’ / Yes / ‘No’ / Yes / ‘No’ / The / ‘The potatoes’ / That’s not it / ‘The olives’ / No / ‘The cars’ / No the / ‘The’ / Hurry up you’ve got to say it / ‘I can’t it’s too dangerous’ / Quick / ‘I’m frightened’ / Quick quick / ‘The’ / The / ‘The wolves are black’/
THE WOLVES ARE BLACK
Now run quick quick / Run / The lightning flashes / The rain comes down / Bang bang pit a pat / Grrraooo /Run / Run / Feet thump the ground / Knees pound / The grass is wet / There’s broken glass in the grass / A tree over there / Run / Ha ha ha ha / Down / Up / Down / Up / The lightning flashes /Again / ‘I’m slipping’ / There’s a hole full of mud / ‘I’m falling I’m falling’ / The mud / ‘Help’ / The wolves have come / They prowl round / But there’s only one wolf now / He’s as big as a mountain / He prowls round / You can hear his raucous breathing / Rhaaa / Rhaaa / Rhaaa / His mouth opens like a cave / The teeth / The red throat / The raucous breathing / ‘I’m slipping towards his throat’ / ‘I’m going to fall in’ / The eyes light up the whole night / Two red fires flickering in the sky / ‘I must blow the eyes out’ / ‘Blow blow’ / Impossible the eyes are still burning / Everything here has turned into wolf / The mouth / The throat / The teeth / The forest and the back / The grass and the fur / The paws / The trees / The mountain / The cave / The throat / The eyes / The fire / The wind / The rasping breath / ‘Rhaaa’ ‘Rhaaa’ / The hands are coming / The nails shine / The white teeth / The eyes flicker / The night is black / black / The forest is black / black / the grass black / black / The eyes black / black / The fire black / black / The wolves are black / are black / ‘Mummy’ / Roll on to my back / Swim / The slime / The water closes over / The sky is a black puddle / ‘I’m stifling’ / ‘I can’t breathe’ / ‘Help’ / Stifled in the filthy mud / Stifled in the black water / ‘I’m dead’ / No one / Never anyone / Alone / ‘I can’t see’ / At the bottom of the well in the stagnant water / Water coming in through ears and nose / Water coming in through the eyes / Nowhere / Finished / Lost / Alone horrible alone / Blade between the ribs / Cold steel piercing skin and lungs / Breath going / Blood flowing into the water like a cloud / The light gurgles / Bubbles of light / Of blood / ‘I’m dead’ / The night is black the forest is black the fire is / black the grass is black the flame is black the eyes are black the rain is black / The smoke is black the trees are black the sky is black the mud is / black the hands are black the glasses are black the / snakes are black the potatoes are black the wolves / are black the wolv
es / are black the wolves / are black /
There’s no more forest now, no more plains or fires, no more …
There’s a big room without any windows in the walls.
There’s a great empty room.
All along the windowless walls stand statues.
There is one statue like the others.
It is of grey stone and it stands on the concrete floor.
It doesn’t move, it doesn’t speak, its eyes are motionless.
It stays as it is.
It’s made of hard grey stone, and the walls and ceiling float around it like smoke.
It’s at least six feet high.
There’s no noise, no noise.
Then the statue takes off its stone mask.
It doesn’t move but the mask just quietly disappears.
And under the first mask there’s a second.
The second mask disappears and there’s a third.
A fourth.
A fifth.
A sixth, a seventh.
An eighth mask, a ninth mask, a tenth mask.
The masks are falling at top speed now, so fast you can’t count them any more.
And there’s always another mask made of stone, motionless, with eyes fixed.
With two wrinkles round the empty mouth, and arched brows.
With a hard nose, ears and cheeks of stone.
And the unmoving statue madly sheds its masks.
Noses, mouths, eyes appear and disappear, appear and disappear.
There are ten, a hundred, a thousand every second.
And each time you see it’s a different mask.
Motionless, solemn, hard as stone.
The statue sheds its masks furiously, like running water.
And its face is never seen.
It never melts, it is never ready.
It has no face, it has only millions of falling masks.
Millions of fixed eyes.
Millions of ears.
Millions of foreheads and cheeks.
Millions of black mouths with two wrinkles on each side.
The statue will never show its real face.
And in the same way, all along the walls of the great empty room, the millions of statues shed their masks, here their fixed eyes, there their hard noses, there again their empty mouths with two wrinkles on each side.
The masks frantically come and go from one end to the other of the empty room.
And not a single word is ever spoken.
Chancelade is in a public lavatory. He walked a little way along the low room looking for an empty cubicle. Right at the end he found one with the door open and used that. It was very new and white, with nylon curtains and a chromium chain. He didn’t stay in there long. But when he came out he saw two men waiting for him. One was skinny, with glasses, and the other very tall and stout and stood with his arms akimbo. The thin one came up quietly and said politely :
Chancelade doesn’t quite understand what he’s saying, but it’s something about a brand-new fixture that Chancelade has spoiled. A brand-new collapsible fixture that had been put there to await delivery. He’ll have to pay for it. Chancelade reaches for his wallet and asks how much. The thin man explains that it’s an absolutely new fixture, luxury model, and with the chromium chain you have to reckon about 130 pounds sterling. Chancelade is just about to take out his wallet when he realizes that that’s very dear for a W.C. He says: ‘I’m not paying for a new one when this one can still be used.’ The man with glasses insists but Chancelade makes to go away. Then the tall stout man pushes his companion aside and plants himself in front of Chancelade:
‘That’s enough argument. Give me the mok.’ Chancelade is surprised at having understood him. He didn’t know there was a word pronounced ‘mok’. But he understood that it meant money. And then, before he realizes what has happened, he finds himself out on the pavement again with a knife in his hand. He’s fighting the two men. He easily kills the skinny one with glasses. But the other is too big and strong. Chancelade knows he’s going to die but advances just the same toward the man, who is holding a sharp knife. Chancelade clasps the handle of his own knife tightly in his right hand and inches towards the giant. And he isn’t very surprised when he feels the cold blade enter his heart.
And there’s war too, with whistling bullets, shells, and the mine that explodes under the man’s body and shatters him to pieces. All you can see in the muddy crater is curly hair stained with blood. War, the shark-nosed submarine, the aeroplane spinning down the sky, and the tumbrils of black smoke belched from bombed oil-tanks. A dozen men in uniform shoot another man against a brick wall. The bullets burst and dig their rending hole. Trees collapse with a crash, the barbed wire pierces the skin at the back of the neck, rooks caw along the roads. Out of the dried-up earth come pale hands with fingers gnawed by rats. And all the time the siren turns round and round, imprisoned in the head, shrieking out its sinister call.
Lying on its front on a bed with unnaturally clean sheets. It’s a body. Someone you can’t see slowly brings the syringe and gives the injections. The right hand holds the long syringe and the left rubs with the piece of cottonwool dipped in spirit. And without stopping they keep giving the body injections, terrible injections that enter into the flesh and make it shudder. In the back, on the shoulder-blades, in the buttocks, in the thighs, in the back again, and in the nape of the neck. The needle sinks into the white meat, and the black liquid flows out drop by drop. And although it’s that body there that they’re giving injections to, the pain reaches you and makes you moan, shriek, howl, bellow! Then comes the terrible lumbar puncture and the sharp needle penetrates the spinal column in the middle of the back, and introduces the serum. The pain is so strong, blinding as lightning, that you faint.
And now the last dream of the night, the dream Chancelade has always had as far back as he can remember. It’s the strangest dream of all and the most desperate, because what happens in it is nothing. Perhaps it’s merely the face of truth, inexpressible, impossible to understand, the realest of all dreams. Here in a topsyturvy world there are no more years or days or minutes. When you wake up it will be 9.30 or noon or one o’clock in the morning. You’ll be called Chancelade or Tonibaldi or Brogger. You’ll be twelve years old or thirty-five or ninety-seven. It will be 1966 or 2640 or 722 B.C. Anything’s possible. And, tonight as every night, he’ll have this inspired and terrifying dream, this empty dream. Stretched out on the bed with his face in the pillow and his legs drawn up, Chancelade dreams that he is conscious. He is submerged in consciousness, consciousness without form, without colour, without sound, without words. He sees himself see himself, simply, indefinitely, as if he’d suddenly put his head into the prison of a three-sided mirror. However far into the distance he looks all he meets is his own gaze reflected through space and back again. Body and mind, all is strained to the limit, caught in the vertigo of consciousness. Paralysed, drained, annihilated. And yet in all this deserted kingdom of which it is the centre, his own gaze lives and feeds on itself. Nothing can be done to forget or to escape. There’s no word, like ‘Fire’ or ‘Ocean’, to get hold of. Not an image with which to get away, not a thought with which to distract oneself. There is nothing but this atrociously extended knowledge, this invisible eye ceaselessly photographing its own life and wiping out at the same moment as it creates, as if what it showed was too bright and pure to be anything but darkness. Then, after these centuries of infinity and fury, after these long years and endless seconds of consciousness silently spinning on its own axis, Chancelade wakes, turns over, and pushes the sheet down a bit because he’s bathed in sweat.
I PLAYED ALL THOSE GAMES
You’d never done playing all the games there were. A prisoner on the flat face of the earth, standing on your two legs with the sun beating down on your head and the rain falling drop by drop, you had all these extraordinary adventures without really knowing where you were going. A pawn—you were no more than a pawn on the giant chess-bo
ard, a disc that the expert invisible hand moved about in order to win the incomprehensible game.
In the streets of the town a sort of ant-hill swarmed during the day and sparkled during the night. Each insect hurried without thinking towards its goal, following in the mysterious furrow traced by others. Each had his own life hermetically sealed up inside him, and desired nothing else. Each had his nest, his store of provisions, his eggs, his domestic rites. He had sketched out his own kingdom without realizing it, and it was always the same. Inside each shell, if you had looked, you would always have found the same things: a planet that resembled the earth, a bottle of wine or a glass of beer, a woman with dark hair or fair, a car, a refrigerator, a garden with a wire fence round it, a street, a cinema, two or three newspapers, and a packet of cigarettes, with or without tips. It was quite easy to be alive: all you had to do was be there, standing on the earth, breathing and staring vaguely at something. All the rest followed.
To be alive like Chancelade, all you had to do was go on playing all those games: dominoes, lotto, bridge, casino, truth, twenty questions, beggar-my-neighbour, gallows, drawing lots, draughts, ordinary roulette, blind man’s buff, tag, double or quits, Russian roulette. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else was really serious. You had to play and keep on playing with everything you saw, everything you touched, and with yourself. At forfeits, crossword puzzles, Go. At backgammon, hopscotch, crap, strip poker. At noughts and crosses, blow-football, poor Jenny, heads or tails, basketball, football, volleyball. Anything to stay alive :
You make a shape with some matches and say ‘Guess what it is’.
You drill a hole in the wall and see what’s going on next door.
You hold a piece of paper against your forehead and write your name backwards.
You smoke twenty cigarettes one after the other.
You eat 129 apricots.
You follow a woman in the street.
Terra Amata Page 6
