Read Online Fata Morgana by William Kotzwinkle - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: William Kotzwinkle
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heavy wooden door. He continued on toward the fountain; it was a humble, utilitarian creation—for the purpose the old man had put it to—water for the adjoining households. But the Viennese soul could not resist adding a few grotesque pieces of stonework—a bench, and an ancient statue, dragged from somewhere and stuck down, to give visitors to the alleyway something to remember.
Picard was glad of the bench; his head had started to ache, where the Baron had clubbed him. Maybe the Baron’s thinking of me. We’re beaten down by enemies, by life, and the pain is inevitable, raise the head slowly, slowly...
He looked toward the ancient statue, saw now that it was an old tombstone, a block of stone carved in the shape of a heart, with a skull atop it.
His own heart began to beat violently, and a feeling of doom swirled around him. He closed his eyes, trying to relax. His head was ringing, much as it had rung when Baron Mantes split it open; perhaps such ringing never ceases, just grows fainter and returns. We are trapped in our worst moment forever, forever falling to the ground, falling...
He stood, his uncertain footsteps carrying him toward the tombstone, and he found himself staring at the amorphous shape above the skull, Christ crucified, the suffering features nearly obliterated by rain and wind. The cross was hung with spider webs, inside of which dark flies were suspended.
He bent at the fountain, splashed water on his face, fighting down the ugly fantasy that he was dead, that Lazare had tricked him, poisoned him, that he was nothing but a spectre haunting an alleyway. He knelt, removing his hat and ducking his whole head under. Good citizens, forgive, I’m a feverish traveler.
But the alleyway was empty, no one saw his bath. He was alone, in a solitude which he suddenly felt to be complete, stretching endlessly across Europe, around the earth itself.
He walked on, holding his hat, leaving the alleyway behind. The tradesmen and office workers were finished for the day, and he asked a woman for directions. Her voice was empty, far off, like that of a woman met in a dream. He wanted to cry out, Madame, we’re dreamers, we’re dreaming, you and I, and she saw the madness in his eyes, turned quickly and walked away, leaving him standing on the street corner, beneath a statue of naked wrestling gods.
The insane asylum, then? The voice of the Viennese Chief mocked him with its suggestion, a suggestion that suddenly became a possibility. For how many, reflected Picard, how many grab their bars and scream, This is a dream, let me free, I’m dreaming!
He heard bright music ahead, aimed for it, seeking to be born into the world again, the everyday world of the street. An accordionist and guitar player stood at the edge of Am Hof Square, in which a festival of some sort was being held. He walked up to the musicians, tossed several coins into the battered hat they’d laid on the road. They nodded and continued playing, playing the world, playing life. They were older than he, the guitarist had only one leg, and played a cheerful tune of the street.
Picard moved against the building, leaned there, resting and listening. The guitarist too was leaning, his empty pinned-up pants leg fluttering in the wind. Picard tried to understand the words of the song, a folk song, something about human, human, so nature has made us.
A young boy appeared, running toward the musicians, and he whispered to them, causing them to cease playing at once. Picard looked in the direction from which the boy had come.
A funeral cortege came toward them, the carriage draped in black, the horses pulling slowly. The coffin was a plain one, riding in a little hill of flowers that had been strewn in the carriage. The musicians had lowered their instruments, making them inconspicuous as the procession went on past. Only when the carriage had turned the distant corner beyond the square did they resume their tune: human, human, so nature has made
Picard was glad of the bench; his head had started to ache, where the Baron had clubbed him. Maybe the Baron’s thinking of me. We’re beaten down by enemies, by life, and the pain is inevitable, raise the head slowly, slowly...
He looked toward the ancient statue, saw now that it was an old tombstone, a block of stone carved in the shape of a heart, with a skull atop it.
His own heart began to beat violently, and a feeling of doom swirled around him. He closed his eyes, trying to relax. His head was ringing, much as it had rung when Baron Mantes split it open; perhaps such ringing never ceases, just grows fainter and returns. We are trapped in our worst moment forever, forever falling to the ground, falling...
He stood, his uncertain footsteps carrying him toward the tombstone, and he found himself staring at the amorphous shape above the skull, Christ crucified, the suffering features nearly obliterated by rain and wind. The cross was hung with spider webs, inside of which dark flies were suspended.
He bent at the fountain, splashed water on his face, fighting down the ugly fantasy that he was dead, that Lazare had tricked him, poisoned him, that he was nothing but a spectre haunting an alleyway. He knelt, removing his hat and ducking his whole head under. Good citizens, forgive, I’m a feverish traveler.
But the alleyway was empty, no one saw his bath. He was alone, in a solitude which he suddenly felt to be complete, stretching endlessly across Europe, around the earth itself.
He walked on, holding his hat, leaving the alleyway behind. The tradesmen and office workers were finished for the day, and he asked a woman for directions. Her voice was empty, far off, like that of a woman met in a dream. He wanted to cry out, Madame, we’re dreamers, we’re dreaming, you and I, and she saw the madness in his eyes, turned quickly and walked away, leaving him standing on the street corner, beneath a statue of naked wrestling gods.
The insane asylum, then? The voice of the Viennese Chief mocked him with its suggestion, a suggestion that suddenly became a possibility. For how many, reflected Picard, how many grab their bars and scream, This is a dream, let me free, I’m dreaming!
He heard bright music ahead, aimed for it, seeking to be born into the world again, the everyday world of the street. An accordionist and guitar player stood at the edge of Am Hof Square, in which a festival of some sort was being held. He walked up to the musicians, tossed several coins into the battered hat they’d laid on the road. They nodded and continued playing, playing the world, playing life. They were older than he, the guitarist had only one leg, and played a cheerful tune of the street.
Picard moved against the building, leaned there, resting and listening. The guitarist too was leaning, his empty pinned-up pants leg fluttering in the wind. Picard tried to understand the words of the song, a folk song, something about human, human, so nature has made us.
A young boy appeared, running toward the musicians, and he whispered to them, causing them to cease playing at once. Picard looked in the direction from which the boy had come.
A funeral cortege came toward them, the carriage draped in black, the horses pulling slowly. The coffin was a plain one, riding in a little hill of flowers that had been strewn in the carriage. The musicians had lowered their instruments, making them inconspicuous as the procession went on past. Only when the carriage had turned the distant corner beyond the square did they resume their tune: human, human, so nature has made
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