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Authors: Marguerite Duras, Barbara Bray
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light beatings of his heart that speak his life, advancing every day and every night toward something unknown, something to come, destined for him alone.
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And I know nothing more of the difference between the men of Gdansk and the men of God. Between the thousands of children who starved to death in Vilna and the young priest Jerzy Popieluszko.
Nor anything more of the difference between the graves in the East and the poems buried in the earth of the Ukraine and Silesia, between the deathly silence of the Afghan lands and the unfathomable malfeasance of that same God.
I know nothing more. Nothing more. Anywhere. Than the
truth of truth and the lie of lies. I can no longer distinguish words from tears. I know only that the child walks forward on the forest path.
That he walks forward. Alone. That he walks some more.
And more. And that the young counselor has stood up and looked into the trees, and that she sees his red sweater. And that beneath her breath she called out a word that the child recognized and that he cried out in turn. A word that cannot be written, that has been spoken only among Jews for six thousand years, or a hundred thousand years, no one knows.
Â
On Gdansk I posed my lips and I kissed that Jewish child and the dead children of the Vilna ghetto. I also kissed them in my mind and in my body.
Â
You say, âWhat were we talking about in the dark room? What was it?â
I say that, like you, I donât remember what it was.
It was about the events of that summer, no doubt; about the rain, and hunger.
About injustice.
About death.
About the bad weather, about those hot nights that bled into August days, about the cool shadows of the walls,
about those cruel young girls who lavished desire,
about those endless hotels, now demolished,
about those cool, dark hallways, those now-abandoned rooms where so, so many books and so much love had been made,
about that man from Cabourg who was Jewish like the child, like writing, Jewish like the soul,
about those evenings that went by so slowly, you remember, when they danced before him, those two wicked girls, danced for the man tortured by desire who was on the verge of losing his life and who was weeping there, on the sofa in the grand salon with its view of the sea,
in the mad delight of hoping to die of it someday. One time,
about Mozart and the midnight blue over the arctic lakes,
about the midnight blue daylight over the singing voices in the casinos made of snow and black ice; the heart trembles. The voices, yes, singing arias of Mozart and murdered Jews,
and about the way you had of doing nothing, the way I had of waiting for you to go down to the beach. To see. See your laughing eyes, again and again and more each day,
about your way of waiting on sofas facing outside, toward the scattered continents, the oceans, sorrow, joy,
about that child, over and over. About his eternity.
Â
We spoke about Poland. About a Poland to come, embraced by hope and the idea of God,
about the postcard the child brought back to the young counselor,
and again about the country of Poland, homeland to us all, home of the living dead of Vilna and of the Jewish children,
and also about Rue de Londres, so strangely beautiful, so smooth, purified of every detail, as naked as a gaze.
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The child walks. He moves forward. We no longer see him at all.
We remain standing, apart from each other.
We close our eyes. Our closed eyes face the cliffs.
You do the looking for me.
You say that the buses with the first group have pulled out onto the highway. That itâs raining, that itâs still a light, warm summer rain.
You say, âThe child has passed the cliffs.â You cry, âWhere is he going?â
You say she isnât turning around. Iâve understood: sheâs letting him go his own way. Itâs he who is forging the path. She follows the path he traces; sheâs letting him go completely his own way, as she
Â
And I know nothing more of the difference between the men of Gdansk and the men of God. Between the thousands of children who starved to death in Vilna and the young priest Jerzy Popieluszko.
Nor anything more of the difference between the graves in the East and the poems buried in the earth of the Ukraine and Silesia, between the deathly silence of the Afghan lands and the unfathomable malfeasance of that same God.
I know nothing more. Nothing more. Anywhere. Than the
truth of truth and the lie of lies. I can no longer distinguish words from tears. I know only that the child walks forward on the forest path.
That he walks forward. Alone. That he walks some more.
And more. And that the young counselor has stood up and looked into the trees, and that she sees his red sweater. And that beneath her breath she called out a word that the child recognized and that he cried out in turn. A word that cannot be written, that has been spoken only among Jews for six thousand years, or a hundred thousand years, no one knows.
Â
On Gdansk I posed my lips and I kissed that Jewish child and the dead children of the Vilna ghetto. I also kissed them in my mind and in my body.
Â
You say, âWhat were we talking about in the dark room? What was it?â
I say that, like you, I donât remember what it was.
It was about the events of that summer, no doubt; about the rain, and hunger.
About injustice.
About death.
About the bad weather, about those hot nights that bled into August days, about the cool shadows of the walls,
about those cruel young girls who lavished desire,
about those endless hotels, now demolished,
about those cool, dark hallways, those now-abandoned rooms where so, so many books and so much love had been made,
about that man from Cabourg who was Jewish like the child, like writing, Jewish like the soul,
about those evenings that went by so slowly, you remember, when they danced before him, those two wicked girls, danced for the man tortured by desire who was on the verge of losing his life and who was weeping there, on the sofa in the grand salon with its view of the sea,
in the mad delight of hoping to die of it someday. One time,
about Mozart and the midnight blue over the arctic lakes,
about the midnight blue daylight over the singing voices in the casinos made of snow and black ice; the heart trembles. The voices, yes, singing arias of Mozart and murdered Jews,
and about the way you had of doing nothing, the way I had of waiting for you to go down to the beach. To see. See your laughing eyes, again and again and more each day,
about your way of waiting on sofas facing outside, toward the scattered continents, the oceans, sorrow, joy,
about that child, over and over. About his eternity.
Â
We spoke about Poland. About a Poland to come, embraced by hope and the idea of God,
about the postcard the child brought back to the young counselor,
and again about the country of Poland, homeland to us all, home of the living dead of Vilna and of the Jewish children,
and also about Rue de Londres, so strangely beautiful, so smooth, purified of every detail, as naked as a gaze.
Â
The child walks. He moves forward. We no longer see him at all.
We remain standing, apart from each other.
We close our eyes. Our closed eyes face the cliffs.
You do the looking for me.
You say that the buses with the first group have pulled out onto the highway. That itâs raining, that itâs still a light, warm summer rain.
You say, âThe child has passed the cliffs.â You cry, âWhere is he going?â
You say she isnât turning around. Iâve understood: sheâs letting him go his own way. Itâs he who is forging the path. She follows the path he traces; sheâs letting him go completely his own way, as she
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