Читать книгу Reading Nijinsky - Hélène Rioux - Страница 9

I am afraid of death, which is why I love life.

Nijinsky, Diary

Here I am, naked and alone. Offering myself to the sea while she offers herself to me, face to face with her. Before life’s blessing, this immovable untamed beauty of the sea, movement, power, constancy. And this has been given to me, like a charm, to rejoice in with all my senses. Here I am at the end of the earth, at the end of myself. I could just as well be before death.

As naked as the sea. And as alone. Despite a multitude of beings living and moving inside it. In myself as well, a multitude of beings and thoughts. Monsters inhabit its depths like they do mine; they roar, claw and destroy.

The sea fans out today, calm and turquoise. Beneath the sun, millions of sparks dance, a starry firmament. Only a diver could notice these monsters, were he to explore her depths. They have tentacles and warts, emerge from crevices, float around in the muck. Mine also move underground, but I feel them tremble when I dive inside myself.

I am naked because I’ve found a safe hiding place. I walk down the rocks, spread out a towel on the shingles, remove my clothes. Only a few birds see me and pay no attention. They fly, alighting for a moment on the crest of the waves, then open their wings and fly away again, never coming close to me. Their wings spread out, they fly above the waves, seeking prey. Their keen eyes detect a fish venturing too close to the surface. I hear their cries, my attention absorbed by experiences both minuscule and majestic, the surf, the intensity of the sun, the flight of seagulls, these signs of life.

Not really alone, though, because this presence fills me. What a racket, when the sea throws herself on the rocks, and at the same time, what silence! A tumultuous silence. It pervades until it sounds as if nothing else exists. Does anything else exist here? Singing, roaring, moaning, the call of the waves. Oh, to throw myself in and be swept away! The temptation of sinking into the sea.

In French, some people, strangely enough, refer to children as “les flots,” which means “waves.” The first time I heard the expression, I was floored. “My flot, someone said. I have a flot” “Oh! Really? My, my. Personally I have a wave, a dune in my head.” He’d laughed. “What are you talking about?” I’d answered: “And you?” I sought the meaning of the metaphor, believing it a very poetic way of expressing one’s self. In truth, it is a very poetic way. A flotAfterwards I thought it was perhaps a deformation of the word fellow and the charm dissolved.

I am naked before the sea, beneath the sun. You could not be more vulnerable. But I am fearless. If the sea carries me away, so be it; let her engulf me. The sea is like life, like death. When you look at her, you always want to be swept away in her sublime movement. You want to touch eternity. The body dragged down, sucked up, disappearing forever. You think it would be painless. But you have to hold back, deploy all your strength to resist its call. Only your mind breaks away and goes adrift. It glides – it too – like a bird. I breathe in deeply the sea air.

It was already day’s end when I arrived here, three days ago, after two weeks of wandering. It’s strange how I felt no hurry to reach my destination. A kind of torpor enveloped me. I meandered from city to city, sleeping, according to my mood, in pensions or four star hotels. I swam in heated pools whose water was bitter with chlorinated staleness. In pensions, I rented a room furnished with a narrow, uncomfortable bed, a lopsided chest of drawers, a sink with only one tap, cold water of course, a plywood closet containing three misshapen hangers. Often my window would look out over a patio decorated with bougainvillea and potted geraniums. In the morning I’d notice birds pecking at the thick grass, quenching their thirst in the birdbath.

In the hotels I had an armchair, a table, a telephone near the bed; I would have my own bathroom, with small cakes of soap in their soft pink wrapping, a downy pile of towels, plenty of hot water. I revelled in it, I spent hours in the bathtub. I would lie down on the big bed and turn on the television to put me to sleep. The images flowed by, the music of foreign voices soothed me. I would sleep an hour, wake up, go back to sleep.

I would eat in my room: bread and cheese, green apples. I drank water and wine. I could just as well have let myself die from starvation. It was an imitation of life, a line barely moving across a hospital screen in the intensive care unit. I was without hope. What effort it took to get out of bed, leave the room and emerge resplendent in the sun! I always wore dark glasses.

I would take one street, then another, going into a bakery, a tobacconist, examining the postcards on their metal racks, buying cigarettes. I smoked in the street. I walked in parks. I would sit down on a bench, immobile for hours, watching the crowd pass, a continuous wave. Who were all these people? What stories did they carry within, what tragedies lay in their hearts? Inventing people’s lives was my afternoon activity. This passer-by would become a runaway terrorist, this woman, looking as if she’d been plunged into mourning, must have lost her entire family in the fire that ravaged her home; another suffered from a cruel, incurable disease. Sometimes, but more rarely, I would imagine happy lives. Swarms of laughing teenagers passing by, school bags under their arms, children bursting out laughing on the swings, a little old lady dressed all in black feeding the pigeons who recognized her: serene signs of everyday life. I would choose a character among these and offer him a gift, a holiday existence: a hand caressing his hair, the purring of a cat, a piano in a room bathed in light. Notes chiming from the window: the little old lady had been an acclaimed musician, I could hear bursts of wild applause from everywhere, she arose and bowed to the audience, her dress white and sparkling, her shoulders bare, her severe bun trans formed into luxuriant hair held in place by a mother-of-pearl barrette in back. A lover, a husband overcome with emotion waited in the wings. She ran to seek refuge in his arms. The wool of his jacket, this slightly harsh warmth against her cheek, comforted her. Simple gifts life can offer in its bounty – I gave them to the bird woman, then returned, a little lighter, to the hotel. I made resolutions: to go out, sit outdoors at a restaurant and order a good meal, go to the movies, go dancing, let myself be wooed by a handsome, dark man, bring him back to my hotel. In his arms, love, like fireworks. But I always ended up going to bed without going out. After two weeks of wandering, I went into a bus station and chose Almuñecar among the destinations written on the large board. I remembered having already passed by this city, a coastal resort quasi-deserted at this time of year. I left the same afternoon.

Coming out of the bus station, I got my bearings. I looked for the sea. There would surely be apartments to rent on the Paseo. At this late hour, I should hurry to find a roof over my head. I didn’t want to take a taxi, but to discover the place on my own, get a feel for it. I didn’t make any inquiries. I walked with assurance, as if I lived there.

I walked along the seashore. The sun was on the point of setting and the light had a special quality, the softness it has at dusk when it has been nice all day. Warm and dewy, not intense, but muted, everything delicate. A watermarked crescent of a moon, an ironic smile in the pale sky.

I liked the sounds and smells, the apparent serenity of the place. I would be at home here, nesting, like on an island.

The building was called “Ultima Ola,” as if the last wave had just come there to die. I chose it for its name. A garden surrounded it, an orange cat perched nonchalantly on the edge of the empty pool. A sign at the entrance advertised apartments for rent.

The rental office was still open. I entered. Inside, seated behind a cluttered desk, a faraway look in his eyes, a tall, thin young man with dark curly hair, wearing a blue checked shirt, was daydreaming. I explained in a few words what I was looking for, and he showed me an apartment overlooking the sea, on the third floor. We came back downstairs. I filled out forms, showed my passport, paid the first month’s rent. He handed over the keys. I asked him his name. Manuel. But people call him Manolo.

Then I took possession of the place: made the bed, lay down between the sheets, placed my toothbrush and cleansing cream on the shelf above the bathroom sink, drank a glass of water in the kitchen, smoked a cigarette. Now the place is lived in. Because although I want to remain anonymous, the places I choose to live in still have to resemble me, I want to recognize my scent, my gestures, see cigarette butts in the ashtray, my cleanser in the bathroom, a hair of mine on the pillow. I am an animal marking its territory.

Then I went to the grocery, nearby. I bought bread, wine, tomatoes, oranges, olives. Five different kinds. I stayed a few minutes sitting on the little wall bordering the beach in front of the building, eating black and green olives, the ones stuffed with almonds, the pitted manzanillas, the ones marinated in garlic and lemon. I heard the sea at my back, I watched the people out for an evening walk. I repeated to myself: I have the sea at my back, I am eating Spanish olives in Spain, in front of where I live. Can this resemble happiness? A certain kind of contentment, at least? I came to this destination, I told myself. I am on solid ground, have a fixed address, an official dwelling. Edificio Ultima Ola, apartamento 303, Paseo Reina Sofia. I am home. I can begin work.

Once inside, I opened the cupboards, counted the glasses and plates, inspected the contents of the drawers: four knives, six spoons, four forks, a corkscrew, a can opener, a whisk, a spatula. I could even make friends and invite them to dinner. I would impress them with recipes from the magazine, the smoked salmon omelette, exotic salad, mandarin mousse. I also found a set of stained pans, two beat-up pots, a blue earthenware pitcher, an espresso maker, and no cockroaches.

White sheets were in the chest of drawers, a woollen blanket in the closet, towels neatly folded on top of the toilet in the bathroom, watercolour seascapes hanging on the living room wall, as if the view of the sea alone were not enough. I sliced tomatoes and bread, uncorked a bottle of wine, and sat down at the table on the balcony.

Later, night fell, definitively, covering the sea and trees. Water crashed over the rocks. I willed away anxiety, rejected it. The crashing of the water drowned out all possible voices. The bottle of wine was empty and I didn’t notice time pass. I locked the front door, but opened wide the one leading to the balcony. In the distance, a point jutted out into the sea. A lighthouse rose from it, flashing at steady intervals in the night. When I lay down on the couch, I couldn’t see the street, only the beam of the lighthouse, the waves and the tops of the palm trees. The moon, on the water, traced a trail of light. It feels as if I’m living in a boat that the wind is pushing toward an island. I abandon myself, languorously. Sometimes drifting is salutary.

The next day I walked to the heart of the village, bought Spanish newspapers, T-shirts of every colour featuring Almuñecar, the rocks, the castle, the sailboats on the water, the fishing boats on shore, I bought jeans, a warm sweater, and an inexpensive cassette tape. In a secondhand bookstore, I found a battered French-English dictionary. I also bought good lined notebooks made of entirely recycled paper, their pretty covers decorated with musical staffs, extra-fine-tipped blue pens. Coming home, I moved some of the furniture around, took down the watercolours and stored them in the cupboard. The seascape is live before my eyes.

And now I am here, completely naked, hidden by the rocks. Completely naked and alone.

Sometimes very powerful odours emanate from the sea. Dead fish, decomposing algae, shells. Forceful odours. They seem to come from the very belly of the sea. They trouble and keel the brain. That’s how Leonard Ming spoke. Leonard Ming, the Man from Hong Kong, the killer. The ocean that soothes me fed his furor. The odour of death reminded him of that which stagnates around ports in the morning, when the fishing boats come in.

He is dead now. The killer is no more, killed in turn, but in the electric chair, following an interminable, widely publicized trial. His autobiography was a sensation. He wrote in his cell, condemned to die, leaving out no detail. I came away on this trip to translate this man’s story. I gave up on the Love Collection, the lies of romance. I decided to enter death and its truth. I wanted to do it all alone, near the sea and consoled by her. Naked on the rocks, I breathe in the salty air to infinity, as if iodine could heal the heart.