bullets. In time of
war hatred confused all the values, hatred fell upon cathedrals, paintings,
music, rare books, children, the innocent passersby.
She folded the letter, as she had folded the
parasol, out of sight of hatred and violence. She could not keep pace with the
angry pulse of the world. She was engaged in a smaller cycle, the one opposite
to war. There were truths women had been given to protect while the men went to
war. When everything would be blown away, a paper parasol would raise its head
among the debris, and man would be reminded of peace and tenderness.
Alan always believed he was giving Sabina
pleasure when he took her to the theatre, and at first her face was always
illuminated with suspense and curiosity. But inevitably she would grow restive
and tumultuous, chaotic and disturbed; she would even weep quietly in the dark
and disappear in between acts, so as not to expose a ravaged face.
“What is it, what is it?” repeated Alan
patiently, suspecting her of envy or jealousy of the roles given to others.
“You could be the most marvelous actress of our period if you wanted to give
your whole life to it, but you know how you feel about discipline and monotony.”
“It isn’t that, no, it isn’t that,” and Sabina
would say no more.
To whom could she explain that what she envied
in them was the ease with which they would step out of their roles, wash
themselves of it after the play and return to their true selves. She would have
wanted these metamorphoses of her personality to take place on the stage so
that at a given signal she would know for certain they were ended and she might
return to a permanent immutable Sabina.
But when she wished to end a role, to become
herself again, the other felt immensely betrayed, and not only fought the
alteration but became angered at her. Once a role was established in a
relationship, it was almost impossible to alter. And even if she succeeded,
when the time came to return to the original Sabina, where was she? If she
rebelled against her role towards Donald, if she turned on the “Firebird”
record again, the drumming of the senses, the tongues of fire, and denied her
mother within her, was she then returning to the true Sabina?
When she replaced the needle on the record and
set off on her first assignation with desire was it not her father then walking
within her, directing her steps? Her father who, having fed on her mother’s
artful cooking, having dressed in the shirt she had ironed, having kissed her
unbeautiful forehead damp from ironing, having allowed her marred hands to tie
his tie, proceeded to leave her mother and Sabina for his vainglorious walk
down the streets of the neighborhood who knew him for his handsomeness and his
wanderings?
How many times had a perfumed, a painted, a
handsome woman stopped her on the street to kiss her, caress her long hair and
say: “You’re Sabina! You’re his daughter! I know your father so well.”
It was not the words, it was the intimate glance, the boudoir tone of the voice
which alarmed her. This knowledge of her father always brought to women’s eyes
a sparkle not there before, an intimation of secret pleasures. Even as a child
Sabina could read their messages. Sabina was the daughter of delight born of
his amorous genius and they caressed her as another manifestation of a ritual
she sensed and from which her mother had been estranged forever.
“I knew your father so well!” Always the
handsome women bending over her, hateful with perfume one could not resist
smelling, with starched petticoats and provocative ankles. For all these
humiliations she would have wanted to punish her father, for all his
desecrations of multiple summer evenings of wanderings which gave these women
the right to admire her as another of his women. She was also angry at her
mother for not being angry, for preparing and dressing him for these intruders.
Was it Sabina now rushing into her own rituals
of pleasure, or was it
war hatred confused all the values, hatred fell upon cathedrals, paintings,
music, rare books, children, the innocent passersby.
She folded the letter, as she had folded the
parasol, out of sight of hatred and violence. She could not keep pace with the
angry pulse of the world. She was engaged in a smaller cycle, the one opposite
to war. There were truths women had been given to protect while the men went to
war. When everything would be blown away, a paper parasol would raise its head
among the debris, and man would be reminded of peace and tenderness.
Alan always believed he was giving Sabina
pleasure when he took her to the theatre, and at first her face was always
illuminated with suspense and curiosity. But inevitably she would grow restive
and tumultuous, chaotic and disturbed; she would even weep quietly in the dark
and disappear in between acts, so as not to expose a ravaged face.
“What is it, what is it?” repeated Alan
patiently, suspecting her of envy or jealousy of the roles given to others.
“You could be the most marvelous actress of our period if you wanted to give
your whole life to it, but you know how you feel about discipline and monotony.”
“It isn’t that, no, it isn’t that,” and Sabina
would say no more.
To whom could she explain that what she envied
in them was the ease with which they would step out of their roles, wash
themselves of it after the play and return to their true selves. She would have
wanted these metamorphoses of her personality to take place on the stage so
that at a given signal she would know for certain they were ended and she might
return to a permanent immutable Sabina.
But when she wished to end a role, to become
herself again, the other felt immensely betrayed, and not only fought the
alteration but became angered at her. Once a role was established in a
relationship, it was almost impossible to alter. And even if she succeeded,
when the time came to return to the original Sabina, where was she? If she
rebelled against her role towards Donald, if she turned on the “Firebird”
record again, the drumming of the senses, the tongues of fire, and denied her
mother within her, was she then returning to the true Sabina?
When she replaced the needle on the record and
set off on her first assignation with desire was it not her father then walking
within her, directing her steps? Her father who, having fed on her mother’s
artful cooking, having dressed in the shirt she had ironed, having kissed her
unbeautiful forehead damp from ironing, having allowed her marred hands to tie
his tie, proceeded to leave her mother and Sabina for his vainglorious walk
down the streets of the neighborhood who knew him for his handsomeness and his
wanderings?
How many times had a perfumed, a painted, a
handsome woman stopped her on the street to kiss her, caress her long hair and
say: “You’re Sabina! You’re his daughter! I know your father so well.”
It was not the words, it was the intimate glance, the boudoir tone of the voice
which alarmed her. This knowledge of her father always brought to women’s eyes
a sparkle not there before, an intimation of secret pleasures. Even as a child
Sabina could read their messages. Sabina was the daughter of delight born of
his amorous genius and they caressed her as another manifestation of a ritual
she sensed and from which her mother had been estranged forever.
“I knew your father so well!” Always the
handsome women bending over her, hateful with perfume one could not resist
smelling, with starched petticoats and provocative ankles. For all these
humiliations she would have wanted to punish her father, for all his
desecrations of multiple summer evenings of wanderings which gave these women
the right to admire her as another of his women. She was also angry at her
mother for not being angry, for preparing and dressing him for these intruders.
Was it Sabina now rushing into her own rituals
of pleasure, or was it
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