simply must not embarrass himself with a member of the opposite sex. If
one minor thing went wrong, he was fated to die solitary. He could already list
almost a hundred areas of danger, for at seventeen we are perfectionists.
He walked under the avenue
of trees, his arm out every time he heard a motorcar, but no one stopped for
him. Finally a Citroën ‘Tube’ stopped, with two men and a woman taking up the
front. He walked to the back of the van, opened the rear door, and in his white
shirt and ironed trousers, stepped into complete darkness. As the van took off,
he began being nudged by three indistinct shapes that turned out to be donkeys.
It was the longest ride of his life, and Anna insists that he relive every
second of it for her, and the appointment that followed.
Le rendez-vous, he says, n’a pas eu lieu. The girl took one quick look at him
when the van dropped him by the town fountain, staggering out with his shirt
loose and his shoes wet and shat upon, and his hands holding—in an attempt at
nobility— seven or so stumps of what had been fl owers. His time in the Citroën had been
spent mostly attempting to save the bouquet, holding it high, so that his frame
was abandoned to the animals, which had been locked in the van since the start
of their journey in Montricoux.
So what was the very worst
thing about it? Anna asks. The worst thing was that by the time I got home,
after the girl left, saying, ‘My father is ill, I must go,’ after I had washed
my arms and neck and cleaned the shit off my shoes at the fountain, after going
to the cinema and seeing a Gabin all alone and then walking home along the dark
road with the night sky so bright that I was beginning to feel good again—I’d
bought some bread and herbs, as I was hungry, and I was walking with this food
with a strange kind of joy, that was something to do with escape—the worst
thing was that by the time I got home everyone in the village of Dému already
knew about it. Even now, if you ask about the ‘donkey boy’ or the ‘Citroën
story,’ they will know who you are talking about.
Rafael has added, in the many years since, a layer of casual irony to the
trauma of the event. I try to imagine, he says, my donkey-odoured hand
attempting to touch her naked waist or her sixteen-year-old shoulder during La
Bête Humaine. I became used to the braying when I entered classrooms. And
there was a sudden realistic neigh during the end-of-year exam a month later
that made the students break into laughter, even cheering, and caused a knowing
smile from the teacher.
I had no more ‘appointments’ with girls for the next four years—and then,
knowing that the worst that could happen had already happened, I breezed into
meetings with them unconcerned, the most relaxed suitor for my age. But during
those four years I was in exile and I concentrated on the guitar. I owe my
career to a bunch of marigolds and three donkeys.
So Rafael discovered the privacy of music, its hidden chords, all those disguised narratives. From then on, con fl icts were to be within his art. And,
being surrounded by the intimacy of his parents, he knew he had to somehow protect
it. He was still the playful and loved son, but his mother noticed him removing
himself easily from the conversations in their trailer. He had found his own enchantment, he had his own ‘emergency.’ He had an escape
from the world. As if the chair he sat in was a horse to
gallop into unknown distances.
Who taught him this secret? Once, as a young musician, he witnessed a pair of
dancers who began rehearsing on their own, before anyone had taken out an
instrument, to a recording of piano music that they pulled across like a screen
between themselves and the others who were there. They were alone already, in
their intimate preparation. And he remembers something else—for Anna has asked
him if he knew the writer—how, while he was a boy living near this writer’s
house, he spent long afternoons with
one minor thing went wrong, he was fated to die solitary. He could already list
almost a hundred areas of danger, for at seventeen we are perfectionists.
He walked under the avenue
of trees, his arm out every time he heard a motorcar, but no one stopped for
him. Finally a Citroën ‘Tube’ stopped, with two men and a woman taking up the
front. He walked to the back of the van, opened the rear door, and in his white
shirt and ironed trousers, stepped into complete darkness. As the van took off,
he began being nudged by three indistinct shapes that turned out to be donkeys.
It was the longest ride of his life, and Anna insists that he relive every
second of it for her, and the appointment that followed.
Le rendez-vous, he says, n’a pas eu lieu. The girl took one quick look at him
when the van dropped him by the town fountain, staggering out with his shirt
loose and his shoes wet and shat upon, and his hands holding—in an attempt at
nobility— seven or so stumps of what had been fl owers. His time in the Citroën had been
spent mostly attempting to save the bouquet, holding it high, so that his frame
was abandoned to the animals, which had been locked in the van since the start
of their journey in Montricoux.
So what was the very worst
thing about it? Anna asks. The worst thing was that by the time I got home,
after the girl left, saying, ‘My father is ill, I must go,’ after I had washed
my arms and neck and cleaned the shit off my shoes at the fountain, after going
to the cinema and seeing a Gabin all alone and then walking home along the dark
road with the night sky so bright that I was beginning to feel good again—I’d
bought some bread and herbs, as I was hungry, and I was walking with this food
with a strange kind of joy, that was something to do with escape—the worst
thing was that by the time I got home everyone in the village of Dému already
knew about it. Even now, if you ask about the ‘donkey boy’ or the ‘Citroën
story,’ they will know who you are talking about.
Rafael has added, in the many years since, a layer of casual irony to the
trauma of the event. I try to imagine, he says, my donkey-odoured hand
attempting to touch her naked waist or her sixteen-year-old shoulder during La
Bête Humaine. I became used to the braying when I entered classrooms. And
there was a sudden realistic neigh during the end-of-year exam a month later
that made the students break into laughter, even cheering, and caused a knowing
smile from the teacher.
I had no more ‘appointments’ with girls for the next four years—and then,
knowing that the worst that could happen had already happened, I breezed into
meetings with them unconcerned, the most relaxed suitor for my age. But during
those four years I was in exile and I concentrated on the guitar. I owe my
career to a bunch of marigolds and three donkeys.
So Rafael discovered the privacy of music, its hidden chords, all those disguised narratives. From then on, con fl icts were to be within his art. And,
being surrounded by the intimacy of his parents, he knew he had to somehow protect
it. He was still the playful and loved son, but his mother noticed him removing
himself easily from the conversations in their trailer. He had found his own enchantment, he had his own ‘emergency.’ He had an escape
from the world. As if the chair he sat in was a horse to
gallop into unknown distances.
Who taught him this secret? Once, as a young musician, he witnessed a pair of
dancers who began rehearsing on their own, before anyone had taken out an
instrument, to a recording of piano music that they pulled across like a screen
between themselves and the others who were there. They were alone already, in
their intimate preparation. And he remembers something else—for Anna has asked
him if he knew the writer—how, while he was a boy living near this writer’s
house, he spent long afternoons with
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