pain in the back of her head was like the banging of a hammer. She tied the scarf tighter and fastened it above her forehead. She did not know from what hole in her head emerged the idea of writing.
Revelation descended without need for writing or reading. His Majesty raised his head upwards and revelation fell from the sky like rain. They poured it into jars and on the Festival they distributed it with the allowances. A man received a whole jar for himself and a woman half. A woman could not receive her portion for herself. Her husband or some other representative had to deputise for her.
‘Self-deception doesn’t benefit anybody. Moreover, such fantasies are pointless.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Writing for instance is no more than a sort of fantasy. If His Majesty neither reads nor writes, and the prophets didn’t either, then that means that they did not need writing or reading. Moreover, what is the difference between carrying a pen and carrying a jar? Speak! Don’t be stupid!’
The woman bent her neck and did not reply. Silence was a very good thing. It pushed her to close her eyes in total despair.
She raised the jar onto her head and rushed outside. On the other side of the lake, a new storm was coming up. There was nothing for her to do but to keep on the track until the end. The idea of uncovering their faces was still far beyond their comprehension. They had been carrying jars from before sunrise and had disappeared in the darkness.
She stretched her arm upwards and shook the jar violently. All that poured out of it was a congealed drop of oil. Her eyes looked heavenwards. She could see nothing. She moved her fingers towards her nose and a smell of stale gas arose from them.
‘What would happen if her life continued in this way?’
Perhaps there was a plot being hatched. The company boss had a light skin and prattled on in a foreign language. The newspaper said that he was a big-hearted man. He exchanged jars with His Majesty as a sign of affection. Also in this archaeological region there were the remains of the dead, and excavations made holy by the ancient gods and some goddesses from the Stone Age that they sought.
‘Yes, the holy things have changed with the rising of the storm.’
‘Aren’t there any excavations here in the bowels of the earth?’
‘There’s only oil, woman.’
‘What’s this?’
‘An extra bottle on the Festival of His Majesty. Didn’t I tell you that he is big-hearted, full of compassion, and does not forget his subjects? How would you feel about having a swig? Let’s celebrate the Festival of His Majesty together.’
She twisted her tongue inside her throat and moved her feet in the air like a hobbled ox. This man was not her husband, nor a police commissioner. Why didn’t he undo her fetters and let her return? She was a young woman in the prime of her life; she bore the title of ‘researcher’ and had a husband waiting for her.
‘I will fill a glass for you.’
‘Isn’t drinking forbidden?’
‘It’s all right as long as we’re by ourselves and nobody sees us, although we need to be a bit cautious. They have distributed these bottles among us, and that means that drinking is permitted on the evening of the Feast until the dawn cannon is fired. Are you still alive? I see you’re not breathing. Take this glass and forget everything.’
‘I will forget.’
‘Is that a promise?’
She shook her head as a sign of assent. The night of the Festival appeared totally suitable for flight. After he had drunk his fill, the man would lose consciousness. All she had to do was buy a return ticket. She opened the bag to take out some money. There was nothing there. She turned out the lining and shook the bag. Not a single coin fell out.
‘Where’s the money?’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I work and I deserve a wage.’
‘I’d like to ask you a little question, simply to satisfy my curiosity.’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t I provide you with
Revelation descended without need for writing or reading. His Majesty raised his head upwards and revelation fell from the sky like rain. They poured it into jars and on the Festival they distributed it with the allowances. A man received a whole jar for himself and a woman half. A woman could not receive her portion for herself. Her husband or some other representative had to deputise for her.
‘Self-deception doesn’t benefit anybody. Moreover, such fantasies are pointless.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Writing for instance is no more than a sort of fantasy. If His Majesty neither reads nor writes, and the prophets didn’t either, then that means that they did not need writing or reading. Moreover, what is the difference between carrying a pen and carrying a jar? Speak! Don’t be stupid!’
The woman bent her neck and did not reply. Silence was a very good thing. It pushed her to close her eyes in total despair.
She raised the jar onto her head and rushed outside. On the other side of the lake, a new storm was coming up. There was nothing for her to do but to keep on the track until the end. The idea of uncovering their faces was still far beyond their comprehension. They had been carrying jars from before sunrise and had disappeared in the darkness.
She stretched her arm upwards and shook the jar violently. All that poured out of it was a congealed drop of oil. Her eyes looked heavenwards. She could see nothing. She moved her fingers towards her nose and a smell of stale gas arose from them.
‘What would happen if her life continued in this way?’
Perhaps there was a plot being hatched. The company boss had a light skin and prattled on in a foreign language. The newspaper said that he was a big-hearted man. He exchanged jars with His Majesty as a sign of affection. Also in this archaeological region there were the remains of the dead, and excavations made holy by the ancient gods and some goddesses from the Stone Age that they sought.
‘Yes, the holy things have changed with the rising of the storm.’
‘Aren’t there any excavations here in the bowels of the earth?’
‘There’s only oil, woman.’
‘What’s this?’
‘An extra bottle on the Festival of His Majesty. Didn’t I tell you that he is big-hearted, full of compassion, and does not forget his subjects? How would you feel about having a swig? Let’s celebrate the Festival of His Majesty together.’
She twisted her tongue inside her throat and moved her feet in the air like a hobbled ox. This man was not her husband, nor a police commissioner. Why didn’t he undo her fetters and let her return? She was a young woman in the prime of her life; she bore the title of ‘researcher’ and had a husband waiting for her.
‘I will fill a glass for you.’
‘Isn’t drinking forbidden?’
‘It’s all right as long as we’re by ourselves and nobody sees us, although we need to be a bit cautious. They have distributed these bottles among us, and that means that drinking is permitted on the evening of the Feast until the dawn cannon is fired. Are you still alive? I see you’re not breathing. Take this glass and forget everything.’
‘I will forget.’
‘Is that a promise?’
She shook her head as a sign of assent. The night of the Festival appeared totally suitable for flight. After he had drunk his fill, the man would lose consciousness. All she had to do was buy a return ticket. She opened the bag to take out some money. There was nothing there. She turned out the lining and shook the bag. Not a single coin fell out.
‘Where’s the money?’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I work and I deserve a wage.’
‘I’d like to ask you a little question, simply to satisfy my curiosity.’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t I provide you with
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