let her. She still smelled of whiskey. I thought: The first woman with whom I speak of love is a streetwalker, a drunken streetwalker who likes Jews because she doesn’t understand them. I didn’t understand myself.
“You’re sad. I know when a man is sad. Come, make love. It’s still the best remedy against feeling lonely, believe me, I know. Do you have any idea why sadness was given to man? So that women like me wouldn’t die of hunger.”
I saw myself with the eyes of my childhood and thought: You will not get away, not this time.
“Well? Are you coming? You won’t have to speak or listen. You’ll be free.”
I got up abruptly. “No, thank you, I don’t feel like it.”
It was false and true at the same time. I wanted her and was afraid that she might be aware of it.
“You really don’t want to? You don’t know what you’re missing.”
A grayish light was slowly tearing the sky. The city wasfighting its last battle against a flight of ravens—or were they vultures?—pushing it beyond the horizon. Soon it would be day.
I looked at the woman and held out my hand. “I must leave,” I said, hiding my agitation. “Take care.”
She hesitated but took my hand and held it tightly. “Goodbye, my little Jew. Where are you going now? Back to your woman, your girl friend?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Your parents?”
“Perhaps.”
A few seconds went by. I added: “They’re dead.”
A smile flickered across her face. “Well, I certainly don’t understand you. Thank you for that.”
We each went our separate ways; my head was lowered, she held hers high. I had walked only a few steps when I heard her call a last message: “I forgot something important: I can never have a child! Can you hear me? Never! Never! That is as important as the rest of my story!”
“Your story? What story?”
I shrugged my shoulders and went on my way through the morning mist. A drunken whore, that’s what she was, Barbara. Barbara? Was that even her name? Probably not. Marie, Suzanne, Elizabeth, Blanche, Emma, Marcelle. But not Barbara. She took that name so she could tell herself: “It’s not me walking the streets; it’s Barbara.” Who then had I spoken to?
In the following months I was careful to avoid that neighborhood. Then, one night, I felt a desire to see Barbara again. From a bench in the small square near Les Halles, I watched thestreet, waiting for her to appear. She was gone; night, or perhaps her own never-to-be-told story, had recaptured her.
Another girl had taken her place. She came over to me and asked: “You are looking for somebody?”
“Yes,” I said. “Somebody.”
“But who?”
I waited before repeating: “Somebody.” I added: “A prophet.”
“My poor, poor boy. You just go right on looking; but I bet he’s up there. And he’s busy. Busy making love!”
THE END OF A REVOLUTIONARY
Somewhere, far away: noisy streets, crowded with people strolling and laughing, with window-shoppers and policemen. And much ado. About nothing. Aimless shouting and calling. And quarreling. Just for the fun of it.
And I was going to get some rest here, the stranger thought, more amused than bitter.
He was sitting on the terrace of a sidewalk café, shielded from the sun, idly watching the passing cars and the pedestrians dodging them: Even so, I was right to come, nothing here concerns me.
Three days earlier he was still at home. In his house, with a woman both gentle and melancholy. And colleagues, some friendly, some envious. Smiles, flatteries and half-truths. Always the same questions, the same answers. The same burdens and the same alibis. Suddenly he felt like leaving it all. Without a word. Leave. For a few days. Or a few years. And breathe. And remain silent; remain silent at last. He jumped into a taxi. To the airport. The first plane out. Anywhere. Don’t look at me that way. Please. Yes, I’ll pay. Cash. Anywhere, I said. Hurry.
I was right to come, he thought. Here too I
“You’re sad. I know when a man is sad. Come, make love. It’s still the best remedy against feeling lonely, believe me, I know. Do you have any idea why sadness was given to man? So that women like me wouldn’t die of hunger.”
I saw myself with the eyes of my childhood and thought: You will not get away, not this time.
“Well? Are you coming? You won’t have to speak or listen. You’ll be free.”
I got up abruptly. “No, thank you, I don’t feel like it.”
It was false and true at the same time. I wanted her and was afraid that she might be aware of it.
“You really don’t want to? You don’t know what you’re missing.”
A grayish light was slowly tearing the sky. The city wasfighting its last battle against a flight of ravens—or were they vultures?—pushing it beyond the horizon. Soon it would be day.
I looked at the woman and held out my hand. “I must leave,” I said, hiding my agitation. “Take care.”
She hesitated but took my hand and held it tightly. “Goodbye, my little Jew. Where are you going now? Back to your woman, your girl friend?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Your parents?”
“Perhaps.”
A few seconds went by. I added: “They’re dead.”
A smile flickered across her face. “Well, I certainly don’t understand you. Thank you for that.”
We each went our separate ways; my head was lowered, she held hers high. I had walked only a few steps when I heard her call a last message: “I forgot something important: I can never have a child! Can you hear me? Never! Never! That is as important as the rest of my story!”
“Your story? What story?”
I shrugged my shoulders and went on my way through the morning mist. A drunken whore, that’s what she was, Barbara. Barbara? Was that even her name? Probably not. Marie, Suzanne, Elizabeth, Blanche, Emma, Marcelle. But not Barbara. She took that name so she could tell herself: “It’s not me walking the streets; it’s Barbara.” Who then had I spoken to?
In the following months I was careful to avoid that neighborhood. Then, one night, I felt a desire to see Barbara again. From a bench in the small square near Les Halles, I watched thestreet, waiting for her to appear. She was gone; night, or perhaps her own never-to-be-told story, had recaptured her.
Another girl had taken her place. She came over to me and asked: “You are looking for somebody?”
“Yes,” I said. “Somebody.”
“But who?”
I waited before repeating: “Somebody.” I added: “A prophet.”
“My poor, poor boy. You just go right on looking; but I bet he’s up there. And he’s busy. Busy making love!”
THE END OF A REVOLUTIONARY
Somewhere, far away: noisy streets, crowded with people strolling and laughing, with window-shoppers and policemen. And much ado. About nothing. Aimless shouting and calling. And quarreling. Just for the fun of it.
And I was going to get some rest here, the stranger thought, more amused than bitter.
He was sitting on the terrace of a sidewalk café, shielded from the sun, idly watching the passing cars and the pedestrians dodging them: Even so, I was right to come, nothing here concerns me.
Three days earlier he was still at home. In his house, with a woman both gentle and melancholy. And colleagues, some friendly, some envious. Smiles, flatteries and half-truths. Always the same questions, the same answers. The same burdens and the same alibis. Suddenly he felt like leaving it all. Without a word. Leave. For a few days. Or a few years. And breathe. And remain silent; remain silent at last. He jumped into a taxi. To the airport. The first plane out. Anywhere. Don’t look at me that way. Please. Yes, I’ll pay. Cash. Anywhere, I said. Hurry.
I was right to come, he thought. Here too I
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