Death Sentences by Kawamata Chiaki Read Free Book Online Page A

tipsy ran through him.
    (The Gold of Time-what nonsense!)

     

1
    It was a raw cold afternoon.
    Glowering clouds had darkened the skies for three days already.
    Paris, April 2, 1948. In a timeworn cafe in Montmartre, Andre Breton was waiting for a certain young man.
    He continued to wait.
    But the man hadn't shown.
    Instead, the cafe door was swinging open to the occasional gust of wind that would sweep in laden with dust. It swirled at Breton's feet.
    Breton's left leg began to throb with an almost imperceptible yet persistent and wearisome pain.
    The pain quickened his irritation. In about two weeks Breton would be greeting his fifty-second birthday. Greeting it was inevitable.
    The young man wasn't showing.
    The cafe window provided a view of the square.
    Breton's eyes again started to wander slowly, right to left, left to right. But there was no sign of any one hurrying toward him.

    He wouldn't be casually strolling. With a brusque gesture Breton pushed back his left sleeve. Three forty-five-
    He was already forty-five minutes late. He should be running full out. Crossing the square, making a beeline for the cafe. Breton unconsciously rubbed at the seat of his pants where the velvet had worn smooth. As if the person he was waiting for might be conjured forth from the ragged patch.
    As he asked himself the question, he became aware of its two meanings.
    A sense of paradox overtook him. How unbearable to wait. But then how reassuring it was to go on waiting.
    Breton remained caught between the two possibilities, unable to move.
    Why was the young man not showing?
    And why did he actually dread his appearance, even as he awaited him?
    Why did he go on sitting here, then?
    Each and every second brought fresh pain to Breton.
    This was the worst. This weather pattern said it all. On a day like today he should never have left home. Today was not "the day."
    There were only a few people in the square.
    Not sign of someone running toward him.
    Another five minutes had passed.
    (Ten minutes more) Breton told himself. (That's all.)
    Breton didn't know which route the young man would take.
    But he doubted that he would be at a loss to find this place.
    In any case, if he made it to the square, there'd be no way to mistake the cafe.
    After all, the cafe-Cafe Blanche-took its name from the park.
    "Sure I know the place. Place Blanche, right?" the young man had replied on the phone.
    Breton didn't know if he had understood them to be meeting at the square or the cafe. But it didn't matter either way. Breton had repeatedly given him both names. And they had agreed on three o'clock.

    Breton's eyes flitted across the square yet again.
    Directly across the square was the Cyrano.
    It was a thoroughly ordinary cafe just like this one.
    Naturally, Breton would recall its name. Even today the name Cyrano had lost nothing of its brilliance and luster in the memories of so many surrealists. But only in their memories...
    Before they had "discovered" the Cyrano, it had been the Celta next to the Opera House. During the enlargement of the Boulevard Haussmann, the Celta had been torn down, and Breton and company had moved to the Cyrano. For the surrealists that cafe had been a public place for agitation. Headquarters. Church. Altar. Playground.
    The Cyrano era had lasted till the start of World War II. In the Cyrano, dreams had unfolded, spirits had clashed, and poems had met, and amid the wild clamor, directives to overthrow the powers that be had been issued.
    That is what the Cyrano had been at one time. None of them would forget it. In the present, however, the Cyrano had completely lost its power of attraction.
    The War, the Occupation, and then "liberation" had wiped it all away. Stripped of its magic, the Cyrano had turned back into a mere pumpkin.
    You could still see the Cyrano from here.
    Breton slowly and calmly exhaled, as if reluctant to give up the breath he had unconsciously been holding.
    Invisible forces still emanated from Place