Shhh by Raymond Federman Read Free Book Online Page B

own way. Except that, it is said, that there was one Federman who, way back in the 16th century, was a famous conquistador who became very rich in the new world. But he was a mean bastard, and as the story goes, the ship which was bringing him back to Europe sank in the ocean, and all the treasures he had accumulated disappeared forever.
    I once wrote a poem about my father’s ancestors. I’ll put it here, for whatever it’s worth. It’s called ...

BEFORE THAT
    Some say, can say: my father was a farmer,
    and his father before him, and his father
    before that. We are of the earth.
    Others say, can say: my father was a builder,
    and his father before him, and his father
    before that. We are of the stone.
    And others can say: my father was a sailor,
    and his father before him, and his father
    before that. We are of the water.
    They have been farmers, builders, sailors,
    no doubt, since the time earth, stone, water
    entered into the lives of men, and still are.
    I am a writer, but I cannot say: my father
    was a writer, nor his father before him,
    nor his father before that. I have no antecedent.
    My father, and his father before him, and his father
    before that were neither of the earth, nor of the stone,
    nor of the water. The world was indifferent to them.
    I write, perhaps, so that one day my children can say:
    my father was a writer, the first in our family.
    We are now of the word. We are inscribed in the world.
    I feel I could write on the earth, on the stone.
    It seems to me that I could even write on water.
    I write to establish an antecedent for my children.
    Five thousand years without writing in my family,
    what can I do against this force which presses
    behind me? Say that I write to fill this void?
    Say, I suppose, that of my father I cannot say anything,
    except what I have invented to fill the immense gap
    of his absence, and of his erasure from history.
    No, I am wrong, you see, because I can say: my father
    was a wanderer, he came from nowhere and went nowhere.
    He came without earth, stone, water, and he went wordless.

While contemplating his failures, and absentmindedly scratching my back, my father was perhaps thinking that his son, I mean me, would someday achieve what he had failed to achieve. And so, aware that his tuberculosis might soon kill him, or that some unforgivable enormity would erase him from history, Papa with his hand on my back would try to make me feel this yearning for greatness. With the tips of his fingers he would try to transmit his dreams into my body, into my skin, my flesh, my bones.
    Lost in his reveries, as I was slowly dozing off under the gentle touch of his hand, Papa would ... ah, shit how shall I say it ...? He would give me my inheritance. His dreams. That’s all he gave me.
    The other day, while taking a shower, I surprised myself humming Ramonaaaa je t’aimeraiiiii toute la vieeee ... letting my voice drag the words into the soapy water.
    Now back to the description of our apartment. In the middle of the dining room stood a big table and five chairs, since we were five living in that room. And against the wall, near the window, the cot on which I slept.

That cot, even when it became a bit too small for my growing body, was my private domain.
    I kept my tin soldiers and my stamp collection under that bed. I mostly collected stamps from the French colonies because they were big and beautiful, with pictures of people of different colors and wild animals. My stamp collection made me want to explore these far-away places. I would imagine myself being a daring adventurer, or a soldier in La légion étrangère. I had one stamp from Senegal that I particularly loved because it was triangular. I’d gotten it from one of the older boys at school. I gave him two cigarettes for that stamp. Two cigarettes I’d stolen from my father’s pack.
    Under my bed I also kept my marbles and my knuckle-bones. I liked playing these games in the street