Yann Andrea Steiner by Marguerite Duras, Barbara Bray Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Marguerite Duras, Barbara Bray
Source. The other days the animals donât know who this little David is, but tonight heâs definitely the harmonica.
Thank God, says the Source. And little David too.
Yes, repeat the animals.
In a marvelous gibberish, the Source says a prayer. The animals answer in their own ways of speaking and this makes for a very unexpected cacophony.
And then: And what about killing? Does the child know how to do that? the Source asks, hypocritically.
Oh, no, say the animals. Then the animals wait. They remain nearby to keep the Source from doing whatever she can to die.
No, say the animals, no, no, no . . . The kid canât kill anything. Not a thing.
The Source falls silent, then stays silent some more. And then suddenly in the evening stillness they hear a furious rushing of water.
She is emerging from the Atlantic Reservoir, say the animals.
The Source appears.
Â
The girl says the Source is a person and at the same time a mountain of water, vitreous as emerald. That she has no arms, no face, and cannot see; that she glides forward without moving so as not to disturb the folds of water she wears draped around her presence.
She is seeking out Davidâs hands, she says, the Source says.
The setting sun enters her dead eyes and then it is night.
David, David, calls the blind Source.
She is seeking David in order to die. And the child looks around him.
She is weeping. David, David, she cries.
So this is what David does next: David takes out his harmonica and plays a very old polka from Guatemala.
And then . . . and then ... listen carefully . . . then the Source
stops, dumbstruck, and with a great and youthful slowness she begins to dance, with the grace of a child, the sweet, slow polka from her native Guatemala.
Until dawn she danced, said the young counselor, and when daylight came she danced in her sleep. Then the animals of the island very gently brought her back into the dark grotto of the Atlantic Reservoir. They warmed her body of shadows with kisses and those kisses restored her to life by making her forget life.
Â
The young counselor falls silent. The child with gray eyes had lain down against her and fallen asleep. He had rested his hands on the girlâs young breasts. She hadnât moved; she had let him do as he wished. Beneath her dress, he had found her breasts. His hands were frozen with the sea wind. He was in awe, he squeezed them tight, he hurt, he could not let them go, he couldnât think of anything else, and when she removed his hands from her breasts his eyes welled with tears.
Â
We tell each other things that have no relation to the afternoonâs events or the coming night but that relate to God, to his absence that is so present, like the breasts of the young girl, so young before the immensity of what is to come.
Â
One final time Callas sang her despair and Capri fell upon her to kill. Once Norma had been murdered, the screams of Capri is over reigned over the beaches, States, Cities, and Oceans, and the dazzling reality of the worldâs end was confirmed.
A UGUST 1980.
Near me is this crowded beach, this solar revolution in the circle of the sky.
August 1980. Gdansk.
The port of Gdansk. For the entire world it became the suffering of a people invaded because they were poor and isolated.
Gdansk, making us tremble like children. Alone like that child. Captive. Strangled by the fascism endemic to Central Germany.
Â
The child passed by with the other campers. He looked behind him and then he looked at the sea.
The girl came later; she brought breakfast. She joined the child. She put her hand on the back of his neck. She speaks to him. He walks with his head slightly raised toward her, listening carefully, and sometimes he smiles. Like her, he smiles. Itâs
as if sheâs happy because of Gdansk, she says. He knows nothing of Gdansk, but he is happy too.
She tells of the sharkâs visits to David. That one time he comes by with an
Thank God, says the Source. And little David too.
Yes, repeat the animals.
In a marvelous gibberish, the Source says a prayer. The animals answer in their own ways of speaking and this makes for a very unexpected cacophony.
And then: And what about killing? Does the child know how to do that? the Source asks, hypocritically.
Oh, no, say the animals. Then the animals wait. They remain nearby to keep the Source from doing whatever she can to die.
No, say the animals, no, no, no . . . The kid canât kill anything. Not a thing.
The Source falls silent, then stays silent some more. And then suddenly in the evening stillness they hear a furious rushing of water.
She is emerging from the Atlantic Reservoir, say the animals.
The Source appears.
Â
The girl says the Source is a person and at the same time a mountain of water, vitreous as emerald. That she has no arms, no face, and cannot see; that she glides forward without moving so as not to disturb the folds of water she wears draped around her presence.
She is seeking out Davidâs hands, she says, the Source says.
The setting sun enters her dead eyes and then it is night.
David, David, calls the blind Source.
She is seeking David in order to die. And the child looks around him.
She is weeping. David, David, she cries.
So this is what David does next: David takes out his harmonica and plays a very old polka from Guatemala.
And then . . . and then ... listen carefully . . . then the Source
stops, dumbstruck, and with a great and youthful slowness she begins to dance, with the grace of a child, the sweet, slow polka from her native Guatemala.
Until dawn she danced, said the young counselor, and when daylight came she danced in her sleep. Then the animals of the island very gently brought her back into the dark grotto of the Atlantic Reservoir. They warmed her body of shadows with kisses and those kisses restored her to life by making her forget life.
Â
The young counselor falls silent. The child with gray eyes had lain down against her and fallen asleep. He had rested his hands on the girlâs young breasts. She hadnât moved; she had let him do as he wished. Beneath her dress, he had found her breasts. His hands were frozen with the sea wind. He was in awe, he squeezed them tight, he hurt, he could not let them go, he couldnât think of anything else, and when she removed his hands from her breasts his eyes welled with tears.
Â
We tell each other things that have no relation to the afternoonâs events or the coming night but that relate to God, to his absence that is so present, like the breasts of the young girl, so young before the immensity of what is to come.
Â
One final time Callas sang her despair and Capri fell upon her to kill. Once Norma had been murdered, the screams of Capri is over reigned over the beaches, States, Cities, and Oceans, and the dazzling reality of the worldâs end was confirmed.
A UGUST 1980.
Near me is this crowded beach, this solar revolution in the circle of the sky.
August 1980. Gdansk.
The port of Gdansk. For the entire world it became the suffering of a people invaded because they were poor and isolated.
Gdansk, making us tremble like children. Alone like that child. Captive. Strangled by the fascism endemic to Central Germany.
Â
The child passed by with the other campers. He looked behind him and then he looked at the sea.
The girl came later; she brought breakfast. She joined the child. She put her hand on the back of his neck. She speaks to him. He walks with his head slightly raised toward her, listening carefully, and sometimes he smiles. Like her, he smiles. Itâs
as if sheâs happy because of Gdansk, she says. He knows nothing of Gdansk, but he is happy too.
She tells of the sharkâs visits to David. That one time he comes by with an
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