Far from the Rubble

Ines Dasi Daien

I was watching the circumvolutions of smoke dissolving in the darkness of the room. It floated to the ceiling, blending into the shade. Lying down on the bed, we were smoking, listening to the deadened noises of the nocturnal circulation. The light of the streetlight outlined a yellow square on the linoleum, disclosing a brimmed ashtray and the ripped cover of Crime and Punishment, decorated with a dark portrait of Raskolnikov.

Between the curls of smoke, we murmured a few words, trying to fight the urge of sleep. The cigarette tasted good in my mouth, appeasing the need for nicotine in my entire body, and I wanted it to last forever. Everything was quiet and peaceful on this cold night of October. As I batted my eyes, trying to stay awake to savor this precious moment, full of still happiness and mutual love, an explosion suddenly interrupted my pleasant state of drowsiness.

My eyes wide opened in the dark, and I snuggled up to his body. The calmness of the night had been roughly transformed into an atmosphere of fear and tension. Screams and cries had succeeded to the crash of the explosion. Huddled up in the warmth of the bed, enjoying the safety of his embrace, I did not want to get up to see what was happening in the streets.

He continued smoking, gently caressing my hair. Another explosion detonated outside, closer to us. Terrified yells and anguished cries overran the streets and the moaning of the victims rose up to us. In the tempered heath of the room, nothing moved but his hand in my hair. We breathed as quietly as possible, to avoid missing the sound of what was going on down below.

The fire alarms and the police sirens were covered by the noise of the third explosion. The room was still quiet, but a yellow-orange moving light had replaced the shadow. I did not hear it, but I knew that beneath the laments and the shouting, there was the crackle of a devouring fire. I did not see it, but I knew that these engulfing flames left soot on the faces of the passersby, who stared at its consuming work.

We fell asleep listening to the distress of the neighbors, and the crackles of the flames.

The next morning, our first morning together, we kissed good-bye in the street covered with ashes, fragments of cars spread out by the explosions, and pieces of burned plastic. We smiled in this war backdrop, pointing at the charred corpses of the cars and laughing at the people who wandered the streets, gazing at the remains of their automobiles.

On my way home, I felt alone without him by my side. The euphoria of this night of love changed into a deep and heavy sadness. I wanted to retrace my steps, run through the rubble of scrap metal to be with him once again. In front of the metro, the newsvendor was arranging his newspapers in the window. The same titles covered every front page and the words “SUBURB”, “CIVIL UNREST”, “FIRES”, “RIOTS”, “VIOLENT CLASHES”, “CARS TORCHED”, were everywhere.

But I did not even cast a glance to the headlines; I was miles away, in the warmth of a bed, smiling at the sounds of the fireworks lighted in the night for our newborn love. The idea of the selfish, newly enamored young people in a warring city, put to fire and sword make us laugh today, but at the time we really were not aware of what was going on around us. We spent days talking and making love, forgetting to go to class, eating on the edge of the bed, listening to the cars being torched and the cries of the owners echoing in the night. The excitement of the media, Paris going mad, the riot outside, and the fear of the people did not exist for us. We were ignoring the speeches of the president, the foreign journalists coming from everywhere to cover the event, and the demonstrations of the victims. In a city that was brimming over with panic, rage, anxiety and auto-destruction, we were discovering beauty at every corner of the street. The burned-out cars became beautiful sculptures and the blackened sidewalks were frescos where we could read the secret of life. Our love was growing in the ruins of our beloved city. The Paris of our first kisses was in ash.

During all the sleepless nights punctuated with blasts and tears, we were talking about us, before we met. Like a modern Scheherazade, I was keeping my lover awake, telling him the one thousand and one stories of how my life was before him. Of course, I began the tale at its very beginning, when I began to learn the language. As usual, we were on the bed, cheek by jowl, when I decided to tell him my first steps in life. I sat down on the bed and looked at him, right in the eyes.

“Don’t you want to know my first word?”

“Yes, I do. But you have to tell me everything from the beginning.”

“I was a quiet baby. I liked staring at the ceiling for hours in my crib and waiting for my mother to grab me and hold me against her. And one day my father came with a huge tool bag. I watched him make holes in the ceiling and fill the room with dust. When the noise of the drill ceased, I saw a beautiful baby mobile lightly swinging over my head. It was made of thin pieces of wood carved like boats. From that day on, when I was laid down, I couldn’t take my eyes off the five white-and-blue sailboats floating above my crib. When my mom got me out of my crib that day I left them with regret. She made me sit down on the futon in the living room under the wide-open fanlight. The Parisian summer was sultry and I could feel the warm vibrations of the streets and hear the thud-noise of the traffic through the window. She gave me some toys, but I didn’t even peek at the dolls or the construction set. I knew from the beginning which one I had to pick. A huge, yellow, plastic whirligig that a grown-up offered me for my first birthday fascinated me for a few days. When its top spun, a kind of globe began to open itself. The faster you spun the whirligig, the more it opened. When the pieces of plastic were spread, you could recognize the wings of a jolly golden bee, and see its plump body whirl and whirl all around the pole.

“I loved to spin my toy and I tried to tell her to make it go out faster. As I was mumbling incomprehensible sounds, a little buzz caught my attention. An insect was in the room, but I could not find it. I could not raise myself; my baby legs were too weak to bear my weight. So I looked for it, as the buzzing got closer and closer. Suddenly I felt something on my leg. It was a small bug, with black and yellow stripes, moving slowly toward my inner-thigh. I tried to whisper its name and finally my lips succeeded in forming the word ‘Abeille’. Then, the bee felt threatened. It suddenly pushed its stinger in the flab of my thigh, making me yell at the pain, so I closed my legs, squashing the bug. I cried so loud that my mother ran to me, in time to take me to the hospital. The stinger was deeply wedged in my flesh, and the doctor had to dig into the skin to take it out. From that day, speaking became something painful for me. My first real word was associated with my first real hurt. That explains why, for a while, I preferred to contemplate the white-and-blue sailboats rather than try to express myself.”

He did not say anything when I stopped telling my story. He looked at me with a smile, and put his hand on my thigh, in a soft and gentle gesture. Distantly, we heard the explosion of a car’s tank. His hand weighted slightly on my leg. He said, “Then?”

Today I am far away from Paris, and from him. All I have left is the memory of these experiences I told during our first nights together. The remembrance of the way I told the stories is clearer in my head than the memories themselves. I remember my voice, my whispers, and his closed eyes. I was staring at the yellow square of light on the linoleum. I was tired at speaking, but I did not want to stop. He often fell asleep, as the yellow square melted on the linoleum to be replaced with the pinkish light of the dawn. I could not see anything but his eyelids, and the fine wrinkles on them.

I remember those words that recurred in my endless tale: guiltiness, hate, cries.

Today, he is still in this apartment. The street has been cleaned up; the frameworks of the burned cars are nothing but memories. I hope he remembers my memories, as he lies down, alone. Beyond the ocean, I try to recollect my memory. I cannot. Everything I had, I left it in this room, between the brimming ashtray and one of the footboards. I remember the whispers, his eyelids, the light. I do not remember the person I was before him.

When my parents lived together, dozens of photograph albums weighed down the shelves in the restroom. Every time I was on the toilet seat, I did my best to be as fast as possible, always afraid that the shelves might cave in under the weight. It is strange to think that, at that time, memories scared me to death, whereas now, I would do anything to recall them. All the pictures disappeared, somewhere between the separation of my parents and my father leaving. The heavy photo albums have been swallowed up by the rage and the bitterness. The rubble of our happiness as a family vanished, and I strongly suspect my mother threw them in the garbage during a fit of anger.

I saved some pictures. Those that were scotch-taped on the wall, behind my father’s computer. Or those I found in a biscuit tin among sales slips and crossed-out postcards.

In one, I am wearing one of my favorite jackets, a blue duffel coat with a checkered hood. I am holding a champagne cork. I am smiling with pride, and I remember that the photo was taken just after the birthday cake. When my aunt had opened the bottle of champagne for the grownups, the cork jumped out of the neck and landed in my outstretched hand. The little six-year-old girl I was then felt so proud of this performance that she asked her mom to take a picture.

As I look at this picture attentively, I remember that, a few seconds after the flash, I put the cork in my pocket and ran across the courtyard to join the other children, who were playing hide and seek. It was my cousin’s birthday, and there were many kids that I had never seen before that cold day in March. But we were all excited by the game, and in five minutes we were laughing and screaming as if we had known each other forever.

After a while, it was my turn to be the one counting for the game. After counting for twenty-five seconds, I took my hands off my eyes to find myself alone in the courtyard. In fact, I was not. The birthday party took place in the courtyard of my uncle’s studio. He used to keep his works outside, so I was surrounded by a multitude of dashing, mysterious, and frightening sculptures. A beautiful half-naked goddess held her foot out to a gigantic wolf, which looked as if he was growling at a wide-open hand as tall as me. In another corner, a wave rippling with foam rose up close to a copy of the David in black marble. I was not afraid of this silent crowd, and I made my way quietly through the giants, trying to catch someone’s chuckle.

Suddenly, around a graceful shape of granite that was five times my size, I heard a breath. Behind the sculpture, I saw a huge globe of black marble, bigger than me, overcome by a tremendous white olive tree, which extended its branches above the other sculptures. It was the most imposing piece of art I had ever seen. I went around it, and on the top of the tree, I distinguished a little boy, holding on tightly to the marble trunk.

“Hey, I found you! How did you get there?”

“With the stepladder, right here,” he told me, pointing it out to me with his finger. “Isn’t it a great hiding place? From here I can even eat olives. Look at this!”

And the boy began to shake the trunk, as if olives were about to rain down. I was laughing so loud that I did not even hear the crack. I just remember that I saw the enormous olive tree disconnect from its pedestal, and crash on the floor with a noisy explosion.

I understood that something went wrong when I saw all the grownups rushing up around me, when I heard the kids screaming, and when I saw the arm. The arm got out from under the cracked trunk. I was just standing there, looking at the arm and the marble rubble around it, twiddling the champagne cork in my pocket. I stayed in this position, staring at the arm, until I heard the ambulance coming. Someone grabbed my shoulder and pushed me into the studio, where I saw the other kids, sitting on a rug, quiet, looking toward the window with distress and confusion in their eyes. 

Fourteen years later, my clearest memory, after the blue duffel coat and the champagne cork, is that arm, lying on the lightly frosted brick floor, like one of the hundred branches of the beautiful white olive tree.

The kid’s name was Simon, as I found out a few weeks later when I overheard a phone call between my mother and aunt. “It is not your fault honey, their son is gonna be okay, and they have no reason to be mad at you. Nobody could have guessed that Simon would climb the tree, and …” My mom stopped talking when she saw me at the crack of the door. “I’ll call you back sweetie, don’t worry it’s gonna be okay”. She hung up the phone, and smiled at me. I saw tears glistening in her eyes when she took me on her lap.

“Do you remember the boy at your cousin’s birthday? Well, he got hurt, really badly, and he is at the hospital right now. The doctors are trying to wake him up, but he is sleeping very deeply”.

Simon’s coma lasted almost a year. When he finally woke up, his brain was damaged, and he would never be the same again. I saw him at this birthday party, once, and I do not even remember his face. But I have a picture of that day, and behind the little girl in blue, the white branches of the olive tree stretch out. All the pain and the trauma of that day are in the little champagne cork, brandished to the sky with pride and joy. The olive tree has haunted my nights over years, bringing in its stream of marble leaves the deep and wide-open wound of guilt in my child’s heart.

As the picture gets slippery in my hands, I realize that I never told him this story. I should call him, but the memory of the bed in the little studio stops me. It’s 12 PM here, so it is 6 AM in Paris. Damning the time difference that made the distance even harder, I throw the picture on the floor. Later, in the middle of the night, I dream about the marble leaves.

I woke up suddenly, and the only things I could discern in the half-light were the red numbers on the alarm clock. 6:25 AM. I needed a few minutes to remember where I was. I stretched out in fear of touching nothing but some sheets and a blanket.  I relaxed when I felt him, asleep, concrete, here. I was not alone in this bed, slumber could come again.

As I tried to find the most comfortable position, a violent beep hurt my ears. The alarm clock. It was only 6:30; why was it ringing? He rolled from his side to mine and groaned, “What time is it?” I couldn’t answer, because the answer just collided with me head-on. If the alarm clock was ringing so early on an August day, it was because today was the day when I left. The plane was waiting for me, and I was going to have to say goodbye to him.

It was 7:05; we sat at a table outside a café, waiting for a coffee. We were quiet, avoiding looking each other in the eye. I really needed to go to the bathroom, but I did not want to break the solemnity of this moment. I did not want to move away from him, even for two minutes. I did not even feel like I could drop his hand.

When I think back to the last hours before my departure, I smile, thinking of all the tears held back, and how we should have looked miserable. At the airport, as we tried to play with verve the tragedy of the torn-apart lovers, a tramp came to talk to us. He was begging for money. I gave him my pack of cigarettes. Grateful, he began to rave about my generosity, telling him how lucky he was to have a girlfriend like me. He asked me about my trip, and looked very interested in my answers. Suddenly, he grabbed my hand, and pulled me outside. He led me to a bench, where a woman in rags, surrounded by full plastic bags, was dozing. Shaking her to wake her up, he introduced me to her.

“Look at this young person, she offered me her pack of cigarettes, I want you to meet her. She is leaving for the United States, America, dear, America!” The woman had gray hair and was toothless. Looking carefully at the man, I realized that he must be younger than her, maybe ten years. Despite his ruined face, hidden by a layer of grime, destroyed by alcohol, and who knows how many nights spent in the frozen streets, he had a strange allure left. Under his five o’clock shadow, I could discern an innocent smile, surprising on a man who must have lived such a tough life. The look in his eyes when he was looking at his “wife” (as he called her) was amazingly enamored. It was as if he could not see her empty gums and the dirt that filled up the web of wrinkles that covered her face. He kept touching her, his hands dwelling on her hair, caressing her cheeks. Through her falling eyelids she was returning him the same enamored looks. The two did not see their misery, did not smell their stench, and were refusing to let poverty take away their feelings. They were blind to everything but each other. They did not even notice the dried tears on my face, and the more and more frequent glimpses I was casting on my watch.

Those two reminded me of a story that my mother used to tell me when I was a child. I did love it, and every night, she gave up her angry voice of the day to retell me this story. I still remember the inflection of her tone when she said the word ‘pot’.

“A water bearer in India owned two large pots, one hung on each end of a pole which he carried across his neck. One of the pots had a crack in it, while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water at the end of the long walk from the stream to the house of the master. The cracked pot arrived only half full. For two years this went on every day, with the bearer delivering only one-and-a-half pots of water in his master's house.

“Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments, perfect for the purpose for which it was made. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had meant to do. After two years of bearing this failure, it spoke to the water bearer one day by the stream.

“‘I am ashamed of myself, and I would like to apologize to you,’ it said.

“‘Why?’ asked the bearer. ‘What are you ashamed of?’

“‘I have not been able, for these past two years, to deliver a full load because this crack in my side causes water leak out all the way back to your master's house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all of this work, and you do not get full value from your efforts,’ the pot said.

“The water bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in his compassion he said, ‘As we return to the master's house, I want you to see the beautiful flowers along the path.’

“Indeed, as they went up the hill, the old cracked pot observed the sun warming the beautiful wild flowers on the side of the path, and this cheered it. But at the end of the trail, it still felt bad because it had leaked out half its load, and so again it apologized to the bearer for its failure. The bearer said to the pot, ‘Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of your path, but not on the other pot's side? That's because I have always known about your flaw, and I took advantage of it. I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back from the stream, you've watered them. For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate my master's table. Without you being just the way you are, he would not have this beauty in his house.’”

In front of these two tramps, the only thing I could think of was my mother’s voice when she told me this story. I used to listen to it as a tale, without looking for a meaning. But then, even though I was leaving my home for a whole year in just a few minutes, I could not help staring at this couple, so beautiful and miserable, so cracked and then so full.

In the plane leaving the airport, I did not think about all I was giving up behind me. I was just wondering if, one year from this day, when I return to the very same airport, I would see the two lovebirds. With a little bit more white hair, a couple fewer teeth.

Last summer, all my friends decided to make a “tour de France” as a way to help me say goodbye. We went everywhere, saw everything. The eight of us were tan, happy, and always laughing. I did not know before those holidays that happiness could be so strong. I did not know either that friendship could be so important. We were in a permanent fever of excitement, but sometimes, tiredness of all those nights without sleep overwhelmed us, and conversations stopped. But the silence was never awkward; nobody felt compelled to speak. Being together was enough, words were useless.

I remember one time, we had been traveling all day, some by car, some by train. After hours of traveling in the hot sun, we were exhausted, starving, and thirsty. We were all sprawled in the grass, just watching the sunset. Nobody was speaking, and this silence was comforting. A pack of cigarettes was passed around, then a lighter. We were just smoking, quiet, looking at the night falling.

I guess it is the kind of feelings that the airport tramps feel when they are together. It is also what I feel when I am with him, this peaceful, calm state of mind, far from the rubble.