Telegrams of the Soul

Putain

The little room is flooded with the scent of a mountain meadow. In the light brown wash basin lies a thick bunch of Daphne Cneorum, rose-colored asters.

“Daphne Cneorum—,” he remarks upon entering, savoring all the types of alpine laurel with their fine fragrance and color, and thinks of mountainsides bathed in sunlight.

“The hell with my flowers—,” she says. “What do you care what they’re called—?”

She undresses and crawls into bed.

“Say, what’d Max mean?! Are you fellahs really not going to come by no more?”

“No—,” he says, “it costs money and people talk. What are we, whoremongers?! For heaven’s sake!”

Silence.

“Well then, that’s that—,” she says softly.

He inhales the clear scent of woman’s breath and mountain meadow.

She lies there motionless.

Then she says: “It’s a damn shame, it is—. I was proud of you all, proud—. I always said: ‘My friends—!’ Maybe I didn’t act like I should have. I shoulda pulled the wool over your eyes, made a scene, a comedy—.”

“Come on, sweetheart, don’t be such a child—,” he says and kisses her hand.

“You’re fine fellahs, ain’t you—,” she says, “fine as silk! Why’d you bother coming?! What for?! Nothing to be done—. That’s all: ‘Nothing to be done about it.’ I can’t put it into pretty words, but that’s all—. I got thoughts in my head too, see—. That Robert, he’s such a dear. I’ll tell you a little story. But you can’t go blabbing it around town. One time he said to me: “You’re tired, Anna, better sleep—.” “ ’S’at what we came up for?!” I says. “Tired is tired—,” he says. “It’s just like after a hike in the mountains—.” Ain’t that sweet, though—?! I really did fall asleep. Why did I trust him? He’s not really my type. But he said: “Go ahead, Anna, sleep!”

Silence. She sighs. Silence—.

“You’re a fine lot. Fine as silk. I’m really gonna miss you’s—.”

Silence.

“Nothing to be done—. Tell Max—.”

“Tell him what?!”

“Nothing——.”

Silence.

“Why’d you ever bother coming?! What for?! I don’t get it. You’re fine as silk. I think I’m gonna dry up—.”

The little room smells of Daphne Cneorum—.

She climbs out of bed and plunks herself in an easy chair.

Then she opens the Venetian blinds and the morning spills in like a mountain stream.

“Shut the blind—,” he says.

She lets down the blind, crawls back into bed.

“I have friends, three friends—!! Black Bertha, she’ll never get it. The dumbbell! Listen up — my heart is hurting.”

He says: “Alright then, we’ll be back. But what good does it do you?! We just bother you. Anyways, come June, we’re going away. Max is going to the seashore, Robert’s going to the mountains——.”

She: “Am I holding you back or what——?!”

She falls asleep.

He feels inside: “Sleep! Extinguisher of consciousness, wave breaker—!”

He thinks: “We’re like dumb fate, breaking and entering a human heart, tearing open the white gates of friendship, letting the light come spilling in like a mountain stream—! Then we go and say: ‘What are we, whoremongers?! For heaven’s sake, sweetheart, give us a break—!’ ‘Adieu,’ she says softly. ‘Am I holding you back or what—?!’ That’s just the way life is, we tell ourselves. A splendid excuse!”

The little room is flooded with the scent of Daphne Cneorum. It’s like the incense of mountain meadows—.

The poor soul sleeps.

Sleep-extinguisher of consciousness! Wave breaker—!