Selected Cronicas

SHARING BREAD

It was Saturday and we had been forced into accepting an invitation to dinner. But each of us valued our Saturday evening far too much to waste it on a couple whom we found rather boring. Each of us had experienced happiness at some time or other and been left with the mark of desire. As for me, I desired everything. And there we were, trapped, as if our train had been derailed and we had been left stranded among strangers. No one there loved me and I had no love for them. As for my Saturday — which swayed outside my window amongst acacias and shadows — I preferred to fritter it away, to hold that lost Saturday in my clenched fist and crumple it like a handkerchief. Waiting for dinner to be served, we drank dispiritedly, toasting resentment. The next day would be Sunday. I have no desire to be with you, our dry expression was saying, as we slowly blew smoke from a dry cigarette. The meanness of not sharing our Saturday gradually began to erode and advance like rust to the point where any happiness would have been an affront to greater happiness.

Only the mistress of the household did not appear to prefer to spend her Saturday in better company. She, whose heart had nevertheless known other Saturdays. How could she have forgotten that one wants more and more? She did not so much as lose her patience with this mixed gathering of people, dreamy and resigned, who sat there in her house as if waiting for the first train to leave — any train — rather than remain in that empty station or curb that horse which was straining at the bit in its anxiety to gallop off and join other horses.

We finally moved into the dining-room for a supper without the blessing of hunger. The sight of that table took us by surprise. This could not be for us… It was a table for men of good will. Who were the missing guests for whom this was really intended? We ourselves. So that woman gave of her best without discrimination? She happily washed the feet of the first stranger to appear. Fidgeting awkwardly, we stood there staring.

The table was covered with solemn abundance. Sheaves of corn had been piled up on the white table-cloth. And there were red apples, enormous yellow carrots, round tomatoes with skins ready to burst, juicy green courgettes, pineapples of a malign ferocity, tranquil, golden oranges, gherkins bristling like porcupines, cucumbers stretched tight over watery flesh, hollow red peppers that made our eyes smart — were all entangled in moist whiskers of maize, tinged with crimson like outlined lips. And bunches of grapes. The purplest of black grapes anxiously awaiting the moment to be crushed. Nor did they mind who should crush them — like the mistress of the household in times gone by. The tomatoes were not round for anyone: for the atmosphere, the circular atmosphere. Saturday was for anyone who might turn up. And the orange would sweeten the tongues of the first to arrive. Beside the plate of each unwanted guest, the woman who washed the feet of strangers had placed — without choosing or loving us — a sheaf of wheat, a bunch of fiery radishes or a red slice of water-melon with its glossy seeds. All broken up by the Spanish acidity of green lemons. In the earthenware jugs there was milk, as if it had been transported across a rocky desert with the goats. Wine that was almost black after all that pressing, shuddered in earthenware bowls. Everything was set before us. Everything cleansed of perverse human desire. Everything as it is and not as we would wish it to be. Simply existing and intact. Just as a field exists. Just as mountains exist. Just as men and women exist, but not us with our greed. Just as Saturday exists. Simply existing. It exists.

On behalf of nothing, it was time to eat. On behalf of no one, it was good. There was no dream. And along with the night, we gradually became anonymous, growing, rising above the height of possible existence. Then, like landed aristocracy, we accepted that table.

There was no holocaust: everything there was as anxious to be eaten as we were to eat it. Putting nothing aside for the following day, there and then I offered up my feelings to whatever had provoked them. This was a moment of existence for which I had not paid in advance with anxious waiting, the hunger that comes as we raise the food to our lips. For now we felt hungry, with an all-consuming hunger which took in everything, even the very crumbs. Those who were drinking wine kept a watchful eye on the milk. Those who were slowly sipping milk could taste the wine the others were drinking. And outside, the presence of God amongst the acacias. Acacias which existed. We ate. Like someone giving water to a horse. The carved meat was passed round. Any exchanges were homely and down to earth. No one spoke ill of anyone because no one spoke well of anyone. It was a harvest reunion and any social niceties were dispensed with. We ate. Like a horde of locusts, we gradually covered the earth. As absorbed as those who cultivate existence, by planting and harvesting, by living and dying and eating. I ate with the honesty of someone who does not belie what he is eating. I ate that food and not its name. God was never possessed by what He is. Brusque, contented and austere, the food was saying: eat, eat and share among you. Everything there was mine. This was the father’s table. I ate without affection, I ate without any feelings of compassion. And without giving way to hope. I ate without any trace of regret. And I was wholly deserving of that food. For I cannot always be my brother’s keeper, nor can I be my own keeper. Alas, I no longer love myself. I have no desire to forge life because existence already exists. It exists like the ground we tread. Without a word of love. In total silence. But your satisfaction is akin to mine. We are strong and we eat. Bread is love between strangers.