Andreï Makine: Brief Loves That Live Forever

Heave, balance a moment on a plank, wriggle like a lizard, grip again, thrust again …

The final lunge was performed with almost excessive vigor, with contempt for the vanquished monster. I gripped the highest bar, pivoted, grasped the topmost platform, straddled it, sat down upon the snow-covered timber.

I was free.

And blinded by light, my vision made iridescent by the effort. Deaf too, hearing only the drumming of the blood in my temples. After such a long incarceration everything seemed new to me, especially seen from this height. Tranquil sunlight, the whiteness of broad glades, the majestic calm of tall fir trees laden with snow.

On the pathway parallel to the river I was stunned to observe a little troop of children walking slowly away, all carrying shovels on their shoulders. I could see they were my comrades, including the girl we used to call “Red Riding Hood,” on account of her hat, a pupil always in revolt against discipline, who was now moving along, apart from the others, and looked as if she were dancing as she went … So my absence had not been noticed and my interminable captivity in those steel cages had, in fact, lasted only a few minutes!

I began to make my way down the terraces, confused by these two strands of time, which made me doubt my own reality. And, as if to confirm the novelty of such a state of affairs, suddenly there was this young woman.

She had walked over to the grandstand, doubtless following our footprints in the drifts, had cleared snow from the end of one of the terraces, and was now sitting there, with closed eyelids, bathed in sunlight. On her knees she held an open book.

I halted in my descent, froze, aware that this occurrence did not belong to the world I lived in.

It was the first time an awareness of femininity had struck me so openly. Before that, women used to have the physique of the workers we came across in factories and on construction sites, strong women, often marked by physical labor and alcohol, whom life had molded to be able to hold their own against men. At the orphanage femininity was even less in evidence, we all of us, boys and girls, had a neutralized identity: our heads cropped once a month, clothes of the same thick flannel, a way of talking whose male roughness passed unnoticed. Of course there were those women assembled in the family enclosures on the grandstand, the wives of notables and apparatchiks, but they were as unreal as the symbolic figures on propaganda posters.

So, for me, the young woman I now saw became the first real woman. The slightly arched posture of her body was feminine. As was the knee, clad in the fine wool of a black stocking, left uncovered, with innocent and alarming naturalness, by the hem of her overcoat. And this face, her eyes shut, as if offered for a caress.

Thanks to her, I suddenly knew what it was to be in love: to forget your past life and exist only to sense the breathing of the one you love, the quiver of her eyelashes, the softness of her neck beneath a gray scarf. But, above all, to experience how blissfully impossible it was to reduce this woman simply to herself. For she was also the abundance of snow surrounding us and the glittering haze floating among the trees, and this whole moment in which there was already a foretaste of the hesitant breath of spring. She was all of this and each detail of her figure’s mere outline echoed this far-reaching radiance.

The snow crunched under my foot, the woman opened her eyes, and I saw tears glistening upon her lashes. But her expression remained serene, almost glowing.

I climbed down, with sheepish caution, embarrassed to have disturbed her solitude. She lowered her head toward the book, an envelope had been slipped into it as a bookmark. In a hasty movement she closed the volume, as if I could have stolen the secret of her letter. At once she must have realized that a child, as taken aback by this unexpected encounter as herself, presented no threat. She looked at me for a long time, with a slight smile now. As I reached the lowest tier, I saw such a violently grief-stricken shadow pass across her gaze that I turned away and fled behind the grandstand.

There the mystery of the trap was resolved: one of the steel bars, simply held in place by a bolt, could be moved aside, and so gave access to the maze …

At the park’s exit I passed two elderly women, members of the gardening staff, who were scraping halfheartedly at the frozen earth around some great stone basins. One of them inclined her head in the direction of the grandstand and gave a sigh: “Well, what can you say? … He was a submariner, her man. And if they’re lost at sea they don’t get a grave, or a cross …”

The other one stopped scraping, leaned on the handle of her shovel, and sighed as well: “Well, as for a cross, you know … Maybe it’s better there’s no grave. She’ll get over it quicker …”

Catching these words in passing, I ran to rejoin my comrades. Unconsciously I was hoping to get back into our games, to forget the beauty and grief I had just experienced.

This forgetfulness never came. The young woman sitting on the snow-covered grandstand became much more than a memory. A way of seeing, of understanding, a tonality without which my life would not have been what it was to become. After my fleeting encounter with her I had a quite different perception of the weighty symbols celebrating my country’s messianic project. All those parades, ceremonies, congresses, monuments … Curiously enough, I now had less desire to make fun of them, to criticize the hypocrisy of the dignitaries up there on the grandstand, to denounce them as profiteers for whom the dream of a new society was nothing more than a convenient old lie.

I sensed that the truth was to be found neither among them nor in the opposing camp, with the dissidents. I perceived it as simple and luminous, like that February day beneath the trees burdened with snow. The humble beauty of the woman’s face with lowered eyelids showed up those platforms and their occupants and the pretentiousness of men prophesying in History’s name as ridiculous. What spoke the truth was this woman’s silence, her solitude, her love, so all-embracing that even this child, a stranger, scrambling down from tier to tier, remained forever dazzled by it.

This led me to the notion that this loving woman lived in a time that had no connection with the routine of our lives, so regularly punctuated by imposing mass spectacles. Or else, perhaps, that she lived in a world as it might have been without the overbearing aggressiveness of men, without grandstands, without the spiderwebs of their steel bars.

This hope revived in me my dream of the white city, of the men with new consciences, who, according to our teacher, would inhabit the future society. Yes, those fine, serene beings, who would not hoard and would work passionately for “the edification of the future” …

Then I became bewildered to realize that one thing was missing from this sublime enterprise.

“Love …,” an incredulous voice murmured within me. Everything was provided for in the ideal society: enthusiastic work by the masses, incredible advances in science and technology, the conquest of space, taking man into unknown galaxies, material abundance and rational consumption, linked to radical changes of attitude. Everything, absolutely everything! Except …

I did not think “love” again, I simply had a renewed vision of that young woman amid the great tranquillity of the snows bathed in sunlight. A woman with closed eyes and her face reaching out toward the one she loved.

Forty years later, when military secrets were made public, I learned the name of the submarine that had foundered at sea, carrying with it the man whose beloved ghost I had glimpsed on the face of the young woman seated on the parade grandstand. The events tallied: our encounter in the park had taken place just over a year after that disaster …