John Berger: To the Wedding

She will not be able to speak any more. To put a few drops of water into her dried mouth he will have to use a syringe. She will not have the strength to move anything, except her eyes, which will question him, and the tip of her tongue to touch the drops of water. He will lie beside her. And one afternoon she will find the strength to raise her arm so that her hand rests in the air. He will take her hand in his. The turtle ring will be on her fourth finger. Both their hands will stay in the air. The turtle will be swimming outwards, away. And his eyes will follow her into ever.

The musicians are packing up. One or two couples dance to the music still in their heads. Ninon stands before Gino. A little before he was carrying her against his chest and he had a hard-on. Her wedding dress is soiled like a flag after a battle. Her skin glistens. Her feet are black. She shakes her head as if shaking water out of her hair. Her thirty little locks go wild. She stops. They no longer gyrate, only quiver. Now, she says, now’s the time for you to undo one …

The tama of a heart in tin was not sufficient. I was troubled from the moment the signalman said “Everywhere” and I knew — or I thought I knew — what it meant. Another tama was needed, made this time not in tin but with voices. Here it is. Place it by the candle when you pray …