Reif Larsen - I Am Radar

“Non-dualistic transitory — what is this?” said Fabien.

The professor recoiled at the question.

“You don’t know how much your query pains me,” he said wearily. “I am trying to deliver you the part, when every atom in my being strains to deliver you the whole.”

“ Chut, Fabien, don’t distract him,” said Yvette. “Tell us about the poem, Professor. The poem — we want to hear about the poem.”

Funes cleared his throat. “I assume you want me to summarize. . I have learned that this is what most people mean when they say they want to hear of something. Or do you want me to recite the poem itself? It’s over forty-five hundred lines long with both prologue and epilogue.”

“Correct, Professor,” said Daneri. “A summary is in order.”

“I would love to hear him recite it,” said Lars. “I haven’t heard it aloud before.”

“You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” growled Daneri. He turned to the little man, whose impossibly pale skin had become flushed and blotchy. “Professor, there will be time to recite it later. For now, a précis; the night is still young.”

The professor nodded, coughed into his hand, and began to speak stiffly, as if from a memorized script: “The poem begins with a conference of the birds. They are kingless. The hoopoe stands up and says to those congregated, ‘We are not kingless; we do have a king. He is Simurgh. They found one of his feathers in China, and from the majesty of this single feather, rumors have spread throughout the land of his utter magnificence.’ The birds are enchanted. . They want to see their king. But the hoopoe warns them that the path to the Simurgh is fraught with great peril and many dangers. And so, hearing this, the birds begin to come up with excuses for why they can’t go on the journey. The nightingale says she is in love with the rose and cannot go; the parrot says his beauty has caused him to be caged; the falcon says he already has a master; the duck says he cannot be far from water. . and so on. These are the excuses of life. To each of the doubters, the hoopoe delivers a story, slowly convincing them through his tales that to not find Simurgh would be to live a life without meaning. . to exist without existence. And so, reluctantly, the birds agree to seek out their king.”

“It sounds to me as if the hoopoe is their king,” said Fabien. “He’s the one giving orders.”

“The hoopoe gives no orders. . The hoopoe is the storyteller. He shows them the way by describing those who have denied themselves spiritual fulfillment, those who have lusted after fame, wealth, bodily delights. But he gives no orders. . The hoopoe is the poet, the guide.”

“What is a king but a rotten man with a good story?”

“Go on,” said Yvette. “Don’t listen to Fabien. He’s still mad I didn’t marry him.”

The professor, looking quite annoyed, gathered himself and again took up the script: “On their way to see their king, the birds pass through seven valleys, each presenting a series of challenges to the flock. First they must pass through the Valley of the Quest, where they see, for the first time, the impossibility of the task laid out before them. Some birds turn back here, others die from fright, but most press on. From there, they enter the Valley of Love, where they confront the dangers of passion. More birds burn up, seethe with lust, or fall under the trance of beauty. Then they enter the Valley of Understanding, where they realize the limits of worldly comprehension — that knowledge is nothing but stones in the palm.”

“But do you agree?” said Fabien.

“With what?” said the professor curtly.

“That knowledge is stones in the palm.”

“I’m recounting the poem for our guests. It’s not for me to comment on the truth of its content. Were I to spend my life commenting on the world that I see, I would never see the world.”

“I would just think you would have an issue with such a characterization given your—”

“Fabien, arrêtez-vous! Personne n’aime un trouble-fête.”

Funes smiled, slightly. “Soon you’ll be nothing but a memory,” he said to Fabien.

“The poem, Professor, please . What happens in the poem?” ordered Yvette.

He continued, briskly now: “From here the birds, greatly diminished already, pass through the Valley of Independence and Detachment, where they realize the smallness of all things. . then the Valley of Unity, where they realize the sameness of all things. . then the Valley of Astonishment and Bewilderment, where they confront the true glory of God’s creation. And finally, the Valley of Poverty and Nothingness, where they realize that for all that they have realized, they realize nothing. . They themselves are nothing. Along the way, many birds perish in any number of ways: they are eaten, frozen, drowned, starved, maimed. . They die of hunger, heat, madness, and thirst. Of the thousands and thousands that began the journey, only thirty birds make it past the Valley of Nothingness. They step out of this valley, beaten and exhausted, their spirits drained, and they step into the realm of the Simurgh. They are desperate to finally lay eyes upon their king, whom they have traveled so far too see. . but instead they meet only the Simurgh’s herald, who tells them to wait by a lake. This is almost too much to bear for the exhausted birds. They wail and complain, but wait they must, and as they wait, filled with self-pity and contempt for this Simurgh who makes them wait, they stare into the lake. And in this lake they see their reflections: thirty birds, thirty reflections. And then they realize: the Simurgh is them. Si-murgh in Persian means ‘thirty birds’. . Their divine leader is within them.”

“It’s beautiful,” whispered Yvette.

“Africa must find its Simurgh,” a voice said.

The table turned as one. Horeb was standing only a few feet away. In the candlelight, dressed in his tunic, he resembled a prophet. The sight was startling.

“Casse toi, bicot!” growled Fabien.

“He’s with us,” said Lars.

“You know him?”

“He’s our hoopoe,” said Lars.

“I am their hoopoe, monsieur, ” said Horeb. He looked as if he would say more, but then he bowed slightly and receded back into the shadows.

“Well, I think it’s a lovely story and will make a perfect play,” said Yvette. She raised her glass. “To the thirty birds.”

The glasses came together. Clinked, receded. Above them, the night remained.

“What do you think of all this?” Yvette said.

Radar realized she was speaking to him.

“Me?”

“Yes, are you the silent member of the troupe? Harpo to your two brothers? He was always my favorite Marx Brother.” She crossed her eyes and puffed out her cheeks and somehow was all the more lovely for doing so.

“Well, I. .” he stammered.

“What I want to know,” the captain interrupted, “is why puppets ? We had a puppet theater in Buenos Aires, and I’ll tell you, it made me deathly afraid as a child. I think they enjoyed frightening children. They had a wolf puppet that gave me nightmares for years. I’ve seen real wolves, and none was as frightening as the wolf puppet.”

Radar felt Lars staring at him.

“Do you know how we might get our container on the next train to Kinshasa?” said Lars. His voice had grown hard.

Daneri sensed his intrusion. He held up his hands.

“Don’t look at me,” he said. “I’m just a simple man of the sea.”

“There hasn’t been a train to Kinshasa in ten years,” said Fabien. “There are small trees growing between the tracks now. The locomotive is stopped somewhere between here and Songololo. Trains require maintenance, oversight, money. We don’t have any of that here.”