John Hawkes - Travesty

But now she is dreaming. Yes, if my calculations are in the least reliable, we are now approximately seven minutes from Tara where the lady of the dark chateau lies dreaming. Honorine was always uncomfortable when, no matter how rarely, I applied to her that romantic epithet. But of course you are not burdened with her clear integrity and charming modesty, cher ami. So tonight I shall indulge myself for the last time and speak of Honorine, my wife, as the lady of the dark chateau. And yet the sleeping rooks; the magnificent shutters drawn closed and only somewhat in need of repair; the stables long ago converted to a garage which, this moment, houses one blue automobile instead of the usual blue car and the beige; the oak tree as bare and formidable as the chateau itself; the stately dog that lies beside the mammoth bed not for protection but for the sake of elegance and love; the amorous grace of the sleeper who earlier dined alone and then at a late hour undressed for bed without fear, without suspicion, and with only a few agreeable thoughts of us. . Doesn't all this justify in a way my romantic epithet? The glass of water on the nightstand, the slender volume closed but marked with a ribbon, the sound of breathing, the eyes which, if opened, would be serene — these at least justify my epithet, cher ami. But now I must tell you that despite our proximity, despite the fact that we have indeed appeared at the edge of her slumbering consciousness, still Honorine is not dreaming of our approaching car but of a flock of sheep. Let me explain.

One early afternoon, within hours, it seemed to me, of that moment when I conceived of the journey you and Chantal and I were shortly to take-I am being as honest as I possibly can-Honorine and I were walking in one of the distant, rocky fields adjoining Tara. You, I believe, had accompanied Chantal to her riding lesson. The afternoon was fair, the sun was warm, Honor- ine and I were walking so closely together among the rocks that we brushed shoulders, touched each other hip to hip or hand to hand, pleasantly and unintentionally. A tree far to the west was as small and bright as a golden toy. The rocks were like prehistoric signs to our suede boots. And then Honorine stopped us short and pointed. Because there, just ahead of us, the rocks appeared to be moving while the air was suddenly filled with a music of bells which Honorine, under her breath, described as a kind of heavenly Glockenspiel, though in fact she has always been quite as irreligious as her head of the household.

Well, it was a flock of sheep, of course, and we were caught in its midst. Honorine smiled; the tinkling and caroling of the bells increased; a thrush was in flight; for no reason at all the two of us turned and looked back at Tara which, in that soft light was far away and empty and both majestic and shabby, exactly as it had always been and as we wanted it to be. A place of comfort, mystery, privacy, as you surely know. But it was then while the sheep were rippling and purling about our legs (I noted that Honorine was not much interested in the baby lambs, being her typically unsentimental self), it was then and for no reason that I could discern, that Honorine ran her fingers through her short, blonde hair streaked with gray and, keeping a slight distance apart from me, smiled up at my face and began to speak. Without preliminaries and in her clear, quiet way she said that she thought you and I were both a little out of our heads. She said that we were selfish, that we were hurtful, and that she did not trust either one of us. But then she laughed and said that she loved us both, however, and was willing and capable of paying whatever price the gods, in return, might eventually demand of her for loving us both.

You will know how I felt. But may I point out that not once have you raised the question of cruelty or advanced the argument that my insistence on suicide and murder-at this juncture let us be honest- may reflect nothing more than my secret desire to punish eternally the lady of the dark chateau, as I may now call her without impunity? Well, allow me to advance precisely that neglected argument of yours and provide an answer as well.

It is cruel. Could anyone know better than I how cruel it is? Yes, what I am doing is cruel, but it is not motivated by cruelty. There is a difference. And who better than I should know that it is in fact motivated by quite the opposite? These are my reasons: first, Honorine is now more "real" to you, to me, than she has ever been; second, when she recovers, at last, she will exercise her mind in order to experience in her own way what we have known; but third and most important, months and years beyond her recovery, Hon- orine will know with special certainty that just as she was the source of your poems, so too was she the source of my private apocalypse. It was all for her. And such intimate knowledge is worth whatever price the gods may demand, as she herself said. No, cher ami, Honorine is a person of great strength. Sooner or later she will understand.

So you see the importance of a woman's dream and a flock of belled sheep.

But I have promised you a glimpse of the formative event of my early manhood. It was nothing, really, though I suppose that in retrospect all of the formative or most highly prized events of our days fade until they no longer have any shape or consequence. At any rate this particular event was the simplest of that entire store which at one time or another defined me, thrilled me, convinced me of the validity of the fiction of living, but which I have now forgotten. I will be brief. A few lines and you will have it.

The automobile, a bright green, was large enough only for two, and I was alone. The street was wide but the hour was such that the crowds, composed mostly of children, were jostling each other from the curbs. I was driving quickly, too quickly, in my desire to visit Honorine, whom I hardly knew. The old man, bewhisk- ered and wearing a bright silk cravat and carrying a furled umbrella, though the sun was such that it could not possibly have rained that day, was unmistakably one of your kind, which is to say an old poet. From the first instant I saw him he irritated me immensely, holding by the hand, as he surely was, a child more astounding than any I had ever seen.

I remember the car, which was powerful despite its size; I remember the street precisely because I was so uninterested in it; I remember the old poet because at the very moment I noticed him I saw that he was gripping the child's hand in lofty possessiveness and was already staring directly into my eyes with shocking anger. But most of all I remember the child. She was a waif with dark hair, dark eyes, an ingenuous little heart-shaped face filled with uncanny trustfulness and simple beauty. She was wearing a crudely knitted stocking cap with a tassel and a small once-discarded leather coat so old that it was scarred with white cracks. I marveled at the child and yet detested the old man who was already raising his brows, opening his mouth in fury, drawing back the child as if he could read in my face the character of a young man who would regard such a poor and sacred child, as the old man would think of her, with indifference or even disrespect.

I accelerated. I saw the tassel flying. The old poet's face was a mass of rage and his umbrella was raised threateningly above his head. I felt nothing, not so much as a hair against the fender, exactly as if the child had been one of tonight's rabbits. I did not turn around or even glance in the rear-view mirror. I merely accelerated and went my way.

I do not believe I struck that little girl. In retrospect it does not seem likely. And yet I will never know.

Perhaps the privileged man is an even greater criminal than the poet. At any rate I shall never forget the face of the child.