Marguerite Duras - Abahn Sabana David

Silence.

“I’m cold,” says Sabana. “Afraid.”

“We are afraid,” says the Jew.

“Of death.”

“Of life.”

Silence. The Jew walks. Paces.

And then, while walking, right here, he calls out to David.

“David. David.”

First quietly, and then louder and louder, he calls to David.

David sleeps. His lips are gently parted. His face captured in the lamp light turned on by the Jew.

“David.”

He sleeps.

“David.”

The Jews stops, waits. He sleeps still. The Jews begins pacing once more.

Sabana is silent.

“David. David.”

Again he stops, the Jew. He stands still. Sabana struggles to discern him in the half-lit room. She hesitates, waiting. He paces away and then back. Sabana’s eyes are two gray slashes devoid of light. He paces. He calls out. He stops again. They wait.

“David.”

They wait. The cold grows in their hearts, in their wakes, a frozen climax. David’s voice rises up in the silence.

“Yes, I hear you. What?”

His voice is quiet, peaceful.

The Jew has stopped. They hear a dull cry. It is not David. Another cry. The dogs howl out in response. The howling dies down. The silence freezes over, muffles it. The silence drags forth a sob from David’s chest. Sabana’s face contorts in pain. She says:

“It looks like he’s suffering.”

“Who?” asks the Jew.

She moves. She rises up and goes to the window. She passes by the Jew, she does not look at him, she is at the window, facing the empty street, lingering there.

•

The only sound is David’s breathing, which occasionally stops as if bumping up against some barrier, and then begins again, longer, deeper.

“He’s dreaming,” says Sabana.

“Of what?”

“Cement. And dogs.”

The Jew draws close to David. Sabana goes with him. They watch David.

“A thousand years?” the Jew says to David.

The hands of David flutter lightly.

“A thousand years,” repeats David.

He sleeps.

His hands fall back to his body. The effort of articulating the words makes them tremble.

He is sleeping. He sleeps. His hands, his wounded hands, rest again on the arms of the chair. The eyes of the Jew are focused on the sleeping hands.

“A thousand thousand years?” the Jew continues.

It seems that David will speak.

No.

“A thousand thousand years?” continues the Jew.

A light tremor passes through David’s body.

“A thousand thousand years,” repeats David.

David’s breath grows faster. Then stops. He does not take another.

The silence grows. It blinds. It sharpens to a peak. Spreads out. Spreads to the chink in the wall of slumber, a dull stone, a clamor, brief and strange.

David has cried out.

Having cried out, David thrashes in sleep, he lifts his head, his eyes open, he sees nothing, his head falls back, he speaks:

“Leave me alone,” he begs.

In the silence that follows comes Sabana’s rough voice:

“David.”

And the voice of the Jew, the same:

“David.”

Silence.

Abahn rises. He turns to face the dark road, his back turned to them. He says:

“And now falls the night.”

•

The Jew walks away from Sabana and David. He once more resumes his pacing through the house.

The wide stride of the Jew appears and disappears from the gaze of Sabana and Abahn.

Eyes closed, the Jew walks and talks to David.

“A thousand years? That’s it? And it goes on?”

He speaks loudly. His voice echoes off the walls. Sabana stands looking out the window at the darkened park.

“A thousand years? A thousand years and it goes on?”

The peals of his voice resound from the walls.

“A thousand years more?”

Sabana looks away from the park, the dark ground, the earth, when the Jew cries out.

“David,” cries the Jew. “David, David!”

He stops.

Abahn comes over as well.

“David,” says Abahn.

Abahn does not cry out. Sabana returns. She sees that Abahn is talking to her. Sabana’s blue gaze rests on Abahn.

Looking at Abahn, Sabana speaks to David. “David,” she says, “The Jew is speaking to you?”

“Yes,” says Abahn.

Sabana leaves the Jews and walks toward David. The Jews follow behind, allow her to approach alone. They linger behind her.

It is she who interrupts his reverie. She grabs hold of him, her hands on his shoulders. “Wake up, David. The Jew wants to talk to you.”

David’s head sags back and falls into sleep.

“David, the Jew wants to talk to you.”

“No,” says David, in his sleep.

Sabana releases his shoulders. She cradles his head. The hands of Sabana on David’s head.

“The Jew is going to die, he wants to talk to you.”

“No,” says David, in his sleep.

She holds the head of David in her hands.

“He is going to die, he wants to talk to you.”

She speaks in even tones.

David does not respond. He opens his eyes with a blank stare.

“You said a thousand years, why?” asks Sabana.

David answers:

“A thousand years.”

She loosens her grip. She releases David’s head.

She has released the head of David.

The head stays up. The eyes remain open.

Sabana turns, walks away.

Abahn and the Jew talk to David.

“You said cement, ice, wind, a thousand years?”

“A thousand years,” David repeats.

“You said cement, fear, cement, fear, fear, cement, a thousand years? A thousand more years?”

David’s eyes lift toward Abahn. Their color, David’s eyes, is light blue, blue mixed with white.

Abahn draws close to David. The Jew is behind him.

Sabana stands over the Jew, next to him. Abahn and the Jew speak again to the sleeping David.

“You said a thousand years not hearing?”

“A thousand years not seeing?”

“A thousand years,” David repeats.

“A thousand years the brain of an ape?”

David’s blue eyes turn in the direction of the voice. He does not recognize it.

“A thousand years the ape Gringo?”

“A thousand years a killer? An ape killer?”

They do not say more. David’s eyes are still open in the direction of the voice.

“David, you’re David,” It is the broken voice of the Jew.

“The hunter,” says Abahn.

“The hunter,” David repeats.

They fall silent. It must be this silence that then reveals an unease in David’s fixed gaze. He has a stunned air about him, his stare questioning. He strains toward the voice. He sleeps, he says:

“The dogs.”

Sabana takes a step toward the Jew. She does not take her eyes away from the darkened park.

It is Abahn who speaks to David. “You labor in the workshop of the merchants? You’re twenty-five years old? Your wife is Jeanne?”

David responds in the same tone Abahn used, slowly and clearly:

“The dogs.”

“You’re a mason? You make cement? You work with the Portuguese? The Portuguese?”

“The dogs,” says David.

He struggles against sleep. He articulates his words with difficulty. He finally makes a sentence.

“I want the dogs of the Jew.”

He looks toward the rest of them with growing alarm. His gaze is clear and focused. One could say his stubbornness surprises him. He says again:

“I want the dogs.”

He is quiet. He seems about to speak. He does not speak. He holds his head up. His eyes are open. He looks at Abahn with a questioning look.

The silence is unpierced. Then Abahn speaks.

“You’ve given the Jew to Gringo.”

He answers without doubt in a simple, clear way. His response springs forth from sleep.

“Yes.”

His eyes questioning still.