John Berger - Lilac and Flag

He turned round from the wardrobe to face Sucus. A golden mask covered his face. The expression of the mask was sad, as if no other colour in the world was more used, more fatigued than gold. Through the slits Sucus could see the same lost blue eyes.

I wear it some nights when I play at the Alhambra, Naisi explained, without taking it off.

He sat down, sprawling, on the one chair. They look the same in the morgue as we do, Naisi said, they have the same blood groups as we do. But we and they have nothing in common.

My father said the same thing.

Did he?

He said there were peasants and there were those who fed off the peasants.

Peasants! I’m talking about the twenty-first century, I’m talking about today and tomorrow.

Sucus was still holding the chicken.

We’re outside the law and whatever we do, we break it, said Naisi. They’re born inside and whatever they do, they’re protected. If you need to hit without killing, hit those who love you, not them. What applies to them doesn’t apply to us. Take apples. They eat an apple for their health. We eat an apple because one of us stole it. Take cars. They drive because they’ve got a rendezvous. We drive to get away. Building a house! They build to invest their money and leave it to their children. We build to have a roof. Fucking! They fuck to get kicks! Naisi took off the mask and dropped it onto the floor. I fuck to die! And you?

Sucus knew before he turned round that Zsuzsa was standing behind him.

Your man just punched the foreman, said Naisi.

What the hell made him do that?

I didn’t think. I just hit.

Give her to me, said Zsuzsa.

She turned the chicken the right way up so it sat on her hand, against her breast.

It’s when they’ve abandoned all hope that chickens become calm. She stroked its back.

Cato deserved it, said Sucus.

Ah, my silky one, murmured Zsuzsa, rubbing her chin over the white wing feathers.

I got the sack, said Sucus. For my mother it’s going to be … I know.

It was stupid. For my mother it—

Don’t worry, Flag. I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. We’ll go into town. We’ll go and say goodbye to your fucking building site. And we’ll go and see your mother. Wait five minutes.

She slipped out, the chicken under her arm. The two men heard the last soft cluck being drawn from its throat.

The neighbours all bring their poultry for her to kill, said Naisi, she’s done it since she was ten. She never frightens them.

Must be the way she holds them, said Sucus.

When we were kids, not here but beyond Swansea, before they cleared us off with their bulldozers, we had a goat and it was always Zsuzsa who milked it. She learnt to milk goats before she learnt to count.

I’m going to disappear, said Zsuzsa, on their way down to the city.

She put herself behind Sucus and pressed her body hard against his.

Walk! she ordered.

She moved each of her legs with his, and clung very close to him. Anyone approaching would have seen the silhouette of a single figure.

She’s gone! she whispered.

Sucus was burning with desire.

As an old woman, I know. Burning is the word. His zizi felt as if it would spurt blood if it weren’t cooled. And his blood felt as if it were boiling. This was happening inside his body. Outside his body it was worse. At his age, time is very long and its length breeds a terrible impatience. He felt he would be swallowed up by time if he didn’t have her now.

Where can we go? he muttered over his shoulder.

Go on walking, big one, she’s gone!

Zsuzsa’s desire was different from his. Nothing threatened to swallow her up. She didn’t have to cross any open space to arrive where she wanted to be with Sucus. She didn’t have to leave her forest. The forest was her nature. She wandered about in it, she lay down in it, she looked up from it into the sky. She knew the calls of many of its animals, but not all. And she believed Sucus was in the forest. All she had to do was to find where he was hiding. He was never in the same spot. And he was never far. What she wanted most to do was to uncover him and cover him and uncover him again. Most berries are hidden by leaves, some are protected by thorns. Her desire was to find in her forest, close to the ground, the cluster of Sucus. Since she never had to leave the forest, it didn’t matter how long it took.

By now they were in Carouge, where Sucus had been that morning. It was getting dark. A jetliner, wing lights flashing, was crossing the sky.

I’ll tell you what I saw today, Flag, you won’t believe me! It was black and very low on the ground and it looked like an electric razor. Inside it was red leather. The steering wheel was white snake skin. Had a CD player and a special sound system. Easy to get out — I had a good look — four screws and only one flange to cut.

A Cormorant?

No, the hood wasn’t long enough. But listen—

I’m listening.

It’s there, parked in the street. Behind Budapest Station. Around Sankt Pauli. Along comes Mr. Director. He has bad teeth, I can tell you. The colour of mutton fat. In his pocket he’s got a zapper. He zaps and a light by each car door goes on. He zaps again: the four doors unlock and open a couple of inches. He’s still standing there in the building doorway. Zap! The doors shut. Zap! The engine starts. Zap. It backs up, and it’s ready to go! Beep beep! Mr. Director gets in and drives off! One day, Flag, we’re going to have a car like that!

Did you get his number?

No. But I got his zapper!

She threw what looked like a tiny pocket calculator into the air and caught it with both hands.

Let me see!

Not now, Flag, and she started laughing.

I know where we’ll go, said Sucus.

They were on the sidewalk beside the tall wooden fence that screened off the Mond Bank building site. Following the fence, he led her off Park Avenue and down a side street.

One day I’ll buy you a car with a zapper, she said.

They came to a small locked door in the fence. Just past the door he pushed a plank sideways. Then another.

We came through here every day to get beer from the vending machine in the Métro.

Once inside, he carefully placed the planks back against the fence.

At night, half finished, the building looked like the ruin from Roman times which was in our village Schoolbook. The same black holes where the doors and windows should be, the same uneven skyline, the same scale, as if it were the plaything of a giant for whom the sky was no bigger than a pillow.

We’re going up there! he said.

Up where, Flag?

The crane there.

Which one?

The father.

Father?

The tall one.

It’s so high, Flag.

There’s a ladder.

I can’t see it.

There’s a cabin.

It’ll be locked, Flag.

We never lock up at home. Quick. Before we’re spotted.

He took her hand and led her to the foot of the crane.

There are three hundred and eight rungs, he said, you can count them if you like. Don’t look up and don’t look down. Just count.

You go first, she said, I’ll follow.

They started climbing.

Below them were a myriad of lights. For each light there were at least ten people, each one with a name. These people were climbing stairs, crossing streets, sleeping, working, talking, touching one another, suffering, dying, eating, drinking themselves to death, making music, vomiting, planning, going under, surviving. Their numbers multiplied every week. And the weight of the deaths that occurred in Troy never suppressed the lightness of the births.

We’re here, said Sucus, look down.

Don’t break my fingers, said Zsuzsa.

It’s open.

Are you sure it’s open?