He must be one of us, for he seemed able to see me.
And began beseeching me, by way of a complicated series of gestures, to indulge him, by exiting the home and floating down for a quick word, if I would be so kind.
I passed out through the wall, the stale quiet of the death room giving way to the smell of the humid air without and the lovely nighttime sound of cicadas, all my clothes now properly affixed and permanent, a happy development, since I must now greet this new acquaintance.
The fellow appeared exhausted, as if he had traveled a great distance to be here. Wearing the rough garb of a mechanic or railway engineer, he struggled under the weight of a tremendous stack of papers, the top of which was invisible among the low-hanging midsummer clouds. Its great height causing thestack to exist in a continual state of sway, he must, to prevent it from toppling, continuously be adjusting his posture.
He was indeed one of us.
For I could see, through his body, the trunk of an oak across the street.
He implored me, in fluent but accented English: Might I allow him up into that room, briefly, as a courtesy?Est-il possible?He understood that this might represent an inconvenient interruption of my work. Which, perhaps, had not yet begun in earnest? He possessed certain information he felt would prove beneficial. To my charge. Also, if he was being entirely transparent—
You are, I said. Entirely.
We shared a laugh.
If I am being entirelyfrank,he restated, it would benefit me as well. I would be most grateful. I assure you I will do no harm:Je vous promets.
His forlorn appearance engaged my compassion. His clothing was in tatters, he was filthy with the dust of the road, his shoes mere flaps of leather, his feet blistered and bloody.
And, if possible, he said, I would prefer to go up alone.
Alone, I said.
S’il vous plaît,he said.
It was an immense task we of our ilk were engaged upon. We constituted a guild of sorts, that depended for its work upon such mutual gestures of courtesy.
I indicated with a slight inclination of my head that I would allow it.
Kindly be quick, I said.
Up the Frenchman leapt, showing a surprising agility for one so burdened, his immense stack of papers seeming to inhibit him not a bit.
From the backyard of the house next door came a burst of music and the low murmur of a crowd.
A party, it seemed.
Seated on the edge of the fountain, hearing these sounds (my task suspended, entering a dangerous, purpose-free state of lull), I began to experience familiar symptoms of an affliction that, when upon me, always caused me to become less powerful and effective than was desirable.
For example:
Near the golden statue, in a swath of tree-created moon-shadow, was what I knew, of the instant, to be “auto.” I myself, I recalled, had, in that previous realm, driven several “autos,” the first of which had been “Chevelle.” “Chevelle,” packed with “girlfriends,” as well as my cousin, “Steve,” would be positioned so as to face a “movie-film” unscrolling upon a distant wall of white, surrounded by other autos, all of us learning from the movie-film such things as: Rome is romantic and interesting. And: when someone is lovely, the household staff may exchange happy glances regarding one’s sunny insouciance. And: later, those servants will help one achieve one’s fondest dreams, by keeping one’s confidence regarding a secret rendezvous.
All of this, just because one was lovely.
Therefore, sitting in Chevelle, watching those movie-films, I wished to be lovely.
Was I?
Had I been?
At this remove, I couldn’t recall. I could only recall dear Chevelle and those movie-films and my aspiration to be lovely.
More such recollections would soon be forthcoming.
Though they were harmful.
