I am your dream
which beckoned to Petites Cendres, luring him far from whatever torment Timo was in, dead or alive, why did he insist on persecuting Petites Cendres with his unending drama, why, well because
I’m your dream
, that’s why, Robbie sang but then remembered he had to pass the bucket through the audience, oh how reality stood out in such painful contrast against his enticing words, for each and every one of you, ladies and gentlemen, I am the dream, your very own dream, yes,
I am your dream
, and the money flowed into the bucket when Robbie and the red hibiscus Yinn had strategically pinned on him bent low and suggestively toward the unknown choir that had come to see him dance and sing, men, women, all reaching out to touch him, licking him with their eyes all of a sudden,
a sinner or a saint I am your dream
, as that suave voice sang, enchantress, but now a very masculine hand grabbed the money bucket as he walked up to the customers at the bar, begging and bold, you liked the show did you, for adults only you know, thank you ladies and gentlemen, would you like to see what I have on underneath, want me to lift my dress just like Yinn, later Robbie would confide to Petites Cendres that the whole time he danced and sang that night he couldn’t think of anything but Fatalité, slowly fading away all by herself in her room, a tiny candle in a stiff northerly wind, barely glimmering, not a breath in the emaciated body stretched out in the dress she wore for late-night shows, as though left lying regally in state on a shore, oh Fatalité he thought, Fatalité, and recalled the moment in Yinn’s dressing room when Robert from Martinique came in and he felt dark jealousy eating away at him, Robbie didn’t like seeing Yinn get so familiar with the new boy like that, sure, he’d soon be dancing nude on Decadent Friday, maybe around midnight in the display window, that’s what he told Petites Cendres, so that passersby could see him from the street as he danced away on one of the tables slipping his underwear down over his buttocks, making the voyeurs drool before revealing the ripening fruit, sure this was how he said it and sure this kind of jealousy was mean-spirited, but what can you do if Robbie felt it too, though he had noticed Yinn’s approach to the boy hadn’t been lascivious, barely even tender at the sight of his round buns, touching without seeing, detached in that terrible way Yinn had, and thinking Fatalité was no longer with them, this family of girls, he wept backstage, forgetting the tip bucket and the evening routine, because routine is all it was he said to Petites Cendres, and of course Yinn had to remind him, the tip bucket Robbie, the bucket, we don’t live on air now do we Robbie, it’s for Fatalité you know, the funeral costs, of course Yinn had paid for all of it without a moment’s hesitation, if we all lived and died depending on God’s fatherly mercy, and we all know what a crushing weight that is if he even exists Robbie said, it’s always a good idea to have a mother like Yinn’s to make up for it, anyway Reverend Stone says he does and he’s a father to Fatalité, and Fatalité was needed in the House of the Father as much as down here with the rest of us, so that’s why he’s gone, what a pile of crap said Robbie, a real father doesn’t kill his own kids one after another, but then of course Reverend Stone and his prayers needed to be there explaining the unexplainable, so he had no choice except to say there was a place for Fatalité in the house of her almighty father, so you see friends, that’s why she was snatched from us, taken hostage, ’cause it’s just too miserable down here with the rest of us, a princess, isn’t that what Reverend Stone said, no wait, he said your friend, honoured and worthy but so afflicted, for now the candle’s snuffed out, though we do keep a light burning in her apartment of course Robbie said, yes, that night Fatalité was all he could think about, this could have been avoided said Dr. Dieudonné, declaring him dead, it didn’t need to happen, Fatalité’s sacrifice, with prevention and medication, still what’s the point now, utterly useless, once it was tuberculosis that tore through the population like this and it too was preventable, all those shawl-covered infectious faces in India, China, or Russia, but no, we didn’t want to hear about it, neither did Fatalité, him and so many others, wave upon wave of them, remember those photos by James Nachtwey declaring it a crisis, the crisis of forgetting epidemics that are still with us, buried and forgotten but more and more destructive, poor peasants in places like Cambodia or India — Chennai for instance — twisted in suffering, thought of only by international health organizations, men, women, and children often in their last agony and battling meningitis, just another one we don’t know about, an emaciated child in its mother’s arms, Asian Madonna and Child on a small metal bed frame, was anyone talking about their crucifixion there on that bed frame, sure it was preventable Dieudonné said, yes it could be stopped, of course why not, but who was interested, throwaway people that’s all they were, them and their infected mouths, their shawls, their wide dark eyes and the fever being fed, sure said Dieudonné it could have been stopped or avoided, Fatalité too certainly, I mean we aren’t in Cambodia or China are we, and yet look at what happens every single day, what the hell thought Petites Cendres as he listened to the doctor, angry and shaken, why bother going through all that today, nothing was done, the medication wasn’t there for Fatalité either, might as well be Cambodia or India, no way to pay thought Petites Cendres, he’d never had any money either, and if he left just as he’d come he should at least have been told, but here we are too late for that, so why bother, why, that candle had flickered out in a well-lit apartment, too late to prevent, too late for meds, same as for that other human wreckage in India and China, too late he thought, too late for all of them, so why bother repeating it over and over, why does the doctor have to talk this way like some prophet of doom saying again and again what everyone knows already, forgetfulness covers everything over, burying the atrophied conscience of the world, this, this is what Dr. Dieudonné was saying to Petites Cendres, who somehow hoped his body was invincible, well he very nearly was he thought, nothing could touch him when he was near Yinn and Robbie and those luminous, bubbling nights, oh for God’s sake shut up Dieudonné and let Petites Cendres finally experience the joy of life, dazzled, stunned, and bouncing back unharmed from all his trials, a drunken string of days and nights, feverish hours and moments alive,
yes this life, this short life which was all he had. Petites
Cendres recalled one of Yinn’s shows, something that shook him, a performance of such excess he did not fully grasp it, whether overdone in freedom or in provocation he did not know, but surely it was because he himself could never be that free or provocative, only Yinn could get away with that, besides Petites Cendres’ day-to-day life was one constant state of infraction in one way or another, but Yinn broke all the taboos and rules, even the ones that might have flattered his beauty, not that he really needed to, so it came about that Petites Cendres saw him jump with legs intertwined into an onstage transfiguration that lasted only seconds, from the loveliness he was to a thing of such insane, hysterical, and wild ugliness, with monstrous teeth and rolled-back eyes, abusive and wholly unappetizing poses, he had to wonder if the magic link between spectator and performer had been broken, there had been murmurings that crazed moves like this had taken Yinn and his bodily narrative too far off course and left the diva stranded in a whirlwind delirium like Nijinsky’s, who, more than jumping, seemed to levitate heavenward amid thunderstruck peals of laughter, unabashed sylph that he was on the stage, and instantly shameless as if by design, Yinn overturned any notion one might have of him, somehow reduced by some disagreeable pleasantry, this outlandish yet impenetrable disguise so blended with other images that perhaps it wasn’t one after all, and yet none of this was true thought Petites Cendres, in those few seconds Yinn insinuated his own laughter into that of the audience, natural now, not exaggerated, cooing deeply, then a rapid about-face from ugliness back into beauty with a single wave of his fan and all was as before, disorder and madness, tigress teeth unclenched into an affable smile, bravos cascading around her, ah yes, Yinn was back, the plunge into nightmare madness and disconcerting ugliness over, as though having used the masks of beauty and ugliness to express his disgust at opprobrium and oppression, inviting the most radical of revolt against the hidden face of intolerance, calling on the imagination to outstrip every last limit and dive straight into everyone’s conscience by any means, whether in excess or in moderation, but always to outrage and shock, this was his aim, to oxygenate every remaining bit of fetid life with the breath of creative revolt, leaving no part of consciousness unawakened as if the divine word had come down to the modest cabaret stage to change all that surrounded it, then as the applause faded, Yinn stepped elegantly from the stage, money bucket in hand, asking for nothing, approached Petites Cendres as though not seeing him at all, shone his red-lipped smile on them and gave the indifferent kiss on the cheek that Petites Cendres had longed for all day; Mère was amazed to see all the shutters and blinds on the street closed, not a ray of that brilliant sunlit day allowed in, some street procession had caught her attention, a black band marching to the Cemetery of Roses, so maybe this curtaining off along the street was a sign of mourning she thought, her heart beating to fill the silence, then the band struck up its slow, deathly slow beat, the timbre of their brass instruments, the plaintive trombone and sax, and Mère shuddered at the thought of such slow music in the silent afternoon, or had she overslept her siesta straight into the evening, Justin must have played in one of those processions wearing his white suit and canvas hat, all their faces were hidden beneath them so that even with the blinds raised you still couldn’t make out any features, yes, Justin dressed in white must have been part of those funeral processions they write about in books, right up to the day they played and sang for him too, the terrible slowness of the music, the same plaintive trombone and sax, too bad the writer-philosopher in him attracted so little attention compared to this, so few accolades for his denunciations of Hiroshima and Nagasaki by this vicar’s son from China, so scrupulous, so delicate, prey to the indifference of his peers thought Mère, when he wrote that burnt flesh is my flesh and your flesh, burned on the metal of armaments, and while Charles and Frédéric understood with the same compassion, Caroline had clashed with him in patriotic phrases so arrogant they were injurious thought Mère, wanting to side with her friend, she had shared and defended them, now Justin was no more and Mère was too late to apologize for an insolence that suddenly seemed cruel and perhaps irresponsible, and the plaintive trombone and sax in the silence of this afternoon, actually what time was it anyway, recalling this wrong called up other lapses of hers, how often, she wondered, was she right about Mai for instance, had her instincts played her false when she caught Mai in the Mercedes with that fellow and the smell of smoke in the air, did she do the right thing in speaking to Mélanie about it later or had she betrayed the loving trust of a young child, the ugliest sin of all, especially with someone so young, imperfect and scarcely mobile as she was, needing a cane even to get out of bed, Mère hoped Justin would pardon her for the things she said or didn’t say, she’d bolstered his confidence about his books before he so delicately slipped out of this life in a bare few months, taken by a raging cancer, oh the brass sounds were a painful reminder of him who she missed and whose soul had surely returned to his childhood rivers and mountains of northern China, all of them, she missed them all, Charles, Frédéric, Jean-Mathieu, and still more Suzanne, though Mère did not yet know for certain if she was already gone, she could almost hear the laughter still, and how many times Mère had run up against Mai, her face, her inquiring eyes asking everyone where is Suzanne, Papa, Mama, Grandmother, where is she, why aren’t you telling me the truth, I’ll never see her again will I, her trip to Switzerland with Adrien, she won’t be coming home with him will she, assisted suicide, that’s what it is, isn’t it, Suzanne, where’s Suzanne, you’re all lying, why, at other times Mai
simply said nothing, asked no questions, the severity of her gaze cast its own judgement, and the worst thing of all thought Mère, but Mélanie would reply, oh there’s no point in troubling
the poor girl any further, she knows everything anyway, all our weaknesses, our lack of courage to talk truthfully about life and death, something none of us is capable of, yet here was Suzanne’s laughter ringing in Mère’s ear, an invitation to pure joy, she might as well be right there in the room, getting ready to go out to a party with Adrien, teasing him because he didn’t like that sort of thing, nights of silliness, and now blended with her laughter was Franz’s voice as he came into the shelter, shouting dear friend, do please forget about that cane and come on out into the garden on my arm will you, I’m afraid I might be a bit wobbly Mère said, do be careful and don’t jostle me, but Franz laughed and said oh but I will, that’s exactly why I came here, to jostle you, and he offered his arm, Esther dear you’re looking wonderful, maybe a little pale, but you need to get out more, you spend too much time here listening to music all day long, even the sweetest music leads one to melancholy, come along, come along, and in Daniel and Mélanie’s garden they encountered the gentle warmth of the air, the perfumes of orange and lemon trees, Mère showing him the fruit tree she had planted a long time ago, it came from faraway islands she said, Lady of the Night it’s called, its blooms open only at nighttime, I planted it for Samuel she said, clinging to Franz’s arm but feeling less frail, then suddenly she stared at her exuberant friend, grateful yet intimidated in his presence, feeling it awful that her gait was so unsure and the trembling in her right hand more pronounced and bothersome than ever, this morning I listened to Schubert’s sonatas for piano and violin, such grace, such beauty, she told her old musician friend, but tell me what you’re working on, do please, her words seem clumsy too, as though spending so much time bedridden she had lost the ability simply to converse with her family and friends, whereas Franz was so voluble, perhaps he even sensed she was having trouble expressing herself comfortably, and the treacherous malady had deprived her of the ability she could not somehow define, everything was so different lately or perhaps it was just the tiredness after all, she worried so about them all: Mai, Mélanie, the activist daughter who gave her so much pride, visiting women in prison, still, what actually became of them, they also defended women’s rights in Russian prisons, or women kidnapped from their homes and killed, destined for barbarous repression as in so many other countries, executions of young rebels reported by these same women in their writing, and these would be their own death warrants, killers already at their doors when they thought they were safe with their kids in Grozny, then suddenly down come the walls, for they were highly organized and trained, these men, for just this form of assassination and these targets, and all of them disappeared without exception, Mère’s attention snapped back to the enthusiastic Franz next to her, his conductor’s hand waving in the air, oh my dear Esther, plans and more plans he was saying, one must always spill over you see, now let me give you a sneak peek at my next season, to begin with there’s Mozart’s K. 595 with my sister soloing on piano, I won’t be conducting though, that will be someone else, oh I’ve been dreaming of this moment for so long, and I also want to revisit Shostakovitch’s Fifteenth Symphony, and so Mère listened to him thinking oh how his energy depresses me as I feel myself growing increasingly numb, is it really fair for things to be so different for each of us, or is it precisely this artistic fervour that allows him to be reborn, to live and be reborn yet again, such youthfulness, oh and what vigour he displays, she actually felt ashamed of a recurring dream that now haunted her every night, where have we been shunted to, what a world of debasement in these defiling dreams, barely wearing a nightdress, she was being carried on a stretcher in plain sight of all her children and grandchildren, and in it her caregiver Marie-Sylvie de la Toussaint appeared as a forbidding nurse dressed in an intimidating uniform, this sister to He-Who-Never-Sleeps declared now it is my turn to give orders, her sarcastic laughter beginning to resemble that of her unhinged brother, yes my time has come round, and Mère knew that in this woman’s power every last shred of her dignity was now gone, dignity trodden underfoot, her powerless body exposed for all to flagellate yet again, then suddenly it was Mai who came toward her with her arms full of flowers, dispelling the shadowy presence of Marie-Sylvie de la Toussaint and saying here, Grandmother, are the flowers that opened during the night, flowers from the Lady of the Night you planted for Samuel, your tree, the one you planted long ago, I told you how nasty Marie-Sylvie was didn’t I, but you didn’t believe me, Mère wasn’t at all sure if Mai was on her side in this dream or not, being as pouty as she was in real life, I warned you to beware of her didn’t I Grandmother, but you wouldn’t listen, and Mère told Franz there’s this dream that keeps coming back every night, but that was all she said, thinking however threatening our dreams they’re nothing really are they, we’re the ones who worry so much about our children when our health runs down like this she told him, but here you are walking and taking my arm, now what could possibly trouble you my dear Esther said Franz, you who’ve given so much, what can you possibly have to blame yourself for, remember that Mass I once composed for Christmas night in some small church in Finisterre, a child soprano singing I am your guide and your shepherd, it’s as though I’m hearing it again here in the fog of this winter night, it was so cold in that church, I’ve never been one for piety as you well know, now Esther how would it be if I were your guide and your shepherd, how would that be, suddenly after so long, these words have an effect on me, you see we’re always somebody’s shepherd whether we like it or not, what do you say to that, kind of funny isn’t it, that I who am always the first to stray from the straight and narrow, never persisting in a single unalterable direction, that I, in these times we’re living in, you and me dear Esther, that I am now your carefree shepherd, Mère still wondered if it was day or evening, for the sunlight on the flowering trees seemed spare and diminished though their perfumes were still every bit as vivifying, and she went on thinking of Mélanie, Mère recalled her depression after Vincent was born, postpartum depression they called it, the healthiest of mothers sometimes died from it, one of the saddest subjects Mélanie spoke publicly on, studies of guilt in mothers who stopped eating altogether, who no longer slept after the birth of their children, now why was it Mère hadn’t been more help to her daughter in those moments of psychotic pain when she described all the symptoms and her anxiety at failing as a mother, when he’s asleep beside me in the large bed Mélanie said, I’m afraid to look at his face when he wakes up too hot under those long lashes, as though we were still a part of one another in the flesh, will he have something to hold against me when he’s three or six months old, will I be able to bear it, who’s there to help the mothers of newborns, why is it such a natural act, as they’re fond of saying, is it because no one wants to know about what happens after the birth, the drugs that helped Mélanie through it all, and what if she hadn’t been able to help Vincent get through it when his breathing was so irregular, what if she’d been responsible for that anomaly even before he was born, where were our husbands, the men, where were they all in those insane suicidal postpartum days when newborns suffocated on their own vomit, it was a mother’s original sin from their birth Mélanie said, a depressed young mother’s regret much debated, how does one alleviate it, Vincent’s overheated face weighing on her, forcing its way back into her guilty flesh, for guilty she would always be, the life and survival of Vincent, the most appealing of her children and so very much loved later in life, her joy and contentment after saying no to him at birth, no, go away, I don’t love you, that moist look of his, the riveting stare from beneath those lashes never to let you rest, no sleep, no appetite, Mélanie well understood the distress that claimed the lives of young mothers after two months, and it was then she asked her own mother why did you bear me, because I wanted you, longed for you, so wanted to know you came the answer, and wasn’t it she wondered — weighing on Franz’s arm when he walked too fast for her instead of letting her take a break and sit on a garden bench and listen to the birdsong — wasn’t it something of a fraud, a half-truth, for she’d hesitated a long time before having children, filled with doubt, even fear, fuelled by her husband’s infidelities which left her indecisive, and she knew a mother consumed by the burning desire to have children could somehow be swallowed up by it, it was then she felt herself backing away from it, though she would never tell Mélanie this, and she said nothing of this refusal by a woman trained to motherhood by men of all civilizations and societies, no never said anything about it to Mélanie, yet suddenly realizing she had lied to her daughter when she recalled the dream in which an earlier, lighter, slimmer version of herself allowed her daughter to lead her by the hand as though flying away together toward a very simple old and austere Victorian house up on a hill, and looking through the windows one could see nothing had been moved, and as she guided Mère toward it Mélanie said Mama, do you remember that French governess you liked so much, well she never left, she’s still here waiting for you, just open the door and you’ll be home, your exercise books are all there ready for you to study, your childhood chair is waiting for you too, nothing ever changes here, all you have to do is open the door Mama, oh how it bespoke the closeness of death, and Mère trembled despite the very real joy of meeting her governess again, in dreams of course, now speaking out loud to Franz she said oh my friend, were it not better to forget those dreams, those traitorous dreams that serve only to hide what we don’t want to know, what lies ahead of us, eternity she said very softly, dreams that take us so far, so very far and force us to visit a world which is not ours, she sensed Franz stiffening at the sound of that word