Augustino and the Choir of Destruction (6 page)

fly, don't let it get away, Grandma, Augustino yelled, where's it going anyway, it might break a bone, whose travel-bags are those, Mère asked him, two, always the figure two, and as she awoke from her nap, she saw Augustino next to her with the parakeet sitting meekly on his shoulder, could you keep an eye on her Grandma, I'm going for a swim, isn't too cold, said Mère still in her dream environment, then she felt the bird's plumage on her cheek, saved again, she thought, she had been saved, and those bags were there ready for her visit to her sons in California, it reassured her that Augustino had woken her up before dinnertime, she'd have time to get dressed before the evening meal, it seemed that whenever his grandmother insisted they all get dressed for dinner, Augustino went out, she'd put the parakeet back in its cage, it bit everyone with its pointed beak, except Augustino, whom it loved, yes, those travel-bags would come in handy, she thought, if ever she decided to visit her sons; what a magnificent night it was in Chuan's gardens for Mère's birthday, now just bury the thought of those bad dreams, nightmares actually, she smiled and spoke to everyone but was concerned that Caroline was not among them, there were very few friends of her own venerable age, some did not seem to change over time, like Suzanne or Adrien in his black jacket and white pants, listening to Daniel with polite coolness, what was it they were talking about, the lengthy follow-up to his novel
Les Etranges annees
, ah yes, said Adrien in his professorial tone, I'll be most curious to read you soon, a lie Daniel paid no attention to, thinking he would retreat to his monastery in Spain, worn out by this boring socializing, he'd only gone along with this party to please Mélanie, his book was his whole life, so why did he let himself get torn away from it so easily? Yes, he thought, if he had let off Hitler's dog, why not also exculpate the children of treacherous, reprobate officials, what would he, Daniel, have done if he had been the son not of one of history's victims, but of one of its executioners like Himmler or Göring, if his birth had been in that apocalyptic shipwreck? If his parents, his father, had held macabre sway over the execution of so many innocents, they would have revolted him, but he and his offspring, what would they have done? He'd have been the son of a man hanged at Nuremberg whose vicious ghost would have tormented him everywhere, destitute, he would not have hesitated to sell his father's story for food, even if he knew nothing of it except what they told him — though would he believe it, missing his guilty suicide-father, hanged in some murky past, he'd have been like all children, reliving family scenes in which he sat by his mother's and sister's sides and felt a kind father stroke his hair, no denying that hand, a kind, always affable father, blameless except for an affair with his secretary, something the son only learned about much later, and with chagrin, the sons and daughters of cursed, reprobate men would always have to hide, flee the partisans of hate, and why were they hated, they wondered, fleeing from interrogation, little children locked in with these men's wives in hotel rooms with no way out, internment camps, the pretty estates given to their father by the good Führer in times past, where were their dolls, their croquet set, they no longer knew where they could live or hide, these little ones and their mothers suddenly stripped of everything, taken in by nuns in homes for the sick, these little ones and their mothers, bereft, had not understood that, if these hotel rooms were empty and the beds deserted, it was because the whole place had been purged of its infirm, all injected or gassed, and the stoic nuns welcomed the offspring and wives of those who had committed these crimes, saying God will not forgive them, God will not forgive them, and they, so little, had understood nothing the nuns said to them, because they were the sons and daughters of those who would never be pardoned by Man or by God, and they gave the sons and daughters of these officials chocolate and sweets out of pity, knowing well that these small ones must be rendered blameless, if they had known, if they had seen their fathers enter here to get rid of all the defenceless infirm and sick, the ones their fathers called rubbish, garbage, if the sons and daughters of these fathers had seen what they had, the injections and the excruciating agony, they would not have wanted to live a second longer, no, faced with all those cries, these sons and daughters would not have wanted to live and carry the seed of evil, these sons and daughters of the same age as those who were gassed, four or five years old some of them, understood nothing of what the nuns were saying to them, where were the dolls, the croquet set and the pretty German estate given to their father by the good Führer, you must never say your name, your father's name, because you too will never be pardoned for anything, innocent as Hitler's dog and with that same animal candour, betrayed, they listened wide-eyed in fright, still you will grow up like all the others and be courageous, the nuns said as they washed them and cared for them, just like the infirm and feeble in spirit, tomorrow, bringers of justice await you in their hundreds, and what will you say to them, we will pray for you, little angels, and already judged by the justice-bringers in their hundreds, they listened in tears, where was Daddy, would their kind daddy come, these sons and daughters had no idea that at the same time, their fathers, conceivers of carnage and irredeemable, definitive solutions, would be signing agreements this January on the shores of Lake Wannsee, it was too bad that this time, indeed, the problem could not be solved, the conceivers said as they signed, ordinary bureaucrats following protocol, they had no choice but to eliminate human beings, signed it was now in the building on the edge of Lake Wannsee, one of the bureaucrats had picked a few scavengers to pick up belongings after it was all over, death was a factory, an industry from which fabulous gifts flowed: hair and jewels, an operation their fathers were be proud of, the kind fathers of little ones called Gudrun, Sylke, and Lina, safe in their infirmaries, would these nice daddies be home for the holidays, their mothers barely survived out wandering the streets disguised as peasants, and destitute, paperless, in an exodus like a soldier's flight, pushing carts filled with vegetables and rabbits, in this month of January, in this locale near Lake Wannsee, the fathers of Klaus, Sylke, and Gudrun had opened their secret files and smoked cigars as they put the finishing touches on their strategy, oh yes, this time there would be an unredeemable, final solution, the decision had been made, Sylke and Klaus wondered why their fathers had forgotten them here with these nuns, would they ever be a family again, or would they just visit their fathers' graves once a year, and tomorrow each one would have their father's ghost sticking to their skin, each would have a hanged man or suicide, why would no one have pity on these innocents? You're wandering into forbidden territory, Adrien said with that professorial voice of his . . . which interests nobody, he might have added, it might be different if Joseph, your father, were the writer in the family, but you weren't a prisoner in Buchenwald like him, he seized control of himself under Daniel's smouldering gaze, is he fishing for compliments the way all these young authors do, Adrien wondered, well, bravo, my friend, I'm glad to see that you've been doing such good work, say, is your father still going to play the violin tonight the way he did for the millennium festivities, it was very moving to hear, Daniel knew only too well these gambits of Adrien's when he refused to talk about Daniel's books, this attitude was one more reason to retreat to the monastery in Spain, he thought as he explained that his father had little time for the violin now that he was Chairman of the Institute of Marine Biology, and so his technique had suffered, talking to Adrien, Daniel had the feeling that he was just chatting, going on, when he would rather be talking literature with the nationally renowned poet who was snubbing him and whose wife then came over and hugged Daniel as if to intercede for him, Suzanne's sudden kiss, full of spontaneity, and Daniel blushed with pleasure, when you're in Spain, I'm going to miss our Friday breakfasts on the terrace when I can read you my poems, she said, you're not hard on me the way my husband is, too bad so few writers of your generation like being around us, Daniel, sometimes I say to myself, you are my only friend, at least I know you won't make fun of me if I laugh and push away that word, old-age, which is the enemy of joyfulness. Children inherit their father's past, even if it's only partially revealed to them, Daniel thought, and Ari walked farther out onto the jetty with his daughter Lou in his arms, look at all the stars in the sky and the boats lit up like cakes with candles on them, tomorrow's the race all those sailboats are waiting for, too bad one of them way over there is the eerie recreation of a torpedo-boat, your real name is Marie-Louise, no, Lou, stammered the child, then she let out screams that pained her father's ears, Lou, Lou, Lou, father and daughter, wrapped up in the same night-shadow, high on the stone road, so small-seeming, so far, at the far end of the wharf, Lou's face showing the grimace of pain that comes so quickly to small children, resolute, she did not cry, but her father saw that the large movements of the waves under the planks of the jetty did not scare her, though she didn't much like it, all that blackness around them, the stars that barely lit the rippling waves, why did her father make her do this walk every evening, water and waves didn't reassure her much, except when they were warm, calm, and contained in the pool at home, where she could wade after she had painted her body with her father's pencils and brushes, that liner over there, that's
Le Commodore
, Ari said, that's a pretty big vessel that's going to pollute our beaches, and the boat watching us is
L'Ange de la paix, The Angel of Peace
is watching all of us, hear that, Lou, that's nothing but the wind and the waves, the ocean breeze forever in you hair and mine, as everlasting as the sky and the sea, as you and me, and these thirty-kilometre winds are common at sea, later I'll teach you to navigate, then Ari buttoned Lou's sweater, the one with kittens on it, she'd never be cold in her chequered overalls, though her feet were bare, how good the wind is, how much good it does us, he felt as infuriated as this sea and wind, not wanting his daughter to be baptized, but no one had paid attention to him, and he hated the idea that a priest, a complete stranger and signed by the message of a religion, put ablutions on the forehead of Marie-Louise, a child born free, listen Lou, what your mother did in that church that day made me mad, it's a fraud that I, your father, would never have allowed, a mistake, a misunderstanding, you're as free as the wind and the air, and always will be, that religion always takes advantage of newborns, and what could you do about it, loud cries, I don't believe a thing they say, your mother wanted you in that ridiculous white dress and bonnet, and me there in church too, a day of futility and humiliation for you and me both, non, she and I will never understand one another, it's low tide, you'd like to back to the car, sweetheart, you're already instinctively good in the water, and soon you'll be able to swim, OK, let's go home if you're going to sulk, if that's what you want, you have to want to, that's fine, why didn't I just grab you out of that priest's hands before all those ridiculous immersions and ablutions, but no, your mother, Ingrid, forced me to be reasonable, standing there in that church, not angry, remember, you are free, and the monk Asoka had written to him, oh dear Ari, be as patient as those oriental flowers, so persistent they flourish and bloom in the mud, be respectful of your child's mother, unfortunately, you are not separated or divorced, sad really, Ingrid is entitled to the Christian sacrament of baptism for her daughter, isn't she, just as you are a convert to Buddhism late in life, cultivate the flowers of patience and acceptance in yourself, my dear Ari, be persistent as the tea bush, the camellia flower, for we are different, all of us, I am in England after a trip to the south-central United States, I was meditating with some students in Dallas when a large man came up to me with hostility and said, aren't you ridiculous in your orange robe from shaved head to toe, I am an itinerant monk, and in my country this is how monks dress, it is the habit of poverty, well, if that's the god-awful way you dress where you live, why don't you just go back there, the big man tried to insult me, but I just threw him off balance by being gentle, which, as you know, my dear Ari, is also a form of patience, then suddenly I started questioning this man, a man piqued to hostility by my appearance — what is appearance anyway — and little by little he started to tell me about his family, his house in the country, and forgot all about my orange pilgrim's robe, when you get bitter with your wife Ingrid, you are certainly not free from desire or hurtful thoughts, Buddhism is based on responsibility for oneself and the fulfilment that emanates from it in adulthood, Ari thought, they baptized my daughter when she was barely born, and without her willing consent, Ingrid, her mother, even had her own doubts about some of the mysteries of faith, Christianity defined hell as the place where souls were tormented perpetually, but if those souls were damned, hadn't they already had enough in this world, Ingrid could not understand how a subterranean place discharging rivers of fire onto spirits could exist, Lou, her daughter, her lamb, would not have her mind tarnished by the sadism of such a mystery, after all, they both told her, each one separately every day, that she lived in a paradise, they knew how cruel the world could be, this reality of a true hell, and Lou would realize it quickly enough, Ingrid and Ari had been ideal couple so recently, and already that was no more, Ari thought as he held his daughter close against the wind, the perfection of it had been poisoned by so many disputes and quarrels, and who bore the brunt of them, thought Ari, Lou, Marie-Louise who got bundled from her father's big house to her mother's cramped apartment, where she shared an apartment with Jules, Ingrid's first child, Lou, an unhoped-for child in parents over forty, their gift, a couple once perfect and now in dissension, gradually dissipated, scattered after the birth of their daughter, Ari had painted and drawn the couple, and on this solid foundation, this beauty and love, had sketched out several plans for sculptures, sketches he felt were so irresistibly sexual, but which he did not dare destroy, and which he looked at with regret in his studio, could it be the influence of these religious notions that had split them apart as it split and annihilated nations; having scattered and reduced one another to nothing, Ingrid and Ari still had Lou, and who knew where she was going to sleep tonight, at Daddy's till Sunday maybe, then on Monday her mother would take her back, still Ari would so have loved them all to be inseparable, be patient my dear Ari, Asoka wrote his friend, I'll be in Mali in a few days, where so many children carry their mothers' viruses, already I am wondering if it isn't too late, if the situation isn't desperate, what will I say to those mothers who ask me for help, when I know how badly the whole of West Africa is ravaged, meditate and pray for us all, my dear Ari, kiss Lou for me, this will be my third trip to Mali, and Petites Cendres waded through the sauna at the Porte du Baiser Saloon, it was not him, Ashley, looking mismatched and ugly, that men came looking for here, he thought, there was a fresh crop of New York models hanging out in the bar, too young perhaps, but tantalizing to the old guys . . . sweet, nice, white boys with milky skin, Ashley thought, must have just let go of their mothers' apron-strings, all very with it in their tight-fitting tops, strutting like models in a magazine, and one, slender as a girl with straight blond hair, insolent, but sweet as candy, didn't laugh like the others when he saw me come in, just smiled, hey Ashley, there you are, where've you been, someone was looking for you, guy with a thick neck you should stay away from, if you want to know, we're clean, all three of us, going to a show tonight, and the cocktails are cheap here, I bet they don't pay you much either, though you're a good guy, Ashley, there were the milky-skinned boys and the blonde with straight hair who'd smiled at me, and near him, noses in their martinis, a couple more teenagers, one was a model too, I bet, a graceful, Asian kid that the straight-haired blonde was hugging, his brother he said, and the third with a dark fringe over his forehead, a Mexican, Ashley thought, the trio formed a circle, then these kids waltzed, hands on shoulders and laughing, their teasing relaxed Petites Cendres, and after the show, they were going to surprise the Queen of the Desert with splashes of champagne in her dressing room all over her expensive feathered coat, but she wouldn't mind, she'd say, come on you jokers, let's do some dancing and singing in the streets, but watch out for the cop and his checkpoint, and these rowdy kids would say, oh how beautiful you are, Queen of the Desert, pearls wet with bubbly and all, you're why we came to this island, to whistle and stomp at your shows when you can't get mad at us, how could anyone get mad, she said, you're way too cute, where've you been anyway, come on into the dressing-room and let's talk awhile, and Ashley would be alone in the sauna, did you know the instructor wouldn't let me into the gym today, she said in a plaintive voice to the three boys who weren't listening anyway, yeah, he had the nerve to say that to me, he didn't mind my darkish skin, he said, he lives with a black boxer, it was the marks, these swellings on my skin that might infect the other athletes, one of the boys raised his head and said, we'll beat him up for you, though he hadn't listened to Petites Cendres' complaints, they were playing, having fun, see those swellings and marks, it wasn't true, he just said that so he could throw me out, how can I infect the others just working out on the mat or the parallel bars, then the instructor said, what about hugs in the shower, sweat, sperm, this is a classy gym here Ashley, not a bordello like those hook-up joints, is that any way to talk to me, I feel humiliated, I'm a real person, yes me, said Petites Cendres, but an offended person, said the joking boy, God bless you, Petites Cendres said to the straight-haired blond, you smiled at me when you came into the saloon, it makes me feel better after what the gym instructor did, if my ancestors hadn't prayed to God, they'd still have chains on their wrists and ankles, but God was there to beg to and sing for in their misery, though he watched helpless as they were lynched and their blood dried in the sun, with God they had everything, no matter if they were humiliated with dirty work day after day, may God always smile on you and protect you from people's meanness, boys, Petites Cendres said with his hand over his heart, for he felt the God he praised was inside him, others may have empires, but Petites Cendres had God within the temple of his withered flesh, although the rejection by the gym instructor who had shut the door on him that morning had left an impression like spittle on his face . . . was this the Manhattan street where Samuel had seen Our Lady of the Bags, a thirteen-year-old itinerant with a delicate face haloed in golden curls, an unlettered child in a pleated skirt, sitting on the sidewalk with an open Bible in her lap, the same one Samuel had shouted jeers at from his car, you and your predictions, lies, that's all they are, lies, when are you going to shut up, you liar, and what are you going to do when heaven unmasks every one of you, children of the shadows, Our Lady of the Bags had recited in a monotone, when the heavens open and engulf your houses and buildings in flames, then what will you say? Yes, this was the spot where Samuel had seen and mocked the destitute prophetess, more in high spirits than in hardened ill-will, what had become of her, where was she, if among the disappeared, under what pile of rubble would she be, and if alive, maybe she would come back to this street and Samuel could apologize to her, for however ignorant and desolate she was, Our Lady of the Bags seemed to be right, Samuel would have told her he danced every night in that unwieldy choreography of Arnie Graal's from which he barely seemed to emerge in pieces each dawn, so crushing and rigid was the discipline that, if he danced these steps with a fire that the art of dance could reproduce in its physical depth and density — at least with the images of bodies broken in pieces, taken apart — it was so no one could forget what he had seen and lived through that day when the predictions of the unlearned Lady of the Bags came true, and so no one could forget that, no sooner did one recover from these punishments than others went on elsewhere or had been continuing for such a long time, and Samuel wanted to say to Our Lady of the Bags how perplexed and torn he was, unable to confide in any one, except perhaps to her whom he had derided, the unlettered, uneducated little girl with her diabolical reflections on that sunny day in New York, but where was she, under what mountain of granite was she lying, her halo of hair beneath the muck and stones, he would like to tell her, I dance too, as others have done around me, in fact that very day with their tributes, saying, come, let me give you a bit of joy, a caress, a moment of happiness in the roar and the calamity, so that hope for the young like us revives and does-n't die, and she would have said, the unlearned Lady of the Bags, I can't read, I don't know what I'm saying either, it's delirium of revelation from heaven, for Our Lady of the Bags did not know that both latent and overt terrorism had threatened her country for a long time, and she had no country but the street and the greyness of the psychiatric clinic she had escaped from, now sitting out on the city sidewalks, with an open Bible on her lap and surrounded by bags, he thought he sensed a turbulence surrounding her, whirlwinds raised as a closing to her hymn of imprecations, she had asked Samuel where she would sleep tonight, whether it would be in the park where she listened to the preaching of the Apostle in the morning dew who had said to her, go to your parents, you cannot follow me, for my mission is to live alone and preach hope everywhere, whether it be in a station where hoodlums and skinheads persecuted her, Samuel had a home and parents, but Our Lady of the Bags had nothing, like so many others of her wandering tribe, she knew nothing of a country that would defend her or protected her rights, and Samuel, who had it all, had mocked her, saying, what are you talking about, you little idiot, shut up, will you, and she had said, at last you understand, son of darkness, and it will be too late, Samuel's inheritance was the earth, he thought, handed down from his parents and grandparents, and they had read and heard everything about goodness over decades and centuries, they knew what belonged to them, and they had their saints: Gandhi, Martin Luther King, philosophers and poets to awaken the conscience of nations, pell-mell in the same pack as leaders, presidents, thieving out-of-favour ministers, passing nobility and others, how was Samuel supposed to guess what had been plotted against those near to him, before he had even come into this world, in 1924 by an insignificant political agitator writing a book in his comfortable Munich prison and free from any sanction, dictating his memoirs to advisers every bit as poisonous as he was — Rudolph Hess, his chauffeur and associates, dictating a book that would soon sell in the thousands, a subversive anthem to racial hatred followed by millions of deaths, including distant cousins in the village of Lukow, Poland, and the great-uncle whose name Samuel bore and who was shot in the winter of 1942, Daniel his father had told him that he, Samuel, would be the rebirth, the continuity of all that had been irretrievably lost in the village of Lukow, the rebirth and the life he would be, and now