Death Sentences (11 page)

He preferred to think that the deep red flush on his face was due to too much wine.

"Your analysis was on the mark. Probably ... it's true ... I agree with your very telling remarks about this work, that it is a fake world constructed with fake words. From the surrealist point of view, we should be exceedingly cautious in our evaluation of it. Thank you. Your comments were very informative."

The two stood up at the same time.

They then shook hands.

At that moment Breton noticed an expression of profound relief appear on Hare's face.

What had Hare gone to such great lengths to deny? Perhaps he had keener insight into the genuine character of "Another World"? What in fact was "Another World"?

After Hare had left, Breton picked up the manuscript pages, taking care not to look at the letters so finely written on them. He returned to his study and tucked it away in a desk drawer.

6

It was two days later that Marcel Duchamp arrived.

Breton had invited him to lunch.

That was merely an excuse.

Breton had once provided the following assessment of Duchamp, nine years his elder, in the catalog for a surrealist exhibition: "Our friend Marcel Duchamp is undoubtedly the greatest artist of the early twentieth century, which makes him a complete pain in the ass for many of us."

His feelings of friendship and appreciation had remained unchanged over the years.

Marcel Duchamp unexpectedly withdrew from the world of art in 1923, leaving his opus Large Glass unfinished, and thereafter he became deeply absorbed in chess, and when asked about his work, as if to vanish in a puff of smoke, he would reply, "I am a breathing machine," yet he continued to garner attention and acclaim among surrealists for various experiments with images and word games.

Among those in New York, Duchamp was one of the few intellectuals for whom Breton felt boundless respect, and at the same time he still found him to be a pain in the ass.

In 1939, he published an anthology of his word experiments under the title RroseSelaay.

Surely, he wouldn't be overwhelmed.

It was hard to imagine anyone better than Duchamp for figuring out who Who May was, and what the world he had made ultimately was.

Without a word, Breton handed him the manuscript of "Another World."

As soon he began to read, Duchamp opened his eyes wide and let forth a shout.

"Genius!"

He read on.

Gradually, however, his look changed to one of disapproval.

Nonetheless, he continued reading until the end.

Setting the manuscript on the table, he shrugged his shoulders slightly.

"Andre, it's nothing to worry about," Duchamp said. "This is a sort of, well, psychic ability. But you need not worry."

"Psychic ability?"

Breton asked in surprise.

"What does that mean?"

"You must have heard of it. For instance, there are people who can move a box of matches on the table without touching it, or read what's written on a card facing down-"

Duchamp grinned broadly.

"-it's that sort of thing."

Breton looked at Duchamp. With a soft sigh, he shook his head from side to side.

"You mean to say that this Another World' is a kind of magic act like moving things with the mind or fortune-telling?"

"Not at all," Duchamp flatly disagreed. "It's not an act. It is real. There is no doubt that it is a genuine psychic ability."

"There truly exist people who possess psychic abilities such as psychokinesis and clairvoyance. I am convinced of it. In fact, I have met with one such person. With her eyes closed, without moving a finger, with only the power of mental concentration, she proved able to lift my fountain pen about five centimeters above the desk. It was quite an amazing sight! And there was no possibility of a trick. I am certain of it. There really are people with psychic abilities in this world-"

But if that's

"Wait a minute."

Duchamp said, raising his right index finger and waving it from side to side.

"Such an ability is truly astonishing. It is a genuinely extraordinary ability that ordinary people could not hope to imitate. That is why those who see it are inevitably awestruck. And yet-that's all there is to it."

"That's all?"

"Precisely." Duchamp nodded gravely. "Are you still with me? What is the use of having such psychic abilities? Think about it. It is far easier to move a pen or a matchbox with the hands. As for cards, one need only flip them over to read them. Of course, it would seem useful for gamblers, but even then there are people who are skilled with dice and cards without any recourse to psychic abilities. In any event, it wouldn't be of much use in playing chess."

Rolling his eyes impishly, Duchamp went on.

"Such psychic abilities are really only `different' for those like us. It is an `extra' ability only in that it is beyond what people need. Consequently, even though it is amazing, no one out there actually takes it seriously."

Breton caught his breath.

He finally grasped the significance of what Duchamp was saying.

(That's it ... indeed ...)

Indeed, he had the feeling that the tangle of problems was partly unraveling.

And yet-

"But in any case he-"

Still uncertain what he wished to say, Breton began speaking.

"In any case, can't we say that he really did `discover' a new way of using words?"

"Exactly!" Duchamp replied. "But he didn't make particularly good use of it. It may also be that there is nothing useful to be derived from it for us ordinary people."

Duchamp picked at the corner of the manuscript on the table with a fingernail.

"This man ... Who May ... isn't he Chinese? No matter, but what exactly did he think he was writing? Poetry? Well, this is nothing like poetry. It may be written with words, but this is painting. And, one might say, quite garish at that. Its fantasy is visually too primitive. Don't you think? That paranoid Catalonian would be delighted to crank out this sort of thing in reams."

That was a bit of sarcasm directed toward Salvador Dali.

Dali at that time was completely cut off from the surrealist group, and Breton had dubbed him Avida Dollars, an anagram of Salvador Dali, meaning "greedy for money."

"That's

Deep in thought, Breton muttered in reply.

"... what he himself was saying ... he didn't know what he should do with his `discovery' of a new way of using or making words-"

Then he added, "He said he was `ill' ... and he gave me the manuscript because he wanted my diagnosis ..."

"That makes sense-"

Duchamp nodded as if he understood the entire matter.

"This is true, he is indeed ill. Without a doubt. Incidentally, how old is he?"

"He said nineteen."

"Nineteen! Well, in that case, we've nothing to worry about!"

Duchamp's voice rang cheerfully.

"He'll recover. His recovery is a sure thing!"

"Recovery?"

"Exactly! It's only natural. It is a sure thing!- After all, it is an illness. I wonder where he happened upon this spell, um,

Apparently, Duchamp thought of it as a spell, too.

In fact, there didn't seem to be any other way of referring to it.

"In any event-" Duchamp drew a deep breath before continuing. "He will write something else-why don't we wait until then, Andre. We may be surprised; maybe this falling under a curse was a one-time thing. He may fully recover. That's what I tend to think. That's what will happen. Because he is simply ill-"

Duchamp shrugged his shoulders only slightly this time.

"Regardless, if he does send you a second work, let me know immediately. I'll hurry over. What a thrill it will be if we have another startling encounter with the unknown, and should the work disappoint us, in that case we will be happy for him, Who May. Don't you think?"

He then went on to add, "Well, then, what shall we do with this manuscript? I am not against including it in the pages of VVV. But there will be trouble ... for sure. In any event, we need to keep a typed copy of it. I'd like to expose someone else to this menace."

With these words, Duchamp placed two hands on the table and thrust him himself up.

"All right!" He announced loudly as if putting it all behind them. "Let's go to dinner!"

At that time-

Duchamp probably did not actually believe that a second work would appear. And even if it did, he surely thought it would be a mistake to have high expectations of it. Both of Duchamp's predictions, however, would prove utterly wrong.

At the same time he would have to learn the hard way that another startling encounter with the unknown would not necessarily give them cause for joy.

And it was barely one week later-

1

... the second hand kept turning. It eventually met the long hand at the fifty-nine-minute mark. They overlapped, and then, with flawless precision, the second hand continued on, marking the passage of a new second.

The short hand was now nearly approaching the four-hour mark.

Bells chimed from across Pare Blanche.

Breton did not look up.

The movement of the watch hands held his attention completely.

(Only another minute.)

He did not want to change his mind again. He had no intention of changing his mind.

With the passing of each second Breton had made the same pledge.

He would wait until exactly four o'clock as marked on his watch. He would wait until then.

That means that when the second hand passed the long hand again, it would all be over.

That was the limit.

Only four seconds left.

He would then drink the last of the bottle of red wine on the table. He would stand, would leave the cafe-and he would forget.

Less than three seconds.

A gentle sigh escaped his clenched lips.

It had been a painful hour.

It was the first time that he had felt so much pain waiting for someone.

The pain of it came from his misgivings.

Even while he was awaiting someone, and very anxiously, at the same time he felt terribly afraid that the person would actually show.

Although he wanted very badly to see what he, Who May, would bring with him, he also rather hoped to avoid it.

And both feelings were equally genuine.

That's what made it so painful.

Although fairly torn in two, Breton nonetheless had endured a full hour.

But there was a limit.

Two seconds more.

Breton did not lift his head.

There was no sign of the cafe door opening.

He wasn't coming. He certainly wasn't about to arrive now.

The certainty of it soothed the ache in his heart.

Nevertheless-

Why hadn't Who May come?

Why hadn't he kept his meeting with Breton?

After all, it had been at his request-the meeting. It had been Who May who expressed the desire to meet with Breton.

It had been last night.

It was just past eight.

The telephone rang.

"Is this Mr. Breton? Mr. Andre Breton?"

He sounded at wit's end.

"I have to make a request of you! No matter what, I-of you-I-I'm sorry! Oh ... you've probably forgotten me, but I have met with you before. With you-yes, well, no matter what, I-"

Breton hadn't forgotten. As soon as he heard his voice, Breton remembered.

At the sound of "I have to make a request," it all came back to Breton vividly.

"Monsieur Who, please calm down."

Breton answered rather harshly.

Once Who May had stopped gabbling so frenetically, Breton went on.

"Of course, I remember you, Who May. How could I forget? I even recall quite well the time that you ran up to me at the entrance of Central Park, to express your concerns, and with rather the same words, `Please I have a request!' So don't worry about it. First, take a deep breath, and then please tell me exactly where you are, and how I can contact you by phone. But take it slowly, okay?"

He heard Who May exhaling loudly at the other end of the phone.

And while still exhaling, he began chattering.

"Oh, Mr. Breton! You really do remember me, don't you? Really you do!"