Travesty (12 page)

But now she is dreaming. Yes, if my calculations are in the least
reliable, we are now approximately seven minutes from Tara where the lady of the
dark chateau lies dreaming. Honorine was always uncomfortable when, no matter how
rarely, I applied to her that
romantic epithet. But of course
you are not burdened with her clear integrity and charming modesty,
cher
ami
. So tonight I shall indulge myself for the last time and speak of
Honorine, my wife, as the lady of the dark chateau. And yet the sleeping rooks; the
magnificent shutters drawn closed and only somewhat in need of repair; the stables
long ago converted to a garage which, this moment, houses one blue automobile
instead of the usual blue car and the beige; the oak tree as bare and formidable as
the chateau itself; the stately dog that lies beside the mammoth bed not for
protection but for the sake of elegance and love; the amorous grace of the sleeper
who earlier dined alone and then at a late hour undressed for bed without fear,
without suspicion, and with only a few agreeable thoughts of us. . . .
Doesn’t all this justify in a way my romantic epithet? The glass of water on
the nightstand, the slender volume closed but marked with a ribbon, the sound of
breathing, the eyes which, if opened, would be serene —these at least justify
my epithet,
cher ami
. But now I must tell you that despite our proximity,
despite the fact that we have indeed appeared at the edge of her slumbering
consciousness, still Honorine is not dreaming of our approaching car but of a flock
of sheep. Let me explain.

One early afternoon, within hours, it seemed to me, of that moment
when I conceived of the journey you and Chantal and I were shortly to take—I
am being as honest as I possibly can—Honorine and I were walking
in one of the distant, rocky fields adjoining Tara. You, I
believe, had accompanied Chantal to her riding lesson. The afternoon was fair, the
sun was warm, Honorine and I were walking so closely together among the rocks that
we brushed shoulders, touched each other hip to hip or hand to hand, pleasantly and
unintentionally. A tree far to the west was as small and bright as a golden toy. The
rocks were like prehistoric signs to our suede boots. And then Honorine stopped us
short and pointed. Because there, just ahead of us, the rocks appeared to be moving
while the air was suddenly filled with a music of bells which Honorine, under her
breath, described as a kind of heavenly
Glockenspiel
, though in fact she
has always been quite as irreligious as her head of the household.

Well, it was a flock of sheep, of course, and we were caught in its
midst. Honorine smiled; the tinkling and caroling of the bells increased; a thrush
was in flight; for no reason at all the two of us turned and looked back at Tara
which, in that soft light was far away and empty and both majestic and shabby,
exactly as it had always been and as we wanted it to be. A place of comfort,
mystery, privacy, as you surely know. But it was then while the sheep were rippling
and purling about our legs (I noted that Honorine was not much interested in the
baby lambs, being her typically unsentimental self), it was then and for no reason
that I could discern, that Honorine ran her fingers through her short, blonde hair
streaked with gray and, keeping
a slight distance apart from me,
smiled up at my face and began to speak. Without preliminaries and in her clear,
quiet way she said that she thought you and I were both a little out of our heads.
She said that we were selfish, that we were hurtful, and that she did not trust
either one of us. But then she laughed and said that she loved us both, however, and
was willing and capable of paying whatever price the gods, in return, might
eventually demand of her for loving us both.

You will know how I felt. But may I point out that not once have you
raised the question of cruelty or advanced the argument that my insistence on
suicide and murder—at this juncture let us be honest— may reflect
nothing more than my secret desire to punish eternally the lady of the dark chateau,
as I may now call her without impunity? Well, allow me to advance precisely that
neglected argument of yours and provide an answer as well.

It is cruel. Could anyone know better than I how cruel it is? Yes,
what I am doing is cruel, but it is not motivated by cruelty. There is a difference.
And who better than I should know that it is in fact motivated by quite the
opposite? These are my reasons: first, Honorine is now more “real” to
you, to me, than she has ever been; second, when she recovers, at last, she will
exercise her mind in order to experience in her own way what we have known; but
third and most important, months and years beyond her recovery, Honorine will know
with special certainty that just as she
was the source of your
poems, so too was she the source of my private apocalypse. It was all for her. And
such intimate knowledge is worth whatever price the gods may demand, as she herself
said. No,
cher ami
, Honorine is a person of great strength. Sooner or later
she will understand.

So you see the importance of a woman’s dream and a flock of
belled sheep.

But I have promised you a glimpse of the formative event of my early
manhood. It was nothing, really, though I suppose that in retrospect all of the
formative or most highly prized events of our days fade until they no longer have
any shape or consequence. At any rate this particular event was the simplest of that
entire store which at one time or another defined me, thrilled me, convinced me of
the validity of the fiction of living, but which I have now forgotten. I will be
brief. A few lines and you will have it.

The automobile, a bright green, was large enough only for two, and I
was alone. The street was wide but the hour was such that the crowds, composed
mostly of children, were jostling each other from the curbs. I was driving quickly,
too quickly, in my desire to visit Honorine, whom I hardly knew. The old man,
bewhiskered and wearing a bright silk cravat and carrying a furled umbrella, though
the sun was such that it could not possibly have rained that day, was unmistakably
one of your kind, which is to say an old poet. From the first instant I saw him he
irritated me immensely,
holding by the hand, as he surely was, a
child more astounding than any I had ever seen.

I remember the car, which was powerful despite its size; I remember
the street precisely because I was so uninterested in it; I remember the old poet
because at the very moment I noticed him I saw that he was gripping the
child’s hand in lofty possessiveness and was already staring directly into my
eyes with shocking anger. But most of all I remember the child. She was a waif with
dark hair, dark eyes, an ingenuous little heart-shaped face filled with uncanny
trustfulness and simple beauty. She was wearing a crudely knitted stocking cap with
a tassel and a small once-discarded leather coat so old that it was scarred with
white cracks. I marveled at the child and yet detested the old man who was already
raising his brows, opening his mouth in fury, drawing back the child as if he could
read in my face the character of a young man who would regard such a poor and sacred
child, as the old man would think of her, with indifference or even disrespect.

I accelerated. I saw the tassel flying. The old poet’s face was
a mass of rage and his umbrella was raised threateningly above his head. I felt
nothing, not so much as a hair against the fender, exactly as if the child had been
one of tonight’s rabbits. I did not turn around or even glance in the
rear-view mirror. I merely accelerated and went my way.

I do not believe I struck that little girl. In retrospect it does not
seem likely. And yet I will never know.
Perhaps the privileged
man is an even greater criminal than the poet. At any rate I shall never forget the
face of the child.

What’s that? What’s that you say? Can I have heard you
correctly?
Imagined life is more exhilarating than remembered life
. . .
Is that what you said?
Imagined life is more exhilarating than remembered
life
. Can it be true?

But then you agree, you understand, you have submitted after all,
Henri! And listen, even your wheezing has died away.

But now I must tell you, Henri, that if you reached your hand inside
my jacket pocket nearest to you—an action I would not advise you to attempt
despite a moment’s gift of agreement—your fingers would discover there
a scrap of paper on which, if removed from the pocket and held low to the lights of
our dashboard, you would find in my own handwriting these two lines:

Do you recognize them? They are yours, naturally, and give us the true
measure of your poetry. And I may say it now, Henri, I am extremely fond of these
two lines. I might even have written them myself.

But look there. We have passed Tara. And we failed
to note the lantern. And now it is gone.

Chantal . . . Papa has not forgotten you, Chantal!

But now I make you this promise, Henri: there shall be no survivors.
None.

Charivari
(in
Lunar Landscapes
)

The Cannibal

The Beetle Leg

The Goose on the Grave (& The Owl

The Owl

The Lime Twig

Second Skin

The Innocent Party
(plays)

Lunar Landscapes
(stories & short novels)

The Blood Oranges

Death, Sleep & the Traveler

Travesty

Virginie: Her Two Lives

The Passion Artist

Humors of Blood & Skin: A John Hawkes Reader

Copyright © 1976 by John Hawkes

All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper,
magazine, radio, or television review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the Publisher.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT: Portions of this book first appeared in
Fiction
and
Tri-Quarterly
, to whose editors grateful acknowledgement is made. The
epigraphic passages to this work are quoted from Michel Leiris’
Manhood:
a Journey from Childhood into the Fierce Order of Virility
(Copyright
© 1963 by Grossman Publishers), translated by Richard Howard and published by
Grossman Publishers, and Albert Camus’
The Fall
(Copyright ©
1956 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.), translated by Justin O’Brien and Published by
Random House, Inc.

First published as New Directions Paperbook 430 in 1977

Published simultaneously in Canada by Penguin Books Canada Limited

eISBN 978-0-8112-2235-8

Designed by Gertrude Huston

New Directions Books are published for James Laughlin

By New Directions Publishing Corporation,

80 Eighth Avenue, New York, NY 10011