The Multitudinous Sea

[qerasija]

When a contradiction is impossible to resolve except by a lie, then we know that it is really a door.
-- Simone Weil, First and Last Notebooks, tr. Richard Rees

My grandfather and her grandfather fought an illegal duel. My father and her father were bitter rivals in politics and war. We were lovers. The hatred is bred in the bone.

I knew her so long ago. Madame C----, who had learnt her piano from Saint-Saens, schooled us in music. I was a listless pupil. My posture was never good. My hands were too small. Worst of all, I had no ear and never practised. Her playing was more advanced than mine, and she took pride in her superiority. Still, twice a week, we forged an uneasy truce in opposition to Madame C----.

I knew her also in Trieste, Zurich, Vienna before the War, Paris with its lights. But it was here that we loved and quarrelled. The city that brought us together now throws us apart. Twice before, I have essayed rapprochement. My letters were returned unopened each time.

It is inevitable that we see each other from time to time. People of a certain rank cannot deflect these encounters, even here. The patterns of my work displace me from certain obligations, but others remain. We are stiffly formal in these meetings. A curt nod carries voluminous expression. Or perhaps I only imagine this.

The lives of others are always enigma. The things we infer are but suggestions. We invent ourselves daily when we wake and reinvent ourselves again in dreams. We invent others also. This city is my contrivance. I will lie to you.

The rain falls in great planes. The sun is sequestered this day behind clouds.

In the post there is but one letter of any importance. M. will be arriving by land tomorrow. The last time she was here, M. stayed for three weeks. This time she is bringing R. The city has a magnetism that gathers us all.

 

[qerasija]

Life is ritual. In the mornings, we cleanse ourselves. In daytime, the city defiles our hands. At night, silence defiles our souls. We are not blameless in this, we actors upon this stage. But neither are we agents of our destinies. Though we speak the lines, we are playing parts.

We slew the gods, she and I did. We robbed them and abandoned their slaughtered carcasses on the empty road. This is but the slightest of my transgressions, if transgression it was. My mistake was to miscalculate the indifference of the sky.

The days are becoming shorter. The cold haar hovers over us, the first affliction of the terrible winter. The sea smells of a gathering storm.

I wrote to my French counterpart to postpone our conference. He thinks this related to S., I am sure, but it is not: M. concerns me more. She is subtle.

Though less artful than M., I am not bereft of my own stratagems. M. will not decline the invitation to dine. I sent my compliments to her villa and asked her to come the day after the morrow. It is impossible that she will see the letter before noon tomorrow. There might be another invitation waiting; she must have written her also. I cannot say how this will end.

I went to the opera in the evening. I could not arrive before the second act, and although Schorr was in excellent voice, I did not remain for the third. She sat in her usual box. The dandy who accompanied her -- I have not seen this one before -- took undue liberties. Whatever may have happened, I do not like to see her made to look ridiculous before other eyes.

The night is very dark. There aren't any stars.

 

[qerasija]

I have a mistress. (Who does not?) For one so young, she is a woman of good conversation and considerable accomplishment. The pin money I expend on her cares counts as a small price for the wit she imparts. Naturally, there are other pleasures as well. Her father is my banker. He and I have never discussed the matter.

What the mistress does not provide -- and there are things I cannot ask of her -- I receive from the brothels. Though less to look at, the brothels here are no worse than those I remember from Vienna and Paris. Whenever I ask, Madame has some girl on offer who can satisfy my wants.

I did meet my French counterpart last night after all on the steps of the hotel. He was departing as I was entering. Possibly, he had come for a similar purpose. We exchanged pleasantries.

The girl Madame sent was waiting in the rooms I keep in the city. Her youth provisioned a shelter for my audacity, and I gladly discharged the worries of many hours in the effort of my exertions.

She sleeps now. I observe the rise of her breasts like tides. My mark is upon her skin.

There is a colour to the sky now. Young Dawn, with her rose red fingers, steps from the sea. The morning air carries the scent of salt. There is noise and motion to the streets. The merchants are opening their shops.

M. will be here soon.

What have I done?