exact copy?’
He hesitates again. ‘Yes.’
I point at the French writing. ‘Does he write about his journey across the Sahara?’
‘He writes about everything, Monsieur.’
The writing is bold, impatient, forward-leaning. ‘I can’t read French,’ I say.
Laforche turns the translucent page, slowly, and reads in English:
To be born intelligent is one thing. To be born reckless and stubborn is too close to madness. In the desert, madness is an asset. Once your mind has split and peeled backwards, once the smallest sounds thundered in your ears, you can cope with the nothingness of it all. I see the long line of events beginning with the muddy-kneed boy in the farmyard shouting at his mother, see all the way to this magnificent blasted land. In the end I had to come to the desert. It was perverse.
It was inevitable.
‘That sounds like you,’ I say.
‘But not you.’
‘Never me.’ We look at each other and laugh.
He touches the page, lets the tip of his white glove rest there.
‘Why do you like Rimbaud so much?’ I ask. ‘A guy who failed as a poet, couldn’t hack the competition, who ran away.’
‘Rimbaud left the map,’ says Laforche. ‘In his writing, he was a true explorer. All writers are explorers and guides. But he changed the world. No-one could enter his country afterwards without acknowledging his footsteps.’
‘His country?’
‘Poetry.’
‘Poetry.’ I sigh, suddenly weary. ‘There is too much poetry in my life. I never wanted it. What is it good for anyway?’
‘Compression,’ says Laforche. ‘Communication. Reality. Intensity.’
‘I have a problem with intensity already.’
‘We noticed. Yet you say you don’t care what happens to Madeleine.’
I kick the briefcase. ‘Don’t call her that.’
‘Madeleine is the symbol of France.’ He shrugs. ‘The woman, then.’
‘Laforche, there is no big conspiracy. She has information, she needs to share it. Then she can disappear back to wherever she came from.’
‘Back to the desert,’ says Laforche. ‘You want to punish her.’
I try not to think of the gun in my briefcase. I say loudly, ‘I just want the information.’
‘Or?’
‘It will screw my career.’
‘And this is so important?’
‘It’s all I’ve got.’
The doorway darkens. It is the thin woman who had been talking to the pilot. She looks me up and down and puts her hands on her hips. There are blue inked flames curling around her wrists. She says to Laforche, ‘M’sieur, you must come.’
I step forward. ‘Is it the sick bay?’
She ignores me. ‘A message from the city,’ she says to Laforche.
He looks at the two books on the table.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I’m not interested in your precious French book.’
Laforche takes off the kid gloves. ‘Be careful,’ he says to me.
The minute they have gone, I take the camera out of my briefcase. From the top of the steps, I hear Laforche’s voice, receding.
I set my watch for two minutes and go to the book of French writing, leafing through it as quickly as I can, looking for anything that seems relevant: to the woman, to Sicily, to Koloshnovar. I try to be delicate. God forbid I should tear a page. But there are only fragments of writing with dates, words clumped in lines, sketches of camels and lumpy mountains and men on horseback. I want to find a map. It would be a solution of sorts.
I see nothing. I leave it and turn the pages of the English book.
I try to absorb whole paragraphs, to commit them to memory.
By the very act of walking, the sand under our feet changes. Reaching for a book is like walking into the desert: we are surrounded by alien voices, the voices of ourselves. The way ahead seems clear and fixed but that is a mirage. Instead, we are going deeper into ourselves, deeper into our own long-buried subversions. The white page is the desert; the words are trails of our own lives.
Ramblings. I am impatient.
On the third night, I see a light far away
He hesitates again. ‘Yes.’
I point at the French writing. ‘Does he write about his journey across the Sahara?’
‘He writes about everything, Monsieur.’
The writing is bold, impatient, forward-leaning. ‘I can’t read French,’ I say.
Laforche turns the translucent page, slowly, and reads in English:
To be born intelligent is one thing. To be born reckless and stubborn is too close to madness. In the desert, madness is an asset. Once your mind has split and peeled backwards, once the smallest sounds thundered in your ears, you can cope with the nothingness of it all. I see the long line of events beginning with the muddy-kneed boy in the farmyard shouting at his mother, see all the way to this magnificent blasted land. In the end I had to come to the desert. It was perverse.
It was inevitable.
‘That sounds like you,’ I say.
‘But not you.’
‘Never me.’ We look at each other and laugh.
He touches the page, lets the tip of his white glove rest there.
‘Why do you like Rimbaud so much?’ I ask. ‘A guy who failed as a poet, couldn’t hack the competition, who ran away.’
‘Rimbaud left the map,’ says Laforche. ‘In his writing, he was a true explorer. All writers are explorers and guides. But he changed the world. No-one could enter his country afterwards without acknowledging his footsteps.’
‘His country?’
‘Poetry.’
‘Poetry.’ I sigh, suddenly weary. ‘There is too much poetry in my life. I never wanted it. What is it good for anyway?’
‘Compression,’ says Laforche. ‘Communication. Reality. Intensity.’
‘I have a problem with intensity already.’
‘We noticed. Yet you say you don’t care what happens to Madeleine.’
I kick the briefcase. ‘Don’t call her that.’
‘Madeleine is the symbol of France.’ He shrugs. ‘The woman, then.’
‘Laforche, there is no big conspiracy. She has information, she needs to share it. Then she can disappear back to wherever she came from.’
‘Back to the desert,’ says Laforche. ‘You want to punish her.’
I try not to think of the gun in my briefcase. I say loudly, ‘I just want the information.’
‘Or?’
‘It will screw my career.’
‘And this is so important?’
‘It’s all I’ve got.’
The doorway darkens. It is the thin woman who had been talking to the pilot. She looks me up and down and puts her hands on her hips. There are blue inked flames curling around her wrists. She says to Laforche, ‘M’sieur, you must come.’
I step forward. ‘Is it the sick bay?’
She ignores me. ‘A message from the city,’ she says to Laforche.
He looks at the two books on the table.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I’m not interested in your precious French book.’
Laforche takes off the kid gloves. ‘Be careful,’ he says to me.
The minute they have gone, I take the camera out of my briefcase. From the top of the steps, I hear Laforche’s voice, receding.
I set my watch for two minutes and go to the book of French writing, leafing through it as quickly as I can, looking for anything that seems relevant: to the woman, to Sicily, to Koloshnovar. I try to be delicate. God forbid I should tear a page. But there are only fragments of writing with dates, words clumped in lines, sketches of camels and lumpy mountains and men on horseback. I want to find a map. It would be a solution of sorts.
I see nothing. I leave it and turn the pages of the English book.
I try to absorb whole paragraphs, to commit them to memory.
By the very act of walking, the sand under our feet changes. Reaching for a book is like walking into the desert: we are surrounded by alien voices, the voices of ourselves. The way ahead seems clear and fixed but that is a mirage. Instead, we are going deeper into ourselves, deeper into our own long-buried subversions. The white page is the desert; the words are trails of our own lives.
Ramblings. I am impatient.
On the third night, I see a light far away
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