Nights of white satin
After Winter, Spring will come. Remember: our ancestors knew of far worse times, starvation, wars, plague – the real one – when darkness came over the world. They resisted, often silent, always with hope in their heart.
Don’t lose hope: the seeds are there, there will be Spring, goodwill, and peace.
I am now certain “they” are out there, and getting closer. Can their intentions be good? All day, unless I play, I hear muted shuffling noises, little sardonic giggles, low whistles. They are mocking me, taking advantage of my present confusion. The terrace may be swept clean for now, for how long?
I could try to trap them, but would it be wise? What I really want is them to go away, to leave me in peace, to let me recover my mental health. And then this: I fear they are acting on orders. I dare not imagine on whose orders, horror. Today the rain stopped, the air is clean and colder. I savour an instant of silence. Perhaps they fear cold. Perhaps they are busy tormenting another poor soul. I have wondered if they feel threatened by beautiful sounds, by music. Or is it just that, when I play, my mind is off the hideous creatures? This is it: I must try harder not to be obsessed by them.
… Last night I saw her, the red-dress temptress. I recalled, vaguely, our first encounter, although I don’t remember where that was, other than it wasn’t here, but in the city. The temptation was pointless, for I am too tired, too overwhelmed by all the changes, the fear, the pain, to be interested in anything, or anyone. Only the music, and the clouds can now move me. But I tried, foolishly, to find out. About them. She pretended not to understand, and she disappeared quickly. Of course, they may well be her creatures. And this was a bad omen. I have been found, located, “they”, and their mistress or master, know where I am hiding.
But I won’t give in. I have weapons, and reliable friends. I am not finished.
What wakes me up at five every morning? Is it light? Unlikely. Is it a noise? Maybe, but then it is very faint. Is it a dream? Possible.
But this morning I had another thought. Are “they” trying to tell me something? Are “they” telling me to go away? Have I disturbed them? Did they follow me? There are sure signs of disruption in the garden. I know, this is not unusual at this time of the year, squirrels bury things, flower pots get vandalised, foxes fool around, foul up the well swept terrace etc.
I sense a malificent presence. Are “they” observing me? Are “they” messing with my mind? Is old age, senility creeping?
Are they evil gnomes in the rampage around this place?
Image source: https://www.garden4less.co.uk/product/Gnome-with-Hammer-Stone
They have room, at least just enough to sleep, dine and read. Green is the garden, as the rain falls. They have time: to plan, to work, to love. They have plenty of memories, to edit, reshape, immortalise. They have books, some read, some to read, plenty of them.
The furniture may be in pieces, the rooms strangely expecting the new. They smile, they laugh, they love. They have friends, and peace.
They are home.
This year it may have arrived late, but now, it is here. The time of the year when shadows play tricks, shallow shapes appear, as if conjured up by a malicious genie, and then disappear, erased. This lovely vision may not be real, those blond hair, flying in the light wind, are not what they seem: as I got nearer, anxious to see the face, it’s nowhere, it’s just me, and some hidden gnome, invisible, yet present, and I think, laughing silently. The light is low, diffused, under the trees one does not recognise anything, cannot see through the light mist: I see you, but is it you? Or an ancient witch pretending to be you?
The waters of the canal reflect a deep green that doesn’t not come from the sky, but from an elsewhere, a deep, unfathomable to us, humans. We lost the skill to see this light, but was it ever a skill, or rather, a right? Gold and brown, grey and a colour which is undefined, a wavelength our eyes don’t capture. Dark knights ride in the clouds, bearing runes that may signal our end, our dismissal from what is, still, paradise. I feel small, in a world that, for now, and the next few months, no longer smiles at me. Those ghosts are not my friends, they merely remind me that life is short.
And Winter is coming.
Her diary’s open to this date, last year. It could be a leaf from another life, from another time. The woman she was then, perhaps even still the girl, is long gone: so has the world around her. That was before the bomb fell, and now, now that peace has returned, she and many others, the survivors, have to rebuild a home, for the children to come.
The enemy breached the walls: in a few hours the virus spread, and a deep change set in. I can’t breath, nor think clearly. I know today is first day of Autumn, the trees colours have been changing for a while. Have we had a real summer? This is the time to go back to serious writing, but it will have to wait: reconquest. It will take time.
Already we have to plan the next trip, this time by road. Is it wise? Feeling drained, only sleep seems to help…
So much to do…
Picture: Gustav Klimt, Beech Grove, 1902
Galerie Neue Meister, Dresden, via sulphuriclike
When they left the S-Bahn station a thin drizzle was falling on the deserted sidewalks of Wedding. It was about 1:30 in the morning, there was hardly any traffic, dawn was still some hours away. They were tired of carrying their luggage: it had been a long journey, all the way from the other side of the other capital… But home was now very close!
On the plane they had celebrated with a half-bottle of half-cooled champagne, just happy to have made it, through the grid-locked roads, the late and overflowing trains, the idiotic obstacle course through duty-free (!) at the airport.
As usual, they felt happy to be back, under a sky that meant, for them, peace and love.
And then there was that diagnosis: something not right, but not so wrong that they should worry, for now. They were not going to, as they had long learnt that being suspicious was an attribute of free people. And so it went for these cells inside him, and their mysterious behaviour.
As she opened the door, they kissed. This was not their last trip.
Picture: ancient bell, Invaliden Friedhof, Berlin Mitte, ©2017 Honoré Dupuis
The park is immense: we leave the car near the house on the lake, where the couple lived, and where, we can imagine, Hélène planned her acquisitions. We walk around the house, a structure that inspires solid wealth, and a longing for a bygone age. The sombre bricks reflect in the water, children have left their bikes against the steps that lead to the wide terrace. We follow a narrow path that serpents on what must be, in winter, a very wet land. The ground is soft but almost dry, despite the recent torrential rain. The path takes us to a square building, in the style of the house, which encloses a well. Nearby we leave the main track to circle around a small pond covered with lilies: a beautiful toad meditates on one of the larger leaves, impassible. But we want to see the museum and the famed arboretum. Most visitors are cycling and we feel somewhat ashamed of driving.
The sculpture garden closes at four thirty, so we decide to go and see the Van Gogh gallery first, then visit the garden – a museum of modern sculptures and installations. Hélène had good taste, and a large (they say “unlimited”) budget. She bought Van Gogh both before the painter had achieved fame, and later. His early work is astounding: Van Gogh painted peasants in his native land. The Potatoes Eaters show the rugged faces and hands of a poor family, lunching under the light of a small petrol lamp. The beautiful Dutch white coiffes contrast with the dark garments. The profiles are almost medieval. The collection is an amazing treasure trove. We recognise some the best known paintings, the postman and his wife, the village main square at night – the stars in the Mediterranean sky! – the light of Provence. Hélène bought many avant-garde paintings, Seurat, Picasso, Monet, Mondrian… An hour goes by and we haven’t seen more than a third of the museum. You say that we ought to visit the garden, and then come back to see as much as we can before closure.
This is an enchanted place: the sunlight bounces across the green lawns, and lits the sculptures scattered over open spaces, reflecting in small basins, or part hidden in the trees. You guide us through the maze, and we watch, mesmerised, the variety of inspirations and forms. There is la femme accroupie de Rodin, there the columns of the Sacred Grove…
Later, you walk back to the museum, as I continue to explore the garden.
I retrace our steps, and discover more hidden treasures. It is there, a little away from the main path, that I sense him. He stands, in the shade of a large tree, on a block of stone so that his small size is not immediately evident. As I look up the reptilian face, taking in the short arms, terminated into powerful triangular wings, and the cruel hooves, the sun disappears behind a dark cloud. The face is inscrutable, the enormous penis, half erect, exudes menace. I dare take a first picture that turns out blank, then try again, this time more successfully. I read the legend, “Le grand homme de la nuit”, and the name of the artist, Germaine Richier (1904-1959). I can no longer hear voices, nor the laughter of children playing on the grass. I feel the malevolent presence, and ask myself, was Germaine his victim? Suddenly I feel the need to move away from le grand homme.
I walk back to the museum, and look for you. “Did you see anything interesting?” you ask. “It’s a delightful place, and we must come back for another visit…” I reply cheerfully.
Inspired by a visit to the Kröller-Müller park and museum, near Arnheim, Netherlands
Germaine Richier (en français)
As we approach the well known street, the crowd gets denser, perhaps quieter too, as if listening to itself. There are many people here, young and old, in pairs or small groups. The air is crisp and the sky peppered with cotton-like clouds. Will it rain? People chat, laugh, stop at little stalls that sell food and drinks. Some carry flags, or small hand-written panels that proclaim peace, or the end of time.
We walk hand in hand in this familiar city, our home. We stop at a band, listen for a few minutes, walk on. There are speeches, some photographers stand on ladders, for a better view of the human sea. More people are coming. Residents sit at their windows, admiring the show.
At the limits, barring motors to access the streets, stand the city police, calm, reflective, attentive. Girls smile. Little ones in push-chairs look at the sky. You look at me and say: “You see, this is a great holiday, and all is in control!”
Picture: Sunday morning, May 1, 2017, Brandenburger Tor (Honoré Dupuis)
