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THE WRITERS POST (ISSN: 1527-5467) VOLUME 5 NUMBER 1 JAN 2003
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N. SAOMAI ___________________________ A
PLACE FOR
THE SON OF MAN (This
is a chapter taken from the novel A Place for the Son of Man, Chapter 1. The
chapter has simultaneously been published in Wordbridge magazine, ISSN:1540-1723, Winter Issue 2002) The footpath
descending steeply to his underground apartment, which ran along the sidewall
of the moss-covered brick house, was slippery with mud, encroachingly
narrowed by high grass growing on its sides. Clinging to it was the tip where
dead-rat-smelled decaying rubbish lay in dunes betraying the stubbornness of the
big bully and ¾the
handicap of Marie Antoinette’s blooming rockets the colour of red soil. It
was that clammy red colour that smeared the small valley down below. Not far
from the house, bushes with spiky vines climbing over its branches, pines
with curly grass ferns winding around its trunks, all crowded into the copse
that blotted out D Boulevard few blocks away. Traffic noise echoed in
sometimes, but dumb was the dejected heavy sky of a sleeping sun. Night
seemed to occupy the day with her solitude, distress, emptiness, and
speechlessness. He stood hesitating
on the slope, few steps from the soiled, paint-stripped wood door where a
piece of pale and wrinkled light lay, uncomfortably, sleeping. His face,
weary-old in his early thirties, ill-fated with a nasty scar slashing across
the left cheekbone, seemed frozen with the leaden eyes that gawped but seemed
to see nothing within sight. The evening was soaking wet after rain. The air
liked water, and a fish could swim in it. Here and there, down in the valley,
up in the hills, houses bobbed in the vagueness of the landscape. Entangled
with the phantom of a blundering-about remembrance he found himself the all
of depression of those dull roofs, those half-asleep pines trees, the peppery
smell of rotten grass, of damp soil, and in them all was thrashing about the
spirit of a haunting place which, far away but seemed near round to be
touched, tangled up his memory with the confusion of reality and dream. It
was 1968 when he landed up in that land. Gun in hands, flesh target all in
the mind, he ran, hid, lay, crawled, and at last stood still staring at the
battlefield, found no enemy, no sign of threat to be portrayed as evidence of
war. Nothing. Nothing but the peacefully unquestioning houses in the friendly
welcoming paddies. But, kill it, burn it, destroy it. That was the order. He
ran across fields, set fire on houses, joined the hunt against men and women,
got trapped in their strange world, struggled with it, held on it, lived it,
then became a part of it. And now here it was. The same face, forlorn as
always it has been. The clouds of meekness, the sky of sorrow, the
undergrowth crouching under tall trees, and the blades of grass jostling
against the slippery path under his feet were harking back to his days in a
place of no mercy. Then the muddy field. The smoking hut. He felt it. How
real it all was. All was in him. All was out there ¾at the end of D Boulevard agitated yet
calm, noisy yet dumb, in the apartment on the second floor of a wretched
condominium. It was Daly. It was She. Daly. No sooner had
the name echoed that it got enough strength to turn him round. He straightened himself, retraced his
steps, with stumbling steps again, round again towards the front of the house
the doors tightly closed. It was five o'clock. Someone appeared briefly at
the window. Not him. He said to himself. The widowed owner had taken his
vacation in the south weeks ago. In the upstairs of the house was living now
a tenant who had just moved in few days ago. “The upstairs is now rented. To
a single, like you. It's a nice upstairs, with the outside private stairway,
you know that.” The owner said. But that was a man or a woman the owner did
not say, and he did not ask either. Now the one who had been alone was “alone
together” with someone. Unexpected cars were parked in the front yard,
fast-food wrappers strewn in puddles of water. He frowned, walked off towards
the avenue, heading D Boulevard. He decided to walk a long way to that
condominium. But a bus was coming near, and stopped. Heedlessly and heavily
with deep slough of self-pity he stepped up onto the bus as its door opened,
and left behind him his apartment in the basement, the only haven he fought
hard to grasp since returning to his homeland, with no identification, no
document, not even a single piece of papers to identify himself, after the
war ended in 1975. * The rain changed the
appearance of the town not in the least, not making it less heavy, and the
air, no sooner had it thinned out that it congealed into the damp of evening.
Here and there, on the wide walls of huge buildings obscure shadows were more
and more sinking, falling; they pushed upwards the stretches of light, making
them floated on the surface of the huge glasses. At a crowded bus stop
on D Boulevard he got off the bus; almost fell for being shoved by a heavy
man. He gained his balance, walked on, between people and traffic, signs and
stores noisy for anything but a friendly word. An old greying in dirty and
slovenly clothes approached, holding out his hand for alms; the speaking-eyes
were begging at first, then, dumbly starring. He delved into his trousers
pockets for a dime, shrugged his shoulders, and hurried into a flower shop. “Hi there!” The voice was from behind
the counter. A nice-looking young oriental lady he used to know paced out.
She smiled. The white smile. The dim light glinted on her white china teeth.
He thought of a bare young ear of corn. “How are you today,
sir?” she paused, looking at him, “Some of the perfect white roses I have
today, am I correct?” “Just some of them.” “A dozen?” “Oh no, not that
many!” “You want, like, half
a dozen?” “Yes, yes.” He nodded, said
something, heard something, but it seemed he said nothing, heard nothing at
all. The lady went inside for a moment, and returned with a little bunch of
roses wrapped up in a piece of gift-wrap. Paid for it, he went out. The old
homeless looked at him, then the roses, bleary-eyed. “He must think I am in
the money for these.” He laughed, bitterly, but stopped short, found himself
ridiculous, for it was hard possible that he wasted his stamps ¾which he had had hard time to exchange
them for some pocket money—on such luxury things. The small, untidy place
down the basement flit across his mind ¾cold
cooker, bone-dry kitchen sink, empty old fridge, bed, table, chairs miserably
crowded together in the front room. But, in a sudden, the room darkened,
slipped away. A man ran bumping into him, staggering for a moment, and then,
running past, melting away into the pavement bustling with people and people
crawling along. When he was about to
cross the street he heard behind him running steps in confusion, then, the
shrill high-pitched voice shouting, and then, tire stretching, siren blaring.
Before he had time to turn his head, a strong hand seized him by his wrist,
bent back his arm, and threw him down on the stomach at full length, with the
roses thrown to one side. A black shadow fell upon him. In panic and
confusion, he tried to hurl the burden away, but felt at once a gun point
pressing down the back of his neck. “Don't move”¾ The cold voice lingered about his
shoulder. He turned his head a little to see the heavy round face, and the
dark colour of the police uniform. The policeman, who with one hand still
bent his arm, searched him through with the other for suspected weapon. “You're caught!” said
the policeman, stood him up, coaxed him along, to his car. A buxom woman, huge
breasts dangling, high-pitched voice ringing, rushed up to them flinging up
her hands: “He snatched them,
and ran. The theft. My flowers, where are my flowers?” “Here they are,” the
policeman picked up the flowers. “Gosh, not those!” “No?” The man threw a quick
glance at the fat face knife-cut into halves by slitty eyes. “Of course not!” The
woman¾a street
flower vendor¾
grimaced, stamping her feet. “Picked the wrong guy, don't you see? I sell
daisy, only daisy, from that cart. Don't you see? You let go the theft, don't
you?” The policeman
released his prisoner, gave him his little bunch of flowers that was now a
ruin. “Well, this is a mistake, mister. You can go.” “Damn you!” cried the
woman. Damn you! He too wanted yelling, cursing. But he said nothing, mustering
up his courage to say nothing. He threw the crumpled things into the bin by
the officier, then crossed the street, went deep into a narrow avenue.
Fifteen minutes later, he found himself standing in front of an old
condominium. The car park was empty.
At this hour, poor folks in the condominium labouring somewhere in factories
had not yet returned. He entered the passageway, following the dirty flight
of narrow steps that leaded up to the second floor. The corridor reached a
dead end; the saffron light was locked up, liquid alike, thick. The doors
standing in a row were closed. He walked floating along, found himself at
last in front of a door. Like any door. But this was marked 16. Why 16? He
wondered. A secret number. The numbers, cut from wood, in black paint, no
more than six inches in height, were stuck on the grey door with nails. A
meaning of life? A symbol of death? He did not know. But vaguely, he realised
one thing: their existences were not merely symbols as to be seen. They were,
in fact, the "selves". The smaller they were, the bigger heaven and
earth they contained; the more immobile they were, the more violent they
became. And the door, as always it has
been used to close. To close. He muttered to himself, and sighed, hanging his
head to look at the dirty floor. The rose he had brought her yesterday, or
the day before he could not remember, remained in its old place. He stooped,
picked it up. * There it was at once ¾the old ghost. Beside the path going
along the Tidal Basin cherries blossomed pink the lip colour of young girl.
Daly stood near the water, her long hair waving in the breeze, her white
ao-dai brightening the lake. That was more than enough, he said. You appeared
to this country as an angle from a different world. A far away land. Of
bullet and bomb. Of fire and blood. Houses had collapsed into ruins. But pure
lotus still bloomed in the fields. With you, I had more than enough.
“Really?” Daly turned towards him, looking at him kneeling one foot on
the grass; her eyes limpid as the lake water were drown in somewhat of
tears. “Angel? Please! I was drifted
to this shore, dragged to this town, and poverty and misery were all damn
things I was granted at last. You know it all. But I wonder, how many of them¾ girls like me, angles as you say¾ did you kill?” Daly smiled, “Look at
you. Gosh! It's a firing position, isn't it? You have now no gun, but I still
can figure it. Anyone can figure it. Any of them¾my people ¾could see a GI's in that firing
position once, in rice-fields, in villages, anywhere.” “Daly,” he raised to
his feet, looking at her with anxious attention. “Is it not true? I
can see it as it's bound to happen, that you are now pointing your gun at me,
and shoot, in that position.” She smiled, again. “Daly, please. It was
already ten years now. Ten years, enough for a girl like you...” “I'm a girl no more,”
interrupted Daly in a discouraged voice.
“I'm a woman, married.” “Yes. You told me
once. Me too, not a young man. I was a husband. My wife remarried right after
the news came to her that I had been missing.” Daly cast a sidelong
glance at him, said indifferently: “What is the point of
that you say?”
“You know what I am saying. It is the past. Daly, listen, it's over.” “You talk the GI's
voice. Over? Burning. Killing. Destroying. Then, over?” “No more rocket for
them,” he said, begged rather, the bitterness was in his tone. “No, of course not. I
don't mean to criticise. But the truth is that you kill!” Waiting for no more
saying from the man, Daly turned back, pacing away. He followed her silently
in a short distance. Cherry flowers fell broken on the path. It was not so
cold. But her appearance of sorrow and loneliness, her frail long dress of
smog¾ it seemed,
her paces lighter than air on the so solid soil of America that the steps of
a walking mountain could not shake it, all made he feel all had been frozen
and the winter suddenly emerged onto the pink and the rose of spring. At the
path-end, Daly stopped. He paced forwards: “Did I kill? No, I
didn't. The war did it!” “Oh, please!” He stood silent. Daly
raised her head, looked at the obelisk-like shaft soaring into the sky, in
the distance. “That monument is
built to commemorate George Washington,” he explained, after a long pause.
“There is a black wall about, engraved with the names of fifty thousand men
died in that war. Died. Daly, they all died.” Daly frowned, looking
away, gazing at the leisurely floating pedaloes in colours in Tidal Basin. On
the other side of the basin stood the white marble tomb of President
Jefferson. And walking, standing, sitting on the long and large steps down
below, in front the expensive marble platform, were tourists and local
people.¾ No, they are
nowhere in sight. All those men are dead.¾The
thought flit across her mind. “They all died. Daly.
Tell me one thing. That you don't think I just went there to kill or to be
killed.” “No,” replied Daly,
and then paused for a moment. “Oh Heaven, what am I trying to say?” He turned towards her,
absorbedly looking at her. It was the same oriental ivory white face,
childlike-but-experienced-looking, which he had ever seen in those cities, in
those villages he had gone through. Gun in hands. Mouth shut. Eyes opened
looking for eyes that opened to the death. And he saw it. He saw it in the
nightmare he hoped to have gotten away, in the daydream he wished to have
died with. The young lady, face soaked in tears, was kneeling over the bloody
bodies of her husband and her only child, cried rubbing salt into his wounded
soul the night he understood he had no enemy in the land of both hatred and
love. The crying spiced with bitterness his appetite for peace. And the eyes.
They were the same black and round eyes, endured, questioning and suspecting,
but full of compassion that now made the refuge for his homeless heart. Did I
kill? Didn't I kill? Oh gosh, is that important so? He shut his eyes. No, I
see nothing. “I see nothing. It’s
over. And we must try!” He said.
“Try what?”
“Try to live on. And we live together.” “Bad joke, you know.” “No, it's not a joke.
I need you. And you need me too. Alone, you are not going to survive!” “Hey, playing the big
hero?” Daly looked at him.
After a short moment, she said: “I need you. Yes. I
need you because you are all the man I want to be with for now. But, despite
how much I need you, I can’t marry you.” “Why?” he cried. “I can't, that's why.
As you say, it's over. And I don't want to look back. I can marry a man, but
I cannot marry the past. This you must understand.” “I understand nothing
at all!” he interrupted her, hurriedly.
“Don't pretend you don't! Let me have my say again: With you, I can't.
Know what I mean?” Daly laughed, bitterly. “Tell me, what do you expect from
me?”
“My life. Daly, my life!” *
The voice echoed. But when he looked straight up again at the number
bearing no meaning to him at all, he knew that was a hopeless voice. There
was the sound of a key turning softly in the lock. Some one was just coming home.
He knew it was about 6:00 pm, and peoples living in the condominium who left
at daybreak for a long day of hard work were bound to return. He stood still
for a moment, waiting for the tenant entering his apartment, turned back
then, walked hurriedly towards the stairway. As he was putting his foot on
the step, he stopped. Down below, at the foot of the stairway it was Daly
standing motionless. Her gaze was on his face, her back against the wall. The
dark-yellow light got thicker; yet the short flight in front of them seemed
to be a long distance. They stood speechless for some time. A woman's voice
echoed in from the car park; he descended the stairway. “Is it you?” said
Daly.
“Yes, it's me,” he smiled, gazing at the smiling face of the old ghost
in flesh, “Shall we take a
walk?”
“Yes, of course.” Daly said, turned walking towards the door. He followed at her
heels. They walked slowly along the condominium towards the street, then
heading D Boulevard. Daly was still quiet. “Are you afraid of
being seen by your neighbours?” he asked. “No. But why?” Daly
stopped, looking at him. He gave no answer.
They resumed walking. Seeing the books in Daly's hand, he asked: “Still going to school?” “Necessary evils. I
should try. To learn a bit of something.”
“Yes, yes, you should,” he said eagerly. “But last week, no. I
was away, not in town.” “I see.”
“See what?”
“No. Nothing,” he smiled. “Give them books to me to carry.” Daly gave him the
books. A police car dragged on to a stop, and out came a man's voice: “Hey, you guys must
use the sidewalk, you know that?” He led Daly by her
hand onto the sidewalk. The car drove off. “Must they bother with people
standing here or sitting there?” “He is fine,” said
Daly, stood leaning against the trunk of a tree. Time at day-end stood still between awakening and
sleepiness. Light sank gradually. Here and there appeared lumps of darkness.
Suddenly, he fell down on his knees, wrapping Daly's feet in his arms.
“What are you doing?” Daly horrified, squatted on her heels, and
pulled him down onto the grass.
“Daly, please!”
“Please what? Silly, giggly, you know?”
“I feel lost. Daly, I terribly feel lost. I extremely feel in fear, I
belong to this place no more. I belong to any place no more. I am losing my
grasp; please give me your hand. You must be my life! I must have you;
otherwise, oh, what a terrible thought! Daly, I must have you, or I will kill
you! No, no! I don't mean to say that. Oh, please forgive me,” he was
rambling, “I don't know what I'm saying.” “Now, now, killing,
destroying, you say it!” Daly laughed, aloud. But the laugh, which
seemed to have no echo, died out. They sat wrapping their knees in their
arms. Silent. Someone had just passed. A piece of newspaper flying with the
wind landed on his face, fell then down his chest. He remained sitting
motionless. You must be my life!
His sad voice echoed. She looked at him. Me? Why me? My life was gasping for air.
I dragged myself to this town. I was in, but my life still out there. Shit. ¾She repeated the word learned from her
classmates¾ You happened
to be the spare one after the last terrified earthquake. It was beyond my
memory that how we met. How we met? When? Where? At school? In the streets? I
could not remember. I wanted not to remember. I came to this land not yet
awaking from insane dreams and nightmares. Firing bullets chased me with
zeal, running me blind towards the border escaping boat. Then, the days of
being drifted to nowhere in the sea. The months of living the life of the
death on that island. My heart was drained of blood. My arms were shorter and
shorter before uncertain hopes. I need somebody. Living with dead bodies that
haunted my memory, I need somebody in flesh and bone. But you? No, I dare
say. The past in ruins tied up my hands. My husband, face in blood. My son,
chest in holes. And that cottage ¾small
as the bird nest on a feeble branch. The GI's rushed into it with his smoking
gun. It was in over ten years, yet I could see him now. Know what I mean?
Here. There. Everywhere. At the school. In the street. In the super-market.
In the park. I saw him on each single face I used to see daily. And even on
yours, oh gosh¾
yours. You don't have to kill me. I'm dead! You did kill me. I’m dead! * She could not believe
she was sobbing. He could not believe he heard her sob. It was the secret
voice of his whole being echoing from the deep cave of his mind. It was his
voice. ‘My son. My husband. See what I mean? But they just killed them. Just
like that, you killed them.” ¾“Me?”
¾ “What is the
difference?” She raised her voice. He sat stock-still, did not know what to
say as something in him pushed him pressingly. His mind was gone; he felt
limp, and melted into the teardrops on Daly's face ¾the haunting ghost appeared out from
the night of her hair. Now, now, you share me it! He thought. It was life.
Life filled him with joy, pity, happiness, and unhappy happiness. Life was
real, touchable, and was next to him. He put his arm around her shoulders.
Tightly, he squeezed it. “Daly, please don't
cry! Please don't cry!” he murmured. “We must not be the miserable, must we?
Let's clear up the darkness.” Daly gave him a look in perplexity. “How? It's in me, the
darkness. Don't you know? It's me. Yes, it’s me.” “We must try.” “I will try nothing. Because nothing
is important now!” “You don't want it
that way.” * Is that the way I want?
Withered, worn out, I am dying like a queen-of-the-night dying at three
o'clock in the morning without seeing the sun. It seems life is somewhere. Do
I want to cut short my hands, as the promising happiness is so close to
grasp? And what would be then? What is left of it all, the whole of my life,
besides my dead body drifting away uncertainly, besides the painful memory
crumbling me in pieces with its daydream? Is that what I want? * The wood board was
drifting, drifting, in the sea colourless as the sky the colour of emptiness.
The sky was empty. But full of water. The empty sky was full of water. Daly
sat clutching at the canoe sides with both hands, cried bitterly. In front of
her, the wood board was drifting, drifting, on the still surface stretching
into the distance where the line of sight snapped, where the air solidified
into stiff rock in all directions. She looked to the left, to the right,
laboured to change her sitting position to face what was behind her. All was
the silence. Only the canoe softly wagging. Only the sea lightly breathing.
It was not life, but the accomplice of death. She cried and cried. And again,
felt down in a faint. And again, recovered, in vagueness. * Two fishermen, naked to
the waist, capered before Daly. She drew back, slowly away from them, towards
the side of the boat, trembling, stretching out her hands forwards, and
cried. On the opposite side, a group of border-escaping men were forced into
a corner. They squatted on their haunches, looking desperately at their wives
who, stark naked, sat flat grasping their knees or dragging their buttocks
about on the uneven wood deck. A little girl, unconscious, lay naked at full
length on her back; her arms and her legs spread wide apart. There were about
ten of them, the fishermen, who stood yelling, laughing, and flinging their
arms about. Some with guns. Some with knifes. Some with their trousers
dropped to their knees. Daly put the tip of her tongue between her teeth, but
she was shaking, could not bite it off, to die. She turned to look back down
the sea. Another face of death. The roars of huge waves dashing against the
boat. The laughs followed her close¾
by her back. She turned immediately and was terrified to see a scarred face
in just two feet away. The fishermen stood still then, watching. Behind them,
a woman, bosoms and buttocks and thighs smeared with blood, was crawling
forwards, inched up inches by inches. As coming close to one of them, the
woman, with all her strength, reared up, locked one of his legs tightly in
her arms, sank her teeth deeply into its dirty and dark flesh. The fisherman
cried out painfully, struggling. But the woman, clinging to his leg, bit
deeper and deeper, curled up to bear the deadly punches from above. ¾Damn you, fuck you!¾ shouted the man as he hurled her
away. She raised herself on her hands, mouth full of blood, threw him a
sharp-knifed glance, waiting. In less than a blink, the fisherman in front of
Daly flung himself forwards. He raised high his long knife, and¾ with his rope-like muscular arm he
threw a hard blow down onto her head, split it in two. Blood poured out over
the deck, jet onto the thighs, the buttocks, the bosoms, the faces of the
naked women. Someone among the sitting men made a move. For nothing but
silence again. No one would dare to talk. The fisherman with his wounded leg
turned quickly towards Daly, leapt in front of her. Crazy with anger, he
cursed through his clenched teeth, grasped the chest of her blouse with one hand lifting her up, put the other at her belly,
then with all his strength threw her out of the boat, sent her falling
sinking into the sea. A report sounded lonely on her falling to death.
* As Daly opened her
eyes she saw a man lifeless as a ghost sitting with empty eyes in front of
her. The violent waves, the border escaping boat, the boat people, the
fishermen, the naked women being raped, the crying, the yelling, all
disappeared. Daly could not think where she was. In front of her, the man kept
sitting still. “Gosh!” Daly looked
round about. She remembered then how she had been thrown full force against
her death. “You save me?” she
muttered.
“I can save nobody,” said the man, without looking at her, “You're
here, because you're not dead.” He paused for a moment. “But my wife, she
died. They go inside her. She must go out. Comes back no more.” Suddenly, he
stood up, screamed at the top of his voice. “No mo ... re ...” The canoe was
rolling. He sank back to his seat, stayed still. Daly gazed at him; a vague
thought crossed her mind that he went insane. But, she too. Most of her mind
had been gone; the rest was paralysed. The two sat face to face at arm's
length, looking wearily, witlessly at each other. The light grew dim. The sun
was like an iron ball, brightly flaming, about to dip into the water. The man
fell to sleep for a moment, then started out of it. He looked intently at
Daly with his eyes were then full of darkness. “Take your clothes
off!” “How do you mean?” “Take off your
clothes!” Now, now. Daly
muttered to herself, dragged herself backwards, just a little, then stopped.
Do it, as you want. She closed her
eyes. I'm dying. I'm dead. You're not going to make me. You're going to make
a corpse. The man burst into laughing, making her a sign to sit still. “All girls died
naked,” said the man. He didn't mean it.
She thought, was at ease, but kept looking at him with her sleepy eyes until
his lifeless face became the darkness. At about mid-night, Daly's strength
gave out, and she collapsed to the canoe bed. At a moment, she felt the canoe
terribly rocking; the earthquake in the water crumbled the massive black
crystal night in her. But still, she could not regain consciousness. Not
until the next day, as the sun baked her flesh she awoke, alone in the canoe,
realised that the man had disappeared. * I was left alone,
waiting to die, in minute, in second. I cried, then my crying started to
frighten me. It liked the wounded wolf howling. It liked the dying dog
wailing. Many times, time stood still and froze hard in my brain. It caused a
loss of sensation in my whole isolated being, and I said to myself ¾Die. You should die. You must die.
Sleep, and don't ever wake up again¾
Not the death I was afraid of, but tragedy, thing appeared out of nowhere. A
cloud falling low, a strange smack of wave on the side of the canoe, a gust
of wind cool at day and warm at night, all made me listen, with strained
attention. My mind tensed to the point I wanted to die at once, to disappear
at once, like the man¾threw
himself into the thick darkness, into the inky black water. But I could not
make it, partly because I lost the sense to act, partly I could not manage my
body now dried from thirst now fainted from hunger. I sat looking at the
opposite end of the canoe, at the place where the man used to be, tried to
figure a face, but no human face I could recollect. What did it look like? At
the end of my tether, I tumbled down the canoe bed. But before falling into a
dead faint again, I stretched out my arm, felt around the place where the old
man had sat for a vague thought of the existence of life. * You're right. We
should try. I must have somebody about. I know the loneliness. Sometimes I
wished I had said yes. But how? My husband with his bloody face. My son with
his chest torn down to his heart. How could I be insane to forget? Be
mindless not to remember? To be with you is to be with the tragedy of my
life, to be with my crippled past. How could I drag such a life? Daly looked uneasily at
him. The night grew dark in his eyes. She pulled him up with her. “You should go home.”
“I'm at home.” “Please!” “No place is a real
place for me, except where you are.” He shook his head. “I will go to
nowhere!” “Here's to you! Stay
here then, you real goon,” she teased, “be a fool in the street!” “I would rather be a
fool in the street.” “No
more playing. And this is just a bit part of it.” She took his hand in hers,
squeezed it then released, took a pace backwards, stood hesitating. “Listen,
I must go, from this point.” She said wistfully. “Don't be a ridiculous fool.
You already said, remember? To live with the past? Uh uhh, no way! Why don't
you try to forget? Don't tell me you are. You want to marry me? Just because
I am “something” you keep trying to hold on? Love, hatred, the gain and the
loss, the regret you feel for hopes that could not come true, the pity you
take on your youth had collapsed in ruins, all those stuffs are still hiding
somewhere in the dark corners of your head. That's it. Yes? Then be with it!
Don't drag me in. It cannot be me. I'm part of it, I know, but I refuse to
be. I want to start anew. Or may be, I just want my life!” “Correct!
Let's start anew!” “Then, we
must part! We, the past, must part!” “Please do not say so!” “To live on, you bother with something related to that no more!” Daly
said, rather muttered to herself. “To what?” “The hell, where I have just come from!” “No,
I'm not!” “You
are! Something related to that damned hell is me. It's me, don't you realise?
It's this damned me!”
Daly said firmly. A little longer she stood, then turned, walked down
the pavement. At a distance, she looked back: “It's me!” He said nothing. He
stood seeing her off. The books in his hand suddenly became heavy. The heavy
weight of a gun.
N. SAOMAI ¾From A Place for the Son
of Man Editorial note:
-“Marie Antoinette’s rockets”:
Rockets is the cultivated flower of ancient Rome, and is Marie Antoinette’ favorite
flower. In North America, it spread into the wild. - Queen-of-the-night: One
spices of flower. · THE WRITERS POST (ISSN: 1527-5467), Volume 5- Issue 1- January 2003
Copyright © 1999 N. Saomai
/ Nguyen Sao Mai & The Writers Post Nothing in this website may be downloaded,
distributed, or reproduced without the permission of the author/ translator/
artist/ and The Writers Post. Creating links to place The Writers Post, this
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