Death Sentences (8 page)

Throwing his arm around the young man's shoulders affectionately, Waldberg thrust the young man at Breton.

"A poet. Unknown. Which makes him a prince among young poets. Don't you agree, Monsieur Breton?"

Waldberg's tone was somehow defiant.

Yet he himself was probably just this side of thirty.

Breton frowned inwardly.

Waldberg had been born in California. As a boy, he had moved to Paris, whence his command of French. He had formed close ties with a number of poets, painters, and other artists. He had a talent for "close ties"-indeed.

He had also been among those who had fled the war and come to New York. Breton had met him two years previously. He had approved of his commitment to surrealism. Waldberg was full of talent.

That was something even Breton had to admit. Yet, for the moment, that was as much as he would admit.

Waldberg would make a fine critic at least. Or so Breton thought. He might only amount to a fine critic.

"Youth in itself implies poetic genius. By its very nature. Surely everyone is a poet, and there's absolutely no reason for anyone to hesitate to call himself one."

Breton was fully aware that his response might sound sarcastic.

But he did not, in fact, have any doubts that youth bore genius.

Two months previously Breton had traveled to Yale University to deliver a lecture titled "The Condition of Surrealism between the Wars."

In that talk he had loudly proclaimed-

"Surrealism was born of an unlimited belief in the genius of youth."

Nevertheless-

From the time he had arrived in New York, he had had his fill of "works" sent to him or sprung on him by self-professed poets and artists. Almost all of them were without any merit, immature, inferior, self-indulgent, nothing more than products of disorderly minds.

And so Breton found it difficult to respond civilly to the young man whom Waldberg had presented to him as a "poet."

Still, there was something about the young man that sparked curiosity.

Maybe it was because he was so clearly not of European descent. And above all it was his eyes.

A pair of dark eyes, seemingly large enough to absorb the world itself, cut Breton to the quick. Breton could not restrain the racing of his heart.

There was no resisting the force of inspiration in that gaze.

"Indeed-"

Waldberg merely nodded toward Breton, oblivious to his response.

"Indeed, there is an aura of genius about this young man, Monsieur Breton."

With a supercilious smile, Waldberg excused himself and walked off to get a drink.

Breton found himself alone with the young man, face to face.

"So, your poems, are they in French?"

Breton asked, rather perfunctorily.

The young man's eyes appeared even rounder and larger.

"They are. I was born in France, you see.11

He replied in perfectly fluent French.

"Ah ... so you're not American?"

The young man shook his head. He stared intently back at Breton, the vague trace of a smile flitting across a face that could truly be called beautiful.

Breton involuntarily shrank before that face.

He didn't know why. A strange emotion moved him.

Breton sipped his Triple V cocktail in an effort to conceal his emotion, however, and continued with questions.

"Your, um, name, then, is?"

"My name is Hu Mci."

"Who ... ?"

Then it happened. The young man traced the letters W-H-O in the air. Breton gulped down his Triple V. He immediately regretted it. But it was too late. The ball of alcohol burned through his nose and throat.

Drawing a deep breath of air, Breton asked in a ragged tone.

"Who? You mean, you want me to guess who you are?"

It seemed to him a childish word game all too common among youths and poets. Or so he thought at first. This one was after all very young. Despite initial impressions, he might prove a disappointment.

Smile unwavering, the young man tilted his head.

"That is the name, my name."

Once again the young man drew some sort of figure in the air with a finger.

"That's how you write it in Chinese characters." He traced the same character in the air. "It is an ideogram. But I don't know what it means."

"Are you Chinese, then?"

Breton posed the question, feeling that the young man was being rather evasive.

"My mother came from Indochina."

The young man continued in impeccable French.

"My father was French. I was born in Paris. That's all I know. I never knew my father, and my mother died before I was old enough to remember her well."

At a loss for a suitable response, Breton raised the glass to his lips. This time, however, he fortunately remembered what was in the glass and lowered it hastily.

Who May had been raised in the Chaillot area. He hadn't lacked for money. His mother had made a good living. But she had died of an illness before he reached the age of twelve. Who May had then been adopted by a man named Jean-Pierre Carron who worked in the import-export business.

Carron was French with some Vietnamese blood.

It wasn't entirely clear why Carron ended up raising Who May. At least no one had ever explained it to Who May.

Carron had no family. That was one explanation. But it hardly amounted to a full explanation.

In any event-such was the story that Breton heard from Who May.

Breton, however, didn't take it all that seriously. But then there was no particular reason to doubt it, either.

Presently, as the threat of Nazi invasion mounted, JeanPierre Carron had immediately recognized the danger and sailed for the free land of America, taking Who May with him.

And then war broke out-

Unable to return to their former country, they had no choice but to settle in New York.

"So, how about a drink?"

Waldberg had returned, bearing a peculiar-looking cocktail in each hand.

"Incidentally, how is it that you two became acquainted?"

Taking advantage of the diversion, Breton asked Waldberg while he was handing one of the glasses to the young man.

"He," Waldberg replied, beaming, "was my student."

"Your student, was he?"

"Yes, at an English school for foreigners. In a class designed primarily for native speakers of French, for a short while I offered an extracurricular course. A course on poetry-"

Waldberg placed special emphasis on the word poetry.

"At the end of the course, I gave the students an assignment-for everyone to write a poem in English. And then I had each of them read their poem aloud and offered comments. It was really quite fun."

(It must have been) thought Breton. And he nodded his head.

Waldberg was the perfect person for it. He would adeptly play the role of instructor and make the course "fun."

"That was the first time I heard Who May's work. The English was quite accurate, yet it had a strange sort of rhythm that stuck in your head. So I spoke to him after class about it."

Who May had then confided in Waldberg about his ambition to become a poet.

"I read a number of his efforts. They were really quite good. I would quite like to have you read one of them, Monsieur Breton. There is no doubt that he is a poet. He has the soul of a poet."

"I see ..." Breton adopted an ambiguous expression, assessing Waldberg and Who May.

"As soon as I can make time ..."

But Breton had no intention of making time.

He did not believe what Waldberg had said about the young man harboring the "soul of a poet."

Nevertheless-

Four months later, it turned out that Breton would learn the truth.

The young man was indeed a poet. At least he had a formidable skill with words. Whether he had the soul of a poet or not, he had within him all the requisite technique and ability to become a poet. And not just that, but something beyond that-

On that first day, however, Breton had not detected it. There had been no time to detect it.

Once Waldberg had introduced him to Who May, Breton found an opportunity to excuse himself in order to speak with Fernand Leger.

By the time he thought about them again, there was no trace of Waldberg and the young man.

A peculiar feeling washed over him, as he keenly recalled the slanderous remarks constantly launched against the surrealists to the effect that they were just a "band of homosexuals."

3

That day-

New York was once again aglow in July sunshine.

It was the kind of day when everything appears born anew.

Drawn out by the lively weather, Breton strolled north along Fifth Avenue.

A pleasant breeze spun through his hair like a fine comb.

And in the distance the Empire State Building showed sharply against the sky, alive with light, towering over the city.

It had just turned noon.

Crowds of men and women streamed from the buildings to enjoy their lunchtime.

It was a peaceful scene.

The abundant good cheer that filled the city held Breton.

Before such a scene Breton's thoughts took an unexpected turn.

The turn grew into a fissure, and a profound abyss opened wide before his eyes.

(I am ... where?)

At this very moment the entire world was choking on the stink of blood and explosives.

The newspapers and radios madly clamored every hour of every day about the situation.

And yet, for Breton strolling up Fifth Avenue, the spate of news reports, whether gallant or painful, was absolutely without reality.

(Where ... is here?)

Breton continued walking.

He pondered. And thought.

His thoughts turn to France, trampled and stained.

There the mind was subject to defilement, and being stifled to death. And if you tried to resist, you had to be prepared for annihilation, not just of the mind but also of the body itself.

That was precisely why-they had fled. Holding on to what they had to preserve, they had come here.

But what an abyss, what a profound gap! His eyes went dark. Fear overtook him.

The reality in which he should actually be living was so distant. Too distant.

Breton walked.

Quickening his step, he weaved his way through the crowds on Fifth Avenue. In New York Breton had taken on a position as radio announcer for the Voice of America broadcast directed to Europe. Because of this job, he followed regular hours, leaving for the radio station at the same time every day.

The job entailed far more constraints and obligations than Breton had ever imagined.

Despite that, he had assumed the position voluntarily. And he took the job seriously and worked zealously. There was a reason for this.

In the first place, there was no other way for Breton to prolong surrealist activities than by securing this site of expression, the medium of radio. In any event he was aware that such gains were possible in this situation. He therefore went to great lengths to be scrupulous in all matters.

There was another reason.

To the resistance fighters in distant Europe he wished to express as much solidarity as possible, sending a message in his own voice, on the radio waves of Voice of America.

His thoughts inevitably ran deeper.

Was seeking asylum abroad permissible as an attempt to find refuge, or was it simply desertion?

Under the burden of such painful doubts, Breton spoke into the mike. He cried out.

Be that as it may, it was really himself that he was trying to persuade.

His efforts, however, were by no means successful.

Breton walked.

The lunch hour had arrived, but he had no appetite.

He wanted merely to continue on and on like this, walking.

He was free today until two. He had to be at the radio station again at two.

The green of Central Park came into view ahead.

He crossed Fifty-Ninth Street.

Yet-

The temperature continued to rise and rise. Sweat beaded his brow.

He wanted to take off his jacket somewhere.

With that in mind, seeking a bench in the shade of the trees, he started down one of the smaller paths in the park.

Just then he heard a voice behind him. Someone was calling his name. It was a rather high-pitched voice. He didn't recognize it.

With a sense of coming to himself, he turned around.

A slight young man came bounding into the park, fairly bouncing toward him.

(WHO...)

The three letters popped into his head.

There was no mistaking it. It was he.

Who May. Actually, he didn't know if that was his real name.

In any event he had succeeded in inscribing his existence into Breton's memories with three letters of the alphabet written with a finger in the air.

-Monsieur, Breton."

He struggled to catch his breath.

Looking admiringly up at Breton, opening his large eyes even wider, he continued to speak.

"My apologies-you don't remember me-but I ..."

"I remember you quite well."

Breton gave him a broad smile.

"Are you not the Mr. Who whom Waldberg introduced to me?"

The young man's eyes became rounder still.

"You do me an honor."

The young man bobbed his head awkwardly up and down like a wooden doll.

And then, after opening and closing his mouth a few times as if to draw a deep breath, he abruptly stopped.

"I have favor to ask of you!"

His tone of voice was desperate.

"Please, there is something that I must ask of you-Mr. Breton! I need your help!"

Breton raised an eyebrow involuntarily.

(My help?)

He could not repress a certain hardening of his heart.

This was because he had recently heard a number of similar pleas.

The group of refugees had been living here for more than three years already. In the course of three years all of them had faced one sort of problem or another. Quite a few of them had been plagued with financial difficulties in particular.

Many of them came thronging to Breton due to his "fame." It happened almost every day.