Ocean Sea (2 page)

This is why, in the park, the paths were circular.

Nor should you forget the story of Edel Trut, whose skill in weaving silk was unrivaled throughout the land and that was why he was summoned by the Baron, one winter’s day, when the snow
lay as tall as children, as cold as the devil, and getting that far was hellish hard, the horse steaming, its hooves slithering about haphazardly in the snow, and the sleigh behind drifting to the
leeward, if I don’t get there in ten minutes perhaps I’ll die, as sure as my name’s Edel, I’ll die, and what’s more without even knowing what the devil the Baron wants
to show me that’s so important . . .

“What do you see, Edel?”

In his daughter’s room, the Baron stands in front of the long wall without windows, speaking softly, with the courtesy of olden times.

“What do you see?”

Cloth of Burgundy, quality stuff, and a landscape like any other, a job well done.

“It is not just any landscape, Edel. Or at least not for my daughter.”

His daughter.

It is a kind of mystery, but you must try to understand, using your imagination, and forgetting what is known so that the fancy may roam free, running far off deep within things until it can see
how the soul is not always a diamond but sometimes a silken veil—this I can understand—imagine a diaphanous silken veil, anything could tear it, even a glance, and think of the hand
that takes it—a woman’s hand—yes—it moves slowly and clasps the veil between the fingers, but clasping is already too much, the hand lifts it as if it were not a hand but a
puff of wind and enfolds it between the fingers as if they were not fingers but . . . as if they were not fingers but thoughts. So. This room is that hand, and my daughter is a silken veil.

Yes, I have understood.

“I do not want waterfalls, Edel, but the peace of a lake, I do not want oaks but birches, and those mountains in the background must become hills, and the day a sunset, the wind a breeze,
the cities towns, the castles gardens. And if there really must be falcons, at least let them fly, and far away.”

Yes, I have understood. There’s only one thing: and the men?

The Baron fell silent. He observed all the characters of the enormous tapestry, one by one, as if listening to their opinion. He moved from one wall to the other, but no one spoke. It was to be
expected.

“Edel, is there a way to make men who do no evil?”

God Himself must have wondered about that, at the time.

“I know not. But I shall try.”

In Edel Trut’s workshop they labored for months with the miles of silk yarn that the Baron sent. They worked in silence because, as Edel said, the silence had to be woven into the fabric
of the cloth. It was yarn like any other, only you could not see it, but it was there. And so they worked in silence.

Months.

Then one day a cart arrived at the Baron’s castle, and on the cart was Edel’s masterpiece. Three enormous rolls of cloth as heavy as the crosses borne in processions. They carried
them up a flight of stairs and then along the corridors and through door after door until they reached the heart of the castle and the room that awaited them. Just before they unrolled them, the
Baron murmured, “And the men?”

Edel smiled.

“And if there really must be men, at least let them fly, and far away.”

The Baron chose the light of the sunset to take his daughter by the hand and lead her to her new room. Edel says that she came in and instantly flushed, for wonder, and for a moment the Baron
feared that the surprise might be too much, but it was only a moment, because instantly you could hear the irresistible silence of that silken world where lay a fair and most pleasant land and
little men suspended in the air, paced with measured tread across the pale blue of the sky.

Edel says—and this he will never forget—that she gazed around for a long moment and then, turning, she
smiled
.

Her name was Elisewin.

She had a most beautiful voice—velvet—and when she walked it was as if she slipped through the air, so that you could not take your eyes off her. Every now and again, for no reason,
she liked to run along the corridors, toward who knows what, on those awful white carpets, she stopped being the shadow she was and ran, but only seldom, and in a way that some people, in those
moments, when they saw her, were heard to whisper . . .

CHAPTER 3

Y
OU COULD GET
to the Almayer Inn on foot, by the path that led down from St. Amand’s chapel, but also by coach, along the Quartel road,
or by the ferryboat that plied the river. Professor Bartleboom arrived by chance.

“Is this the Peace Inn?”

“No.”

“The St. Amand Inn?”

“No.”

“The Post Hotel?”

“No.”

“The Royal Herring?”

“No.”

“Good. Do you have a room?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll take it.”

The register with the guests’ signatures lay open on a wooden bookrest. A freshly made bed of paper that awaited the dreams of other people’s names. The Professor’s pen slipped
voluptuously between the sheets.

With flourishes and everything. A nice job.

“The first Ismael was my father, the second my grandfather.”

“And that one?”

“Adelante?”

“No, not that one there . . . this one.”

“Prof.?”

“Mmm . . .”

“It’s Professor, isn’t it? It means
Professor
.”

“What a silly name.”

“It’s not a name . . . I
am
a Professor, I teach, do you see? I walk through the streets and people say, ‘Good morning, Professor Bartleboom,’ ‘Good
evening, Professor Bartleboom,’ but it’s not a name, it’s what I do, I teach . . .”

“It’s not a name.”

“No.”

“All right. My name is Dira.”

“Dira.”

“Yes. I walk through the streets and people say, ‘Good morning, Dira,’ ‘Good night, Dira,’ ‘You’re looking pretty today, Dira,’ ‘What a nice
dress you’re wearing, Dira,’ ‘You haven’t seen Bartleboom by any chance, have you?’ ‘No, he’s in his room, first floor, the last one at the end of the
corridor, these are your towels, take them, there’s a view of the sea, I hope it won’t disturb you.’ ”

Professor Bartleboom—from that moment on, simply Bartleboom—took the towels.

“Miss Dira . . .”

“Yes?”

“May I be permitted a question?”

“Such as?”

“How old are you?”

“Ten.”

“Oh, I see.”

Bartleboom—the freshly demoted ex-Professor Bartleboom—took his suitcases and headed toward the stairs.

“Bartleboom . . .”

“Yes?”

“One doesn’t ask young ladies their age.”

“That’s true, excuse me.”

“First floor. The last room at the end of the corridor.”

I
N THE ROOM
at the end of the corridor (first floor) were a bed, a wardrobe, two seats, a stove, a little writing desk, a carpet (blue), two identical
pictures, a sink with a mirror, a chest, and a little boy: seated on the windowsill (window open), with his back to the room and his legs dangling out into space.

Bartleboom produced a carefully calibrated little cough, so, just to make any kind of noise.

Nothing.

He entered the room, put down his suitcases, walked over to get a closer look at the pictures (identical, incredible), sat down on the bed, took off his shoes with evident relief, got up again,
went to look at himself in the mirror, ascertained that he was still himself (you never know), had a quick look inside the wardrobe, hung his cape up inside it, and then went over to the
window.

“Are you part of the furniture, or did you just drop in?”

The youngster didn’t move an inch. But he answered.

“Furniture.”

“Ah.”

Bartleboom returned toward the bed, loosened his cravat, and stretched out. Damp stains on the ceiling, like black and white drawings of tropical flowers. He closed his eyes and fell asleep. He
dreamed that they had called him in to substitute for the fat lady with Bosendorf’s Circus and, once in the ring, he recognized his aunt Adelaide in the first row. A delightful lady but one
of debatable habits, she was kissing first a pirate, then a woman identical to herself, and finally the wooden statue of a saint that could not have been a statue for he was suddenly coming
straight for him, Bartleboom, shouting something that he couldn’t quite understand but sufficient nevertheless to arouse the indignation of all the spectators, so that he, Bartleboom, was
obliged to take to his heels, and even to give up the rightful remuneration agreed upon with the manager of the circus, 128 soldi to be exact. He awoke, and the boy was still there. But he had
turned around and was observing him. In fact, he was talking to him.

“Have you ever seen Bosendorf’s Circus?”

“Pardon?”

“I asked you if you had ever seen Bosendorf’s Circus.”

Bartleboom sat bolt upright on the bed.

“What do you know of Bosendorf’s Circus?”

“Nothing. I’ve only seen it, it passed through here last year. There were the animals and everything. There was the fat lady, too.”

Bartleboom wondered whether he ought to inquire about Aunt Adelaide. True, she had been dead for years, but this lad seemed to know a thing or two. In the end he opted to get off the bed and
walk over toward the window.

“Do you mind? I need a little air.”

The boy moved over a little on the windowsill. Cold air and a north wind. Ahead, stretching to infinity, the sea.

“What do you do sitting up there all the time?”

“I look.”

“There’s not much to look at . . .”

“You’re joking, aren’t you?”

“Well, there is the sea, agreed, but then again the sea is never any different, it’s always the same, sea as far as the horizon, on a good day a ship may pass by, but it’s
nothing to go overboard about, you know.”

The boy turned toward the sea, turned back toward Bartleboom, turned again toward the sea, and turned back again toward Bartleboom.

“How long are you going to stay here for?” he asked him.

“I don’t know. A few days.”

The boy got down from the windowsill, went toward the door, and stopped on the threshold, where he lingered a moment to regard Bartleboom.

“You’re nice. Perhaps when you leave here you’ll be a bit less of an imbecile.”

Bartleboom felt a growing curiosity about who had brought up those children. A phenomenon, clearly.

E
VENING
. The Almayer Inn. The room on the first floor, at the end of the corridor. Writing desk, oil lamp, silence. A gray dressing gown with Bartleboom
inside it. Two gray slippers with his feet inside them. A white sheet on the writing desk, a pen and an inkwell. He is writing, is Bartleboom. Writing.

He puts down the pen, folds the sheet of paper, and slips it inside an envelope. He stands up, takes from his trunk a mahogany box, lifts up the lid, lets the letter fall inside, open and
unaddressed. In the box are hundreds of identical envelopes, open and unaddressed.

Bartleboom is thirty-eight. He thinks that somewhere in the world he will meet a woman who has always been
his
woman. Every now and again he regrets that destiny has been so stubbornly
determined to make him wait with such indelicate tenacity, but with time he has learned to consider the matter with great serenity. Almost every day, for years now, he has taken pen in hand to
write to her. He has no names or addresses to put on the envelopes: but he has a life to recount. And to whom, if not to her? He thinks that when they meet it will be wonderful to place a mahogany
box full of letters on her lap and say to her, “I was waiting for you.”

She will open the box and slowly, when she so desires, she will read the letters one by one, and as she works her way back up the interminable thread of blue ink she will gather up the
years—the days, the moments—that that man, before he even met her, had already given to her. Or perhaps, more simply, she will overturn the box and, astonished at that comical snowstorm
of letters, she will smile, saying to that man, “You are mad.”