All at once a fine yet heavier rain began to fall, but the sun continued to illuminate the field like a gigantic lamp in the rear of a hall of gray marble. It rained by the light of the sun; it rained a rain of gold; it rained a rain of the scent of newly washed linen.
The field was empty. Here and there lay a pile of the dried corn stalks used for cattle fodder. I picked one up and attempted to take it apart. I was shivering with cold and had trouble getting my mud-caked fingers to do the peeling, but I found it interesting. There was ever so much to see in a dried corn stalk.
In the distance I spied a rush-roofed hut. I ran to it and took shelter under the eaves. The roof was so low my head nearly touched it. The ground along the wall was perfectly dry. I lay down. I propped my head up on some old sacks, crossed my legs, and gave myself up to a minute analysis of the stalk.
I was glad to be able to engage in such fascinating research. The grooves and canals of the stalk filled me with enthusiasm. I undid it with my teeth and found a soft, smooth down inside. It was the perfect lining for a corn stalk. If people had arteries lined with soft down like that, the darkness inhabiting them would be less harsh, easier to bear. As I inspected the stalk, I felt the silence in me smiling calmly, as if someone were blowing soap bubbles there.
The rain sparkled in the sun, while in the distant mist the town smoked like a dunghill. Scattered roofs and steeples glowed eerily in the damp twilight. I was so happy I could not decide which petty project I should attend to first: go back to my stalk, stretch, or gaze at the distant town.
Not far from my feet, where the mud began, a frog took a few sudden jumps. At first it moved in my direction, then changed its mind immediately and set off for the field. “Farewell, fair frog,” I called out to him. “Farewell. You’re breaking my heart leaving me so soon. . Farewell.” I improvised a long speech, and when I had finished I threw the corn stalk at the frog, aiming as best I could. Then, having stared for some time at the beams above my head, I closed my tired eyes and dozed off. Sleep had soon penetrated the marrow of my bones.
I dreamed I was walking through a town steeped in dust but very sunny and full of white houses, an oriental town perhaps. There was a woman at my side, a woman in black, in mourning, her face veiled. Oddly enough, the woman had no head. The veils were tastefully arranged where the head should have been, but she had only a gaping hole there instead, an empty sphere running down to the nape of the neck. We were both in a hurry, following a cart with red crosses on the sides: it was carrying the corpse of the woman’s husband.
I realized there was a war going on, and in fact we soon came to a station where a convoy of wounded soldiers had just arrived and nurses scurried about on the platform with baskets of cherries and pretzels, distributing them to the invalids in the train. Suddenly a man came out of a first class compartment; he was portly and well dressed, had a decoration in his buttonhole, and was wearing a monocle and white shoes. His bald spot was poorly hidden by several strands of silver hair. In his arms he held a white Pekinese, its eyes like two agate marbles in oil.
For a while he paraded up and down the platform looking for something. Finally he found it: a flower-girl. He chose several bouquets of red carnations from her basket and paid her for them, taking the money out of an elegant wallet of soft leather with a silver monogram. Then he went back to the train and I could see him putting the Pekinese on the table by the window and feeding it the red carnations one by one. The animal ingested them with obvious relish. .
I was awakened by a violent shudder.
It was pouring by now. The drops were pattering down next to me, and I had to press against the wall. The sky had gone black, and I could no longer see the town. I was cold, yet my cheeks were burning. I felt the fever in them just beneath the crust of coagulated mud. When I tried to stand, an electric shock ran through my legs. They had fallen asleep, and I had to unfold each of them separately. My socks were cold and wet.
I had thought I would take shelter in the hut, but the door was locked and the only window was a boarded hole in the wall. The wind was blowing the rain in all directions, and there was nowhere I could turn for refuge.
Meanwhile evening had come on, and before long the field was dark. At the far end, where I had come from, a light went on in a tavern. I was there in the twinkling of an eye, my intention being to go in, order something to drink, and bask in the warmth of the crowd and the fumes of the alcohol. I rummaged through my pockets but found not a single coin. There, at the entrance, the rain was mixing cheerfully with the curtain of smoke and vapors coming from within, and I would have to leave. Go home, for example. Yet how could I, covered in filth as I was? Besides, I had no desire to relinquish the filth.
I was overcome by an inexpressible bitterness, the kind that comes when one sees one can do absolutely nothing, achieve absolutely nothing. I started running through the streets, through the darkness, leaping over some puddles and landing up to my knees in others. At first I sensed despair welling up in me, and I felt like knocking my head against the trees, but a moment later it recoiled into a calm, soothing thought. I now knew what to do: Since nothing could go on as before, I had to make a clean break. What was I leaving behind? An ugly world in a gentle rain.
Chapter Twelve
I went in by the back door and slipped through the rooms, avoiding all mirrors. I was looking for a quick, effective means of discharging everything at once, everything I saw and felt, as one unloads stones from a cart by removing a board.
I rummaged through the drawers in search of a strong poison. I thought of nothing as I looked; I had to get it over with as quickly as possible. It was as if it were an everyday task I needed to do.
All I could find were things of no use to me: buttons, string, thread of various colors, notebooks — all strongly redolent of naphthalene and none capable of causing a man’s death. Buttons, thread, and string — that is what the world contained at this most tragic of moments.
Then at the back of one drawer I came across a box of white pills. They could have been dangerous though they could just as easily have been a benign palliative. They might be lethal if I took enough of them, I thought.
I placed one of them on my tongue. It tasted slightly salty, though bland. I bit into it. The powder absorbed my saliva and my mouth was suddenly dry.
The box had many pills, more than thirty. I went out to the tap in the courtyard and slowly, patiently set to swallowing them. I filled my mouth with water for each pill so it took a long time to finish the box. The last few refused to go down: my throat must have swollen.
The courtyard was completely dark. I sat on the stairs and began to wait. My stomach was soon seething terribly, but I was otherwise fine and the patter of the rain made me feel inordinately serene. It seemed to understand my condition, and tried to help by going deep inside me.
The courtyard became a kind of sitting room, and I felt light there, lighter and lighter. Everything was making desperate attempts to keep from drowning in the darkness. I suddenly noticed I was having a hard time breathing. I slipped my hand under my shirt; it was wet when I pulled it out. The void around me was growing vertiginously fast. I dragged myself into the house. By the time I reached my bed, I was dripping with sweat.
It was a beautiful head, extraordinarily beautiful. About three times the size of a human head and revolving slowly on a bronze axis that pierced it from the crown to the neck. At first I could see only the back. What could it be made of? It had the matte finish of old porcelain with ivory highlights. The surface was covered with tiny blue drawings, a kind of filigree reproducing itself geometrically like a linoleum pattern. From a distance it looked like a fine script on silk paper. It was unimaginably beautiful.