What is so terrible about the dead is that they are so alive, so beautiful and so remote. So beautiful is she, my dead mother, that I could write for nights on end so that I might have that presence near me, that majestic form of death, that form moving slowly beside me, regally moving, protective yet indifferent and frighteningly calm, a sad shadow, a loving and distant shadow, more calm than sad, more detached than calm. Take off your shoes, for this is a sacred place where I tell of death.
In my sleep she is alive and she explains that she is hiding in a far-off hamlet under a false name, in a hamlet tucked away beneath a mountain, where she remains hidden for love of me in a farmer’s house. She explains that she is obliged to stay there, that she has come to see me in secret, but that if certain authorities knew she was not dead, there would be dire consequences. She is loving in these dreams, but perhaps less so than in life — gentle but a little detached, tender but not passionate, affectionate but with an evasive affability and a slowness of speech I had never perceived in her lifetime. They have changed her among the dead. In these dreams she never really looks at me and her gaze always seems to be turned elsewhere, as if toward secret important things now more grave than her son. The dead always look elsewhere, and that is terrible. And in these dreams I face the fact that if she still loves me, it is because she once loved me so dearly that she cannot not love me still, albeit less. Then, with that same incomprehensible calm which seems to denote a lessening in her love, she says that she must now return to the village where she is hiding. And in these dreams I contract her fear that it will become known that she is alive. For in these dreams she is alive illegally and she is guilty of not being dead. But all this is folly. It is not in a village but in earth reeking of earth that she is hidden. And the truth is that nevermore will she speak to me, nevermore will she worry about me. Oh, the terrifying selfish solitude of the outstretched dead! How completely you have ceased to love us, beloved dead, dear faithless dead. You leave us alone, alone and ignorant.
XV
I DO NOT WANT her in dreams. I want her in life, here with me, well dressed, by her son and proud of being looked after by her son. She bore me for nine months and she is no longer here. I am a fruit without a tree, a chick without a hen, a lion cub all alone in the desert, and I am cold. If she were here, she would say, “Cry, my child, you’ll feel better after for it.” She is not here and I do not want to cry. I only want to cry by her side. I want to go for a walk with her and listen to her as no one else ever listened to her. I want to flatter her. I want to wheedle her into wasting time keeping me company while I shave or while I dress. I want — if Thou art God, prove it — I want to be ill and have her bring me her own remedies, roasted linseed ground and mixed with powdered sugar — “It’s good for coughs, my son.” I want her to brush my suits. I want her to tell me stories. I was put on earth to listen to my mother’s interminable stories. I want her partiality — I want her to be cross with those who do not like me. I want to show her my diplomatic passport, to see her delight, because she is convinced, my naïve darling, that it is important to have a diplomatic passport. I shall not disillusion her, because I want her to be pleased and to bless me. But I also want to be her little boy as I used to be. I want her to draw me her naïve flowers, which I shall try to copy. I want her to knot my tie and then give me a little pat on the cheek. I want to be Maman’s little boy — a very nice little boy who likes to hold the hem of his Maman’s skirt as she sits at his bedside when he is ill. When I am holding the hem of her skirt, no one can harm me. You think it is ridiculous to talk like this at my age? Then allow me to be ridiculous.
The little bird whose mother they have killed is ridiculous. Perched on its branch, it twitters a dirge, a monotonous and ineffectual tweet-tweet. That lamb is ridiculous too. It is bleating in the desert because it has lost its mother ewe. Trembling in the sand, it will soon die of thirst, but it is looking for its mother in the desert.
I want to hear her superstitiously advising me not to say certain dangerous words for three days after being vaccinated. I want to see her starched awkwardness when I introduce one of my friends to her. I want her to be here and to tell me, as she used to tell me, not to write too much, “because thinking like that all the time is bad for the head, and there are scholars, you know, my son, who have gone mad through thinking, and my mind is at rest when you’re asleep, because at least you’re not thinking when you’re asleep.” I say that I want, I ask, but I get nothing, and God loves me so little that I feel ashamed for Him.
XVI
WIDE AWAKE I dream, and I tell myself what it would be like if she were alive. I would live with her simply in solitude. A little house by the sea, far from mankind. Just the two of us, she and I, in a crooked little house. A very peaceful and untalented little life. I would forge myself a new soul — the soul of a little old lady like her — to avoid embarrassing her, and make her utterly happy. I would stop smoking, just to please her. We would cope nicely together with the household chores. We would do the cooking, making little remarks like “I really do think that a bit, just a touch, of chicory brings out the flavor in coffee” or “It’s better not to put in enough salt rather than too much — you can always add some later.” Like her, I would pat the dinner with a wooden spoon. Two old sisters, she and I, and while one strained the macaroni the other would grate the cheese. We would sweep up everywhere, chatting all the time, we would polish the brass, and when all was done we would sit ourselves down. We would smile at each other in contentment and good companionship, sigh with satisfaction, pleasantly tired, and happily survey the result of our work, our kitchen so spotless and tidy. For love of her and to please her I would play up my satisfaction. And then we would reward ourselves with hot coffee, and as we sipped she would smile at me through her glasses, which would be touching the rim of her cup. We would sometimes get the giggles together. We would always be doing each other little turns with a smile. In the evening after dinner, when everything was perfectly trim, we would chat cozily by the fire, she and I, looking at each other so agreeably, two real little old ladies, so easy and comfortable and sincere, two little pippins, impish and contented, with very few teeth but sprightly as they come, and for love of her I would be sewing like her, Maman and I, sworn pals, chatting together, together forever. And that is my idea of paradise.
I can hear my mother saying with her wise smile, “That life wouldn’t suit you. You couldn’t live that way. You wouldn’t change.” And she adds what she so often said to me in her lifetime: “My crazy lord, my prince of ancient times.” She also says, drawing closer, “And, anyway, I wouldn’t like you to change. Don’t you know that mothers like their sons to be superior and even a bit ungrateful? It’s a sign of good health.”
I raise my head, I look at myself in the mirror, and, while some chap on the radio goes on and on, I watch myself write — gentle, good as gold, with an expression all at once almost kind, absorbed and peaceful as a child engrossed in a very foolish forbidden game, absorbed, weightless, smiling slightly, holding the paper lightly with the left hand while the right advances with childlike application. I feel quite sorry for this man who is writing with such loving care and who is going to die soon.