Nimka lives in Rue des Ecoles, not far from Rue du Sommerard, and she knits pullovers for the Grands Magasins. She sold her pearl necklace and put the money into a little cloth shop off Rue Poitou (for food and clothing are essentials of life and you cannot lose on that) and the returns are not too bad. The Ikon and the Tolstoy letter still adorn the walls, and the picture of Mahatma Gandhi has gone up above the bed. He knows, does Mahatma Gandhi, the pinching pain of mankind. With every scrub of the floor, and with every cry of the child in the street, there’s a voice that responds, and that is Mahatma Gandhi’s. Mahatma Gandhi, said Nimka to me yesterday, is not a man, he is not a saint, he is a country. Green fields must billow into the bright sun, and men must bend to collect the corn. The swan must fly there, and goodness is good for it is not success. Virtue is the woman’s privilege, man is the undiscoverable. Nimka was not sad. Her heart contained an intimacy of sorrow that was almost kin of joy. She was warm, of course, and spoke beautifully. Her French accent had that silvery touch of the Slavs that makes the language almost sing. Nimka asked nothing of life. She asked nothing of me. When I said goodbye, she did not say when shall I see you again? She knew the life that has ended is eternal. When you are shot you become immortal.
INDIA — A FABLE
Advayataiva siva
(Non-duality alone is auspicious)
Never was the Luxembourg so beautiful as on that fragile spring day. March had come and gone boisterously, cold winds blew in April, and then the immense sunshine came. The pools were transparent, the sky full of ochre clouds, the trees cut through the air with their leaves, the earth was hot. Men came out, old men with coughs and whiskers, and sat by the ponds reading newspapers. The old, fat women removed their kerchiefs and spoke garrulous words. The Sorbonnard girls opened their blouses to let the cool air breathe down them, single silver bangles on their wrists, and cigarettes held lighted in the air. They read d’Alembert or Henri Becque, while the young men basked in the sun and slept.
The children scampered all over the park. I sat under Anne of Austria (1629–1687?), grey, big-headed, big-bosomed — some old tragic royalty bulging with posthumous importance. My thoughts were about morganatic marriages, U.N. statistics, parks and books, and the chocolat chez Alsecia rue d’Assas whose taste would not leave my mouth. The cold wind blew over my mouth. The cold wind blew over my chest, and I sat up. A child of five or six, pink-skinned and clear-eyed, was dragging a wooden camel along the path.
‘Where are you going?’ I asked.
‘To the oasis of Arabia,’ he said, and stopped.
‘Where’s that?’ I asked, trying to see whom he was with. A woman, under a tree — his nanny no doubt — was standing, her arms round the peeling trunk of the oak. A young man, in kepi and Sunday shine, stood by her, at once disconsolate and happy. He hoped spring would remove his sorrow.
‘Speak to the Monsieur, Pierrot,’ she cried, so as to have more time with the young man.
‘You know where your oasis is?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes, the oasis is all water, and big like this. My camel goes there to drink.’
‘Let’s go there,’ I said. He stopped me, turned back furtively to his nanny, and then suddenly, ‘Look, you’ve faces in your buttons. Ah, faces, faces,’ he said, and gazed up at me. He did not know whether to come forward or not, his hand upraised, holding the string of his camel. ‘You’ve faces in your buttons,’ he repeated and laughed.
‘Speak to the Monsieur,’ cried the nanny. Her tone of voice was growing lighter. Pierrot started to say something. Then he suddenly fell silent. His camel needed a better string.
‘I am called Raja,’ I said, just to say something.
‘You’ve faces in your buttons,’ he said coming nearer, as though the mention of my name gave assurance of something known. But looking up again, he saw my blue-bronze face, and stopped. He was silent. Again he looked back, and his nanny had slipped behind the tree.
‘Look,’ I said, and showed him my gold buttons. I was wearing my sherwani and my gold buttons were bright in the sun.
‘Faces, faces,’ he said, and laughed, looking into my eyes. Then he looked very thoughtful.
‘Speak to the gentleman. Be nice to him,’ shouted the nanny warmly, as though it were a song she was singing. The wind blew hard. The child came behind me, his hands tight shut in self-protection. Yellow plane leaves fell. At the Medici fountain, the water purred in the wind. I felt as though I could count each drop.
‘Where is Arabia?’ I asked.
‘Arabia,’ said Pierrot, ‘well, it’s where there is a lot of sand, and a prince who rides a horse of gold.’
‘And the camel?’
‘The camel is a friend of his Princess. When she goes to see the Prince. . No, come, my camel is called Kiki.’
‘And your Princess?’
‘She’s called Katherine.’
‘And her Prince?’
‘Rudolfe. Kiki is the wedding present that the King of Arabia gave to Katherine. Kiki is from Ethiopia.’
‘And you, Pierrot, were you at the wedding?’
‘Of course I was at the wedding. There’s a wedding every day. Every day there is a wedding in the oasis.’
Pierrot came and sat on my lap.
‘And what is it you see at the wedding, Pierrot?’
‘Rudolfe comes on a white horse, and covered with white gold. And Katherine on the red camel, and her clothes are blue, the same as the clothes of Saint Catherine, you know. And they meet in the oasis.’
‘And what happens then?’
‘Why, they kiss each other. And then they say “Adieu”. I’m going to the oasis.’
‘And could I come and see them — your Prince and Princess, Pierrot?’
‘Wait, I’ll ask them,’ he paused a moment. Then he said, ‘Come. The Prince and Princess are happy to see you at the wedding. You’re going to show them those buttons with the faces in them?’ He stopped, then asked:
‘And you. Are you a prince?’
‘Oh, yes,’ I said.
‘You are a prince. Oh, yes I knew it. I do know it, you know. You are a prince. And what is your name?’
‘I am called Raja,’ I said.
‘Raja is what they call you,’ he said, trying to pronounce my name slowly, and to understand.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It means a prince.’
‘Then you are like Rudolfe. Rudolfe is the Prince of the Oasis and of Arabia. And you?’
‘Of India.’
‘And where is India?’
‘Oh, far, very far,’ I said, looking across the tree-tops to the sky. Pierrot was taking me to the pool. The nanny was happy with the young man. Pierrot never looked back.
‘Far, very far,’ he repeated. ‘And is there much sand in your country?’
‘No, not much sand. But there are big forests.’
‘What is that, Monsieur, Monsieur. . Prince, a forest?’
‘A forest, welclass="underline" it’s lots and lots of trees.’
‘Oh, you’re dressed just like a prince.’
‘A prince from India,’ I said.
Then we came to the central pool amidst the blue flowers. There were many, many children. Pierrot walked among them as though he were going on a long journey. He was going somewhere very far, far, far as that Avenue de l’Observatoire, full of great forests of trees, pools and big buildings and rippling sunshine. The sun shines there. The moon is big there. There are many birds, all blue and sometimes transparent. There are many clouds. And the camels there are never thirsty.