Basho was always ready to point out the places along the way so that other poets might make the same journey. This is the great game we have been playing for centuries. Basho tried to show us that all poets are as one, that the same spirit moves through them. The road is the same for all, though each poet travels it in his own way. And in his own time. The train has stopped without me realizing it. Just time enough to see Isa, from behind, in the crowd of hurried travelers. Her long fragile neck. Its sad nape (I project my sadness onto her nape). The train starts moving again.
THE KISS AT THE CAFÉ SARAJEVO
I HADN’T HEARD of the Café Sarajevo, even though it’s centrally located, not far from the subway station. I prefer the subway to the bus. In the subway, you see only faces. In the bus, only landscapes. I emerge from the hole, turn left, walk into the café. Good atmosphere. Every city has at least one place like this. Anyone who has listened to Joan Baez ends up here, sooner or later. The kind of people who’ve dropped off our radar, though we wonder where they’re hiding out. They end up in cafés like the Sarajevo. I haven’t come expecting to find Joan Baez here. Or even Suzanne Vega. The wheel has turned. I’ve come for Midori, the new Japanese singer who’s on MuchMusic from time to time. I’d never heard of her, either, but ever since the Korean told me about her, I’ve seen her everywhere. You don’t know Midori? There are posters of her in the bathrooms in bars. It’s hard to tell what she really looks like from them because she’s underwater and her face is slightly deformed. She’s holding her breath. The photographer waited till the last second. Just as she was about to explode. Her eyes wide with the beginnings of terror. The pink wings of her nose diaphanous. Her throat swelling. Click. Her torso bursts free of the water. Water pouring from her mouth, her nose, her eyes. Her name is whispered all over town: Midori. In every tongue. Montreal’s first Japanese star. The rocket Midori is launched: destination, Planet Bjork. Bjork—a muffled sound. A sound in water. Basho notes:
The old pond,
A frog jumps in:
Plop!
Midori is a flat object with contours so sharp she could slice through someone’s neck and leave the head standing there for a few seconds before it fell. A necklace of red pearls. Midori is polishing her act at the Sarajevo. I sit in the darkest corner of the place. The waitress shows up a half hour later. Green tea. The café is empty. Suddenly, Joan Baez. Joan Baez can be listened to only in a café like the Sarajevo. In an atmosphere like this, I could listen to Joan Baez for the rest of my days. Leonard Cohen chimes in with “Suzanne,” the song that defined Montreal in the 1970s, halfway between passion and nonchalance. So I already know the taste of the waitress, a small black-haired girl with a ring in her nose and flashing eyes. I go back to Basho. I like the idea of the journey, but I hesitate when it comes to getting on the road. Where to? The traveler has to come back one day or other; otherwise, he isn’t a traveler. You stay in your room and await his return.
Customers start showing up. They sit with their backs to the walls. The center remains empty. The ones who like to sit in the center will show up later. Unless you arrive early, you think the room fills up in less than half an hour. But for someone who frequents small cafés, it’s not as simple as that. The customers arrive one by one. The waitress calls the owner to find out whether she ought to get an extra waitress or two. How come? There are fifteen customers in the place. How many are there usually at this time? Seven. And there’s a new guy who ordered green tea. Green tea — you call that a customer? Sure. What do you suggest? Two more waitresses. It’s your call, you know the place. She hangs up and looks at me with a big smile. I’d order another tea, but I’m afraid she’ll call in a third waitress.
I go off to the washroom. Everything is black, even the floor tiles. A regular boudoir. The posters tell you a lot about the people who go to the café. Their tastes are exposed for all to see. This is a musicians’ café. The posters tell it all. Next to a choral group that sings medieval songs is an offer to help cure your backaches through acupuncture. Yoga classes too. A charter to India to go see some guru. And there are posters of Midori. Midori is at home here. Like Air France in Paris, American Airlines in New York or Alitalia in Rome. Midori at the Café Sarajevo. A poster of her naked — out of focus. We never see her clearly. Her narrow body, straight hips, no breasts. Her sex is shaved close. Swollen. I linger in front of Midori’s sex. Then I return to the room. It’s filled to the rafters. A boxing ring. Performances. A girl made up like Nina Hagen is writhing in front of a camera. It’s chaos. No borders between the customers and the stage. Everything’s shaking. A guy grabs the mike and starts in on a speech about the price of oil on the world market. Someone else weighs in about the famine in Africa. It’s back to the 1970s with its spiritual outbursts. Someone else wants to talk about the fabulous F1 race that afternoon. He gets shouted down when he bellows that Ayrton Senna was the best who ever drove. The crowd starts shouting the name Gilles Villeneuve, a native son. No more stage, no more audience. A sea of raised arms clamors for one thing after another. Nina Hagen’s double demands a kiss from her girlfriend, who looks like Suzanne Vega twenty years ago. A universe of doubles. Vega has a boyfriend. He looked worried at first, but he’s wised up. Nina Hagen leans over and kisses him gently on his left eye. The crowd is moved but unsatisfied. Then on the right eye, with the same light touch. Everyone holds his breath. The fantasies of heterosexual guys haven’t changed since the Neolithic era. Nina Hagen acknowledges the crowd and makes a show of returning to her seat. The crowd howls in protest. Hagen gets back to her feet, taking her own sweet time. She has us eating out of her hand. A kiss doesn’t mean anything. It’s only as important as we want to make it. Vega’s double seems to want to put an end to the waiting. Hagen is in no hurry. We know there will be a kiss, but we don’t know what will happen after it. The guy at my table starts chewing his nails. Hagen bends low and kisses Vega on the neck, then on each eye. The crowd wants more. Hagen holds Vega’s head in her hands and looks her deep in the eye (we wonder what the real Nina Hagen and Suzanne Vega are doing right now). This is the longest kiss ever recorded at the Sarajevo. A kiss that lasts until Vega feels really embarrassed, until she really understands what is going on. She snaps her eyes open when Hagen’s tongue touches hers. Hagen’s furious, dominating gaze. Vega’s imploring, submissive answer. The crowd, whose expectations have been surpassed. As she keeps kissing Vega, Hagen locks eyes with the boyfriend. He gets up to leave. The crowd follows each of his steps. Hagen’s lips still on Vega’s. Vega is the only one who doesn’t know her boyfriend is leaving. Finally, Hagen surrenders her prey. Sated. Vega’s head on Hagen’s shoulder, asleep. The crowd falls silent. The guy comes back into the room. Vega wakes with a saucy smile. Once more, Hagen acknowledges the crowd (the place is full by now). We have just witnessed The Big Kiss, a Kiss Inc. production. The trio exits the café as the crowd applauds and the amateur photographers shoot off their flashes. The three waitresses are hopping.