The Boat in the Evening (16 page)

Familiar and homely. A little breathing space.

If only the heart could shut itself off. It may not do so, and becomes crammed with memories, heavy with images, saving itself by clinging to straws, like the mooring rope and the slight, familiar smell of the mooring rope in rain. The reassuring smell of the commonplace.

A breathing space between iron hands. Soon they will be here. One must cling to the most ordinary things. Nothing is going to happen, do you notice the smell of the mooring rope soaked with rain? Blessedly ordinary.

As calm and normal,
as when ropes are smelling in rain.

*

No use any longer. The strain on the heart becomes greater. The wind has blown forward something nobody wanted. The dull rhythm out there becomes more insistent, turning to heavier thuds against the wall. One thing is clear: the boat is to stay beside the house. Blackening thwarts or no, it is to wait here.

What then?

It's simply to wait here.

No one shall sing about it.

But no one has any reason to weep either. Is the one perhaps just as simple as the other? It is only that it does not seem so.

Think it over.

I can't.

It was dark to start with, the clouds and the downpour came later. It will not become denser than this. More room is needed, but the iron walls cannot permit it. Soon it will be more cramped. The boat gives constant reminders that it is there, if that means anything. The lonely thwarts and the rain and the wind are dancing with one another in the dense night.

What is happening out there?

It is no dream, it is now. The moment now.

The moment one knew about, and which gave warning of its coming, warning of an arduous and wearisome night.

*

The rain is slanting low before the storm. The old, unpainted wooden walls out there are already blackened by the driving rain. It does not show, and means nothing at all; it is correct that my house is black.

Yes, old house walls and driving rain—let that find room. The commonplace, and soaked house walls, that's how it should be, in a song. Even if it was formerly a torment, now it is blessed to have the memory of it. To have it in the centre of one's heart like love. Once there was love, once there was a frosty night, and spring. The house stands in the night and is dark. A girl who stood in the driving rain and is dead, what of her? My heart expands, but receives nothing. It is large and shocked by memories.

The fine things that were lost have their place in eternity, but eternity somehow seems to be for others.

Large and shocked by memories. Almost forgetting that there is no room, and reminded of it by iron hands. My heart struggles wildly to escape.

And what is this?

Straight through what is devastating it and filling it up. The dark current is lifting. One is in the iron hands, and the gift of a new eye enables one to see that the current outside is lifting.

Walls are of no consequence. In the congestion a new eye springs out. One knows this and sees it at the same moment. Straight through all obstacles one sees the darker part of the darkness lifting against the wind.

No one could have foretold this. It is lifting against the storm. The boat thuds heavily meanwhile. Something heavy as lead has risen from the bottom in the storm. What does it want? What is it?

The heart is between iron walls, no more must happen now. What is it?

One has an idea of what it is, but will not admit that one understands. The rising of the current was the sign. The dark current will well up and rise like the wind, so that its pale underside shines visible. It will shine in the hour of night above the fairways and the rain-drowned boat and in the fairway of the boat once more. The fairway for the boat must disclose itself even though it has never done so before; it will not be a mystery.

So it is too late to sing now.

The heart grows larger and larger within the walls which have no room; it must break. The current has lifted, and the boat seems to have split its lip against the house, but the storm does not slacken and the thwarts have danced with the rain. All of them are obvious signs that it is too late to sing now.

The current sinks again, but it will soon lift even higher. One knew a little about this uplifting, but did not believe in it. Had an uplifting in oneself that one tried to send out. It was lost. The heart is in distress—so full that
that
is what lifts the current against the storm and the weather, with its naked, white underside.

*

A nagging thought: I know something all the same.

Oh no.

But I know something all the same.

No! Too late to sing now.

*

The cramped chamber with its many old guests. They are thronging back. It is like that when such things happen.

What is happening really?

No answer.

It is a mystery.

That the heart must make itself larger, but cannot. It must break shortly.

The thronging must cease.

The thronging does not cease.

The heart desires the throng, desires everything that used to be, every single thing, the bad and the good, as long as it used to be. The signals are going out now, beckoning in this direction. The throng increases because of it, crowding in. The chamber is bound to break apart soon, but sends out signals to everyone. The throng presses on, the crush is beyond bearing, since there is no more room, there is no room, but the throng presses on and the heart sends signals without pause, for a greater throng.

All that has been forgotten, lost or neglected—it has never really been lost, and now it knows where it came from and where it belongs to. It hears the signal. Does not ask whether there is room. Forces its way in.

The tension is so great that it lifts the current outside into darker ridges. The heart, unable to beat, sends burning impulses through earth and stone and water. Signals. Desiring to be open to everything, it must clench itself and shrink and wither instead.

But come, come.

Come all that used to be, that belonged here, that went out from here.

The downpour outside seems even heavier. The loose thwarts in the boat may have floated away. Maybe the prow of the boat is completely staved in.

*

No consideration is shown by those who have been called back. The signal has gone out telling of extreme distress, and here they throng to come in. It is irrelevant that the space is becoming more cramped, it is of no concern that the heart's distress is increasing because of it—when its resting-place wishes it to be so.

The beleaguered heart clenches itself and accepts them all.

Choked up, it clenches itself inside the iron ready to break apart.

The signal goes out constantly: Come.

Is there anyone left outside who has not come in? All must come in.

It is night.

This is a struggle.

The signal is sounding in blasts in all the thoroughfares, picking up and bringing back thousands of forgotten details. In spite of torment the ravaged heart cannot cease calling. It will at least send its message. In blinding clarity they will be remembered, sought out and forced back. The heart will never give in; it labours on in a worn-out chamber. Life has been many-faceted and colourful.

Come, come.

This is what life has been like.

Now it is a lonely struggle among memories. The message goes out for more memories. They serve as a weapon. But they make the space increasingly more cramped.

A blind struggle, in diminishing room.

Not blind. The signals deny that.

Processions of them back again. Greater difficulties. Clenching itself to make room.

There must be a breaking point—and now it is almost here. The current from the bottom rises in earnest and the pale underside glimmers through the darkness. It rises higher. The muted glimmer remains. The dark river flows on. On into darkness.

*

It broke.

Did it break?

No. Not this time.

It only seemed so.

It only felt so in an unbearable moment. On the contrary it broke out into relief. It emerged freed of all burdens. All those who were summoned have left.

Ought one to go out as the victor?

No. One cannot do that.

Never as the victor.

But we shall win and we shall not win.

For the time being.

There is a great reserve that stands ready.

One understands this now, knowing they will come as soon as the signals go out. Then one is not lonely, and the hurt takes second place. There are more than many who will volunteer.

*

For the time being, as if invincible, the heart lies beside the road to the dark river. Naked, and awaiting the next event, be that what it may.

12

The Tranquil River Glides Out of the Landscape

What is stillness like when it is so great that it cannot be grasped? When it has come gliding out of its own place and feels more oppressive than thunder?

It is only someone sailing out of the woods. Not so important, perhaps. Putting himself in order calmly and with strength.

The shining, tranquil river glides out with all its burdens. It comes as if from far away in the interior, and delivers its innermost secrets. On its way towards a distant ocean.

What accompanies it on the journey? Intense desires that have subsided. Nothing more.

The water goes on gliding and gliding.

It does not draw attention to itself. But the land that lies beside it cannot escape being marked by the journey.

Brightly shining water from the innermost core. More shining water follows after. All is tranquil. A tranquil movement that does not look as if it can ever come to an end. Merely moving on. It is all ordered without any trouble.

Large matters and small. And the matter today? What of that?

No matter any longer. This is a farewell procession of quenched, intense desires. And they are being carried to the ocean.

It glides out of the landscape and towards the distant, wide ocean. For the one who has an inkling, however small, of the ocean, the tranquil journey is not important.

*

The mighty river casts out what has no resting-place. No one interferes with it.

It is as simple as that, as tranquil as that.

*

As if something has reared up behind a hazy hill far beyond what is called the horizon: what has no resting-place any longer must be carried away. A river still as a mirror is clear from within; there is no more to it than that, it seems.

The air may be charged with bitter questions, useless questions. They will not be asked. They merely rest above the carrying water, rest while on the move like everything else. No current halts because it is difficult to understand that intense desires are quenched.

The fine carrying surface is filled with reflections from the banks, reflections so vivid that they are ready to tear themselves away and glide with it. But this must be a long journey after all; the hillsides and woods shudder to see their reflections exhibited thus, mirrored so translucently.

The river is the carrier, and it carries away a quenched desire, and has the most limpid water.

Yet the hillsides and woods do not join the company. They see themselves in the water, but remain where they are. It has been ordered so that no one may go wherever he wishes.

*

Questions are in the air.

But no answers.

There will never be any answers. The water glides out of the wood and past all questioners. What is so difficult? Farewell to a thousand glimmers, and a thousand rough raps and noises. All kinds of blessed sounds. What offers resistance? What is reluctant?

None of the banks will collapse; slowly the earth builds up and holds fast, slowly it acquires strength from an incredible variety of sources, and holds.

The shining water and its carrying. It seems so easy. What is difficult is obscure, and shyness forbids further questioning.

This is not exposure to the ravens.

It is high water after gales and heavy rain. Slender birch saplings growing on the banks have not regained their strength after the storm: they stand arched over, dipping their crowns in the water, looking like young girls, gentle, anxious and full of expectancy. The traveller speeds past.

*

A journey to the ocean can scarcely be ordered more fittingly. Gentleness has no part in this. Gentleness is left behind with the pliant birches.

Is it difficult to go on?

Not now.

Nothing can be grasped, nothing can be set aside to sink to the bottom. These soundless thunderclaps that are part of the process come first, the mirror of water comes oozing after, obstructed by so many hindrances. Hindrances in the stone walls and the earth banks, in leaning trees, even in bent straws. Imperceptibly it all melts away, it releases the tight little hold it has had. Everything is taken care of, all the grips and holds and hindrances loosen.