The Fata Morgana Books (13 page)

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They forced us to walk all night. Like all the children taken with me, I had to carry on my head a heavy bag full of grain or flour. The throbbing pain in my arms, injured by the overtight cords, made the exercise even more difficult; I kept slipping in the mud, tripping over roots, creepers, or brambles, often I dropped the bag and for my trouble received a volley of blows. Thorny branches scratched my arms and face, mosquitoes were devouring me and I couldn’t even scratch the bites; I moved forward step by step, panting, roughly guided by the rope tying me to the young girl in front of me. Whenever one of the children, exhausted, wound up collapsing, they would shower him with kicks; if he didn’t get up quickly enough, they would kill him, with a blow from a stick, the butt of a rifle, or a knife: ever since the appearance in the rain of the first soldier, I hadn’t heard a single gunshot. Around us rose the immense trees of the forest, black and menacing, caught in a network of vegetation as in giant spiderwebs; the moonlight barely filtered through but that didn’t seem to bother the soldiers leading the march. The darkness, on both sides of the column, was animated by the mad dance of fireflies, minuscule points of green light that appeared and disappeared, brief as a friendly wink; on all sides, the forest rustled, bird cries or monkeys frightened by the passing of the troop, sounds of crunching leaves, of broken branches, of drops of water shaken from branches, an order barked out in an unknown language, the yap of pain and fear of a child being hit, the hoarse noise of desperate breathing. Violent odors seized me in the throat, odors of earth, mud, swamp, decomposed leaves, the sharp smell of sweat from the soldiers who sometimes passed by me, the sweeter smell of shit when one of the children, unable to hold back anymore, shat while walking, the smell of fear, the most recognizable of all. When we arrived at the camp it was still night. Armed soldiers and a crowd of children welcomed us in a vast subdued murmur; bags, jerrycans, pots were taken off our heads by agile, almost invisible hands; separated into two groups, boys and girls, we were led, through a clearing still soaked with rain, before the leader of this strange army. Installed on a little seat made of woven wood, he sat in state beneath a straw awning, surrounded by a dozen soldiers armed with Russian rifles and machetes, young women and girls at his feet, sitting in silence. Rough hands forced us to our knees on the wet grass, a dozen meters from the group; the commander rose, the moon lit up his features and I could clearly make them out, he looked young, barely older than his men, I could see them better too and not one of them seemed to have passed adolescence. A soldier approached his chief, who, in a loud but slightly shrill voice, uttered several phrases, immediately translated by the soldier into a language that I understood no more than the original. Then the entire assembly knelt around us, the commander alone remaining standing, his little oiled braids and his gris-gris gleaming in the nighttime brightness, and intoned a solemn hymn, taken up in unison by all the others. When this was over, several soldiers passed among us, each holding a little gourd; at each new captive they dipped their fingers in the container and with a thick white substance drew a cross on his forehead, chest, back, and both hands. When my turn came, I submitted passively, closing my eyes; from now on, I belonged to them. Then the commander shared out the girls among his soldiers, keeping two for himself, and I was pushed with the other boys to a corner of the clearing, where we were again tied to each other by the waist and ordered to lie down and sleep. Above my head, the foliage of the trees stood out from the pale nighttime sky, a few drops were still falling from the leaves, the moon shone a little higher, and I could see no stars. A brief little cry sounded behind me, followed by a rustling of leaves and a grunt; I turned around as well as I could: in the midst of an expanse of tall green grass, near the first trees, a soldier had just pushed one of the girls onto the ground. She had fallen on her stomach, on the faintly golden ground, and he was lowering his pants and kneeling behind her to lift up her dress. She cried out again and he struck her, a brutal punch to the back of her neck; she fell abruptly silent, and he lay down on top of her; his black buttocks and his powerful thighs, almost blue in the cold light of the moon, were facing me, I watched them move in and out for a few moments, the girl’s body had disappeared in the tall grass but I could sense her powerless trembling, finally I turned onto my back and closed my eyes. The respite didn’t last long, a kick in the ribs woke me up too soon, all around me, in the dawn light, the camp was bustling about, young girls were pounding food in wooden mortars, boys were bringing in dead wood, fires were being made and water boiled. A few soldiers untied us and indicated that we could go into the woods to attend to our needs. I walked between the trees, distancing myself a little from the other boys and looking for a bush, and finally lowered my pants, stiff with mud and filth, and squatted: shit began to flow right away, liquid, stinking, almost green. When it was over I wiped myself as well as I could with some leaves and stood up. A little further on some soldiers were shouting, boys were running through the trees toward the camp. It was then that I noticed with surprise a hut, planted there on the edge of some land cleared between the trees, with earthen walls and a little wooden door. I approached and pulled the metal latch to push the door open, it gave way easily and I lowered my head and shoulders to enter. Once in the hallway I straightened up and despite the pain still shooting through my muscles immediately resumed running. I no longer felt either fatigue or discomfort, my breathing came easily and my long strides fell with regularity, even though I had trouble keeping my balance, I reeled a little, disoriented by the lack of light and landmarks, I bumped violently against a wall but didn’t interrupt my running, gropingly searching for the way to navigate between the walls, avoiding the darker sections that could have turned out to be dungeons, or else side galleries leading God knows where. Finally I stumbled into the locker room and changed rapidly, pulling my swimming cap over hair still stiff with mud and going through the swinging doors to find myself in a large and very blue space echoing with shouts and water sounds. All around, long mirrors framing the pool sent back reflections of my body, fragmented and impossible to connect to each other, I tottered again, then pulled myself together, straightened up, and, body taut, buttocks tight, plunged straight as a spear into the clear, cool water.

II

I did lap after lap without counting them, reveling in the strength of my muscles and the fluid, viscous feel of the water, barely pausing at the ends of the pool before starting back again with a vigor each time renewed. Finally, plunged beneath the surface, eyes wide open, I finished. My head broke the surface, my hands found the edge, took hold, and, in one push of the shoulders, hauled my streaming body out of the water. Disoriented by the blue light and the sounds, I tore off my cap and goggles and stayed there for a moment, the water running from my body to form a puddle at my feet. The lapping of the water, shouts, laughter resounded around me, the large mirrors framing the pool reflected from every side fragments of my body, a shoulder here, a thigh there, the flank, the pectoral, the back of my neck, the curve of my back. Near me a slender girl dove into the water in a brief, powerful motion. I came to myself and headed for the swinging doors which I banged open with the palms of my hands. Dried off, wearing a silky grey tracksuit, pleasant to the skin, I found myself back in the hallway and began running in small strides, my white sneakers hitting the ground with a light step, my breathing whistling between my lips. A diffuse light reigned here, almost opaque, I could see no source of light and could just make out the walls enough to steer myself; in places, darker zones seemed to indicate intersections or perhaps some sort of gaps, I ignored them and continued straight on as well as I could as the hall seemed to curve and I constantly had to correct my course to avoid bumping into the walls. Sometimes, to guide myself, I held out my fingers, and this is how they collided with a metallic object, a handle which I grasped and pushed without hesitating, following the movement of the door that opened. I found myself in an unknown garden that nonetheless seemed vaguely familiar, an almost wild garden, abandoned, invaded by weeds. I made my way with difficulty between the long thorny branches of bougainvillea, half stifled by the ivy covering everything; in front of me, the tall façade of the house, raised like a tower, disappeared beneath the wisteria which proliferated up to the roof and twined together, or else fell back beneath its own weight, masking the sun and plunging the garden into a half-darkness that failed to mitigate the humid, heavy heat. I wiped off the sweat bathing my face with a sleeve and entered the house. Everything was quiet. Down the hallway, I pushed a half-open door: it was a child’s room, I examined for a moment the toys, the movie posters, the tin cavalrymen scattered over the large carpet before turning back and climbing up the spiral staircase to the next floor. A framed reproduction of
Lady with an Ermine
, barely visible beneath the filth, decorated the landing; upstairs everything was empty. I passed my fingers over surfaces black with dust, thick, intact layers, as if the house had been abandoned long ago; nonetheless, I could discern everywhere traces of a recent presence, dirty dishes were piled in the sink, the fridge was full even though the food was beginning to stink, the irises in a narrow vase were only just wilting; in the dining room, the table was still set, the remnants of a meal filled the dishes and plates; clothes lay on the furniture, a book open on the sofa, an uncorked bottle on a cabinet. I climbed up to the next floor. The bedroom was dark, bathed in a weak greenish light, the daylight almost completely filtered by the wisteria covering the window. A suffocating heat reigned here and I tried to open the window, but the wisteria prevented me and I could only open it a crack. I wanted to turn on the lights but the bulbs seemed to have blown; I found a new one in a cupboard in the bathroom and changed the one in the bedside lamp, which still wouldn’t light; I went back downstairs, found the fuse box in the kitchen, the fuses had blown and I reset the main circuit breaker, turning on several ceiling lamps in the process. Upstairs, the bedside lamp now threw a gloomy yellow light on the scene. I looked around me. At the foot of the bed lay piled a large embroidered bedspread, long green grass on a golden background, negligently thrown there; women’s clothes were scattered pretty much everywhere, dirty panties, skirts, mismatched shoes; on the dresser lay several photographs that I picked up and quickly examined, one after the other. They all showed me in the company of a beautiful little blond boy with lively, sparkling eyes, shown at different ages and in different situations, at the beach, at the circus, on a boat, but always near me, in my arms or sitting on my lap. I put them down and began searching through the drawers. In the nightstand, I found what I was looking for, a pair of scissors, made of very heavy metal; I picked up the photos again and began cutting them, separating my image from the little boy’s, which I threw in the drawer that I closed when I was done. Then I shuffled the remaining pieces of the photos like a pack of cards and fanned them out. Abstracted thus from its context, my frozen face came to life, it reflected like a mirror the presence of the eliminated child, laying bare everything that connected it to him and that could never be undone. This aroused in me a glacial feeling, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from these images and at the same time I couldn’t look at them either; finally, overwhelmed with anguish, I threw them in a rage on the dresser where they fell, scattered.

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In the kitchen, I searched through the fridge and the freezer in search of something edible; I finally found a few frozen langoustines that I sautéed in a saucepan with olive oil and garlic. I ate them with a delicious very cool white wine, separating the shell from the abdomens with my fingers and cracking the pincers between my teeth to suck out the fibers and juice. The meal over, I quickly cleared the dishes and carefully washed my fingers, which smelled of garlic and seafood, before returning to finish the wine with a thin little cigar in front of the bay window in the living room, contemplating the saffron light of evening through the tangle of wisteria. When the light faded completely I lit the living room lamps, one by one. I also tried to put a disk on, but the stereo was dead, something must have blown. Finally, I went upstairs. Near the bed, the bedside lamp still illumined the bedroom with its dirty light; my gaze ran over the wrinkled, unclean, stained sheets; when I tried to beat the pillow, a cloud of dust rose up, making me sneeze several times. Annoyed, I took off the pillowcase and removed the sheets, then dug into a cupboard to find clean ones and hastily remade the bed. I dragged the bedspread to the stairway to shake it; the space filled with dust, I slapped it several times against the stone steps, sneezing convulsively, before returning to throw it over the sheets. Through the gaps in the wisteria, the moonlight barely filtered, spotting with little white dots the long green grass and the golden background of the cloth. I quickly got undressed; a fine layer of sweat covered my skin, it was still just as hot, I felt as if I were suffocating. I lay down on my belly, stretching out my arms and stroking with my fingers the thick weft of the embroidery. My member had gotten stuck under my stomach and I freed it; my buttocks prickled and I turned around to look at the tall upright mirror standing near the door: but it reflected nothing other than an empty corner of the bed, a section of white wall, the edge of the window. I fell asleep this way, my naked body on the grass of the bedspread, bathed in that uneven, hesitant light. An indefinable noise drew me from a dream where I was trying to convince a young blond woman, her bun artfully disheveled, to take driving lessons. Without turning around, I looked over my shoulder toward the door: it was open now, whereas I was sure I had closed it. The black rectangle of the stairway stood out from the doorframe, I scrutinized this darkness, in vain, there was nothing there. When I woke again the sky, behind the wisteria, seemed to be growing pale. Apart from a very slight rustling of leaves there was still no sound. I got up, quickly pulled on my tracksuit and went down to the living room. In front of the kitchen door, I briefly entertained the idea of making myself coffee, but I immediately gave it up and went down to the lower floor. In the child’s room, I tried to head toward the bed, but the tin cavalrymen scattered over the carpet were in my way, I was afraid of crushing them and I remained for a moment near the door, contemplating the empty bed and the sheets rolled in a ball, before turning round and walking down the hall to emerge into the garden. Dead leaves and twigs crackled beneath my feet, the morning heat clung to my skin, the profusion of uncontrolled vegetation filled me with a dull, vague anxiety. I headed for the door at the back which opened easily beneath the pressure of my hand. As soon as it closed behind me I began to run, relieved by the relative coolness that reigned here. The cadence of my breathing gave rhythm to my stride; everything seemed slightly blurred, indistinct, I couldn’t even see the ceiling, if there was one, but that didn’t bother me, I could guess at, more than I could make out with precision, the walls, the darker grey that here and there indicated a juncture or at least a recessed corner, I avoided all obstacles to follow the long sinuosity of the corridor, cheerfully striking a wall from time to time to assure myself of its solidity and of the softness of its covering. This is how my hand fell on a metal protuberance: I grasped it, turned, and pushed. Past the threshold my foot burrowed into something soft and I stopped short. I found myself in a rather large room, quite clear, sparsely furnished; on the walls, the golden vines of the wallpaper intertwined up to the moldings; a dark red, almost blood-colored carpet covered the floor. Across the room, separated from me by a bed covered in a heavy golden cloth embroidered with long green grass, stood a figure with close-cropped jet black hair. The shutters were closed, but it was staring at something in the window, perhaps its own reflection. I gently pushed the door, which closed with a muffled sound; the figure turned round, and I saw then that it was a man, a handsome young man who as he saw me let a fleeting little smile cross his dark, angular face. He was of an unreal, almost perfect beauty, a beauty that definitively isolated him from the world. With a supple, feline motion, he skirted round the bed and without a word grasped my neck to draw my mouth against his. His stubble scratched my skin, but I greedily returned his kiss, at once intoxicated and put off by his smell of cheap cologne mixed with musky sweat. In one motion, he laid me down on the green leaves of the bedspread and knelt above me, leaning on his powerful arms, which I stroked with my fingertips along with his shoulders, neck, and sides. My member, stuck a little sideways, hardened beneath the tracksuit; he straightened up, I held out my hands and began undoing the buckle of his heavy leather belt, he withdrew some more and stood up, my fingers searched to free his member, wedged beneath the elastic of the briefs, finally it came free, swollen already, soft and firm, and I leaned over to lick its tip before sliding it between my lips, it hardened some more and filled my mouth, pressing against my tongue and the back of my throat, I rolled it between my lips, savoring its sweetness and its power, his hand, on the nape of my neck, pushed me against the curls of his pubis, I breathed through my nose, driven to a frenzy by his insipid, acrid smell of urine and deodorant, sucking in the taut member with my tongue and lips, finally a retch made me gag and I tore myself away from him, swallowing convulsively. His moist cock struck my cheek as he emitted a brief chuckle, his hand still pressed against the back of my neck. I wanted to bring my mouth to his member again but he took a few steps back, letting it beat to the rhythm of his heart between the open fly of his jeans before shoving it back into his briefs and buttoning everything up. “Wait. I’m hungry.” He picked up the receiver next to the bed, dialed a number and, holding up a cardboard menu, named a few items. I rose, shaking my numb legs, and went into the bathroom, where I opened wide the heavy porcelain faucets of the shower, one hand under the stream of water to gauge the temperature.