ISE BALAsz-RAK6CZY
253
Saying them, I "understood" that my heart was the Heart. That it beat
for me - that it
beat
me, if you can make sense of that. I mean that I felt
myself a pulse driven by the beating of the Heart - included in its love.
After that, the arrhythmia vanished and never came back."
"The image of the Sacred Heart is always free. The human heart is
hidden, caged within its ribs. The other, even though it weeps its blood,
yet it is free."
I grew silent again, and, after a while, Freud spoke.
"If you were to remain my patient, I would not say this to you, but
we are a little like two people who meet on a train,
nieht wahr?
In the
compartment of a train going, say, from Vienna to Budapest? You have
with you some
kippJeln
or a sack of
langues de ehattes .
I have perhaps a
thermos of coffee and two little Sevres cups in a leather case. We offer
each other what we have and pass the time."
"Look around this room, Madame. All the old gods are here - of
Greece and Egypt, of Rome . This is the house of an archaeologist,
someone might say, of one who peels back the sediments of time and
shows us what lies hidden there: treasures, yes, and also unspeakable
things." He paused . "Such a person would be right, of course, but only
to a point. Because , this is not just the cell of a scholar but also of a
prisoner. Like you, Madame, I have walled myself in with these things
and, at the same time, I have drawn comfort from them. They comfort
me and they bind me - just like the Lilliputians bound Gullliver with
thousands of tiny strings. You see, over there is Horus, and Sekmet with
her lion's head . Anubis, Neith, Aphrodite, and Janus. From each of them
comes a tiny filament, as strong and invisible as spider's silk. I shall never
leave this room alive or, if I should be forced to leave, I doubt I would
survive for long."
As he spoke, 1 remembered the voice of the Pasha from the
Ent–
filhrung
-
a tragic, deeply seductive voice. Among all those charming
marionettes
Ii
la Ture,
the Pasha alone seems fully human.
"I am going to say in a few words what should, in fact, take years.
These rooms, Madame, are our mothers. We could analyze this, of
course . .. we could give many reasons. But the fact remains that we
have each created a room that is our mother. We cannot imagine living
apart from her. No one would ever guess this of us, we with our profes
sions, our families, our lovers. But we return always to the consolation
of these rooms. For this reason, we have never truly loved, which is, as
they say, to "lose one's heart." Our hearts are still beating in our rooms,
hidden away there in the secret drawer of an old chest of your beloved
IIaraguena. "
"In your extraordinary communion with the Sacred Heart, you have
