ISE BALAsz-RAK6CZY
257
the real shall be my refuge.
Postscript
DearestJulia :
If I had needed consolation, your letter surely would have given it.
Does it surprise you I'm not grieving? Your heart is like an old rose, a
full Bourbon rose with little babies peeping out from under every petal.
Do you remember that song Z composed (it was with you in mind) ...
"tous les enfants de la terre, de la mer et du ciel sont a elle?" Not me. I
am an animal mother. When my children were small, I loved them pas–
sionately. But when they grew up, I .. . forgot them. Thirty years ago
R's death would have undone me. Not today.
I am sending you my journals; perhaps the reasons for all this are
contained in them. But only one reason matters now.
After a lifetime of living in the past, I am finally and fully in the pre–
sent. I cannot tell you what it's like! For years this journal has been my
chief companion. Now that endless self-communion weighs me down.
Language itself feels leaden. If anyone should think to publish them I
wouldn't mind, provided the names could be disguised . But now, if I am
to
be free, I must put these things away.
All along I've been telling you about the ranch, about my love of it.
But there are things [ have not said . For years the place has been mis–
managed, and putting things right took time and an enormous effort.
But all that was good . Through my work [ took possession of the land;
[ took all those acres truly into my care. The local shepherds were
shiftless. Despite their tenure, I had to get rid of them. [ imported three
Basques with their dogs, and they have been magnificent. Then, in the
north, a group of Indians were squatting. They declared themselves to be
descendants of the original inhabitants and would not budge. I knew
their claim to be false and had almost determined to evict them. Then I
thought, "This earth is God's," and I deeded them their hill. We are
friends.
The labor of a ranch is unending, but there came a time when I
looked around and saw that it was good. Then [ looked at myself Julia,
[ did not recognize me. My face had grown leathery and full of wrinkles.
Yet not old. Riding every day had made me strong. It was a handsome
face that looked back at me from the glass; "I am like a man," I
thought. With that, desire leapt in me. That night I had a dream. I saw
myself carrying a huge phallus - a phallus I myself had made. On my face,
I wore a sly smile. Yvette Gilbert's smile was like that. "Derriere les
stores baisses, on entendit des baisers."
That is all. Except that the image appeared to me not as in life, but
