110
PARTISAN
I~EVIEW
write poel11s, and Illy 1110ther keeps peeking in alld is shocked at my cal–
lousness and indifference. In fi'ont of my father, she defends me, in front of
me, she defends my father. "You go around with bad WOlllen, you drink
with vagrants, you laugh and write as if there is nothing wrong. And your
father is dying. What will people say? You are disgracing both him and me
and the honor of our family. And your father is dying."
Her refi'ain reverberates in the semi-darkness of my room and rings
irritatingly in my ears. She used
to
dissuade me fi'om my life like that
before, jealous of the noisy charm of the world, saying: "What will your
father say?" Now that the catarrh has destroyed my Elther's throat, she says:
"What will people say?"
The house is filled with bile, m,llice and stench. If I am at home, I al11
not allowed
to
laugh, talk, read, eat. And if I kaYe, it's even worse. My
mother fears my father and the world. She speaks of honor, love and
respect. She calls to my mind the images of death, sables and Illourning.
The death of the head of the falllily fills her with apprehension: she even
wrote to her brothers
to
come. Huge tears cover her glowing face and I get
the impression that she is using Illy flther's death fl.)r her purely maternal
interests: the illness, she thinks, will make llle always stay at home, her
brothers will come, we shall all renounce our work , flln, inciinatiollS and
shall become a family of pain , unhappiness and closeness.
The sun is in the West. The last flames are melting through the drawn
curtains. Glowing pieces of something invisible are fllling on my head.
Visions of molten Illetals, feelings and images are dancing in fi'ollt of me.
My eyes are hot, my throat is dry, my b:1ck on fire. I have torn ap:1rt sev–
eral lllanuscripts.
This one thought is swirling, breaking and throwing me
to
and fro.
The house is like a dungeon: dull, ill-humored, siknt. My lllother is the
disci plinarian wi th her entertainllleIlt ,lI1d threats. For eighteen years I was
taught that the family is the only holy thing one must never mingle with.
That was my father 's law, his religion, his ethics:
;111
that is good comes
fi'om it and returns to it. For eighteen years my f:lther was fl.)l"ging chains
so that in the momellt when he lost his strength he would have slaves at
his disposal.
All the while, Anb is waiting fiJr me. My lover is fi'agrant with youth.
Her black hair falls down her forehcld like a liquid nlixture of grease, jam
and syrup. Her lips art.' h:1rd and small like those of a Creek goddess. Her
eyes arc wide like a dyed peacock 's. Her hands soft and warm as feathers.
Her skirts cling
to
her body. Her sh 'lpe is nervous, undecided. She promised
to COllle
to
the woods tonight, with Llughter on her lips, tears in her bosom
and passion in her eyes. I promised to read my p(K'lm to her. I h,lve turned
all the dry and explosive matter of her female soul on fire. At noon I met
