When three or four are gathered in a room there’s always one who’s standing by a window. And he must see injustice among the thorns, fires devouring the hill, and see how men who went forth whole are returned to their homes at nightfall like small change. When three or four are gathered in a room there’s always one who’s standing by a window: dark hair above his thoughts, behind him words; before him voices wandering without a knapsack, waterless prophecies, hearts without provisions, large stones returned, unread, like letters with no address and no one to receive them. (Yehuda Amihai, translation by Robert Friend)
*I think I’m always by the window. It’s easier to shoot me first too, as I’m by the window. I’m not moving because I was taught not to move when someone is hunting me. Or that’s what I gathered from their teachings. Or that’s just how my body works. I don’ know anymore.
It brought me a lot of grief-sometimes one has to run, you know. I just stay there. Stupidly. Sometimes, because it beneath my dignity to move. So the books say. That’s how they broke my nose when I was twelve, but I told that story already. “Значит, нужные книги ты в детстве читал”.
Sometimes, because I am an idiot.
Once, we hitchhiked with my very beautiful friend in Kiev. We were 17 or about.
People always harassed her horribly because she was exceptionally beautiful.
(I was harassed modestly, one always got harassed there, at least modestly is better than horribly, even though back then, I wished to be beautiful).
Once in an elevator a young guy came in, his face half-covered with black scarf, as it was winter. There was something unsettling in his stare. Only eyes on his face, I remember them, dark eyes. Familiar somehow.
I looked down at the elevator floor as not to stare back. It was just several floors ride.
Then I, for some unknown but, turned out to be, happy reason, turned back to where she stood. He was choking her.
I had no voice in me but I screamed like crazy-I wasn’t sure any sound comes out but apparently it did, because the elevator stopped, doors opened and he ran.
I had nighmares for years, thinking he might be somebody I knew. Mad, frightened stare, deep brown eyes. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw them too. I thought I was going insane.
It happened in the light of day by the way, city center, normal building, very good neighborhood.
On another, summer day, we were trying to hitchhike, also from one Kiev neighbourhood to another, ordinary car owners sometimes would pick hitchhikers, either take money,“whatever you think is fair”, or not.
A car stopped for us- wide street, pretty empty yet as folks weren’t yet home from work, it was afternoon, sun still shone. We got into the car. The driver started the motor, car moving now, and then spoke to us. That was his mistake, I think now -not being patient.
He said, slowly, enjoying every word, celebrating it, in a way, like each was a scoop of his favorite ice-cream flavor:
-”Do you know why I picked you up? Two cool gals. I’ll drive you to a forest now. It’s quiet there. Nobody will hear you in the woods..”
Kiev was indeed surrounded by woods. Nobody would hear us.
My friend shouted “jump out!”
We both tried to open the doors, and both succeeded, she started to run, but I didn’t, my open door bugged me-they taught me to always close doors, and idiot as I am, I went back to shut the door, because impolite or something?
She hollered “What are you doing??”- yet the driver already braked, sprang out of his seat-he was mad as hell, caught her and tried to get her back in the car by force, she was kicking and screaming, I clutched onto her from the other side, and pulled, the three of us must have looked straight out “The Gigantic Turnip” tale.
I’m very sure of my motivation being incredibly high, and he wins who has greater motivation, yet he was a) motivated enough b) much stronger.
I’ll spare you all the details of how we were saved, but we were, thanks to the timely intervention of tall guy with a good physique who happenned to see it all, and literally chased the driver with a big stick, and fought him, made him let go.
The driver shouted profanities, went on cursing and swearing how he’d find us yet, make us pay(for the inconvenience?), make us hurt, then he retreated to his car, yet didn’t just drive away-he made an u-turn and stopped next to another girl who just appeared on the other side of the street. She was also holding her hand as to stop the passing cars, to hitchhike somewhere. I saw her getting in.
We were too breathless, still shuddering, from all the fight, to give her a sign not to, and the street was fucking wide, it was an avenue, rather.
In a few weeks, I saw a small article in the local paper, about the body of a young girl found in the woods, death deemed violent, with a photo of her face, of how she was when alive. Residents were asked to call militia if they thought they knew something about ot had seen her, presumably on dates such and such
I didn’t remember the face of the girl on the opposite side of the street. I could hardly see it after all.
I should have told them of all that transpired anyway, I think now-I remembered that guy, so crazy he couldn’t stop himself in the broad light of day, risking being caught and arrested; the color of the car; the name of the avenue.
The dates matched, more or less.
Maximum would be dead end, that guy would still deserve investigation into a violent assault.
I don’t know what I was scared of. Why I didn’t come forward.
Maybe I knew, out of experience, large stones are returned, letters are not read, maybe it’s easier not to write the letter that’s not gonna be read anyway.
I am still an idiot that is standing by the window though. Going back to close the open door, because it’s unsightly, impolite somehow.
The boundaries are there but almost not there-fire, me, thin glass between them that about to blow up.
I don’t know why I am writing all this-I wasn’t going to, I have a writer’s block, the only thing I share in common with writers.
What good does it do to be one standing by a window?
Maybe then one can scream. Or write down what he sees, block disregarding.
What other use does he have, really? He’ll be part of that landscape, thorns, stones, and all.
I’m already thorns and stones, and my eyelids are so heavy, “somebody, lift up my eyelids”, or no, don’t, let me sleep, my eyes hurt, and I’m so very tired, rather glue my eyelashes together, but I know, that then I’d do all to unglue them, I always do stranger things. To see.
What’s to see, I saw and wrote down already, you probably know that book, where the letters change and swich places, depending on him who reads.
My English is horrible, kind
told me I’ve got an excuse because I speak several languages, but I’ve got no excuse, world is full of people who speak many more languages than me, and their language is as beautiful and precise, filigreed, like a spade by Spanish masters, while mine is a random branch fallen of a tree, broken.My only excuse actually is-my Russian is exactly like that too.
I don’t know why and how my languages broke. Maybe it’s me who did.
Or maybe it’s me who didn’t-but had to sacrifice the language part.
I could try and forge myself into a spade, all that fire should come handy. I’d break the glass then. Go through the window. Isn’t it what I do, doggedly, by the way, or try, at least.
Same result. You’re thorns and stones, part of the landscape, devoured by fire, eyes glued to what was a window once.
************
I don’t know why and how my languages broke. Maybe it’s me who did.
Or maybe it’s me who didn’t-but had to sacrifice the language part.
TO A FRIEND
All the parts of us
That we let shatter,
Fall through our own fingers,
Wondering whether we should sweep them up somehow
To make things neater.
All the part of us
That we let break
And scatter,
In order to remain unbroken
At the center--
The center they don't see.
All the parts of us
Strengthened by the shards
To keep the center
Unbreakable.
Hugs, dear Chen. I should post this as a note or something, I suppose, but I'm feeling a little extra private this morning. Thanks for your words; they help me think more clearly today. :)
To my eyes, trees are far more precious than all the gold of El Dorado.