By The Body Of The Earth or The Sannyasin

The Street

They were walking towards a port in the burning dust of the hot season. They were golden-brown, for they had basked in the sun for ages, and their eyes were alive like the light in the depths of a well. They were walking in close procession, wheeling their burdens and their dreams, dressed in white like Pharaohs, or naked like the bronzes in their temples; they were going towards the port in an odour of incense-sticks and buffalo dung. It was in this age, or any other, under the curved flight of the great ernes; it was in that country where the sun breaks open souls like tamarind-husks.

    The Eastern Traders
Shipping Company Limited

He was white. His name was Nil. His hands were fingering his pockets; he was looking right and left without knowing where to fix his gaze, like the blind or like monkeys. She was from here; she was beautiful and grave, dressed in a white sari, and was looking at him without moving.

—You are really going?

She raised her hand to her forehead as if to brush aside a lock of hair; gold bangles glittered round her wrist.

—Tomorrow morning; it is settled. I've left my luggage there. He fingered his pockets again.

Now, in the main-street of Time, I entered into that man; I entered into that role once more, forgetful of old gestures and of beings once loved, of ancient words of good or evil; only borne by that small, restless flame, perhaps always the same one, drawn by thousands of lost memories—thirsty, always thirsty; I am a thirst, it is all that remains in me, it is my memory of fire. Let us take our bearings, where are we?... It is simple. In any place in the world, at any point of the old story, I can stop and say: “Not that, it's not that”—it is never that. No, I am not there and I have never been there; it is always almost, always beside, and I live as if I were going to find myself there, one day, right in the midst of the irrefutable catastrophe. And perhaps I shall have done with roles—over there, yonder, there is a brother of light, and I am walking towards him and I am going home, I am going to find myself back at last, in my real skin.

Then it will be absolutely that. No more bearings to take; everywhere I shall be there.

Ninety-seven pounds on deck; hardly three pounds and some change left over. But what does it matter, it is always the same thing;

—Come along, let's go.

They melted into the crowd in the midst of bales of cotton and rose pottery, separated, brought together again, carried along in a helter-skelter of baskets of mangoes, greedy goats, and pink and green lemonade bottles on movable stalls.

—But why are you in such a hurry? You still have till tomorrow. You are rushing towards what?

I stopped. I looked in the depths of those eyes for one second; I plunged a whole lifetime into that second and I saw many eyes, but it was never the look I was seeking. And I am still walking. I have changed the man, I have changed lives, and I find myself in this street again as if I had done the job twenty times over.

—Nil, please...

Sweat was forming in beads on Mohini's forehead. There was such beauty in that almost immobile face: emotion hardly stirred it; as though it had to travel through centuries of sweetness for breaking through in those two little bronzed veins. I looked at her, I looked at a pink gourd, a crow, the tower of the temple. Once more, I was seized with that absurd dizziness: go away, why go away? All this world of things to move and rouse, gestures to make—millions of gestures for nothing. That thickness of time like a curtain of seaweed, why? As though one could grasp oneself only in suffering—without a drama, there would be nothing more to grasp.

—Listen Nil, you have planned your folly well. As for me, I have arranged a little happiness: one day of happiness. Only one day, I ask you for one day. After that, you can do as you wish.

What trap had she invented this time? They are all setting traps to hold you and devour you at leisure. I do not want to be caught. By anything or anybody. I want to be free. I am Nil=O, for no pocket.

But I would like to sit down here too and let everything slip through my fingers, like an absent-minded child, and there would be nothing more to will. Sometimes, the door opens on a strange sweetness where one no longer is anything, because one no longer wills anything. I know that dizziness well and I know that the hour draws near.

—I ask you for one day, only one day.

Mohini was standing straight as a statue in the midst of the rose pottery, on the temple pavement. A child was playing with sea-shells. I can still see the place, it followed me for a long time. One could smell the fragrance of the jasmine garlands in the trays of offerings.

—Listen, I know an island...

They assailed us like flies, hanging onto my white skin—this confounded skin of a sick man! Everywhere the white stigma, the mark of the foreigner; shall we never be able to merge and mingle like the air into the wind! Mohini opened her purse and began distributing coins in the midst of the clamour.

—Come, let's be off. Go away!

They were clinging to my legs. And suddenly, I turned round, furious, with an urge to hit out.

—O stranger...

A man was there, dressed in a flame-coloured robe, looking at me. He remained silent a moment, holding his begging-bowl in his hand. I hated him instantly; there was a smile in that look... Not even a smile: a huge amusement, as if the laugh were going to explode. But nothing exploded, it was caught in the light of his eyes.

—O stranger, you have come back!

I was absolutely thunderstruck. Then, in a completely different voice, almost neutral in tone, as one recites a ritornelle, he said:

—Trois fois, tu es venu; trois fois, tu as tuè... Three times you have come, three times you have killed.

And before I could say a word, he had disappeared.

—Nil, Nil, don't go there!

I plunged after him. I absolutely had to catch up with him, to know, know at once, finish with it before it was too late; something in me seemed deeply touched, stung to the quick, suddenly roused with a desire to strike and strike that man until he fell in the dust. And then I shall spit on him.

—Nil...

Mohini was calling. I ran like a madman, swerved into a side-street, ran round the temple, knocked down a child who began to scream. There was no sign of him. Hostile eyes stared silently at that brute of a foreigner. And then, suddenly, a god sprang forth from the walls, armed with a lance and mounted on a peacock.¹

I came back, wiping my forehead, ashamed of myself. This hot season would finally tear my nerves to shreds, it was time to leave. Mohini was motionless in the midst of the rose pottery, as pale as a corpse, her eyes staring blindly in front of her, her plait over her breast.

—Ah! Nil...

She looked at me as though I were returning from a long journey, as if she were returning from another world her voice was very soft, almost choked:

—I thought you had left already.

Her hand brushed my shoulder lightly. Once again, I was struck by that air of ancient times which surrounded her: there was no expression, not the flicker of an eye-lash; she was there, erect, in her white veil like an ancient Choephoroe, like someone who knows and is once mere watching the unrolling of the same destiny.

—What did he say to you? What does he want?

—A lunatic. If I find him again... You know him?

—A sannyasi. I don't like sannyasis.

—I don't either.

—Be careful, Nil, they know what we don't know, they are dangerous.

—How, dangerous?

—They have denied the earth. They are thieves of heaven. She said that in such a tone! I was taken aback. Then she recovered herself immediately:

—They are not from here.

—Neither am I... Moreover, I don't know from where I am. Come, let's clear out, I've had enough of these painted gargoyles!

Then she grabbed my arm and pinched me like a little girl, till my arm turned red.

—Be quiet, you don't know what you're saying.

The pistachio and lead monoxide gods on the high tower with the monkeys were on the look-out for the passer-by; the golden palms swayed gently above the street.

—Listen, I know an island. Don't say “no”, please. I shall not hold you back, I ask you for one day, only one day, for the peace of my heart. Afterwards, you'll be free.

A siren rent the air.

The tea vendor's kettle blazed in the sun.

—The Laurelbank will weigh anchor at seven o'clock tomorrow morning for New Guinea, do you hear—or for the devil.

—I have arranged everything, a boat is waiting for us.