The Unnameable
Written for the "silence" challenge on writers_choice. Thanks to Hmph for a quick read and valuable comments, despite her lack of sleep.
The Unnameable
He rides the metro at night.
From Denfert Rochereau to La Courneuve Aubervilliers. La Sorbonne to Meudon. Ecole Militaire to Ecole Veterinaire. Alexandre Dumas to Victor Hugo.
Dark windows cool against his temple. The murmur of voices easy to block out. He leaves his headphones and books behind, lets the trains take him bareheaded and barehanded, criss-crossing through the city.
On the 7 line he drops his change into a basket at the feet of a gypsy boy playing a battered, tuneless guitar. The 4 gets stuck between Alesia and Mouton Duvernet. He nods off until the train jerks forward, rumbles to a stop, then gains speed again.
He avoids the Ile de la Cite.
No one speaks to him, and he's grateful. The pressure to form words would overwhelm him.
Days, he plays the bookstore clerk. Polite, knowledgable, instantly forgotten. When he can't manage even that much he retreats to the cellar to tend to his flood-stained pages of forgotten lore.
At five he locks up the shop. Ventures to the cafe across the street for a black coffee, then he’s on his way.
He doesn't plan these journeys. He starts out at twilight. Stalking the streets as they empty until impulse drives him below.
Here and there at the threshold between street and tunnel Guimard's green gateways still beckon. A living thing in the dark, lit by occasional glass blooms. Some nights he hesitates, wrapped tight in his coat, and the "dragonfly's wings" as they originally stood overlay what remains.
Some nights he doesn't see the twisting arches at all.
The beat of his footfalls on concrete gives way to the rhythm of the train meeting tracks. Doors open and shut. Tourists clamber aboard, eyes glazed from hours at the Louvre. Notre Dame, Sacre Coeur. La Tour Eiffel.
Idle kids slump in the corners. World-weary before their time as only young Parisians can carry off. They roll their eyes at the oblivious tourists who block the aisles in nervous clumps.
The train empties as the evening moves on, leaving him with the workaholics, the cleaning women, the students. A tired quiet creeps over the car. His mind wanders barren roads.
When her laugh assaults him from behind he no longer turns.
He searches the faces as they drift on and off. They ignore him or look away or stare back, defiant.
No one smiles.
He catches fragments of her, scattered over many nights. She lingers in the corners of his vision. Incomplete. He can't call up the words that would banish her.
The train eases into Bibliotheque Francois Mitterrand, or Place d'Italie, or Porte d'Orleans. The end of the line. The lights flicker. He shakes himself and stands, the last passenger in the car.
Yes, in my life, since we must call it so, there were three things, the inability to speak, the inability to be silent, and solitude, that’s what I’ve had to make the best of.
Photos of Guimard’s metro entrances: http://www.pbase.com/brianogilvie/metro
Italic text from:
The Unnameable (1954), by Samuel Beckett
The Unnameable
He rides the metro at night.
From Denfert Rochereau to La Courneuve Aubervilliers. La Sorbonne to Meudon. Ecole Militaire to Ecole Veterinaire. Alexandre Dumas to Victor Hugo.
Dark windows cool against his temple. The murmur of voices easy to block out. He leaves his headphones and books behind, lets the trains take him bareheaded and barehanded, criss-crossing through the city.
On the 7 line he drops his change into a basket at the feet of a gypsy boy playing a battered, tuneless guitar. The 4 gets stuck between Alesia and Mouton Duvernet. He nods off until the train jerks forward, rumbles to a stop, then gains speed again.
He avoids the Ile de la Cite.
No one speaks to him, and he's grateful. The pressure to form words would overwhelm him.
Days, he plays the bookstore clerk. Polite, knowledgable, instantly forgotten. When he can't manage even that much he retreats to the cellar to tend to his flood-stained pages of forgotten lore.
At five he locks up the shop. Ventures to the cafe across the street for a black coffee, then he’s on his way.
He doesn't plan these journeys. He starts out at twilight. Stalking the streets as they empty until impulse drives him below.
Here and there at the threshold between street and tunnel Guimard's green gateways still beckon. A living thing in the dark, lit by occasional glass blooms. Some nights he hesitates, wrapped tight in his coat, and the "dragonfly's wings" as they originally stood overlay what remains.
Some nights he doesn't see the twisting arches at all.
The beat of his footfalls on concrete gives way to the rhythm of the train meeting tracks. Doors open and shut. Tourists clamber aboard, eyes glazed from hours at the Louvre. Notre Dame, Sacre Coeur. La Tour Eiffel.
Idle kids slump in the corners. World-weary before their time as only young Parisians can carry off. They roll their eyes at the oblivious tourists who block the aisles in nervous clumps.
The train empties as the evening moves on, leaving him with the workaholics, the cleaning women, the students. A tired quiet creeps over the car. His mind wanders barren roads.
When her laugh assaults him from behind he no longer turns.
He searches the faces as they drift on and off. They ignore him or look away or stare back, defiant.
No one smiles.
He catches fragments of her, scattered over many nights. She lingers in the corners of his vision. Incomplete. He can't call up the words that would banish her.
The train eases into Bibliotheque Francois Mitterrand, or Place d'Italie, or Porte d'Orleans. The end of the line. The lights flicker. He shakes himself and stands, the last passenger in the car.
Yes, in my life, since we must call it so, there were three things, the inability to speak, the inability to be silent, and solitude, that’s what I’ve had to make the best of.
Photos of Guimard’s metro entrances: http://www.pbase.com/brianogilvie/metro
Italic text from:
The Unnameable (1954), by Samuel Beckett