what he wanted, he would tell that secret to everyone. The first night, he asked for my breasts. I didn’t want to give them to him because of his teeth … so he started screaming.” She covers her ears with trembling hands. “I can still hear his screams today. And he began to tell the start of my secret. I ended up capitulating. I gave him my breasts. He was sucking, and biting on them with his teeth … I was crying out … I was sobbing in my sleep …”
She stands by the window, with her back to her man. “You must remember. Because you kicked me out of bed that night too. I spent it in the kitchen.” She sits at the foot of the curtains patterned with migrating birds. “Another night, I dreamt of the boy again … This time, he was asking me to bring him my father’s peacock feather … but …” Someone knocks at the door. The woman emerges from her dreams, from her secrets, to lift up the curtain. It’s the young boy again. “No, nottoday!” the woman says firmly. “I am …” The boy interrupts her with his jerky words: “I … m-m-mended th-the d-d-door.” The woman’s body relaxes. “Oh, so it was you! Thank you.” The boy is waiting for her to invite him in. She doesn’t say anything. “C-c-can … c-c-can I …” “I told you, not today …” the woman says wearily. The boy comes closer. “N-n-not … n-n-not to …” The woman shakes her head and adds, “I’m waiting for someone else …” The boy takes another step closer. “I … I d-d-don’t w-w-want …” The woman cuts him off, impatient: “You’re a sweet boy, but I’ve got to work, you know …” The boy tries hard to speak quickly, but his stammer just gets worse: “N-n-not … n-n-not … w-w-wo … rk!” He gives up. Moves away to sit at the foot of a wall, sulking like a hurt young child. Helpless, the woman leaves the room so that she can speak to him from the doorway at the end of the passage. “Listen! Come this afternoon, or tomorrow … but not now …” Calmer now, the boy tries again: “I … want t-t-to … s-s-speak … t-t-to you …” In the end, the woman gives in.
They go inside and ensconce themselves in one of the rooms.
Their whispers are the only voices echoing through and underlining the gloomy atmosphere engulfing the house, the garden, the street, and even the city …
At a certain point, the whispering stops and a long silence ensues. Then suddenly, the violent slamming of a door. And the boy’s sobs departing down the passage, across the courtyard, and finally fading into the street. Then the woman’s furious footsteps as she marches into the room yelling, “Son of a bitch! Bastard!” She stomps around the room several times before sitting down. Very pale. “To think that son of a bitch dared spit in my face when I told him I was a whore!” she continues with rage. She stands up. Voice and body stiff with contempt. Walks toward the green curtain. “You know that guy who came here the other day with that poor boy, and called me every name under the sun? Well, guess what he does himself?” She kneels down in front of the curtain. “He keeps that poor little boy for his own pleasure! He kidnapped him when he was still a small child. An orphan, left to cope on his own on the streets. Kidnapped him and put a Kalashnikov in his hands, and bells on his feet in the evenings. He makes him dance. Son of a bitch!” She withdraws to the foot of the wall. Takes a few deep breaths of this air heavy with the smell of gunpowder and smoke. “The boy’s body is black and blue! He has burn scars all over—on his thighs,his buttocks … It’s an outrage! That guy burns him with the barrel of his gun!” Her tears tumble onto her cheeks, flow down the lines that surround her lips when she cries, and stream over her chin, down her neck and onto her chest, the source of her howls. “The wretches! The scoundrels!”
She leaves.
Without saying anything.
Without looking at anything.
Without
She stands by the window, with her back to her man. “You must remember. Because you kicked me out of bed that night too. I spent it in the kitchen.” She sits at the foot of the curtains patterned with migrating birds. “Another night, I dreamt of the boy again … This time, he was asking me to bring him my father’s peacock feather … but …” Someone knocks at the door. The woman emerges from her dreams, from her secrets, to lift up the curtain. It’s the young boy again. “No, nottoday!” the woman says firmly. “I am …” The boy interrupts her with his jerky words: “I … m-m-mended th-the d-d-door.” The woman’s body relaxes. “Oh, so it was you! Thank you.” The boy is waiting for her to invite him in. She doesn’t say anything. “C-c-can … c-c-can I …” “I told you, not today …” the woman says wearily. The boy comes closer. “N-n-not … n-n-not to …” The woman shakes her head and adds, “I’m waiting for someone else …” The boy takes another step closer. “I … I d-d-don’t w-w-want …” The woman cuts him off, impatient: “You’re a sweet boy, but I’ve got to work, you know …” The boy tries hard to speak quickly, but his stammer just gets worse: “N-n-not … n-n-not … w-w-wo … rk!” He gives up. Moves away to sit at the foot of a wall, sulking like a hurt young child. Helpless, the woman leaves the room so that she can speak to him from the doorway at the end of the passage. “Listen! Come this afternoon, or tomorrow … but not now …” Calmer now, the boy tries again: “I … want t-t-to … s-s-speak … t-t-to you …” In the end, the woman gives in.
They go inside and ensconce themselves in one of the rooms.
Their whispers are the only voices echoing through and underlining the gloomy atmosphere engulfing the house, the garden, the street, and even the city …
At a certain point, the whispering stops and a long silence ensues. Then suddenly, the violent slamming of a door. And the boy’s sobs departing down the passage, across the courtyard, and finally fading into the street. Then the woman’s furious footsteps as she marches into the room yelling, “Son of a bitch! Bastard!” She stomps around the room several times before sitting down. Very pale. “To think that son of a bitch dared spit in my face when I told him I was a whore!” she continues with rage. She stands up. Voice and body stiff with contempt. Walks toward the green curtain. “You know that guy who came here the other day with that poor boy, and called me every name under the sun? Well, guess what he does himself?” She kneels down in front of the curtain. “He keeps that poor little boy for his own pleasure! He kidnapped him when he was still a small child. An orphan, left to cope on his own on the streets. Kidnapped him and put a Kalashnikov in his hands, and bells on his feet in the evenings. He makes him dance. Son of a bitch!” She withdraws to the foot of the wall. Takes a few deep breaths of this air heavy with the smell of gunpowder and smoke. “The boy’s body is black and blue! He has burn scars all over—on his thighs,his buttocks … It’s an outrage! That guy burns him with the barrel of his gun!” Her tears tumble onto her cheeks, flow down the lines that surround her lips when she cries, and stream over her chin, down her neck and onto her chest, the source of her howls. “The wretches! The scoundrels!”
She leaves.
Without saying anything.
Without looking at anything.
Without
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