ESSAYS
At Night We Slept Beneath The StarsIOWA CITY, IOWA 19 November 2009 |
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How are you?
I am fine, Hélene answers biting nervously at her bottom lip.
I am fine.
A sentence you rarely hear except in the mouths of recently trained English speakers.
I am fine. No contraction. Emphasis on the verb.
Hélene. Sixty-four years old, soon to retire from her job as a mid-level bureaucrat in a government agency. Her hair thinning, the complexion of someone who’s spent her life beneath fluorescent lights.
Do you go out to lunch?
Yes.
Yes?
Yes, I do.
Yes you do?
She lets out a frustrated sigh.
Yes I do go out to lunch.
She knows the drill but does her best to avoid it.
I smile at her. She shifts uncomfortably in her chair.
Do you have a favorite restaurant?
She narrows her eyes. She purses her lips.
Is she thinking or does she not understand the question?
A silence passes.
No.
I raise my eyebrows.
No, she sighs. I don’t have a favorite restaurant.
Nowhere that you love? Or that you like very much?
She shakes her head silently.
I let her slide. She taps the tip of her pencil against her notebook making small dark marks on the white page. She looks gloomily up at me.
Where do you eat at lunchtime?
A bistro.
I smile.
I eat at a bistro near the place where I work.
Near your office?
Yes, I eat at a bistro near my office.
Do you eat there every day?
She reddens.
Yes, I do.
She pauses.
Eat there every day.
Have I embarrassed her? Does she think I’ve trapped her? Forced her to reveal something she finds shameful about her life?
Is it a good bistro?
It is fine. The bistro is fine.
We’re stuck. I’m stuck. I want to talk about what is good, what is better, what is best. That’s the lesson.
Why are you studying English, Hélene?
It is interesting to me.
Really? I smile.
Is it interesting now?
Yes it is.
I’m not convinced.
It isn’t boring?
She smiles at me briefly. She suppresses a laugh as fast as it comes.
No, it isn’t boring.
Her eyes are brighter now; she’s more playful.
I try another tack.
Do you like to travel?
Yes, I like to travel.
She surprises me. She’s been everywhere. Throughout Asia, across the Indian Ocean, the Baltics, Patagonia, Easter Island, Senegal, Kenya, Tanzania, Botswana, Mali.
She shrugs her shoulders.
What was your worst trip?
My worst trip was south of France.
To the south of France?
Yes, my worst trip was to the south of France.
Why?
I didn’t feel good with my sister. It wasn’t nice with her.
She fades again, moving her palm over the desk, she looks down.
You didn’t get along with your sister?
No, she says to the table.
I didn’t get along with my sister.
What was your best trip, Hélene? The very best trip you ever took?
She watches her hand moving from side to side across the table.
Tanzanie, she says more to herself than to anyone.
Tanzania?
Yes, Tanzania. It is the best trip I ever made.
Why? Why was Tanzania the best trip you ever took?
Why. Why, she says again to herself.
We both watch her hands, her fingers spread out across the Formica as if to hold the table down.
We climbed Kilimanjaro mountain.
You did? You climbed Mount Kilimanjaro?
She nods, smiling again.
It was very big.
I try to imagine this woman climbing nineteen thousand feet into the air.
Is that why it was your favorite trip?
She shakes her head.
No, it is that we were sleeping outside. In night.
At night you slept outside?
She nods. There’s depth now to her expression.
At night we slept outside.
And that’s why it was your favorite trip?
Yes. Because we could see the stars.
I nod.
You slept outside under the stars?
She smiles. She’s come back to me. She’s nodding.
Yes, we slept under the stars.
It’s a beautiful sentence isn’t it?
Yes, it is. It is a beautiful sentence. Suddenly, she seems gleeful.
I stand up and uncap a thick marker. There’s a large tablet of blank pages fixed to an easel.
I write in full, black letters across the center of the page:
AT NIGHT WE SLEPT BENEATH THE STARS.
She’s brimming, her eyes alight.
At night we slept beneath the stars. Can you say that?
She writes the sentence slowly into her notebook. She frames it carefully with a perfect rectangle.
At night we slept. Beneath the stars.
At night we slept beneath the stars, I say fluidly, moving my hand as if I were conducting a musical phrase.
At night we slept beneath the stars, Hélene says.
Yes, I say.
At night we slept beneath the stars.
Yes.
It’s a small poem, I say.
Yes, she says. It’s a beautiful poem.
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Hey, Xander, this is one of my favorite classic Maksik pieces. How are things in Iowa?
oh wow. this was beautiful.
Lovely, I say.
Lovely.
Lovely and beautiful.
Alexander,
You write in a way that puts the reader right there, as though we are watching a movie.
Amazing and lovely, as Stefan said.
Very simple and direct in style and evocative its effect.
The lack of dialogue punctuation works very well here.
Keep this up.
The Maksik magic in 3.0.
I hope Iowa is treating you well. If not, let me know, and I‘ll have a word with that blasted state.
I’ve been absent for too long and I missed this.
Always always good to read your gorgeous prose.
All your work sounds like poetry to me. And yes, that line is a beautiful poem.
We should all hope to have a memory that is such a beautiful sentence that it is poetry.