In the Absence of Men by Philippe Besson

Author:Philippe Besson [Besson, Philippe]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General
ISBN: 9781446485293
Google: PmavyPVdFAYC
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2011-07-30T14:00:00+00:00

13

This is the last night, this night which we never dared imagine, this night which carries within it the elemental sorrow of imminent separation, this night of which we have never spoken, this night which we cannot spend as we might any other, this night which it would be better to blot out if we could to shield ourselves from danger, this night which is almost beyond words. Tomorrow, you rejoin your battalion at Verdun. Tomorrow brings the misery of Verdun.

And before this last night, there was a last day, a last day spent with your mother. A day crippled by sadness, regret, stupor, measured out in tears and silence, its hours chiming out with desperate slowness, like the countdown to an execution. A day in which death has been on every mind, though it would be unbearable, unwelcome, to name it. A day of mourning before death. A day of impenetrable greyness.

You say: it is an ordeal I never thought I should have to face, it is unimaginable, an ordeal which only war or plague could bring about, I think. It is a pain so intense that it is impossible to sound its depth, its power, until it has passed. It is like walking over embers, kissing a razor’s edge, it is like some rite of initiation swathed in blood and suffering. It is an unbearable separation, worse than an injustice, worse even than suicide. It rips away the last link with my own life.

You should have seen Mother’s face, like the Madonna in religious paintings, her skin waxen, as though the years had conspired to wither, to destroy it. You should have seen the blank eyes, turned to heaven as though waiting for a sign, the contorted mouth, from which no sound comes because it has become impossible to scream, to speak. You should have seen the panicked hands, the body slipping out of her control, shaken by spasms, wracked with astonishing violence. You should have seen the pendulum swing between hysteria and hopelessness, between struggle and acceptance, continually beginning anew, to be crushed anew, this struggle against some nameless thing which fills her every thought. And there I am, and can do nothing. I am a spectator to her distress. I know there is nothing to be done. Nothing.

Taking leave of my mother is first and foremost a physical act. Arms must give up their embrace of the other’s body, hands must uncouple, the touch of skin on skin must end, eyes must free themselves from the other’s gaze. One must withdraw, and as one withdraws, everything crumbles, as though one can live only through the other, as though one cannot live without the other.

It is a physical loss, a life fading, something bleeding away, a force that cannot be contained.

Then tears brim on your lashes. I see them pearl there among the blond hairs like grain. I wait for them to roll down your cheeks, for them to overrun, to fall on to your face, but you hold them back.

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