it should have ended earlier
[Intro:
Lyric of ‘The rose’ by Beth Miller—16 lines.]
NB: Rather than translate the song back into English and make a mess of
it, I’ll skip it. If anyone knows the words of the song, thanks for passing
them on to the wordsmith.
It’s been a long time since I last drew a picture. My hand’s all stiff. The hand that used to type nimbly, cook expertly and play the piano with feeling. This same hand now punches a computer keyboard and guides the mouse like it’s a pushover.
For all that, it isn’t difficult if you don’t hurry.
But I haven’t drawn a picture in a very long time and don’t feel confident at all.
Her boyfriend is leaving for a distant land.
I have no present for him,
because all I had I gave him. Last words, goodbyes, send-off, promises – that’s
all behind us. I’ve nothing fitting to give him. I’ve only myself.
And a picture of myself. By
myself.
Darinda pulls out a blank sheet
of white paper without hesitation, finds the right angle for the mirror, then
picks up a black-ink pen. The young woman gets to drawing herself with a will
that’s almost a dare. The fear that the picture will not turn out to be all
right is lurking there as ever before.
When she was an art student,
Darinda had a reputation for catching people’s likeness as no-one
else could. That’s a dulcet memory of how good she was at deciphering people’s
faces.
Sometimes the young woman drew
portraits so true it was uncanny. She liked to draw sketches with her models
sitting for her. Darinda chose her models herself. She had a pretty good idea
of who would be hard to draw and who easy, yet you never know, and the major
obstacle in catching a likeness is your own eagerness, or sometimes lack of
confidence or else excess of.
Drawing a picture is taking
chances.
Outlining the face first usually
leads to problems. When you put in the eyes, nose and mouth, you’re likely to
find that the features are slanted, the chin too short, the forehead too
narrow, the face too fat or too thin. Once it’s over,
the feel of the face will tell you whether to keep the picture or dump it.
Usually, drawing a portrait is a
one-off. You catch the likeness or you don’t. Going for corrections is a waste
of time. Only makes things worse.
The picture isn’t coming along as
well as it should. Darinda’s heart isn’t in it, but once she has sketched in
the mouth, which usually is the clinch, she decides she can use the picture.
The mood it conveys isn’t that great. The woman in the picture looks sorrowful.
Her features are too thin, her hair is a sorry sight.
Darinda adds a crown of roses to
the picture and supposes it’s her wedding day. Are there women who don’t want
to be wed? Of course not.
When the young woman has made a
photocopy of her self-portrait, she puts her implements and her mood away, now
that her work is over. After presenting him with her last present, she’s
preparing herself to give herself to him as well.
Tonight I’ll sleep at his place
for the last time.
Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Hair brush. And a change of knickers.
This won’t be the first time we
sleep together. And he isn’t the first man in the world either. Our love isn’t
spanning the universe. When we found each other, he was the best man for me and
I the best woman for him. We fitted together nicely.
But modern love, relations in
this time and age – we live for today. Nobody knows the future: how can we bank
on it? We can’t possibly plan a life together – or is it that we can?
We both know our relationship
includes his going abroad to study for at least two years.
He doesn’t think two years’s a problem. He’ll be gone and then he’ll be back.
Let whatever must happen be.
We’ll sleep together for the last
time before he leaves. Maybe he’ll never come back. Never mind.
Darinda looks at her own face, then picks up another blank sheet of paper. The ink pen is
starting to dry up, but she has several other black-ink pens of the same kind.
I’ll draw another picture of
myself. Something totally different.
This time the young woman puts on
glasses. She always looks good with glasses on. Gives her a classy look.
Darinda laughs. Usually, she won’t draw bespectacled faces: they’re too
difficult.
Darinda starts with the glasses.
She’s wont to tackle the tough spots before she does the easy parts, while her
concentration is keen and her confidence whole. She draws the eyes Japanese
cartoon-fashion: a thick line around the pupils, a big black dot in the middle,
which she’ll enlarge if she’s happy with the result. There’s another two thin
circles, reflections from the lamp, small circles next to the central dots. The
rest is left blank.
Eyes in this style are like those
on sculpted images. They don’t cheat the eye. They come in handy in a sketch,
even though the young woman doesn’t do them like this often. They’re eye-catching.
Draws the nose, then the mouth.
Eyes the whole. Doesn’t look like
her at all. Darinda is rather perplexed and disappointed.
But she isn’t giving up.
Ordinarily when you’ve drawn
pictures like these, resembling or not, you can almost never improve on them.
You have to start all over again. Usually the young woman draws the lines then
fills in the shades. If the lines are true, filling in the shades is no
problem, even though shading always takes a little of the likeness away.
If the lines aren’t true and you
hope shading will help, think again.
But today all the rules are
overturned through some special vital force, almost like a groundless certainty,
or some kind of mania.
Darinda goes on drawing herself
calmly. She outlines the face, the chin, the cheekbones, the
forehead. The drying-out ink gives out a definite feel of weakness. This time
her hair flows finer than in the first picture and the shades on her face and
neck are softer, not as harsh as before.
The mood in the picture is like Darinda
or like what she wants to be. Not too sorrowful. Sadness is a real enough mood,
yet not a pleasant one.
The crown of roses, ever so
sweet. The wedding party her eyes gorge on. With whomever she perhaps hasn’t
even met.
This is it this time. One last
gift from me—for that young lover of mine.
He comes to her once work is
over, together with a last gift as well before he goes abroad.
He comes with the beautiful lamp
he always carries with him. His eyes need special attention, and this is why he
must always have a lamp with him to read by. His lamp is his eyes, as are his
eyeglasses, and the contact-lens compact that never leaves him.
There’s a lot more in this world
in which he’ll live that he can’t do without. Especially now that he’s going
away to pursue his studies. She used to think he was dependent on lots and lots
of things. But in his heart it turns out he needs nothing. Not even her.
He told her, You’re
wrong.
Darinda tries to live without
having to rely on anything or anyone. Work is a nice thing, but she can still
live without having to work. To be with your family, your siblings, is a nice
thing, but she’s ready to go and live someplace else if necessary.
He puts the lamp down on
Darinda’s enormous working table. She plugs it in and presses the switch. Soft
yellow light pours forth. ‘Let there be light forever,’ he declaims.
His substitute is here already.
Will stay with her every working day. ‘That’s not all.’ He smiles, then pulls out a shirt of fine white fabric ‘made in USA’.
He knows she likes to wear white shirts and knows she likes imported articles.
‘You once told me you’d like to
have one of my shirts. Put it on and think of me.’
‘When did I say such a thing?’
She has truly forgotten, but he hasn’t.
Darinda puts on the shirt at once
over the sleeveless, round-neck, tight-fitting stretch piece she wears. The
white shirt and the body-hugging sheath of white stretch fabric are fairly well
matched.
She pulls out her own present.
‘A last present from me.’ She
places the 75%-reduced photocopy next to the original. He looks briefly at her
picture, puts on a bright face and says, ‘Doesn’t look like you at all.’ He
even laughs when she shows herself unhappy.
At first she thought that picture
wasn’t like her, but actually it’s very much like her. She takes out the first
picture and shows it to him. ‘Then how about this one?’
‘That’s you all right.’
‘But I don’t like it.’
He makes no comment. It’s obvious
he doesn’t want either of the pictures. He’s already had enough trouble packing
his bags. She understands, but it’s a picture she drew, a picture of herself too
– one single sheet of paper.
What kind of a twisted man is he
that he doesn’t know how to humour others?
But no, not twisted. He is both
stupid and blind.
She decides right then. Not very
determined, still very much tentative, but it is a decision. She won’t tell him
she had changed her mind and decided to sleep at his place today. She has
changed her mind again and she won’t go. Maybe she’ll change her mind yet again
at the last moment. Her toothbrush is in her warm pocket.
Love this time holds no wondrous
prospect. It’s utterly impossible to expect anything wonderful out of a
one-year-old relationship.
Love – making love is just like
drawing pictures. She may be a crack at it, but what can she expect? The
biggest obstacle lies in being too eager.
In making love, the last time is
definitely not the best time. Not by a long chalk it isn’t. She isn’t that
type, the type that puts everything she has into the act to turn it into a
shining memory to cherish or to make today outstanding in order to have
something nice to talk about tomorrow. She isn’t that type at all.
If we must separate, then be
gone.
‘In that case, don’t take any of
them.’ She puts the pictures away. He doesn’t protest.
He’s already gone: that’s how she
feels. Sad?
Darinda
wakes up in the morning. The first thing she thinks is,
He’s gone. Today is a day off. If she had gone with him last night, today would
still be a day off, with the difference that, since she didn’t go, today is emptier.
Finally she didn’t go.
‘Last night I couldn’t sleep,’ she told him in rambling fashion as they shared their last meal.
‘Why?’
‘I was thinking of today.’
‘You look very calm.’
‘I am calm.’ Immediately, she felt uncalm. ‘Last night I was reflecting what it’ll be like for
me after you come to see me, we eat together and then we part, you going away
by yourself, me staying alone in my room and regretting not to be with you at
such a time.’
‘I understand why you don’t want to go. It’s no fun waking up at three in the
morning and then going to the airport with both of us feeling deprived of
sleep.’ He told her about the send-off, the packing, the
headaches. He needed his sleep tonight even more than she did hers. He was in
no state to make love for the last time just to have something to remember.
But actually, everybody knows that to be together on the last night, to make love can be important. Sure it’s important. Very important. But the most important is to be together.
I know. I know. Parting, being together one last time – the last night, the last day, the last time – I know it all. I know. I understand. Don’t you know how many times in this life I’ve parted with someone? How many people I’ve said goodbye to? Many more than you know about.
I’ve never told you. There’s no way you’d ever understand. Even if you knew, you still wouldn’t understand I don’t want to part with anyone any more.
This being said, it’s in my nature to be the first to leave. I simply died on him.
I know parting well. And why shouldn’t I? My father’s dead. My little brother’s dead too. Several of the people closest and most precious to me are dead. Every time death comes visiting, it does so like a thief. There’s no prior notice. There’s no warning.
It’s almost like that. Yes. Even though the pain is a warning. Even though living is the way of appointing the time of your death. But the truth is, I refuse to accept the truth of death. I’ve never thought it could happen so easily – how easy it is for us to die.
But they died without realizing it. Death always comes faster than you reckon.
Parting always comes faster than it should.
That’s why, when I know we must part each from the other, I feel we’ve already parted. From the day I knew we had to part, you were already dead.
‘Last night I couldn’t sleep. I know well that when we’re apart, when I’ll find myself alone in the bedroom and think you’re alone in your room, I’ll be sorry, I’ll regret not to be with you.’ And she felt really sorry. Tears welled up.
‘Everybody says so. I’ve heard it millions of times. We tend to be sorry not for what we’ve done, but for what we should have done but didn’t do, like I ought to be with you but won’t be, even though no-one or nothing has told me what I should do or shouldn’t do. Everything’s entirely up to me.’
And up to you as well maybe. I’m sure you don’t really want me to go with you, because you haven’t even tried. Stop thinking. I’m well aware it won’t make any difference whether you do something or don’t, except make me even more unwilling to go.
No, I do know you want me to go. You’ve already tried – when you took my hand and I pulled it free. When you took me in your arms and I turned my face away. You’re very good at keeping yourself under control. Your eyes, your hands are cool but I know there was a request in them. Too bad I didn’t want to listen.
What do I get from playing hard to get, then, from pretending to be smart this time? I know we’ll probably never meet again, or even if we do, it’ll be a long time from now and nobody knows what’ll have happened. I’ll play it cool, pretend I don’t care or I’m not fair. I’d like you to leave. Go away. Drop dead.
If you don’t see me before you leave, maybe it’ll make you miss me more.
Okay, drop dead. Why do I have to behave like this as well?
The time to part always comes before time, everybody knows.
We had reckoned on listening to some cool music. You had reckoned on sipping a beer or two. We’d talk about nice things, like we used to have nice sex, nice kisses, nice hugs. You used to make me laugh with your furious lovemaking of a kind no-one else’d ever dare, for instance on a train in front of fifty people. Yes, we used to have lots of nice things in common.
It was always nice when we kissed mouth and tongue, when our bodies ground and jousted, when we became one. We always felt good.
I like lovemaking that is sustained and furious, but not violent. I like the feeling of getting there at leisure, the contractions, the rubbing and the thrills, the warmth, the love that can be grasped, the sex that can be felt, the mood sweeps and the screams.
Our love was a good thing and we still felt that way one year after we had made love for the first time. We still wanted each other. We still sought each other. We helped each other. We were always good to each other. We still had plenty to talk about.
We meant to talk before you left or, maybe, I followed you.
But the store where we meant to spend some time together, by some unforeseen accident closed before its usual time, and I thought nothing, except that the time to part from each other was now.
We didn’t stop by that store to do what might have been. The occasion was lost—forever.
We didn’t hurry but there was a sense of urgency. We had run out of occasions to be together. Even though the night was still far from over. When he left, he made as though to say something but didn’t speak. He made as though to kiss goodbye but alas, we had kissed a lot already and there and then I told myself, I want no goodbye kiss, I want more than that and since I can’t have it, I want nothing at all.
He was gone. That night, Darinda tried not to think, to make herself vacant. Don’t think about him. You mustn’t think. He’s gone. Don’t hope he’ll phone. You mustn’t think. Lie down and go to sleep.
She still slept and she still
ate. Darinda was still alive, although she didn’t know what for, since this
life has nothing worth living for.
The numbness due to shock passed.
Her heart quaked with queasiness as she looked out far away beyond stretches of
deserted fields. Darinda had no-one. O sadness and
solitude, how will I deal with you? What if I took good care of you?
[Excerpt
from the song—10 lines]
Like me, Darinda thinks. The young woman who wrote this sad song is much to be pitied: she killed herself one day because she didn’t know what to go on living for.
How about me, then? The young woman smiles. Darinda has never thought of killing herself. The thought has never entered her head. Sadness? Happiness? Once they’re gone, what’s left?
A friend once asked me. I
couldn’t answer. I’m not wise enough to answer such an important question.
I only know that, sad or glad, lover
gone or lover back, the life that is my lot will go on according to what can
be, inasmuch as this life is mine. Brief as it may be, it’s mine—mine to live.
This world too is mine. And yours
as well. Whatever my limits, though I may not do much, I’m satisfied with
whatever it is I can do – right where I am.
You’re gone. Never mind. Winter
will come to pass and the rose will blossom once again.