Farewell, My Queen by Black Moishe (children's ebooks online txt) 📗
- Author: Black Moishe
Book online «Farewell, My Queen by Black Moishe (children's ebooks online txt) 📗». Author Black Moishe
Around the fire, earlier today, our chairs so close together that we were almost elbow to elbow, we were saying how wretched it is to survive in the midst of ruins. “If you survive, it means you’re alive,” said one of my friends, but she uttered these words so inaudibly that it was hard to put much faith in them . . . Though the afternoon had barely ended, darkness was falling. It was time for my guests to make their way home. And just then, a group of schoolchildren came into the courtyard to sing. Their voices were extraordinarily clear, rising up with the same strength and joy that they put into their running, their ice-skating . . .
Alone once more, I opened my last present. It was wrapped in so many layers of paper that at first I thought there was nothing else, just colored papers laid one on top of the other. But when I came to the little silver box, it opened up to reveal a marvel. I had been offered a miracle in the form of a gift: a pendant set in enamel, on which was painted in miniature an eye of blue—blazing blue, almost turquoise, of gemlike brilliance, the pupil as though bedewed with the merest hint of moistness. I closed the palm of my hand over the treasure and let the blue of her eyes bring back the Queen’s entire face, her face as I knew it . . .
This ban on names is one of the pacts binding our society of survivors, and when I am with others I respect the pact. But when I am alone with myself, why should I be afraid of words or of the ghosts they summon up or of the unknown with which they sometimes bring us face-to-face? True, in my case the ghosts fill the entire stage, during my waking life as they do in my dreams, whether these be changing or recurrent. Thus, for example, what I call my “Dream of the Grand Stairway.” It has variations—in particular, sometimes the faces are farther away than other times—but for the most part, it’s always the same dream: stationed at intervals on broad steps, stand various members of the Royal Court. Their magnificent apparel has a still quality that hampers movement. Some are leaning on canes, others not. There are no groups. Each individual is isolated, set slightly apart from the next. All, however, are outlined with perfect clarity. They stand there, on the rim of nothing. “The Dream of the Grand Stairway” haunts me. I feel as though the people in the dream—mute, invisible, never very far away—are waiting for me, as though they are my truth, whereas the handful of survivors with whom I associate are merely illusions. Under their scrutiny I become uncomfortable. I seek distractions: embroidery work, writing letters, reading newspapers, books, every sort of publication in French that comes my way, but they will not loosen their viselike
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