Dupa
astfel de seri, care ajunsesera sa fie insusi aerul vietii mele singure
si frustrate, dupa plimbarile de cirtita prin continuum-ul realitate-halucinape-vis
ca printr-un triplu imperiu inextricabil, ma trinnteam in pat si luam la-ntimplare
o carte din vraful de jos, de linga lada. Citeam aproape toata noaptea.
Cartile veneau la timp, intr-un mod misterios, de parca ar fi fost piesele
de puzzle ale unei imagini limpezi si totusi de neinteles, incomplete, un
fel de supercarte aparuta la granita cartilor cu mintea mea. Citeam adinc
in noapte, tacerea tiuia tot mai tare, uneori o insecta se rotea zbirniind
in abajur, frigindu-se de becul fierbinte. Cite un camion facea sa tremure
geamurile. Clipeam tot mai des, mai repede cu pleoapa dreapta, mai sovaitor
cu cea stinga. tmi aduceam aminte de serile in care trebuia sa-mi inchid
ochiul cu degetele ca sa pot dormi. De zilele cind rideam doar cu o singura
jumatate a fetei, pe cind cealalta raminea posaca si sinistra. Acum, cind
clipeam repede, imi zvicneau suparator si muschii orbiculari ai gurii, iar
cind eram obosit o sudoare rece imi tisnea din porii obrazului sting. Ma
jucam privind imaginea camerei cu cite un singur ochi. Cu dreptul, camera
aparea luminoasa, si culorile scinteiau cuminti una linga alta. Stingul
vedea insa o stranie caverna verzuie, in care volumele moi oscilau ca pielea
unor animale subacvatice. Catre sfirsitul noptii sensul cartilor se evapora
complet si ramineam in brate cu pagini1e lor poroase, cu semnele cabalistice
imposibil de inteles, cu parfumul de hirtie prafuita, cel mai excitant parfwn
de pe pamint. Cele doua emisfere cerebrale mi se contractau de placere in
scrotul lor de os. Pe jumatate adormit spionam cartile cu o pasiune de voyeur,
le rupeam cite un colt de pagina ca sa privesc firisoarele texturii pufoase,
trageam de rana scorojita de pe cotor sau urmaream, cite jumatate de ora,
mersul pe cimpia uriasa a filei a vreunei insecte care traia acolo, in "Dublul"
lui Dostoievski sau in "Fizica pentru toti". Minuscula, cu corpusorul negru,
insecta avea sase picioare transparente cu cite o pata intunecata la extremitati.
Doar concentrindu-te ii puteai vedea si antenele, de asemenea translucide,
agitindu-se permanent. Strabatea rabdator dealurile si vaile hirtiei de
proasta calitate, se afunda intre pagini, iesea iar in lumina galbena si
lucioasa, farasa dea nici o atentie complicatelor procese psihice din mintea
lui Goliadkin sau literelor negre, mai mari decit ea, in care nebuniile
lui erau codificate. Gherute tari o tineau bine ancorata de cartea ei, de
universul in care se nascuse, puteai sa sufli oricit de tare, ca n-o puteai
azvirli afara. Doar se oprea o clipa ca sa faca fata uraganului, lipea pintecul
de rogojina grosolana a paginii, iar apoi pornea mai departe, cu pasi egali
si multumiti. Nimeni n-o putea scoate din patria ei, in care se pomenise
si-n care avea, sa moara, prefacindu-se-ntr-o cojita uscata la radacina
unei pagini. Rodea, poate, din cind in cind, bucatele albe sau negre din
fibra impletiturii. Infigea ovipozitorul in punctul pe i din Goliadkin si
lasa acolo tubuletele cilindrice cu cite un mic embrion in ele. Nu stia
ca lumea ei 1nseamna ceva, ca ar putea fi citita, ea o traia si asta era
de ajuns. Poate Goliadkin, sau poate eu, al carui ochi cit un miliard de
sori se apropia de ea, eram Dumnezeul acestei insecte, dar ganglionii ei
nervosi abia pridideau,s-o tina in viata. Eram un Dumnezeu care n-o crease
si care n-o putea mintui, pentru totdeauna necunoscut si indescifrabil.
Si deodata
ma simteam si eu privit. Ma-nfioram tot, saream in picioare si ma duceam
la fereastra. Priveam stelele risipite peste oras. Cineva, adinc in alta
noapte, de alt fel, tinea in miini lumea mea si-mi urmarea amuzat inaintarea
pe drumuri intortochiate. Sufla singuratate si nenorocire, ca niste limbi
de foc negru tisnite din gura lui, dar eu ma agatam de viata raspindindu-mi
viscerele cleioase pa pagina. In ce carte eram oare? Si ce fel de minte
mi-ar fi trebuit ca s-o pot intelege? Si dac-as fi inteles-o, n-as fi fost
dezamagit sa-mi dau seama ca am trait intr-o brosurica licentioasa de doi
bani, sau intr-un mers al trenurilor, sau intr-o carte de colorat pentru
copii? Sau intr-o abjecta scrisoare anonima? Sau intr-un sul de hirtie igienica?
Inchideam
cartea peste minuscula fiinta care-mi era totusi perfect asemanatoare, cu
corpul plin de organe ca ale mele, cu celule in a caror protoplasma se desfasura
acelasi miljard de manevre chimice pe secunda, si stingeam lumina, exact
in momentul in care zorii incepeau sa albeasca fereastra. Ma ghemuiam sub
cearceaf si mi-l trageam peste cap, asa incit nu lasam decit o fanta foarte
ingusta pentru respiratie. Asa dormea si mama, mumificata in pozitia fetusului,
asa dormeam si eu de cind ma stiam. Dar mi-era intotdeauna frica sa adorm.
Unde avea sa fie fiinta mea timp de atitea ore? Poate aveam sa ajung in
locuri din care nu ma mai puteam intoarce, sau aveam sa ma-ntorc transformat
intr-un monstru oribil. Ruptura de continuitate a eului meu imi provoca
o stringere acida in plexul solar. Mi se parea intolerabil sa ma dizolv,
noapte de noapte, intr-o jungla terifica, aflata in mine, dar care nu eram
eu. Ce-aveam sa ma fac daca, tot coborind si coborind in catacombele imaginarului,
aveam sa-i perforez adincul si sa ma trezesc intre idolii ingrozitori, minjiti
de singe si sperma, ai arhetipurilor, ai instinctului foamei si setei, ai
reflexului de voma? Si daca aveam sa perforez si zona asta, si sa ma scufund
in somatic, in colacit pe rinichi si vertebre, sufocat de celulele din care
cresc parul si unghiile, atins moale de peristaltismul matelor ? Putea sa
se-n-timple orice, sa se defecteze mecanismul trezirii, ca in dimineata
aceea de primavara cind am deschis ochii in camera inundata de soare, proaspat
si plin de viata, pina cind mi-am dat seama ca nu ma pot misca. Eram complet
paralizat. Incercam sa ma ridic, dar mi se intimpla ca atunci cind comandam
degetelor mele sa se miste. Nu stiam, nu mai stiam cum se face. Lumea se
redusese la citeva cute ale cearceafului, la o bucata de stofa inflorata
si la o lucire de oglinda. Totul a durat vreun minut, dupa care am intrat
iarasi, nu stiu cum si in ce moment, in posesia propriului meu corp, si
rebeliunea hipnagogica s-a incheiat. |
After
such evenings, which ended up being the very air of my solitary and frustrated
life, after the mole-like strolls through the reality-hallucination-dream
continuum like an inextricable triple empire, I would fling myself on the
bed and pick up at random a book from the pile on the floor next to the
trunk. I would read nearly the whole night. The books would arrive, mysteriously,
in a timely manner, as though they were the puzzle pieces of a clear yet
inscrutable image, incomplete, a sort of a superbook published at the border
between books and my mind. I read deep into the night, the silence whined
louder and louder, at times an insect buzzed looping in the lampshade, singeing
against the burning bulb. A truck would make the windows shake. I would
blink more and more frequently, faster with my right eyelid, more reluctantly
with my left. I would recall the evenings when I had to close my eyes with
my fingers in order to fall asleep. The days when I laughed only with half
of my face, while the other half remained sinister and sulking. Now, while
I was rapidly blinking, the mouth's orbicular muscles throbbed annoyingly,
and when I was tired a cold sweat shot out of the left cheek pores. I amused
myself peering at the room's image through one eye only. Through the right
eye the room appeared luminous, and the colors sparkled in a well-behaved
vein, one next to the other. The left, on the other hand, saw a strange
greenish cavern, where the soft volumes oscillated like the skin of subaquatic
animals. Towards the end of the night the sense of the books would evaporate
completely and I would be left with their porous pages in my arms, with
cabalistic signs impossible to grasp, with the perfume of dusty paper, the
most entrancing perfume in the whole world. My two cerebral hemispheres
contracted in delight inside their bone scrotum. Half asleep I would spy
upon the books with the passion of a voyeur, I would tear the corner of
a page so as to gaze at the little strands of fluffy texture, I would pull
at the shriveled wound on the binding, or followed, for close to a half
an hour, the trajectory, across the giant field of a page, of some insect
that lived there, in Dostoyesvsky's Double, or in Physics for
All. Minuscule, with its tiny black body, the insect had six transparent
legs with a dark stain at their extremities. Only by concentrating could
you spot its antennas, also translucid, permanently agitating. It traversed
patiently the hills and valleys of the paper of poor quality, it plunged
between the pages to emerge again in the yellow and shiny light, paying
no attention to the complicated psychic processes inside Golyadkin's mind
or to the black letters that dwarfed it, where Golyadkin's delirium was
codified. Claws, tiny and powerful, kept it well anchored to its book, to
its universe where it had been born, and no matter how hard you blew, you
couldn't hurl it away. It paused for only an instant, to face the hurricane,
glued its guts against the page's coarse rug, then set off again with even
and contented steps. No one could wrench it away from its fatherland, where
it had found itself and where it would die, turning into a dry little piece
of crust at the root of a page. It gnawed, perhaps, from time to time, black
or white morsels from the weft's fiber. It inserted its ovipositor into
the dot above the i in Golyadkin and relinquished there the tiny cylindrical
tubes containing each a minuscule embryo. It didn't know that its world
had meaning, that it could be read, it only lived it and that was enough.
Maybe Golyadkin, or maybe myself, whose eye like a billion suns crept up
towards it, was the God of this insect, but its nervous ganglions barely
managed to keep it alive. I was a God that didn't create it and couldn't
save it, forever unknown and undecipherable.
And suddenly I felt as though I too was being
watched. I would shudder, leap to my feet and walk to the window. I would
gaze at the stars, squandered over the city. Someone, deep in another night,
of another kind, held my world in his hand and followed bemusedly my movements
along tortuous paths. He breathed solitude and misfortune, like tongues
of black fire shooting out of his mouth, while I clutched onto life, dispersing
my sticky viscera on the page. What sort of book was I in? And what kind
of mind would I need to understand it? And if I did understand it, wouldn't
I be disappointed to realize that I lived in a worthless dirty little book,
or maybe in a train schedule, or a children's coloring book? Or in some
abject anonymous missive?
I would close the book over the minuscule
being which was perfectly identical to me, with its body full of organs
same as me, with cells in whose protoplasm each second unfolded the same
billions of chemical maneuvers, and would turn off the light the exact instant
dawn began to whiten the windows. I would curl under the bedsheets which
I pulled over my head, leaving only a narrow slit to allow for breathing.
My mother slept like that, mummified in the foetal position, and I slept
like that, ever since I didn't know when. But I was always afraid to go
to sleep. Where would my being go to during all those hours? Maybe I would
get to places from where I could not return, or perhaps return, but transformed
into a horrible monster. The rupture of continuity in me caused an acid
tightening in my solar plexus. It seemed to me intolerable to dissolve,
night after night, in a terrifying jungle inside me, but which was not me.
What would I do if, descending into the catacombs of the imaginary, I perforated
the deep and awakened amidst the horrifying idols, smeared with blood and
sperm, of the archetype, of the instinct of hunger and thirst, of the vomiting
reflex? And what if I perforated this terrain as well, to plunge into the
somatic, twined around the kidneys and the vertebrae, suffocated by the
cells from which the hair and the nails sprout, softly palpating the intestinal
peristalsis? Anything could happen, what if, for instance, the mechanism
of awakening broke, what if that spring morning when I opened my eyes in
the room, inundated by the sun, fresh and full of life, I would suddenly
realize that I could not move. I would be completely paralyzed. I would
try to get up, it would happen to me while I commanded the fingers to move.
I didn't know, I didn't know anymore how it was done. The world contracted
to a few folds of the bedsheets, a fraction of flowery material and the
gleam of a mirror. Everything lasted no more than a minute, after which
I regained, I don't know how or at what exact moment, the possession of
my own body, and the hypnogogic rebellion ended.
Eventually I would plunge into sleep, immersed
in a cocoon of cottony dreams. I would melt into dreams like sugar in water,
gliding like a slider along a cog-rail of forgetfulness. Sometimes I would
be jolted so violently that everything inside me clattered. |
