Tessera (E-Journal, York University)

Walker, Amelia

Not About Love
Amelia Walker
Est-if possible d'eprouver une attirance purement physique pour l'esprit
d'une personne? Le sexe peut-if etre totalement denue d'amour? Qu 'est-
ce que l'amour, de toute far;on? Peu importe. Ce n 'est pas une histoire
d'amour. Vraiment pas.
"Another drink?" asks Sal.
We're sitting in the Jade Monkey, drinking cheap wine and listening to
noise. The place reminds me of a David Lynch film ... or a film by students copy-
ing his style. It's simultaneously pretentious and kitsch, but at least we're not like-
ly to see anyone we know.
"Yes thanks."
Sal heads off. I feel people staring at me. They've been doing it all night,
so blatant I can hear them thinking.
Twenty? Twenty-jive? She can't be older than that. But look at him! He s
got to be forty. At least. And he s short. And fat. Father figure complex? Smack,
maybe?
I have to admit, Sal's everything my type isn't. I wonder what these people
would say if they realized he's also married, and with a six year old daughter.
Even I feel a little shocked, when it's worded that way. But like all situa-
tions, ours is different. If Sal had never cheated on his wife before, I'd feel bad
about it. But I know he has, many times. Even his wife had an affair with him,
when he was with his first wife. Personally, I think she's an idiot. I'd never fall in
love with a man like Sal.
Past that initial reaction, Sal being married is one of the best aspects of
this ... thing (I hesitate to say relationship). Almost as good as his vasectomy.
I know he'd never leave his wife, although the two of them long ago stopped
even kissing. Leaving her would mean leaving the only woman he's ever truly
loved. His daughter. For me, this is convenience. It means there's no chance of
what we have ever turning into anything more than what it is - pure, bottom
row of Maslow's hierarchy, flesh greedy fucking. It's something Sal and I both
need. He doesn't get it from his wife. I don't want it from a steady relation-
ship. Neither of us can be bothered with the hassles of one-nighters.
"Which one are you looking at?"
I hadn't noticed Sal return, nor realized I was staring straight at a group of
girls. Now he mentions it, I notice they are all attractive.
26 . Tessera
"The one on the left, with the short hair."
Sal nods.
"We've got the same taste."
I sip my wine and study Sal. He has pale green eyes. I've never seen any-
body else with eyes quite that shade. But beyond that, I really don't get it. For a
purely physical relationship, I might have picked somebody a little more ...
well. .. physical.
But he sa good writer. A voice reminds me.
Sal is an amazing writer. I've known him for two years, through spoken
word pub gigs. The first poem I ever saw him read was about his father's death.
I wanted to cry. Most of his other poems are about drinking and sex, but not in
a tacky or crowd pleasing way. He simply tells the truth, presents living as it is,
desire as it is, pain as it is. He's not scared to laugh at himself, either, to admit
he's utterly pathetic. I respect that.
"Do you think it's possible to have a purely physical attraction to some-
body's mind?" I ask him.
"I wouldn't want to be with you if you weren't intelligent", he replies.
"Intelligent?" This surprises me a little.
"There are plenty of cute girls around, but they're boring."
We sit in silence for a while, watching the plastic plants in the corner flqsh
different colours as the light dances over them.
"This is dangerous", I tell Sal.
"What?"
"This ... out, together, talking."
"And fucking isn't?"
"One of her friends could see us."
"Danielle?" The name makes me cringe a little. I never use it. When she
has a name, she becomes real. "Her friends would never come to a place like this.
And besides, she knows, I'm sure."
"Has she said?"
"No. But she must."
"It's still dangerous."
Silence again. I don't want to look at Sal, so I don't know whether he's
looking at me.
"Hey, there's Pete." Sal's spied an old friend and is off in a flash. I sit alone,
thinking how you can't go anywhere without running into somebody, when
through the entrance comes Jordan. He spots me, and before I have a moment to
think, he's here.
"Penny. How are you?"
He has an accent. I've never been able to work out what it is, but like his
long hair and dark eyes, it sings of far away flavours, exotic mysteries.
"Me? Good... good... and you?"
Not About Love . 27
"Quite good. I'm out alone tonight, but hoping to have fun anyway ... "
He smiles at me, so blatantly seductive I have to fight hard against the
urge to giggle. If ever I wanted to sample a tall dark lover, my chance is now. The
thing is, I don't think I do. This man is in front of me, screaming sexy, but I real-
ize I don't want him.
"Let's go." It's Sal, back in a flash. His stare is hard, the reflection from
one-way glass.
"Nice talking to you." I wave goodbye to a somewhat surprised Jordan.
Outside the air is cold. Sal walks quickly, saying nothing. I laugh and tease
him.
"That's one way to get your attention."
He stops, then laughs dryly.
"You little bitch! You did that just to control me?"
It's not fully true, but I nod, happy to claim any form of power. Sal's pre-
tending to see the funny side now, but beneath that I can see some of his anger is
real. I can't tell, though, whether it's directed at me or himself or both of us. It
frightens me a little. After all, why should he care? We've always agreed there's no
commitment (that ugly c word). He's married, for crying out loud. And it's fine for
the two of us to look at other girls together - but the second I talk to another
man...
I keep laughing. It makes things easier.
"You're so easy", I tease poor Sal.
"Easy?" He grabs me by both wrists and presses me against the wall.
"You're a mean bitch", he growls.
"And you love it."
"I do."
Silence. His eyes are wide, unblinking.
"No you don't", I whisper, suddenly terrified.
Silence again. He lets go of my wrists and then laughs.
"You're right. I don't."


English

Not About Love

Dominic, Magie

notes from the cover
Magie Dominic
Notes from the cover a commence comme une liste de mots, sans emotion,
sans commentaire redactionnel. Cette liste a ete difficile amettre surpapi-
er, mais ala fin, chaque mot a pris place de lui-meme, faisant naftre des
groupes de mots et, finalement, la structure meme du poeme. Notes from
the cover evoque la notion de reconstruction, d 'un mot I 'autre, queUes que
soient les cassures. Le poeme evoque la plongee au fond d 'un ocean de vie
et le geste qui consiste as 'accrocher aune branche ou aune brindille.
the woman who wanted to write this poem declined.
finding none who shared her language.
i am speaking for her.
she had no idea her seven-year-old heart would sit in a car
under newfoundland trees
while an old man had his way with her
sunday after bloody sunday
and she'd search forever for safety,
(one reason she's not here now)
had no idea her heart would know experiences
"growing up"
so unspeakable they remain unwritten.
would be beaten by nuns wearing jesus
and sung to by others.
would stand in a hallway
trying to calm
the rapist with a knife to her head
talking
as if her life depended on it
then fall to the floor
wordless.
would stand on flatbed trucks screaming
sixties poems about napalm
and burning flesh through manhattan microphones
and years later find herself unable
to whisper the unbearable
pain in her heart.
94 . Tessera
would so often have nearby
a book and a cup of tea,
could be in any country in any century,
only the radio gave her away.
would light so many candles
know the names of so many saints
(and their addresses)
would walk through the heroin darkness
of a lover's apartment,
slap him to consciousness,
convince him to walk with her again.
she did this often
(who was convincing who, she wonders now?)
(who in god's name?)
would move her family so many times
trying to save what was already lost.
would
walk silently
on early vancouver mornings,
pick bottles from sidewalks,
go to the unquestioning chinese grocer,
exchange everything for eggs and bread,
(food for a child)
she did this while the fatherlhusband
slept beneath detachment's blankets.
had no idea her heart could hold so many
memories.
would one day tell this father/husband
she was leaving
now and walked to the blue station wagon
under trees
with a child on one arm and rage
swept from the coals of her heart on the other.
(abuse of other human beings
is against the law)
(it took this woman an eternity
to believe she was sleeping
with a criminal)
notes from the cover . 95
would go running through aids wards
howling for blankets for friends dying cold.
could not keep tears from her face
as these friends turned
to skeletons, time running out,
a rolex ticking on bone,
remembered the one left dead in mexico's desert,
a lover panicked, searching for cures, afraid now
with a dead body in the car
(how exactly do you explain all this to customs)
had no idea her heart would travel
trying to find itself again,
had no idea it would feel so invisible
could feel so afraid.
would fall in love with so many women,
so many brave healers,
and some of them with her.
would write so many poems about death
read so many
and write so many obituaries.
would take so many risks to save herself.
would one day in thin clothing
stand on her front steps
not caring what the neighbors thought,
yell with a voice pulled from the throat
ofa god
"tell the truth you bastard,
tell the truth you bastard."
the woman who wanted to write this poem
declined.
i saw only the cover of her notebook.
(what things are written inside)
her heart allowed me to see no more.
her heart wrapped in feathers
and lace,
guarded fiercely by angels.


notes from the cover

April, Raymonde

PORTEFOLIO
The works of / Les oeuvres de
Raymonde April
T'- -,.@.1,:
l:i
-1 
t
'w.'-. I
Miroir, 2004, 112 x 157,5 cm, lmpression au jet d'encre
Deux horizons, 2004, 112 x 157,5 cm, lmpression au jet d'encre
Quatre amis, 2004, 112 x 157,5 cm, lmpression au jet d'encre
f nconscience (Evans), 2004,91,5 x 265 cm, lmpression au jet d'encre
lnconscience (aigle), 2004, 91,5 x 2'14 cm, lmpression au jet d'encre
Echinac6e, 2004,'112 x 157,5 cm, lmpression au jet d'encre


French

PORTEFOLIO

Hartog, Guitté

Chénard, Jacqueline

«Tu m'entends, inutile!»
Expression populaire de la rage feminine envers les hommes
dans l'reuvre chantee de Paquita la del Barrioi
Guitte Hartog et Jacqueline Chenard
In Mexico a popular singer expresses - for millions ofwomen - taboo
feelings such as rage, shame and frustration left by the experience of
disappointed love. Far from the political correctness belonging to the
traditional feminine ideal or that ofwomen semancipation, this is a true
cultural transgression, contrasting with the «proper» way Latino-Amer-
ican women and many others ought to accept having been deceived,
abandoned, poorly loved, poorly made love to, now alone, often with the
children of these men from whom they expected everlasting happiness,
passion, support and tenderness.
le ne sais pas ce que j'ai de travers contre les hommes
Pourquoi diable, je les hais autant
Et comment, je ne vais pas les haYr?
S'ils sont la cause d'autant de pleurs
Mon grand-pere trompait ma grand-mere
Mon pere maltraitait ma mere
Et ce fils de ... continue dans la meme lignee...
Tu m'entends, inutile...
Oh ! Hommes «malfrats» !
Ut, on vous chante ....
Ou vous vous replacez,
Ou on vous castre
Vous entendez, inutiles!
Ce qui peut vous arriver!
(Extrait de la chanson «Hombre malvados»,
Traduction libre)
Au Mexique, La Paquita, une femme au physique imposant, vetue de la tete aux
pieds de paillettes, chante avec beaucoup de glamour son desenchantement pour
ce qu'elle appelle Le club des inutiles, c'est-a-dire les miiles qui ont trompe leurs
femmes, leur ont menti, furent pietres amants et se sont fait entretenir par les
femmes qui les ont aimes. Le spectacle retient d'autant plus l'attention qu'en terre
78 . Tessera
latino-americaine, le machisme et l'abnegation feminine font partie de l'identite
nationale.
En tant que dame,
le devrais me taire.
Mais maintenant, tout le monde va savoir
Que t'es un desastre au lit ...
(Extrait de la chanson «Taco placero»
Traduction libre )
Dans un pays ou on enseigne aux fillettes qu'elles sont plus mignonnes quand
e1les se taisent, (dicton populaireyi; soudainement se deploie un choeur de milliers
de femmes de tous ages qui chantent as'epoumoner leur mepris pour les hommes
qui les ont deyues, dirige par une chanteuse qui revit achacun de ses spectacles,
emue jusqu'aux larmes, la rage que lui ont laissee ses deceptions amoureuses.
Comme chien tu m'as suivi
Comme chien tu me poursuivais ...
A ma parte tu grattais ...
Pour recevoir mon amour...
Dne fois que tu l'as eu
Tu fus un homme rude et cruel
Tu fus un chien traitre
Capable de mordre la main qui te nourrissait
De chien it chien
Qui est le plus chien et le plus canaille?
Toi qui as pu mordre la main qui prenait soin de toi.
le viens te demander pardon
Pour te comparer avec lui
Pardon...
Pardonne-moi cher ami
Que me pardonne ton chien
Pour le comparer it toi
Tu m'entends inutile!
le suis en train de parler au chien!
Que me pardonne ton chien
Pour l'avoir compare it toi
(ExtIait de la chanson «Que me perdone tu perm»,
Traduction libre)
Tu m 'entends, inutile! . 79
Malgre quelques decennies de feminisme et de liberte d'expression, les mani-
festations de la colere feminine demeurent un tabou important. Les femmes qui
manifestent de la rage sont socialement per9ues comme hysteriques ou folles a
lier. Le feminisme a voulu les femmes independantes et fortes, ce qui a laisse peu
d'espace pour parler des sentiments et des besoins amoureux. Trap longtemps
confinees a la sphere privee, les femmes ont dfr lutter pour se faire une place
dans ce qu'on considerait I'univers des hommes, c'est-a-dire le monde prafes-
sionnel et politique. Apres une si longue repression intellectuelle et sociale, il
n'etait pas dans les priorites des feministes de se laisser aller dans le sentimen-
talisme et I' emotivite. La colere des femmes fut sublimee, dans le meilleur des
cas, dans des luttes pour une meilleure justice sociale, et dans le pire des cas,
intellectualisee dans un discours theorique qui faisait des hommes les bourreaux
et les oppresseurs des femmes depuis la nuit des temps. En effet, les luttes
feministes ont permis aux femmes de reclamer aux hommes de partager les
taches domestiques et le soin des enfants et de divorcer des hommes, mais pas
necessairement d'exprimer leur colere, leur tristesse et leur deception de ne pas
rencontrer des compagnons a la hauteur de leurs aspirations amoureuses.
Tu m'as tant deyue
Que je t'envoie un cheque en blanc
A ton nom, juste pour toi
C'est pour la quantite que tu veux
Ou ya dit mepris, ya doit etre ton prix
Et ya va signe par moi
(Extrait de la chanson «Cheque en blanco»,
Traduction libre)
Quant a I'ceuvre qu'interprete «La Paquita», elle permet justement de rendre
publique une partie importante et douloureuse de la vie privee des femmes. Sans
faire de politique, a grands coups de chansons et d'insultes, elle met des mots sur
des situations et des emotions que de nombreuses femmes refoulent parce que
considerees honteuses. En effet, ses prestations mettent en lumiere la cause de
beaucoup de depressions, d'insomnies, de maux de tete et de crises de boulimie
qu'experimentent de nombreuses de femmes qui ne furent jamais aimees par un
homme comme elles l'auraient souhaite, qui se rendent compte que leur vie
amoureuse fut un desastre, qu'elles ont aime des hommes qui n'en valaient pas la
peine, et eu des enfants d'hommes «inutiles», irresponsables, qui pour comble
n'etaient pas de tres bons amants. Son discours n'a rien d'intellectuel, il vole
meme plutot bas, mais il n'a d'autre fonction que de liberer les reves frustres des
nombreuses femmes qui se meurent d'envie de partager leur vie avec un com-
pagnon qui soit leur egal et non un de ces «inutiles».
80 . Tessera
Si it dormir tu m'as amenee dans ton lit
T'aurais dl1 me le dire ...
Pour dormir j'ai mon propre lit
Et plus grand et plus chaud ...
Toute la nuit, je l'ai passee it t'attendre
En revant toute seule
Pendant que tu ronflais
Pauvre petit pistolet
Tu ne tires rien
Ni de temps en autres
Tu m'entends inutile !
QueUe ingrate fut la nature avec toi !
(Extrait de la chanson «Pobre pistolita»,
traduction libre)
Pour les femmes latino-americaines que trap souvent on a convaincues que tous
les hommes sont pareils et congenitalement incapables de fidelite, les chants' de
Paquita la del Barrio acquierent des vertus therapeutiques, une sorte de remede au
fatalisme. D'une certaine fac,;on, la brutalite du repertoire que chante La Paquita
fait sourire, rassure les femmes sur la legitimite de leur colere et les soulage de
sentir qu'elles ne sont pas les seules a vivre pareilles situations. Bien sur, le ton
est a la vengeance et elle frappe «Oll c,;a fait mal» c'est-a-dire directement dans
I'orgueil du macho, en insultant sa «Sainte-Mere», en le traitant d'impuissant et
de cocu.
Moi, qui connement 1'avais toujours ete fidele
Aujourd'hui ce fut different...
Trois fois je t' ai trompe
Trois fois je t'ai trompe
Trois fois jet'ai trompe
La premiere fois par colere
La seconde par caprice
La troisieme fois par plaisir
Tu m 'entends, inutile! . 81
Trois [ois je 1'ai trompe
Trois [ois je t'ai trompe
Trois [ois je l'ai trompe
Et, apres ces trois [ois
Et, apres ces trois [ois
Je ne veux plus rien
savoir de te revoir.
(Extrait de la chanson asucces
«Tres veces te engane»,
Traduction libre)
Son succes populaire montre la vitalite de I'inspiration que soulevent les pas-
sions amoureuses. Seull'amour demesure peut pousser un Jacques BreI a sup-
plier une femme de le laisser Hre {'ombre de son chieniii et une femme comme
Paquita aimplorer un chien de lui pardonner de I'avoir compare ason ex-amant.
Ces comparaisons montrent bien que les relations qui unissent les hommes et les
femmes, et qui les separent, comportent une grande part d'irrationalite et de
pathos, surtout quand elles se traduisent en chansons. Mais au bout du compte,
avec quelques adaptations mineures au texte, toutes les chansons qu'interpretent
Paquita, BreI et tous les autres pourraient facilement etre interpretees d'une
fayon credible autant par un homme que par une femme. Et dans le cas de Paqui-
ta, il n 'y a aucun doute sur la sincerite et la puissance des sentiments exprimes.
L'assistance y croit. .. suffisamment pour qu'on voie des femmes se lever,
chanter agorge deployee, les bras grands ouverts; et les hommes detourner la
tete et rougir comme s'ils venaient de recevoir une gifle en ecoutant La Paqui-
ta, accompagnee de son choeur de femmes, declamer son grand tube ...
Rat immonde
Animal rampant
Crasse de la vie
Dechet de la vie
Je te hais et je te meprise
Rat adeux partes
C'est atoi que je parle
Tu m' entends, inutile !
Maudite sangsue
Maudite coquerelle
82 . Tessera
Rat it deux pattes ...
C'est it toi que j e parle
Parce qu'une bestiole rampante
Meme en restant la plus maudite
Comparee a toi
Reste bien modeste ...
(Extrait de la chanson «Ratas de dos patas»,
Traduction libre)
La charge emotive que porte la voix de Paquita la del Barrio, qui ne mache pas
ses mots, permet d'exprimer la douleur refoulee par les femmes ebranlees a la
suite d'une deception amoureuse. Il s'agit d'une veritable transgression culturelie
qui contraste avec la fayon «convenable» dont les femmes latino-americaines et
bien d'autres devraient accepter d'avoir ete trompees, abandonnees, mal aimees,
mal baisees, d'etre maintenant seules, bien souvent, avec les enfants de ces
hommes de qui elles attendaient le bonheur, la passion, l'appui et la tendresse
pour toujours. Il ne s'agit pas d'une solution et encore moins d'une proposition
pour construire des relations harmonieuses entre les hommes et les femmes, il
s'agit plutot d'un defoulement cathartique, d'une ordonnance, d'un antibiotique,
d'un prix de consolation bon marche pour garder le gout de chanter, de celebrer
la vie qui continue malgre tous ces «inutiles» qui leur ont tordu le creur.
Notes
i Paquita la del Barrio «celle du quartier» est une chanteuse populaire du
Mexique qui, comme son surnom l'indique, se veut du peuple. Les auteurs
des chansons ne sont pas connus, ni identifies. «Tu m'entends inutile!»
constitue sa phrase phare. La legende veut qu'elle fut inspiree de son pre-
mier mari, pere de ses trois enfants et lancee en plein spectacle lorsque la
Paquita s'est soudainement rendu compte que «son homme» assistait a son
spectacle au bras de sa nouvelle conquete.
ii Traduction libre du dicton populaire «Calladita te vez mas bonita».
iii Extrait de la chanson populaire «Ne me quitte pas».


«Tu m'entends, inutile!» Expression populaire de la rage féminine envers les hommes dans l'œuvre chantée de Paquita la del Barrio

Bessens, Véronique

Le Blasphème (ou la traîtise du dictionnaire)

Kelen, Christopher

the high wire and the long drop
Christopher Kelen
C'est I'histoire d'une Chinoise cl Macao, minuscule territoire ancien-
nement portugais. A la merci d 'un mari et d 'un fils cruels, elle soujJre ter-
riblement et assiste cl plusieurs reprises au suicide de voisins. Elle decide
finalement de faire elle-meme le grand saut, mais quand son mari sortpar
la fenetre pour la ramener cl I'interieur, if semble que la corde cl tinge
qu'if avait installee plusieurs annees auparavant n 'est pas aussi sotide
qu 'if le pensait. 11 resulte de cette suite d'erreurs de calcul une liberation.
Hac Sa Wan. The hottest day of the year.
'Did you hear that thud?'
'No. Nothing.'
'It was unmistakable.'
'Sorry?'
'Sickening. You don't know what that was?'
'Look, I'm just trying to read my paper, dearest. A man can't get a
moment's peace. All this infernal chatter. You just go on and on all the time. Can't
you find someone else to nag at? Shouldn't you be cleaning something? The
ghosts in hell have a quieter life than I have. And close that damn window. Don't
you know how cold it is?'
Ah Mei is looking out of the window at the lifeless form on the ground
below. She can't make out who it could be. It's a woman. The ghosts in hell?
Here's another. Ah Mei, the wife in this piece, dwells bitterly on these words. She
tries to guess from which floor this one fell. The ghosts in hell. It's unlucky but
she can't help thinking of what ghosts in hell needn't put up with. Married life
stretches back into her memory, back to girlhood. Back to where recollection
fades and merges with whatever comes before it. When was she not a piece of fur-
niture in this man's house? In her father's house before that? At least there though
there'd been brothers and sisters to play with, there'd been school for a while,
there'd been something other than drudgery and abuse.
This monster! Ah Mei glances across the room at his more than full form.
She's careful not to catch his eye, that would be an accusation. And an accusation
would lead to ... The newspaper and the television, that's it. It's so long since he's
worked, if he was given a job on a platter now, he wouldn't know what to do. He
wouldn't have a clue. His sexual appetite may have diminished, his fondness for
drink and for the violence it seems often as not to engender - these things have
never lessened. Beating her up is how he keeps fit, he's actually said as much.
Monster is no exaggeration. There's no animal she'd care to slander by making the
association. Animals may be vicious in their nature, but they're innocents as well.
70 . Tessera
Ah Mei feels old, she already feels something like how she imagines a
ghost must feel. It's as if she is approaching the end at last, the end of a bitter life.
It's not so much a premonition as a prognosis, a prognosis becoming a decision.
She is alone. But not alone. Whenever they jump, and it's now happened four
times in the last twelve months, either they fall past her window, or at least she
hears the thud. Sometimes both. Once there was a scream, high pitched at first and
then the pitch falling, for longer than she would have thought. In all but one case,
she knows the women. She has played Mah long with them, or waited after school
with them to collect kids. But that is all, was all, long ago. Now, they are gone,
they're free. Where's she? Ah Mei admits to herself that, after each suicide, she
had felt a thrill of empathy, she'd felt jealous. Her resentment had intensified.
'Where's my lunch?'
'I thought you were going out.'
'No. I never go out on Wednesdays.'
'You did last Wednesday and you said you would today.'
'No, I didn't. You're a lying bitch.'
ButAh Mei isn't lying. This is what she's put up with. It's worse than Alzheimer's
because this is all meant, and vicious, every word of it. It's what he lives for now,
this game of his, in which she is always wrong unless or until she takes a beating
for remembering the truth. He does nothing but scheme against her now. When
he'd had a job and gone out drinking and gambling, at least there'd been sOlne
respite then. One of the most attractive things about suicide would be the insur-
ance money she'd be depriving him of.
'I'll get your lunch.'
'Hurry up, silly bitch or I'll .. .' but he drifts back to the paper not even
bothering to finish his threat. He's so well understood.
Ah Mei thinks of the ways. There's the indoor BBQ option. It doesn't
always work but they say that there's no pain. Slashed wrists and sleeping pills
she's read are for attention seekers, people who aren't really serious. Though a hot
bath helps apparently. Hell to clean though. Rat poison strikes her as an ugly way
out. She's seen how the rats handle it. Pills? Or good old drinking yourself to
death? Too expensive. Taking him with her? No, she's not that kind of person. No
matter how evil for how long, no matter how much he deserves a fate grislier than
she can imagine, she cannot take another life. But haven't these women of her
acquaintance been showing her the way? The not-exactly-a-miracle of unpowered
flight ... brief but heroic ... What goes up? How natural could it be to live on the
tenth floor anyway? There's hardly a cockroach up here. Well, there are less any-
way. Unpowered flight. Freefall. The ride of a lifetime. It could be the one heroic
thing in an otherwise astoundingly prosaic life ... no, not even that is astounding ...
the dullness of her life is like the dullness of so many others ... meaningless is the
word that slips through her mind again and again. No meaning to live for.
But if she gives up the ghost? Then what? The Christians and the Daoists
and the Buddhists and so many others, they can't all be right. No, but they could
all be wrong. Annihilation, isn't that the goal of the good Buddhist? Well maybe
the high wire and the long drop . 71
it's only seconds away. But if there is a hell, my God, she thinks, I'll be poorer
there than I have been in this life. None of those gangster children will send me
any rice, and this monster, he wouldn't buy hell money for anyone apart his own
revered father, that is, the man who taught him every blow he knows. Like father
like son, and so Ah Mei reflects on the three generations.
'Lunch! Bitch! What's wrong with you?'
But something has changed, something has snapped inside. Ah Mei is
actually climbing out of the window.
'I said lunch! It's freezing in here. Close that window dearest, or I'll
throw you through it.'
'No need.'
'What?' But he doesn't even look around. Not yet.
She's still on the window-sill, dangling her legs, but she's edging herself
onto the metal washing line. There are two of these actually. There's the original
one from when the building was first erected, almost completely rusted out, and a
newer one, itself ancient but not quite as rusty. That was a concession from him
when they'd had three kids to wash clothes for. Cheaper than taking the washing
out. She's sitting on the rusted line now. It's creaking a little but so far it's taking
her weight.
There's that patch of silence in the script now where something funny has
happened with time, so that none of the old rules apply, nor have they yetbeen
superseded. Then the siren, desultory. Half a minute at the most. Just to acknowl-
edge there's been an event. Like a bell tolling. Would it? The ambulance arrives.
A waste. Why do they always send an ambulance for these corpses? Just a con-
vention. She's swinging her legs now, and congratulating herself for being so
thrifty, so thoughtful about things. Surely, they wouldn't send a second ambulance
for her? This train of thought is only half bitter, only half ironic. Ah Mei has
always been a thrifty soul. She's bouncing a little. There's a little creak.
'What the ... ?
And almost at the moment her husband has seen where she is, the ambu-
lance men, looking up, naturally, have spotted her. They wave at her. She waves
back. She's always loved meeting strangers.
'You get back in here, you stupid bitch.'
They signal they're coming up. One of them shouting out 'Don't. .. just
don't. We're coming ... '
'I told you to get back in here bitch.'
She doesn't even turn her head. 'No.'
'What was that?'
'No.'
'No what?'
'No I don't think so.'
'You get back in here and cook my lunch you filthy slut or I'll ... '
'You'll what?'
'I'll shake you off that clothes line.'
'Go on then. Give me a Christian burial. Go to gaol. Everyone's watching.'
72 . Tessera
'You're not a Christian. You never... '
'So?'
'I'll ... I'll come out there and drag you back in and I'll give you a hiding
you'll never forget. .. '
'Come on then.' Where is this bravery coming from? Ah Mei is discover-
ing that simply by standing at the end of the world she is able to become a new
person. Who would have thought it?
'Right.' And he's doing it. He's coming out. And Ah Mei is wondering
whether the ambulance men will get to the door and then through the door before
her husband succeeds in rescuing her and then carrying out the next part of his
plan. But then she remembers that the lift was out this morning, so they'll be a
while yet.
It's hard for this slug to get out the window. He's struggling. Ah Mei's
moved to the furthest edge of her line. It's remarkably strong! Or she's remark-
ably light? Maybe she's a ghost already. In any case he can't reach her from the
window. So he's climbing through. He's coming.
Another siren. It's emergency services. Might as well have a send off.
He's on the window sill now. He's so angry. But it's so funny to see him there.
How will he ever swing his legs around to get himself whole through the window?
It's inconceivable.
She's looking down. She's decided to spend her last few minutes ignorip.g
her lifelong tormentor. Condemned men get cigarettes and pizzas. It's not as if
she's asking much. They're waving up at her, these new boys. And she's waving
back. They're so young. And they really seem concerned. It's touching. When was
the last time someone had shown concern for her? What are they doing? They've
dragged some enormous plastic thing out of their truck. What is it? She hears the
puffing and the panting behind her, but she's not going to turn around. Not now.
She's decided. She's never giving that bastard the satisfaction again.
It's a jumping castle. They've got me a jumping castle from a kids' fair.
Now that is sweet. She looks around for the contrast and she's shocked to see he's
swung his legs around. He's actually sitting on the window sill, legs out. He's
catching his breath after this super human effort. Without making eye contact she
can see that he's scared. She's still beyond his reach. She waves down to the boys
again. They shout back something she can't make out. One of them's going for a
megaphone in the truck. She swings her legs, she tests her position. She bounces
a little. She feels like a girl again. When she glances back, he's more scared than
ever. Scared and angry, but which more? Some kind of table has turned. This is all
worthwhile. She's glad she didn't go for the charcoal or the rat poison. She's out
in the fresh air. There's something wholesome about this. He's looking determined
now. He's going to get her. He's in that mood he gets in, just before the violence,
when he stops talking altogether. He's about to climb off the ledge and onto the
clothes line. She means to say nothing, to ignore him. They've started up a pump
down below. It's so loud that even with the megaphone she can't hear a thing
they're shouting.
the high wire and the long drop . 73
The wonderful thing is that with all these unexpected events, she's com-
pletely forgotten to feel afraid for herself. She means to say nothing but she can't
help herself. She says, 'It'll never take your weight.'
'It will.'
'It won't'
'It will. You are such a contrary bitch. Even now, you have to contradict
me. It's the new one. I put it up myself. I put in the biggest bolts we could afford.
It'd take two of me.'
'Maybe then. Not now. You're too heavy.'
'Just watch.'
She does. There isn't really a moment when he has hold properly. Why
didn't time stand still this time? The whole operation is so noiseless, such a non-
event. Just the pump working, a dull thud barely heard above it.
Down below they're thinking again about that proposal for the faster
pump. It should really be no problem now. 'Shit! And there's still another one.
They must be having a convention today. Can't that thing go any faster? Better get
another ambulance. They'll only fit two in there.'
It's only another minute and things are fully inflated down below. The
pump's turned off and now it's a little surreal, she can hear everything. Of course
there's a crowd gathered too. She's a celebrity. Some callous youth is yelling,
'Throw us your wallet, love. You won't need it.' But Ah Mei's in casual attire. She
wasn't dressed to go out and even if she had been, well, that cheapskate husband
wouldn't have let her have fifty patacas in her purse. So quite frankly her wallet
would be a disappointment to any potential grave robber. What's going through
Ah Mei's head is, 'greedy little bastard'. This sentiment and the train of thought
preceding it, she recognises, are all signs of the will and the determination to live.
And why not, she has her whole life ahead of her. Instead of being saved by a cave
man for his mindless abuse, they've prepared a castle to catch her. Of course she
wants to live. Her life begins this moment. That's why she jumps. She aims and
jumps. She'll feel sore but it'll be worth it.
And now comes the pounding on the door. Then the crowbars. Two pant-
ing men storm into an empty room. They look down to see a woman still bounc-
ing. She looks remarkably ... sprightly's the word. No harm done. They don't even
notice the male body, which is odd, given how much pavement it takes up and the
conspicuous chalk marks already around it.
For Ah Mei, celebrity status. A certain amount of the naughty girl treat-
ment, but after all she's been through, they're gentle with her. There's the obliga-
tory ambulance ride down to the hospital for the check up. 'How was that?' quips
the ambulance man, as he helps her aboard.
'It was great. Great. I've never felt so alive in my life.'
'That's what we like to hear', he says, but he's thinking 'and that's the
first time I've heard it.'
It's on her way home from the hospital, social worker in tow, the wheels
begin to turn. One thing she realises straight off is the simple fact that this wasn't
a suicide. There's no way it was. There are witnesses. The situation is quite clear
74 . Tessera
cut. The doctor, the social worker, the policeman: none of them had any trouble
believing her story, which was simply the truth. She told him it wouldn't take his
weight. She told him. The truth will set you free. Maybe the Christians are onto
something? Ah Mei knows she'll be collecting a tidy sum. A new fiat? Maybe
Coloane? Fresh air out there. Sea breezes. Maybe she'll take up sky diving. Hang
gliding. Parachuting. Never too young to learn.


the high wire and the long drop

Tavares, John

End of the Lines
John Tavares
End of the Lines traite essentiellement des relations humaines et des
schismes qui se crl!ent entre les etres, hommes et femmes, rI!sultats de leur
deloyaute, de leurs infidelites, de leur complaisance, des occasions qui se
presentent cl eux, des jugements qu'ifs portent, bons ou mauvais ou
quelque part entre les deux, et des consequences materielles de ces
processus, interactions et reactions humaines.
Bourne had gotten on the city transit bus towards the end of the line, at the
stop located a few blocks from his modest bungalow in the suburbs.
Today was a Saturday morning, Bourne having made it into the city and
home after a three week long western road trip across cities and towns of the
prairies, a sales drive promoting and selling the latest product - a herbal aphro-
disiac - from a health food supplement and vitamin company into which he had
heavily invested his savings. The herbal aphrodisiac had first caught attention of
Bourne, who had been suffering acute psychological distress because ofhis impo-
tence and difficulty maintaining firm erections, after he read a newspaper item
about the locally manufactured supplement.
On Friday night, Bourne had gone out to a nightclub with Belinda, and,
after losing track of his longtime girlfriend that evening, he left, slightly puzzled.
Usually, when he returned home to the city after a sales trip, Belinda spent the
evening with him. The last he had seen of his girlfriend, though, was with Collard,
his colleague, his fellow salesperson with the health food, herbal supplement, and
vitamin company.
Since Belinda was not having breakfast or coffee with him that morning,
he had decided that he would go downtown, while he still had time off, before the
next sales expedition, to check in at some electronic stores for the cost of com-
puter upgrades, a new stick of random access memory, perhaps a high perfor-
mance sound card. As the bus continued to work its way along Flaxfield Avenue,
though, picking up weekend shoppers and clerks on their way to work at the shop-
ping mall, it passed Collard's place. Collard, who had also invested heavily in the
company for which they both worked as sales representatives, was practically con-
verting and rebuilding his rambling house on Flaxfield Avenue into a mansion,
installing solariums, Jacuzzis, saunas, and decks, and Bourne would have been the
first to admit that he was filled with some resentment and jealousy of this self-
taught home improvement expert and renovator. The bus stopped at the stop a few
houses down from Collard's residence, and then, to his partial amazement, when
he glanced up from the computer manual that he was reading, who should board
98 . Tessera
the bus but Belinda, looking simply resplendent in her trim denim, tight cotton
shirt cut above the navel, dressed for the summer even though it was a chilly
spring morning, looking simply beautiful - indeed, the way he had left the pre-
vious evening.
Last night was an awkward time for Bourne, who found that, as the
evening passed, Belinda seemed less interested in him and was spending plenty of
time drinking, chatting, and dancing with Collard. Now, although he kept his head
down, and was wearing sunglasses on this extremely bright day, hoping that Belin-
da would not notice him, apparently she did. She sat on the seat beside him, her
hair smelling freshly shampooed, her body scented with perfume and fragrances.
When she wordlessly came and sat beside him, though, he moved away towards
the back of the bus. She turned back and looked at him with that questioning,
almost pleading look in her eyes. She moved to the back of the bus, and, Bourne
failing so much as to acknowledge her presence, moved away again. He sat in the
middle of the bus this time, towards the place where the rear doors were located.
Again, she stood up, moved, and tucked herself in beside him and he took a dif-
ferent seat again. She positioned herself down again beside him and reached out
to touch his hand, tears in her eyes.
"I don't want you sitting beside me," Bourne said, and this time he simply
continued highlighting passages from his book on computer repairs, maintenance,
and upgrades with a fine point felt pen.
"What is wrong with you?" Belinda asked.
Bourne kept reading the section on connecting scanners and digital
cameras, and when she did not get off at the shopping mall as he expected, he
impatiently sat down on a seat again beside the doors saying, "I know you spent
the night at Collard's."
Thinking he could even smell Collard's cologne or aftershave on her, he
continued reading. The tears merely grew larger in her eyes. He could see them
reflected off his sunglasses as he got up and stood by the doors.
"Don't you have to go to work?" he asked, glancing at his watch, which
would reach noon in a few minutes. When he reached his stop, outside the main
city auditorium and convention centre, he said softly, "Goodbye, Belinda, good-
bye. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye," in his repetitive, obsessive-compulsive man-
ner, before he stepped off the bus in front of the city hall and planetarium. But she
hurried off the bus after him and chased after him. As he tried to decide on
whether he would go to the coffee house for a quick breakfast or straight to the
electronic stores, he realized that Belinda was on his tail and walked first in one
direction and then the next. She pulled at his collar.
"You can't do this to me," she whispered fiercely.
He pulled himself away from her grip. "Don't you have to go to work?"
"We need to talk." Belinda continued walking after him past the museum.
"You can't just do this to me."
He started walking faster, but she caught up to him and tried to hold him.
From behind she stuck her index finger into his mouth, in that personal gesture
that private language they had had, that invited him to suck her finger and kiss up
her hand, her arms, and continue to work his way upwards, but instead he thought
End ofthe Lines' 99
it all seemed so silly and ended up spitting out her finger, lightly biting it. She dug
her nail deep, scratching a long red curving line across his freshly shaved cheek
that bled profusely, leaving a scar to remind him every time he shaved.
"You can't do this to me," she sobbed.
"I can," he said, getting a tighter grip on the soft cover book under his arm
as he walked away, losing himself in the crowd downtown, before adding, to
nobody but himself, as if seeking reassurance, self-confidence, "and 1 will."


End of the Lines

Abdelmoumen, Mélikah

Certains l'aiment noire

Bolli, Michèle

Sur les traces d'une petite croqueuse
Michele Bolli
A fictional tale - and/or a mirror enlarging a certain reality - such is
the episode of a small woman s life who resists the misogyny-force that
destroys her environment; misogyny that transforms beings into monsters,
in this case into ogres. This text aims to question the form ofresistances
that can be opposed to these behaviors, inside as well as outside the fem-
inine group. And, in either case, to begin by naming them, representing
them, in one word making them visible to all, in order to transform them.
Il etait un territoire peuple d'etres etranges qui avalaient tout sur leur pas-
sage. Ut, chaque presence, chaque objet visible, etait en danger de disparaHre,
absorbe.
Il arriva qu'elle entra en cet espace.
Elle observa la scene. Y vit d'abord les ogres-miroirs: des non-personnes
qui rendent toute rencontre, tout echange de vues, impossibles. N'offrant a autrui,
que miroitantes surfaces ...
Puis, les monstres-Mtonneurs: prenant l'autre sous une chape de beton, eux-
memes statufies en hommes de pierre, refractaires a toute atteinte sensible.
Pourtant, en ces lieux, il y avait aussi une maison-Iangage. OU se tenir a
l'abri un moment. Le temps de prendre la mesure de ses forces. De reparer les
avaries. De biitir de nouvelles defenses peut-etre, avant de repartir.
Restait un danger, ici, etre mise a la porte, c'est-a-dire etre reduite, parquee,
classee, avant d'avoir repris suffisamment de force pour survivre au-dehors.
Toujours menacee donc, soit d'etre absorMe, perdue dans l'un ou l'autre ventre
d'ogre, soit d'etre placee sous cU'iture... Menacee de parenthese.
Un jour, sans bruit, elle partit.
Un ogre s'aperyut soudain que quelque chose lui echappait... Une petite
partie manquait a l'ensemble. Son appetit n'etait pas entierement satisfait, ni sa
volonte de dominer le territoire.
Irrite, il se mit a chercher. Achercher partout. De plus en plus febrile. De plus en
plus frustre. Il cherche, questionne, interroge, remue... Rien.
Pendant ce temps, une petite femme emporte avec elle la parcelle man-
quante. A belles dents, elle a croque dans le petit Lu de la connaissance. Puis,
s'est enfuie par une porte deroMe.
La voici, enfin delivree de cet univers predateur...
Commence sa vraie vie!
A chaque etape, c'est un peu de son etre propre qui emerge, qui prend
corps.
56 . Tessera
Achaque pause, elles sont la, les voix melees: rient les bonnes fees, rica-
nent les carabosses (clin d'oeil a Pinget, mais aussi realite).
Plus loin, elle croisa une vieille qui lui predit une pluie de catastrophes si
elle persistait a deployer son propre mouvement, a vivre en liberte.
Mais la petite croqueuse fit la sourde oreille et construisit sa premiere
cabane.
Elle avanc;a plus encore...
Surgit une Carabosse medusante. Elle la fixa et chercha a l'immobiliser
par son regard glac;ant.
Evitant de croiser ses yeux, la petite croqueuse s'echappa pour constru-
ire sa seconde cabane.
Apres un long parcours, elle croisa une carabosse curieuse-insatiable...
Celle-ci questionnait ses victimes jusqu'a leur piimoison.
Resistant une fois encore, la petite croqueuse lui touma le dos, avanc;a
rapidement jusqu'au lieu ou elle construisit sa troisieme cabane.
Enfin, un visage aime se rapproche. Longtemps reve. N'est-il une fois
encore qu'un leurre?
Lestee de sa croque, la jeune femme s'avance vers lui, tout a la fois con-
tente de son acquis, et craintive a l'egard des evenements a venir. Il s'avance en
souriant: «Ogre ou compagnon-biitisseur?» se demandait-elle.
Mais de l'horizon, a grandes foulees, deja s'approche la Carmen... Cara-
bosse encore, mais jeune, impetueuse, imperieusement desirante...
Elle ecrasa la petite croqueuse...
*
Ratatinee au sol, mais pas morte, la petite croqueuse rampa hors de la vue
de la rouge Carmen.
Se redressa. Se defroissa. Secoua ses boucles. Sortit son rouge a levres a
petit miroir serti de grenats. Redessina la forme fruitee de sa bouche. Puis, reprit
sa route en imaginant la forme de sa prochaine cabane.
(extrait d'un livre a paraitre)


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