My credo: photograph only what I can love. Turn my gaze into that love, always and only. Of all my photography projects, the one I’m proudest of is a series of sleeping nudes called N(o)us: bodies of all ages, colours and sexes, obese and scrawny, smooth and wrinkly, hairless and hirsute, spotted with tattoos, birthmarks and scars, dreaming and breathing, defenceless, vulnerable, mortal, curled up in the lovely abandonment of slumber…Each and every one of them is beautiful.
Fabrice and I conceived Toussaint during one of those, shall we say, hospitable afternoons. Six weeks into the pregnancy, I started bringing in ultrasound pictures of our baby, and Fabrice pretended to confuse my amniotic liquid with a revealing bath. ‘You’re right, it’s the same thing,’ I told him. Yes, the same thrill of surprise when you see a form coalescing out of nowhere—here it comes. This curve, this spectrum of greys, these increasingly ramified, complex features—yes here it comes, my love, oh look, here it comes, here it is…Something is arriving, someone is here—alive, its tiny heart beating! I had the most incandescent orgasms of my life during that pregnancy. Fabrice died a few weeks before our baby was born. He’d received the kidney of a young girl who’d died in a car accident but his body had rejected the transplant. Now that body, every square centimetre of which I once licked and stroked and kissed and actively worshipped, is buried somewhere in the Cité Soleil neighbourhood of Port-au-Prince, I’m not even sure where…
Really? Subra asks, feigning surprise. You don’t know where your first husband is buried?
Okay, okay, I know. He’s in Montreuil cemetery.
Time to get up, for Christ’s sake.
Semplici
It’s nearly eleven o’clock already. The hotel proprietor is conveying his annoyance by clattering the cups and saucers as loudly as he can—Enough, already! Do these Canadese think they can just sit around all day, the way they do back at home in their wigwams?
‘We thought it would be a good idea to start by going for a nice walk in a park,’ Ingrid says, helping Simon to his feet. ‘Get some exercise to perk us up a bit. Right, Dad? We found some gardens on the map, very close by.’
They set out, but the park isn’t as close by as it looks (the map doesn’t show all the streets). Their nerves are rapidly frayed by the incessant, invasive noise of impatient cars revving their motors and honking their horns in the narrow streets. Simon has become hypersensitive to traffic noise since the City of Westmount decided to run an expressway right under the windows of their home. Remembering this, Rena begins to suffer from what she imagines to be his discomfort, and also from Ingrid’s anxiety about how the noise must be bothering him; their misery compounding her own, in a state of acute distress within minutes. At the same time, she’s experiencing a strange epiphany. Thanks to the birdcalls, the gradually evaporating haze, and the greenery on ochre walls, she finds herself magically lifted out of this scene and wafted back to a solitary walk she took a dozen years ago in Mumbai’s Hanging Gardens.
She’d come to the city to work with women in the red-light district, but within a day or two she’d found herself overwhelmed by their sheer number—there were thousands of them, living in tiny rooms stacked like beehive cells in three- and four-storey buildings—street after street, an entire neighbourhood run by the mafia. ‘Oh, there are worse places than this,’ smiled Arunha, the young woman she eventually chose to photograph. ‘Here, at least, we can go out in the morning, walk around, chat together, do a bit of shopping…In other neighbourhoods there are ten-year-old girls locked up in cages.’ After one of these conversations, Rena had gone back to her hotel feeling suicidal. The next day, rising early, she’d walked all the way up Malabar Hill to the Hanging Gardens and been revived by their beauty. And today, even as she moves with excruciating slowness through the streets of Florence, she is unexpectedly soothed by the memory of Indian greenery and Indian haze, the mingled scent of smoke, musk and dung that hangs in the air over Indian cities.
You’ll survive, Subra whispers. Tomorrow you’ll rent a car and go speeding through the hills of Tuscany, the days will pass, they’re already passing, this trip will end, you’ll return to Paris, recover your apartment, your lover and your job, pick up where you left off… Don’t worry. Every step you take in Florence is a step towards Aziz’s arms.
When they reach the Via P.A. Micheli at last, it turns out that the Semplici gardens, though clearly indicated on the map, belong to the university and are not open to the public.
Through an archway, Rena glimpses flowerbeds and trimmed hedges. ‘Let’s give it a try,’ she says.
Red light? Go for it! Subra teases her. Barrier? Plough right through.
A rigid little guard in uniform rushes up to them at once: it’s obvious that no one in their trio belongs to either the faculty or the student body. ‘May I help you?’ the man queries aggressively in Italian.
With an apologetic smile, Rena explains that her parents are exhausted. Would it be all right if they rested for a moment on a bench?
Her smile is anything but hypocritical—to her mind, elderly people should be allowed to rest on benches the world over, and she hopes to assist the little guard in acknowledging this simple human fact. He hesitates. On the one hand, he, too, has elderly parents; on the other, he yearns to demonstrate his power. Taking advantage of his momentary paralysis, as with the young Lubavitch from Outrem-ont those many years ago, Rena catches his gaze and hangs on to it. A good three seconds elapse.
Hmm. Losing your touch! Subra says. What will become of you a few years down the track? Once wrinkles, bags and dark circles have done permanent damage to your lovely gaze, and the seduction techniques you’ve been polishing for decades no longer suffice to get you what you want, what you’re so utterly accustomed to obtaining…
‘No photos,’ the man mutters at last, staring pointedly at the Canon between Rena’s breasts.
Be my guest, she thinks. Go ahead and stare at the nipples pointing through my black T-shirt, if it makes you happy. Get an eyeful; both of us are mortal anyway.
Not much to see, if the truth be told, Subra teases her. Not exactly Fellini material…
Seated on a bench surrounded by idyllic Florentine beauty, Ingrid and Simon decide that now is a good time to fill Rena in on the details of their recent visit to Holland—the ageing, illnesses and deaths of Ingrid’s siblings, the new jobs, children and divorces of her nieces and nephews…Rena nods absently, her eyes following the students and professors as they wend their way across the campus grounds.
You hate universities, don’t you, Daddy? Because of that Ph.D. you never finished. The thesis on The Origins of Consciousness, which weighed on all our lives for ten long years. You tried so hard… When reality resisted, you struck out…mutilated…and turned away, stunned by your failure. Here in Florence—yes, such a thing truly can exist—joia della sapienza! Look how beautiful the buildings are, amidst sunlit greenery and flowers. Look at the warmth of their colours—ochre, yellow, beige, brown, pale pink. Look how eagerly the students run up the staircases to attend their lectures in Philosophy, History, Mathematics, Philology, and Life Sciences…Never could you have found that sort of harmony and peace of mind in the grey, glacial city of Montreal, amidst the forbidding stone buildings of McGill…All so long ago now. All so terribly too late. Come, close your eyes, relax…The origins of consciousness can wait.
Right. So…maybe we could er…do something with the rest of the day? Fine, no problem, we can go on avoiding the Uffici, but… couldn’t we maybe take in…ah…(she checks the map)…the Archaeological Museum? They’re off.
Gatto
All of a sudden Ingrid announces that she feels thirsty and wouldn’t mind stopping somewhere for a Coke.
No, thinks Rena. I will not scream with impatience. I will not rant and rave at this couple’s mind-boggling force of inertia. I will not protest at how they keep pitilessly plunging me into banality.
On the contrary, Subra puts in, you should take advantage of this r
are opportunity to study banality at close range. The tiny stuffed kitten dangling from the key to the ladies’ toilet, for instance. Now, there’s an object that unquestionably plays a minor role in the history of humanity…But since the signora who runs the café felt it deserved to be attached to a key, it must hold meaning for her. Did she buy it herself or receive it as a gift? Did it remind her of a cat she loved when she was little, but that unfortunately got run over by a car or savaged by a dog? You are here, Rena, and nowhere else. Why are you always convinced the important stuff is happening elsewhere?
Oh, poor, banal moment of my life—will no one ever sing your praises? Sitting on the toilet, Rena takes a few photos of the ridiculous stuffed kitten. That moment fades and vanishes, and the next one comes into being. It’s Ingrid’s turn to pee while Simon and Rena wait for her outside, leaning against the wall, side by side.
Silence between the two of them. The sun is at its zenith. Its golden rays pour down over the church steeple, warming the wall behind them. This moment she does not photograph—but it, too, fades and vanishes. She’ll remember the stuffed kitten for the rest of her life and forget the church wall, warm and luminous.
Cartoline
Here they are in the Piazza della Santissima Annunziata, and once again—there’s nothing for it—Rena seethes inwardly with rage.
Most Holy Annunciation, my eye! My ass! Mary didn’t get knocked up by a whispered word from the angel Gabriel, she got knocked up by some guy’s tool. Same goes for your mom—and yours—and yours!
Oh! Shocking! Subra laughs.
Enough already! When will we finally cut the bullshit? When will we stop propagating the ridiculously immature fairytale of immaculate conception, invented by Neolithic human males? Like all mothers, Mary got herself shtupped. Whether she was well or badly shtupped, whether her deflowerer was a brute or a delicate lover no one knows for sure; what we do know for sure is that a man came along and ploughed her furrows, so when oh when will we put an end to all this nonsense about virgin mothers? That’s where East meets West. Pornographers want eroticism without procreation, Talibans want procreation without eroticism; the idea of orgasmic moms is unbearable to everyone.
She hesitates. Decides to ask a passer-by.
‘Excuse me, is this the Archaeological Museum?’
‘No,’ he says, ‘this is the Hospital of the Innocents.’
‘I see…’
Scratching her head, she checks it out in the guidebook.
Not half bad, either. Also designed by Brunelleschi. Painting gallery, arcades, Della Robbia medallions. Suddenly she feels dizzy. Why go here rather than there, visit this rather than that, guzzle down these facts rather than those? What is it we are hoping to see? What are we looking for in this city—and, more generally, in life?
At the thought of giving in to indifference and starting to flounder through the same fuzzy, amorphous time as Simon and Ingrid, Rena begins to panic. She clings desperately to their ‘plan’ (devised a mere three minutes ago) to visit the Archaeological Museum. Bravely following the passer-by’s directions, they strike off down the Via della Colonna. As usual, the footpaths are too narrow for them to talk or walk together, and trucks and buses keep thundering past. As usual, her father finds any number of things worth paying attention to along the way. As usual, Rena takes the lead, walks too quickly, and has to stop every few yards to wait for them. Seeing an Italian flag up ahead, she tells herself it probably marks the museum entrance. Oh, but it’s hopelessly far away, we’ll never get there, ever. Might as well turn around and go back right now—first to the hotel, then to our respective countries—this whole trip is one enormous mistake…
Her mobile rings. It’s Thierno.
‘Hey, kid.’
‘Hi, how’s it going?’
‘Good!’
Incredible, Rena thinks, to have this sort of laconic exchange—’How’s it going?’ ‘Good!’—with a person who once lived inside you and whose development you supervised for twenty years, a person you taught to speak, to whom you read a thousand bedtime stories, for whom you cooked countless meals, whose homework you helped with and whose ill health you nursed, whose problems you listened to and whose friends you welcomed into your home. Incredible to end up exchanging platitudes with your own children.
Yes, says Subra. Don’t forget, though: you were terse over the phone with your own folks, when you were a teenager.
‘Where are you?’ she asks Thierno. (This, too, she has learned to say.)
‘Still in Dakar. Quick, remind me—what are the rules for three-man crib?’
‘Well, there are two schools of thought. Either you deal five cards to each player plus one to the crib and each player puts a card in the crib, or else you deal six cards like in the regular game—in which case the dealer puts two cards in his crib and the others put one in the crib and another on the bottom of the pack.’
‘Which way’s the most authentic?’
‘The first. Your dad and I invented the other one. Generally speaking, it results in superior hands and inferior cribs.’
‘Got it. Thanks, Ma. Take care.’
‘Bye, my love.’
By the time Rena has finished shaking her head at the idea that this card game, originally a pastime for idle Victorian ladies, has spread all the way to Senegal via Australia, Canada and France, they find themselves at the ticket desk of the Archaeological Museum.
Gioielli
The minute they enter the first room, though, she feels like turning around and walking out again. Damn it all to hell, what are they doing in ancient Egypt? They’ve come here to see Tuscany, not ancient Egypt. They can see ancient Egypt any old day, in Boston, New York or Paris, whereas Tuscany…
Whereas Tuscany what? Subra queries. What would seeing Tuscany be like?
Well…I suppose we might as well take a look, since we’re here.
Gold, planished 5600 years ago. One display case after another of precious stones—necklaces, bracelets, earrings—a bedazzlement. As they move through the cool calm rooms, Ingrid’s voice drones on and on about Rotterdam yesterday and today, the harshness of the post-war years…Stop it! Rena refrains from screaming at her. What have you come here for? Do you want to see these wonders or don’t you? Look—right there, before your very eyes—planished gold and precious stones from ancient Egypt! Enjoy them or I’ll kill you!
Swallowing down her annoyance, she says nothing. After all, she tells herself, the Theban courtesans who wore those jewels were probably chatterboxes, too.
Yes, Subra murmurs. And moreover, they had slaves.
Romulus e Remus
On the second floor, her father suddenly tugs at her sleeve. ‘Rena, look!’
She glances impatiently at what he’s pointing to—a block of pink granite with a fragment of bas-relief representing a child and an animal—fine.
‘What do you think that’s about?’
‘Frankly, Dad,’ she says with condescending kindness, ‘I wouldn’t presume to have an opinion on the matter. Egyptologists, historians, and archaeologists have been studying these objects for centuries. They know the answer, so there’s no point in our guessing at it. Just a sec.’
Grabbing the sheet of plasticised cardboard listing the objects in the room, she finds the granite block and reads aloud, rather haughtily: ‘An extremely rare representation of the cow Hathor suckling Horemheb, the Pharaoh who came to power after Tutankhamun’s death (fourteenth century B.C.).’ You see, Dad? she natters on, though not out loud. No point in our having an opinion.
My own periods of lactation, she continues in an aside to Subra—and to a lesser extent, my pregnancies—were the only times I ever had breasts worthy of the name. Such an insanely erotic experience, those first months of motherhood. Deep sweet perpetual inner climax. Sheer joy of being so passionately desired and caressed, and fulfilling someone’s needs so utterly. Exhilaration of having another person’s body, first nestled inside your own, then perfectly fed by it:
the baby’s lips tugging away at one nipple while its tiny fingers play with the other, making it stiffen in pleasure. In Renaissance paintings you sometimes see baby Jesus playing with his mom’s breast that way…
Yeah, Subra says, but the Madonna never seems turned on by it.
Women are right to hide that pleasure from men, Rena laughs. They’d have good reason to be jealous. Poor guys—forever at a distance, dry, tense, nervous, on their guard, never entirely convinced that they’re loved, wanted, needed…
‘Even so,’ Simon insists, not offended by her peremptory tone of voice, ‘doesn’t it remind you of something?’
‘What do you mean, something? Frankly, there’s not much point in our…in our…Wait a minute.’
At last Rena looks. Really looks. That’s all her father has been asking her to do.
A two-ton block of pink granite brought back from Egypt by the Romans…The Romans, when? Why? Look. Look at what the bas-relief is about: a beast suckling a boy.
Suddenly it’s obvious. Blindingly clear. No doubt about it, Rena tells herself. My father is right and the specialists are a bunch of nincompoops. If the Romans dragged this monumental sculpture all the way from Egypt to Italy in the third century A.D. (and just think what that entailed: the weight…the distance…in the boats they had back then…and no Suez Canal!), it was because it spoke to them of themselves. Yes: in Horemheb they recognised Romulus; and in Hathor, the She-wolf.
One point for you, Dad.
Horemheb suckled at Hathor’s breast…Romulus at the She-wolf’s… Jesus at Mary’s…Pico at Giulia Boiardo’s…How about you, Dad? Whose nipples would you have needed to drink from, in order to become immortal?