I used to like Bernanos
I remember it was an evening without history –
a weak discolored light –
and we were discussing the parallel of the self with the world
we used words we’d learned from books, with witching sounds
-Â ah, yes, the light was just strong enough
to push our words (I imagined their chaotic
dynamics in the dark
which we were beginning to get used to
I imagined the objects in the house colliding
their forms sublimating and beginning to levitate) –
Ioana went over to the window opened toward the garden
- her naturist’s spirit constantly demanded a new
perspective – she gazed silently beyond
the window frame, then she picked up the vase
with the branches of plum blossom (I wanted
to tell her how pretty she looked in
her white organdy dress and with the vase in her hands,
but from where I stood
and in the dearth of light in the house
she looked like a phantom)
we’re doing no more than
going over our lives she said in a voice
filled with sadness
we don’t have an awareness of fiction
nor an organ for the refinement of artifice
anything … (she put down the vase and walked
slowly over to me and during this time
I knew she was already thinking over the words
she would say to me in a voice well trained
through silent exercise)
anything through which the miracle can pass
she said and covered my hand protectively
with her warm palm
as if she hoped I wouldn’t answer
as if she had dared too much
with those words
Translated by Cornelia Golna