THE SOUND OF TREES
THE SOUND OF TREES
The days aren’t discarded or collected, they are bees that burned with sweetness or maddened the sting: the struggle continues, the journeys go and come between honey and pain. No, the net of years doesn’t unweave: there is no net. They don’t fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river. Sleep doesn’t divide life into halves, or action, or silence, or honor: life is like a stone, a single motion, a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves, an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal that climbs or descends burning in your bones.
“Have you not heard of the Bobzin’s misfortune?” The question was merely a mumble, almost a whisper. The questioner herself was a corpulent woman with dark, lazy eyes under heavy lids, her face now reddening as if from excitement, the taste of gossip juicy on her tongue. The small crowd of ladies around her shuffled closer as if drawn in by the invisible web of curiosity. Marie’s eyes followed the old couple as they strode across the open space in Copenhagen’s Tivoli. She was the last person to join the now tightly packed circle. “Well,” the questioner said, secretively and with a tang of maliciousness creeping into her voice. “He is a tailor at Magasin Du Nord, and it is said that their daughter, Ada, gave birth to a child just two years ago, out of wedlock. Nobody but the silly girl herself knows who the father is. It’s quite the scandal!” A small, haughty huffing noise escaped her mouth. “And to make matters worse the child, a girl, now lives with the grandparents and calls them ‘mother’ and ‘father’ - what a travesty.” The other ladies chirped in agreement; surely the Bobzin’s daughter would never find a suitable husband after this and her child would grow up with the shame of having no father. “Perhaps that is the only way to preserve the happiness of the child. Perhaps the girl will also grow up and be the happier because she has had a family. And perhaps the private affairs of others are not meant for you to gossip about, Cymbeline.” The questioner and the other ladies of the group all fell silent. Marie only realised that the words had come out of her mouth when she felt the eyes of the others upon her. Cymbeline now wore a sour expression, lips pressed tightly together into a thin line. The sound of crunching gravel filled their ears as the old couple passed them.
44A: CACTUS Cacti are succulent perennials and generally have thick herbaceous or woody stems containing chlorophyll. Leaves are usually absent or greatly reduced, minimizing the surface area from which water can be lost. The generally thin, fibrous, shallow root systems range widely in area to absorb superficial moisture. Flowers, often large and colourful, are usually solitary. Cacti are widely cultivated as ornamentals.
Avec mes souvenirs J’ai allumé le feu Mes chagrins, mes plaisirs Je n’ai plus besoin d’eux!
Caged bird cannot fly. Cannot fly, cannot fly.
The dress and collar were too tight and the fur too warm. The studio situated on Frederiksberggade 19 was small and no heat escaped the loft room in the blazing heat of August. It was unusual for Copenhagen to be this warm; the summers were usually mild and never too hot. Ada could feel the back of the dress clinging to her, the fine lace sticky with sweat. “Would you please try and stay still, Miss!” The photographer’s voice was strict; he too seemed miserable in the suffocating heat. Ada stiffened. She had unconsciously been twisting to relieve her body of the clammy feeling. Now she straightened up, pulled the fur tighter around her and placed her hands over her abdomen. She dug her fingers into the fur while her mind drifted. Nobody knew yet what was growing beneath her hands. He had left her once he found no use for her anymore. Once she had told him. He had been angry. So angry in fact, that she almost didn’t recognise him. The splintering sound of glass meeting the hotel’s hardwood floor still resounded in her ears. How was she going to survive? Her parents were well off, but they had no means to support both her and a child. She knew a lady in the city who earned her living in a way the general public considered dubious. Some called her a whore. But she bought her own fur coats and she needed no man to take care of her. “Men are greedy. And with a pretty face like yours you could take advantage of that, Ada,” she had said. Ada had gasped and gone red in the face - just the thought of it! The other had laughed heartily but never mentioned it again. The thought of it here, in the hot studio, where the open window sent upon her recurrent surges of dry heat, gave Ada a slight chill down her spine. Her hands tightened over her belly. She wished more than anything to be out of the studio, in the shade, where she could breathe.
If you shut your eyes and are a lucky one, you may see at times a shapeless pool of lovely pale colours suspended in the darkness; then if you squeeze your eyes tighter, the pool begins to take shape, and the colours become so vivid that with another squeeze they must go on fire.
A
learned man once travelled into one of these warm climates, from the cold regions of the north, and thought he would roam about as he did at home; but he soon had to change
his opinion. He found that, like all sensible people, he must remain in the house during the whole day, with every window and door closed, so that it looked as if all in the house were asleep or absent. The houses of the narrow street in which he lived were so lofty that the sun shone upon them from morning till evening, and it became quite unbearable. This learned man from the cold regions was young as well as clever; but it seemed to him as if he were sitting in an oven, and he became quite exhausted and weak, and grew so thin that his shadow shrivelled up, and became much smaller than it had been at home.
MR. & MRS. GEORGE BOBZIN ARE PLEASED TO ANNOUNCE THE MARRIAGE OF THEIR DAUGHTER
Marcia Elizabeth TO
William Walter Hicks III ON SATURDAY MAY 16TH
Else pulled the handle of the pump with such enthusiasm that the water sprayed and made little dark spots on her new dress. Mother would not be happy about this. Else thought for a few seconds about the fact that she probably wouldn’t be allowed to bring water for the chicks again, but abandoned the bucket, which was nearly full, when she heard her name called from the front of the house. As a result, the bucket tumbled off the pump and spilled its wet contents over the ground so the dry grass went almost black with moisture. “Else, come here,” Mother said when Else came trotting around the corner of the house. She was standing next to Father and a strange lady. Mother’s face, lined with wrinkles and of an age far too great to give birth to a child merely five years ago, squinted against the brightness of the sun. “This is Ada,” she said. “Your sister.” The stranger; a tall, beautiful woman bent down and brushed a hand over Else’s hair. “How are you, my darling? Do you remember me?” she asked. Else didn’t answer. “So, when is the wedding going to be?” Mother said. Ada straightened up again. “In September,” she answered. “Well, we must hope he doesn’t abandon you like the first one did,” Father said, standing with arms crossed in front of his chest. Ada looked him in the eye. “Yes, father,” she replied, chin slightly raised. “Ernst, please,” Mother said. “Let’s not discuss this matter now, in front of the child. Let’s all go and sit in the garden. I’ve made coffee and biscuits.” Father mumbled something and disappeared into the house with Mother in his heels. Else felt shy, suddenly standing alone next to her new sister. Ada bent down and spread her arms so as to envelop the child, but Else jumped back, surprised by the sudden gesture, and ran off into the house. Ada was left standing on her own in the bright sunshine. She put her face in her hands, a muffled sobbing noise escaping her chest.
The dead rise up from the ground at night. Once passed is passed
forever.
SEPTEMBER 1941: War is upon us.
The forest floor felt hard under Else’s feet. The smell of wood and earth rose up from the ground as she ran ahead of the others. She stopped once she reached a small clearing created by a fallen oak tree where light seeped in from the sky above; this was the perfect place. “Else, please don’t run so far ahead of us. We might lose sight of you and you’ll get lost,” Mother said when the others finally caught up with her. “Oh, let the child be, Johanne,” Father said. Mother didn’t answer but only shook her head and put down the picnic basket. “Let’s not eat straight away. Let’s all take a picture,” Ada suggested. “Yes, this is such a pretty spot, it would be a shame not to,” Uncle Frank agreed. “I want to sit in the middle,” Else exclaimed and threw her one leg over the giant tree. It took a little while for Father to set up the camera, and Else found it difficult to stay at rest; energy was rushing through her legs, begging her to move. She noticed that Ada was sitting very still at the back, as if she were used to having her photograph taken. She looked glamorous, even here in the midst of the forest. “Everyone ready?” Father finally asked. Else straightened up and tried to mimic her sister’s pose. The others shuffled themselves into position. But suddenly Else spotted something out of the corner of her eye. “Look,” she cried. “A squirrel!” Aunt Mary turned to look and let out a scream of surprise at seeing the little animal so close by. The squirrel, upset by the noise of human voices, escaped up the nearest tree and out of sight. Mother scolded Else for not sitting still. “Just as quick a mind as her mother,” Uncle Frank said to Ada who smiled back at him. Else looked at Mother. Whatever did Uncle Frank mean?
They drove away from the world on a day where the sky was blue and the roads seemed endless. And they were happy for as long as the smell of the sea was in their mouths and the birds were beautiful. Only later did they realise that the birds were only seagulls.
Que reste-t-il de nos amours Que reste-t-il de ces beaux jours Que reste-t-il de nos amours Une photo, vieille photo Que reste-t-il de ces beaux jours De ma jeunesse Que reste-t-il de nos amours Une photo, vieille photo Que reste-t-il des billets doux Que reste-t-il de ces beaux jours Des mois d’avril, des rendez-vous De ma jeunesse Une photo, vieille photo Un souvenir qui me poursuit Que reste-t-il des billets doux Sans cesse
De ma jeunesse Des mois d’avril, des rendez-vous Un souvenir qui me poursuit Que reste-t-il des billets doux Sans cesse Des mois d’avril, des rendez-vous Un souvenir qui me poursuit Sans cesse
If ever they remembered their life in this world, it was as one remembers a dream.
Else stood in front of the camera, her body rigid with expectation. The play was to commence in less than half an hour but the photographer had been very insistent. “A photograph - so you can remember this day forever,” he had said as if he knew of a great secret. The cold wind of November made Else shiver in her costume. It was difficult to relax, and even more difficult when she knew that Mother and Father would be finding their seats in the theatre at this very moment, the room buzzing with chatter and warmth. Mother would be wearing her best dress and Father his vest and black shoes shined for the occasion. “So, what’s this play about anyway?” the photographer asked while he positioned the camera, his wispy, blonde hair almost billowing in the wind. “It’s Shakespeare,” Else said. “Hamlet.” “Which one is that again?” “Hamlet is the prince of Denmark, and the play is about the revenge he seeks on his uncle Claudius who has murdered his father,” Else answered, not saying more than what was strictly necessary. The photographer made a clicking sound with his tongue. “That’s the one with Ophelia - the one who kills herself, isn’t it?” “Yes.” Else rubbed her hands against one another. Ada had said she would come too. Was she now sitting next to Mother with her husband? Or had she come on her own? Or not at all? “We mustn’t be late for the beginning of the play,” Else said, louder than she had intended. She suddenly felt queasy. What if Ada hadn’t come?
I had only a little time left and I didn’t want to waste it on God.
Winter of ‘25.
“We’re going to be late, Else,” he said. “Wait for just a moment.” Else had slipped her left foot out of her shoe; a small piece of gravel had been gnawing into her heel. He let her take hold of his shoulder while she put the shoe upside down and shook it, balancing on one leg. “There we are,” Else said and slipped the shoe back on. She looked up at him and smiled. “Thank you.” He gave her a quick smile in return. “Let’s go, dear,” Christian said and took her by the arm. Christian: that was his name. They had met through mutual friends when he was studying in Copenhagen to become a doctor. Today it was nearly two years since Else had walked down the aisle and agreed to a new sort of life, in sickness and in health, to death do us part. Father had given her away and Mother had cried; it had been a day of sadness and joy in equal measures. Ada hadn’t been there. She had fallen ill in November and only a month later she had shrunken to a shell of her former self. Just before Christmas she could no longer hold out. For reasons she didn’t know or understand, Else had been unable to cry at the funeral. So many people that she had never seen before had come to say their final goodbyes and some had even approached her and expressed their grief. She remembered one man in particular: tall with greying hair that had once been so dark it was almost black, tired-looking. “Else,” he had said and taken her hand in his. That was all. Then he had left. There had been something about his eyes that she couldn’t quite forget. “It’s just in here.” Else lost her trail of thought when Christian spoke and guided her towards Skoubogade, off the main street where they were meeting Mother and Father at La Glace; a café famous for its selection of cakes. It was Mother’s birthday and a day of celebration.
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat, They took some honey, and plenty of money, Wrapped up in a five-pound note. The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, “O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!” Pussy said to the Owl, “You elegant fowl! How charmingly sweet you sing! O let us be married! too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?” They sailed away, for a year and a day, To the land where the Bong-Tree grows And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose. “Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?” Said the Piggy, “I will.” So they took it away, and were married next day By the Turkey who lives on the hill. They dined on mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon.
¡México, México - te
quiero!
They ran, and they stumbled, and they fell down and they inhaled the sweet smell of grass. But the summer didn’t last forever. And Mother died in October.
Died in October, in October, October.
Copenhagen I’ve never seen you look this bright. Oh, this tingling feeling, to be the blood inside your veins. I’ve been leaving, believing, I could find a better place. And all this time, you were right here.
CHAPTER I: What is Best Society? Manners are made up of trivialities of deportment which can be easily learned if one does not happen to know them; manner is personality - the outward manifestation of one’s innate character and attitude toward life. Etiquette must, if it is to be of more than trifling use, include ethics as well as manners. Certainly what one is, is of far greater importance than what one appears to be.