MARCEL

Sometimes by the water's edge
we come to what Papa calls
"pleasure houses," and a girl
leans over the bank, trailing her hand in;
she's pliant as a trout. I imagine
fishing with her, casting our lines
toward blue irises. She smells
of water and fresh-cut grass. I dream
that I am swimming and the river
turns blue-black, changing color
like the stained-glass chapel window
of Gilbert the Bad. The current twists me,
rolling me over. There's someone swimming
with me, his body's strong and so close
I can hardly breathe. He presses down
and presses down. And then we're running,
he's chasing me, I'm chasing him,
we're at a table in the garden
drinking out of tall thin glasses
something white that Papa says
is bad for me. I cough so hard
it makes me gasp. I jerk awake
to damp sheets and the smell of salt.

Mornings, I see pink light through my eyelids,
Francoise is downstairs talking. When
I find her in the garden, she's shaking
a chicken by the head and yelling
"Nasty bird!" It scares me. Her right hand
holds the axe. The kitchen-maid
weeps while she peels asparagus.
They're slim and cool and green-tipped
shading to blue and mauve. When I crunch one
even the dirt tastes good. She puts them
in little rows like soldiers. The maid
moans and holds her stomach. Her big dress
hides the part the baby's in. She smells
of sweat and vegetables and lard.

In the meadow I look back at the spires
of St. Hilaire's pointing to the sky,
faint as pencil strokes on sketching paper.
I follow a path to where the hawthorns are,
and put my face among pink rosettes.
When I force one open with my little finger
it's all red inside like the cat's mouth.
A bracelet of red beads circles my wrist
where the thorns bit me. The little girl
I dreamed would write me tender letters
stood behind the fence and stared. She raised
her hand and made a rude sign. I thought
of all the bad things I could shout
if I felt like it, but then somebody called her.
Her eyes are sly as Theodore's.
In bed I think of her crisp red hair

and the freckles like pink coins on her cheeks.
We ride together on a pony, her arms
around my waist. She rubs against me
and we both fall off. She's lying on top
of me, her chest's on mine, she's close
as the actress I met at uncle's house,
she was so pretty in her pink silk dress
and pearls, she smiled and took
my face between her hands and said
I looked like Papa. Uncle frowned.
Mama didn't and didn't come. I counted
to one hundred, then cried and fell asleep.

At Montjouvain the pond at sunset
was so still I could see the pink
roof tiles reflected in it, clear
enough to count. I felt so happy
I jumped up and down. "Hey, hey,
hey, hey!" I yelled, and shook my umbrella
at the sky. It was so cool I fell
asleep behind the doctor's house
and when I woke up it was dark
and I could see inside. The room
was light and motionless like those
glass jars the boys put under water
to catch live minnows in. The doctor's
daughter and her girlfriend seemed
to swim in clearness back and forth,
slowly touching and kissing. Then the friend
spit on the doctor's photograph
and pulled the daughter onto the couch.
She wept, then ran to close the shutters.
They were quiet. I ran home.

Some days the river's darker. Tadpoles
explode like stars. Tap, tap, the rain
hits lily pads. When I gaze in
I see my face brown and green
shifting mysteriously. I feel
myself pulled down. A slow garden
of thin plants reaches up, catching
my hair and hands. Another boy
looks back at me. Our mouths touch,
I dream of Mama and she doesn't
recognize me and hurries along
a corridor with people I don't know.
I follow her, then see that it
is Theodore looking around
over his shoulder and smiling the way
he does when he plays a trick.
I'm panting after., Mama's watching us
from the upstairs bedroom window,
the doctor's with her. My chest hurts.
The maid's dress is smothering me,

I'm underneath it, I'm between
her knees. I try to cry out, "Mama, mama!"
but my words are muffled, I can only
moan. She doesn't hear me, she's gone off,
and I don't know
if I'm asleep or drowned.

THE CLEAREST EXPRESSION OF MIXED EMOTIONS

"At least it's poetic, the autumn is really beautiful . . ."

Astrov, Uncle Vanya