Author Khanh Ha: A Silent Lullaby

Friday, March 15, 2013

A Silent Lullaby

"There was a soft click of the doorknob. Barefoot, she came in. Another soft click to shut the door. He turned the wheelchair to face her. She crossed the floor, stopped, her thighs touching the armrest. Black trousers flecked with yellow dust, toenails painted lavender rose. Black shirt sweat stained on the front, unbuttoned along the V opening that framed her skin like white satin. Gently she cradled his head in her bosom. He shut his eyes, inhaling the warm heat from her skin. The smells of grass and pollen, of fern and pine cones, of hay and dust, of a sunny meadow brought home. When he kissed the skin of her chest, she said, Have you just smoked, and he nodded, knowing nothing escaped her unseen. He nuzzled her, pushing back the front of her shirt like a child at feeding time. Moments later he saw the front buttons undone and the meadow warmth from under the fabric rushed into his nostrils. Milky white was her skin that glowed with a devilish fervor; with his face uptilted he let himself be caressed on the head, drown in her intoxicating scent."

http://www.redsavinareview.org/khanh-ha/

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Then there was the bad weather. It would come in one day when the fall was over. You would have to shut the windows in the night against the rain and the cold wind would strip the leaves from the trees in the Place Contrescarpe. The leaves lay sodden in the rain and the wind drove the rain against the big green autobus at the terminal and the Café des Amateurs was crowded and the windows misted over from the heat and the smoke inside. It was a sad, evilly run café where the drunkards of the quarter crowded together and I kept away from it because of the smell of dirty bodies and the sour smell of drunkenness. The men and women who frequented the Amateurs stayed drunk all of the time or all of the time they could afford it; mostly on wine which they bought by the half-liter or liter. Many strangely named apéritifs were advertised, but few people could afford them except as a foundation to build their wine drunks on. The women drunkards were called poivrottes which meant female rummies.

The Café des Amateurs was the cesspool of the rue Mouffetard, that wonderful narrow crowded market street which led into the Place Contrescarpe. The squat toilets of the old apartment houses, one by the side of the stairs on each floor with two cleated cement shoe-shaped elevations on each side of the aperture so a locataire would not slip, emptied into cesspools which were emptied by pumping into horse-drawn tank wagons at night. In the summer time, with all windows open, you would hear the pumping and the odor was very strong. The tank wagons were painted brown and saffron color and in the moonlight when they worked the rue Cardinal Lemoine their wheeled, horse-drawn cylinders looked like Braque paintings. No one emptied the Café des Amateurs though, and its yellowed poster stating the terms and penalties of the law against public drunkenness was as flyblown and disregarded as its clients were constant and ill-smelling.

All of the sadness of the city came suddenly with the first cold rains of winter, and there were no more tops to the high white houses as you walked but only the wet blackness of the street and the closed doors of the small shops, the herb sellers, the stationery and the newspaper shops, the midwife—second class—and the hotel where Verlaine had died where you had a room on the top floor where you worked.

—Ernest Hemingway (A Good Café on the Place St.-Michel)