The Invention of Morel Read online

  When the woman came down to the rocks, I was watching the sunset. She stood there for a moment without moving, looking for a place to spread out her blanket. Then she walked toward me. If I had put out my hand, I would have touched her. This possibility horrified me (as if I had almost touched a ghost). There was something frightening in her complete detachment. But when she sat down at my side it seemed she was defying me, trying to show that she no longer ignored my presence.

  She took a book out of her basket and sat there reading. I tried to control my nerves.

  Then, as she stopped reading and looked up, I thought, "She is going to ask me a question." But the implacable silence continued. I understood the serious implications of not interrupting it; but still, without any obstinacy, for no reason, I remained silent.

  Her companions have not come to get me. Perhaps she has not told them about me. Or they may be worried because I know the island so well (and perhaps they send the woman back each day to make me think she is in love with me, to put me off my guard). I am suspicious. But I am sure I can ferret out any scheme, no matter how cunning it may be.

  I have found that I usually imagine that things are going to turn out badly. This tendency started about three or four years ago; it is not accidental; but it is annoying. The fact that the woman comes back each day, that she wants to be near me, all this seems to indicate a change that is too good to be

  true— Perhaps I can forget my beard, my age, and the police who have pursued me for so long—and who, no doubt, are still searching for me stubbornly, like an effective curse. But I must not let myself be too optimistic. As I write these lines, I have an idea that gives me some hope. I do not believe I have insulted the woman, but still it would not do any harm to apologize to her. What does a man usually do on these occasions? He sends flowers, of course. I have a ridiculous plan; but any gift, no matter how trivial, is touching if it is given in the spirit of humility. There are many flowers on the island. When I arrived I saw some of them growing near the swimming pool and the museum. I should be able to make a small garden for her down by the rocks, enlisting nature's help to gain her confidence. Perhaps the results of my efforts will put an end to her silence and her reserve. It will be a poetic maneuver! I have never worked with colors; I know nothing about art. But I am sure I can make a modest effort, which will be pleasing to her.

  I got up very early this morning. My plan was so good that I felt it surely would not fail.

  I went to gather the flowers, which are most abundant down in the ravines. I picked the ones that were least ugly. (Even the palest flowers have an almost animal vitality!) When I had picked all I could carry and started to arrange them, I saw that they were dead.

  I was going to change my plan, but then I remembered that up on the hill, not far from the museum, there is another place where many flowers grow. As it was early in the morning, I felt certain that the people would still be sleeping, so it would be safe to go there.

  I picked several of these very small and scabrous flowers. It seemed that they did not have that monstrous urge to die.

  Their disadvantages: they are small, and they grow near the museum.

  Almost all morning I exposed myself to the danger of being seen by anyone brave enough to get up before ten o'clock. But while I was gathering the flowers, I kept an eye on the museum and did not see any signs of life; this allows me to suppose, to be certain, that I was not observed either.

  The flowers are very small. I shall have to plant literally thousands of them if I want my garden to be noticed.

  I spent a long time preparing the soil, breaking the ground (it is hard, and I have a large surface to cover), and sprinkling it with rain water. When the ground is ready, I shall have to find more flowers. I shall try to keep those people from seeing me, or from seeing my garden before it is finished. I had almost forgotten that there are cosmic demands on the life of a plant. And after all my work, the risk I have taken, the flowers may not even live until sunset.

  I see that I have no artistic talent whatever, but I am sure my garden will be quite touching, between the clumps of grass and hay. Naturally, it will be a fraud. Although it will look like a cultivated garden this afternoon, it will be wilted by tomorrow, or, if there is a wind, it may have no flowers at all.

  It rather embarrasses me to reveal the design of my garden. An immense woman is seated, watching the sunset, with her hands clasped on one knee,- a diminutive man, made of leaves, kneels in front of the woman (he will be labeled I). And underneath it I shall make this inscription:

  Sublime, close at hand but mysterious With the living silence of the rose.

  My fatigue almost sickens me. I could sleep under the trees until this evening, but I shall not do it. It must be my nerves that make me feel this urge to write. And the reason I am so nervous is that everything I do now is leading me to

  one of three possible futures: to the woman, to solitude (or the living death in which I spent the past few years, an impossibility now that I have seen the woman), or to a horrible sentence. Which one will it be? Time alone will tell. But still I know that writing this diary can perhaps provide the answer; it may even help produce the right future.

  When I made this garden, I felt like a magician because the finished work had no connection with the precise movements that produced it. My magic depended on this: I had to concentrate on each part, on the difficult task of planting each flower and aligning it with the preceding one. As I worked, the garden appeared to be either a disorderly conglomeration of flowers or a woman.

  And yet the finished garden is quite beautiful. But I was not able to create it exactly as I had planned. In imagination it is no more difficult to make a woman standing than to make one seated with her hands clasped on one knee; but in reality it is almost impossible to create the latter out of flowers. The woman is shown from the front view, with her head in profile, looking at the sunset. A scarf made of violet- colored flowers covers her head. Her skin is not right. I could not find any flowers of that somber color that repels and attracts me at the same time. Her dress and the ocean are made of blue and of white flowers. The sun is composed of some strange sunflowers that grow on this island. I am shown in profile view, kneeling. I am small (a third of the size of the woman) and green, made of leaves.

  I had to modify the inscription. The first one was too long to make out of flowers. I changed it to this:

  You have awakened me from a living death on this island.

  I liked the idea of calling myself a dead man who suffered from insomnia. I liked it so well, I almost forgot to be courteous—she might have interpreted the phrase as a reproach. But I believe I was blinded by my wish to appear as an ex-corpse, and I was delighted with the discovery that death was impossible if I could be with the woman. The variations with all their monotony were almost monstrous:

  You have kept a dead man on this island from sleeping.

  or:

  I am no longer dead: I am in love. But I lost my courage. The inscription on the flowers says: The humble tribute of my love.

  The way things turned out was natural enough, but unexpectedly merciful. I am lost. My little garden was a dread- lul mistake. When Ajax—or some other Hellenic name I have forgotten now—slaughtered the animals, he made a mistake of equal magnitude; but in this case, I am the slaughtered animals.

  This afternoon the woman came earlier than usual. She left her book and basket on a rock, and spread out her blanket close to the shore. She was wearing a tennis dress and a violet-colored head scarf. She sat there for a moment, watching the sea, as if she were only half awake,- then she stood up and went to get her book. She moved with that freedom we have when we are alone. As she passed my little garden she pretended not to notice it. I did not mind, for the moment she arrived I realized what an atrocious failure it was, and I was miserable because it was too late to do any- ihing about it. When the woman opened her book, put her lingers between the pages, and continued to watch the sun- M't, I b
egan to feel less nervous. She did not go away until mi',lit had fallen.

  Now I derive consolation from thinking about her disapproval. And I wonder whether it is justified. What is there to hope for after this stupid mistake I have made? But since I can still recognize my own limitations, perhaps she will excuse me. Of course, I was at fault for having created the garden in the first place.

  I was going to say that my experiment shows the dangers of creation, the difficulty of balancing more than one consciousness simultaneously. But what good would that do? What solace could I derive from that? Everything is lost now: the woman, my past solitude. Since I cannot escape, I continue with this monologue, which now is unjustifiable.

  In spite of my nervousness I felt inspired today when I spent the afternoon sharing the undefiled serenity, the magnificence of the woman. I experienced the same sense of well- being again at night, when I dreamed about the bordello of blind women that Ombrellieri and I visited in Calcutta. In the dream I saw the woman of the sunsets and suddenly the bordello changed into an opulent Florentine palace. I was dazzled by it all, and I heard myself exclaim, "How romantic!" as I sobbed with complacent joy.

  But I slept fitfully, remembering that I did not measure up to the woman's strict demands. I shall never be able to forget it: she controlled her distaste and pretended, kindly, not to see my horrible little garden. I was miserable, too, hearing "Tea for Two" and "Valencia," which that blatant phonograph repeated until sunrise.

  All that I have written about my life—hopefully or with apprehension, in jest or seriously—mortifies me.

  I am in a bad state of mind. It seems that for a long time I have known that everything I do is wrong, and yet I have kept on the same way, stupidly, obstinately. I might have acted this way in a dream, or if I were insane— When I slept this afternoon, I had this dream, like a symbolic and premature commentary on my life: as I was playing a game of croquet, I learned that my part in the game was killing a man. Then, suddenly, I knew I was that man.

  Now the nightmare continues. I am a failure, and now I even tell my dreams. I want to wake up, but I am confronted with the sort of resistance that keeps us from freeing ourselves from our most atrocious dreams.

  Today the woman was trying to show me her indifference, and she succeeded. But why is she so cruel? Even though I am the victim, I can view the situation objectively.

  She was with the dreadful tennis player. His appearance should discourage any feelings of jealousy. He is very tall and was wearing a wine-colored tennis jacket, which was much too large for him, white slacks, and huge yellow and white shoes. His beard seemed to be false, his skin effeminate, waxy, mottled on his temples. His eyes are dark; his teeth, ugly. He speaks slowly, opening his small round mouth wide, vocalizing in a childish way, revealing a small round crimson tongue, which is always close to his lower teeth. His hands are long and pallid—I sense that they are slightly moist.

  When I saw them approaching I hid at once. The woman must have seen me; at least, I suppose she did for not once did she look in my direction.

  I am quite sure that the man did not notice the little garden until later. And, as before, she pretended not to see it.

  They were speaking French. They stood, simply watching the sea, as if something had saddened them. The man said a few words I could not hear. Each time a wave broke against the boulders, I took two or three quick steps in their direction. They were French. The woman shook her head. I did not hear what she said, but it was clearly a negative reply. She closed her eyes and smiled sweetly.

  "Please believe me, Faustine—" began the bearded man with obvious desperation, and I found out her name, at last! (Of course, it does not matter now.)

  "No— Now I know what you really want—"

  She smiled again, with no bitterness or ecstasy, with a certain frivolity. I know that I hated her then. She was just playing with us.

  "What a pity that we cannot come to an understanding! We have only a short time left—three days, and then it will all be over."

  I do not know what he meant. All I know is that he must be my enemy. He seemed to be sad; but I should not be surprised to learn that this was merely a pose. Faustine's behavior is grotesque; it is almost driving me mad!

  The man tried to mitigate the gravity of his statement. He said several sentences that had approximately this meaning: "There's nothing to worry about. We are not going to discuss an eternity—"

  "Morel," said Faustine stupidly, "do you know that I find you mysterious?"

  In spite of Faustine's questions he remained in his light- hearted mood.

  The bearded man went to get her scarf and basket. She had left them on a rock a few feet away. He came back shaking the sand out of them, and said, "Don't take my words so seriously. Sometimes I think that if I am able to arouse your curiosity— But please don't be angry."

  When he went to get her things, and then again on the way back, he stepped on my garden. Did he do it deliberately, or did he just not happen to notice it? Faustine saw it, I swear that she did, and yet she would not spare me that insult. She smiled and asked questions with a great show of interest; it was almost as if she surrendered her whole being to him, so complete was her curiosity. But I do not like her attitude. The little garden is no doubt in wretched taste. But why should she stand there calmly and let a disgusting man trample on it? Have I not been trampled on enough already?

  But then—what can you expect of people like that? They are the sort you find on indecent postcards. How well they go together: a pale bearded man and a buxom gypsy girl with enormous eyes—I even feel I have seen them in the best collections in Caracas.

  And still I wonder: what does all this mean? Certainly she is a detestable person. But what is she after? She may be playing with the bearded man and me; but then again he may be a tool that enables her to tease me. She does not care if she makes him suffer. Perhaps Morel only serves to emphasize her complete repudiation of me, to portend the inevitable climax and the disastrous outcome of this repudiation!

  But if not— Oh, it has been such a long time now since she has seen me. I think I shall kill her, or go mad, if this continues any longer. I find myself wondering whether the disease-ridden marshes I have been living in have made me invisible. And, if that were the case, it would be an advantage: then I could seduce Faustine without any danger—

  Yesterday I did not visit the rocks. I told myself over and over again that I would not go today either. But by the middle of the afternoon I knew that I had to go. Faustine was not there, and now I am wondering when she will come back. I suppose that her trampling of my garden has brought her fun with me to an end. Now I will bore her like a joke that was amusing once but does not bear repeating. And I will see to it that it is not repeated!

  But, as I sat on the rocks waiting, I was miserable. "It's all my fault," I said to myself (that Faustine did not come), "because I was so sure I was not coming!"

  I climbed the hill, hoping for a glimpse of her. I came out

  from behind a clump of bushes, and found myself facing two men and a woman. I stood still, I did not dare to breathe; there was nothing separating us but twenty feet of empty, crepuscular space. The men had their backs to me, but the woman faced them, and she was looking right at me. I saw her shudder. She turned quickly and looked toward the museum. I crouched down behind some bushy plants. I heard her say, "This is not the proper time for ghost stories. We'd better go in now!"

  I still do not know whether they were actually telling such stories, or if she mentioned ghosts only to announce a strange occurrence (my presence).

  They went away. I saw a man and woman strolling by, not far away. I was afraid they would see me. As they approached, I heard a familiar voice say, "Today I didn't go to see—" (I began to tremble violently. I was sure that she was talking about me.)

  "And are you sorry?"

  I did not hear Faustine's answer. I noticed that the bearded man had made some progress, because they were using th
e intimate form of address.

  I have come back to the lowlands. I have decided to stay here until the sea carries me away. If the intruders come to get me, I shall not surrender; I shall not try to escape.

  My plan not to let Faustine see me again lasted for four days (and was helped by two tides that gave me a lot of work to do).

  The fifth day I went to the rocks early. Then I saw Faustine and that damned tennis player. They spoke French correctly, too correctly—like South Americans.

  "So you no longer trust me?"

  "No."

  "But you used to have faith in me—"

  There was a coolness between them now. I was reminded of persons who slip back into their old habits of formal speech soon after beginning to speak with intimacy. Their conversation might have made me think of that. But I thought about the idea of a return to the past in a different sense also.

  "Would you believe me if I said I could take you back to a time before that afternoon in Vincennes?"

  "No, I could never believe you again. Never."

  "The influence of the future on the past," said Morel enthusiastically, almost inaudibly.

  They stood together, looking at the sea. The man seemed to be trying to break an oppressive tension between them.

  "Please believe me, Faustine—"

  I remember thinking what a stubborn person he was. He was repeating the same demands I had heard him make the week before.

  "No— Now I know what you really want—"

  Conversations are subject to repetition, although one cannot explain this phenomenon. I would not have the reader attribute that statement to any bitterness on my part, nor to the very facile association of the words "fugitive," "recluse," "misanthrope." But I gave the matter some study before my trial—conversations are an exchange of news (example: meteorological), of joy or irritation already known or shared by the participants (example: intellectual). But all conversations spring from the pleasure of speaking, from the desire to express agreement and disagreement.