Marie waited behind the oily slats of the wooden partition. She waited for the light.
The fabric of her dress was wet with the work of a day. Not that day, but a day that had once been. A day somewhere far along the creased map of the past. Before she had found herself in an interminable loop of leavings. Marie experienced that day as a distant point of light in a forest at night. And if she thought of it for too long, she was overwhelmed by a sense of homesickness, so strong that she feared it would destroy her. She feared and hoped.
She waited for the heavy partition to creak on its hinges, and let her glimpse the road in front of the factory – a stretch of road she had walked over and over. She had tried to change her trajectory, to escape – but somehow she always ended up on the same course. And when she rounded the corner, out of sight, she found herself behind the partition again…waiting for the light.
It was a soundless universe she walked through. She could not hear her own breath, nor the sound of her boots on the cobblestones. Behind her, she knew, there were a hundred others just like her, and two horse drawn carriages (she seemed to recall). All in the same state of suspension, waiting for the partition to creak soundlessly open and to begin their trajectory, their planetary waltz, their orbit. Or at least that is what she could remember, an aftertaste of that day in the distant past. She could, however, never turn to confirm her suspicion. She was trapped inside her head, or someone else’s, in the dark, waiting for her eyes to open. Only her eyes were already open.
It was starting again.
The whole world seemed to shudder as the heavy, wooden partition slid away.
The light.
Each time she let herself hope that she would be allowed to walk away. Each time she saw a horizon. And each time her hopes were dashed like so many eggs on the damp cobbles. Muddy, cracked yokes of hope, round and fragile, their membranes exploded by the hard stones. Facts.
She moved out onto the road that was so much shorter than it seemed, and led back to the same place she had come from. She saw in front of her, a horizon, a thin line of light that moved, and seemed to build the world in front of her – a knife spreading butter.
Marie, the soul observed, tried again, as she did each time, to run away from the feeling of a crowd behind her, and into the void, beyond the knife of light. But she was stuck - like a cut out in a scrapbook. And, almost before she had a chance to feel the wave of hopelessness smash her against the rocks, she was carried, by an invisible current, down the street, around the corner, and back to the close, endless blackness behind the partition again.
On and on. Loop the loop. Like an aeroplane performing tricks for some invisible crowd.
Marie felt the clammy fabric of her dress lapping at the small of her back. The cruel tongue of memory.
The partition opened again, a guillotine reversed. And Marie found herself wishing it would fall. But again she walked the thirty metres that led to the darkness. And again she thought and felt what she had thought and felt moments before, for as long as she could remember, going back indefinitely to that distant memory of a day at work in the factory.
At this moment, something happened that put an end to the purgatory, an end to Marie’s incessant walk. The dashed yokes of hope, as impossible as it had seemed just moments before, were fecund.
The partition opened.
Marie felt an intense heat.
This in itself would have been change enough. But it was not all. Even her blinkered vision could see it. The cobbles, usually so crisp and grey, spread by the edge of light in front of her, were pocked, yellowing, melting like layers of cream, slopping like spilled paint.
And then she saw a gaping, black hole, with smouldering edges open up in front of her. It swallowed her whole.
Salvation.
…In a dark projection booth, not unlike the close space behind the partition, a bulb had burned too brightly. The slippery film smouldered. It melted, and broke. Crackling, and blistering. A roasting skin. A point of light in the darkness. The projectionist would have to order another copy. It would be expensive.
The fabric of her dress was wet with the work of a day. Not that day, but a day that had once been. A day somewhere far along the creased map of the past. Before she had found herself in an interminable loop of leavings. Marie experienced that day as a distant point of light in a forest at night. And if she thought of it for too long, she was overwhelmed by a sense of homesickness, so strong that she feared it would destroy her. She feared and hoped.
She waited for the heavy partition to creak on its hinges, and let her glimpse the road in front of the factory – a stretch of road she had walked over and over. She had tried to change her trajectory, to escape – but somehow she always ended up on the same course. And when she rounded the corner, out of sight, she found herself behind the partition again…waiting for the light.
It was a soundless universe she walked through. She could not hear her own breath, nor the sound of her boots on the cobblestones. Behind her, she knew, there were a hundred others just like her, and two horse drawn carriages (she seemed to recall). All in the same state of suspension, waiting for the partition to creak soundlessly open and to begin their trajectory, their planetary waltz, their orbit. Or at least that is what she could remember, an aftertaste of that day in the distant past. She could, however, never turn to confirm her suspicion. She was trapped inside her head, or someone else’s, in the dark, waiting for her eyes to open. Only her eyes were already open.
It was starting again.
The whole world seemed to shudder as the heavy, wooden partition slid away.
The light.
Each time she let herself hope that she would be allowed to walk away. Each time she saw a horizon. And each time her hopes were dashed like so many eggs on the damp cobbles. Muddy, cracked yokes of hope, round and fragile, their membranes exploded by the hard stones. Facts.
She moved out onto the road that was so much shorter than it seemed, and led back to the same place she had come from. She saw in front of her, a horizon, a thin line of light that moved, and seemed to build the world in front of her – a knife spreading butter.
Marie, the soul observed, tried again, as she did each time, to run away from the feeling of a crowd behind her, and into the void, beyond the knife of light. But she was stuck - like a cut out in a scrapbook. And, almost before she had a chance to feel the wave of hopelessness smash her against the rocks, she was carried, by an invisible current, down the street, around the corner, and back to the close, endless blackness behind the partition again.
On and on. Loop the loop. Like an aeroplane performing tricks for some invisible crowd.
Marie felt the clammy fabric of her dress lapping at the small of her back. The cruel tongue of memory.
The partition opened again, a guillotine reversed. And Marie found herself wishing it would fall. But again she walked the thirty metres that led to the darkness. And again she thought and felt what she had thought and felt moments before, for as long as she could remember, going back indefinitely to that distant memory of a day at work in the factory.
At this moment, something happened that put an end to the purgatory, an end to Marie’s incessant walk. The dashed yokes of hope, as impossible as it had seemed just moments before, were fecund.
The partition opened.
Marie felt an intense heat.
This in itself would have been change enough. But it was not all. Even her blinkered vision could see it. The cobbles, usually so crisp and grey, spread by the edge of light in front of her, were pocked, yellowing, melting like layers of cream, slopping like spilled paint.
And then she saw a gaping, black hole, with smouldering edges open up in front of her. It swallowed her whole.
Salvation.
…In a dark projection booth, not unlike the close space behind the partition, a bulb had burned too brightly. The slippery film smouldered. It melted, and broke. Crackling, and blistering. A roasting skin. A point of light in the darkness. The projectionist would have to order another copy. It would be expensive.
