“Allegory in media res” 2547
“Allegory in media res”
She glances to either side at people filling the food court as he pushes a fork
through overcooked Chinese noodles, lost in some reverie. Chicken, pizza, pitas and
cookies; so many colorful choices and smells and he always picks dull-brown lo mein
that stinks of soy sauce. And then he meditates over it.
“Wish you would say something.” She takes a bite of cookie, tastes the satisfying
crunch of macadamia and inhales deeply, momentarily steeped in the delectable odor of
butter and smooth, white chocolate heaven. A turn of the head, however, and she falls
from the clouds: he‟s there in front of her, silent as ever.
A moment‟s wait, a sigh, and her regard strays once more, this time to the neon
lights of second-floor stores around them. He looks up when she looks away, furtively
measuring those too-familiar blue eyes and mulling over the vagaries of what he might
once have called love.
How is it that the delicate curve of a chin or curl of hair can remain the same
while the emotions they inspire become so different? Relationships always end up like a
bad walk: you start off late but excited—that is, until the sun drops lower and lower in the
sky and, instead of reaching your destination, you have to turn around and trudge through
a landscape you already know so well you can‟t appreciate it anymore. It‟s the same,
insipid circle of buildup, release and ensuing emptiness, the same doubts fluttering in
wrinkles above her brow that haven‟t made it down to her lips yet to ferment into
accusations.
They would. Any fruit sours with time.
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“Allegory in media res” 2547
But it hadn‟t all been predictable. There was something he hadn‟t counted on, a
growing certainty that she didn‟t know enough about life to really participate in what he
was doing. He laughed at having convinced himself that it was all harmless in the end
because it wouldn‟t lead to anything, for he had been right in every respect: a few charges
on the credit card in the beginning when they were still overly cautious, several fiery
evenings after work as they had loosened up, and now bland Saturday afternoons at the
food court while the embers cooled. And still she couldn‟t tear loose.
“Please just say something,” the girl repeats. “I‟m getting tired of watching
people. These idiots all look the same.”
“Why are you just nibbling? You‟re usually hungrier than that.”
It had felt like sticking your finger into a light socket and getting enough of a
shock to tantalize without making you want to pull your hand away, the sensation of
toying with a danger that wasn‟t really dangerous. A little well disguised flirting had led
to some playful touching that simply exploded one afternoon when they were alone
together talking about poetry…and the deed was soon done.
Quite often repeated, too.
Yes, it was unconscionable, but he seemed the only one of the two even capable
of realizing it. In a way, it was doubly aggravating.
“I‟d be in the mood to eat if you‟d talk to me.” She bites her lower lip and
focuses harder. “We never had a problem talking. Nothing‟s really different, is it?”
He pushes the Styrofoam plate to the middle of the table and leans back in the
seat, pondering the red and green leaves of the fake plants surrounding them.
“Everything‟s different, but it doesn‟t matter.”
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“Tell me about an author you‟re studying.”
It was worth a try. An opportunity to talk about his first love is rarely passed up
and she watches hopefully for the telltale flash in his eyes, a passionate and intriguing
shine, different from anything she‟s experienced before. She imagines it the product of
their shared intimacy and nurses this most cherished connection with a young mother‟s
selfless devotion.
He laughs. “We‟re supposed to get philosophical sitting at a table in the middle
of a mall surrounded by idiots who all look the same?”
“Yeah. Talk to me about a writer. Who are you reading? Not in class, I mean. I
already know what‟s going on in class.”
His hand moves back and forth in tiny swoops. “It‟s nothing that inspires deep
thoughts.” But the gleam is there, shimmering beneath his eyelids.
“Come on,” she urges, smiling at finally having gotten somewhere. “You‟ve been
full of deep thoughts for the past four years. You haven‟t suddenly run out.”
“You know how it is.” Egg roll crumbs fall from the table and he watches them
tumble to the floor. “Sometimes you grab a book because it‟s an easy read. You think
you‟ll knock it out quickly, squeeze from it what little entertainment you can, but you
force yourself to finish it because it can‟t hold your interest.”
“And?”
“I‟ve had a book on the shelf for a few years now and decided it might be worth a
look.”
“Do you like it?”
“Started off strong.”
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“So?” Her hand moves over his in gentle strokes. He looks at the clear, glossy
nails and pauses.
She doesn‟t have stunning good looks, but then, neither does he. Those in the
tables around them would invariably write them both off as plain and uninteresting, he in
a drab and intellectual way and her…well, she‟s at least springy in all the right places.
And cute. But anyone can see it‟s the way she watches him that sets her apart: never
bored, always those blue-steel eyes peering out from falling brown hair. He finds himself
enjoying the feel of her hand and gives in again.
“It‟s a story about a reclusive scholar, a thirtyish nobody who lives in his mind
and only for his books.”
“Sounds like a life that would have interested you, except you‟re not exactly a
nobody.”
He shrugs once more, but can‟t help smiling at the insight. It would have
interested him, but he had been young, hadn‟t realized the extent to which decisions made
when life was wide open became the threads that would sew it closed later on. Perhaps at
some early point, it would have been possible to walk away. Now there were
responsibilities, the curse of dull domesticity.
“And what‟s up with your reclusive alter-ego?” she presses.
“He lives above a bakery in Eighteenth Century Munich in a small, one-room
apartment, most of which is taken up by a desk, bed and books. The little money he
earns is got by translating obscure texts from different languages, just enough to pay for
food, paper and more books.”
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“That‟s a nice start. What happens to him?” She warms as he grasps her hand,
withdraws into his thoughts and stirs slightly—almost a shiver—in the chair.
“It‟s the man‟s habit to labor into the early morning while the city sleeps, but one
night he runs out of candles because he hadn‟t made enough money that week and has
been forced to choose between light and food. He might have substituted a
contemplative walk in the park for the work, but it‟s too late even for that, his only source
of outside pleasure. He‟s so annoyed over it all that he can‟t sleep. He tries to force
himself, but ends up thinking about the sentence he had been translating when the candle
blew out-”
“And what was the sentence?”
He flashes a thin smile. “It was French. It said, ‘L’immortalité subsiste en
l’homme, et après lui.’”
“Hold on, I can figure that out.” She purses her lips and blinks several times
before snapping her fingers and exclaiming, “Got it!”
“Do you, now?” He chuckles.
She dresses herself straight in the chair, attracting the attention of a small child at
the table beside them. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. It says, „Immortality subsists in
man, and after him.‟ It‟s not that difficult. But go on with the story.” She smiles at the
curly-haired toddler, who playfully covers her eyes.
“Well, there on the thin mattress in the dark with his eyes closed, he senses a
quick rush of cold air, followed by the sound of slow pacing and creaking wood behind
him. Nervous, the scholar opens an eye but it‟s dark and he‟s facing the wall. Just then,
he realizes the steps are drawing ever closer to him and his teeth start to knock together.
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He hadn‟t heard the door open, and dark thought fly through his head at a million miles
per hour.”
“It‟s a ghost,” she declares. “You can see that coming from a mile away.”
“True, but not what you‟d expect. He finally musters the courage to turn over and
gets the surprise of his life. The spirit, instead of being the terrifying apparition he
expected, is a beautiful woman, as perfect as any he could have ever imagined, complete
with long, black hair and a shape he had only seen in illustrations of Greek and Roman
statues. A long, flowing robe drapes over her body in such a way that, as she walks,
there‟s very little left to the poor fellow‟s imagination.”
“Or to yours, it seems,” she quips with a coy grin. “And I know how vivid your
imagination can be.”
She often finds herself wondering what he had thought about her during the last
four years and enjoys assuming he had wanted her all that time, had imagined seducing
her and eventually breaking her resolve, even if she didn‟t put up much of a fight. At the
time—and perhaps even at this point—it seemed a fair trade.
He blushes slightly since now the child‟s parents are looking at them, coughs and
plays with the rim of his glasses. “It was all he could do to find the courage to speak to
the ghost, to ask her what she wanted.”
“And?”
“She tells him she‟s come to reward his devotion, that he‟s found beauty and
happiness in the thoughts of others and is worthy of more.”
“Is it the first time she‟s visited him?”
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“No, she‟s come every night, but his concentration has prevented him from seeing
her.”
“Oh. And does she give him his reward right then?”
“He asks the same question, imagining that she‟s going to repay his dedication
with riches. But instead, she tells him that his reward will come at the same hour on the
next evening. He waits—what choice does he have?—and, when the church bells ring
vespers, she appears and presents him with another book. A little disappointed, he flips
through the pages, expecting perhaps to find the wisdom of the Gods, some great
epiphany condensed onto paper.”
“Sounds like a cruel joke. Not the kind of ghost or spirit I would want to meet.”
“That‟s not the worst of it. When he opens the book, there‟s not a single thing
written in it. He looks up in amazement and she explains in a soft voice that other
person‟s thoughts have come down to him and through his efforts will continue to find
themselves in the hands of still others. Because of this sacrifice, he‟s permitted to write
the thoughts of his heart in an unspoiled book and she, daughter of Mercury and
Philology, will see to it that they become as immortal as those thoughts he‟s savored in
his labors. There is, she tells him, no greater gift than this.”
The young woman does her best to look thoughtful, twists her lips into a pretty
smile and gently waves one hand in the air. “Maybe the spirit is right. When you think
about it, is there anything more flattering? I suppose most people die and leave what
money and possessions they have behind them to be used up, but there‟s something about
thoughts that makes them continue on. People can keep knowledge for themselves and
there‟s still never less than there was before. So does he take the book?”
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“He does, and sits before it night after night, trying to think of exactly what to put
on those blank pages. With time, he eats even less than before, stops going for his
occasional walks and even becomes sickly and feverish.”
Her brow furrows. “Why? I don‟t get it.”
“He realizes something he had never realized before.”
She shakes her head from side to side.
“He understands that he‟s been enjoying what other people have already had and
is incapable of being the first to have an original thought worthy of posterity. This,
combined with the opportunity to write in a book destined to be passed from generation
to generation, tortures him.” He sits up and tries to assume a pose appropriate to what he
is about to say, finally announcing: “You know, hell is realizing what you might have had
but can never reach at the time it‟s offered to you because of choices you‟ve already
made and can no longer undo.”
“So he goes nuts.”
He frowns at the quickness of her response. “Sure, but it was as he was
descending into madness that he finally took his pen, scribbled in the book and then
closed it up again.”
“Does he feel better afterwards?”
“In a way. He goes to bed, closes his eyes and dies.”
“He dies? That‟s it?”
“Yes, he dies.”
“That‟s how it ends?”
“More or less. The spirit comes, kisses his eyelids softly and takes the book.”
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She shakes her head disapprovingly. “What a lousy ending. I hope what he wrote
was worth it.”
“You can decide for yourself because the spirit kept her promise. His words are
in the book.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a folded up piece of paper
upon which were written the words:
I hate the night that stalks my sleep like the dead weight of loss and longing I feel
when I hear the water raging under this wreck of a bridge I’ve built. I hate the curse of
peaceful repose standing above me, around me, sneering down at me like the ghost of
pleasures untasted. But what would you have me do? I cannot walk where you would
have me go, so unwittingly I enter a new world, this place where the bitterness of lonely
darkness mocks the empty space that was once my joy. And what do you want from me in
the great moment of my impotence? You’ll flee from my mouth never to return as all of
you always have. So with you by my side I’ll stay and bleed until all the life in me abates,
and you may bless the desiccated shell warmed by the hell of the night I hate.
Taking the paper, she reads it and gazes at him contemplatively. “And it was
important enough you wrote it down?”
He nods. “Maybe a spirit visited me and I translated it.”
“What does it mean?” Her nose crinkles. “You writers always mask everything.”
He smiles, but an empty smile. “With allegory perpetually at our beck and call,
it‟s hard to resist the temptation to sublimate what we can‟t admit to openly.”
She looks at him apprehensively from the corner of her eye as he takes the fork
and pushes it through the cold noodles.
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Quod ab profundissimo obscuro animi hominis venit, petere nemo debet nisi
exaequari dolore quaeret.
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