Soleida Ríos
Tropism*
Translated from Spanish by Kristin Dykstra
I’m still positioned for a kiss . . . in the smoothest and most natural thing that has happened in years, if it is really happening, between M. Hogoblin and me.
Both lying down by a windowpane . . .
In its glass I can see my braids: long, running in all directions.
I don’t want to say anything about the Place, so large and greatly varied (and at the same time, seemingly suppressed under some force), and suggestive: volatile things that one can oversee or imagine one oversees: objects, little airborne bits (to play with?), hurried missions, appreciations . . .
I don’t want to say anything about the Wife (which she is not), who may have spent many hours with me, while he was going (is going) to fulfill his obligations.
I don’t know whether she’s a mother, but something lies behind that tethers or dominates her.
Nor do I want to talk about the Actor-Character with whom we would suddenly find ourselves in near-cohabitation, in whose presence I put on an act (did I put on an act?). I mean, at first I’m startled:
—Me, Soledad . . . when?
That one, to tell the truth: not an act. And immediately honeyed, like a home-baked sweet roll.
—I’m not going to want any more nights and days here, sleeping with you . . .
Ulterior motive? It was in the thinking, and mostly for the Wife (which she is not), not for the Actor.
Although the room was immense and well stocked . . . with it, some grand dream? No.
It’s not that big a deal. Not so comforting.
M. Hogoblin, back from one of his obligations or evolutions (always always booked up to his teeth), tries for a refuge and gets one, a REFUGE ABSENT OF UNEASE.
Inside this refuge, observing me, scrutinizing me, with his way of melting any resistance that might exist, any fear or discomfort, he launches this kiss. I don’t know whether I can (will) go there.
Those
(ardent) interrogations . . .
answers
approaches
and (sham) retreats
escapes
pursuits
excitements
and
frictions
clashes
caresses
nips
embraces . . .
EMBRACES.
Nothing more right (I read, I rewrite) for arousing
shaking up pushing to surface and
spreading . . . toward an exterior.
Under pressure from all that noise
(tumult):
thinning
and anguish.
And an inevitable ouster
from
the center of gravity.
But, lending a hand with those
volatile objects . . . which one imagines ruling:
hurried missions
notions
bits to play with
appreciations?
the Character
Actor
already
got out
of the immensity
of THIS
REFUGE
the Wife (which she is not)
already
got out
of the bright
immensity
of THIS
REFUGE . . .
M. Hogoblin, patient, waiting . . .
For the moment I know I’m saying to him, “. . . I feel like I’m on a colossal
highway,
but I
don’t
know
where
I’m
going.”
I see my braids shift
in a curious way. As if in the sensuality of
waters.
February 5, 2002, and April 25, 2010
* Returning to Nathalie Sarraute