An Offering for the Dead Read Free Page A

so much stirring. But we no longer notice such things, we are used to them; after all, these minor defects developed through our living together — yes, and all these objects are still here, and you do not know why. A fly only has to buzz, and you are done for.
    Eventually, I did go to the front of the house after all, looking for the dining room. It was next to the front door. The table was set for twelve people, I instantly counted. It looked very festive: the white tablecloth, the settings, crystal decanters of wine, and silver candelabras. There may have been flowers too, I cannot picture it otherwise. I gazed at everything, I even touched a few objects. I believe that I actually shifted and rearranged one thing or another. To test it, I sat down at the table. There was a seat at the narrow end, opposite the open glass doors, which led to a terrace. Another setting was at my right. No one came to serve me, no invisible hands placed food in front of me. Nor, incidentally, did I expect it. Then I stood up again and gingerly pushed the chair back to the table. A painting hanging on the wall had caught my eye. A bleak landscape with water. Or, more precisely: no landscape, but something that had been or was yet to become a landscape. The colors reminded me of the pearls. That is very bizarre. The person who had painted the picture and those who had hung it in their room in order to view it constantly must have known a great deal more than their daily existence seemed to prove. Where was the defect?
    The next room had books, two walls full. These people must have been well-read. A small piano stood there, it was open, and a score was on the music desk. Why should I describe all this? It was like everywhere else, a bit more tasteful perhaps; but that was not it. Something was missing; above all, it was not what I was looking for. But just what was I looking for? I wandered, through the streets of the city and through these rooms. What had prompted me to return to the city in the first place? I certainly could not assume that it still existed. And I had even less reason to think that it would release me again, and that I would now be standing in the rain on this high, treeless plateau, amid nameless, exhausted sleepers — whom one, likewise nameless, does not dare call human beings — in order to talk about it. For none of this happened to supply me with an interesting story to tell. But somebody has to speak about it. It could be that something unexpectedly pops up among the words, something that should not be forgotten; and once it is articulated, it begins to live. Sometimes it seems to me — but perhaps I am wrong, and it need not be taken all too seriously — that I returned to the city because of those colors. I mean the colors of the pearls and of the painting.
    I stood at the mirror for a long time. Or did I sit in front of it? Here, my story gets confused because I was very tired. Ask me if you want any details. Being a man, I do not notice everything. It may be that I overlook precisely the most important things.
    The mirror was like a narrow gate, I could have passed through it comfortably.
    Yes, it was a woman's room. One must bear in mind that the rooms and the objects no longer gave off any kind of smell. That was why I did not perceive it right away. But all sorts of objects that should have made me aware of it must have been lying about. Gloves or stockings or a handkerchief. I now remember that some face powder was strewn on the glass shelf of one of the small cabinets next to the mirror. I traced a sinuous line in the powder with my finger, but since it looked like an S, I quickly blew it away; otherwise, some unknown person whose name happened to start with that letter might think that somebody was calling him and trying to cast a spell on him. I should probably have looked for a comb; there must have been one lying there. But who thinks of such a thing? I could then say whether the woman who lived in that