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I O the Poor
Horses ‘Communism,’ the old guy says,
‘is the spirit. It never dies. That is its problem. The Party, necessarily,
is the body that it seeks, inhabits. The body has the force, it fights, it
thinks, manoeuvres – putrefies, and dies. The spirit – it wanders on again,
like a butterfly, a ghost.’ ‘Yes,’ says Julie, much enthused. ‘Ah,
Julie,’ says the dying man, ‘your mother had in mind to call you Aurelia –
but she found that was what they called a road. So, it was Julie – after the
hero, stabbed in the back. A messy life like they all did then. Epicurus
morphing into Stoicism. Lots now start with a religion. You need be a good
reader, even if your nose is stuck into a book – to see what’s going on
around. But – inside that paper ball in front of you there nest a thousand
wasps. It doesn’t matter where you start – the seminary, the foundry – it’s
where intelligence can take you...’ ‘Yes,
of course I see,’ says Julie, swept up, excited, in a history that won’t be
hers. ‘It
sounds precarious,’ the old guy says – some relative of hers, she at first
constrained no doubt, to tolerate – ‘The tumbler you’re attached to. Can he
catch you when you fall?’ ‘Oh
no!’ she shouts. ‘They set you up, to talk you off my Pierre! They are a team
– Pierre and Dora! I am with them both. They bear me up, they cast me down.
It’s passion, stupid!’ ‘They’re
acrobats,’ the old guy says. ‘When you fall, you stand again and bow and
smile. It all fits in the act.’ ‘Just
like you say,’ she shouts. ‘The spirit’s in the air, you weave it round. If
you are slippery, well – into the sand you go, your time is up. They bind you
like two snakes with ruby eyes, they’re warm and leathery, the sex fleets
like a cloud...’ ‘Is
there an audience?’ the old communist guy asks, quite greedy for the scene. ‘I’m
always hidden,’ Julie says. ‘If the elephant goes mad with must – I have the
rifle, and will shoot.’ ‘That
means you’re some kind of spy,’ the old man says, seeing communism slip away.
‘Everything is falling down. There’s war everywhere for silly things, all
will end as heaps of stones... So, Julie, you’re not bombing, so you must be
in intelligence.’ ‘We
have to be around to build it up again,’ she says. Maybe she wonders who’s
trying to split her from Pierre – perhaps it’s his girl Dora, whom she
loves... ‘I
know,’ the old guy says, ‘the circus goes round everywhere, it’s made that
way. Travel with them – you’re the dross that finds out everything.’ ‘It’s
not about fooling gravity, and climbing the stairway up to heaven,’ says
Julie. ‘That’s maybe how it looks – but really, it’s about the other body
twisted round you, it’s monkeys in the puzzle tree, it’s hanging on to
creatures with no tails... It’s all sex, and everybody holds their breath
until you reach the ground. Tossing the fruit, chasing the tails, hierarching, picking nits...’ ‘You?
You’ve been up in the cradle, Julie?’ asks the old earthbound guy. ‘What’s
remarkable for humans,’ Julie says, ‘is nowhere near what monkeys do. You
applaud – but you should cry, in shame, frustration, for your kind.’ ‘That’s
what I was telling you,’ says the old communist guy. ‘Shame, frustration.
With falling on the floor, trying to run up the air, without a branch... When
it happens, you think there must be a way to start again. Mankind, Julie: is
there more to come?’ Now,
neither is listening to the other. ‘Monkeys are cruel,’ the old guy thinks.
‘I love Dora too,’ thinks Julie, ‘But I don’t want Pierre screwing both of
us.’ * ‘Another premature,’
shouts Pierre. ‘You slither, Dora!’ ‘Oh,’
she says. ‘They clap, whatever happens. Using the powder makes my skin come
off in scales. I oiled ... a little. Your grip – it’s slack.’ ‘I’d
train Julie up,’ says Pierre. ‘She’d do the act like you – except she doesn’t
bend.’ ‘She’s
not been to the academy. They don’t let you in, if you can’t kick your
height,’ says Dora, quite indifferent. ‘If
you’re not concentrated, Dora,’ says Pierre, ‘you’ll fall. No one will pick
you up. That is the rule. Even if you’re dead and smashed.’ ‘I’ve
the world to choose from,’ Dora says: ‘I don’t believe in falls, nor being
caught, nor being held. It’s a humiliation. Better to pretend our act’s
against our nature. See them far below, men and women, the whole world. High
above the wind – no longer earthbound, so long as you hold tight. Up on the
rope, you’re left quite free to sing whatever song you want.’ ‘We’ll go up higher,’ Pierre says. ‘Do
or drop – it’ll help you focus.’ ‘There’s
some old guy,’ says Dora, ‘trying to have Julie sign up for something. She’d
be better with the animals – that way, you may get love.’ ‘She’s
back in the paper centuries,’ says Pierre. ‘We’re not bound. We have no
words, no language. There’s nothing choreographed. Just bare bodies and
treetops. No meaning. What we are – a frolic with tears and fractures.’ ‘There’s
compromise,’ says Dora, stroking Pierre. ‘The tent. The arena. Sand. The
camels and the lions. We have a place.’ ‘Yes,
Dora,’ says Pierre, ‘but there’s no rain. No hunts. A desert with no sun,
oasis waterless. True, we’ve a place and a programme – but they don’t exist
anywhere, on no map, no globe. Tomorrow – we’re in Aschaffenberg.
Nowhere. It could be Bactria, or where there’s yurts. Ours is the only art
that’s painted on with arnica.’ It’s
lovers’ talk. Julie’s pushed back among the clowns and floormen, the hoopers
and the wirestrollers. ‘Julie’s
old guy – it’s on to a future primitive, no cash, no banks,’ says Dora. ‘And
no employers, so he says.’ ‘We’re
primitive already,’ says Pierre. ‘Just hands and toes. No monotheism – no
idolatry at all, no heresy. No punishments – just accidents. No faith...’ ‘Pierre
– we must have some belief – or else they wouldn’t make a booking for
tomorrow’s show,’ says Dora. Pierre says, ‘There’s
trust. Belief in gravity That’s it – we are not humanists, we do what Julie
cannot do, our act, no juju and no miracles.’ ‘That
Masha, the Cossack from Prague – she says we’re like copulating
caterpillars,’ Dora says. ‘Why can’t you explain yourself, Pierre?’ ‘Their
horses are too tall,’ says Pierre. ‘It’s so the riders get to do their
tricks. Steppe ponies – they’re the ones that spread the fear. It happens so
– first the panic, then you make them worthy enemies, vainglory comes in –
then, they’re noble losers. Like the Tuaregs. Those Cossacks – good at sabering Jews, then, just another curious minority. Good
for the circus. We’re not like that, Dora. We go way back, as we go up!’ She
sniffles, unconvinced. ‘You can’t use a sabre from a pony. You need a high
horse. That’s your trouble – you’re approximate, Pierre.’ * ‘I don’t see the fun
in communism,’ Julie tells them. ‘And I’m too tall to climb a rope.’ ‘Build
up your mass,’ says Pierre, ‘Then you can carry me.’ ‘Julie
should come with us,’ says Dora. ‘I’m keen on her. She’s quite outside our
show.’ ‘I’m
super-strong,’ says Pierre, ‘but I can’t support the pair of you.’ ‘No
nakedness in Germany, Pierre,’ says Dora. ‘They think it’s fascist.’ ‘I
try to hurry things along,’ says Pierre. ‘Julie’s old communist – it’s baby
steps and cover up, for him. Besides – there’s no one following. It’s just an
evolutionary trial – it lands you with those beetles that can jump like
kangaroos. The secret of all life is there, revealed – but it’s an
obscurantist way to carry on.’ ‘You’re
wrong, Pierre,’ says Dora. ‘It’s true, we don’t do epitaphs. But what we do
is celebration, not departure. Dominating animals, training ourselves to
poise and slide. It’s regression, confirmation. No one sees your face. It’s a
rite, in masks, with death lying on the floor, impermanence flitting on the
trapeze. If you want more, Pierre – don’t climb and embrace. Granite and
gristle, Pierre – those are the marks, not fur and furbelows.’ ‘In
that case, Dora,’ says Pierre, ‘we must do something else. Forget the
curtseys, the prissy running on and off, the show... The clowns, mocking it
all down. The beasts – who must submit. All vanity, Dora – vanity, the
training and the trainers. We should try everything extreme, beyond the
limits, beyond natures – further and further, colder, hotter, more lonely,
more hugger-mugger, more profane, tighter chained to the holy book, more
idolatrous, more iconoclastic, more modern, more reactionary... Then we must
leave these couplings – the high, the low, the opposites – every contrary, we
must have both and neither. Break the fetters, Dora. No pairing off, no
individuals, but finding the vital nub, the fuse, the burner – then blow!
Blow it out, extinguish, find what there lies beyond the nothing you create,
make it a world, and then destroy it! Light! Snuffed. Snuff – inhaled and
with a mighty sneeze – splatter it all out!’ ‘We
don’t have time to try each one of those extremes,’ says Dora. ‘Someone
thought of that, your plan. That’s why we’re given these short lives. That’s
why our arms tire, our heads crack open on the floor, we need a net – we
fall, we’re caught, we’re hooked, we end up in the freezer or the fire.’ ‘Then
we must find whoever designed it so,’ says Pierre. ‘Confront them. Kill them,
probably – they have no genitals – or maybe a whole stock – no family, or
everyone is child to them. Destroy them – it’s the only way – malignant
polyp, each one of us their sucker in this crap design.’ ‘It’s
useless, Pierre,’ says Dora. ‘Smash the machine – you’ll die. That’s how it’s
made.’ ‘That’s
your fear, Dora,’ says Pierre. ‘I’m prudent, but I’m not afraid. I have no
fear. If I did – I’d drop you, fall – to show I had it, fear. I don’t and so
– I’m not afraid.’ * Dora tells Julie,
‘Pierre’s full of air. He’s lucky – he performs where it never rains. If he
goes on like this, I’ll start a school of dance, a gym, a yoga haunt.’ ‘I’m
with you on the yoga,’ Julie says. ‘It’s sport, religion, and it loosens up
your spine. Those are my three goals in life just now.’ ‘It’s
the same with all my enterprises, Julie,’ Dora says: ‘You need to
concentrate, that’s all. For me, anything I do for myself would mean Pierre’s
not dragging me along – he wants to go up higher, near the roof. You can’t be
seen up there, and it’s much further down.’ ‘Pierre’s
not the state, Dora,’ Julie says. ‘Not your religion, a disease, a famished
beast, all saying you must die to feed their appetite. He’s a guy with high
ideas, strong arms and legs – that’s all.’ ‘Oh
Julie,’ Dora says. ‘Those things, the beast, all that – they ask you to die
for them, and if you don’t – you have no choice.’ ‘It’s
true,’ Julie says, ‘you shouldn’t go to places where there’s questions
without answers.’ ‘Not
so,’ Dora says. ‘If it’s not a physical thing, a torment, then living
impossible situations, even for years – it’s a good thing. It straightens up
your face. But what I’m in – it’s physical too. You must keep concentrated,
but if you have to think too much, it starts to hurt.’ ‘You’re
not telling me everything,’ says Julie. ‘Or, if you are, I can’t follow you.
Living a logical life – it doesn’t need a spiel, and doubts and doublebacks. If it’s not easy to set out, explain – it
isn’t right.’ ‘The
risk attracts,’ says Dora. ‘The perfection too. But – what does it produce,
our act? A frisson and a giggle.’ * Wearing their
clothes – Dora and Julie lose some height. In a beautiful crowd, they’d fit
quite well – it’s all a question of their symmetry. That’s beauty – everyone
that looks the same. No crumpled-paper faces; all striding out, no hobbling
along. It has significance. ‘I’ve
been thinking, Dora,’ Pierre says. ‘I should do the act alone. Its meaning
becomes clear when there’s no man-woman stuff, no strong, no weak, no apelike
dexterities and suppleness – just me... No responsibility for someone else,
no glam.’ ‘It’s
a relief,’ says Dora, ‘to be cast off. And then regret. And bitterness. You
are right, of course. A double act – it is ambiguous. So – throw in one hand
– another will be dealt. Julie and I – we’ll start another life... She spies
on people. Most people do that work. We’ll start again, instead, knowing
nothing about what we’ll do.’ ‘That
could be treachery to me, of course, though it’s quite bold,’ says Pierre.
‘What I do has failure and success imprinted in. Your wandering – it’s
failure, relatively, from the start.’ Julie
thinks of the old guy. ‘The spirit,’ she starts to say, but sees she doesn’t
know what spirits do, what they get up to in the dark. Put on sailor suits
and walk the promenade – at Kronstadt or at Biarritz? Who knows – they are
invisible, though probably they could buy their clothes from Yves or Coco, or
just run naked up and down, no need to cover absent genitalia, or risk a fine
for nakedness, or a sore throat... * ‘Acrobats don’t have
a good name,’ Dora says. ‘Now I’m not one, I see it clearly. Pierre – is a
hero. I used to read about them, in the caravan, as we nomads – the
dromedaries padding, the tigers nodding, side to side, for the eventual
sparking out, their chase – we went jogging on... Heroes don’t all end
smouldering on the pyre. Some just disappear – errata. Some linger on – Erwartung. Some – it’s apotheosis. Which is the best? It
isn’t clear. They say it’s us, who pay, mark up their points, and are beholders
– we are the center, sages, the knowing ones.
That’s crap: being a hero’s best. If you only plan a looking on – you can be
life-trainers for other clueless souls. We could do that, Julie.’ * ‘You can be a hero,
Pierre,’ says Masha. ‘But it’s quite juvenile. If you want to impose yourself
– you need a sense of where things go. Use your resource! That emperor – the
wrestler – in Byzantium. The Romans – soldiers, gladiators, boxers. They all
started off like you – resistant bodies. Carapaces. Now, in the time of
broken logics, of chaos – that’s all gone. A fad that no one mentions now. We
know things are quite desperate – looking for a saviour’s gotten serious.
Nations or continents? Bankers or bishops? West or East? That’s where you
must make your choice, take your stand. Climbing your rope and twisting round
– surely, Pierre – the limitation strikes?’ ‘Our
animals – they’re under threat,’ says Pierre. ‘The only people without rights
– is us. We’re every nation here, and citizens of nowhere land. We can go
round and round, apolids, apolitical, free as the
glass fragments in kaleidoscopes... Higher and higher up my rope – I’ll
cogitate some way to shift us from our metaphor – make us that tiny planet of
the good – the Greeks were sure they saw it, reflected in a well. We are
already beautiful – the good awaits!’ ‘We’ve
no defence,’ says Masha, tugging at her leather pants. ‘They’ll take our
tigers, lock them in a zoo. They’ll forget their tricks – and so shall we.
We’ll have to learn the patter over, and do theirs too.The
bad morphs into bad, and we go round and round. All I’ve to show for being
free – is barnacles on my bum.’ ‘You
guys,’ says Pierre. ‘May not be worthy of the plan. So – that leaves me to
think things out...’ ‘We
centaurs,’ Masha says, ‘we’re statues. We never make things on our own. You
find us everywhere, but we’re not real. We’re nothing without our mounts.
You, Pierre – now you’ve lost Dora...’ ‘Yes,’
says Pierre, ‘I’m supreme. I’ve climbed the wall, I’m on the top and reaching
up. I feel I’ve given birth and dumped the kid. I didn’t use my partner, but
we were a hybrid, no one saw me climb without me humping her up, my sack, my
slithering worm. She’s beautiful, Dora is – but what’s two bodies clamped
together? She’s not your soul, your spirit. She is not your twin, or your
disease, your tone of voice, colour of your eyes, your smell, your seed. So
what...? I love her, Masha, and it’s best she should go off, and maybe with
that other one, Julie – maybe as twins they’ll feel for what the other
needs.’ ‘You’re
granite, Pierre,’ says Masha, not much liking him. ‘It
isn’t what I am,’ he says. ‘It’s what I want.’
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