"The Happy Valley" ch. 7
By Annemarie Schwarzenbach. Abridged and translated by Cleo Varra
Previous: "The Happy Valley" ch. 6
Alone on new trails... how much can a heart endure? I have learned that it is invulnerable, fed by birds out of the sky. I can no longer put any names to dangers, and have laid aside all my defenses, I have said goodbye to the guardian angel from the forest paths of my childhood. Now he might not recognize me.
I wear different clothes, and as long as the summer lasts, I won’t need a coat. If I go to colder countries, I will buy myself a sheepskin. The prince of the Ruallah Bedouins, Fauas Cha'alan, has given me a horse that grew up in the deserts of the Nej. He counts his wealth in guns and Turkish gold coins. His servants, beautiful Bedouin boys, wear their hair, which has been dyed with henna, braided into plaits and make up their eyes with charcoal. In his house in Damascus I saw an African slave mixing coffee with bitter spices. And in the courtyard, at midday, a hundred men were being fed.
The prince prevented me from photographing those gathered for the meal.
"They eat the rice with their fingers," he said - "that is not the custom in France. It could cause offense there." - "What are the greatest virtues of your tribe?" I asked him. He answered without hesitation: "Courage and cunning."- And then I left the gardens of Damascus, whose fountains drink moonlight…
Each evening I say goodbye - and by morning I am close to the unknown. Adventures lie behind me, but a thousand realities have yet to be faced. I attack, I throw myself against them, I love - and I forget nothing.
Cedars remain behind, olive groves, songs, pillars, sails, tents. And the hoofprints of horsebacked peoples on the march. Farther away, oh, farther still! - Like a frightened horse, my impatience wants to break away, to the right, to the left - and always it rushes forward. It costs me many sleepless nights to catch up with it ... the roads are billowing and veiled like the Milky Way.
Cold, hunger, thirst - I have what I wanted and nowhere to lay my head. No helping hand! - If I were now, after a single night like this, to appear in your streets, the neighbors would no longer know me. I would lie by their springs... unable to quench my thirst. What does it matter? My impatience is gone already, gone over the mountains. - And I follow it, light-hearted. - My heart is so light, so empty that all forces find their way in, all energies flow in, spicy night air and salty sea winds, and also the drifting sap of the plants, the silent rain, the breath of the branches, of the animals, of sleeping peoples- of all pulsebeats. It rises from streams, and floats over the fields like an early morning mist, it glides over flocks, swoops down from the vineyards, touches the treetops and the ridges of tents, it gathers around the shepherds' fires - do not be afraid - and I feel as if I see hosts of angels on both sides of the road and have to cry tears of delight.
Have I ever known want? How could my eyes not overflow faced with the innocence of the new earth? - There is no name for this -. Delight? Fulfillment? A vision of truth? Music of the spheres? Heavenly and earthly love? Marriage, ecstasy, torture? Oh, tormenting fear! My heart is torn open, and I can find no words of salvation. I am no longer able to speak. Have mercy on me!
Sometimes I am so exhausted that I fall into a deep sleep. It is the sleep of animals. No images, no dreams, no voices, no hallucinations. No evening prayers, no morning stars. I have sunk into the breast of the silent earth.
Because I find my way back - no matter how far I flee - and hide my face in the hands that inflicted my wounds. Only comfort... Already threatened by waking, I calm myself: "you will never wake again", assure myself of the heavy sweetness of sleep. And once again my heart prepares a place for all passions.
I greet the springs, the olive trees, the blue of the farthest hills. I will be with you before evening! The fertile gods of Coelesyria remain behind. Are there other gods? Ishtar, mother of the ash hills, virgin of the stone deserts, twelve passions on the way. Who will return my greeting and accept my prayers? Domes, madrasas, tombs, temples, your holy of holies are closed to me. What formulas shall I use? - I stammer - and it is good that no one hears me.
No more sacrifices, no more altars, no more hymns - I am approaching the muteness of creatures... Because the Son of Man is not yet born. Weeping angels proclaim him - while we listen in silence.
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Next: "The Happy Valley" ch. 8
