Two actors, an older man and a young woman both turn to face the public. They speak in turn, each taking up where the other leaves off.
Marcel
It’s nothing serious.
Just a bump on the head, that’s all. It must have been the sudden transition from the heat of the day into the cool of the cathedral. And there’s something about that labyrinth, poised in the middle. Perhaps I followed its wayward, winding paths too often these past weeks.
Isis
You’ll drive yourself mad at this rate, Marcel.
Marcel
Isis doesn’t understand an academic’s duty to get to the bottom of an issue. She doesn’t understand that you have to turn over every stone, follow every trail and then cast doubt on your findings. She doesn’t like facts, either. She doesn’t believe in them, she says. She’s young and greedy, she wants to keep all options open.
Isis
I felt sorry for him. He looked so defeated sitting there, leaning on the kitchen table with his head in his hands. The big plaster on his forehead made him look so vulnerable. It was nothing to worry about, he said. He had fallen over in the cathedral. Its flagstones have been polished smooth over the centuries; the stoutest rubber soles skate about on them. And he doesn’t look where he’s going when he’s trotting obsessively round that labyrinth, lost in thought. Grumbling at the children who turn it into a game. Irritated by New Age tourists using it to perform bizarre rituals. I’m worried about this sixty-year-old man who, lost in concentration, took such a painful tumble. Marcel. Retired Professor Marcel Manievski.
What happened to that flamboyant man who opened the door to the world for me?
Marcel
Why did I bring her along? She claims that it was fate, that I didn’t have any choice in the matter. That I love her. That I am slaking my thirst at the fount of her youth. Me? Someone who can fall in love with a thousand-year-old Madonna?
Perhaps it was the airless crypt that made me so dizzy. For centuries, after all, that stifling oppressive space was a place of refuge for unfortunates suffering from every malady under the sun. For many, it became their final destination. There they coughed up their pleurisy-ridden guts, shivered in delirium, spread their stench…All in the hope that the Black Madonna with the unseeing eyes would plead for mercy on their souls. It takes more than a squirt of air freshener and a bucket of floor cleaner to wipe out so much adversity and wretchedness.
Isis
We both thought that this summer in Chartres could shed a fresh light on things… on us. But all he does is root around in crypts and dungeons. And why is he creeping into these dark and shadowy places? To see the light!
Poor man.
Marcel
Isis! She was the third student from right in the second row of the auditorium. ‘So that’s really your name? Are your parents old hippies, archaeologists or just into Egypt?’ Isis! A divine apparition on the benches of the lecture theatre. Looking up at him. Talk about being predestined to study history! She shrugged. She would have preferred to be called Iris, or Luna. Children rarely like their names. At least with a name like Isis you’re not likely to end up working on a supermarket till… Isis is one of the oldest and most powerful female deities of ancient Egypt. She was the patron of the family, female fertility, medicine and magic. Isis and her twin brother Osiris, children of the god of the earth and the goddess of the heaven, married and ruled over the Egyptian cosmos. Isis was worshipped until late into the Roman era, far beyond Egypt’s borders. Ancient temples dedicated to her have been found on the banks of the Danube and the Thames. Her legend has continued to echo through mythology and the symbols of the Christian church. The way in which the Madonna with Child is typically depicted is strikingly similar to images of Isis with Horus at her breast. Mary has also taken over many of the titles associated with Isis. Seat of Wisdom, Star of the Sea and Queen of Heaven…
Isis
We’ve known each other for fifteen years. He was in his mid-forties, I was a mere girl of twenty. He was my mentor, I was his blank slate. He was such an exciting teacher compared to the others. We shared a sense of humour that no one else understood. It sparked word games, linguistic duels, polemics… and passion. Until he started to feel wronged, misjudged, a living anachronism. Until he declared war on the world and on our age.
Marcel
I sat staring at that centuries-old statue this morning, beyond the reach of reason. Like all those simple pilgrims before me I begged for answers. There are so many pointers to Isis… not my Isis, Osiris’s Iris. So many similarities with the ancient Egyptian cult, but so little evidence. I sometimes envy those who simply believe; they have no need of research, nothing to prove. I am exhausted by that eternal need to know.
I shouldn’t have let myself be distracted. It took at least two weeks before I really started my research here. I followed Isis, blindly, blinded. We strolled about, sat at pavement cafes, drank and ate more than was good for us. We went shopping, can you believe it. Me, joining that army of waiting men who station themselves outside changing rooms, looking mournful. ‘Yes, lovely, no, that one’s nicer. Hey, why don’t you get both!’ What do I care about such things? But she claimed that it was important for our relationship to do ‘normal stuff’ once in a while. What could I say? I see how young layabouts look at her, how her appearance excites them.
I see how she revels in those glances like a cat on heat. I also know how much effort it costs her to perform the rituals of our being together. Walking arm in arm, sharing the paper, massaging my shoulders, getting me to zip up her red dress, running a hand through my hair, my fingers touching her lips, that fleeting good night kiss. Each day she finds it a little harder to go through the motions of our togetherness. I’m frightened of the repulsion that I will inspire in her. Of the inevitable hatred.
Isis
A common or garden midlife crisis I could have understood. The sudden purchase of a motorbike, overly hip clothing and a request to dye his grey hair. I would have allowed myself to be won over, would have found it touching, and would have pulled his leg a little at his efforts to stave off mortality. But this age of bitterness is taking its toll on my life too. His negativity and eternal resentment against everything and everybody is killing me. I have lost hope and feel myself wilting, prematurely extinguished as he uses up all the oxygen in the dome under which we live.
Marcel
She’s trying so hard not to let go. I’m so empty; I can offer her nothing more than delay. Hence my quest for strength, for the new spiritual flame that will restore joy to my life. Joy would be something else to share. At the moment we share nothing more than the little two-room flat in the Rue aux Juifs.
Isis
His fall was inconvenient. That sounds obvious: things that are tiresome or painful are never convenient. But this is more complex than you might think; a question of bad timing. I feel guilty. Totally irrational, of course, but my magical thinking has a habit of putting a creative spin on cause and effect.
You know how in nature, a poisonous plant is said to have its own antidote growing nearby? Well, that’s how it came about. Fabrice… was a means of rescue, no more, he bumped into me behind the cathedral, on the steep slope next to the grass labyrinth. I had put up with three whole hours of Marcel banging on about the symbolism of the rose, and I was close to exhaustion …
Marcel
In ancient Mediterranean cultures, the rose was associated with the goddess of love – known to the Romans as Venus, and the Greeks as Aphrodite – and that’s why some see a link with female sexuality. But the goddess stood for much more than sex and sexuality. She represented romantic love and different categories of love; not just sexual intercourse. She contained Eros, but also an element of Agape. A rose’s colour came to have a romantic meaning. In previous centuries its symbolism was simple. These days, as rose colours have proliferated to reflect the romantic language the flower inspires, it has grown ever more complex. Early and mediaeval Christians knew only four colours of rose: white stood for innocent or pure love, pink meant first love, red true love and yellow forget it, it’s finished.
Isis
… and he hadn’t finished by any means. He was still lecturing, like he used to do at university. Except I’m the only one listening now. Listening? I know the stories and the theories back to front. I look at the places and details that he points out. I nod when he stops holding forth and looks at me for confirmation. Sometimes he gets me to finish a sentence.
I’m aware of the glances we attract, I hear the comments. We look an incestuous couple, I know. The older man with his weathered, lined face, his anorak over his shoulders, and the thirty-year-old in a summer dress. That’s what the other side of the medal looks like. The shiny medal pinned to my chest back then, the one with ‘teacher’s pet’ engraved on it. These days I have to share him with his doctor, his health problems and the women in his history books. My share keeps getting smaller.
Marcel
But what’s important about the rose as far as Mary is concerned, is the thorn. It was widely held – though the Bible is silent on this subject – that the roses and rose bushes in the Garden of Eden did not have thorns. So when you see a rose bush in paintings of Mary, especially in images of the Virgin and Child, it is a reference to Paradise.
Isis
This is how I imagine hell. With cold rather than heat at its core. Instead of flames, its depths exude desolation and a chilling absence of future prospects. ‘Do you think I’m depressed?’ I didn’t really intend to say this to Mary, a friend who had been trying for a few hours to keep up a conversation with me, it just popped out. I’m alienating the few contacts that I still have besides him; they get sick of my endless moaning. Depressed? Mary burst out laughing; she was so amused she almost choked. As if I had cottoned on embarrassingly late to the fact that Santa Claus does not exist. My naiveté was apparently hilarious; she was quite incapable of speech for a while. She blew her nose, enjoyed a few last chuckles and then addressed me with sudden seriousness. ‘You really need to get away! What say we go to Ibiza, for some mindless partying before we’re too old for it, or tour Italy on a Vespa in indecently short skirts? Learn to dance the tango in a nightclub in Buenos Aires, wrapped around men who smell of tobacco. Work with street children in Bogota, join rainforest activists…’ Mary said I desperately needed to do something that would give my life meaning once again. Otherwise I would die inside, and according to her you could already see that starting to happen.
But instead I went to Chartres… with him.
Marcel
It was Mary who initiated the process of our return to Paradise, to the place where the roses do not have thorns. So the rose became a symbol, an allusion if you like, to Mary’s role in redeeming humanity. Her rose was a sign of grace; that’s how the rose window came to be devised to the greater honour and glory of Mother Mary.
Isis
He goes on talking. The bell never rings, his lessons last for an eternity. And I know the book by heart anyway. But I’m the one who’s doomed to repeat a class. The more he talks about Mary, the angrier I get. I bite my lip, so as not to swear at him. I thrust my clenched fists deep into my jacket pockets, so as not to hit him. Stop it! Stop it! You’ve lost touch with reality, you’re an old man who just drones on. Even as the words form in my head they hurt. They hop about like venomous toads, hammering on my skull with their spatulate fingers. I have to get out. I need air!
And above all, light.
Marcel
Isis turns her back on me. Without saying anything. She runs like someone possessed, heading straight for the side door. She collides with little old ladies and Japanese tourists busy taking pictures. But no one holds her back. She disappears. People stare at me as if it were my fault. I must have done something terrible to upset her like that. But I was just sharing some beautiful things with her. Insights, learning. I decide not to pursue her. I can’t, my legs feel as heavy as lead. My spine seems to be disintegrating. A chair – I have to sit down for a minute.
Isis
The fresh air does me good. It’s like breathing in life itself. I walk, no, worse, I skip. For the first time I notice how beautiful the terraces behind the cathedral are. People are sitting there reading; entwined couples lean against the ancient walls, kissing each other when the fancy takes them. Four friends drink wine and play jeu de boules. I walk down the steps, happy as a child. Descending further with each terrace. Further away from the cathedral. Faster and faster, till I reach the slope next to the grass labyrinth. It’s a steep descent, my feet continue to run as if possessed. I wave my arms like windmills. I’m pretty sure I cry out. Just as I’m about to fall flat on my face, he appears. ‘Attention!’ A good-looking young man tries to stop me by grabbing hold of me. As a result we both fall down. Our childish, chaotic tumble makes him laugh. I laugh too, though shamefacedly. There’s grass in my hair, I’ve scraped my knees. The heel has come off one of my sandals, and my skirt is at half mast. I make desperate attempts to look a bit more decent. The young man climbs back up the slope a little way and retrieves my catapulted handbag from the grass. ‘What kind of a kamikaze stunt was that? I’m Fabrice, your rescuer.’ He laughs and holds out a hand. I respond clumsily, not quick enough to decode the signals for a civilised introduction. Driven by some external power, I ignore his hand and kiss him on the cheek. ‘Merci! I’m Isis.’ Isis, the puppet of lunacy.
Marcel
‘Pardon!’ I get in the priest’s way as he heads for his bizarre confessional quarters. I can’t think what else to call them. Nestled between two confessional boxes is a little blue-painted room with a big window. It looks like a dolls’ house. The priest goes in and puts the light on. In a matter-of-fact way he hangs his overcoat from a coat peg and sits down at the little table. He leafs through the paper that the previous duty priest has left behind. A man at work. Is this the church’s new transparency? Is this showcasing of domesticity supposed to win souls? He puts the paper away and checks his phone for messages. He reminds me of those authors you see at book fairs, sitting at little tables, waiting in vain for someone to ask them to sign a book, trying hard to look occupied among the unsold piles. It’s a hard act to pull off and the curé fails to be truly convincing. I feel sorry for him. Both of us are temporarily unemployed. I lack pupils, he lacks penitent sinners.
Isis
I walk through the city with a strange man. We leave the rich past that belongs to Marcel behind us, heading up towards the lively city, with all its attractions. No one gives us a second glance. We drink kir at a pavement cafe under the trees. Fabrice is a jazz pianist from Lyon, who is here in Chartres for the summer festival. Tomorrow he will perform with his own trio. He speaks easily and without reserve. I am flirting and I know it. I pretend to listen attentively, fiddle with my hair and wonder what it would be like to live with him. The kir does its work. Fabrice strokes my cheek. Am I free? It’s a question that I ask myself, too. What have I actually got apart from the overpowering sadness that fills my inner void with emptiness? He kisses me. Not like Marcel does. Little by little, men lose the art of kissing. Fabrice is still young, he kisses me full on the mouth. Greedily and passionately. He pays the bill and takes me by the hand. We hurry through the labyrinth of streets, driven by lechery. He carries me off to the penthouse flat that is his while the summer festival lasts. It’s a snug little place. I’ve seldom felt so welcome.
Marcel
He does not receive me in the cosy little room. Instead I am doomed to prostrate myself in the dark wooden hutch next door. I don’t know why. Whereas I could observe him just now under bright lights, as if he were a bonobo at the zoo, we’re now separated by a fine grill. So much for the transparency of the church. I inhale the smell of beeswax. It takes me back to my youth, to a time when I didn’t even understand the concept of sin. The priest mumbles something and then listens. It’s my turn to speak. God damn it, have I lost my mind? What am I doing here? Me, a man who despises psychologists and their addle-headed notions. Me, a man who shares nothing with friends, except good wine… am I suddenly turning to a total stranger to confess? I swallow, my mouth is dry. The words sound rusty, ‘I don’t have the right to hold her hostage. I’m making her unhappy, and I know it. I’m starving her emotionally …’
Isis
I look out over the city. Lean against the balcony’s wobbly railing, enjoying the danger. Fabrice stands behind me. His hands caress me. His agile, pianist’s fingers play my senses. I just stand there passively, looking out at the view. Perhaps I am afraid of losing myself if I shut my eyes. It’s as if I can see all the way to Paris. He kisses my neck. I tighten my grip on the railing. I’m in a state of heightened awareness. There isn’t an atom in my body that wants him to stop. His hands softly knead my breasts. I’m ashamed of the sigh of release that escapes me. A hand lifts my skirt and follows the route of my desire. Now I want everything, everything.
He picks me up like a doll and I float in his arms to the unmade bed. He smooths my hair back carefully, and studies my face. He smiles. I clutch hold of him as if I were drowning. His fingers walk down my spine. We make love in the way that all new lovers do, fascinated by the unfamiliarity of each other’s bodies. With abandon, and yet frightened that it will suddenly all be over.
Marcel
Guilt oozes out of every pore. I feel like the thief of her youth, the destroyer of her impetuosity. I have denied her children. Pruned her womanhood like a Bonsai tree. Every now and then a murmur comes from behind the grill. A protesting grumble that refuses to see guilt in my confession. How can a man like this, who has taken inhuman pledges, understand my remorse? I have dragged someone along in my pigheadedness, my denseness, my negation of life itself. It makes me sad. I don’t want casual forgiveness without understanding. I flee from the stifling little box, leaving the orphaned mumbler behind. My head spins. Something drives me to the centre of the labyrinth… I do not follow the official paths, I walk straight to its heart. And that’s where it happens, as if I were struck by lightning. I hear voices cry out. I feel my body crumple, my knees crack against the flagstones. My tired head collides with cold stone. Then blessed rest.
Isis
I look in amazement at the southern man asleep beside me. I don’t know him, and yet it all seems so familiar. Everything happened according to an age-old script. A man desires a woman and she capitulates. Entirely. My skin still tingles. Recollections of his touch come back to me. They’re so vivid. He was masterful and yet tender at the same time. I’ve never made love to a complete stranger before. Should I go before he wakes up? Should I leave a note? I’ve no idea what to do next. I creep quietly out of bed. That is, I try to. Without opening his eyes he grabs hold of my arm and pulls me back against him. He kisses me and tells me how beautiful and delectable I am. His hands caress me. I feel him taking possession of me once more. I do not resist, only mumble that I must go… He does not hear me, only feels how willingly I stay. This is a celebration of my body and soul. I mustn’t think …
Marcel
A wet rag, smelling overpoweringly of lemon, restores me to consciousness. Against my will, it has to be said. The sensation of fading away is an intoxicating experience. If death resembles that slide into nothingness when you faint, I can’t wait for the Grim Reaper to show up. ‘He’s come round, poor soul. Is he by himself?’ Some ladies, verging on the elderly and dressed to the nines, are bending over me. From where I lie, the view is unflattering. They are probably the same age as me. Bursting with goodwill, they couldn’t possibly be more concerned. I must keep out of their clutches. Luckily the priest is on his way. He drives the gaggle of amateur nurses away and helps me to my feet. Arm in arm, we walk to a niche where I can sit down. Perhaps it’s his own little spot in the sun. ‘Don’t run away,’ he cautions me sternly, with raised finger. I do not stir. The breeze does me good. He returns almost immediately with a battered first aid chest and patches me up with all the zeal of a would-be doctor. It is only now, as he wipes my face with cotton wool, that I realise it is covered in blood. The disinfectant stings; I grit my teeth. He carefully cuts out the world’s largest plaster and wallpapers my forehead with it. He keeps a weather eye on me, wanting to know how I’m doing. Everything is fine, I feel much better. He bends over until his mouth is close to my ear. In the discrete, measured tones that seem to be the preserve of the clergy, he gives me a penance and grants me absolution. ‘Set her free and you will be freed from guilt.’ He places a fatherly hand on my shoulder, takes his leave and disappears. I betake myself gingerly in the direction of the Rue aux Juifs.
Isis
The sun no longer slants through the slats of the balcony shutters. I must go. Marcel! He has no idea where I am. We eat together every evening, he must be hungry by now. I hastily pluck my clothes from the floor, suddenly overcome by the shame that goes with being banished from Paradise. In the little bathroom I reconstruct myself until I look like the old me. But I sparkle more, my eyes are bright, my lips red with excitement. I want to run away, far from here, in order to catch my breath and collect myself. But Fabrice won’t permit such cowardice. As I turn to flee I run straight into his arms. ‘I want to see you again. Truly, this wasn’t just a fling… it’s a beginning, Isis, not an ending.’ He gives me his telephone number. ‘You ring, I’ll wait. Tomorrow we’re performing at the Place des Epards, I’ll see you there.’ We kiss, I sink into confusion, guilt and desire. To remain here now, never to go back to square one… It would be so simple.
Marcel
Isis storms in. She looks dishevelled; gazes at me like a frightened animal. The wound on my face must look alarming. She keeps her distance, raising her hands to her mouth. Too late, there’s nothing left to hide. Neither my vulnerability behind the plaster, nor her kissed mouth behind her fingers.
For the first time both the actors look at one another and speak directly to each other.
Marcel
It’s nothing serious.
Isis
Did you fall?
Marcel
I don’t exactly know, I just know that I want to go back home.
Isis
Right away? Shall I pack our things? But your research? What about your research?
Marcel
I’ll pack my suitcase myself. You’re staying. The apartment is yours for another six weeks. Don’t make it difficult for me.
Isis
Why should I? Perhaps we should…
Marcel
Isis! There is no ‘we’. Please try and have a little respect for me; don’t try and pull the wool over my eyes! I can see what’s in front of my face. I can feel it, smell it!
Isis
It’s not what you think.
Marcel
Spare me the clichés, dammit.
Isis turns to the public.
Isis
Marcel doesn’t look at me. He sits at the kitchen table, looking crushed. Unapproachable. Turned to stone in his fundamental isolation. I don’t dare go near him.
Isis addresses Marcel.
Isis
Marcel, I don’t want to hurt you.
Marcel
It’s fate that has struck, Isis, it’s not you.
Isis
I really tried my best Marcel, but I just didn’t know where I could find the strength anymore…
Marcel
You know now, Isis. Leave me, look after yourself.
Isis
How do you mean? Did you think I was plotting something?
Marcel
No. If there had been something going on you wouldn’t have been so obviously unhappy.
Isis
What should I do?
Marcel turns to the audience.
Marcel
She sinks to her knees before me. Reason tells me that the normal response to her gesture would be to stretch out my hand and comfort her by stroking her hair. But my hand refuses to move. It refuses to go where others have been before. I am a man like any other, there’s more to me than reason and the life of the mind. I try to stop shaking. God, I’ve so often seen this moment coming over the years and imagined what it would be like. So this is it…and it’s not at all how I thought it would be. I have choked on too many questions.
Isis speaks to Marcel.
Isis
What should I do, Marcel?
Marcel
Everything will be ok, Isis. You’re the one who’s got all the answers, not me. I’ve just forced you to make detours, taking you further and further away from your truth.
Jazzy music can be heard… Isis takes one last look at Marcel and leaves. Marcel is beaten, his head is bowed.
Marcel
Sorry.
Translated from Dutch by Jane Hedley-Prole
Jane Hedley-Prole studied German and Dutch at the University of Liverpool, after which she settled in the Netherlands. Alongside her job at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs she works as a freelance translator. A few years ago she was accredited as a literary translator by the Dutch Foundation for Literature. Translated works include Diaghilev; A Life by Sjeng Scheijen (together with S.J. Leinbach) and The Fetish Room by Rudi Rotthier. She is currently translating We Are Our Brains by Dick Swaab.
