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from Auringon asema
(The position of the sun, Otava, 2002)
There are times when God rules. Then logic is burned on bonfires
and left to rot in damp prisons with rats. There are times when
logic rules. Then God is burned in the squares and his houses are
made into schools. There are times when attempts are made to demonstrate
that God and logic can live in the same place and that they are,
in fact, the same thing, but those times are truly strange times.
And there are times when God and logic live side by side but in
different places, like adult siblings who cannot live in the same
place but nevertheless get on well together. When my father and
my mother loved each other, they were ruled by God, and there was
no logic in it, none at all.
Once I abandoned God in the name of
logic . I said to my father: I do not believe in your God. My father
said: God is one, God is great. I smoked a cigarette in front of
him and left. My father packed his things and wandered through a
strange city for many days. My mothers growths grew to twice
their size. Winter began. It lasted many years, for many years the
sun did not shine into our rooms. During that winter, the light
fractured, and I had to glue the pieces together myself. When now
I see the sun, I turn my face toward it and say: do not go away
again. An Indian man moved into my house, and he became my brother.
Now it is August; I have glued the pieces together and no longer
protect myself from this light.
My father met my mother in a train on the way from Luxor to Aswan.
My father, who was like a lion, my father, whose eyes were creased
at the edges from laughing, and from squinting them too, said to
my mother: my name is Ismael, and it means that God hears all my
prayers, thus it has always been and thus it will always be, and
my father smiled crookedly with his eyes and with his mouth too,
and my mother said: my name is Anu, and it doesnt mean anything
at all, and sometimes when my mother stood against the sky, her
eyes and the sky were the same colour. Behind my father was God
and behind my mother was nothing at all.
Now it is August. The sky is full
of shooting stars. Sometimes we stay awake until dawn, why should
we sleep? We talk about books and children and strange cities. The
flowers have withered, the lingonberries will be ripe soon, and
the forest smells of mushrooms. The apples are falling from their
branches. We eat bilberry pie on the summer-house porch, and when
our thoughts run too fast they collide with each other. Only the
most important words are spoken, and generally not even those. At
night it is so dark that we cannot see in front of us. We stretch
out our hands to each other, and if there is wine in our glasses
it perhaps splashes. The rocks are warm, and the sea. We float in
the night, we are supported by the water. Only the tips of our fingers
touch each other, and we are quiet, for once.
Ismael and Anu. Once they formed my
entire reality, and then I used to shout at night without any sound
issuing from my mouth. They were so big that they filled all the
corners, all the spaces, the light was lit by them, and when it
went out I could not reach to light it again, and then I knew that
I had been supported by their light. They were so big that I could
not fit into the world with them. Not at all. When I sat down at
the table to peel an orange, I knew that I could make four cuts
in the skin so that it would come away easily, that was what my
mother did. But I also knew that I could cut the peel away in a
long spiral which I could wind around my wrist like a jewel, that
was what my father did. And when my mother said that drinking water
was fresher if essence pressed from the petals of roses was not
added to it, then my father said that drinking water is tastier
if essence pressed form the petals of roses is added to it, my father,
he wound the peel of an orange around my wrist like a jewel. An
orange can be peeled in two ways, but I cannot peel it in both ways,
not the same orange in any case, and so I sat at the table for a
long time; outsides all sorts of things were happening and I didnt
join in, as I did not know how to be in this world with them. Not
at all.
When my father saw my mother for the first time, he thought: that
is not a woman, that is an angel. And my mother saw herself in my
fathers eyes, for at that moment they were as brown as earth,
so much scope for growth and development, and my mother had only
once felt herself to be more beautiful, and it was many years since
then, when it was summer and she had been walking along the side
of the market and a diplomatic car had slowed down beside her, and
an Arab man had looked at her for a moment through an open window.
And angels do not eat, for their bodies are made of air and imagination,
they have no cells which destroy other cells, and angels do not
fall ill, their hair does not darken even in childbirth, for they
do not give birth or cry in the pain of blood or tearing skin, and
my mother said that men did not need to come to the birth, that
she did not understand why they would want to, and for a long time
I was of the same opinion, of course, but I am no longer. And my
mother said: if only one did not have to eat at all, if one could
simply take a tablet that would take away hunger and keep one alive,
but when my father came to Finland his suitcases were full of food,
fruit which he had packed in plastic bags and stapled shut, and
sometimes when the others had already finished, I stayed at the
table eating watermelon, I ate one slice after another and my father
stroked my hair and approved of me entirely. Oil is thick and hot,
it pours out of the ground like lava, and its scent stays in your
nose for a long time, and it can be the same with perfume if there
is too much of it, that indicates something, and it is the same
if there is too little of it, and my mothers perfume bottles
gathered dust and their scent faded, and I have a friend who is
the same, and her eyes have begun to grow closed, but my father
put rose essence in the water and bought flowers for no reason,
and it is certainly true that it is dangerous to fall in love with
angels, it is dangerous to play with gods, and it is dangerous to
imitate them. Sometimes it is difficult to carry oneself, one would
like to shrink to the size of a single word, a single mouthful,
so that it would be easier for men, and for some men it is enough,
but men like that do not put their newspaper and bunch of keys down
on the edge of the table and say: where are you today, generally
youre completely here. But sometimes it is difficult to be
so big, shoots that grow in any direction, it is difficult to be
so soft and without borders, so full of contacting surface, places
that cannot be protected, why should they, and perfume extends me
still further until I am completely endless, and I have certainly
wanted to be an angel too, and then I have wanted to stop being
human, and you could say that then I have wanted to die, but instead
I became a crow, I flew in the rain past the yellow windows and
prayed: let me in and give me food, and tell me what is wrong with
me. And when my mother became an angel, she withered the human away,
and I am not even angry any more. God is wise and just in his decisions,
sometimes it is just so very difficult to understand his will, and
he took my mothers body, it was burned and I lowered the white
urn on a thread to the ground, but my mothers spirit he did
not take anywhere, and that was just what my mother wanted, and
my mother was present too on the night when we shouted and laughed
and drank, for everything had at last ended.
My father sucked the marrow out of
bones and ate the brains too, and so he will live a long life.
My father chose water over oil. He told me that it was an ethical
choice. Tens of millions of people live in Egypt, their number grows
and grows, but only a few per cent of the total area of Egypt is
in use, and with the help of ground-water the amount of habitable
land could be increased. The habitation of the desert, watering
the dead and the withered, that is a fine aim, and it is then not
fitting to think about ones own livelihood. And nevertheless
my father added rose essence to drinking water and bought flowers
for no reason and fell in love with an angel. When my father chose
water over oil, he was not merely choosing what was right. He was
choosing what was beautiful. For my father was one of those who
are made of fire. When they come into a room, everything turns into
light; when they come too close, everything becomes ash, and when
they leave, nothing is left. My father was made of fire and my mother
was made of water and that was why in the beginning everything was
so beautiful and great, and I understand that fire does not yearn
for more heat, but something cooling, something quite different,
but on the other hand it is clear that in fire water evaporates
and in water fire goes out and myself and my sister, we stay on
dry ground. We look for scents and tastes and give them names. We
eat food that burns our mouths in order to know our mouths, to remember
our mouths. Long ago we tasted green leaves in oil, and both of
us sought them for many years without knowing what they were. And
once, much later, I tasted them again. They were mangolds, and it
was as if I had met an old friend or mended a tear or found a missing
piece. And there was another taste, too, at our friends house
when we were quite small, and in Indian restaurants, and it was
fresh coriander. We had learned to inspect the cooker before we
went out, and the windows, too, that they were definitely closed,
and even then you can be afraid that if something was left on or
open, and it is all quite natural, for we build around us a home,
and all sorts of things can happen, all sorts of bad things, which
would change everything to ash, from which nothing at all will grow.
And when my doorbell rings, I may not answer it. Myself and my sister,
we are the same.
My mother threw all old things away. She hated inherited and worn
furniture, and in the end she could not afford anything else. She
wanted an apartment with just black and white and lots of glass,
lots of windows and doors, and most of all she hated it when it
was too hot, when the air did not move, and in hospital it was always
too hot, and the air did not move, but in her handbag she kept an
old hymn book, it was worn and full of different handwritings, and
some paradoxes are never resolved and change into sorrow, and isnt
it true that a discord which cannot be resolved goes on troubling
the listener, and many composers know this and do not compose happy
endings, because happy endings do not really exist, for if something
ends, you go on yearning for it, and yearning always includes sorrow
too. My mother hated the smell of food, the way it clings even to
the curtains, and the black-and-white apartment would not have had
curtains at all, or electric leads or carpets or little wooden animals
on the piano, gathering dust and memories. My mother did not want
anything excessive around her bones, stuff that might attract all
sorts of things. She cut my hair quite short, for she knew that
hair gathers more than anything else, she wanted to see my neck
and head clean. My mother did not mend holes or tears, she threw
everything old away. Our living room in Cairo was the colour of
lemons, the furniture was so light that we could lift it and hide
under it; from time to time my mother washed everything and hung
it out in the sun to dry, and even the table was glass, which had
to be polished every day, for when my father was a child there had
only been sand where our house was, and even now the desert was
so close that everything was covered in sand in a moment, and on
the balcony the leaves of the plants turned grey and heavy if we
did not remember to wash then, my mother did not want anything curlicued
or shiny in our homes, nothing gilded or copied, our homes looked
like her, at the windows were just thin white curtains and the walls
were painted white, and white is the most frightening colour of
all, it is the colour of death. White, no words, no laughter or
tears, white, shrill and high, our walls were white as a child on
whose skin nothing has yet been drawn, they were as white as a demanding
god, a god who does not smile to himself, our walls, as white as
death.
In my fathers childhood home
the windows were protected by heavy, turquoise-blue silk curtains
with gold patterns and tassels, lots of tassels in strange places,
and the cupboard was of dark wood and on it was carved a happy story,
of a prince and a princess, and the bath had lions feet, and
the stairs curved and their banisters, and my fathers sister
lived there behind seven locks and would not let even us in.
My mother made our homes look like
her, but when she fell ill, when we moved the television beside
her bed and watched the Olympics, the dust settled on the pages
of her books and damaged her records and the living room the colour
of lemons darkened like her own hair, and my fathers things
piled up in all the corners. Our home no longer looked like our
mother, our home had never looked like our father. Our home did
not look like anyone. In my dolls house all the furniture
and even the dolls were in their places; my sister was never allowed
to touch it. Our kitten fell ill and died. Our birds fell ill and
died. When the sun set, the call to prayer, night close, most terrifying
of all, terrifying. The end near, the white bird of death, fluttering
its wings.
But at the beginning, at the very
beginning, when my father saw my mother for the first time, he believed
that soon everything would change, the old would become new, the
heavy light, and there would no longer be anything weighty, and
perhaps the rain would begin, which would damp his hot face and
even cover the sun.
And so I bade farewell to them, I bade farewell to their love, of
course it was not my love, I bade farewell to their gods, of course
they were not my gods, I bade farewell to their hate, of course
it was not my hate, I bade farewell to their memories, of course
they were not my memories, I bade farewell to their love, for it
was not my love. And I no longer wept.
But all the same. When my father bought
live doves, we did not let him kill them. We gave them names, and
when they were still small, my father fed them with a pipette. My
father built them a nest out of cardboard boxes, and when we left
Libya, they were still alive. And the tortoise always followed my
mother through the garden, and the grapes ripened in the canopy,
and the ants never changed their path, and a white lily grew on
the site of our cats grave, and in Rome we ran out of the
rain and into the restaurant, and the musicians played at our table
and I did not know that my father had paid them for it, and when
my father came to Finland, his suitcase was full of presents and
he had not bought himself anything, and I thought it was normal,
like the long letters which we never answered, which we could scarcely
be bothered to read, and the newspaper cuttings which, sitting in
his Indian bamboo chair, he had cut out for us, squinting through
his thick glasses, in his worn pyjamas, his brow furrowed, with
a small pair of scissors, just for us. All those years, and I thought
it was normal, at most a bit boring, and I shall never forgive myself,
never.
Once in Hungary a young man who knew
the stars and the comets too, a rucksack on his back, narrow fingers
and a pale face, and I too, and a panoramic spot, and when the Americans
continued on their way, only we were left, and so the musicians
stopped playing and began to smoke cigarettes, and then, finally,
I understood that my father had paid the musicians long ago in Rome,
so that they would play only for us, so that they would grace our
evening, and beside me the pale young man smiled with his grey eyes,
and was so far away from me, so far away. And so I looked at the
Danube and saw only dirty water and the sky hung on my shoulders
and did not curve at all.
My father the water-seeker, I hope
he seeks water no longer. I hope that now someone soft and round
and scented and glimmering, sweet words only seldom, so that he
does not have to be alone at least. So that he does not have to
eat alone at least. My father, I love him above all else. And when
I next eat an orange, I shall cut the peel away in a long spiral
that I shall wind round my wrist for a moment, like a jewel.
When my father saw my mother in a train on the way from Luxor to
Aswan, it was as if he had never been able to speak, as if the world
had never fitted into words, as if it could not be described in
concepts, as if it were not possible to sing about it, for what
are songs if not composed words, and in songs a womans face
is like the moon, her eyes black as night. And notes, too, did not
seem suitable, meandering and soft, for it was not necessary to
entice my mother, or her smile, and her gaze was open and present,
she did not glance, my mother was not a glancer, and sometimes the
scents of the bazaar begin but do not end, how to explain something
that has no form, and they simply escape, and one is left longing
for them, and my father thought: this cannot be a woman, there is
powder on a womans face, powder and skin that does not breathe,
and gold that weighs down the ear-lobes, and velvet and oil always
before, and now this is quite clearly an angel, here and over there,
nothing hidden but nevertheless a thousand promises and colours,
pale light colours, like the highest notes of a piano and the spring
light which shatters everywhere, and colours when there is too much
light, light in the eyes and ears, so that there is not room for
even a single word more, so that warmth and irritation tickle under
the eyes, like a befuddled wasp, perhaps a little angry too, ones
own space, but there is no own any more, and that is irritating,
but one must run in order to be in time, and if one has not remembered
to drink, one can drop from the train door on to the platform and
wake up much later, and the earth can still be damp if it is morning,
and everything is transparent, there are sparkles and spots which
were not there before, and now there is no more whispering, but
shouting, announcing, proclaiming, why whisper when everything is
clear, when everything is written, thus thought my father, when
everything was written in letters of fire long, long ago, or not
until tomorrow. Once the light shattered and went into fragments
and I could no longer find all the pieces, but I did find most of
them and got them glued together, and of course I can see the lines
under my eyes, why should I not also see the places where there
is glue, it is the work of my own hands, after all. My father sought
the word and did not find it, and this had never happened before,
it was easier to speak the dialects of the Bedouins, to listen and
imitate, it was easier to look at a woman through a song, to seek
the song in the woman, to sing words to a woman and say to her:
this is our song, these words are you, you are these words, and
then one can fall asleep easily for nothing has broken or even been
damaged, and that is a good thing is it not, why break and damage,
that is pointless, and there is too much of that in the world anyway,
the marks of the cluster bomb on the wall years after, and when
one colours in a map, the colour must stay inside the borders or
outside them, otherwise of course it would not be worth drawing
it, and when the door is locked for the night, much remains outside
it, and one can take what one wants indoors, but my father had not
met my mother earlier, and so it is easier to understand him.
My father, he was not afraid of anything.
And my mother, she too, soon. My father and my mother, they were
covered in light. There was no longer anything else in the whole
world. And when I close my eyes, there is perhaps even more light.
Translated
by Hildi Hawkins
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