Cheré Franziska,
It comes the monsoon season in Bengal. Rain showers. No wind. A particular smell disturbs me. I have been awake for two days. After the dance.
He left. I made him leave. I forced him to leave. I cannot bear the way he looks at me. His love burns me. I could feel it. I could feel it when we dance. I could feel it when he whispers at my ear, singing the little childhood melody. I could feel it when he puts his fingers through my hair, the texture of his skin makes me cry. I felt it when he looked at me.
I cannot be free from love.
We are the same, he and I.
He will destroy me.
At the moment they shut the gate, I saw the beggar woman in the bush. We looked at each other. Pause.Then she started to sing, the song from Savannakhet. Strangely I saw myself in her. I did not know if I should smile.
Plants in the garden. They are my friends. I talk to them when I feel lonely, and they murmur back. I talk to them everyday telling them about the poems I have read and the people I saw on the streets. They remind me of him. The plants remind me of his smell. The smell that disturbs me.
Most of the time I try to forget. Everything. I want myself to forget. How much I wish that I were you, Franziska. Fall into sleep after sunset then dream, and dream and dream and dream, forgetting about everything, living in the dream within the dream, and it is your reality. I wonder where I am in my dream after my memories gone. Paris? Peking? or somewhere I have never been. Will I even be able to recognise that place? A place does not exist on the map. I wonder if there is monsoon season as well. Would it rain? I enjoy listening to the sound of rain, and observing the raindrop dripping from the roofing edge. I like the puddle it forms.The reflection of the raindrop in the puddle conjures melody. Yes. I can hear music from my childhood. It will not stop until my finger stirs the images. Then everything will disappear, and then reform again.
I decided to leave this place. Maybe Tomorrow. Maybe Now, after I finish writing this letter to you, Franziska, and then dive into the dream state of yours. Maybe I will kiss you on the lips while you are sleeping. Would the magic happen again like you did to the other men? Would you send me to Istanbul? or to the deep south.
Life is invented. Life is perceived. But I am not able to...
It will soon be daylight. Pale daylight.
Are you awake?
Cordialement à vous,
Anne-Marie,
June.13th, 1947