_HERMES_

Dont some evenings in big cities seem almost

aphotic? The little puppet theatre stand is sovereignd
gold with red curtains sweeping, and lions with wings and
Chinese bulls roaming its soffitsthe whole thing
resembling some wrecked Caesar. The crowd is either
blue or silhouettedflames trembling from the rushlights.
All the kids are sitting in rows in the courtyard fronting
an old church, impatiently waiting, waiting, waiting. The
treat cart roller just stands there, arms akimbo, hanging a
red-eyed cigarette. Parents talk idly by. Hush. Then,
theres a pan fluteapplauseand en plein air, the Hermes
performers have started the show.
This years spectacle is entitled Une Dernire Nuit Sur
Terre. In it, a suited man is visited by the devil and agrees
to surviving a day in the life of every man, woman and
child on the planet, only to be stagnated by the repetition.
Suicide and run away the chain, just to plummet to hell
or suspire past history and flutter up to heaven with
whatever is left of you. In several hilarious skits, the

suited man becomes a factory worker, a country doctor, a

politician in the mouth of a fish, a bartender flooring
French 75 cocktails, a vagabond, an engineer, another
suited man, another soldier, guitarist, secretary, schoolgirl
and chimneysweeper. Well, our suited man ends up
floating up there, lackadaisical in the way a broken-off leaf
will drift except here in a reversed gravity, just to discover
his boredom on earth increased sevenfold. On cloudy
precipices and in architecture built by light, he only
envisions un paradis mort. Even heaven has its mandates.
Rising down thro starlight, he sighs, through the
automotive dreams and purple paper clouds to above the
lights of the whole continent, where he can see past East
Prussia, Belgium, or is that England?
Down below, the devil is overjoyed that hes
succeeded in the end after the end, overjoyed to observe
the ethereal made flesh. As thrilled and primitive in blood
as a wild horse, he greets the fallen kindly. Yet only after a
single night, the grotesque fails to keep the suited man
invested eitherengorged felt legs and leather tongues
become a bit repetitive for the audience as well. God, its
hot too. Too hot to do anything but sweat. Screaming
zeppelins, bombs as common as raindropsno peace in
this sauna of a prison, no use for a place where every man
is cursed both a lecher and eunuch. Some of the comedy

troupes grimmer jokes fly over the heads of the kids, but
in a lighthearted scene when the entire crowd laughs, the
suited man circles the devil around on the latters throne
of weeds and bones, the former jumping up and down and
yelping and trying not to touch the lake of fire. They play
rock, paper, scissors, stone or bomb. Circling each other,
they play chess and cards with a lightning-snap verbiage.
But the suited man manages to bash the devils horned
brains out with a club in four clean right anglessmashes
his nose to Egypt too, for good measure.
Slipping through a smoking fissure and coming out
chilled upon a mountain peak encinctured by uninhabited
lights, perhaps the suited man can even see the awakened
window of his old home. He tugs apart the strings that
steady and suspend him and, surprising the whole
audience into another rapture of applause, is still able to
walk on his own. The rushlights begin to burn out. The
suited man intones another workingmans soliloquy,
pondering a little before a prolonged wind, generated by
an old leathery fan and a mans blowing cheeks, erodes his
body away as soot and powder and stars and dust.
It is perfect dark. Three seconds. A little spark
circles around and disintegrates over the cobblestone in a
hot silver noise. For a moment, you can feel its fire warm

on your face. Then, the first explosions bloom loud in the

night like gunpowder suns, or godflowers.
There are seven or eight of usme, Marcel, Albert,
little Natalie, Jean-Paul and Flau and others. We tug at
each others sleeves to urge each others attention and
then we run. Above the stone recondite buildings,
fireworks burst and rumble together like rootless
earthquakes and you would think itd touch earth and
engulf you whole but it always dissolves in its showers
before it ever does and we run. Dipping into depressions
in the cobblestone and old trenches that they paved over
from mortar rounds during the Great War. Some of us
with linked hands singing.
The antique store is still there in its sequestered
lullaby. We press all our noses and hands up flat against
the glass peering in.
Dont

see

that

piece-of-shit-with-an-apron

shopkeeper anywhere.
Alright, just as we planned it, guys.
What do you mean? We never plan anythin.
The boys wanna throw rocks, but instead I pick the
lock quick and meanwhile, me and Albert whistle tunes
and kick at little obscure pebbles swinging, keeping watch
in the sleepy amber boulevard with its breathed clouds

and amorphous trees and their revolving auto lights

shining through and such.
Were made neon in a blinkAllied blues and whites
and reds that salvo away the seconds. There are a lot of
things to see in this place. London vases printed with
watery roses, Bourgeoisie chandeliers as old as before the
revolution, ancient Greek busts, unfinished Rodins,
rococo wardrobesshit as old as Europe. We have ten
minutes until our opportunity
Jean! Careful! You almost knocked that over!
No mercy!
What?
Theres nothing we can carry on us.
What the hell are you two doing?
Living!
I dont give a goddamn shit!
Where are we going to sell something like this
anyways?
Everybody get a move on!
Charge!
Hurry, Flau.
We pretend were young lions, little tigers, wild
horses, anything but men. Like, take this. Wet jacket
dripping on the carpet, Marse would always pretend to be
on some dim adventure, spits of rain let in overhead from

an old window ajar nearby the weeds surrounding. Cracks

in the ceiling, burnished coffee spoons. Summer of his
eleventh or twelfth year, we moved out of that basement,
to a neighborhood that reminds me of this one. I dont
know, okay I do. When I was nine no, I dont
remember. When I was thirteen no, I cant. My
brother didnt do much as a teenager. He grew up, we ran
away, we dont see much of him anymore anyways.
Anyways, its a summer night in 1925. Near the
iridescent gaslamps that gather at the brightflies, a guitar
player is strumming and taking swigs of dandelion wine.
Theres laughter from a garret window. A dog is barking.
Hurryand we run til its dark.