First there was the twitch of the olive leaf lipping its stem, then the sigh of silt, settling, and the surrender of crickets, their legs, like fans, folding, when the trill of a brook, intoxicating, irresistible, like the grace of his Lord, carried him away that evening— no chariot for Enoch at the age of 365 who walked with God and simply like the last day in a year was no more.
This time of year, what with bulbs bursting through to light, crashing headlong into color, puff balls of sudden pink, cloud clumps of eager violet and white crowding, clustering, clambering up and along each naked stem and branch, what with the gray lawn’s sweet, impulsive greening, the chill creek’s snow-melt speedy surface coat of foam and flashing ripples, what with these birdsong brimming dawns, these chirping, marsh-born, peeper chants that hymn the day to rest, what with such hastening, glad abandon rushing, coursing, flooding, charging toward life, tales of a vacant tomb, of bindings cast like scattered husks and the rumbling of a cold, dead rock to clear the way for all that is to come, such tales seem almost natural. What else should we have expected, after all?
This morning shows up at my bedside like a mother holding a glass of water, so I say thank you, glancing out the window at the tiny farmhouse flung into the lap of emerald hills below, and feel the sweetness sleep has brought, such sweetness I feel I could pen a volume on the history of sugar, and make readers love it. I am giddy with the lack of war, of pain, amazed at the silent terrible wonder of my health. So I make a rosary of the room, I pray the bedpost, the window panes. I put our children on two doorknobs, our sick friends on chair rungs. Like the aperture of a camera, the morning opens and keeps on opening till the room is filled with rosy light and I could believe anything, that my ancient mother may still get well and thrive, that later when someone robs the bank, all the tellers may survive.
Coming down out of the freezing sky with its depths of light, like an angel, or a buddha with wings, it was beautiful and accurate, striking the snow and whatever was there with a force that left the imprint of the tips of its wings— five feet apart—and the grabbing thrust of its feet, and the indentation of what had been running through the white valleys of the snow—
and then it rose, gracefully, and flew back to the frozen marshes, to lurk there, like a little lighthouse, in the blue shadows— so I thought: maybe death isn’t darkness, after all, but so much light wrapping itself around us—
as soft as feathers— that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking, and shut our eyes, not without amazement, and let ourselves be carried, as through the translucence of mica, to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow— that is nothing but light—scalding, aortal light— in which we are washed and washed out of our bones.
After the tourist’s two blue insomniac nights, patrols of all that had been lost, botched, or sweet but severed, during the Albinoni he went off, up, away, so that, say, the sudden recall of his late mother in grainy portrait in her yearbook, over the captions: “brightest,” and—in the quaint patois of the gentry during their Depression—“most attractive,” and the despair she may have felt as children and alcohol supervened: if any such feckless maundering occurred to him . . . Well, off, up and away went she as well, borne heavenward on the andante’s strains. Two trumpets. One great organ. Peace might well lie at hand. Peace was at hand. During Martini’s toccata in C,
a vision of his tall naked wife, under a tall naked sun, produced in him in the church a subtle stirring, even a mild tumescence, which he would otherwise have described as out of order, were it not that this newer order arched so beyond any scheme he’d normally posit that within it all things were possible, as they are, it is said, with God, Who during the Manfredini revealed Himself to our tourist in what he construed as His human form, His prison garb stained and rent, His savaged body hefted by men and women—their countenances looking more angry than mournful— from a loud place like that bar on the corner of Thakurova and Evropska, which he had walked by that evening on his way to transport: the Metro, which carried him into this old quarter
in a car along with that beauteous, amorous young Czech couple with their red-tipped white staffs and whited eyes, then spilled him out to rumpsteak with garlic, alone, and then to the 9 p.m. concert, alone. During the Ave Maria of Schubert, he saw a joy he hadn’t seen in the tears of St. Peter as rendered faceforth by an artist, Swiss of all things, unknown to him till that forenoon in the Castle gallery. The wailing weanling calves of his childhood now placidly grazed. The famous small songbirds lit on the outstretched arms of Francis. Peter’s tears had appeared only woeful this morning. The hour of music concluded, the tourist walked, though it felt still like soaring, his cobblestone-wearied heels devoid of any pain, back into this world, broken and joyous and praying,