 | Reza, Yasmina/ Asher, Linda (TRN) |
Having nobody. The subjects in The Americans look like they have nobody. That's who they are. They exist at the edge of roads, of benches, of rooms, they've come looking for something they won't find. Now and then they gleam in some fleeting light. They have nobody. The Jehovah's Witness has nobody. He walks the streets with his briefcase stuffed with magazines, the briefcase given him the look of a man and stands in for a destination. When you grow up with the idea you have nobody, you don't easily find your way back. Even if someone takes your hand and shelters you, it doesn't really happen for you. Sundays and holidays, on Parmentier Avenue, Jean-Lino's parents would send him out into the courtyard. He'd hang about, squatting on the cobblestones. He would scratch away at the furrows where weeds were sprouting. He would make things out of the watchmaker's trash. There were no other children. To have nobody is to have not even yourself. Somebody loving you provides a certificate of existence. When a person feels alone, he can't exist without some small social fable. When I was around twelve, I was waiting for love to give me back my lost identity (the one we're supposed to have had before Zeus cut us in hlf), but, unsure of such an eventuality, I also placed a bet on fame and honor. Since I was good at science, I imagined myself a future as a researcher: my team discovered a revolutionary treatment for epilepsy and I got an international medal, a Novel kind of thing. Jeanne was my manager. She would sit on the pullout bed with Rosa the doll, who represented Therese Parmentolo, a kid from high school who had grand mal seizures, she'd listen to my acceptance speech and applaud from time to time. Afterward, Therese Parmentolo (also palyed by me) would come onstage to express her gratitude. Sometimes I wonder if everything we think we are might arise from a series of imitations and projections. Even though I haven't been a researcher, and took refuge in something with more security, I often hear that I extricated myself from my background or escaped my class. That's idiotic. All I did was save myself from insubstantiality. People telephone the Emergency Police number to talk because they have nobody else, a patrolman once told me. Those are the majority of calls to 17. There was one woman who would phone in several times a week. Before hanging up she would say, "Tell the whole crew hello for me." (p 152~153)