The Bright Well

Historians are like a half part of something larger, deeper and wider as landscapes, abyss and alpine massives can be. An historian is nothing when he's not the face of a coin, of a medal, which reverse is a geograph, a cartographer.  History is the science of time (chronology) and calendars, but history and facts are nothing in the empty space when not related to a multidimension environnement, we often call maps, globes, U2's shot (an irish B&W cocktail), or it's his birthday, a Galileo's data model.  Historians are Powells' heirs ( 2 of them).  Historians are engineers, swiss clock engineers who don't need to have a thousand parts on a table to understand how hour is given. But patiently, observe, follow, deduct and rebuild on their pads,  flyers,  or papers  the mechanics of a time.  Nothing to do with employees in their warm armchair, spending the day baiting the net and waiting for a whale to be discovered before alerting a whole continent. Historians are not marvelous talers like Marco Polo might have been, though Marco Polo gave remarkable information for who's got a pair of eyes to read his books the way he wrote them. What is important for an historian is not to see the limes (m not n), everybody can. Line of communications are far more interesting. Behind the screen , facts. And sometimes, historians are kids, using their own violated mailboxes,  hooked  lines,  when  their engineers' knowledge enables them accessing any point of the network , any hour, any place. Furthermore when time is theirs, they're Historians, and patiently, they've accumulated what ostracism has given them. And it's always time for an historian to thank Messala, having made him a son of Arius.  

Years after she had left the scene, it would have happened. One morning in Spring. She remembers it now.  As she breathes the air of the town. Precisely,  when she had forgotten, and  her being was just no more than a presence, the call has come. And with the syllabs, the spell of the days, the days spent in the rainy land. Rain, that's the gift of the sky to her skin. Made her smooth as a jade. And like the long forgotten water of a well rising up to the light, she fellt the echoes of yesterday blasting on the black and white keys of the keyboard. It's always a Chopin walz. Everywhere. Finally, she faced the man who asked for her. Without knowing the least of him. Men she loved a lot. More than many. But he was not one of the lot. He was the kind of lot himself. that she would have loved. Yesterday. That she feels, she loves nowadays.  He's unlike any man. And the sound of the engine keeps on roaring. And the ferry slowly goes his ways on the muddy waters. It's unlike any day and it's the same day. As she looks at him, she can't stop thinking of the other. She knows it perfectly. There was another man. There is a another man. Unchanged. His skin. She can feel it on hers and she closes her eyes. And the sound of the town covers the sound of the engine.  Lights of Spring have turned off, the walls of the room are enclosing her. And her love. And she sees him, face to face. She sees the being of the man she loves. She loved him for ever. She knows he was before they met. When none supposed it, the ferry took them on his back. And that's why they're still crossing the muddy waters. They'll always be. The black limousine will be.  Like the one of this woman. She couldn't let her lover go. She followed him. Of course, he has no face. Her lover. Her and the other. Lovers have one heart. They share. Faces don't matter. What would she say? She won't be many words. She never was. This very day, it happened like this. The man was on his side, on the muddy waters. And the sound of the engine was roaring in the back. Does he speaks her language? Not precisely. He's not the kind of man, her family bears. But she also knows it for long. She is not the kind of woman her family bears. It is their way. The rain. Instinctivly, and definitly she  feels his. His inner shape. He comes back from the Capital. It's a conjunction. Such a day. On a ferry. Under the sky.  They don't pronunce a word. It's been a long time since. It's a present given, once more. Side by side. The smoke of his hispanic echoing in the clouds of the ferry.  How long is it? It's for ever. Never, she will forget. And under her hat, she smiles. It perfectly fits. Her hat. And her shoes. Bought during sales.  It's spring. Waters are muddy. The ferry is slowing moving. It's unexpected.  Such a day.  And she  enjoys it .  Here, it is  to last.  She has left the scene on the smoky ferry. High in the sky, the keys of a Chopin walz...