She is laying close to me, fragile, vulnerable. I no more have the strength to fuck her. I embrace her very hard to weaken the horrible visions that trouble my spirit. I talk constantly, words that have little sense to her; and she, who is there only to fuck, she still give herself and always without never understand at all.
I talk to her calmly, with an almost extinct voice; she listen to me, docile, like if it was words of love. I talk to her, to forget, all those images that crumble into my head.
"We were walking into the pine forest, silent and anxious. The snipers where there all around, we knew it, waiting for any noise, they fire on a target: the target, it was perhaps me? A friend collapses to the ground, one more."
- Kiss me again, you seams so far-away!
I kiss her forehead and I stay there a moment, a long moment, enough to calm her and I always have those images crumbling into my head.
"I had no more the strength to react. It was time to sleep; for that we had to rapidly reach the village of Oka."
"I sense a great tension in me, this too long expedition in a territory occupied by the enemy, to go around the villages, the houses, to avoid the enemy's women or daughters, I had however a great inclination to fuck. And then, I think about her..."
- I often dream of you, I wished to take you into my arms trying to get a sleep when the enemy was there, hiding close bye.
- I am with you now, you do what ever you want of me.
And I squeeze her into my arms. She makes herself small, as if she wishes to be the enemy. I forget momentarily that she is also the enemy.
And I press her head over my bust as to request some forgiveness for an infidelity. She does not react, only a wheedling pout, and, she raises her head to look at me in the eyes, she tells me:
- You did make love, did you, like they all do?
I think of something else:
"The ground was full of dead bodies: milicians touched by snipers, women, children, a sad war! Civil wars are the most dirty of all wars. They kill by revenge, some blind revenge, fed by the media, by the elites, by prejudices born from irreconcilable memories. The victims are not anonymous strangers, but neighbours, fellow citizens, friends, brothers, an ancient flirt perhaps, or else, a girl we still love, you perhaps I could easily rape or sacrifice, instead of make love to you or fuck you."
- Violence is perhaps, more horrible when you know the enemy.
- Viol, you said? Please rape me, I can live with that.
She does not understand the meaning of words and she gives herself up, she offers herself, I just have to take her, she would easily let herself being rape. I wrap her up with my arms and I squeeze her violently.
- Tell me how do you recognize the enemy if he has not the
color of the enemy?
Her question surprises me. She has not the color of the enemy but she speaks the language of the enemy, would she be also the enemy I will soon rape instead of love?
And I answer like so:
- When he speaks, if he has an accent, it is without any doubt an enemy, or the lover of the enemy, or his daughter, his wife, if he does not speak the language, he is surely an enemy.
- So I am your enemy and I love it.
She makes herserf small under my body and she mildly start to spread herself.
- And if it was me, would you rape me?
I do not answer but I continue to tell my story.
"We where moving with difficulty; I was tripping over the mutilated and naked body of a young girl and she looked so lovely; raped, she layed there, behind the trunk of a centennial pine, with a bayonet widely opening her belly , transpiercing her vagina, it was planted there to the ground; attached to the cross and showing proudly, the emblem of the conqueror, the unifoliate: on her denuded belly, words grossly written, with her own blood: Dead frog."
She does not move, I see tears dripping from her eyelashes; she looks at me as if she is involve. I do not know if I will be able to tell her everything.
Then she kisses me mildly and she tells me:
- Why did you go, why you?
"I did no ask for, neither wish this war. I had no intention to fight for a cause I could not embrace. However, between two bad causes, I had to choose, I choose the most fragile cause, knowing it had no issue. I choose the side of the sovereinists to avoid the side of the strongest, the side of the arrogants imperialists. I feel ready, like the Indian, to die defending my territory, not the pretended liberty of a nation but a certain feeling of my own liberty, of my freewill.
But the Indian double-crossed me, you know it now, he has lost his memory, he chooses the side of the strongest as if Sitting Bull was dead for nothing."
"We walked across the pinery of Oka, trying to join the sector under the control of the sovereinists. Our incursion in conquered territory had not been successful. But we specially feared the "warriors", more skilled to warfare than the "serbs miliciamen" we have been chasing for so many days."
"I was trying to understand what animated those sunday-milicians: a common hatred born from the consciousness of being the strongest, of having the financial support of the Confederated, or the more subtile support from the American Eagle, who knows?"
"Every miliciaman was wearing a particular costume, a kind of banner that translated his rancour, his neighborough, his religion, his country of origin, his dogmas, his racism: Westmounties, Sons of Eire, RoxBurrows, Hell's Angels,
PointClair's milicia, BlackWash, Hampsteaders, Stars of David."
- They are my brothers. I am also jewish, don't you forget that?
For sure, this was not the point.
"We heard noises, near by. We advance with a great prudence knowing that we had to fight. The surprise effect would favour us, but our forces where decimated, our munitions limited. We formed a circle around the place from where the tumult was coming from, we where ready to attack."
Marco Polo or the imaginary journey (Translated from french, translated from french, july 2002,) © july 2002 Jean-Pierre Lapointe
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