My Two Worlds

I thought of presenting my impressions of the aviary, the stupefied, degraded birds killing time in their gigantic cages. I could tell them a bit about the uncoordinated strut of the peacock, which walked about the wide birdcage as if evading imaginary obstacles. A reeling caused not only by the weight of its great, fa

I found it impossible that this situation should be occurring, and nevertheless that’s what was happening. We remained silent for a good while, in a sort of mutual contemplation. It may have only seemed so to me, but the carp and the turtles had taken on a supplicating mien. Their bodies swayed steadily in time with the water, corresponding to the gentle waves that reached the shore; and I was startled to verify that, despite their to-and-fro, they were able to keep their eyes fixed on mine, as if — the anxious thought occurred to me — they wanted to etch my face and my demeanor in their memory, in case we met again in the future. I understood it as a threat. The animal world continues to be fairly unknown, and I have no notion how they transmit experiences there. I wanted to cover my face with my hands to hide myself, and spy on them from between my fingers without their seeing me. Nonetheless they remained just the same, expectant. If someone had at that moment looked where I was standing, he would have thought it was a matter of a man weeping, a possibility which, when I tired of the position, made me feel like not lowering my hands: I feared I would find human eyes on me, surely anxious to discover some morbid detail or an explanation, perhaps the eyes of the attendant or the ice cream vendor, or those of a father bored with walking through the deserted park with his child.

Before this afternoon, I’d never wondered whether animals could be curious, like people. This situation made me see that the question was relevant, because my guests — note my vanity — never took their eyes off me. I knelt before the water as a means of getting out of the situation. My plan was to lift my hands suddenly from my face and give them a scare; once they’d been frightened off I’d go on my way as if nothing had happened. But it didn’t work. I waited a short while, the silence growing predictably deeper, and then all of a sudden I threw open my arms, gave a shout, leaned still farther over the water, and attempted to make a scary face. The front rows of the orchestra didn’t blink, as if each one of them had been sure of what to expect. Nothing was keeping me from turning my back on them and returning to the path, but we’d established a communication, and I didn’t want to be the one to put an end to it. Finally the solution came from someone also natural to the lake. First I noticed the waters roiling, and my audience as well; afterward I found out it was caused by a swan passing, though making its way relatively slowly. On board rode a father with his daughter, or so I imagined.

When I met the eyes of the two passengers, I offered a greeting. But I noticed that they weren’t so prepared for the situation, since the daughter kept looking at me impassively, while the father conveniently averted his eyes. I waited for them to move away a bit; they were heading for one of the far ends of the lake, where I had glimpsed the low-lying building. The swan was No. 15, it sported the number on its tail end painted shiny black, similar to the paint of its eyes. As I noted before, I had seen this specimen parked next to the boarding ramp, and now, meeting up with it again, I felt some solidarity with its condition. But as if it had been a signal, its entrance on the scene dispersed my audience, because when I looked at the water again, I found that the carp and the turtles had moved off. I managed to make out one lone turtle as it swam halfheartedly toward the middle of the lake.

It’s one of the things that will always remain a mystery, and which no one believes when I mention it, of course. But it happened, and I’ve remembered it so truly that I can’t manage to visit any park and its corresponding lake without reliving those feelings of perplexity I experienced when the carp and the turtles were observing me, as if they scrutinized me. What must they have thought of me? What do animals think of me, if they indeed think. . I elected to return to the path that circled the lake to go on with my walk; I had the sensation of having been present at a part of an extended reality, though obviously minimal, reserved only for my private experience.

I don’t ask myself those types of questions on a habitual basis, and when I do they refer to people: what do those who know me think of me, or rather, what must they think of me? I’m not referring to those closest to me, those who’ve known me for years and with whom I have a lasting bond. I worry about the opinion of the others, the half-acquaintances, if I can call them that, those who know me a bit, maybe only by sight, and to whom I’m relatively familiar, or on the contrary, relatively hazy and non-existent. It’s a recurrent question, which otherwise doesn’t always make me as curious, perhaps because of its sporadic nature, yet it’s one I take up every so often as proof of my own existence, or rather, my physical permanence in the world.

In one way, the question acts as a private begi

In the past I used to think that the best way of spending my birthday was to keep hidden and opt for a one-day banishment: to leave home, go to the city’s unknown or rarely visited district, and devote myself to roaming around for the day as if I were somebody else, or at least as if I didn’t exist, or were indeed nobody; or to adopt some twenty-four-hour personality, etc. I’d take any train at all and get off at a remote station. Then I would set off walking, calmly and tirelessly, as if I’d arrived in another country once I stepped off the train. But I was in my own place, in my own city, I’d actually lived not far from there for a long time, a phase that now seemed to belong to somebody else, so that, alien to and simultaneously accustomed to that landscape, I kept recognizing the signs of my old life, although devalued. I was never capable of following other people, though the idea occurred to me more than once, as a subterfuge to while away these long, aimless birthday walks.