Free Abahn Sabana David by Marguerite Duras Page A

fear.”
    â€œHe’s exhausted.”
    â€œNo. Look at him. He’s still strong, still vibrant.”
    David examines the Jew with the closed eyes, discovers the strength there.
    â€œIt’s true,” he murmurs.
    â€œThe life he’s led ought to have prepared him for what awaits him,” says Abahn.
    They are silent.
    â€œBut who is he?” David asks again.
    â€œI don’t know,” says Abahn.
    â€œHe was bored of the Jewry,” says Sabana, “of life wandering on the road. That’s why he came here.”
    She turns to Abahn. She says:
    â€œThat’s you as well, the Jew.”
    â€œYes,” says Abahn. “Me too.”
    All these words sink into David: he looks at the Jew, just him. Still staring at him, he says:
    â€œGringo said, ‘the Jew is dangerous.’”
    â€œYes,” says Abahn.
    â€œStill?” asks David.
    â€œYes.”
    David keeps looking, looking, and somehow strangely he sees, sees the danger.
    â€œIt’s true,” David murmurs.
    With difficulty he turns to Abahn and says:
    â€œGringo is afraid of him.”
    â€œGringo doesn’t exist to the Jew.”
    David remembers.
    â€œIt’s true, the Jew never said anything at all about Gringo, nothing bad ever.”
    Abahn smiles, is slow to respond.
    â€œThe only way Gringo exists for the Jew is that he is going to kill him.”
    Fear seizes David once more. It is almost as if he is going to jump up from the chair. Neither Sabana nor Abahn notice his movements.
    â€œOtherwise,” says Abahn, “the life of the Jew is as invisible as the life of David.”
    â€œA mountain of pain,” says Sabana.
    â€œA mountain of cement,” says Abahn.
    â€œMountains of the cement of pain,” says Sabana.
    â€œYes,” says Abahn, smiling, “Invisible, drowned in the Jews.”
    The Jew lifts his head and looks over at David.
    David notices the Jew looking at him. With a sudden start he tries to evade his gaze. He falls back into the chair. The Jew swings his gaze toward the door out to the darkened park. David calms.
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    â€œH e didn’t know where to go,” says Abahn, “so he came here, to Staadt. He could have gone anywhere, but it would have been the same: other Gringos and merchant’s unions and they would have wanted to kill him too. Here, there, it’s all the same.”
    Again David tries to rise up out of the chair. Again he fails. Again neither Sabana nor Abahn notice him.
    The Jew has once again rested his head on his arms. He seems exhausted. Sabana sits at the table, leaning against him. She strokes his back, his hair, his hands, his body. Then she lets her hand drop, rests there without moving.
    David sees only the Jew.
    â€œIt’s been a long time since he left home,” Abahn says. “He had a wife once, children. Then one day he left.”
    â€œThen he left the place he had gone to,” adds Sabana.
    â€œAgain and again,” says Abahn. “Left from every place.”
    An anxiety builds in David’s eyes.
    â€œAnd once, a long time ago, he’d had a profession. He’s begun, these days, to forget even what it was. He said once to someone in the village: I forget now what I once did before.”
    Silence.
    â€œHe said that to you, David?” asks Sabana.
    With difficulty, the word comes from David:
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHe also said that he studied. For a long time. In many capital cities. He said: It pleased me to study. No he’s forgotten what all he studied. He said to someone in the village: I can’t remember anymore what I once knew.”
    â€œHe said that to me,” says David.
    The dogs howl.
    The dogs howl: David turns his gaze toward the door to the darkened park.
    The howling subsides.
    â€œHe said: I began to think about where I learned this word—‘Jew.’”
    A shot rings out near the ponds, disrupting the Staadt night.