All that is gone (November 2007)

Susan Smit
All that is gone

1

Let’s keep the curtains shut for now, I rather like the twilight. I’ve been finding it harder than ever to endure daylight recently. Perhaps I suffer from reverse nyctophobia, not afraid of the night and it’s darkness, but fearing the days instead. I make sure to spend the largest part of them sleeping anyway.
I think the day is overrated. As is sunlight. I never understood those people who think it a shame to stay in when the sun is out. The ridiculous need to catch the sun, expose one’s flesh, sleeves all rolled up and sweat gathering in knees and arm pits – disgusting. And a typically Dutch habit too. Normal people, like the Greek and Italians, go indoors in search of shade during the hottest hours of the day.
You don’t mind listening rather than having sex this time, do you? Don’t worry, your pay will be the same. Surely I’m not the only man who wants to relieve his feelings rather than have a fuck. Or both. Shag first, then talk, no longer distracted by low cut necks and tight, short skirts.
I don’t know why I’m finding it so easy to tell you my deepest thoughts. Perhaps I think a whore doesn’t judge. Perhaps I think she doesn’t have the right to condemn me, and therefore I attach very little value to her judgement. Does this imply I look down on you? Possibly. Let’s say that I do not expect a woman who allows me to penetrate her without asking any questions to be overly critical of what I am about to tell.
And it might very well that something in you reminds me of her. I haven’t quite figured out what it is yet. It’s in your eyes I think. You look as if the things you see don’t quite reach all the way inside you; you turn away, mix the images with your imagination and turn them into your own acceptable version of the world. You must be doing this to protect yourself. This working room is not really a place for the beautiful and sublime, I don’t think.
With her it was something different. A longing for the aesthetic. What was often taken for naïvety was actually a deliberate beautification of reality when this was out of keeping with her inner world and the disposal of all that she felt she did not need. Self protection as well – I had no idea it was.
Of course it’s a woman who caused my misery. What else could it be? And of course this is not just any woman, as you will have guessed. She touched me when I did no longer expect to be touched. Almost imperceptibly she implanted herself in me, unobtrusive at first, but gradually firmer and more prominent, until eventually she was all I could think about.

She was not a classical beauty. When I first saw her, at the premiere of an opera, I even thought she was quite plain, with her pale skin and her brown wispy hair falling on her shoulders. Lots of other women present were much more beautiful, wearing dresses that displayed their pushed up tits, but my eyes kept wandering to this woman in her plain, straight gown. From the other side of the room I saw her bursting into laughter and I longed to know what the person talking to her had said to make her laugh like that. She did not yet stir my desire, but I was certainly curious.
In time I would find her the most beautiful woman I had ever known. How extraordinary those things are. The perfect face of a woman one doesn’t have any feelings for fades until all shine has gone, but a woman with average looks becomes all the more beautiful once her mind captures your imagination. Her features are softened by something deeper than the skin, they gain depth and meaning by what shines through it. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I assume.
How I hate those kind of parties. I write libretti on compositions, I send them to the opera company and then I want to have nothing more to do with them. I never ever attend try-outs, rehearsals or performances. I dutifully come to the premiere, but that’s as far as my compromise goes. Directors know this and respect it. Sometimes I even think it’s their reason for hiring me. One less cog in the wheel to interfere with their artistic choices.
Premieres are embarrassing spectacles, where first I get angry about details in the performance that I thought should have been done differently and then I wind myself up about the madness you come across on such occasions. You keep seeing people who have no reason to be there, dressed in ludicrous outfits, randomly giving compliments. These remarks are hollow clichés, but rendered with such enthusiasm that they seem to be quoting Nietzsche. Apparently people think they can dish up platitudes without anyone noticing if only they exaggerate enough. Those singers and musicians receiving the compliments are no less enthusiastic for that matter. It’s what that world is like. Literary men and artists may sometimes exchange sharp criticism among themselves, but for the creatures of the stage this is unheard of. One must, I suppose, think very highly of oneself to be able to bear the audience night after night, showing it’s admiration or lack of it straight after the show.
I myself don’t care what the audience, the many-headed monster as actors call it, think. And I care even less what the critics say. As soon as my lyrics leave my study they are no longer mine. They become common property and get messed around with in all sorts of ways – they might not suit a particular singer, a set change might muddle things up or a composer may decide to change his music after all. Why would I take any criticism personal?
That night, as I got to the bar to order a whiskey, she suddenly stood next to me. From up close I could see the fine lines around her eyes. Her lips, that seemed pale from a distance, were full and rosy. She smiled at me, just because I happened to stand next to her and waiting for a bar tender’s attention is always a bit awkward. I asked her what she wanted to drink, it was only polite, and she gratefully told me what she had come to order. All of a sudden, us both being served quickly had come to depend on me. I was very aware I could not be too modest, or I would seem to be a loser, but I couldn’t afford to be too bold either for I did not want her to think I was an arrogant prick. I was relieved to see the bartender turn my way to take our orders.
I can’t remember exactly what she said to me – something about the performance, I suppose. Before I knew, we stood there talking about opera. Verdi, Gounod and Bizet passed, she mentioned harmonious turns, audacious phrases and melodic lines. She did not seem to want to display her knowledge, but from what she said it was clear she knew what she was talking about. She preferred pieces that were majestic, theatrical – kitsch almost. Le grand opéra with hundred-headed choirs, monster ballets and dramatic love affairs. Given her preferences, I thought, that tasteful and modest appearance must be hiding a most passionate nature.
While she spoke, I wondered if she were Jewish. Not only her features, but also her body language seemed unmistakably Jewish to me. There was a certain mistrust in the reserved way she held herself, as if she wanted to keep the cold and careless world at bay. Only ever so often would she make contact with it through culture, refinement. Art exists to provide comfort. I could see straight away that’s how she felt it. I recognise it all too well; using art to come to terms with life, to put straight all that life has violated. To heal. Freely sharing her ideas of music with me was, for that matter, an intimate act. Her way of establishing a connection with me.
There was not much to say about her body. Her breasts seemed alright, but unfortunately her dress started just where one begins to form an opinion. Her arms and shoulders were slight, bony almost. Her skin was pale, but pure. Everything seemed to have the right proportions. Would she realise I was judging her body? It’s from force of habit. Men check those things as if they’re on the agenda, whilst pretending to listen carefully to what a woman says. We have to.
I asked her what she thought of the performance.
‘I quite enjoyed myself,’ she said.
I nodded.
‘Although after a while those elegant notes, the merry frolicking in major got on my nerves a bit. I prefer the more robust pieces.’
There. No gratuitous chit chat for this lady.
I intended to say I was the librettist who had come up with the texts for that ‘cheerful frolicking’. I secretly agreed with her. I too had felt the lack of passion in this production, I too detested the finicky work, but I had to make do with the light-footed notes that I had been given. Finding the right words had been a tediously slow process. My hands never hurt from having to keep up with all my ideas, basically.
When after a few minutes she broke away from me and returned to her party, I realised I had not asked anything that would enable me to find her ever again. I knew nothing about her – no name, no profession, why she was here tonight. And I had not seen her before in the city, so chances I would run in to her someday were very small. I debated following her, but when I saw that she had picked up the conversation with her friends again, I left it at that.
A missed opportunity, not the first and certainly not the last.

In time I recalled this first encounter over and over again; how she looked at me with interest, not at all shy, nodding to show she approved of what I said, the way she eventually, regretful almost, turned and walked away.
Loved-up couples endlessly play this game of ‘do-you-remember’. Do you remember how you smiled at me? Do you remember how I teased you with your bulky coat? It’s an attempt to attach to that first fleeting meeting the weight that, in retrospect, it deserves, and to solve the mystery of attraction between, of all people, him and her. Even when nothing remarkable happened, we decide later on that everything was of the highest importance in those first stages of our love.
She and I never played that game, because in the scarce moments we shared, we wanted to create new memories rather than waste time recalling the old ones. I would do that when I was alone again, fooling myself that she relived the same moments, perhaps even at the same time I did.
Indeed, it’s an illusion. There is nothing as disenchanting as to find that your beloved does not remember something you recalled dozens of times. You feel betrayed. Hurt. You blame her for it, even though you know that she treasures moments that you had forgotten, or never noticed in the first place.
Alas. Although in lovers’ minds it seems they live one life, we all remember different things and imagine the future in different ways.
2

There is something we have in common, you and me. A whore places herself outside society, and so does an artist. In all his dignity. It’s a self inflicted seclusion, no repudiation. I can only write in isolation. No customer would come to your room if it weren’t located here. Only in this poor area where everyone skittishly shoots away from other people, do men dare to enjoy their filthy fantasies. Only here, in this dark den, dare I tell you my story.
It is Art’s duty to visualise both dream and nightmare, to provide an alternative for the prevailing opinion. To tell the other story, counterweight for the one, always the one story that is forced upon us. Or to enlarge this one story and reveal its absurdity. Art is calculating, and can be shrewd and scheming. It should aim to move its spectators, to comfort, confront, disrupt even. For else it is mere masturbation.
This does not imply that an artist is a servant of the public, of course. Theatre directors, managers and all those other treacherous gold-seekers, they would like nothing better. But no. Coquetry and truth do not go together. Only the truth, or the search for the truth, makes Art worth while. All the rest is false, conformist candy for the crowds. And don’t make the mistake of thinking that opera is only for women and poofs. I am familiar with the prejudices. When people want to offend me, they scornfully call me ‘little operetta writer’. Fools. Opera is anything but light-footed entertainment. Opera is robust and dark. Death, fear, violence, madness, desperation, betrayal, jealousy, lust; it’s all there. In a slightly grotesque way obviously. But it supplies the want of bombast and drama after all that subdued politeness we make use of from day to day. It makes short work of our civilised emotions. Those who spend the entire day looking at things on the one hand and then on the other, surrounded by one-and-other-hand-people, want some theatre in the night. Grand gestures. That’s how I see it.

Aren’t you getting tired of me talking rubbish? Just lie beside me if you feel tired, and close your eyes. But do me a favour and at least pretend you’re listening to me. I don’t ask for compassion or advise. Not even for comfort. I just want you to listen.
If I loved her? I never told her in so many words I did. I never even told her that I liked her.
Some people say those three words so easily. Once they have reached a certain level of intimacy and know how to give each other pleasure, when faults have been discovered and shown, faithfulness is promised – they feel they must absolutely declare their love to each other.
But what is loving someone? Does anyone know? We’re just guessing, muddling through. We don’t know. Until we do. All these feelings we took for love fade when it finally happens. ‘True Love’ they call it, dismissing all that preceded as immature if not false feelings.
I never managed to speak the words ‘I love you’ to any of my lovers. I could just about say ‘I’m very fond of you’ or ‘You make me happy’. Thank God I’m an artist, so those ladies usually did not hold it against me. They think of me as an eccentric person with a turbulent and slightly disturbed inner life, who finds it hard to express himself. My mistresses tell themselves they do not need to hear how much I love them, because they feel it. That’s enough for them. Unfortunately, after her, it is not enough for me anymore.

Why don’t you pour me a glass of that whiskey from that cupboard over there. Yes, I know. Come on, I’ll pay you for it. Yes, I understand you don’t have a liquor license. My God, do you need papers for everything? There’s no license to sell sex on your walls either, is there?
See, that’s an excellent whiskey you keep there. Cheers.
Where was I? Oh yes, True Love. A popular theme in operas. Or actually, it’s the heart of every opera. People can be quite disdainful about this. Saying it’s romantic bullshit and that such gushing should not be allowed in Art. Yet there is nothing more important than love. Nothing. The devotion in pursuing passionate love, the warmth that is experienced when it is found, are by all means appropriate. Just think about it: love determines nothing less than the constitution of the next generation.
I was not the one who came up with that. Shopenhauer was. The old fellow was full of shit, but he has a point here.
People in love want to unite, melt into one, and procreation is the fulfilment of this desire. It would explain why two specific people feel attracted to each other: subconsciously they feel that together they can create a new human being, a wonderful combination of their hereditary characteristics. Two people who detest each other will produce an ill formed, unhappy creature. A great theory, wouldn’t you agree?
But what I really meant to say: the development of the entire goddamned humanity depends on who we fall in love with. So it’s definitely worth all the drudgery, effort and torture. And all art dedicated to it. I find comfort in thinking she and I could have produced a strong, balanced child together.
But let’s not theorise about the nature of love. The wretched thing is: once you approach love intellectually, it slips away.
Love only ever turns to fools.

I had actually forgotten her, or rather pushed her to the back of my mind, fully convinced I would never see her again, when she showed up. She turned out to lead rehearsals for the opera company I had just done some work for. She was a pianist. What else could she be? With such a good ear for music, such distinct musical preferences, she had to be a musician or a singer. Her fingers resting on the keys, her eyes focused on the score, she was unaware of my searching looks. Incredibly attractive.
I handed the director the libretti I had spent all week working on, and lingered for a bit. I found out what her name was. Judith. She was indeed Jewish. And – bliss – during the next few weeks her play would accompany the singers rehearsing my words.
From that day I started coming to rehearsals more often.
At first I deluded myself into believing I wanted to ensure the right interpretation of my text, but after a while I could no longer deny it was Judith who kept drawing me to the rehearsal space. Though it did make a difference that it was Mozart’s opera Cosi fan tutte they were working on – I had been put in charge of creating a modern Dutch translation of the words written by Lorenzo da Ponte, quite possibly the best librettist of all times.
One afternoon, Judith spotted me and walked towards me in her calm, composed way, her smile showing she had recognised me.
‘No merry frolicking notes this time,’ she said.
A playful reference to our first conversation which implicitly showed she had come to learn what my share in that production had been. She did not tone down her criticism to be polite – I liked that. And by naming it, the subject no longer hovered above us. It dissolved in the air and freed the way for new conversations.
‘A lot of insults against women though,’ I replied, as Cosi fan tutte intends to show how unreliable women are when it comes to love.
‘I don’t mind an inventive and elegantly put insult as much as a poorly articulated worn-out compliment.’

On every visit to the rehearsing company I wanted to show my best side – sensitive and not as vulgar as usual – to rise in her esteem, but that was not easy. Exasperated I listened to the singers’ pinched voices. The director had decided they were not allowed to vibrate, because he wanted the performance to be ‘as authentic as possible’. He obviously thought singers in Mozart’s days did not make a single quiver. Impossible. There’s always a tiny vibrato at the end of a phrase – this is what the voice naturally does.
The singers contained themselves, which made their singing sound artificial and controlled. Technically it was perfect, but it sounded contrived and cerebral. When you perform Mozart it should be open and playful, what is heavy must float and what is light must seem weighty. The music should flow, like water in a stream.
It was too late. I started interfering.
I expressed my frustration about leaving out the vibrato, and taking all twinkling away from the music. I criticised flaws in tempo, articulation and phrasing. It is hard to note down whether you want your singer to stay within or outside the bars, how you envisage the melodic lines. So I made it clear to them in strongly worded comments. I have never been known as a very subtle person.
Judith seemed to encourage me. As I spoke, she would nod fiercely, a broad smile on her face. Sometimes she squinted as she listened – critical, hesitating, but still focused. She seemed captured by what I had to say. Bless!
I never had to wait long for her comments on mine. She would not say anything in front of the others, but when she came up to me after rehearsals she always spoke freely.
I thought she was opinionated, intelligent, arrogant and sharp. I thought she was beautiful. She had an eye for me. That was all I needed to know.

When Judith played her piano she became a different woman. She was still composed and inventive, but also lucid, ambivalent, elusive. When she played, she seemed to drift away from the material world, as if she was made of light. Listening to her music opened the door to an entirely different world, her world. It felt familiar, even though I had never been there before.
She understood Mozart, that much was clear. She felt him. Mozart’s music, you see, floats between heaven and earth. It is frivolous and pure, earthy and transcendental. Mozart sets heaven’s gate ajar. Some say: ‘When the angels work, they play Bach, when they rest they play Mozart.’
I have often heard bloodless performances of Mozart’s music, where they played it too fragile. But she made it sound powerful, rugged but still feminine, mysterious and misty. In her play I read a promise for the sensuality smouldering underneath her dignified facade. I decided to interpret it like this. I seized the smallest gesture, looked for the smallest signals to find proof of what I suspected she was like. Proofs of her being different kept piling up.
Yes, I was well on my way to fall in love. That hardly ever happens to me. Only the fools in this world claim to be in love with every beautiful woman they see.

No matter how ethereal my love for Judith was, it was rooted in desire. After a while it was no longer enough to just see Judith and speak to her. I wanted to possess her. I really thought, as men do, that I would be perfectly happy after I had slept with her. Even if only once. That would take away my restlessness, free me from the obsessive thoughts that constantly disrupted and confused my thinking. I wanted buns, breasts, hips. The flesh should follow the spirit. Then surely the desire would be dealt with – and that wretched infatuation too. Then I would be able to get on with my life again. Girlfriends I had in that time could not satisfy my lust for her, they fuelled it even more. They were appetizers that only increased my hunger.
Winning Judith over required different tactics than I was used to. I had to be more cautious, but forceful at the same time. I would have to act quickly or else she would start considering me ‘a nice colleague’. I had no idea why I had waited so long in the first place. Perhaps I was afraid to test the ideal in my head by reality. Perhaps it was because Judith was more clever than the women I would normally chat up. Intelligence eroticises, but it intimidates at the same time. She would effortlessly put me in my place with a few effective, eloquent words.
Until I met her, women were always casual company to me, they were there for entertainment and satisfaction. Don’t pretend to be offended. That’s how most men think, though none of them would admit this to a woman.
My pick up lines are hardly original. You want to know what I do? When I lust after a woman, I first catch her eye. Then I go up to her, make some small talk and ask what sign she is to take the conversation to a more personal, deeper level. Don’t say, let me guess! And when I have guessed correctly, I attribute her all sorts of common characteristics referring to her sign – positive ones of course. It always does the trick.
You see, all people have one favourite topic of conversation: themselves. As long as it is all about them, they will swallow the biggest bullshit, delighted as they are with all the attention.
I always took my birds to the same places on a first date. You know what I think would be nice? Wine tasting. Go to the zoo. See a matinee. And hope the lady behind the counter, where I had paid for at least six other women’s tickets that month, would not recognise me.
In my most cynical moments I compare women with wind-up toys. Those tin puppets with a key in their back, remember? When I touch them and wind them up they take a few steps – all by themselves it seems. When I get distracted or bored and no longer turn the key, they immediately come to a halt. And fall asleep again.
Women thrive when they have a man’s attention, they act differently. A woman is never as beautiful as when she has just been told she looks great. It makes her shine. That is the power us men have and that most of us very much enjoy exercising.
When first you overwhelm a woman with attention, which you then hold back and only feed her small portions of, you’ll be sure to keep her with you for a long time. I am exaggerating of course. This only goes for a certain type of woman; one who only dares to shine when she has the loving attention of a man. She’ll shine as long as she is in the spotlights.
Judith is an example of the other type of woman; she shines from within, regardless of the circumstances she is in. She shines because a warm, pure light inside her shines through her skin and makes her glow.

© Text, Susan Smit, Lebowski Publishers, Amsterdam 2007
© Translation, Joni Zwart, 2007