I went to see Asaf's painting late at night. I'm standing facing the colorful board and see a princess, slight and peaceful, nearly faceless. She can be anyone in fact. Anything. Jumping at me from the square panels are tears and longing. Toy soldiers. A floating crown. One advisor to the king, also faceless, goes and asks and sleeps and sleeps. Who is he?
In the beginning of the “Tale of the Lost Princess,” the king, in a flash of anger, banishes his beloved daughter to the “Not Good.” The king's advisor sets out after her in a prolonged journey, “through deserts, fields and forests,” hoping to find her and bring her home.
First of all, to leave. Without know whither nor the time of arrival or what will be in the end. To pick up one's feet and go. Don't know. It is enough to know the direction.
Before the king's advisor, a chessboard is spread out. It seems that the “Not Good” is actually quite orderly and polite. He bothers no one and doesn't ask questions. It's also delightful in his court, with good music and an offering of delectable treats. Help yourself. Despair will become tasty. The princess is brought before the king's advisor and reveals to him a secret: “There is a way of delivering me from here. It is very simple. All you have to do is choose a place and stay there for one year. From there, yearn for me and seek after me and expect me. On the last day, don't eat or drink or even sleep.”
A loud car horn interrupts my thoughts. I am also yearning. I am yearning to yearn. It's already two in the morning and this is the third car horn that has assailed me in this narrow and charming street. I protest: the princess isn't rescued through in a fit of panic or a running storm. That would never work. Rather, one must stay put, be silent. One must yearn.
It reminds me of a scene from the wonderful book Momo, which tells the story of a little girl who fights against grey and evil and cold-spirited masters who steal time from human beings. It is a scene of pursuit: an army of grey soldiers, seized by terror, searches for Momo in automobiles and airplanes. Momo manages to evade her pursuers by sticking by her friend the turtle, and the two tread so slowly that eventually they can't be discerned . . .
Meanwhile, our advisor to the king is asleep. He survived a year of expectations, only no one told him that it is darkest before daybreak, and on the last day of his exile, he comforts himself by eating an apple and falls asleep. Again, a chessboard, and through a dream the weeping of the princess whom, for the benefit of a single day, he had lost a second and third time. In a tear-drenched kerchief she writes to him to continue his search for her—this time in a mountain of gold and fortress of pearls.
The days are the Count of the Omer. On Passover, we went out and now we are in the wilderness. Egypt we know well and remember well what we've left there. We miss it—what is behind us. The meat and fish and watermelons with salty cheese. But we are asked to miss what is in the future, what is not yet. An active longing. A matrix of enumerated despair that is meant to be a matrix of expectation. Is there value to desire in and of itself? How much can one yearn without ever arriving?
How will the king's advisor find the fortress? He is an expert in the maps of world but he has never heard of such a mountain. He goes to the desert. A giant hauling wood on his back chances to cross his path, and the king's advisor ask him if he's seen or heard of this silvery place.
I slowly move up the street. Another belated horn. This time I swear and move onto the sidewalk. Suddenly I find the Municipal Complex in all its glory. On the roof of the highest building, I recognize the giant from our story. He isn't hauling wood, but is holding tens of cellular antennas and is shining red and green. Undoubtedly, at this very moment, thousands of people searching for their princess are asking him if he's seen or heard of this magnificent place, “a mountain of gold and fortress of pearls.” I, too, turn on my mobile—waiting for the envelope to flash on the screen and save me from more than a few journeys. The giant apologizes: he only knows from where the messages come. He is willing to point with his hand in these directions—right hand toward the earth and left hand skyward. I thank him and continue on my way.
The king's advisor doesn't despair. When you aren't answered, ask again. And if still there is no answer, ask again. And if they tell you that what you are searching for is utterly ridiculous, don't believe them. And if the giants don't know, ask the animals. And if the animals don't know, ask the birds. And if the birds don't know, ask the wind.
I continue along an empty Safra Square and stare at the sky. Everyone who knows what's good for them has gone to sleep. Even the tracks of the light rail have gone to sleep. The never-ending expectation has exhausted them, too—the tracks also know from whence they come but not whither they go, but they too continue to hope. They remind me that Momo moved slowly and in this way defeated everyone. In a rare moment, I feel like hugging them, and I begin to laugh—imagining them halting all the world, wrecking havoc on our transportation systems, destroying the livelihood of storeowners, turning our streets ugly . . . The tracks of “Zen [?] Train” stick to us like a bone in the throat—and perhaps even so there is something to learn from them?
A stormy wind carries off the king's advisor. In the colorful panel soldiers are overturned in the air. The chessboard has gone mad, the princess is floating, the prince is nowhere in the horizon, the crown radiates from above, colorful flags are waving . . . and in the end—
Who decides the end, I think to myself. It's years that I've been hearing the words “in the end” and recognize them as the propaganda of wing breakers. “But in the end how will you raise your children?” “But how will you support yourself in the end?” “But in the end where will you live?” “But, at the end of the day, how do you vote?” and on and on. It's not that one doesn't have to support himself, of raise children, or live, or vote. I support each one of those things fully. But I can't understand how the “end” is relevant at all. “The end” will be when we die, and even on this account I'm less and less convinced. In any event, why seek out death?
One needs only to move in the direction, to know from where we've come, to know what we are asking for—this shall be our mountain of gold, our fortress of pearls, or lost princess. We are searching for her. Will and how she will be found? Who knows. Our job is to walk.
“For it demands good sense and wisdom to deliver her
And how she is delivered is not told
But in the end
She is delivered.”
Thank you to Asaf for the wonderful picture that brought this tale to life with colors and dreams –
פרסום תגובה חדשה