The Four-Chambered Heart Read Online Free PDF

strong
that no matter where she was, even without a watch, she sensed the approach of
midnight and would climb on a bus, so instinctively accurate that very often as
she stepped off the bus the twelve loud gongs of midnight would be striking at
the large station clock.
    This obedience to timing was her awareness of
the rarity of unity between human beings. She was fully, painfully aware that
very rarely did midnight strike in two hearts at once, very rarely did midnight
arouse two equal desires, and that any dislocation in this, any indifference,
was an indication of disunity, of the difficulties, the impossibilities of
fusion between human beings.
    Her own lightness, her freedom of movement, her
habit of sudden vanishings made her escapes more possible, whereas Rango, on
the contrary, had never been known to leave except when the bottles, the
people, the night, the cafe, the streets were utterly empty.
    But for her, his inability to overcome the
obstacles which delayed him lessened the power of his love.
    Little by little, she became aware that he had
two fires to light, one at home for Zora, and one on the barge. When he arrived
late and wet, she was moved by his tiredness and her awareness of his burdens
at home, and she began to light the fire for him.
    He loved to sleep late, while she would be
awakened by the passing of coal barges, by foghorns, and by the heavy traffic
over the bridge. So she would dress quietly and she would run to the cafe at
the corner and return with coffee and buns to surprise him on awakening.
    “How human you are, Djuna, how warm and human…”
    “But what did you expect me to be?”
    “Oh, you look as if the very day you were born
you took one look at the world and decided to live in some region between
heaven and earth which the Chinese called the Wise Place.”
    The immense clock on the Quai d’Orsay station
which sent people traveling, showed such an enormous, reproachful face in the
morning: it is time to take care of Zora, it is time to take care of your
father, it is time to return to the world, time time time…
    As she knew how much she had loved to see the
red lantern gleaming behind the window of the barge as she walked toward it,
when Rango fell back into his habit of lateness, it was she who lit the lantern
for him, mastering her fear of the dark barge, the drunken watchman, the hobos
asleep, the moving figures behind the trees.
    When she discovered how strong was his need of
wine, she never said: don’t drink. She bought a small barrel at the flea
market, had it filled with red wine, and placed it at the head of the bed
within reach of his hand, having faith that their life together, their
adventures together, and the stories they told each other to pass the time,
would soon take the place of the wine. Having faith that their warmth together
would take the place of the warmth of the wine, believing that all the natural
intoxications of caresses would flow from her and not the barrel…
    Then one day he arrived with a pair of scissors
in his pocket. Zora was in the hospital for a few days. It was she who always
cut his hair. He hated barbers. Would Djuna like to cut his hair?
    His heavy, his brilliant, his curling black
hair, which neither water nor oil could tame. She cut it as he wished, and
felt, for a moment, like his true wife.
    Then Zora returned home, and resumed her care
of Rango’s hair.
    And Djuna wept for the first time, and Rango
did not understand why she wept.
    “I would like to be the one to cut your hair.”
    Rango made a gesture of impatience. “I don’t
see why you should give that any importace. It doesn’t mean anything. I don’t
understand you at all.”
    If it were not for music, one could forget
one’s life and be born anew, washed of memories. If it were not for music one
could walk through the markets of Guatemala, through the snows of Tibet, up the
steps of Hindu temples, one could change costumes, shed possessions, retain
nothing of the