Maya Dardel Page #7

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because they're not

going to find a body,

and I don't want you having

to wait seven years before...

- yeah, I um, I memorized

your binder system on Monday.

- Alright, alright, fine.

You'll talk about all this

again with your new lawyer.

All mine is yours,

even my lawyer.

- Thank you, Maya.

- Don't thank me.

He's an anarchist,

and I'm a monster.

This may all end up

being a nasty con-job.

I took out a giant

loan on this land

about a year ago

and put the money

in a little mafia boutique

bank in the Cayman Islands.

- Yeah, I read that

in the yellow binder.

Why did you do that?

- Complicated.

A dishonest broker,

my own mistakes.

- Hmm.

What is this?

- I don't know, looks like junk.

- Maybe something

that blew over here

in the windstorm from

Nora's junk-heap.

- Looks like it's

uh, some sort of tube

made out of a,

made out of cloth.

Here.

Please hold it.

- Ech.

Ah, is there a plan

here, what are we doing?

- Put your head inside.

- No thanks.

- Please, Maya.

Come on.

Come on.

Hi.

- Hi.

- It's like Eden in here.

- You don't get the money

in the Cayman Islands.

Does that change your

loyalty to me, to my work?

- I don't care about money.

- Oh, no?

You're not corrupt like me.

- No, I mean that I have enough.

- Enough what?

- Money from, from

my father dying.

- Not enough to

keep this land, though.

- Oh, I don't know.

I'll talk about it

with your lawyer,

when you're uh,

when you're gone.

- Oh, what a relief.

- What?

- My f***ing ear just unplugged.

I'll be gone in 10 minutes.

- Really?

- Uh huh.

- It's so early.

- Come.

- Wait a second.

Um, I have something for you.

It's uh, I wrote it

down for you to take.

- Hmm?

- It's a description of

Dinesen, of Karen Blixen.

- Karen Blixen, not my favorite.

- Okay, um, but

this was written by

one of the few men

who liked her that

managed not to fall into

her entourage of slaves.

It's kind of just, I'm just,

I'm just gonna, I'm

gonna read it for you.

She knew everything about

the sublimation of loss,

about suffering as the

nourishment of genius,

about pain's residence as

Harmony in a work of art.

And all the same she yielded

to the most banal human

moods and impulses.

Pettiness, impatience,

caprice, stinginess.

She suffered from a craving

for power despite

her generosity.

She toyed with

human fates despite

her contempt for such toying.

She suffered from self-contempt

in spite of her mighty,

legitimate

self-confidence and pride.

She was a paradox,

outside of any

moral category,

and also, a bad judge.

- Now uh, help me

load up the car.

I can't carry any of these.

It's amazing how much

cosmetics and clothing

a woman needs just

to end her own life.

In a window, I recognized you.

You must be the

one I can't name.

The man with a faint voice.

Behind my voice.

I thought it too was mine.

The Cadence was borrowed.

Thick, muscular chords.

Like those in the

baritone's throat

one day in Europe somewhere.

Years ago, with a

friend who since died.

If clocks can be

trusted with one's life.

In some temple or chapel

we paid to hear a man sing.

I thought I recognized

in the baritone

Sonic and temporal glass,

in the thickness of

that, a note of my own.

An affinity there.

Where such ciphers as

love and infinity's brook

known maudlin or

essential sense,

but anyway somehow sing.

Like one sings to a

child who can't touch.

Out there in the

part of my voice

that remains unselfconscious.

I thought I saw you

in the window there.

In that part of town.

I thought you

would look like me.

But you must be an adopted son.

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