Moliere in New Orleans
Molière in New Orleans
Kaveh L. Afrasiabi
“This horror will grow mild, this darkness light.”
- John Milton, Paradise Lost
Legend has it that in 1718 Jean-Baptiste founded the city of New Orleans, but few, and in fact hardly anyone except His Almighty, know that it was all due to a simple confusion at the roll call -- that led to another gentleman with the same first name descend from Mississippi river, all the way from the shores of Europe, one called by his stage name, Molière *
"Life after death is not a new life, so stop kidding yourself. One thing is for sure though. There will be no respite from the malady of imagination. It is like feeding newborns to the crocodiles at private masked balls or, worse, landing inside one of your own dramas. Your soul for the other world must not be blind. You need proper survival strategy. Death has brought to me a burst of clarity -- the gift to reflect back on life as it truly was, a totally messy affair. Post-life turned out messier! So much to talk about, otherwise it would be pure hell. I was obliged to agree that my own scandalous behavior had brought some deep discredit upon me. What -- you are accusing me of incoherence after that violent death? That I'm offending your sensibility by forgetting my etiquette? Absurd accusation. May I remind you of the fact that my friends called me le Contemplateur for my quiet, observant demeanor? I refuse to be cowered by the sheer formalities of after life, simple as that. The 'misanthrope has yet to find his peace'. A true poet must wreak havoc whenever and wherever he can, particularly when dealing with a confoundingly broken moral order. It's just hard to imagine why I was not turned into a bird or a dog? My preference? Salmon of course, so I could leap up waterfalls, fight churning rapids, and swim against currents. If there is a God then it is absolutely receptive to the necessity of ambiguity. The mystery of death, itself impenetrable and elusive, haunts us with its tantalizing pursuit of salvation. No, I don't complain about being lonely here because I had already rejected the world. Besides, who can deny my splendid legacy?"
It was the beginning of a slightly other worldly experience. He had expected an eternal sleep, but had rudely awaken to a nauseous new beginning. Waiting at the gate of heaven for what seemed like an eternity, i.e., a couple of decades to be exact, Moliere was starting to lose his mind -- with increasingly disjointed thoughts -- when he met a half-Dutch, half-French gentleman, whose ship had sunk on the way to Louisiana and who was profoundly devastated by the loss of his merchandise, first name also Jean-Baptiste; he tightly clung to the land proclamation signed and sealed by the Duke of Orleans that gave him sole authority to set up a new trading post in faraway America. "You cannot imagine the trouble I went through to get this. His Majesty Philip has an undying, voracious appetite for virgins. And I had a container full of masks," he cried. Molière tried to console him and, in fact, brought some cheers on his face by quoting from his Misanthrope, now wondering if he should have titled it divine comedy instead. "It's not all that bad here, although no Hotel du Petit Bourbon, but still no monsters and no disease or illness. Look at me. I had a chronic illness and I'm now all cured. In a certain sense, you're still alive, you can't get any older but you can become wise, althoughly, personally, I don't like getting wiser. Besides, they make allowances for real individuality here, you'll soon find out." Obviously, he was going to extraordinary lengths to hide the worst from the man who was so jittery about his mortality and who had even envisaged a cozy campfire under the stars and fairy lights through the cloud. To Molière's surprise, Jean-Baptiste had read all his works and was a loyal fan of his plays, especially the comedi-tragedies. His favorite line was "Writing is like prostitution. First you do it for love, and then for a few close friends, and then for money.” Apparently, he had even once contemplated a helping hand to Molière in need. "I even thought of lending you some money when they arrested you for your debt, but then heard you were out after 24 hours and you had settled with the collectors," he recounted. They spent their days discussing Parisian restaurants, playhouses, and brothels, like great men of renaissance. Delighted by this sheer coincidence, the two men quickly formed the bond of a deep friendship, to the point that Molière dreaded the thought of losing his sole company when sooner or later they would call their names. And it happened one early morning when the other Jean-Baptiste was sound sleep and only Molière heard the voice on the dim speaker calling for Jean-Baptiste. The iron door then slowly opened and Molière, betting that it was for him since he had been there much longer, quickly picked up his coat and exited the door, following a robotic guide to a big room full of humans milling around (just like US custom at Mexican border), thinking "and we thought they'd be more organized here, what a chaos!" He was given a number, 5448RSXTB, and waited and waited, for days on end; it was boring to be surrounded all day by grey, anonymous people; finally his turn and he was told for the first time that he had been selected through a random lottery and could now start a brand new life in Louisiana, his friend's initial destination. Only then Molière fully realized that he had been mistaken and, indeed, that roll call was not for him, but should he be honest and give up this unique opportunity to get out of Purgatory once and for all? Debating this question in his mind, Molière finally decided to be a selfish hypocrite in his strange after life and let the chips fall where they may. He was chatting with a fellow Spanish inmate, a fallen veteran of Spanish war of succession, when his number was posted on the electronic board. "We must influence the laws of Purgatory to our own ends. I'll leave this bitter nether world where boredom is king. You know, I was asked when I first got here to write my name and I refused, keeping my pledge to stay away from this wormy business of writing for good. I now prefer to be a pimp than a writer, although there is not really such a big difference." The Spaniard was baffled and simply asked Moliere, "Por que diablos ha venido a este horrible lugar?"
"Welcome to Louisiana, Mister Le Moyne de Bienville," a sign held by an attractive lady read when he disembarked from the sailing ship. She was in her thirties and slim, wearing in each ear a single diamond stud. She was part of a small yet boisterous welcoming committee who had come to greet him with open arms, having heard about his elaborate plan to found a new city. Although he had no clue, Molière decided to play the part and wear the hat of an urban developer while naively assuming that the hands of destiny had sent him to a pleasure trip, call it the self-deprecation of a brilliant mind indulging in the mockery of afterlife.
"We must first build the most elaborate brothel with the most enchanting ladies in it, and then prepare the biggest Mardi Gras in the main square," he instructed, adding meaningfully, "and just call me JB from now on." Unwittingly, Molière was beginning to mirror image the poor fellah he had left behind, who had confided with him his hidden desire to be New Orleans' 'kingpin'.
"Your dry spell is over, jump on it Jean, even if you have to live someone else's nefarious dream, " Molière exhorted himself, relishing the sumptuous food prepared exclusively for him; in Purgatory he was living on self-made sandwiches. He was given the key to a fancy bedroom with curtains drawn. A few minutes later the girl from the welcoming committee arrived and they tried to hold a conversation but couldn't because of language barrier. Molière had to resort to sign language to convey his desire to sleep with her. It didn't work and she thought he wants to drill a hole. Molière then held her hand and directed her to the bed and that's when he discovered to his utter surprise that she was in fact a male transexual. Molière had no other option and decided to proceed regardless. It was a giant relief. "You want to get married sweetheart?" He asked her as she was leaving, teasing. "I can be so shameless!" A knock on the door and a bunch of local dignitaries came in to inquire about his city plan. "First thing we must have a tavern for all manners of persuasions, if you know what I mean, to make sure everyone is happy in our city of irony," he said. Not everyone was thrilled but they all went along in deference to his authority. He was then asked about the name and he answered, La Nouvelle Orleans, thinking of the redlight district in his beloved Paris. His motto was "Down with marriage, hail to polygamy." And if per chance someone asked why and pointed to his long monogamous love affair, he'd say, "I've learnt from experience, and now a city of sin without guilt, a true secular city." It was a brilliant idea and soon New Orleans was officially open for business with Molière making a killing, earning a new nickname, le roi des macs.
Not bad for someone who had lived most his life as an imposter, a writer. "Writing is the ultimate act of deception." And then he received the news that his wife was coming, with all her three children! Molière nearly fainted, sank in his chair overlooking the harbor, asking himself, "Is this the end of the masquerade? With all that he told me about her authoritarian character, she will roast me and immediately report me to the police and they would think I have killed him. Murder in Purgatory, is that even remotely possible, yes if it's my luck. What cruel destiny." To his relief however, a couple of days later he received the tragic news that her ship had sank in an Atlantic hurricane and all the family had vanished. "Good, I hope they reunite where he is held," he whispered in his head while shedding fake tears at a church funeral ceremony, flanked by well-wishers having pity on him -- "Sweat to hear multitudes in lamentation. Ah, ever is grief malicious," he whispered in his head and, simultaneously invoked one of his own poems, "No grief, alas! can now bring back again/The daughters too dear, by Death untimely ta'en." In reality, however, he was deeply contradicted now and wished this whole travesty of truth would end soon. "Maybe I can be myself again, just for a day or so, and regain my own identity?" It was useless to pretend. Molière had immersed himself so much in the merchant's life that it was impossible to separate himself from the man whose identity he had assumed..
"La situation est bonne. I should be proud of my legacy, a founder, pioneer, an inventive voyager, however pathetic it might sound, but on second thought anything is worth above being a writer. Yet truth be told, I'm a vagabond, a pariah, a prodigal son who still has his pride. No one understands me, be that as it may. For God's sake stop spewing stupidity after stupidity and just get on with it." His engineers were giving him solid progress report, e.g., on cutting the cane around the river bend, completing a drainage for the swamp waters around the city, and building a seawall. He lived in the French quarter and was a hands-on overseer, relishing the development of a truly cosmopolitan city with bustling narrow streets that wound around the river and crossed from one side to the other on lovely bridges, replacing the primitive huts with attractive seveneenth-century town houses built with fine material imported exclusively from France. One day out of the blue the urge to write a postcard to his friend in Purgatory attacked his conscience and Molière limited himself to a word of condolence for his immense losses. Somehow that gesture made him feel better and Molière was all smiles when he inaugurated the city's grand theater a few days later, knowing that he will soon get visitors from his own plays, including the maid Dorine, who could hopefully do his daily chores. But before that happened, Molière had a substantially more real and enduring problem facing him, the natives' problem.
"Sir, we've got a real problem with the natives. So many tribes have lived here for generations and this city is on a sacred ground actually, that used to be a crossroad for many languages," one of Molière's assistants sounded the alarm. "You mean there are natives born here and I wasn't told about it?!" Molière was genuinely astonished. He was eager to get to know them. After meeting the heads of several tribes, -- the Atakapa, Caddo, Choctaw, Houma, Natchez, and Tunica -- Molière was so impressed by them that he was now determined to give the city back to them, even though he knew there would be a great deal of opposition from the greedy European settlers.
"Whose side are you on Mister? Us or them? Nous devons chasser ces creatures inhumaine."
Furthermore, there was an equally strong opposition by the white settlers when Molière ordered the release of several runaway African slaves taking refuge in the marshlands surrounding the city. Under his command, the enslaved people were given time off on Sundays and could gather at Congo Square for public drumming, dancing, and vital cultural and spiritual exchange.
"Your actions are destroying the fabrics of our settlement here and we are lodging a complaint to the government. You are a rebel sir unworthy of governorship. You call for a new social compact and adopting the pagan natives' codes of ethics -- that's preposterous and goes against everything Christianity stands for, not to mention your notorious debauchery and indulgence with the respected married ladies of our community," a French aristocrat yelled at him at one of the tumultuous meetings, flanked by two priests nodding in agreement. Another vehemently opposed the extension of mardi gras from the private elite balls to the whole city, although the local tavern owners did not mind it at all, their only complaint was the presence of the 'hostiles' and the liberation of black slaves. But Molière was unmoved and stuck to his gun on all the main issues, even paraphrasing one of his famous lines, "COME ON, GENTLEMEN, LET’S SWEEP AWAY ANY GRUDGES, AND LET’S MAKE YOUR SOCIAL CONTRACT HERE, BUT WITH ONE CAVEAT, INCLUSIVITY." He put down in his notebook, "Colonialism is fundamentally averse toward and an affront to the human spirit," repeating it verbatim several times at public meetings. Expectedly, that had little impact on the enraged crowd of settlers clamoring for ethnic cleansing. He didn't care and the only thing that distressed him was the angel delivering the summons to him at his bedside at night. Molière was being called to the Purgatory for questioning; he shivered in fear all night. The cold, calm, emotionless author, whose stern dignity had governed his life, was now unrecognizable. He mourned his predicament; like all mortals Molière had died by cutting the threads he had spined through his works that defined him, until now.
"I have responded to my liberty instincts and they will now crucify me, unless of course I charm my way out of it. Shall I say I've saved someone's life? The natives are human too, aren't they? Not according to these blood thirsty yet deceptively benign gentlemen."
So, when asked why, Molière could only blame it on the corruption of his mind by "that crazy poet Molière who shared a cell with me up there, for whatever reason. He told me all about the equality of men and rights of indigenous people, and I was foolish enough to let him indoctrinate me, otherwise I would never issue that proclamation ordering the illegal white aliens back to Europe. In retrospect, I realize he had this peculiar way of influencing you without noticing it." For some reason, that explanation seemed convincing to his invisible judges for the most part; one of them seemed less sympathetic to his cause and asked the pointed question: "And what happens to the white settlers who undertook all that dangerous journey from Europe?"
"If the natives came to Europe and did what they did we'd call them thieves, wouldn't we? Send them back. From a moral standpoint I see no other option," Molière answered. Another judge corrected him on the peace symbol on his wrist by letting him know that it was from the Tunica-Biloxi tribe.
He was then escorted to another (solitary) room smelling of smoke waiting for the verdict; they reached a near unanimous decision. "Because of your serious transgressions, we are sending you back to the Purgatory, no appeals allowed. You sir managed to ruin everything you were set out to accomplish, although we are aware of the blame resting with others."
Molière's initial reaction was one of defiance, "Well, It doesn’t matter. I was not cut out to be governor of any territory, save the literary landscape." Simultaneously however, Molière patted himself on the shoulder for his cunning ability to use himself as an alibi to get off the hook, as an antidote to his own identity before death. "Death surely makes a devil out of your previous identity and all that silly expectation of transcendental suffering and ultimate redemption." To his surprise, enforcement of the tribunal's finding was somewhat lax and he doodled around a bit. Suddenly a voice came to him from the within. "Molière, you are only predestined to rule the hearts. Appeal to the pagan natives to support you with your journey after life. They have some influence with this chamber and might lead to more leniency." But first Molière had to self-educate about them, all the tribes and the spirits they worshiped and then utilize that knowledge to ensure his role as an imposter would not come to an abrupt end. "I should have known life after death can be a journey of new learning, but who would have thought?" Well, of course the natives who were now claiming New Orleans as their ancestors' hunting ground where there was plenty of fresh water, animals, and food. They saw Molière as their new savior who protected them from the white devils who took them to slavery. With a brush of his pen, however, Molière outlawed slavery in all its shape and forms thus sealing his name as a great liberator, a far cry from the initial kingpin; his new nickname was agasga, timely rain, in Cherokee Indian. He was given a long ceremonial pipe and a sac of native tobocca they called hakchuma as a sign of their appreciation; to him, it was a sign he had been admitted in their private sphere.
"A new city built on the skulls of the natives, a grand theft, is nothing new, just stone age practice which we must abandon for the sake of future generations," Molière preached but few listened and the war to exterminate the tribes ensued, much to the chagrin of Molière who, rather instinctively, made a unilateral decision to rename the city as New Harmony. He ordered his militia to suppress the violence, but it was too late. The killing went on for weeks through the French quarter and then spread around the rest of Louisiana. In New Orleans alone, which was known for a more tolerant attitude toward the natives, left up to a thousand dead. By the end, some five thousand natives had been massacred in cold blood. "New Orleans has been sucked into the violence like fishing-boat into a tornado," Molière recounted. "The bloodshed was done more chaotically and by settlers who would have been reasonable folks back in their own country, who stopped at taverns between killings to celebrate, accompanied by singing, lutes, and guitars. The priests blessed the mob and interpreted the sight of victims as a sign that God Himself was in favor of the massacres." Inevitably, the situation constantly reminded him of his own insight ""Hypocrisy is a fashionable vice, and all fashionable vices pass for virtues;" New Orleans simply underscored that fact for him, filled with the "blind protagonists of a dream for freedom that ended with slavery." A petition to remove Molière from his post was then widely circulated and had the desired effect a few weeks later. From his window Molière watched with sadness the banner Welcome to New Harmony being brought down by a cheery crowd. It was time to be dispatched back to the Purgatory, with his experimentation in tatters. The New City would be like any other city in America, a colonial expansionism at natives' cost, a mortal sin. "They shall never be free as long as they enslave others, burdened forever with the collective guilt of a sinful beginning -- isn't this the telos of history? Trapped by the crimes of our ancestors? What do I know. I am not a philosopher of history, only a commentator on life's paradoxes, peering into people's hearts, the secrets of their soul."
"Wake up," a familiar sound, the other Jean-Baptiste, woke him. Molière was rather shocked to see him, half raised his body and asked, "what is happening?"
"You were having a nightmare. Are you okay?"
"A nightmare? I thought I was gone for a long time."
"Gone? Where? No, you were just dreaming."
"Wow, a long dream."
"Tell me about it?"
"I wish I could, but can barely remember anything, except that it vaguely had something to do with the city you were going to start in America. What did you say the name was?"
"New Orleans."
"But of course. I remember being part of a street celebration with people, none of them sober, wearing masks of pagan gods and at one point I was crowned as the Poet King carried around on their shoulders and then we reached a square full of burning candles and the crowd picked them up and started dancing in a large circle, dancing for the soul of the dead ones and then, suddenly, they all blew out the candles and stood silent in pitch dark, as if their prayers had been answered. And then suddenly, it all seemed like a play on stage and I was directing that drunken crowd the basics of comèdie-ballet, rather hillarious."
"Lucky you. I only dream of being chased by my collectors with their vicious dogs,' said Jean-Baptiste, grinned and then added, "of course now and then some jealous husbands with whose wives I messed around attack my dreams as well."
"I see. Maybe you too should put a mask on and live in disguise."
'Right, like a permanent Mardi Gras, everyone an imposter for life."
Molière grinned and then stood and rubbed his eyes, yawning. "So, anything new today?"
"Yeah. Got a strange postcard from someone condoling me on the death of my family. Weird. Look here."
One quick look and Molière instantly recognized his own writing but kept it all to himself, asked instead, "Do you know who sent it?"
"No, no name, it's anonymous."
"Well, looks like some one's playing mind game with us here."
"I agree. It is nasty, brutish and very long here. So, what should we talk about today?"
"I am a little tired, feel like someone who's had a long journey."
"Okay then, rest my dear friend."
Molière went back to sleep, mumbling under his lips, "I wonder if dreams can come true after life?" A few minutes later, the answer came in another dream.
"The answer to your question is yes," a tree was talking to him. It was a charred tree.
"Oh, my favorite tree! What in the world happened to you?!"
"As you can see, I 'm a victim of a wild fire after you left and the garden was neglected."
"But you can now speak!"
"I can because nothing else is left of me."
"Well, you're still standing and in one piece, so that's something."
"What's the use. I 'm not a living tree anymore, only a shadow of my previous existence, which was full of enthusiasm. Now, I am just a dead soul."
"Don't say that. As long as you have the ability to think and to express yourself, that's plenty of life left in you."
"If you insist, but I feel I 'm dying inside, that the core is gone and I am an empty shell now."
"Come on, you will always be my favorite proud willow tree."
"I must go now. They are calling my name, Molière's tree."
"Molière's tree? Haha. Goodbye then my loyal friend. Just remember, when the wound is deep, the healing is heroic."
"Goodbye my reverent master."
And then, when Molière woke up and started talking to Jean-Baptiste again, he was full of new suggestions for his friend's ambition of a new city.
"You must plant new trees, and lots of them."
"Trees? That place is full of trees, actually too many."
"No, no, you're mistaken. There is never enough trees and you, if you ever make it out of here and eventually build your city, promise me to plant a lot of willow trees."
"Okay, as you wish, and I will name a whole boulevard full of trees the Molière Avenue,"
"Swell."
"By the way, what's that on your wrist?"
"Oh this, it's an Indian symbol of peace. I've had it for a long time."
"It's nice. I wonder why I hadn't noticed it before!"
Molière smiled in his head and whispered, "makes two of us."
"How did you get it, if you don't mind me ask?"
"I got it from one of their reincarnated chiefs, if I'm not mistaken from the Jena Band of Choctaw Indians. They called him Big Chief Monk and he told me they have no vocabulary for the words envy and greed. But those are the pillars of our civilization."
"What was he like, do you remember?"
"He was very charismatic, like a radiant sun with a gravitational force pulling his people into his orbit. He was a model of open-heartedness, wisdom, calm. completely liberated from the shackles of fears, worries, temptations, meditated with Mother Nature in complete harmony., told me "You are the uninvited guests, my people call you soul-eaters, Nalusa Chito, whoever you are we remain your hosts. We too benefit from the aversions of your self-indulgence and other extremes." But he showed up for just a second, like a serene moon that slips beneath the cloud and disappears."
"Fascinating. Those savages know only war though, my friend, which is why we must bring civilization to them by force. In my plan, however, I have mapped out a comfortable reservation for them, on approximately three percent of the land."
"How generous! Didn't they own it one hundred precent before we stepped foot in there? And shouldn't we condemn the hardship that colonialism has brought to these people?"
Jean-Baptiste ignored Moliere's question and said instead, "We might need to resort to a vanishing act if push comes to shoves. For that we need a good excuse however. Il faut une nouvelle preuve que les Indien voulent la guerre."
Molière shook his head in disagreement but chose to let it be, content with his warm memories of his encounters with the "savages" in his long voyage, wondering how those encounters might reflect his own state of mind. If only he had a pen and a notebook, he would begin with the statement, 'we must first address the savage within; we are our own worst enemy'. A sudden urge to write again surged through his head, like an addict who couldn't kick the habit.
"Oh my God, Jean-Baptiste, I can write again. I knew I would come out of my mental coma sooner or later."
"Happy for you JB, even if you have no means to do it, it's the thought that counts."
"Imagine a farmyard rooster, disguised as a pheasant, sputtering rhymes in my face."
"What did you say?"
"Oh, just a line from my past soul, now inhabiting in me like a tired traveler, or better yet a war refugee. In retrospect, life is war and here we have peace and tranquility. I have no more urge to go anywhere."
"Very funny JB, very funny."
Molière smiled back and almost retorted, "And you my conservative friend, if only you knew of your unconscious nutty boy!" Instead, he asked, "Tell me my learned friend, what makes a savage?"
"A savage? One who has no basic morality, rapes and plunders, with no sense of guilt."
"I see. That makes us perfectly civilized I suppose."
"But of course. Do you not agree?"
"Such an amusing answer, how could I ever disagree. I'm afraid those savages dare to disagree with you however."
"I am well aware of it, but the winds of progress will sweep them away, like old leaves on a big tree."
"My poor willow tree!"
"What did you say?"
"Nothing, nothing at all." Then they both fell silent for a few minutes.
"What would you write if you could?" Jean-Baptiste asked.
Molière paused for a long moment before answering, yelling in his "God, I'm so sick and tired of this colonialist moron, get him away from me. I can't stand him. Why couldn't I end up with a learned man, one of my friends -- Chapelle or Jean de La Fontaine?" He then opened his mouth and said, "Oh, let me see. I would probably write about the lethargy of a silent world and empty clouds, asking 'What place is this? What region, what quarter of the world? Is this a parallel world? Where am I? Beneath the sun's rising or beneath the wheeling course of a frozen universe?" Then he hastened to add, "but, on second thought, I would also venture these words. At first he was enamored of him and then, disillusioned, he was utterly repelled by him. In all the time he had spent with him, he never showed a scrap of sympathy for the natives whom he called savages and, in fact, did everything he could to kick them like beggars in the street. His biggest vice: He never acknowledged the deeper violations, and the culpability of his heirs, the future generations."
"Now wait a second, who are you talking about?"
"You ought to know better my old friend, but why worry, we're never going to see another pen and paper the rest of our time in this godforsaken place, which might not be a bad thing after all."
Jean-Baptiste turned around and withdrew to himself for a few minutes, debating what to say next, cleared his throat and said, "Molière, I've just about had it with your self-righteous crap. You're the most egotistic and self-centered soul I've seen on the face of this planet. I had heard about the anti-colonial manifesto you circulated before your death, that not one person signed, hardly surprising. You enjoyed the spoils of our colonialism all your life and yet cursed us as if we had poisoned you." He then paused, paced around for a moment and continued with his rant: "You don't get it. What we're doing is no different from what everyone else is doing, as a superior race. Take the case of Cortes and the Spanish Conquistadors..."
Molière interrupted, "You mean the one who wiped out the Aztec civilization? So you want to be another Cortes, is that your ambition?"
"Absolutely, and why not?"
Molière was stunned by that unexpected burst of candor from his companion. "The wealth of a nation cannot be an accumulation of theft," he almost retorted but didn't bother. Suddenly they heard scattered rumbles of approval, as if Jean-Baptiste were being showered with accolade after the curtain came down on one of Molière's plays, now grappling with the question of whether the curtain will ever rise again. He chose not to respond and simply went back to sleep, only to be besieged by an audience in a dream.
"Mister Molière, what is your favorite word?" someone in the amphitheater shouted.
"la transgression."
"What is the word you dislike most?"
"culpabilité."
Another asked, "What should be the mission of our life?"
"Abolish hate, retrieve humanity, respect nature. I confess I remain a steadfast Gassendist believer in Epicurean atomism."
"What is the most perplexing question in your afterlife?"
"Qui est l'instigateur?"
"What makes you laugh most?"
"La banalité de l'espoir. All hopeful souls among us leap straight to misfortune."
"How do you rate your death?"
"I died on stage, an actor's dream death."
"What was the true cause of your death?"
"As far as I know, broken heart over the death of my beloved Madeleine and also some pulmonary virus.'
"How would you describe yourself now?"
"Mon essence est la revolte contre le commun. But I am now released from the sheer restlessness of life and we inhabit in a lifeless form that has collapsed the distinctions of time and space, as well as dream and reality, banished to a new realm that has its own logic well beyond the comprehension of our sense-experience, but one in which I dare say the individual who has been wronged has a chance to redeem himself."
"What do you miss most about life?"
"Ma solitud, vin de Champagne,et je dois dire, les personnages bohèmes de mes propres pièces. Par ailleurs, j'ai toujours voulu retourner visiter la grotte de Choranche. J'adore cet aquarium."
"Why do you prefer solitude?"
"Tous les hommes de lettres sont portés à aimer la vie d'ermite."
"What is it like there?"
"Afterlife is a series of surprises, particularly in this mid-world we call Purgatory. It's like the poem, not waiting, drowning. On the other hand, it's like adopting to a new country, but one without borders and hierarchies. Here, destiny is omnipresent."
"Do you see any continuity from life to afterlife?"
"In both, I live in true loyalty to my own essence."
“Have you any new poems since death?”
“Yes, just one:
In New Orleans' distant land,
Still with France's love I burn;
Parted many a thousand mile,
Never, never to return.
Come, kind death! and give me rest,
Moliere has no friend but thee;
Thou can'st ease my aching heart,
Thou can'st set the imposter free.
I hear a savage cry, driven like cattle to a fair,
see they sell us young and old;
child from mother too they tear,
All for love of filthy Gold,and church’s benediction.
Led by pity from afar
I left their native sacred ground;
Thus if some inflict a scar,
I fly to patch the wound.”
Another asked, "Do you still believe that we die only once, and for such a long time?"
"La mort n'est rien de plus qu'une ombre de la vie.Cet au-delà, ce périple servile, ne connaîtra jamais de fin."**
"What is your opinion about Western civilization?"
"Une entreprise vaine."
"I was wondering if you still subscribe to what you once wrote, and I am quoting: I became quite melancholy and deeply grieved to see men behave to each other as they do. Everywhere I find nothing but base flattery, injustice, self-interest and roguery. I cannot take it any longer; I am furious, and my intention is to break with all mankind."
"J'aurais dû dire une rupture nette."***
"Why do you hate the settlers so much?"
"Ces colons a fait fortune en faisant suer le burnous."****
"What do you find so fascinating about Pagan beliefs?"
"That's simple. It liberates us from the rigid dualisms, our centuries old dogmas."
"Does this mean you no longer believe in monotheistic religion?"
"Oh that oblique belief we call monotheism, holding us forever hostage. In hindsight, only in death we can put up with its rebuke."
"Have you gone native in after life Mister?"
"Call me agasga. But let me tell you that some tribes have fairly similar beliefs as well as cultural traits. To give you an example, they invited me to a wedding once and I found the connection between pagan and christian marriage ceremony to be quite close, like the joining of riight hands, the only difference was that the administrator of the rite was some maternal uncle they called Iksa. Also, some believe in a single superior deity they call Nananpesa. I have always rebuked such beliefs for their trait of obliteration of imagination."
"Monseiur Moliere, who do you consider to be the best writer in French?"
"Apart from myself, I have no clue."
"Have you any advice for us the living?"
"Oui, souriez à vos malheurs. Indians have a word for that, yukpa."
"What do you have to say to your critics?"
"Laissez-moi tranquille, bande de vautours."
"Some say you enjoyed the risk of infidelity, do you disagree?"
"Cet un manèire d'etre soi."
And then someone with a British accent asked, "I am curious to know. Have you made any new discovery about your life since you died?"
"I should have managed my heretical life better!"
"Would you like me to read one of the obituaries about you in England, Monseiur Moliere?"
"If you insist, although I have no interest."
"Monseiur Moliere was a magnetic and engimatic figure amongst the artists in Paris. All sorts of rumors circulated about him. Your reaction please."
"Quel gaspillage d'encre."
Molière briefly woke up and immediately went back to sleep again, not sure if he would ever wake up, only sure that controversy had followed him after life, which had proved a mightier adversary than he had expected.
Je vais m'attirer de ennuis.
Tu ferais mieux de reflechir.
Trop tard.
Ainsi accomplissons-nous la volonte des dieux! Mais, on n'a meme pas croyant.
"Listen Agasga. Wake up. You must have had a pleasant dream because you've been laughing in your sleep," Jean-Baptiste said. "You haven't spoken to me for weeks. Let's break our silence."
Reluctantly Molière agreed and asked, "What do you have in mind?"
Jean-Baptiste quickly answered, "You're an actor, so let's play a game. We both pretend we're gods. I would be Poseidon and you?"
"I see. Well, I head someone call me Wakan Tanka. But I warn you, your god is no match for my mystical power."
They both laughed.
"To be honest, my mind was jammed with this new word, New Harmony, and I contemplated a place where we all live together in peace, sharing wealth, to each according to his needs."
"Not a bad idea, except that as you know by now that I have rather oversized needs -- in ladies, wine, and gold."
"A bourgeois will always be a bourgeois!"
"And who's to say I 'm not your reincarnated past?"
"Well, that's something to think about. After life is so full of surprises. Until now, I thought we're complete polar opposites."
"Me too, until this thought just occurred to me. We could well be each other's figment of imagination. Everything you've said, I could have said myself, don't you see? It's the truth."
Moliere was skeptical and responded, "Truth is a misnomer here, a luxury we can't afford my friend, luckily this world is untainted by any internal dissension over truth, so we must suffer its consequences. Besides, I have never encouraged an immitator."
"I see. And now what my friend?" Jean-Baptiste asked.
Instantly, Moliere's mind raced to a line from the Misanthrope: "What, I your friend? No longer
Count on't. Till now I have professed you friendship.
But having learned your worth, withdraw my love,
Wishing no place in a corrupted heart."
He then whispered in his head, "Now he has unblocked a new fear. This man is hell." But instead of uttering these words, Moliere replied, "Now we just play gods, who are kindred cousins. But, of course, in the end it's just a feeble ineffective way to tranquilize our pain of emptiness, the agony of death."
"I know what you're doing. You're trying to make a Pagan out of me. It won't work. My faith in Christianity is too strong. I resent anyone implying that I am faking it. Jesus said 'I am the door, no one cometh unto the Father but by me. Can't you see, the supreme creative power comes into self-possession in afterlife? You should quit the negative and affirm the positive, even though it might be a seismic tremor in your subterranean world. You reap what you sow, isn't that the truth?" Suddenly, with his good Christian name, Jean-Baptiste marked his identity with a liturgical cloak and sandals depicting the disciples of Jesus, resoundingly announcing his faith to everyone to see, triggering a fleeting surprise on Molière's face.
"So is my faith in Tanka's power of persuasion," Molière said sarcastically, self-refraining from any comment on Jean-Baptiste's new religious demeanor. He could now see the concurrence concealed a spiritual crisis in their affair, given the divergence of temperament, taste, and worldviews between them.
"Now I know why they refused you a Christian burial. Tell me honestly. Are you ever serious about anything?"
"But of course. My wagers on cock fighting."
"Not me. I cannot bear the sight of animals bruising each other. I abhor cruelty to animals."
They both then reflected on the irony of what he had just said, and then laughed over it. After all, here was a former slave merchant who had thrown many a sick slave overboard feeding the sharks without the slightest moral qualm.
"Not to flatter myself unduly, I feel we've adjusted pretty well here, don't you agree Jean-Baptiste?"
A voice in his head concurred. "Yes and we've even beat the passion of love."
"That seems to me our biggest mistake. We need to entertain the gods by entertaining ourselves. You see, death hasn't stripped us of our cunning. We can still piss on this pile of calamity, instead of feeling sorry for ourselves. I want to live here bravely. Death is ephemeral like our rainbow love under the clouds. Que pourions-nous rever de plus?"
Jean-Baptiste pondered for a moment on Moliere's question and then thundered, "Look I made a flute. Listen."
"Tu te debrouilles bien, je pense, mais le Renards ne se."
"I wonder what happens if we commit suicide here?"
"I don't think anyone cares."
"Tell me Molière. Is it true you were once chased out of town by a lynching mob?"
"Yes, but you wouldn't believe if I told you which city."
"Really? Tell me, please. I'm very curious."
"Forget about it. Keep playing the flute. You're pretty good. I'm impressed. We need to keep inventing adventures for ourselves to endure our fate.C'est notre plus grand défi."
"A game of death perhaps, a grand duel one day," Jean-Baptiste reacted laughingly and then resumed playing the flute. Molière closed his eyes and reflected on the cosmos and its functionaries, "Gods are the ultimate imposters, the posture-masters, suckered by human folly. Quel diable." He then walked around a bit and said, "Or we can be a pair of burglars, making a fortune here."
"You're joking Moliere. What's there to steal here and from whom?"
"From each other, our identity; it's happened before you know."
Jean-Baptiste simply waved his hand brushing aside that silly suggestion, and said, "You know Moliere, I've come to know a thing or two about you."
"Really? Like what?"
"You often think one thing and say another."
"You've come to know me too well -- that's quite unsettling." He then for the first time reconciled with the conclusion that it was not for nothing that he had been chosen to be his afterlife soulmate. Il a fin trouvè a qui parler (he had at last found his match). He was perhaps the demon snoring within him.
"We're on sojourn, JB, breaking the monopoly of our ego, let's face it."
Moliere nodded his head; it was a true and sweeping revelation. Now he knew posterity is another fiction.
* On the occasion of the 250th anniversary of founding of American post-colonial empire
** Death is no more than a shadow of life. This afterlife, this slavish journey, shall never end.
*** I should have said clean break
**** Those settlers made a fortune by exploiting the natives
Comments