It is Whose Reality, on Streetcar.
Will you dance with me?
“Time and memory are true artists; they remould reality.”
- John Dewet
The harsh light pierces the jasmine shade encompassing the bulb. It reveals a room littered with tacky baubles and keepsakes from an era long past. Upon the worn oak mantle stands two black and white photographs. One shows an effeminate man with a small and uncertain smile, little more than a boy. In the other, an unremarkable woman stands in front of a commanding and muscle-bound man whose face has been scratched out. The light flickers. Shades dash across the photographs, indiscernibly them and the recollections they induce.
Memories…A rustle comes from a recessed corner of the room; a place the light cannot reach. From it emerges a withered old woman, bent from the weight of memory. Once she was beautiful, however time erodes all. She looks wistfully at the picture of the boy-man. She still is deeply in love with him. The house had once been grand, the boy alive and the woman content. But then the light had been extinguished, and she’d retreated into the comfortable predictability of isolation, where her memories moulded reality. Now she was decrepit, the house dingy… But soon? That depends only on which recollection surfaces first.
We are never free from them, always replaying…The woman fumbles with a cupboard door, muttering “just one, one’s my limit”. She draws out a half-full bottle of sherry and pours some into a tumbler. Tossing it down, she looks guiltily around before refilling. This has become a daily ritual, a ritual which initiates change. As she drinks, the dirty and unkempt room fades from her mind, and from the blackness emerges creation.
They immortalise the good…She breaks through the bubble of that memory, and into the next. She is once more in a house. One can see it is the same house; for there is the recessed corner, and there the mantle upon which the photographs sat. All else has changed. The floor, previously covered by carpet has been replaced by iridescent marble tiles, and where the jasmine shaded bulb hung now resides a gold-leafed chandelier, radiating a warm light. The man-boy photo is missing, for he is no longer a memory. He stands beside the woman who is now as she once was. Her hunch has gone, as have the deep lines in her face. She stands elegant, poised, scented with jasmine perfume and fur draped. Beside her the is effeminate man, nervous, soft and tender.
“Darling, are you ok?” she asks.
Uncertainly, he nods.
“Honey lamb, I want to kiss you – just once – softly and sweetly on your mouth.”
Without waiting for a response, the woman closes her eyes and presses her lips to his. His eyes widen, shocked. She doesn’t notice, asking:
“My Rosenkavalier, would you dance with me?”
Obediently, he holds out his hand.
The radio crackles to life, and from it drifts that jaunty polka the woman has heard so many times throughout her life. The two dance for a time before sitting down. The woman rests her head against his chest, eyes closed. Something is amiss.
And haunt us with their terrors…The memory has finished, and been promptly replaced. Gone is the golden glow of the chandelier, replaced by a rundown room illuminated with gaudy coloured lights. The previously solid arms around her writhe, becoming insubstantial and gaseous, before reforming into a more muscular shape. Upon the mantelpiece the photograph of the man-boy has reappeared, but the woman held by the man with the scratched out face is gone. Her eyes open, fear-filled, for holding her is the Tormenter, the man who she can never quite eliminate from her memory, try as she might. He bends his head forward, whispering:
“I’m not so good at dancing I’m afraid. I’ll strike you as the unrefined type.”
Tears began to form in her eyes. Pushing away, she breaks free of his carnal grip and stumbles towards the door. Behind her the man asks mockingly:
“You think I’ll interfere with you? Ha-ha!”
The Tormenter takes a step forward, picks up a plate from the table and smashes it violently against the overhead globe. Her light is extinguished. The darkness is all encompassing.
They may be cruel or compassionate, helpful or hindering…The rain pours from the black expanse above, cold and pitiless. The woman is curled into a tight ball, rocking back and forth on the cobblestones. How long has she been here? How did she get here? She cannot recall.
The man had been watching her for a while as she squirmed on the path, caught in her dementia. She seems to be middle-aged, her good looks fading. He has been unsure of what to do, but now she has broken free of her nightmare. He comes to a decision.
She is dimly aware of a shadow, watching her. Elegantly suited and wearing a bowler hat, he extends a hand towards her. Hesitantly, she takes it.
“Thank you, kind sir. I have always relied upon the kindness of others.”
He smiles, and pointing towards his car asks:
“Where would you like to go dear?”
“64 Grosvenor Street, if it isn’t too much trouble.”
The man nods and checks his city map, but can’t find the street. He turns back to the woman, but she is once more oblivious to her surroundings. Darkness creeps in, slowly consuming the car, the man, the cobblestones beneath them, leaving only the woman.
Without our memory, the world ceases to be.
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