defense, that stubborn repetition of senseless sentences. He doesn’t understand the words, but he does grasp the meaning of what is happening and what we mean. The man tries for the last time, his voice faltering: “Nothing like that was already. Oh, this, that, in a way arising although one has to. Here, me, because it has to be in no circumstances like so.” “When one’s this and something else he doesn’t exist at all!” yells a hunter from the corner. “Damn right!” Nothing may change in the waking world: this is their mission. If his existence is impossible, it means that he has never been at all. The waking world must remain untouched by his presence. The elephant-man has seen very little. He wants to walk some more, to receive the signals; it’s all he needs. But they would find him. Their screams, all the brutality is just a means to discourage him and make him surrender. “Stop being so stubborn,” they say. “Admit it, you don’t exist! Man, you’re but a dream. You don’t feel, you don’t live, you don’t think, you don’t exist! You’re just a dream!” They yell these last words in unison. They repeat them again and again, shaking his chair. He can’t take it anymore. He begins to scream. It’s an ear-splitting howl, coming out of his mouth like from the trunk of an enormous elephant, and they grow silent, because it’s a terrifying sight: an elderly man cuffed to a chair, roaring like an injured African giant. The floor shakes, the bare light bulb flickers and sways on its wire, teacups fall off the table. Breaking glass, cracking concrete. The men duck with their hands over their ears, some of them tumbling, and he keeps on howling. The howl rings with resignation, because he’s fading away. He’s accepted his own non-existence and begins to say farewell to this world, farewell to the few memories he has gathered: images of the park, the shop display, the warm woman, and the most beautiful of all—the memory of a windy night. All this turns into oblivion, the memories called back into nothingness. It’s hard to come to terms with death; it’s harder to come to terms with the fact that one never was. The elephant-man disappears, like dreams disappear the moment we look through a window. The echo of his roar vanishes. The chair is empty. After a moment of silence, somebody grunts. The men begin to stand up. They brush off their clothes and put on their raincoats. Silent, still pale, they shake each other’s hands and begin to leave the cellar. Maurice is the last to leave. Now we’re together. Outside there’s wind and future, given to living people. We’re in our bed now. You’re asleep. The darkness is warm. I didn’t tell
Oscar Gopak · 85