Ahmed.
Ahmed is sitting reading a book, with his back to the audience. He turns around from time to time, staring at the audience with an angry look and blurting out the following lines in a simultaneously aggressive and gloomy tone of voice.
AHMED. Don’t rattle my chains, OK!
Don’t push my buttons, if you don’t mind!
Don’t get on my nerves! I mean it.
And, once and for all, don’t rain on my parade!
And again, just for emphasis: don’t rub me the wrong way! Or there’s going to be big trouble around here.
I’m reading poetry. And when you’re reading poetry you need complete silence! Silence such that the sound of the poem should be like the feet of seagulls on the sand. When I read poetry I taste the French language in my eloquent mouth, like a wine. A great wine. The oldest and most delectable of wines flows by way of the French tongue into my mouth. Until I’m drunk with words and sentences.
You’ll say to me: “You, Ahmed the Muslim, what do you know about wine? You don’t drink any! Wine is forbidden by your religion!” What a bunch of smart-asses you are! Ahmed’s going to shut your mouths. First of all, is everyone named Ahmed a Muslim? Is everyone named Dubois a Catholic? Religion isn’t the name one has, and it’s even less how one looks; it’s a belief that resides in one’s innermost self, completely private. And, therefore, it can’t be seen from outside. So there, smart-asses. Second, is everyone who is a Muslim ignorant about wine? Is everyone who is a Christian ignorant about the pleasure of sex? Give me a break! Religion, provided you have the kind of belief that can’t be seen from outside, doesn’t mean being ignorant about the forbidden. If you don’t know anything about the forbidden, how can you understand why it’s forbidden? And obeying without knowing why turns you into an ass with very considerable ears. So there, smart-asses. And, third, is everyone who doesn’t drink ignorant about what wine is? Is everyone who’s never been to America ignorant about what America is? If we knew only what we see, we wouldn’t know much, in view of the limitations of our eyes. So there, again, smart-asses.
I mean, even the word wine all by itself already tells you quite a bit about wine. And when the word wine enters into poetry, it’s almost as though one were drinking, by virtue of the incomparable power of words. Listen to this: “One evening the soul of wine sang in the bottles.”
That’s by Charles Baudelaire. He knew a thing or two, Charles Baudelaire, about the transmission of wine through the incomparable power of words. I never get tired of him, Charles Baudelaire. So quiet down, smart-asses. Stop flapping your jaws at me! I’m reading poetry. I’m reading wine, the words of wine on my tongue. Definitively.
So Ahmed reads out loud the last two stanzas of the poem “The Ragpickers’ Wine.” It’s an improvised reading, with all sorts of repetitions, variations, modulations, unexpected inflections, etc.
And so it is, throughout man’s foolish fold,
When wine, with Midas touch, turns all to gold;
Through human throats its own bravado sings
And by its gifts rules like the best of kings
To drown the bitter aftertaste of rage
And smooth the way to what comes after age,
God, in remorse, made sleep; Man added wine—
The Sun’s sweet son, immortal and divine!
8The improvisation over, Ahmed takes his stick and turns toward the audience.
Anyone who claims that that isn’t beautiful, watch out! I know some people, here and there, who say that there’s no disputing tastes and colors, everyone’s got his own opinion, everything’s relative in this world of ours … Stop right there! What’s beautiful is beautiful. You don’t dispute it. You taste it. You taste wine on your tongue, the poetic language of wine on your tongue. Got it?
Ahmed exits. Just before disappearing, brandishing his stick:
And here’s my final warning: no tintinnabulation on my kneecaps. I’m keeping an eye on you.