A Tale of Love and Darkness - Amos Oz [130]
Here and there little dark cubicles draped in dark curtains gaped at me on my way. Here and there at the end of a winding tunnel a shadowy lightbulb winked faintly. Here and there mysterious secondary alleys opened up, alcoves, narrow winding jungle tracks, little niches, sealed fitting rooms, and all kinds of cupboards, shelves, and counters. And there were many corners hidden by thick screens or curtains.
The footsteps of the high-heeled infant were rapid and confident, ti-ta-tak ti-ta-tak (in my fever I heard "come to chat, come to chat," or, mockingly, "tiny tot, tiny tot!"), not at all those of a little girl, and yet I could see for myself that she was shorter than I was. My heart went out to her. I yearned with all my being, whatever the cost, to make her eyes open wide in admiration.
I quickened my pace. I was almost running after her. With a soul steeped in fairy tales about princesses that knights like me galloped to rescue from the teeth of dragons or the spells of wicked wizards, I just had to overtake her, to get a good look at the face of this wood nymph, perhaps rescue her a little, slay a dragon or two for her, earn her undying gratitude. I was afraid of losing her forever in the darkness of the labyrinth.
But I had no way of knowing whether the girl who was winding her way with such agility through the forest of clothes had noticed that a valiant knight was close on her heels, lengthening his little strides so as not to fall behind. If she had, why had she not given any sign: not once had she turned toward me or looked around.
All of a sudden the little fairy dived under a many-branched raincoat tree, stirred it this way and that, and in an instant vanished from my sight, swallowed up in its thick foliage.
Flooded by an uncharacteristic bravery, electrified by knightly daring, I plunged fearlessly into the thicket of cloth after her, and swimming against the tide, I fought my way through the mass of rustling garments. And so, finally, panting with excitement, I emerged—almost stumbled—into a sort of poorly lit clearing in the forest. Here I resolved to wait as long as I had to for the little wood nymph, whose sound and indeed whose scent I imagined I could perceive among the nearest branches. I would risk my life to take on bare-handed the wizard who had imprisoned her in his cellar. I would defeat the monster, smash the iron chains from her hands and feet, set her free, then stand at a distance, my head bowed in mute modesty, and wait for my reward, which would not be long in coming, and her tears of gratitude, after which I did not know what would follow, but I did know that it would surely come and that it would overwhelm me.
She was tiny, chicklike, her frame fragile as a matchstick, almost a baby, and she had cascading brown curls. And red high-heeled shoes. And a woman's dress with a low neckline that revealed a woman's breast with a real woman's cleavage. And she had wide, slightly parted lips, painted a garish red.
When I finally found the courage to look up at her face, a wicked, mocking crack suddenly opened between her lips, a kind of twisted, poisonous smile that disclosed sharp little teeth among which a single gold incisor glinted. A thick layer of powder mottled with islands of rouge covered her forehead and whitened her terrifying cheeks, which were slightly hollow, sunken like those of a wicked witch, as though she had suddenly put on the face of the killed fox fur, that face that had seemed both malicious and heartrendingly sad.
That elusive infant, the fleet-footed fairy, the enchanted