The Wall-Crosser 

I had the same dream again last night. My hands dance, my caresses rain on the limestone, I murmur a wordless song to call you to me, to persuade you to come out of the rock wall. The hammer falls in rhythm with my heart and my dance. Come to me. 

Once awake, I wander through the lost galleries, following the echoes and the falling drops. Far from the others, and far from the heart of the grand labyrinth, I cloak myself in solitude to find you. The sound of the guards’ steps sometimes comes from the darkness behind me, and decides of the next turn I should take. I don’t know who you are, where you are, but I must be alone, always alone, for you to show yourself. 

‘Galatea!’

I am called. I dive into the first transversal tunnel and run until silence closes down on me again. Panting in a cul-de-sac, I put my cheek against the blonde wall and listen. Where are you? ‘Not here, not here…’, it answers. I heave the backpack on my shoulders again; its weight hurts my bones. I am stubborn - I want you.

The Revolution growls in the large galleries above, my companions prepare for the war against the Surface. Slogans, songs and steps send ripples through the night, as if the enormous heart of the network had started beating; but what do I care for fighting when I know that you’re waiting, imprisoned in stone, somewhere? In the vast chamber, high above our heads, the rhythmic steps of the inmates arrives from the Outside. The recalcitrant, the resistant, the dreamers. Free underground, I owe them to live, to create. I am always seeking you, weary and feverish. I fall asleep on the backfill, let the cold embrace me, unite me with the stone, slip into my veins and into my sleep to guide me to you. 

I dream of Before: I’m dancing blindly, dazzled by the scene lights and enfolded by the music. These movements, rehearsed for so long, now come to me like breathing. I’m dancing, wrapped in veils, the rhythm of the melody is the rhythm of my heart. I’m dancing, dreaming, and then brutally - uprooted. The poetry is broken. I stumble and fall into the arms of a militiaman. They surround me, invading the scene. The music explodes into copper shards and screeching chords. I am caught by the arm and dragged to the backstage. ‘You’re done for’, says the man, grimacing like a hungry wolf. ‘You’re useless. The new world doesn’t need this.  The antics and babbles are over.’ He throws me on the floor and unties his belt. ‘It’s about time you become useful’. I retreat to the wall, confused, terrified. What is happening? Who is this brute who interrupts the performance and tears the wonderland apart? I rub my eyes, still blinded by the lights who outline his dark silhouette. He bends down to me, showing his teeth. I raise my arms in defence and he crushes me under his weight. I yell. I wake up in the shadows, my candle panting and dying in front of my eyes. Darkness.

I catch my breath, taking the scent of stone and clay deep into my breast. In this perfect silence before the birth of the world, curled up on the damp gravel, I open my eyes onto the night. Breathe. Breathe. With every beat, my heart slows down its race. Presto… allegro… andante… lento. Breathe. The images fade away, drowned into the darkness. From afar, from beyond the horizon of the memories, comes the voice of the other man. ‘Get away. Disappear. The new world doesn’t need you.’ Freed from the weight of the militiaman, I stumble into a run. 

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Breathe.

I empty my mind. Darkness and silence fill me with their peace. I think of this last dance, this last melody I’ve heard. I think of you and of the dream in which you come out of the stone under my hands. I need a companion. My breast overflows with heat and impatience. Above my head, the rhythmic march of the resistants makes the stone tremble. One, two, three, four! The white dust rains down and dances in the globe of light from my lamp, light as the snow none of us will see again. 

It is time to leave. I continue my way south, always south. The tunnels narrow down around me, I crawl in the mud and skin my knees in the guts of the earth. It doesn’t matter. Every step takes me away from the world I know, from the people who know me. I didn’t say farewell. They are getting ready for the fight, digging, reinforcing, backfilling. I didn’t escape the world above to go back to it; there is no place for me there, neither scene or music, other than the town squares and the army anthems. There is no beauty left, nor art; they have found shelter underground, and I shall stay with them.

The lower I go, the wilder the labyrinth becomes. No one has come here in a long time. On the walls devoid of any human markings, the water digs its path with every drop, and the ancient silence smothers the sound of my steps. I lay down in another cul-de-sac, exhausted and shaking. I fall asleep and there you are, arriving with the dream, arms open. ‘Come…’ 

Your call wakes me. My body resists it and protests; I don’t listen. I sweep my light around the walls; the shadows slip and dance, pouring down the stone and hiding away like frightened beasts. I turn it off. Darkness returns and curls itself around me. Leaning against the damp stone, I listen, and search. My hands glide on it as if it were the face of a lover. The limestone feels smooth and sweet under my fingers. A warm drop slithers down my neck and into my clothes. Are you here?

I fumble for my tools, looking for the right place to start. Breathing slowly, I plunge the chisel into the stone, trembling in fear of hurting you. The hammer falls and dust invades my nostrils. I take another breath and hit again. And again. And again. The stone falls in shards at my feet and I see you again in my dream. I get restive. The blows come faster. Andante… allegro… presto! The melody takes shape, the fever overtakes me, I make haste, humming. Come to me! I sing vivaciously, wordlessly, accompanied by the rhythm of the hammer, the wild, free music dances around me, wrapped in the white dust which swirls in the darkness, I sculpt the stone as I used to sculpt the air when dancing, without thinking, naturally, like breathing. Time flies. Comes to me, I sing, as the broken stone keeps shattering around me, walling up my legs as I free you. 

The hammer falls from my exhausted, trembling fingers. I raise my hands at eye level, seeking blindly. Your face takes shape under my caresses; I discover your eyes, your cheeks, follow the shape of your lips. I let myself fall against the wall from which your arm has been freed, I press my beating heart against the stone. Live. Come to me. Take my warmth. I seek your mouth to give you my breath. Come to me. Fatigue washes over me like the rising tide. I nestle up against you, face hidden in the nape of your neck. You smell of stone and gravel. I fall asleep. Come to me.