Fantazius Mallare

Excerpt: ...shadows in his arms. But she will die too. I am thinking of death. Mallare the egoist asks alms of death! Windows break inside me. I look out of broken windows. I am gone and away. Empty rooms. My hands feel walls. Mallare asks pity of darkness. Pity him. opp. 94 Sixth Drawing Ninety-five VI he sat looking out of the window. He had gone away early in the morning. It was growing dark now. The cold street dwindled. Windows lighted up. People that looked from the distance like black toys moved through the darkening street. She could tell when he came because his walk was different. The hours built pointed roofs to her dream. She played behind happy walls but her eyes remained outside, watching from the window. This was part of a game-to hide away and wait. To put on her clothes carefully in Ninety-six the morning; bright silks and petticoats and a dress on top; jewels on her fingers; bracelets and earrings; gold bands through her hair. To make her cheeks red and paint black lines in her eyes; then paint her lips and fingers red-these things hid her. She must be hidden when he came-concealed behind paints and clothes so that when he looked at her it would be someone else he saw. A tall man with black hair. His face was white. His eyes were silent and hidden. But when they looked at her they screeched like parrots. They ruffled up and yellow points came into them. He liked to walk up and down pretending she was nowhere, pretending there was no Rita, pretending he was looking for her. Then she ran around and one by one she took off the things-the dress, the petticoats, the silks, the jewels and bracelets and gold bands. Each one she took off was for him. It was a game. She came out of hiding places. Each one she took off was a secret she confessed to him. Ninety-seven She sat at the window dreaming of the ways she belonged to him. Her thought was a pantomime which prostrated itself before his memory. She...