If, p.27
If, page 27
It is indeed a strange thing, this hope hidden away in the bottom of the urn, like a secret in its box. Unable to escape, too slow or too inept, it seems to be trailing a foot, perhaps it is lame. Even its name is unattractive: it is called Elpis, a funny name with unfortunate, slightly ridiculous resonances to modern ears. It is like a child’s word, and is almost inappropriate for such an imposing concept. And anyway, what’s it doing in this urn, in among all these creatures with their dark intentions? Its very presence poses questions. Is disturbing. Which is why some wish the story were different. They wish the urn were filled not with ills but with wonders and that, once these have escaped, hope remains to console mankind for this loss. History can always be rewritten. And yet this does nothing to erase previous versions. What was said is said. What was thought is perpetuated. The hesitation is still there. The enigma unresolved.
Perhaps when all is said and done that’s what hope is. Not the certainty of a happy future, which is the prerogative of the immortals. Nor dumb ignorance of the inevitable, the privilege of animals. But the tense, awkward, tortuous waiting between fear and the act of hoping in the face of an uncertain future. Waiting as someone who both knows and doesn’t know. Everything encapsulated in it: confidence and terror, good and evil, the best and the worst, life and death, all inseparable characteristics of Elpis. With the lid back down, it hoards them all in its box of secrets. This Elpis is no little hope; it is measured. It isn’t perfect; it’s one-eyed. It isn’t accompanied; it travels alone. It needs no one and trawls no one along with it. And yet it isn’t singular; it’s plural. It carries so many hopes within it. Laden with these hopes, it travels its difficult path, clearly and resolutely accepting what is to come.
Spring 2015
Once we’re back home, music reclaims its rights and a song is written on the ruins of the months that have trickled by. It comes from far, far away. From a note repeated endlessly in the void. An A. The A of a drip pump.
The song is called “Big Bang” and describes how your world exploded, how chaos proliferated, everything was atomized, and then new life breathed into us. That A forms an obstinate baseline, beating out the rhythm. In the middle of the song the voice is silent and the only thing is that A, inhabiting the silence and giving a sound-shape to what can’t be said.
* * *
—
You’re here. I’m not making it up. You really are here. Freed from the Institute and its machines with their gloomy notes. And so I sing in order to forget, to forget the risks you still run, forget my fear, forget uncertainty. Yes, Solal, we must sing, we must keep singing obstinately.
* * *
—
But even so, what if? What if?
In spite of everything, there’s always an if.
Lise Marzouk, If
