How to define a word that defies almost all definition. I could define it with an ellipsis. Sous-silence, by definition, is to say to another, ‘do not say it for it is unspeakable; what is between us – what is strictly entre nous is understood – that is to say, the closest we can come in English then is tacit. It is then, understood. It is sous-silence, it is without words. It is beneath silence. It travels well below the surface of things, like deep waters beneath an ancient city.I have been here. I have had this sous-silence, once in my life anyway - at least, I thought I did. Maybe I still do. It’s a hard thing to say, isn’t it, for, by definition, with sous-silence the very nature of your relationship is, by mutual consent, is spoken once and decided between you (as it was between us, do you remember that?
Do you remember that awkward conversation through the wires, for I do… It was necessary only because it was clear to all others that there was something between us and clear even to us that we were, yes, ‘more than just ordinary friends.’ More than what is ‘expected’ of, well… I cannot say it even here for it is verboten. But we spoke of the unspeakable – the verboten.
I told you, I will say this once. I will step outside of myself (out of my shyness, my incredible awkward bashfulness and terrible blushing self and I will do what must be done for the sake of loving you and protecting what I want, which is to preserve the us of Us.
I remember it well.
I sat on the garden stoop, smoking a furtive cigarette (for which you would have killed me had you seen it) and asked you, Are we more than friends then? Am I alone in this. “No” you said. “Yes” you said. Yes, you agreed. Yes, we are more than friends. Yet neither of us could truly our relationship, which was and is okay. Why the need for definition anyway. So long as it remains between us, then there is no need for definition. Definition is only required when one has to explain to a third party, and in my world, in our world (our world, I thought) there would never be any need to explain to any third party.
Abner – we already had our secrets. Don’t kid yourself. We had our secrets, our love letters, our tokens, sweet, our hand-holding, our sharing of the same spoon, of fruit, our almost kissing, our exchange of furtive and codified gifts, our dialect that excluded all and we kept it all to ourselves. This was all secret. Ask of yourself, Did you ever take it home? Did you tell your wife?
I never once told him about it. It never crossed my mind. Never once. Not because it was wrong. I never once thought that. But because it was mine – it was ours – and it was innocent and good and finally I had found refuge and sanctuary and with you the world felt alive again. I felt alive again and I felt safe again. I had regained all that I had lost from the orchard of my youth.
You held my hand. When I was with you, infrequent, too infrequent, you sat on my bed and eagerly shared of gifts. We broke the seal of the honey jar. We ate of the same spoon. We shared in the sticky sweetness. We broke the seal, Abner. We came so close. Your telephone call as I rode in a taxi-cab from uptown;
“Come tomorrow morning,”
“Why?” I laughed, “Will you embrace me passionately?” I laughed again. I wanted it. I never thought you’d say yes. And even if you did, I never even expected you to call in the morning. You, shy like me. But I was glad of the call.
“Yes,” you said,
“Yes what?”
“Yes, I will embrace you passionately…”
I gulped, I laughed, I fumbled with the bags as the taxi dropped me, as you were still on the line, as I dealt with my shock, my blush, my everything.
You did call. At 8:32 a.m., early for you – you got to work early for me – for us, Abner, and you called just as you promised and into the phone you spoke but one word, “Come,” and I did, arriving in record time, which you noted. When I arrived, you sat with me, drinking tea and sharing honey, only this time you came back to the room where I sat and brought with you what you knew to be my favorite fruit: a ripe pear – perfumed and rich. I had written poem after poem about this, Abner, and there you had it, halved, and you took two bites. Forbidden fruit, yes?
You’re too smart for the meaning to be lost even on you, shy as you are.
“Want?” you held out the fruit where your mouth had been and I took of it and I bit where you had bitten and in this way we kissed. My lips where your lips had been. We never told a soul about this. I have never written this until now and even now, I write only here. Only here because this is the only way I can say it, sous-silence, Abner.
You held my hand as I left, as we ran across the road to the car that would whisk me away. You held me, but not a passionate embrace. Not what you promised. I had taken your fruit. I had half-kissed you in so many ways: sharing the spoon, sharing that pear, and as we kissed, hands locked, we said goodbye and your mouth almost made mine but your lips slipped off the side, an “almost” but your sense of obligation set in. Guilt perhaps. You forget, Abner, that we live in the now. You forget that I offer you what you want and what you need most, which is sanctuary. Or perhaps I do not offer you that. Perhaps you tell yourself (and trust me, you are telling yourself, that you do not need this because I see clearly that you do… I know you do because when you are with me, you take of it, and you take and take and take and I see only joy. Just joy.)
You told me that day, Yes, we are more than friends. I taught you the word: sous-silence. I told you, It is almost untranslatable, it is like a sigh then. An ellipsis almost. But think of it as ‘understood,’ as something that we both know, as tacit. We need not speak of this again.
I never thought we would have to. Are we sous-silence?
Where are we Abner? Where are you? I reach for you in my dreams and I see you, but you seem far away now; your hands, those hands – which now, sadly, hands that I loved, they become hands like any others; just hands. You take of the extraordinary and you make of it ordinary.
I gave you a book of eight words.
Sous-silence was one of them. I will make for you here, for whoever finds this, a writing of each, and the title of each will be the word, a page in that 8 page book that you treasure so much; the one you tell me now means ‘nothing.’ The same one you never take home to your wife, but that you treasure, wrapped in tissue that smells of my perfume, wrapped tight in the French ribbon of my hair.
Sous-silence, you leave me with only an ellipsis… a dot dot dot. You leave me, Abner, hanging.
