Rob van Kranenburg: "The Cafe Lafayette" Copyright © 1999 by Rob van Kranenburg and Cultural Logic, ISSN 1097-3087 The Café Lafayette Rob van Kranenburg (Photos by Kitty de Preeuw) To Dylan Thomas and his colour of saying, and Oshin and Nathan. Café Botteltje, 03.15, Oostende, 8/8/1999 I am a worrying man. But I am not without faith. Grant me that. I am a fool, though. I know. And when I took the Seacat to London. A sunny Saturday morn it was, it wasn't like I felt like Captain Cook or Charlie Moss, but all the same, I had made contingency plans. Living is carrying across. The object, or shall I say, the mission of the journey was accomplished, I did see Naomi. Yes, and spoke to her as she did to me. She had a salad for lunch, I -- not trusting the pie of beef -- had pork. A happy chain of travelling events led to that blissful reunion, I was woken up by a wake-up call that I had placed on Friday evening. It got me to the station in time, all washed up and neatly dressed, teeth brushed, boots shined and with a kind disposition to my fellow travelers and humanity in general. Quite an exception. The train rode well and well on time, the conductor was quite cheerful. Effortlessly it rode on and on and when it stopped Café Lafayette, 04.15, Oostende, 8/8/1999 lo behold! It was Oostende, the name on the ticket that I had bought. I was content. (as I am now, with a good Calvados in the Café Lafayette) I was content, not only was I where the boat Van Kranenburg 2 Copyright © 1999 by Rob van Kranenburg and Cultural Logic, ISSN 1097-3087 was moored, she was still tucked away safe in the harbour, merrily whistling her tunes, as fine a vessel as ever there was, and to my skilled seafaring eye she looked as if she could make it, make it across to London, the place where I was heading. Bankside House on Sumner Street, to be exact. And when I arrived in Dover, a skilled busdriver made out of the stuff that busdrivers should be made off, dropped me off at Dover Station, where as if in a dream come true, the train to Victoria station was waiting. Living is carrying across. I found the subway to Blackfriars, as it was closest to Bankside House on Sumner Street, in four minutes flat. Setting a yet to be beaten record of finding the way to Bankside House, Sumner Street, from Victoria Station, and that's an open challenge. Blackfriars, it seemed, was just four stops away, four stops on the Eastbound District Line, the Westbound does not go near there at all. On Blackfriars I rose from the Underground on a street lost to my recollection. But I remember turning to the left, as one should always do on foreign ground, so if you should want to retrace my steps, that should help you. Home, Ghent, 10/10/1999 Well, I sought it with timbles, I sought it with care, I sought it with my eyes wide open, but Sumner Street refused to reveal itself, at least, to me. I can't say that did bother me much, lots of things refuse to reveal themselves, that is, reveal themselves to me. I am blind most of the time, blind to opportunity and opportunies as well, I sleep with one eye open and I wonder. I worry and wonder, but I am not without faith. Grant me that. Would you believe I rode to Sumner Street on a lorry? A lorry as big as a house? Marked 'Cowland Ltd.'? Well I did. I got a ride from one of the three workers on that street lost to my recollection whom I asked directions to Bankside House, Sumner Street. When Captain Cook sailed the Endeauvour into Brisbane Bay--as it is known now-- the Aboriginals simply kept on fishing, neither afraid nor curious, they stared into the waters and never looked up. Van Kranenburg 3 Copyright © 1999 by Rob van Kranenburg and Cultural Logic, ISSN 1097-3087 It was not until Cook did lower a very small dingy and did they respond! On they came charging with spears in their hands, clubs and stones held ready. The dingy they could read very well: enemy! The Endeavour to them was an island, too strange to be a boat at all. Islands drift by, why should you bother? Why should you look up at all? When Blanqui stood leaning against a tree one fine afternoon in the year where you could still see the Palace built by Catharina de Medici before it was destroyed by the Communards the year of which I speak is 1860 the place it went down was the Tuileries. And as he stood leaning against that tree, he watched his men parading. They were revolutionaries. They could not parade in the open. So they posed as flaneurs on a sunny afternoon. And it was only in their step, in their way of walking, that these flaneurs became soldiers, soldiers solemnly marching, marching to a silent drummer. Le vieux stood silently watching. He carried a gun in his pocket. The parade dispersed into flaneurs. The Fukeshu are a funny bunch. They play the flute and hide their faces in wooden masks. Masks that cover their faces. The Fukeshu are old. Centuries ago ronin, that is masterless samurai, asked permission to start a religious order. They claimed to come from China and their papers were lost in a fire. The Shogun granted their request, but in return they had to spy for him. They redesigned their swords. Their swords became flutes and formidable clubs. Their fine and haughty features, they hid in masks of wood. They played their flute and overheard intimate conversations. Wherever you look, there's always one mask more. One more mask, wherever you go. Living is carrying across. As I walk, I keep on mistaking boats for islands and islands for boats. I bow to flaneurs and they inform me they are soldiers, soldiers you do not bow to, soldiers you salute. I tell them I'm sorry. How am I to know? How many masks before the core? A glimpse of my brothers in the clearing? Van Kranenburg 4 Copyright © 1999 by Rob van Kranenburg and Cultural Logic, ISSN 1097-3087 A glimpse of my sisters in the sun in the woods in the open. Living is carrying across. And yet, there are days where islands are islands and boats will be boats, flaneurs are posing and maskless ronin play merry tunes. There are even days, I tell you, on which soldiers are willing to be bowed to, willing to be bowed to, no need to salute. On such a day you will get where you were heading, and you will actually make it in time, you will see the one you came for and she will even tell you that everything will be fine. And, though you may find this hard, very hard, to believe, the train that you missed, you would not want to retrieve. On such a day, wherever you're at, just ask directions to the Café Lafayette. You'll get across. Van Kranenburg 5 Copyright © 1999 by Rob van Kranenburg and Cultural Logic, ISSN 1097-3087 Van Kranenburg 6 Copyright © 1999 by Rob van Kranenburg and Cultural Logic, ISSN 1097-3087 Rob van Kranenburg on "The Café Lafayette" The poem narrates (at least, I hope it does) the politics of translation. The Aboriginals could not adequately translate Cook's boat into their ways of seeing (as the Americans mistook drama for news on Halloween eve 1938 when Orson Wells aired his version of 'The War of the Worlds'), Blanqui's parade raised the frightening possibility that marching soldiers and strolling men might be interchangeable and the Fukeshu built themselves on masks. Meaning occurs at the threshold of translating unknown procedures into your own. And in doing this you make sense, but lose the opportunity to let that other way of seeing stand on its own. What I tried to narrate in this poem is my own fear of not being able to read the London territory I visited as I feared that my mental map would not get me where I wanted to go. You don't have to go far to get lost. But sometimes the map is the territory ("the map becomes the territory", Paul Michael Perry) and the boat the Seacat and the lorry marked Cowlands Ltd got me where I wanted to go, a quick visit to an American friend, Naomi Conn Liebler, who was there for a couple of days. Rob van Kranenburg