Ad eternum

Chapter 2

As she followed the stranger's quick pace, brushing past pines that scraped her arms as she advanced, Blanche recalled her days studying philosophy in Paris. Madame Dubois was one of the few female professors in the faculty at La Sorbonne. The dark-skinned woman with quick, energetic movements wrote on the chalkboard, in cursive letters slanted forward, the following word: noumenon."Does anyone, by chance, know what Kant meant by noumenon?"

One of her classmates raised his hand. He was always the first to do so, and half the time he was wrong.

"It refers to Kant's perception of what is real."

"Your answer is too vague, Mr. Moureau."

"My name is Marteau," he protested, but the professor had already called on another raised hand.

Marcelle Petit's surname suited her well, given her small size, which allowed her to go unnoticed in almost any setting. She spoke in a very soft voice to answer the professor and the entire class that sat silently.

"Kant drew a distinction between what is real—that is, what is ontologically objective and certain—versus the subjective perception of each individual. The real would be the noumenon, which could be translated into French as 'the thing in itself,' or the being in so much as it is a being. His metaphysics rest on this concept, making it a complete rethinking of the classical Aristotelian metaphysics."

"That's the same thing I said," Marteau protested.

Madame Dubois nodded slowly and turned back to the young Petit."And what, then, is the phenomenon?""The phenomenon would be what all of us perceive. Because we are subject to a material reality, that is, space and time, human beings are incapable of seeing things as they truly are. The being as being, let's say, escapes our understanding. In other words, everything we see is a construction arising from matter."

"You seem to be speaking beyond Kantian perspectives, Mademoiselle Petit."

"Kant was the foundation for many others, professor. Derrida, for example, could not have grounded his deconstructionism without Kant as a precedent. Or Lacan.""I'm not so sure. Let's ask others, instead. You, Mms. Gauthier."

 Proudly, Blanche showed the back of her right hand."Madame, professor. I am Madame Barteau, actually."

"For all I care. On the list, you are Gauthier, and besides, tell me, Madame: is there anything man perceives in its true essence? Can we see things as they really are?"

"There are various schools..."

"I don't want to know what others say, Gauthier. You tell me: is everything we see real?"

"Yes. In fact, those who deny reality as true end up in the asylum."

"Or in the philosophy departments," the professor scoffed.

But that was a long time ago. 

It seemed like a past life, very different from the one she led after Albert's birth, and even further from this post-mortem hallucination.

Blanche stumbled as she tried to keep pace with the ragged man. 

For a dream, it was too vivid, and falling hurt as much as it did in real life. Such things had never happened to her in dreams. Perhaps it was part of dying. She fervently wished that the hallucination wouldn't last long, and that her cells would stop functioning soon.

 This was not real; it couldn't be. It had to be a cruel trick of her subconscious, or even her consciousness. After all, what was reality itself but a vague illusion created by man's incapacity for anything else?

She got up, her knees bleeding.

As she kept walking, the pines began to thin out in the forest. In the distance, she saw a cluster of houses. It was something like a village, with homes made of clay and adobe and roofs of thatch. The man pointed at it with his index finger and spoke again in the strange language he had used from the beginning. 

Then he began to scrutinize Blanche's face with the expression of someone who has just had an idea.

"Qui linguae loquis?" he asked.

Blanche's brain began working at full speed. She recognized Latin instantly, as if dusting off an old relic forgotten in the classrooms of La Sorbonne in Paris, in philosophy lectures that seemed to belong to another life. It was a question, correctly formed in the indicative second person singular. Linguae meant language, and loquis referred to speaking. Before her stood a kind of ragged vagabond, reeking of someone unfamiliar with a bath, yet mastering Classical Latin better than she did—and, indeed, better than any professor.The stranger furrowed his brow, perhaps thinking that she hadn't understood him either.

"Eō loquo linguae Roman."

She hoped she had said it correctly. "I speak the language of Rome."Blanche sighed. This had the semblance of a completely absurd dream, but somehow connected to the poor decision she had made in life, that of studying classical philosophy.

The man smiled."Venite," he said, gesturing with his hand, inviting her to follow him.

Blanche tried to remember, as she followed him, now even faster, the time when she became obsessed with Cicero. She had once memorized the entire work in which he confronted Catiline.

"You haven't told me your name," she murmured, attempting to muster her best Latin, despite the fact that he didn't look Roman in the least."Ruy."

"Is Ruy your name?"

"That's exactly what I said. Ruy. And yours, what is it?"

"Blanche."The man named Ruy stopped. Then, he turned his head to look at her, surprised."That's not a name", he said, angrily. 

"What do you mean? Then what is it?"

"That's just a noise."

Blanche raised her eyebrows, confused. But Ruy continued his explanation: "What you just said, that sound—that can't be your name. Names must be pronounceable. They must allow others to call you; that is the essence, the fortune of a name. The destiny for which they were created. You cannot be called that."

"My name is Blanche; it can't be that difficult. It means 'white,' albus."

"Then I'll call you Alba. It makes more sense. I'll tell everyone your name is Alba, and don't say otherwise."

"Who are 'everyone'?"

But Ruy did not answer and kept walking. Blanche didn't seem satisfied."Ruy. Your name is Ruy, right? Ruy, please... who are 'everyone'? Where are you me-taking?"

For a moment, she thought it might have been more appropriate to ask, "Where are we going?" which would have been easier to say, but apparently, she wasn't thinking quickly enough in that language.

"You'll see, Alba, you'll see. It's a pleasant place, peaceful. And it will be a delightful irony. For the first time, we will be the ones to have a Roman slave, and not the other way around."