The rain sweeps across the windowpane
The muddy green trees blow with the wind
And a cloud of gloom settles everywhere.
But I don't feel the gloom, oh, no
Only the drama of the rain.
And peace.
I'm staring at a blank screen. The cursor is waiting for my input -- I've been waiting like that for
months to get inspiration to write an article. Now I have to do it, no matter what.Suddenly, the phone rings. It's from a bookshop. They have a copy of Murmúrios urgentes for me, a Portuguese book I ordered long ago. I'm surprised -- I'd almost given up hope after so many fruitless phone calls.
Later, I'm standing in line to pay my new darling. It feels good, like a real book. Thicker that I had thought, well made. Suzanne is looking at me from the cover with a Mona Lisa smile. My heart beats faster as I open it. I quickly find a poem. SOZINHA. It's not immediately intelligible, but at the bottom of the page I read '9 anos', and that I can understand. This seems to be just what I've been looking for, but is it only in Portuguese? For a second I feel cheated, thrown out of paradise.
But no, here it is in English. By Myself. I only knew the first couple of lines before. So I start reading. Lines whiz by, I can't really concentrate.
Out in the chill again. I feel I'm holding a treasure, something sacred left in my care. It is warming me. I walk home solemnly.
I sit down, open the book. I need to read, I have to read, but I hardly can. My heart wants to burst into pieces. I get up again, walk around, reading, clutching my book. I have no defenses against these words.
It is a secret
A secret, an unspoken
Vow between silent friends.
I can never speak of this again
And so, you will never know.
It is incredible. Suzanne wrote these poems when she was around ten years old. So insightful, so
elegant, so profoundly true.There are some early songs as well. Brother Mine, the first song Suzanne ever wrote is there -- a worried sister's hope that things will be all right for her torn up little brother who keeps getting into fights. The Silver Lady and The Marching Dream are there too -- long time favourites of mine. The familiar words soothe me.
I turn the page -- and choke: Not Me. 'I said, I am a little girl / He said, you never were'. Every line like a dagger. I want to scream. I can't.
* * *
A couple of days later, I take a walk in the park. The sun is out and I'm feeling good. Suddenly,
something catches my eye. I can't believe it. A big dog is coming straight at me with open jaws. It is
all too familiar, but it doesn't bother me that much. I am grown up now and know what to do. Just do
not panic, put one leg before the other. Calm and collected, calm and collected. To my surprise, I hear
someone scream in utter terror, but I don't know who it is because I know it is not me. Not me.
* * *
Towards the end of Murmúrios urgentes, there is an essay Suzanne wrote for the book:
Impressions of Portugal. From the very first word, it takes me in. Suddenly I am in Portugal. Not the
way I am in a street in Stockholm or London, looking with half an eye in front of me to avoid
bouncing into something or someone. No, I'm totally there. The smell of Portugal fills my lungs, I
feel the mild breeze against my skin. The ocean is there, the night. I see the houses and hear the
voices. Strong, sad songs.But I feel something else as well. I feel the language that conveys these images; it fills me with an intense joy. So rich, so exuberantly beautiful, yet informative. So totally appropriate to the story it tells. I didn't know Suzanne could write like this -- I didn't know anyone could write like this any more. I remember reading the last paragraph of Frazer's The Golden Bough over and over just for the sheer beauty of the images, the language; but then I hadn't read þ this.
Can my words express
The way I feel about you
Gentle, soft, yet strong
Willing to fight for you and with you
Can it be called love?
Hugo Westerlund