Unknown

Erich Maria Remarque set Ravic, his German refugee surgeon protagonist, in the shabby Hotel International, not far from the Arc de Triomphe with its “faint, lonely flame on the tomb of the unknown soldier, which looked like the last grave of mankind in the midst of night and loneliness.”

At one point, in between Adieu and farewells, he reflects on the state of being a refugee “like a stone between two stones: one which was viewed as a traitor by his countrymen, the other, as being a native of the country of origin by the host”. In other words, neither here nor there.

Living in a \constant state of flux. Using a “borrowed tongue” to express oneself, a fake I.D. to present to the authority, and working for cash under the table…until the hour of death, as in the case of Joan, Ravic’s lover, ” Mi sonno sentita perduta senza di te” (without you, I feel lost). “Mi ami?” (very much like George Floyd the second before his death by choking….Mama.) ..Life has just begun!”

Yet snuffed out. To end the journey of wandering, gathering and wondering if life could have been better elsewhere (the refugee’s half-life).

“One can die in the middle of love”. Without the borrowed language (French has been an official language for International Treaty). In facing the final hour, we shed all pretenses: Garden costume party, whores on work leave to recuperate, and refugees getting by on sold Impressionist Arts.

Staten Island on this side of Pre-war Paris was receiving boat-loads of refugees fleeing Europe. Black-out Paris, as our Ravic notices ” there was no light anywhere. The square was nothing, but darkness. It was so dark that one could not even see the Arc de Triomphe”.

Perhaps the Statue of Liberty, a gift from the French, can still be visible from a distance, like a lighthouse that offers clear direction and warm support to hopeful wanderers and gypsies of other times.

When push comes to shove, all pretenses are dropped, borrowed tongues included. As Bread’s IF would sing “then one, by one, the stars would all go round, then you and I would simply fly away”.

As Icarus flaps his wings of wax further away, the Tower of Babel becomes just an unrecognizable dot and multi-lingual sounds undistinguishable: Je t’aime. Ti amo. I love you. Anh yeu em. Ngo ai ni. And finally the more to-the-point last gasp. Half-life, half-baked speech, but twice understood.

There isn’t more time.

It’s time.

And ” it was so dark in pre-war Paris that one could not even see the Arc of Triomphe.” The tomb of the unknown soldier feels like mankind’s last grave” faint and forgotten.

P.S. Cam on cac ban da doc nhung giong suy tu nay (Thank you all for skimming through these unedited reflection).