American novelist living in New York, Jerome Charyn has been confined to his home for several weeks. For Charlie, he tells what he sees from his window in the city where one in five inhabitants is now infected with Covid-19.
–
I look out of my ninth floor window, right in the heart of Greenwich Village, and can’t see a living soul in the streets for nearly a mile up Eighth Avenue. The Village has become a ghost town, the new Alphaville. Only a bus passes from time to time downstairs, it looks like a huge blue beetle. And yet, at 7 p.m., 7 p.m. sharp, a whirlwind of sound rises from windows here and there, all over the neighborhood, people shouting, clapping or banging on pots and pans to celebrate the new American heroes, all these doctors nurses or orderlies, constantly confronted with danger in these “war zones” that are the New York hospitals, described by Dr. Sheldon Teperman, head of the trauma department at Jacobi Medical Center in the Bronx, as “ hell on earth “. Doctors and those who support them work in this new heart of darkness, due to the massive shortage of personal protective equipment: masks, gloves and gowns.
« New York City is on fire Dr. Teperman says, as caregivers run from one emergency to another, ” some covered with garbage bags attached with adhesive tape », And that patients stricken by the virus are lying in the corridors, like corpses covered with crumpled white sheets. Dr Teperman focuses on the heart of the matter when he explains that at times the virus ” floats in the ambient air And that any action can lead to terrifying concentration.
–
She fears that if our lungs fail, neither of us can survive intubation.
–
I am a prisoner in my own apartment, and who knows how long this confinement will last. Weeks ? Months ? However, I can’t really complain. I’m working on a novel about Rita Hayworth and Orson Welles, and I’m vicariously living their moments of glory and their misadventures. What I miss the most is playing ping-pong with my partner, an American of Chinese origin, in a recreation center that depends on the green spaces department and where I walk in about 20 minutes. minutes. We developed a rhythm, him and me. He defends, and I attack. Before containment, we had a fierce exchange of volleys. I played with him until our very last day of freedom, willing to risk everything for him. little of the ball on my racket. Now the woman I live with, the love of my life, has turned into a samurai. She disappears behind a mask and surgeon’s outfit whenever she has to step out into the lobby or make her weekly expedition to the farmers’ market across the street. She does everything to keep us both healthy and out of the hospital. As a former dancer, she has an iron will and a flexible body like a vine. She worries that if our lungs fail, neither of us will be able to survive intubation. I therefore accept my condition as a prisoner. I watch the ghostly ballet of blue beetles ascending Eighth Avenue, often empty of any passenger.
How did New York City become the epicenter of this pandemic – eye in eye of the storm? It’s easy to blame it on a lethargic federal government, which has left each of the 50 states to fight alone. But the root cause of the problems is infinitely deeper. Poverty is an integral part of the virus. 5% of the richest families in the country own 70% of the national wealth. How long can we endure such inequality? New York is a microcosm of the entire nation, with those hedge fund managers living in glass towers a stone’s throw from the poor of the poor who have no housing or health insurance and have to beg for every meal. And the poor are penalized in every way possible. Since 2003, we have seen the closure of 18 hospitals in New York City, mostly in the most disadvantaged neighborhoods. These budget cuts have caused the closure of thousands of beds, beds that once served to treat minorities who are increasingly marginalized and vulnerable to the virus. African Americans, Latinos and Asians have paid the heaviest price, and it is not going to end anytime soon. Until we find a way to eradicate poverty in the United States and the rest of the world, we will have a succession of new strains of the virus, and the entire planet will live to the rhythm of a gigantic dance of death.
The poor are penalized in every way possible
But behind this pandemic, there is a demon who ignores race, color, religion, wealth or poverty, and that demon is JFK airport. An airport where more international flights take off and land than anywhere else in the United States. With its horde of travelers, JFK is a disease incubator. Without its incessant traffic, the spread of the virus would have been less and perhaps New York would have been spared – at least a little. When we come to terms with the pandemic – if we do – we will have to rethink international travel, or at least the idea of these gigantic airports that serve as hubs to other destinations, other countries. . I don’t have an obvious solution. But hey, I’ll start by blowing up JFK.
–
–
Yet this little fantasy of destruction also has its own contradiction. How do I get back to Paris and stay at L’Aiglon, my favorite hotel in Montparnasse, without an airport? I can’t imagine never again sitting down at La Coupole, where Sartre and Beckett used to be, to taste my American coffee. Or stop crossing the cemetery in front of our hotel to pay homage to Baudelaire and Beckett, or stand in front of the stone cradle of Sartre and Simone, or to look for the grave of my favorite chess champion, Alekhine, well forgotten today. Yes, there is a world that extends far beyond my pencil lead and the figure of Rita Hayworth. I cherish this world. I really miss him. ●
Translated from English (United States) by Jeanne Guyon
–
