Cosmos (17 page)

“What?”

“Scoundrel!”

“What do you want?”

“Cool on top but ready to pop!
You, sir, are berging my daughter for yourself!
With an on-the-sly-berg, with a lovey-doveyberg, and you, my dearie sir, would like to bemberg yourself right under
her skirt and straight into her marriage as the lovieberg number one!
Ti-ri-ri!
Ti-ri-ri!”

The bark of a tree, knots, veins, so he knew, in any case he guessed .
.
.
so this secret of mine was not a secret .
.
.
but what did he know?
How was I to talk to him!
Directly, or .
.
.
covertly?

“Berg,” I said.

He looked at me with respect.
A swarm of little white butterflies, something like a billowing sphere, flew over the meadow and disappeared beyond the larches by a brook (there was a brook).

“Have you berged?
Ha, you’re no fool!
I also berg.
We’ll bemberg together!
With the assurance, eh, that you, comrade, won’t breathe a word, mum’s the word, because if you, siree, blabo to my beloved wifie for example, to my cultiflora, it will mean get out, out of my house, head first, for the lust of conquering the marital bed of this beloved daughter of mine!
Catch my meaning.
That’s why, because you are regarded as a man worthy of confidence, one determines, according to the Decree b .
.
.
b .
.
.
number 12.
137, to admit you to today’s celebration of my bemberging, most strictly secret, to my berg-festivity together with the flower and the perfume.
In other words: do you think, my good fellow, that I dragged you all here merely to admire the scenery?”

“Then why?”

“To celebrate.”

“To celebrate what?”

“An anniversary.”

“Of what?”

He looked at me and said piously, with a strange solicitude: “Of what?
Of the greatest fun of my life.
Twenty-seven years ago.”

Again he looked at me, and it was the mystical gaze of a holy man, even a martyr.
He added.

“With a kitchen maid.”

“With what kitchen maid?”

“With the one who was here at the time.
My good sir!
Once in my life I got lucky, and how!
I carry this delight of mine within myself like the holiest sacrament.
Once in my life!”

He fell silent, while I surveyed the surrounding mountains, mountains and mountains, cliffs and cliffs, forest and forest, trees and trees.
He wet his finger with saliva, spread it across his hand, watched it.
Then he began slowly, starkly, laboriously: “You should know that my early life was nothing special.
We lived in a small town, in Sokołowo, my father was the manager of the cooperative, one has to be careful, you see, people know about everyone immediately, so you see, one lives in a small town as if in front of a window, every step, every movement, every glance and you’re on the carpet, good God, I was brought up in plain sight, besides, I admit, I was not known for courage, ha, ha, well, shy, quiet .
.
.
I don’t know .
.
.
of course I would seize this and that, as chance presented itself, I did as well as I could, but what of it.
Never enough.
Always in plain sight.
And then, you see, well, as soon as I joined the bank I got married, and, I don’t know, a little bit, yes, but not much, this and that, we usually lived in small towns, it’s like living in front of a window, everything in full view, and, I’d say, there was even more watching now because, in a marriage, you know, each one watches the other from morning ’til night, from night ’til morning, and you can imagine how it was under my wife’s keen eye, then my child’s, ah, but then, in the bank they’re watching too, at the office I devised the pleasure of deepening a groove in my desk with my fingernail, the division chief comes in, what the devil are you doing with your fingernail, well, too bad, but in any case and as a consequence, you understand,
I had to resort to small pleasures, on the side, nearly invisible, one time, young man, when we lived in Drohobycz, a truly sumptuous actress came to town for a guest performance, a lioness no less, and I accidentally touched her little hand on the bus, so, young man, frenzy, madness, wild excitement, do it again, but it’s out of the question, impossible, ’til finally, in my bitterness, I came to my senses, thinking, why should you look for a strange hand, you have two of your own and, would you believe it, with some training one can become such an expert that one hand can feel the other, under the table for instance, no one sees it, and even if they do, so what, one can touch oneself not only with hands, but also with thighs, one can touch the ear with one’s finger, because, as it turns out, you see, if your purpose is pleasure, you can find rapture in your own body if you must, not a whole lot I’ll admit, but half a loaf is better than none, of course I’d rather make it with some odalisque-houri .
.
.
but if there is none .
.
.

He rose, took a bow, and sang:

When you haven’t got what you love

Why then you love what you’ve got.

He took a bow and sat down.
“I can’t complain, I’ve gotten something out of life, others get more, but so what, besides, who knows, everyone talks nineteen to the dozen, brags that he’s made it with this one, with that one, but in truth it’s nothing much, he goes back home, sits down, takes off his shoes and goes to bed alone with himself, so why so much talk, I at least, you see, when one concentrates on oneself and begins to render to oneself small, insignificant little pleasures, not only erotic ones, because you can amuse yourself like a pasha with bread pellets, for example, or by wiping your pince-nez, for about two years I carried on like this,
they keep bothering me with family affairs, the office, politics, while I just keep on with my pince-nez .
.
.
and so, I tell you, what was I going to say, ah yes, you have no idea how one swells to an enormous size from such trifles, you wouldn’t believe it, a man grows larger, when the sole of your foot itches it’s as if it were happening in Galicia, in the southeasternmost regions, actually one can also get some satisfaction from the itching of the sole, it all depends on your approach, how you formulate the intention, if a corn can be painful, young man, why can’t it also provide you with pleasure?
How about poking your tongue into the nooks of your teeth?
What was I going to say?
Epicureanism, rapturism, can be twofold, because
primum
there is the wild boar, the buffalo, the lion,
secundum
the little flea, fly, ergo on a large scale and on a small scale, but if on a small scale, one needs the ability to microscopize, to dosify, to properly apportion and dismember into parts, because the eating of a candy can be divided into stages of
primum
smelling,
secundum
licking,
tertium
inserting,
quatrum
playing with your tongue, your saliva,
quintum
spitting it into your hand, looking at it,
sextum
breaking it with the aid your tooth, but let these several steps suffice, as you can see, one can somehow manage without dancing parties, champagne, dinner parties, caviar, décolletages, frufru, pantyhose, panties, busts, preening, tickling hee, hee, hee, wowow, what are you doing to the back of my neck, sir, how dare you, heehee, hahaha, ohohoh, ooh, ooh.
I sit at supper, I chat with the family, with the boarders, and I even avail myself of a bit of Parisian
café chantant
quietly on the side.
Let them catch me if they can!
Ha, ha, ha, they won’t catch me!
The whole thing depends on sort of making oneself inwardly comfy with fans, with plumes, rapturously and most enjoyably, in the mode of Sultan Selim the Magnificent.
What’s important is the artillery discharge.
As well as ringing the bells.”

He rose, bowed, sang:

When you haven’t got what you love

Why then you love what you’ve got.

He bowed.
He sat down.

“You are probably accusing me in your thoughts of being a loony-ium.”

“Somewhat.”

“Indeed, do accuse me, this makes it easier.
I’m playing a madman in order to make it easier.
If I didn’t make it easier, this whole thing would become too difficult.
Do you love fun?”

“I love it.”

“So you see, siree, we’ve somehow come to an understanding.
A simple matter.
A man .
.
.
loves .
.
.
what?
He loves.
Lovey-loves.
Lovey-loves berg.”

“Berg,” I responded.

“What?”

“Berg!”

“How so?”

“Berg.”

“Enough!
Enough!
No .
.
.
”

“Berg!”

“Ha, ha, ha, ha, you’ve really bemberged me out; the point is—you’re cool on top but ready to pop!
Imagine that!
You’re a real berg-bergman.
Bergumberg!
Onward!
Full speed ahead!
And away!
Berg-and-away!”

I stared at the ground—staring at the ground again, with its grasses .
.
.
clods of dirt .
.
.
So many billions!

“Lick it!”

“What?”

“Lick it, I tell you, lickieberg .
.
.
or spit yourself into it!”

“What’s the matter with you?!
What’s the matter with you?!”I exclaimed.

“Spit oneself into it with bemberg into bergum!”

The Meadow.
Trees.
The stump.
Coincidences.
Chance.
Don’t panic!
It’s pure chance that he’s talking about this “spitting oneself into”.
.
.
but surely not into her mouth .
.
.
Calm down!
He’s not talking about me!

“Tonight is the celebration.”

“Of what?”

“Tonight is the pilgrimage.”

“You are a pious one,” I remarked, and he looked at me with the same strange solicitude as before and said ardently yet humbly: “How could I not be pious, piety is ab-so-lute-ly and re-lent-lessly demanded, even the least little pleasure cannot occur without piety, oh, what am I saying, I don’t know, I sometimes get lost as if in a huge monastery, but do understand, all this is the monastic and the holy mass of my rapture, amen, amen, amen.”

He rose.
He took a bow.
He intoned.

“
Ite missa est!
”

He took a bow.
Sat down.
“The point is,” he explained matter-of-factly, “little Leo Wojtys, in his gray life, experienced only one pleasure, I would say, that was perfect .
.
.
and that was twenty-seven years ago with that kitchen maid, from this chalet.
Twenty-seven years ago.
It’s the anniversary.
Well, not quite the anniversary, it’s a month and three days short.
So,”—he bent toward me, “they think that I’ve dragged them here to admire the scenery.
I
brought them here on a pilgrimage to where I and the kitchen maid .
.
.
twenty-seven years ago less one month and three days .
.
.
It’s a pilgrimage.
Wife, child, son-in-law, priest, Lukies, Toleks, all of them on a pilgrimage to this rapture of mine, to the berg bergum funfunberg, and I’ll berg them at midnight all the way to the rock where I berged with her berg bergum berg and into berg!
Let them participate!
Pilgrimageberg raptureberg, ha, ha, they don’t know!
You know.”

He smiled.

“And you won’t tell!”

He smiled.

“Do you bemberg?
I too bemberg.
We’ll bemberg together!”

He smiled.

“Go now, go sir, I must be alone to prepare myself for this holy mass of mine with pious concentration, in solemn recollection and re-creation, a solemn day, a solemn day, hey, the highest solemn day, leave me so that I can purify and prepare myself, by fasting and prayer, for the divine service of my rapture, for the holy fun of my life on that memorable day .
.
.
go, sir!
A rivederci!
”

The meadow, trees, mountains, the sky with the sinking sun.