Rhyming Life and Death (9 page)

And the higher the waves of her pleasure, the more his own pride swells, and the more he enjoys postponing his own satisfaction, delaying it until
her stifled sobs are all released – until the rising flood sweeps her like a paper boat over the rapids. (Despite his noble aspirations, and for all his devotion to duty, from time to time he does snatch a hasty earnest of pleasures to come by rubbing his tense body along her thigh with a friction that slakes and yet sharpens his lust – before focusing once more on his precise and self-imposed steering.)

*

Like a musician now, totally absorbed in the movement of his fingertips over the keys, he no longer recalls how just a few hours earlier he found this shy squirrel pleasant and almost pretty but not attractive. His hands are drawn to discover her breasts, the breasts of a twelve-year-old girl, under her night dress, and this time she does not stop him, immersed as she is in her own pleasure; and when he cups them in his hands he is filled with compassion and desire and brings his tongue to her nipples and takes each nipple in turn between his lips, delicately courting them with his tongue, while his fingers play on her labia and the secret petals around a bud so full and firm it almost resembles a third
nipple. His lips and tongue follow his fingers' lead. And she, like a baby, suddenly thrusts her thumb into her mouth and begins sucking on it loudly, until her back suddenly arches like a stretched bow, and a moment later, when she has sunk back onto the mattress, a long, soft cry bursts as though from the bottom of the sea, expressing not only pleasure but astonishment, as though it were the first time in her life she had reached that landing stage, as if even in her wildest dreams she never imagined what was waiting for her here.

And suddenly she starts to weep aloud, and says to him, Look, I'm crying. And this girlish weeping makes her bury her little rodent's face in his shoulder and whisper: I'm sorry, it's just that I'm still a little bit shy with you.

She starts stroking him on his cheek and his brow, long, slow caresses that silence her weeping and calm her down. But two or three minutes later she suddenly sits up in bed and raises her arms in the air as she pulls her cotton nightdress, which was rolled up round her hips, over her head, now hidden from view for a moment, and she says, Now I don't care if you see me. And she lies down on her back
again, open and waiting for him. But he merely lies on his side, in a foetal position, so as to hide the failure that overtook him the moment she relaxed after her own pleasure. He fears she may be upset by it, or that she may blame herself.

But she, summoning up courage she had no idea she was capable of, surprises herself and him by wetting her fingers and reaching out hesitantly to his penis. To and fro she slides her fingers in a moist caress such as she never dared administer either to her first boyfriend when she was young, twelve years ago, or to the married man five and a half years later.

This caress reveals to her what she has already guessed, and far from being upset she is swept by a wave of affection, generosity and motherly compassion at his discomfiture, his anxieties and his shame at what she must be thinking.

Stirred by a feminine resolve accompanied by a feeling that she must do whatever she can to help him, she overcomes her own inhibition and licks her fingers, closes them round his limp member and rolls it around in a hesitant movement that, despite her inexperience, is so rich in dedication, enthusiasm
and tenderness that it seems almost devotional, as though her hand were anointed with myrrh. With her five ambition-filled fingers she diligently works on him, over and over again, not exactly knowing but attempting to guess accurately, and then with her lips, with the velvet of her tongue, persistently, like an assiduous schoolgirl, until the first jerks begin to announce that he will soon hold his head up high.

*

At that precise moment he remembers the man who sat all through the evening in a corner of the hall releasing periodic chuckles and sniggers, Arnold, Arnold Bartok, a thin, gaunt, slightly shrunken man, a sick monkey that has lost most of its fur, only a month or so ago he was fired from his part-time job sorting parcels in a private courier company, and he and his invalid mother spend these sweaty nights in a former laundry, under the same sheet, and every hour or two he has to push a chamber pot under her flabby body and then remove it. Arnold Bartok, who is interested in eternal life and in the possibility of eliminating death.

This thought kills off any remaining glimmer of desire. Rochele's devoted fingers are unable to eliminate what Arnold Bartok is doing to him, perhaps by way of belated revenge. The young poet Yuval also appears in his thoughts, patiently standing and waiting his turn in the queue of autograph-hunters, not to have his copy of the book signed but to tell the Author, less in anger than in extremely low spirits: You wronged me a little, didn't you?

The Author attempts vainly to explain to Rochele what has no explanation. Even a more experienced woman might have become confused and even blamed herself for failing.

He, for his part, hastily accepts responsibility both for his limp state and for the distress he has caused her.

If only it were possible to put it into words, even in a whisper in bed in the dark, close to two o'clock in the morning, Rochele might, he thinks, find the courage to say something like this: Don't be sad, I beg of you, don't be sad, even a tiny bit, and don't apologise at all, there's no need, because your limp penis is penetrating me, right now, yes, penetrating me and reaching deep inside me, reaching places
that no stiff penis has ever reached in my life and where no stiff penis could ever reach, so deep inside.

But how could she express such a feeling, aloud or in a whisper, to a man she hardly knows except from reading his books?

*

By the pale light of the street lamp filtering in through the crack between her curtains, she gets out of bed. She feels for her nightdress on the floor and picks it up. She shuts herself in the bathroom and emerges ten minutes later clean, fresh and fragrant, wearing another nightdress as long as the first one, reaching down to her ankles. Both its buttons are done up, too. She also frees Joselito, the devil in cat's clothing, and he wastes no time in regaining his lookout post close to the ceiling, on the top shelf of the bookcase, from where his yellow panther's eyes gleam down, hostile, curious or empty of any emotion, at the stranger who has usurped his place in the bed, as if to say, So, why did you bother? Or, I knew it would end like this, and so did you, by the way.

The stranger lies wretchedly on his back, smoking a cigarette, feeling a brutish male shame and also
embarrassed to experience this age-old failure which makes him feel like a bull or a stallion that has proved unequal to its task, yet comforting himself with a mute pride over the pleasure he has given Rochele and the diapason of sighs and groans he has extracted from her. At once he feels ashamed at the arrogance of this self-congratulation. If only he could say to her, Listen, Rochele, please don't be sad, after all, the characters in this book are all just the Author himself: Ricky, Charlie, Lucy, Leon, Ovadya, Yuval, Yerucham, they are all just the Author and whatever happens to them here is really only happening to him, and even you, Rochele, are just a thought in my mind and whatever is happening to you and me is actually only happening to me.

But look, she says, you've got a scratch here, quite a deep one. You've even been bleeding. Can I disinfect it for you, and put a plaster on it?

Leave it, it's nothing.

Did you bump into something? Your shirt is torn.

I fought a dragon for you. I fought against seven wizards, five demons and a dragon. I slew them all for you, but first they cut me with a sword.

Keep still. Don't be frightened, it's only iodine.
It'll just sting for a moment. That's it, all done. How come you slay wizards and dragons and you're scared of a drop of iodine and a sticky plaster?

*

Now here he is, no longer lying on his back, no longer ashamed or triumphant, because now he is busy: he gets up, wraps himself in her sheet, lights another cigarette, stubs it out after taking a few puffs, gathers up his scattered clothing, goes into the bathroom to have a pee and a shower – in cold water – and emerges dressed but soaked because he decided not to dry himself: it's more refreshing.

Coffee? A roll? Toast? It won't take five minutes.

No thanks, little squirrel, I'm off. It's almost half past two.

Wait. The water's boiling. Have a coffee at least.

No thank you, forgive me but I really and truly have to run. (‘Really', ‘really and truly', those code words which barely conceal a lie.)

Tell me, it was good, wasn't it?

Very. I had a wonderful time with you. And listen. Rochele. I'll ring you soon. (You won't ring. Why should you?) And try not to be angry. With me or
with yourself. And don't be sad. (But she's already sad, because of you, wretch, and you know she is, as you knew she would be.) So, see you? Bye, Joselito, and I'm warning you, take good care of this young lady, otherwise you'll have me to reckon with. (It is getting harder for him to disguise his impatience. His hand is already on the door handle, the same handle that he tried very cautiously from the outside less than three hours ago, although in fact he preferred then that the door should stay locked. But in that case, why did you come up here? Why did you try the handle?)

Wait a minute. How about a herbal tea, at least? I've got some
hierba mate
from Argentina, too. Why don't you stay the night? We're inviting you, aren't we, Joselito?

Thank you both, really, but I really do have to go. I'll ring you. We'll talk.

And her voice is suddenly low and quivering again, as it was when they first came out of the cultural centre: Are you disappointed? With me?

Disappointed? Why should I be? What about?

She says nothing. Her fingers try to button up her nightdress, but they fail because it is already buttoned.

No. Not disappointed. Why? You were wonderful, Rochele. (But these are hollow words, because he is already asking himself what on earth brought him here in the middle of the night. What got into him? His hand is already on the door handle, and he is glancing at his watch: he's been here for two and a half hours. A little more: two hours and forty minutes.)

I just want you to know that I—

I know, Rochele. (He interrupted her on purpose, so as not to hear what she was apparently about to say.) I know. And don't worry. After all, you yourself said that we had a truly wonderful time together. Well, I'll be seeing you. Go back to sleep till the morning. Or till midday, why not? (The words ‘after all', ‘why not', and particularly the word ‘truly', make his empty speech even more hollow and false. Shabby, he says to himself. Shameful, he says to himself.)

What next? Maybe go to check if Ricky's cafe is still open at twenty past two in the morning, and if by any chance Ricky herself is still there?

*

So here he is out in the dark again, dragging his feet from the street to the avenue and from the avenue to one side street after another. Well, where have you been? His penis is starting to give signs of life all of a sudden. Welcome back, you dummy. Do you remember what you missed? I'm very sorry, but which of us do you think is the bigger idiot, you or me? So just you shut up.

As he crosses an empty street lit by yellow street lamps and turns right into an empty, almost dark side street, the Author starts mentally sketching in some more lines in the character of Mrs Miriam Nehorait and that of Yerucham Shdemati, the cultural administrator, so they don't come out flat.

Meanwhile his feet have led him to an unfamiliar neighbourhood, not far from the point where the city ends and the empty night fields begin.

Next to an unfinished building stands a thickset, slightly hunchbacked nightwatchman, lifting one shoulder while he takes a long, motionless piss. Behind him is nothing but a row of electricity pylons, an unmade pavement, some sheds, corrugated-iron shelters, piles of sand and gravel. The street tails off into a dirt track, and here is the end of the city: fields of thistles, four rusty barrels, empty building plots piled high with rubble, broken furniture, shadowy castor-oil plants on the slope, the skeleton of a jeep, a tyre half buried in the sand, at last you are alone. You sit down on an upturned crate. You see the dim outlines of hills. Stars. Flickering lights in windows. A witless traffic light changing colour aimlessly, amber, red, green. Barking of distant dogs and a faint smell of sewage. Why write about all these things? They exist, and will go on existing whether you write about them or not, whether you are here or not. Surely these are the basic questions that figured at the beginning of this text: Why do you write? Why do you write the way you do? What contribution do your books make to society, to the State, or to the enhancement of moral values? Whom do you hope to influence? Do you actually only write for the fame? Or for the money?

When he was sixteen or seventeen, the age that the young poet Yuval Dotan is now, the Author used to sit alone at night in an abandoned storeroom where he poured out fragments of muddled stories onto paper. He wrote more or less the same way as he dreamed or masturbated: a mixture of compulsion, enthusiasm, despair, disgust and wretchedness. And in those days he also had an insatiable curiosity to try to understand why people hurt each other, and themselves, without meaning to at all.

Nowadays he is still curious to understand, but over the years he has gradually acquired a physical dread of bodily contact with strangers: even a slight accidental contact terrifies him. Even the touch of a stranger's hand on his shoulder. Even the need to inhale air that may have been in other people's lungs. And yet he continues to watch them and write about them so as to touch them without touching, and so that they touch him without really touching him.