Semmant (18 page)

In another I fantasized:

Once, my girlfriend walked with no clothes on from the pool to the sauna and back, under the gaze of a dozen naked men. The unusualness of this so excited her that I was forgotten, pushed out of her surging thoughts. Then it turned out this was permanent; I didn’t interest her anymore at all – yet, before that, our ardor was genuine. This is how they find the medicine for love – and immediately request a double dose!

Or else:

To be honest, the insects are terrible; they have a fearful disposition. One doesn’t even finish the act of love before, instead of an embrace, its partner bites its head off. But they still crawl into the light spots – although they know the rules of the game. Shame on you, so false in your art – because you know the rules of the game. All the same, sincerity always wins out!

The forum kept silent at first; the audience was puzzled. They did not know how to react; but then someone voiced timid approval, and others followed suit. My plan was working – I understood that and became more severe, more malevolent.

I wrote, furiously banging on the keys:

Each reincarnation makes sense. In the quagmire of dreariness and meager impulses, here and there rigid hillocks are scattered. They can bear the pressure, though just a little. The trick is to catch them with your eye, to feel them out with your limbs, to achieve balance. Standing on all four – or five, six, however many you can manage. Then it’s not so hard to seize the moment and spit out the blade hiding on your tongue. And to breathe out a fiery flame – if only for effect. It’s unfortunate that, in addition, you can’t lash with your tail at the marshy swill – balance, after all, is not so steadfast. But you can fluff up the mane on your neck – as if the mating season has come. The issue, of course, is not females: they are sluggish and weak-sighted. The issue is for someone to challenge it – if they would find the courage. And then, even if the blades ran out, you could try to burn them with your gaze… This is how legends are born!

Early in the morning, looking out the window, I scribbled:

Getting up with the sunrise. In solitude wandering the streets damp from the night’s rain. This is the only way to make contact with the city that knows no mercy. Only at this time are we alone together.

I love doing this, but I have to sleep until at least nine. Otherwise I’m lethargic, beat up, in a fog all day. Therefore, I think, why not involve others? Pay them money for this as work. Let them wake up before dawn, prior to daybreak – and sleepwalk, and register their feelings. Let them be women of about twenty-five – or at least just one.

Yet the city won’t appreciate this at all. It will reject my gift as a meager pittance. So I’ll keep it just for myself; I’m also egocentric beyond measure. The more bitter the result for all the women who rise so early.

Me and the city, we will free ourselves with a small ransom, recharge our memories, and turn away. And we will remain with each other one-on-one after this momentary touch, which sets off sparks. Let us both keep our thoughts to ourselves. Until the next contact, no farewells just yet.

Or I wrote:
Madness is often available in the cleverest of forms…

Or:
In the objects of your passionate devotion there is no better navigator than you yourself
…

Each miniature concealed its own links, its own springs and mechanisms. I reread the lines and saw, this is beautiful! Others thought so too – followers, male and female, besieged me all the more actively. I was affable with them, but impersonal and detached. Let all see: I am very fastidious. I’m waiting for someone in particular – not from here, maybe from a different time, a different planet. Sometimes I straightened out with a sharp word those who grew overly familiar. And with all the women I adopted a derisively indulgent tone.

Lidia did not comment on my letters, but I saw that she read them. She was coming to my page several times each day. She was almost already living this life – the one born from my words. I knew the goal was near – and changed my tone again.

The words were different, and I became coarse. I pumped up the tension as if hinting that something in me was ready to explode. Somewhere inside, a mutiny, a countermove was brewing.

She asked – drunk as a skunk – ”Well, what do you want now, handsome?” And I admitted in reply, “Nothing,” and looked at her without emotion when she reached into her own panties. Then she said, ”I’m not offended. No, but you – you won’t just sneak out,” – and we took another roll in the hay for a couple of hours, maybe more, though I don’t remember exactly how it was. Seven short years have passed since then. I ran into her not long ago. She looked like a mummy; she smelled of despair and bitter smoke. She was young enough to be my daughter, but looked older than me by a lifetime. Before, she had been fresh as a peach. Does life really slip away from you with each orgasm?

This was in the twelfth letter to Adele, and here Lidia showed her face. She sent a short “!!!” which was quite sufficient. My heart leaped, and I made my final move. As if disappointed to the depths of my soul, I turned everyone away and withdrew in disbelief.

I wrote – harshly, with no frills,

She will come in, having finally decided to give herself to you, all overflowing with bitchy thoughts about what costs what, envisioning your gifts, beaches on warm seas, first-class tickets, caviar, and champagne. And you will simply say to her, ”Get lost,” and then clarify it, ”Out! Out!” She won’t even believe it at first, wrinkling her forehead as she waits for a redeeming thought. But no thought comes, and she disappears, fervently picturing how to destroy you forever. Then you will open a second bottle and lose yourself in dreams about the other one who never leaves your mind. And you will throw yourself onto the bed – to masturbate in pure thoughts, to have these thoughts and the dream of her carry you to sleep.

I ended with the quote: “What dreams may come?” – and Lidia took the bait. She asked for my personal address and sent me a passionate letter. “I want to be in your dreams,” she confessed. “Now tell me at last, who are you?”

I replied quite arrogantly, “I guess you’ll see for yourself when we meet.” And she agreed, “I’ll be there,” and added, trying to save face, “After all, you’re such a gentleman!”

“A gentleman is nothing more than a patient wolf,” I replied, with yet another quote. It was someone else’s thought, but it hit the mark.

Chapter 20

I set our rendezvous for the next Saturday – and looked forward to it eagerly. May in Madrid fevered my blood with its stuffy nights and stormy skies. Stock exchanges all over the world were in a deep frenzy. The spirit of despair permeated all, but I was not subject to its power.

Lidia tried to insist on choosing the place, but she quickly acquiesced, not daring to argue. Funny, but she suggested the Café Incognito, where we had seen each other for the first time. It occurred to me in passing: how many men had she invited there? How many did she sleep with afterward, have an affair with – be it a long one or merely a fleeting moment? Their ghosts did not stand in my way. They didn’t hinder me, but, all the same, I rejected her proposal straightaway – in a dry, brief letter.

“Worthless games, superfluous dates, empty words are of no use to me,” I declared plainly.

“I want everything at once,” I wrote her; and she agreed, “You’re right. So do I.”

I also asked, just in case, “Do you understand what ‘everything’ means here? Can you sense that you won’t be able to play tricks on me, tease me, slink off?”

“I won’t, I won’t,” she typed back immediately, and added a thousand kisses.

“All right,” I agreed, and sent roguishly, “So that means you’ll give it to me right away?”

“All I can!” she replied. I liked our mutual sense of humor. “Let’s not show our faces,” I suggested with a smiley face, and her “Okay” sounded playful. Then we didn’t correspond anymore; there was no need.

On Friday evening I sent a note with the precise address and the exact time. The tension increased; I even thought I wouldn’t sleep that night – and, in fact, I tossed and turned until morning. Then I fell asleep, slipping into a tenacious slumber. There I remained until midday.

The meeting was set for the late afternoon. I had selected a hotel on Cortes Square – not the most expensive, but with solid style. In the room all was as it should be: featureless, clean, and spacious. A large bed stood precisely in the middle, and dense drapes let no light through. I lit a few candles, went into the bathroom, and thoroughly inspected the shower stall. Then I undressed myself and slipped on a formless gown, gloves, and a lion mask I had bought the day before at a theater store. I also had a nylon rope – it was fairly thick, to keep from cutting into the flesh. And small handcuffs covered in leather…

Lidia arrived, without running late. I recognized her steps as I heard the clack of heels. She exuded a smell of anticipation – even through her sweet perfume. I saw she was excited as never before. Her lips moved without making a sound; her eyes glowed in their feline sockets. All this was more arousing than any ordinary foreplay.

We spoke no words, but merely looked at one another in silence – at our clothes that were about to be cast off, at the masks that were now our true faces. Then Lidia turned and passed a glance over the walls of her dungeon, over the drapes, mirror, bed.

Walking through the room, I blew out the candles one by one. Full darkness fell, which sharpened the senses. The smell of anticipation became stronger, and I moved on it, reached out to touch her hand. It shivered slightly but was pliable, warm. The flow of her blood incited a shiver in me as well.

I clenched her fingers, causing pain. She did not object. I nibbled her earlobe with my teeth. She sighed fitfully and pressed her hip against me. Through the fabric I felt all of her – her body, her hot skin. My own head was spinning slightly. Everything was intoxicating – better than I had imagined.

I led Lidia to the bed, started unbuttoning her dress without removing my gloves. Moaning, she ran her palms along my gown. She muttered something half-consciously, pushing her lips toward me. I was gentle at first, then suddenly became rough. The dress fell to the floor; I kicked it away with my foot. I tossed Lidia onto the bed, stomach down on a pillow. I spread her legs, took off my gloves and the mask that was no longer needed, and attacked her body. Greedily, desperately, like a ravenous lion. Like a savage ravishing his woman. But I acted not savage at all. With my fingers and tongue, I caressed all of her – unceremoniously, shamelessly. She climaxed immediately, then came again. She whispered, “Yes, yes,” and sobbed like a child. I merely growled in response, drinking in the sweet spoils.

The madness continued for a long time. I entered her in various positions, turned her this way and that, treating her like a plaything.

“More, more,” Lidia whispered, writhing beneath me, matching my rhythm, submitting.

I cuffed her and bound her hands to the bed. I squeezed her body, bit it, affirming my possession, not allowing it to slip away. I made her bend, shift to meet me. I ordered her around, punished and encouraged her.

In the middle of the affair, not hiding anymore, I spoke up with my own voice. Lidia was not surprised; she was past that point. I told her my name, revealed everything. I laughed – without malice – about how I had drawn her into my trap.

I told her, “You’re a depraved girl!”

“Oh, more!” Lidia groaned, arching her back.

“Do you want to be my whore?” I asked.

Lidia didn’t answer, as she was approaching her next orgasm.

“Of course you want to,” I agreed for her, and slapped her butt cheek.

“Yes, yes,” she was racked by convulsions, not hearing any words…

When everything was over and we were catching our breath, Lidia lit the lamp on the nightstand. She was clearly getting confused.

“Finally,” I thought.

“It’s about time,” I thought, recalling my torment, my yearning, and my hurt.

She looked into my face for a long time. Then, as if reading my thoughts, she asked, “Are you angry at me? Will you dump me now to get even?”

I answered, “No. I’m going to own you.”

“Thank you!” said Lidia, and this was very sincere gratitude.

“Thank you,” she intoned again; then she was quiet for a moment and asked, “Will you tell me about Adele?”

“Defiort will be the one to tell you about Adele,” I said and yawned. “If you behave, of course.”

“Oh, yes!” Lidia exclaimed. “I will be obedient. I will be
very
obedient, you won’t even recognize me. Just thinking about this is making me wet – wet and hot!”

She looked at me with the wild eyes of an angel who had just first tasted sin. I understood: a new chapter had opened in our history. A fresh era had begun – like after the Flood. As if once, not so long ago, the murky waters receded from the foothills, frothing in the streets and squares, and flowed over my head. I choked and nearly suffocated but was able to grasp a thin branch to swim to the surface. I gathered all the splinters into a heap, built an ark, and escaped in it. All without an explanation of what I had been saved from.

The elusive phantom caught me unaware – at the countess’s house, on the lynx-skin rug. Its breath aroused my soul, and I rushed after the call of its shade. It teased me, ensnared me, but here: I tore myself away and turned everything around. I twisted it my way, however I wanted. Or how someone wanted who did not wish to be known.

Yet, after that Saturday, no one demanded explanations from me. My victory was undisputed, though I did not know the enemy. Lidia surrendered like a fortress whose defenders have fled in fear. They galloped away, disgracing their names. They gave it up to plunder: their homes, warehouses, stables. The temples of gods who had extended no aid. All their white-skinned, full-chested women.

But then, even after my victory I did not become arrogant or allow myself to rest on my past glories. The memory of despair was still fresh, the wiles of the world well known. Someone in the couple always dominates; I could not abdicate the throne. It was essential to strengthen my leading role.

After waiting two or three days, I resumed posting short stories about Adele on the forum. They became more insolent, frank, brutal. I stayed on the right course – the one that had helped me to conquer Lidia again. I relied on the sexual context, the coarse animal subtext, as if deciding: sentiments be gone. Ultimately, Adele was nothing more than a
puta
! Less romanticism, I told myself, though I did not forget: Adele has a kind heart. Kinder than any of those who knew of her, including Lidia and me.

In our dialogues Adele shared the details of her encounters ever more often. I wrote, openly and without reservation, of what happened in her bed. I invented all kinds of things about the eccentricities of physiology. About the mysteries of the male body that were apparently hard to uncover. My fantasies acquired confidence; I saw how they were incarnated in real life. Often I imagined: let it be
thus
– meaning my next date with Lidia – and my Adele did it
thus
, precisely as I wanted. The forum read on and on, was silent, ashamed. Lidia read and picked up on the hint. The next day she exerted herself, wanting to surpass it – so I would tell her she was the same, only better. And so I said it; this got her even more excited. And that, in turn, got me more excited as well.

Sometimes I provoked in her not action, but anticipation. I wrote the most innocent things – about Adele alone, without men. I imagined how she would walk the streets, go shopping, bustle about the house. How she looked at her reflection in storefront displays. How she arranged her hair, making faces as she recalled her appointments of the previous evening. Or as she thought of what lay ahead today.

I took a seat in a café, made myself comfortable, ordered a double espresso. I looked at the girls; they came and went, changed, but I easily combined them into one. With furtive glances I noticed characteristic traits, remembered facial features, habits. A quick smile over a portion of sushi, thoughtfulness over a hot chocolate, a flirty look over
aioli
sauce. To keep from forgetting later, I wrote down: a small, graceful nose over a cup of minestrone, touching locks of hair over
rúcula
salad. Slender fingers, lascivious lips – over a plate of asparagus or carrots. There and then I made up their stories – what could have happened before and after, what they felt, what they desired. The point of the accounts was always the same: sex.

I saw how they joked with friends and laughed on their mobile phones. Each one expected something ahead: shopping, museums, concerts. But this was a temporary expectation. A momentary, insignificant one. Preceding what was to happen later: sex.

Beautiful strangers ordered desserts, coffee. They licked their lips, squinting in satisfaction. I noticed the contented look after the sweets had been eaten. This was short-lived contentment. Because ahead waited the main event: sex!

At times I was distracted – completely different thoughts occupied my mind. I fantasized and dreamed; but then, right away, I took myself in hand, reduced all the daydreams to questions of sex appeal. No longer did I stray into meager, sightless theories, into jungles of banal truths. Half a year ago I wrote Semmant about the female aura and tempting flesh; that was a miserable, weak experience. And no wonder: on what back then was I to rely? There had been almost no facts, nothing concrete, no living details in my possession. But now I had them in abundance.

I studied attractiveness – discerned what it was in any girl that made men want her so. This could not be reduced to the size of her breasts, the thickness of her lips, or the length of her legs. Each emanated the substance of sexuality in her own way. From some of them it issued forth of its own accord; others tried, quite skillfully, to create the illusion, which, in my opinion, was no worse: I knew the power of illusions. There were also those who didn’t know how to try – I regarded the majority of them with pity. Only some did not provoke any pity; for them I felt contempt and called them “the worst of bitches.” They did not hide that there was not an ounce of femininity in them, but they wanted to dominate men all the same, and they did – through insolence and pressure. Constantly sending the message that men were indebted to them – though it was not clear for what in particular.

At times, on the weekends, they were out in droves. They filled the space, ungroomed, undesirable, the matrons of proper, politically correct families. Their beleaguered husbands fussed nearby, wiped capricious children’s noses, goofed around with carriages, diapers, pacifiers, showing in every way the compliant nature of the defeated. This looked terrible; I twisted my lips and thought: here they are, those Spanish “macho men,” whose former arrogance has returned like a boomerang – and turned into contrariety. It returned and struck them in the back, undercut the knees, flipping them backward. Consumer society pushed them to the fringes, restricting their assets to cheap food and wine – and frequent disappointment, and stress. It wants too much from them – what is not in their weak strength to give. The worst of the bitches dominate in the land of former dons. Governments flirt with them, following their penchants. They are clamorous, like birds of prey; their voices are heard above the rest…

Indignant, I rose and went elsewhere, and was seeking again those beautiful strangers from whom there flowed vibrations, currents, an invisible magnetism. Hours passed; I scribbled in my notebook, ordered another coffee, looked around. Avidly, so as not to miss anything – to write it down and put it into action.

My sight was now sharp and sure; I had learned to see through the subterfuge. Upon taking a closer look, some girls turned out to be unhappy. They proved to be lonely – inexorably, endlessly alone. They had no memory of the Brighton waves; they didn’t know how to laugh at loneliness under the cries of seagulls by the cold sea. No matter whom they sat with, I saw it in their eyes. I wanted to say, “Come with me. I’ll introduce you to Semmant, tell you about Little Sonya. Probably even let you read about Adele.”

Each loneliness had its own twist. Some pushed their way to the surface; others hid, burying themselves deep down. Some were desired and in demand; they were fought over and protected. Their capricious nature was maintained with the tenderness of a word, an affectation, a casual gesture. Others seemed unneeded – they were concealed behind a grin. Behind affected vivaciousness, behind a torrent of the same nonessential, though habitual, words. There were solitudes conscious and unconscious, enduring and sudden, planned and incidental, abruptly aroused. But the bearers, I reminded myself, always expected something at the end of the day. At the end, at midday, at the onset of night. In the middle of the night or as morning came. Sex awaited them all as a panacea. As a momentary release from loneliness, at least. An escape from memory – of the place where the specter of love could never be seen at all. Where there were only daily trifles and the merciless rule of money, or else the feast of thought and demanding teachers. Where everyone marched in place on a dime, or ran on a treadmill – faster and faster – and rushed somewhere in a mad gallop, weakening in the icy wind.