Semmant (19 page)

I looked and inscribed this indelibly on my mind, then I put it to use, selecting the best. Choosing what I wanted to make real, to live through, even if such reality would always be hypothetical in some sense. At times I was angry at its imaginary nature, enraged at Lidia, Adele. Unconsciously, without reason, or else when I understood there would be no spark with one of the beauties flirting at the next table. I could fantasize about her; I could even sleep with her, but I would never master the entirety of her femininity. Only Lidia and her body were fully within my reach – a luxurious body, but one and the same.

Because of this, I became acrimonious. I tossed about truths unflattering to the female ear. In the next story I wrote something to the effect of: young girls are all-around better than middle-aged women. Better than those who try to look fresh but are already mature and just inspire pity. “There’s no substitute for youth,” I wrote, knowing this would seriously wound Lidia. “Girls of twenty are much better than twenty-six-year-olds. The ones who haven’t hit twenty-five yet are so much more attractive than those over thirty…” Yes, I knew well: it’s not always so. Yet I transgressed against the truth, albeit a little. This was undignified revenge. Vengeance upon all the beauties who turned up their noses. Upon the chicks who were cold to me in advance. Upon Lidia for her recent defection. And even upon Adele – don’t ask me why!

One way or another, my tactic worked. I posted comments – alternating between porn and melodrama, light S&M and erotic flirtation. It soon became clear: Lidia craved Adele like a drug. She sensed in her something more than simply a kindred spirit. Something united them, something stronger than what had once united Lidia and me.

But her feelings toward me were also quite different now. She had changed a lot; the new copy was exclusive, shaped for its owner. The effect exceeded expectations; Lidia admired me more and more.

“You are my creator,” she said to me. For her, this was no exaggeration. I felt I was growing in her eyes: a creator of the amusing – a creator of the brilliant – then a creator,
per se
. It was as if she was proud of having fallen into a dependence on me. Perhaps she had lived without dependency for a long time – as I had lived long without love. Now she could not refuse it until she sated herself to the full.

Of course, I understood: the whole spirit of our affair was the essence and meaning of a surrogate. The new copy was just a counterfeit, and the lie could not help but be exposed. But everything suited me, and I drove doubt away. Dependence was an alternative means, a potion for those unable to forgive. Medicine against longing for the stuff of life. For Lidia, it was not even bitter.

Soon she began to show me off to her friends. In front of them she was not shy – she rubbed tenderly against my shoulder, embraced me, gazed into my eyes. Before each one she underscored our new roles. She melted into me in sight of all. And she did not call me by name – for her I was Defiort.

A couple of times we encountered former lovers of hers. She denied it, would not admit it at first – but I saw it with the unaided eye. Later she confessed, of course, when I pressed her against the wall. When I ripped her blouse off and started to fondle her nipples roughly…

“Let them be happy for me; let it be pleasing to them,” she whispered in reply to my angry question: Why?

Caressing my hands, she said, “You want to punish me? Then name my punishment!”

But no, to punish her was not my intention. I wished only to laugh at the strange turn of events. I understood: this was vendetta. She was taking revenge on them, as I was on all the touch-me-nots. She took revenge because they were unable to subjugate her – they knew not, they would never know how to be audacious. She was stronger than all of them and obviously saw no gain in that. Such were the realities of society, and she had lived as an obedient captive of realities. Now she was celebrating her getaway.

Those former lovers, two Spaniards, both looked pathetic. Rafael, a forty-year-old director of a bank, resembled a toad, with his miniscule hands and thick, grandmotherly face. “He became that fat after I had already dumped him,” Lidia assured me, but I didn’t believe her. He was repugnant; his whole body quivered like a piece of Jell-O. It was as if there were an entire
jamón ibérico
rolling around in his gut.

“Rafa, Rafa,” she muttered, screwing up her face; she had gotten more drunk than the both of us. Suddenly, turning to me, she declared, “By the way, Rafael is very much into whores!”

He shuddered, sighed, and his face flushed. I fixed my gaze on him.

“He
really
likes them,” Lidia persisted. “Remember, Rafito, how you told me about that Brazilian from the nightclub? She was a pole dancer, but you tried to seduce her like a lady – although she charged a firm rate, and everybody knew it. Paco knew, and so did José and Arancha. They made fun of you, but you fawned over her as though over a bride. In the end, I remember, she did take your money. I’m just not sure she gave you anything in return. What was her name? Wouldn’t happen to be Adele, would it?”

Blushing, Rafa tried to crack a smile. He was accustomed to humiliation – it showed in his eyes. That was a sad spectacle, but I was not sorry for him. Just as I was not sorry for the second one, a tall, skinny man, rather timid and rather rich. He consonantly went by the name Manuel. I later laughed at Lidia: Rafael and Manuel, Gargantua and Pantagruel, Rafa and Manu…

Something in Manuel’s features hinted at a hidden defect, despite his education and manners. He also had a passion – not for whores, but for Iberian pigs. He hunted pigs, raised pigs, and prepared pork himself in all conceivable forms.

With an innocent smile, Lidia asked about his beloved boars. About the lovely black piggy whose picture he had e-mailed her. “Do you know,” she turned to me, “how ugly that breed is?”

Manuel shook his head, smiling uncertainly. A large plate of
jamon
lay before us, glistening with fat. It gave off the most appetizing smell. And Lidia emitted her own scent, the odor of the Gucci I had bought for her the previous week.

I reached out and took a sip of wine. I grabbed Lidia by the neck, and she went limp. “You look like a piggy, don’t you?” I asked her. “Like a little pink piggy?”

Lidia rubbed my hand, purring with pleasure, but Manuel almost fell out of his chair. Afterward, in the bathroom he said to me, “Calling a woman a pig is
maltrato
. You could land in prison for that!”

Neither of the two men was worthy of her. Neither of them had ever lived in the same house with a woman – unless you count their despotic moms. They grew old earlier than their moms. They grew old before they matured, turning into useless material.

It was unlikely they would ever find a match for themselves, I thought without gloating, though somewhat disgusted. Lidia had probably been the only bright spot in their lives. Random, brief luck – and nothing more would shine. Women who were at all attractive passed them by on the other side of the street. Beautiful strangers looked away – for they felt here their vibrations and fine currents would be pointless, fruitless, fading in vain.

I later asked Lidia how she could have sex with them. How she could climax with them, whisper something in their ear? Lidia shrugged, “What’s the big deal? Sometimes you don’t know who you’ll end up sleeping with.”

I said to her, “That’s what scattered balls of pearl powder are worth!”

“That sums up all your stories,” I admonished her, and she was frightened: “Are you disappointed with me?”

“Well, yeah,” I sneered. “Yes and no.”

Then I consoled her, “It’s all in the past.”

“You’re different now,” I admitted, and Lidia pressed her lips toward me. She smelled like
jamón
of the highest grade.

I thought some more about Rafa and Manu. Better for them, I guessed, to move in together. To run their house together, grow old, live out their days – in a cramped attic not far from a hospital. All the same, the fear sown in their hearts will drive off a more vivacious fate. Or they can yield to the dubious favor of the worst of the bitches – unappetizing, spiteful, prowling in search of a submissive victim. Well, these two are precisely those victims – along with their legion of doubles. They have been cheated, driven into a corner by the worst of females, with whom you cannot argue. Go on, object, try to take a stand, and society will let loose on you with all its fury. Europe – an aging bitch still full of confidence – will declare you the enemy, choke you, force you to surrender. Force you to bow your head, admit your weakness. For you – they will inform you with contempt – are only a
man
!

What is said here by the specters of love, its dim shades? Do they whisper anything to themselves? They are likely silent – it’s uncomfortable for them in this land. They, I suspect, don’t live here much – except for the mutants grown in test tubes. Except for the ones nursed on artificial milk in a boarding school – like the one of Brighton, but different. Those who are born of a perverted consciousness – like the one of mine, but different. Our things are, nonetheless, full of life. But these here, they’re not worth a nickel. They are brought into the world on thin, bowed legs. Is there really any strength in them?

I wrote Semmant of this, with a bitterness of which I was ashamed. There were plenty of question marks in those lines of mine. I must admit, they provoked no response in the robot. He, perhaps, didn’t understand what I was going on about.

But the universe, as later became evident, got the hint from half-uttered phrases. And, choosing its moment, it responded in kind, throwing it in my face – like the former arrogance in the faces of Spanish dons.

But that was still ahead; for the time being I was looking down from on high. I felt I had reasons to look down from on high. And I did not consider how it might be to take a fall from the very peak.

Chapter 21

The recession continued in the financial markets, but we still didn’t lose money. Melancholy and despondence, which reigned in the exchanges, were not reflected in me or my bank account. This was none of my doing – it was all Semmant; he kept coming through for us. Confidently and fearlessly, he slipped between the chasms – along the razor’s edge, without losing focus, looking only ahead.

As for me, my interest in the stock market games had dried up completely and forever. Everything was too primitive and dull. All too well understood and, by the same token, absurd. There was nothing to rely on; traps were hidden everywhere that could not be avoided. Rushing into the market, you become hostage to entropy. The captive of disorder, of which there is no limit. Because greed and fear can indeed be limitless. They can be inexhaustible and have no end.

I no longer wanted to look at charts and numbers – and soon stopped forcing myself. My strength sufficed only for brief summaries of news and events. I translated them into the language of figures with a code developed long ago. I don’t know whether my robot needed them; perhaps he had already learned to hunt them down on the Web. But I wanted to think I was also participating – with him, together. On top of that, this was tradition, the customary method of our communing, and I knew that one must never be lax in friendship.

Therefore, I sent him data files, at the end of which, as before, I described my days and shared my thoughts. However, I did not overly trouble myself now with the latter. Time passed easily, quickly, and – surprisingly for me – idly.

As if to spite the crisis that shook the world, Lidia and I indulged ourselves in sybaritic abandon. She got to liking expensive spas, lapping up hours in pools and Jacuzzis, luxuriating in saunas, stretching out her body under the streams of water. This heightened her sensuality – afterward, Lidia always wanted love. Perhaps she had been a sea nymph in a former life.

We also frequented massage parlors. Sweet Asian girls kneaded our bodies with experienced hands, dispersing lymph fluid and blood, pummeling every muscle. Sometimes, we ordered a procedure for two – this was really arousing. Soon I learned not to be shy with an erection on the massage table, and a session of Balinese
jamu
once turned into an orgy with two olive-skinned beauties from Jakarta. Lidia later said one of them smelled of sandalwood.

And we really paid attention to smells. We bought the best creams, the most expensive oils. Gentle fingers lightly touched our faces, rubbing in miracle-working elixirs that promised to restore our youth. That meant nothing to me, but Lidia believed in it. Afterward, she would take a long look at herself, transfixed, in the mirror. I did not even dare to make fun of her.

Boutiques with expensive clothes were not left by the wayside either. We became constant fixtures on Ortega y Gasset Street. Beaming saleswomen with eyes aflame followed us from one rack to another. They remembered: these two are keen to buy, and buy a lot. Piles of blouses, open vests, pajamas and narrow skirts, suits, ties, sweaters, and shirts filled the fitting rooms in a few brief moments. Boxes of shoes were stacked into columns, into many-storied buildings, into fortress walls. We would walk out laden with packages, loading ourselves with difficulty into my sleek black car. Passersby cocked their heads at us in scorn. They didn’t concern me at all. I had no interest in their problems – small salaries, rising prices, mounting debts.

So we kept ourselves occupied. Most likely, this was the most carefree time in my life. Strange as it sounds, I managed not to think of anything at all – though I had believed before that was beyond my power. We amused ourselves – the world of amusements, unaccustomed as I was to it, seemed endless. I loafed, and loafing caused me no guilt at all.

One time, the Countess de Vega invited us to lunch. I had not seen her for three months and found she had gotten even better-looking. There was a new charm to her now – or maybe my perspective had changed. In any case, she liked my compliment.

The four of us met – the countess came with David. As before, they were a gorgeous couple. But something had changed; in Anna’s look there was now a certain irony. It was as if she already knew his whole world by heart. He had become an all-too-familiar object for her.

David, for his part, looked as though something was amiss. I suddenly noticed he was very young. No, not compared to Anna de Vega, but independently, on his own. This started to be distracting. His youth, the dearest of riches, seemed to be self-confused. As if it were hiding from itself, not knowing how to act.

“This is my favorite restaurant,” said the countess as she opened the menu. “I always order oysters here. Do you want oysters, too, Davie?”

“You know full well I hate them,” he grumbled. “The same as that name.”

He clenched his jaw and nervously crumpled a napkin. Then he straightened it and carefully laid it flat. The white triangle was impeccable. And David himself was impeccable – stately, broad-shouldered, strikingly handsome. He looked like a crown prince. If he were, he would have been the pride of Spain. But I knew his mother had been a nurse in a municipal hospital. And Anna de Vega knew it too.

The waiter, after he took the order, bowed to the countess. She laid the menu aside and lit up a thin cigarette.

“Excuse me,” said David. “I’ve got to go take a piss!”

He said this loudly – so that our neighbors turned to see. Then he stood and headed to the bathroom. This was a revolt, but with only illusory chances of success.

“You cannot put into a man what time has not yet given him,” Anna de Vega smiled. “And you cannot get it from him in exchange.”

In Lidia’s countenance I caught a flashing glint of triumph. A masked, secret sign of victory, if only a temporary one. She suddenly leaned over my chair and laid her head on my shoulder.

“Sorry, but you’re bothering me,” I reprimanded her. Anna just smiled, with the same irony in her eye. It occurred to me she would have it forever.

In the main, we had a pretty good time. Lidia got drunk but behaved well. Only in the taxi did she break down – she laughed hoarsely, did a fair impression of David, and then started crawling into my pants right in the backseat.

I tried to push her away, but she shouted at the top of her lungs, “Don’t stop me. I want to suck you off!”

Must be hilarious for the driver, I thought, and surrendered, closing my eyes…

Toward the end of June, our relationship shifted into a steady phase. It could be said with confidence: Adele and I became Lidia’s life breath, an irreplaceable poison. It even occurred to me: what if I were just as dependent on her, on her body? On her soul, whatever it might conceal? On her desires, moods, whims? Perhaps then we would achieve the reciprocity sought by all. What if in our era this
is
the true formula of feeling?

This thought pleased me; it had depth. It seemed to me I had somehow caught the specter of love by the hem of his cloak. I pulled him closer; we exchanged glances. And… I didn’t have the nerve to say a word.

Didn’t have the nerve, or else didn’t find a reason. Even more: I had almost realized I wouldn’t want to speak to him, ever. It was hardly likely he would inform me of some new secret – something encouraging to hear. More comfortable to keep silent, my inner voice whispered. It was best not to ignore such whispers.

Meanwhile I felt it was he who had something to say. He had something to yell out, to spit in my face. I understood him – and was not offended. Of course, his life became hard. Consumer society had emasculated his stature, deprived him of his rank and regalia. He was the last to remain – an utterly naïve hope. They had nearly ceased to take him seriously. He – the phantom of love – hovered in the expanse where love was no more. This was worse than the School in Brighton. There, at least, it had never been at all.

Sometimes I even wished to stick up for him. For him, and myself, and Little Sonya. I wanted to yell, “Yes, we Indigo, we were more honest: were and are. We were trained not to believe falsehoods, and we rejected falsehoods as we were able. We laughed as we did this and did not learn self-pity. That’s why we do not pity others, and your ‘romanticism’ makes us sick. And it sickens the specter too – he, the specter, is even more honest than we are. How else could he feel hearing that discredited word from your lips, time and again? Hearing how you call love a game with well-defined rules, a money-for-goods deal? How you complain there’s no one to love, though in fact you have nothing to love with? The soul muscles have atrophied – you have nothing with which to truly feel, to get surprised, to dream. Mr. Right won’t arrive, alas – and, in vain, do you imagine the ability to love would emerge if he came? It never emerges on its own; it must be worked on. You don’t know how to work on it; you want to buy love at a retail store or receive it as a Christmas gift. You are big, selfish children; though, for some reason, we are the ones you consider to be childish…”

As I thought about this, it made me sad. It was also sad because, having looked the phantom in the eye, I still could not peer right into his soul, into the mysteries of his heart. How did he live, what did he breathe there in that lifeless ether? On what did he feed that would not allow him to disappear? No, I did not figure it out, could not perceive it.

Once, I got to talking with Lidia about this – or, more precisely, she brought it up after a boring movie that had recently hit the screen. She wanted to fantasize – to develop the plot, change its direction, give another chance to the heroes who had parted in the last frame. We got excited and spent several days discussing the fates of strangers – episodes of passion and love reversals, everything that could and could not happen. Lidia liked this, while I – I was simply convinced of what I had suspected earlier. Her views regarding the intrinsic features and rationales of human feelings did not differ in any way from what the broad masses affirmed – the ones who marched in place on a dime. In Lidia’s world, things lacked coherence, consisting entirely of unjustified simplifications. Like the graduates of worthless schools, she was very afraid of complications.

Undertows and drop-offs, whirlpools and whirlwinds were unknown to her; she wanted nothing to do with them. She preferred harmonious ripples on the shoals of simplified realities. The ripples that are controlled, measured out from A to Z, described in guides and handbooks of love. A linearized system for which the solution could be derived in a few short moments.

I was sorely disappointed. It became clear that our story totally lacked depth. There was nowhere for us to move further – the enigma of Lidia, like the mystery of David, had evidently exhausted itself.

This was painful; it was even brutal in a way. Yet I could not help but recognize the obvious fact. She needed me more and more, while I was cooling off and growing cold. The chill sharpened my sight; I saw the falseness in her female essence, saw the white threads holding together the pieces of the multicolored wrapper. She tried too hard to protect her status, to convince the others she was better, more attractive and dignified. Ever more often I asked myself: Why? Why am I with her? What do I need her for? What connects us, in the end? If she were to leave me this instant, it’s unlikely I would fight for her. Breaking up would be simple, and I could breathe easy. I would be civil, keeping my words brief, and forgetting her phone number right away.

But no, she had no intention of leaving. She lived for Adele and obeyed my demands. She was proud of this and made plans – of the same petty romantic variety. They were from there, from that narrow dime trampled by the masses.

“Let’s buy an island,” she would say to me. “An uninhabited island – and let’s live on it. Or let’s buy a yacht. We’ll live on the yacht, sail around the world without lingering at a single port.” She would say, “I’ll be your cabin boy. I can be your assistant, your bodyguard. I’ll always have my eye on you!”

I chuckled, but I was bored. She was conducting her search where nothing valuable was left. But I couldn’t say that to her – there, in a far corner of the sofa, she looked upon me with utter devotion. With wide eyes that read obedience and… something else.

As before, our relationship was dominated by sex. Physically, Lidia still attracted me; furthermore, in bed she was different – shameless and voracious, but very compliant. All my whims were met with enthusiasm; all my desires were readily fulfilled. She caught every word, every gesture. She thought up this and that on her own, but most of all she liked to submit. She loved to repeat, “I am your whore.” Sometimes she would even whisper, “I am your slave.” It was becoming awkward for me, and I would pretend I hadn’t heard.

We tried a lot of things – games, role playing. We would agree on the parts to perform, then improvise on the fly. To Lidia’s credit, she took on a new persona better than I. In her there lived a high-caliber actress, no less – though of narrow character. Occasionally in the game it seemed to me: Finally! I’m seeing the real her for the first time!

Sometimes my apartment was transformed into a hotel. Lidia would dress as a chambermaid, go out to the elevator – this was her favorite role. She would knock at the door as if it were an executive suite, then enter, carrying a serving tray with a steaming cup. “Good evening, sir. You ordered coffee?”

I would be wandering about the room like an idle aristocrat – barefoot, with a pipe in my teeth, wearing Hugo Boss trousers and a half-unbuttoned shirt by Valentino. Examining the guest with a squint and thrusting my hands in my pockets, I’d step closer, nodding slowly.

“Here’s your coffee, sir,” the “maid” would chirp, looking at the floor. A half-smile would play across her lips.

“I work this floor,” she’d add, not lifting her eyes. “I’m at your service. All you have to do is call. My name is Adele.”

Her emanations filled the room. Emanations of submission, which often masked mockery. But here, I knew, all would be without subterfuge. And the gentleman in the deluxe suite knew as well – her posture was too expectant to be concealing a trick.