Blesok no. 21, June-July, 2001
A Celluloid Stereotype
Rainy and grim, lazy Sunday. A celluloid stereotype. We were lying naked in the unmade bed. For the last few nights I kept on lying in bed on the spot where the sheet had folded several times and tucked under itself. Almost the entire blanket covers him, while only my most feminine parts are shielded. So not to catch a cold, he says. My ardous womanliness always aches. He puts his arms around my shoulders and neck, he is still and sleeps deep into my skin.
– I love him – the thought occurs to me.
Silence. The sky is boiling and darkening. Strange, heavy spices. A bit too strong, like in Indian cuisine.
– I dreamt tonight that I had a lover, hey, you – I say after a moment's thought.
– Ha, ha, ha… – the dreamy man bursts into laughter – You had a lover?
I don't even know why I'm saying this. For I love him. With all my heart. I'm happy to have such a wonderful man beside me. Yes, there are more reasons for my happiness: young, beautiful, intelligent (it will all be water under the bridge some day). But that man… He alone makes me happy. Because I have him (it will all be blown apart one day).
– He was a blond Frenchman.
– You had a French lover??? – The First and Last and Always wonders laughingly.
– Yes – I flush – has the cliché become worn out? Latin lover?
– The rain is coming – he thinks – And how the hell did it happen to rain today? Out of the blue?
– Yes, I told you so – I repeat proudly.
– And tomorrow it will be both rain and snow.
– What??? – cries the lover.
– How do you know?
– I watch the weather report – I stick firmly to the TV truths – the sleet will fall.
– What's sleet anyway? – he asks angrily.
– It's something between a drop and a flake. It's when… you know, the most disgusting thing, in fact, hey, you…
– Like slush?
– Yes, it's just that slush doesn't fall – I stare blankly into the lines of my white wardrobe – you always step into slush. It's an earth-bound animal. Doesn't know how to fly or fall.
– I cheated on you while you were taking your lessons in culture. We stayed at his place in Paris. He offered to put us up because of my big breasts. He saw right through me even then.
– You're being ridiculous.
– That's not me.
I don't know what's wrong with me. That Frenchman… He excites me. I set free the last inch of my covered body. But I love my man anyway.
– On the last day, just before we left, you came back early. We were supposed to pack the bags but we stayed in bed. We stayed in bed naked.
– In bed naked???
– You didn't get any of it. You even leaned over me and kissed me on the forehead. Like: “Hi, baby, how are you?”
– And the Frenchmen?
– That one was possessive. He wanted me all to himself.
– Suddenly he lifts the sheet with his legs and reveals our nudity. He holds and holds his legs up in the air, looking straight into your eyes with a peculiar kind of anger. He just can't see how you don't understand that we had just got laid.
– Oh, God, I'm such a monster…
– Finally, I start laughing, at you, at him. And start packing. I get a piece of paper to write my home address for the Frenchman. I give it to him.
– And he?
– He is happy. He thinks I love him and want him.
– And you?
– I pack the bags.
– And me?
– I don't know. I can't see you. I'm packing the bags.
– What's the time?
– I don't know – I cuddle and stretch in his arms and press his hands against my truly big breasts – does it make any difference?
– Yes, I have to get going by 3.00 p.m.
– It's not 3.00 yet – I take a look at my little wrist watch– look, 2.45.
Suddenly its just myself again, with my own hands against my body, on my side of the bed. Hey, you rose abruptly, stirred by overwhelming thundering. Even the cat found a safer place. This bed lies under a bare window.
– So, why are you going? It's only 2.45.
– It'll start raining in five minutes.
And the five minutes saw the rain. In the hall, on his way out, I ask him all the same:
– Will you take the umbrella?
– No, I have my hood.
– How much do you love me? – again I cuddle into his embrace.
– Enough to get wet for you. (Emile the Daffodil rose one morning and went on his way to his knife-grinder's shop. And the shop was but ten steps from his back door. In the very yard.)
All of a sudden, I was left alone in the abruptly emptied space. I'm standing in the middle of the room observing the objects.
– A-ha. Tea. His, untouched. And he nagged for half an hour to have some.
I add the sweetener, milk – just like an Englishman. I'm spoiling the original tasteless liquid.
– A-ha. David Bowie.
– How's it going?
– It's going. I'm sorry I didn't call. I feel very inspired lately. I mustn't let it down.
– Oh, no. I'm not angry. Station To Station!
– I got it the other day. You know I've been looking for it for quite some time.
– I don't know why I keep on doing this. Hey, you doesn't like when I listen to you. I've no idea why. I love him.
– Hey – says David – Press play. Now we're alone.
The other day, at some bar, she (the old, inexhaustible friend) and I were unwrapping the newly bought CDs.
– Station, Station? – she asks.
– Nooo – I sigh disapprovingly at this foolishness. – Station To Station. Can't you see?
(It was all written without the blanks between the words, like it's written on David Bowie's album Stationtostation.)
– A-ha! Station To Station?
– Yep. Released the year we were born.
– Oh, God!
In the abruptly emptied space I was left alone. And why now the Frenchman? Blond, smooth-skinned, a fresh lover? What about Hey, you?
– Why Station To Station? Why from one to the next? (from one to another?) when she (the old, inexhaustible friend) was right?
– Red-footed falcon to Condor. Come in, Condor. Over.
– Station, Station.
– Station here. Come in, Lover.
– Hey, you!?