Black Silk

by Retha Powers

  Alien, unwelcome arousal. She shuts herself into a booth. A cushioned bench and an overhead beam. A guilder falls into the coin slot and for three minutes a head moves up and down in a lap. Her hand slips inside her jeans. Another guilder drops. And another. And another. A muffled groan and it’s done. She arranges her clothes, sets her face, and steps out into a group of waiting teenagers. “Weird,” she says, adopting what she hopes is a believable look of disapproval. The day had darkened; Jesse steps outside into the dusk and immediately swerves to face a nearby postcard stand. She stares absently at the cards, then steps quickly away from the museum. The canals of Amsterdam tremble with reflected houses, streetlamps, buses, people. An overloaded tram rumbles to a stop.

  “Leidseplein?” she asks.

  The driver answers with a stream of Dutch words. His smile tells her he’ll let her know when to get off.

  “Leidseplein!” he announces.

  Another packed square. People are playing wooden flutes, dancing with arms waving in the air, weaving on bicycles with raised handlebars through tourists. A young woman with long, matted brown hair stops in front of Jesse and picks up a flattened cigarette butt. She stares at it for a long moment, then stashes it in the back pocket of her grimy jeans. As she shuffles away, it drops out of a hole and falls back to the ground. Above the Bulldog Cafe scowls a huge papier-mâché bulldog, a fat joint in its mouth. Inside, stacks of Bulldog coffee mugs, Bulldog caps, and Bulldog T-shirts.

  “Excuse me, uh, where can you buy… uh, I was told you could buy…”

  Undoings in Amsterdam

  “At the bar,” the cashier says without looking up from her magazine, “follow the corridor and turn right.” Jesse looks behind her even though what she’s doing is legal where she’s doing it. Autographed photos of Chuck Norris, Run DMC, and other celebrities hang from the walls. She finds her way into an obscure haze of heavy smoke. At the bar, figures sprinkle hashish and crumble marijuana onto thin strips of paper. Others study floating tea balls. Music smothers conversation. The bartender is handsome, a mane of tangled dreadlocks, green eyes, and a muscled, unpampered body. A dark tank top, GLEASON’S GYM—BROOKLYN, NEW YORK, boastfully tight.

  “Hi!” exclaims Jesse, squeezing between two customers onto a bar stool. “I’ll have a beer.” The bartender sits a thick glass on the counter, foam running onto her fingers. “Thanks. Hey listen, I’m from Brooklyn, too! We are everywhere, aren’t we? I can’t believe it, my first time in Amsterdam and I meet another Brooklynite. How’d you end up here?” Jesse is relieved to find familiarity in this stranger. Brooklyn bonding.

  The bartender’s grin becomes outright laughter, her dimples deepening.

  “Birth,” she says, her obvious accent sending a warm flush into Jesse’s face. “I am Dutch. Sint Maarten, Dutch West Indies. Only the shirt’s American. A gift. So now it is my turn? How did you end up here? Holiday?”

  A teenager straddles the stool next to Jesse, examining a silver ball bobbing in a teacup. He looks up at the bartender, then at Jesse, then at the bartender’s shirt, and again at Jesse. Laughter is shaking his body, his head, the cup of marijuana tea, but there is no sound from his mouth. The sight of the boy along with the Bulldogged air and her own embarrassment unleashes Jesse’s laughter. Her hands cover her face, her stomach burning as if from sit-ups. At last she composes herself enough to wipe her eyes and clear her throat. The bartender is still chuckling, dabbing up spilled tea near the boy’s saucer. He watches the dishrag absorb the precious, pungent liquid and sighs, “Wow. Bummer.”

  Jesse feels the woman’s eyes on her, and heat floods her face and neck. “Whew, sorry, well… anyway… where were we, oh yes, what I’m doing in Amsterdam, yeah, I’m on vacation, I mean, holiday. Spring break. I’ve never been to Europe before. All my friends said Amsterdam is heaven, so liberated, that it’s legal to buy…”

  “Of course. See that bearded guy in the corner with the long, purple ponytail?”

  “Don’t think I could miss him.”

  “He is Mars. See our price list on the wall behind him? Go there. But come back, Brooklyn.”

  “Jesse. And you’re…?”

  “Come back, Jesse.” She waves her hand in front of the boy’s eyes. “Another tea ball, Loek?”

  AFGHAN HASHISH—20 GUILDERS. About fifteen dollars. MOROCCAN HASHISH—25 GUILDERS. Twenty bucks. Jesse reads down to the marijuana, hash brownie, and tea ball prices. The variety of choices is paralyzing. She is not an experienced drug shopper and feels self-conscious under the fixed stare of Mars, looking either at or through her. The easiest choice is alphabetical. Afghan.

  The bartender sees Jesse using a spoon to chip off a piece of the rock-hard hashish. “You haven’t been smoking before now?”

  “Not really. I tried them, I mean some, in high school but didn’t really like it, you know… felt kinda… I don’t know, guess I’m a lightweight. But since I’m here…”

  The bartender demonstrates with a match. “You hold it over the flame like this… see how it softens? Now it breaks up more easily for rolling.” Her biceps move like fists as she turns her wrists back and forth, singeing the hash. The sleek joint she rolls is as perfect as a cigarette. She puts it whole in her mouth, then pulls it out slowly, wettened. She brings it again to her mouth, holds the match close, and lights it. Then she places it between Jesse’s lips. Jesse inhales. They observe each other. Jesse inhales. And again. Her eyes close.

  The stool squeaks. She twists. It squeaks. She giggles. Her eyes find Mars. He doesn’t bother to look away. She smiles. He watches, expressionless. Someone hums at her back. She twists around, squeaking the stool. No one. She laughs a long time. Swallows hard. Calls out, “Excuse me!”

  “Yes, Jess, the very best,” answers the bartender, approaching. Her hair writhing rope and her breasts rising and falling in a slowed motion that Jesse feels in her own body. She instructs herself to look elsewhere but is defied. The bar-tender’s face warms to red as she watches Jesse’s eyes.

  “Was that a poem? Are you a poet? A nameless, beer-pulling, Dutch Rasta poet? Behind the waist-high fortress. I’m so thirsty.”

  The Dutch woman traces Jesse’s jawline with her finger. “You want a tea, little Jess at sea?” She walks off humming, two brimming mugs in each hand, her thick forearms straining.

  The tea-drinking boy is passed out on a nearby table of half a dozen slow-blinking smokers handling a water-filled glass pipe. They don’t seem to notice him, but Jesse does. She tells the bartender she’ll go with ginger ale. “Not feeling too normal, you know what I mean, Poet? Between the ponytailed red planet over there and you vibing me, well, what world am I in? What world is in me?” She takes the soda the bartender offers and gulps it down. It chills her lips. “Being by myself and everything, I don’t want to get too carried away.”

  “I can carry you away,” whispers the bartender. Jesse visibly flinches. A second glass of ice and ginger ale is placed in front of her. “On the house.”

  Jesse inhales more warm, sweet smoke. She is soft focus, intense lightness, effortless concentration. She doesn’t see, but feels, this woman exploring her visually, pausing here, lingering there. She redirects her awareness away from the quake in her stomach. A. Afghan. Afghanistan. Where is that? Asia? Africa? Europe? Her thoughts race from continent to continent, in search of Afghanistan. The enveloping sounds slow her to its rhythm. Lyrics in a foreign language. Doesn’t matter, she still likes it. She recognizes a song. It’s in English. They all are. She has the CD. Is she smoking or breathing? She can no longer tell the difference.

  Pressure on her breast. A hand. Men squeeze. Women caress. This is a woman. Jesse opens her eyes onto the bar-tender’s. “I want to touch the sexy Jesse.”

  Hands warm on her face, lips soft on her mouth, tongues, breath. “I carry you away.” Whispered.

  Time stalls in the moment, stuck where a woman reaches across a continent for a young stranger, brings her to a pool of heat. Jesse’s eyes seek
the door. “Maybe I should…” She is on the other side of the bar, much too close to the bartender. “Not here, Poet…” The wall, soft wood behind her, holds her steady. Held yet falling. “I really shouldn’t…”

  “Oh, but you should. This world you’re in, it is the old world. We love freely. Let it carry you away.”

  Loosening buttons, belt, zipper; losing thought, words; lost in hands searching in thin cloth, in tangled curls, inside… finding. The sudden, stunned gasp. Jesse shudders into the curve of the bartender’s neck, her legs no longer holding her. Aloft, she is the smoke curling from mouths, the shadow in their lovers’ corner, the music blanketing sound. The blank eyes of Mars on them.

  Lights flickering white, red, green, blue, the tourist-bright colors of theater marquees and ice cream parlors. Outside noises resonate inside Jesse’s head, a din of wheels, words, wind. The blinding streetlamp hums. She is in one place, then another, not going to but suddenly being there, and there, and there, in one place, then the next. Movement without moving. She takes in the thin, night air. Muscle lifts bone and flesh, heart drums blood, lungs pull air. Such relentless effort, constant, unnoticed until moments like this.

  Neon arrows point her through the night to DE CLUB—DANCING. Nudging her way into the press of women, she begins to dance, not alone but with herself. Her body, exalted, trances into the pulsating pump of the music, vibrant still from the tremor left by a bartender in a corner. And then someone is there, intruding. Long-lashed onyx eyes, hair falling smoothly to her waist, bare shoulders, brown as Jesse’s. She dances in close to Jesse’s ear to ask her simple, predictable question. “What’s your name?” The deep, smoky voice is accented by England. When it is the woman’s turn to name herself, Jesse can’t make it out. Something Indian. Jesse has to ask again. Vijaya.

  They dance, each watching when she thinks the other isn’t. Jesse eyes the Indian’s broad shoulders and thrusting hips, her sleeveless cotton sweater, corduroy slacks and boots, all black, all carefully considered. Sweat collects on Jesse’s forehead and runs into her eyebrows and down her face. As the music changes they walk to the bar, not touching. The wall clock shows four A.M. They share beer and talk of New Delhi, of New York. From an old woman she buys a rose, hands it to Jesse. Jesse accepts the cliché. They stroll to the dance floor, emboldened by the promise of each other. Jesse’s thigh is between Vijaya’s and that is how they stay, pushing against, grinding into, yearning for. The music slows. Vijaya licks sweat from Jesse’s neck and Jesse feels down Vijaya’s back, then lower. Something more urgent takes the place of their dance. Vijaya’s arms wrap around Jesse’s neck, she is pushing back and forth against Jesse’s groin. They are already lovers.

  A faster track comes on but neither dances. They stand, then leave the floor. Vijaya climbs onto a stool and parts her knees. Jesse steps between them. “Can I see you again?” asks Vijaya, pulling Jesse closer.

  Jesse feels her partner’s desire. “You can see me right now.”

  “Let’s go then, Jesse.”

  They stumble from a cab in front of Vijaya’s apartment, still panting and kissing. Vijaya closes heavy drapes against the rising dawn. Jesse strips immediately, unable to bear even a moment’s pause. She stretches out on an immense, unmade bed. There is no talk and no light. Vijaya eases next to her, naked, and moans instantly at the shock of soft skin. In utter darkness Jesse finds and strokes her hair, neck, shoulders, breasts. Vijaya moans, raising her hips to Jesse’s hand. Jesse rolls onto her and tongues down to her firm stomach, farther down, curled hairs. Vijaya is breathless, passive, waiting. Jesse tastes everywhere Vijaya is wet, along her neck, below her breasts, inside her elbows, between her legs. “Do me. Please. Now.” Jesse does, her tongue deep inside a complete stranger whose fingers, deep in Jesse’s hair, hold Jesse’s head to her sex, insistent. Vijaya cries out and floods onto Jesse’s tongue. She comes, groaning. Jesse comes, untouched. “That was so good,” sighs Vijaya, pulling Jesse up to lie on top of her. In an instant, she is snoring. Jesse wraps up in the blanket.

  When Jesse awakens Vijaya is already up making coffee for herself and tea for Jesse. The drapes are wide open, and the blaring daylight hurts Jesse’s eyes. “Everybody thinks all Indians drink tea but I don’t. I like coffee.” She moves around busily in a thick bathrobe, takes a couple of phone calls. Her black hair is tied back. Jesse remembers its smell, Vijaya’s taste. A current jolts her and Jesse squeezes her legs together beneath the blankets.

  She feels lazy and lingers in bed, hoping Vijaya might return. There has been no touch, and its absence feels awkward. “Thanks for having me over,” says Jesse, to remind her morning hostess that a few hours earlier they’d been passionate lovers. Vijaya laughs. “Don’t thank me! I wanted you. This wasn’t a charity case.” Jesse blushes into her tea. Nothing more is said about their morning together. She dresses while Vijaya showers. Her clothes smell like stale cigarettes and her mouth is dry. She can only imagine what her uncombed hair looks like. No wonder Vijaya doesn’t want… They exchange phone numbers and kiss each other’s cheeks. Jesse promises Vijaya that she’ll be back. She dials Vijaya’s number a few times. All that awaits her is a woman’s voice speaking Dutch. Jesse isn’t even sure it’s Vijaya’s. Ungenerous.

  Jesse waits to feel hurt and angry. But those emotions elude her. In truth, she is fascinated, almost impressed. A woman who takes what she wants and moves on, with neither guilt nor shame, unburdened by any sense at all of debt. Jesse concludes she was wrong. Vijaya was indeed generous, in her honesty. Something to consider.

  In her skin and on her tongue Jesse carries back to New York the ways of the Old World, to the consternation of her friends.

  “Girl, what are you doing? This is a public place. I’ll be your dance partner but don’t get carried away.” Carried away. That is exactly what Jesse craves, to fly off, lifted by wind, swept by waves, blown by breath.

  “Why shouldn’t we, isn’t that life’s pulse? In Amsterdam, a breathtaking bartender inhaled me right there in…”

  Mica flinches almost imperceptibly. Jesse notices. She’s out to her straight classmate, who claims to be “cool with that.” So why does Mica still recoil at details? Hypocrisy or ambivalence?

  “Do you see any wooden shoes on this dance floor, because I don’t. You aren’t in Amsterdam anymore, so get your hands off my…”

  “All right, all right! But really, Mica, you would not believe how open they are in their so-called Old World. It seems a lot newer than ours.”

  “Oh, but I would believe how very open they are. So spare me, please.”

  Weeks have blurred by since Jesse’s return to college. She recognizes her body in the mirror but not this feeling, a yearning, new to someone for whom fear shadowed every desire, however muffled. Fear of words, the judgments used to choke off a woman’s sexuality, words like whore and promiscuous and slut—or, even worse, dyke. Jesse, gay yet untouched by any woman’s hand but her own, a lesbian-in-waiting with no queen to serve. But that was before the black Dutch and Indian Brits of Amsterdam, before her discovery of a world made rich by indifference, by people simply not caring what others do or whom they love. Summer, a short sigh away, will take Jesse back there. And again, she will go into details, explore the particulars of her heart.

  The Sexiest Seconds

  _________________

  by Kiini Ibura Salaam

  Warmth takes over my body. I spread my arms and tilt my chin to the sky. My face breaks into a smile. If I could embrace the sun, I would. Yesterday I wore layers. Yesterday snowflakes stung my cheeks. Seven hundred dollars and twenty hours later, I am here—in this city, in this heat, on this balcony— surrounded by crumbling buildings painted pastel. Clay tile roofs sprout in irregular patches like weeds. Across the street, a fat vendor sits leaning against a tiny table, absentmindedly fondling his produce. Black letters on torn pieces of cardboard advertise onions, peppers, tomatoes, eggs. A vagrant loiters on the corner, begging coins. The vendor yells at him,
a string of curses streaming from his mouth. The coffee boy comes speeding down the slender footpath. His flip-flop-shod feet are a blur. My gaze travels up skinny scarred legs to the spread of bare brown chest. One bony hand rests on a mini steering wheel. He navigates pedestrians and potholes with expert flicks of the finger. His thermoses clink and clank. His wheels creak.

  “Cafezinho,” he cries.

  “Caaafffeeeezzziiinnnhhhooo.” A hand lifts from an open window. He halts. Resting his foot on his homemade cart, he tosses coffee into a tiny plastic cup. Coins fall into his palm. He drops them into his pocket and, with a quick upturned thumb, is gone. A tiny bundle of brown fur wanders the sidewalk. It bounds and leaps, pouncing after some invisible foe. It pokes its nose into the trash pile, then tumbles off the curb. My body tenses as a bus roars around the bend. Just as I am covering my eyes and turning away, a hand reaches into the street and lifts the kitten by it neck. I sigh in relief, grateful for the thick muscled arm, the rippling chest, the kitten mewing in its cradle of safety.

  Crowning the neighborhood is a wide expanse of sky. No clouds, its blueness goes on forever. Voices full of drunken belligerence drift up from the bar on the corner. Somewhere, a radio is blasting. Pagode notes bounce in the air. On the street below me, an old man pushes a wheelbarrow full of fruit. He lowers his load and wipes his face with a rag. He shades his eyes with shaking fingers and looks up at me. Menina, he calls out, you want some pineapples? “No,” I say and wag my finger in the Brazilian way. Bananas, mangoes? I smile at his upturned face. I shake my head and say, não, não. I know his tricks well. If I come down for a pineapple, I return to the kitchen with papaya and passion fruit, too. He lifts the handles of the wheelbarrow and continues on. I watch his crooked back drifting down the steep street.