Wild Woman

by Marina Sur Puhlovski

  The day that started like a joyous song has turned into the hush of a funeral and just before its end the girl appears, tubby, the white flesh quivering under her chin and forearms, with stocky legs but in a mini, she’s got no shame, I say to myself, and a biggish hawk nose, eyes close together, a bird woman, especially with her hair pulled tightly back into a ponytail, leaving her face completely exposed. She’s wearing gold earrings with red glass chips in the shape of a flower, they’re not rubies, they’re ordinary paste, I notice, I don’t wear earrings at all. I haven’t even had my ears pierced. Strangely enough, she hasn’t dyed her hair though it’s a forgettable brown, her almond-shaped eyes shoot all over the place, but sneakily somehow, as if she’s looking for things to steal from the flat, and she’s constantly grinning, but she’s not relaxed, she’s on guard. I don’t understand a thing. She’s got a great appetite, even though she’s supposed to be unwell, it’s her thyroid, she says, polishing off the layer cake, I’m surprised she even knows what a thyroid is because she looks uneducated somehow, actually she looks awkward, that’s the word that best describes her, awkward in her body, in her thoughts and in her speech, and this awkwardness somehow fills the flat, rising and expanding like baker’s yeast, pushing me out of the room. I can hardly wait to leave.

  The next day they’re having coffee in the kitchen, I can hear the laughter even before I ring the doorbell, it’s convulsive, too loud, mocking, the kind in which every mouth opens wide, and I don’t like walking into a house where there’s that kind of laughter, as if it’s directed at me. She’s all ready to go out in her denim mini and green top with blue polka dots to match the denim, the top so tight that it reveals rolls of fat, topped off by black platform sandals. He’s in his pyjamas.

  She says she was waiting to say hello to me before leaving, no need for that, I think, but I’m polite and it’s not her fault that she showed up at the wrong moment, and sick to boot.

  After she leaves I say it’s strange that she came just when his parents went on a trip, that she didn’t know they were going when she announced her arrival, just where did she think she would sleep if they were still in the house, with them in their room? Yes, on the ottoman, my one and only says from his bed, in a fit of coughing, and I think to myself, this is all so pathetic. She returns in the afternoon, he fries some mackerel and we lunch together, talking about nothing in particular, and then she goes to lie down. I notice that she has a strange way of eating, leaning into her plate as if about to fall into it, and then putting her arms around it as if afraid somebody would snatch it from her. In the evening, we take her to the cinema and then for a drink and I’m so angry I could kill him.

  She leaves in the morning, just before his parents are due back, unobtrusively, like a serpent, like the daughter-in-law who turns into a snake in the fairy tale “Stribor’s Forest”, she simply vanishes. We didn’t even say goodbye to each other. When I arrive at the flat he tells me he took her to the train station early that morning, that her medical results were not good so she was in a hurry to go home. He’s already shaved, has patted on some 4711 cologne, which his parents adore, and can’t stop yawning. I tell him he looks as if he’s had a sleepless night, I’ve got my suspicions, but the kind that you don’t want to believe, so you’re happy when they persuade you otherwise.

  But I keep thinking about the other day, when I saw him lean down to her yellowish-white, bullish neck, as if wanting to inhale her scent, and she giggled, threw back her head, making the gold earrings with their red glass chips in the shape of a flower swing, and opened out her arms as if to stretch, which lifted her breasts, they were quite literally bursting, probably full of milk because she had just had a baby, and the expression on his face was the same as when he was telling me about his mistress’s tail, satanic, as if they half disgusted and half excited him.

  IX.

  We are playing strip poker at his school friend Kostja’s, it’s autumn again and the leaves are raining down, yellow and red, blanketing the streets, the street sweepers can’t sweep them up fast enough, even though they are at it all day with their twig brooms. They are joined by Adam, who has been given a grey uniform saying “Sanitation”, a broom that looks like a witch’s, its twigs loosely tied together so that they stick out on all sides, and a grey bucket that he pushes in front of him as he collects the fallen leaves. He didn’t take the exams he needed to enrol in the third year and his father had been pestering him to find a job, because he was not about to dole out money to a wastrel, he said, and so his son got a job with the Sanitation Department, and, to embarrass his father, he would park his wheelie in front of the house, which was still under construction, for the whole neighbourhood, tiered like a theatre, to see. And we all laughed, agreeing that this was his father’s comeuppance.

  My one and only and I have now been together for almost two years, an eternity, like a married couple, only without a place of our own, always staying with someone. Everybody lives like that, either with their parents, like the two of us, like Adam, and Filip, which means under constant supervision, or in a student dorm where you are two to a room that’s too small for even one person and their things, and nobody is without things, or in a rented room, like Petra, where you’re barely allowed any visitors, especially not of the opposite sex, and you aren’t allowed to make any noise, in fact you aren’t supposed to be heard at all, so again, supervision.

  But his best friend Kostja has his own flat, it’s still in the attic of his parents’ house but it is separate, it has its own entrance, up the iron steps from the garden, so his parents can’t even see that their son has a visitor unless they happen to be on that side of the garden at that very same moment. Here we are, finally free to enjoy ourselves without supervision, without anybody watching how much we’ve had to drink or complaining that we’re drinking alcohol at all, and smoking like Turks. We are too young for all that, which we’ll do when life tosses us a rope, stations itself behind us like a huge dislodged boulder, and lets these addictions help us pull it along, I guess.

  Here our bodies are free to delight in themselves, because they are young and beautiful and desirable, that’s what they want to know most, that they are desirable, because they themselves are full of desires, especially physical desires. You can’t fight nature. So our visits to this flat, free of supervision, are physical in every possible way and our bodies make us happy, they make us laugh, they make us clever, we do what the body wants, give it to the body, give it all, the air quivers, and the body receives.

  The response to this from my beloved’s friend Konstantin – known as Kostja, because his father was of Russian origin, with imperial connections, when emperors still existed, until the Revolution brought some order, and tossed the emperors and their vassals into the same basket, shook it to make sure that the contents were all mixed up, and then, when it upended the basket, saw that what fell out were comrades – is to buy a projector and porno movies for this oasis and to invite us over to watch, the two of us and the girl he is currently dating, because he keeps changing them. So we watch, the guys loving it, and the two of us girls disgusted, although Kostja’s current girlfriend pretends to enjoy it, because she wants to please him.

  And please him she does, first of all because he’s fantastically attractive, even though he is already bald and not particularly well-built, he doesn’t have the ideal proportions and muscles of an Apollo, he’s already acquired a little tummy, but the hypnotic way he looks at you leaves you weak in the knees. And he has blue eyes, more bluish-grey really, but in this case the colour doesn’t matter because it’s something else, beyond the eyes, something inside him, something powerful, that leaves you defenceless when you’re with him, that makes you want what he wants, so that he can do whatever he wants with you and you will unconditionally submit to all his demands, and will be insanely happy in a way you never would be if he hadn’t vanquished you.

  I had experienced the same thing with him myself, so I knew. Nothing happened
between us, no touching, but the possibility of it was there and that allowed me to imagine what it might have been like had something happened. As soon as my beloved introduced us, Kostja suggested that we meet up, just the two of us, of course, and I went to the meeting, because I couldn’t resist, because he’d won me over on the spot, and at that meeting I protected myself from him by talking about my beloved, so he gave up. Something I have always regretted.

  There’s another reason why his current girlfriend caters to him – because of the flat he acquired at the age of twenty-two, a flat he built himself with money he earned from the neon commercial signs he made while a student, all of which was commendable.

  He doesn’t dream about owning a Lincoln Continental, he’s already earning it, I say to my beloved, who helped him search around town for customers who wanted to advertise, without any particular success, though.

  He’s one of those technically minded types, is the response to my comment, implying there is something limited about such “types”, they lack insight into the spiritual side of life, not that this means he’s stupid, just that he’s limited, with no talent for art. I might have agreed with that, though Kostja used to paint, there’s a self-portrait on his wall that he made when he still had hair. But later he lost interest in painting.

  He did up his flat in a slightly weird, almost morbid, way, because in the middle of the sitting area, a huge space with skylights as well as a window overlooking the garden, he hung a noose, who knows why. I never asked him. Or maybe I did, but I’ve forgotten what he said, it was irrelevant. I thought he did it as a stunt. There was a saloon door to the kitchen, you just had to push it open and it would swing shut by itself, as if wanting to hit you. And standing on the desk under the window overlooking the garden was a shiny white skull. The real thing, not plastic. I have no idea where he got it. He decorated the bedroom, which had a humongous bed and black sheets that must have been custom-made because I don’t know where he could have bought them, with African masks decorated with all kinds of colours and with slits for the eyes. They hung on the wall, their faces elongated, with fat lips and horrible expressions that were enough to scare the daylights out of you. He was certainly clowning around with all this but it was also a show of power, so that you knew right away what you were in for.

  That’s the sort of person you want to and can please, there’s a point to pretending that you like what you’re being offered, as she did when watching that porno film which I’m sure made her sick. Just as it did me, because, generally speaking, women aren’t keen on pornography, they don’t enjoy gazing at a woman’s reproductive organs, stripped back to the flesh and pubic hair, yuck, or at where you pee, or even do number two, yuck, at a woman’s legs spread open like a frog’s and the erect male organ with a shiny drop proudly glistening on top, yuck, at that rod savagely pushing into her sex when he lifts her legs, yuck, at the animal panting and grunting and at the gaping hole, yuck, they enjoy celestially merging with another soul who is always Zeus transformed into a cloud, always the Holy Spirit, always an experience. Or else they don’t enjoy it at all... They pretend to... The current one is now pretending to enjoy the porno of some emaciated girl – all skin and bones, in black leather, her panties visible when she sits down, in heels that must be six inches high, with hair reaching halfway down her back, like a black fleece – jumping up and down in the leather armchair, clapping her hands, shouting aaaaah, looking at me every now and then, pouting at me with her bright red lips, matching the colour of her nail polish, signalling that we understand each other but will keep quiet about it.

  The guys are already hot and bothered. Tense because their erect penises are bulging in their trousers, and their balls are screaming with pain, they’re about to explode, but they can’t screw the actress in the film whom they’re hot for, they can only screw the two of us, they’d do it right now if they were emperors and we were ladies of the court – they’d even do it side by side, and then swap us – or if they were wild rapists, soldiers, say, but they’re not. Our boys are home-grown, they have to suppress their urges, control themselves and be polite, even if they’ve gone wild inside.

  So Kostja, the entertainment master, suggests a game of strip poker, and immediately produces a pack of cards and more to drink, whiskey, to bolster the nerves, although we’re all already drunk, and we’re already playing and stripping, just us two girls, because we’re losing and they’re winning, either they’re lucky or they’re cheating, it’s all the same, because nobody cares about poker anyway. The tops go first, then the skirts, then the bras and lastly the panties, it’s still warm so we’re lightly dressed; we’re sitting naked, still in our sandals, clinging together because we’re not very happy, although we’re drunk. Seeing us naked, exposed, for grabs, like in a brothel, they suddenly start losing, playing any old way just so they lose, and soon we’re all naked and we’re all in the bed with the black sheets, our sandals now on the floor, surrounded by colourful African masks with no eyes. I’ve already been groped all over though I don’t know by whom, I close my eyes and surrender to the kind of pleasure I’ve never experienced with my beloved, though I won’t admit that to myself, it’s not him I want, it’s Kostja, which I also don’t want to admit to myself, I’m just waiting, with unimaginable excitement, to fuse with Kostja, with Kostja, when suddenly, Kostja, the entertainment master, sits down on the bed, his feet on the floor and says: We can’t do this, we have to stop, and he takes his black plush dressing gown off the hook on the door and puts it on to seal his decision.

  The three of us on the bed feel as if we’ve been doused with cold water, we even avoid looking at each other, we sit up, now what, now what, the words ring in my head, I grab the black sheet and wrap it around me, because nakedness is shameful now. I go into the living room for my things, they’re strewn around the armchair where I was sitting, all of them black, the current girlfriend’s underwear is red and lacy (mine is plain and cotton), so I easily find mine and dress in the bathroom, which is tiled also in black. And then it’s let’s go, let’s go, let’s go, we can’t stay here anymore, I yank my beloved out of there as fast as I can, out of the flat where something awkward has happened, where I betrayed him, I don’t think about how he also betrayed me, I’m the only one who matters to me, I don’t understand myself, I disgust myself, and I feel humiliated, humiliated, I’ve got to go home right now.

  A week later, my beloved and I come back to Kostja’s, holding hands, smiling ear to ear, with plans exploding all around us like fireworks, and we inform him that we’re getting married. And ask him if he would be our best man, and he says yes.

  X.

  My beloved was going on a trip, and I was going with him, a short business trip, but it was spring, spring, we were going to a small town where spring stretched out its arms extravagantly like a giant, not modestly like a dwarf, the way it did here in the city, and I was looking forward to it as I packed, clothes for both warm weather and cold, because spring was capricious, warm in the day and freezing at night; you wouldn’t believe how many little things like that you had to think of.

  As soon as he got up, he wanted to tell me about the dream he had. He remembered every last detail; great, so don’t forget anything because I have to pack and can’t listen to you now. I’ll forget to take something, and then it’ll be where is this, where is that, you can tell me about it later, when we’re in the car, because we’re driving. And I sent him off to brush his teeth so that I could pack his toothbrush; he wasn’t happy about it but he did what he was told, maybe I’ll forget it, he said, as if it was immensely important, oh come on, I cut him off like a meat-axe, we’ve got things to do and you’re stopping me, and I was already in the kitchen making sandwiches for the trip, ham, cheese, pickles, a bit of mayonnaise... And a thermos of coffee.

  And then we hit the road, he was at the wheel, I was asleep, as soon as I sat down in the car I nodded off, I just passed out, my head dropped onto my chest, and he worried about my
neck, that I’d break it... I slept the whole way, and I was alone, he said, and when I woke up it was already dark, pitch black, but we left in the morning, have we been driving all day, I asked. And we still haven’t arrived anywhere, I said, even more surprised; just a little longer and we’re there, he said, pointing at the lights in the distance, which moved and jumped, becoming bigger and bigger, because, we realised, they were coming towards us.

  And then suddenly, darkness everywhere, as if there were no lights in this part of the world, and silence, broken only by the sound of invisible crickets, so he stopped the car, and now those faraway lights were all around us, they were torches, we realised, like in olden times. These were country folk carrying them, you could tell from how they looked, not that they pay much attention to that, I said. Because they were unshaven, their hair uncut, their clothes ragged, even smelly, a miserable bunch, trust peasants, I commented. Still, they looked unfriendly and dangerous with those torches in the darkness of night, on the unlit road, especially the leader, with his long moustache and beard, thick shaggy brows and small eyes, like two slits. And a nose like an eagle.

  It turned out that we had lost our way, that this wasn’t the place we were looking for, that we had nowhere to spend the night, that we’d have to sleep in the car, but that we were welcome to join the festivities which had just started, it’s the festival of the Wax Queen, their leader told us in a raspy voice. You’re going to melt the Wax Queen, I asked somewhat ironically, with a laugh to match. Seeming not to notice, their leader said yes, we were welcome to join them, if we wanted to, he said, as we drove slowly behind the torches, unable to refuse. And then we were already in the village and it was something to behold, wooden huts everywhere, as if nobody here had ever heard of progress, and in the middle of the village a huge burning pyre, without which we wouldn’t have been able to see those wooden huts, because the place was otherwise steeped in darkness. Encircling the pyre were women, all big and blond, their thick braids reaching down to their knees, you could almost climb up them, and when we got closer we saw that the women had blue eyes and dark lashes. They were all wearing the same white silk maxi dresses, the top part decorated with pearls and buttons covered in white, the belt on their waist is encrusted with pearls, he said with astonishing precision. But the men look ragged and I was surprised by the difference, which was so obvious, it’s hard to understand, I said to him as we got out of the car, still side by side. But not for long, not for long, because he was already following the men while I stayed behind with the women. He saw where I was and what I was doing, as if he had eyes in the back of his head. I stood there, staring into the heart of the fire, we’d never seen anything like it before, he said.