Flame Angels

by Robert Wintner

  Then came the irrational hunger for more, for depths where no human could survive — for sexual appetite that reduced every experience prior to this one as nothing, as a series of strolls down empty streets. But then love never did make sense.

  At one time a two-pack-per-day man, because nicotine could take the edge off so much life and vigor and seething energy, Ravid had quit smoking years ago, because smoking can kill you and will make you stink in the meantime. But when she lit up and offered him one, he took it, inhaling the small death of a man willing to pay the price for this taste of perfection, in which every qualm is incidental to the timeless moments of aftermath. She told him she knew it from the moment she saw him.

  He figured most women had that power, to know whatever they want from whomever they want, but he only agreed, “Yes.” He told her he saw her too as somebody different, but the greatest difference was her presence, so warm and, well, commanding, that he had only to let go and let the whirlpool claim him.

  She smiled sanguinely and said, “Yes. My presence is regal, but I don’t say that from vanity. My family was ali‘i, but we don’t talk about that, because it’s inconvenient. You see all these Hawaiians now claiming cultural rights they never had in the first place, because the things they claim, like fishing grounds and netting privileges and whatnot were kapu to them. They would have been killed for those things in the day. But we don’t talk about it, because we lost so much and whatever anybody gets back is a good thing.”

  They smoked.

  Ravid got up for a beer for him, more wine for her. She called, “Do you think I’m stupid?”

  Only when you say whatnot —

  “Why would you ask such a thing? Why would I think you are stupid?”

  “Because we were more than ali‘i. We were regal. That’s why I can say that about my presence — for generations members of my family were held in awe. Nobody could look upon us. People bowed their heads when my family was near, had to, or they died. But we don’t talk about that time either, because it’s more inconvenient. Some people here will kill you today for talking about those things and those times. But I think you felt it — I mean my presence.”

  “What things don’t they talk about?”

  “Inbreeding for one thing. We did that. We like to think it’s all played out. It was five or six generations ago, and in some families more. The royal families did it. That’s why we lost, because our monarchs were mentally retarded. You can’t say that. I can’t say that.”

  “I never heard they were mentally retarded.”

  “You won’t. Maybe they weren’t.”

  “But you worry about it?”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes I think I sound stupid. But then I realize most of the people I know sound stupid sometimes. So maybe I’m only normal. Besides, I have so many other bloodlines in my family. I think we might have had some, you know, ditzies on da kine side.”

  He laughed. “That’s not a very nice way to put it.”

  “I told you. I don’t talk like that to anybody else. Only you. I think we’ll be together a long time.”

  You do? He didn’t need to speak, with his eyes asking so openly and her eyes so freely confirming, till he blinked and changed the subject. “The missionaries were compelling. They were able to conquer many places besides Hawaii, places where the monarchs didn’t interbreed.”

  “Maybe. It doesn’t matter now. I just don’t want to sound stupid.” She rolled over, turning her lovely self to him. “Promise me you’ll tell me if I ever sound stupid.”

  “Don’t say whatnot.”

  She sat up. “God! What is it with you men? Not five minutes after you get what you want, you’re telling me what not to do!”

  “No. I didn’t mean it that way. You asked me to...”

  But she was only pulling his leg before laughing and showing him the true meaning of promiscuity in the tropics and whatnot. Immersed in her simple yet thorough solution to the mysteries of the Universe, he wondered how such a being could ever think herself retarded.

  Could This Be It?

  Of course Minna Somayan was a walking, talking, living, breathing milestone in the life of any man. That she could pick that man at will and was perfectly, perhaps casually, cognizant of her power could have been perceived as arrogant, but the man in question didn’t see it that way at all. Like a poor working stiff who buys a Lotto ticket on his way home from the grind, he had won the jackpot of her love. Neither home nor life would ever be the same. How could they be? To Ravid Rockulz, she epitomized luck in all things and perfection in womanhood, running the gamut from emotional, spiritual, fulfilling, loving and simply wondrous to be around to the sheer scent, taste and essence of her. Always happy, sharing, giving, Minna came on from ten paces out, sweetly aromatic as the perfumed blossoms she wore, pikake, plumeria, tuberose or gardenia. She opened her arms like a tropical larder on arrival to reveal her luau on wheels, and what wheels they were: from the tips of her toes, on which he experimented with his mouth, never yet in life so motivated to touch seemingly disparate senses and body parts, on up to her ankles, calves, thighs and so on, but never far enough, never quite gaining his fill. The wonderful exasperation left him panting with the fatigue of a man in early life, recently arriving at square one of All Meaning.

  Like a lone climber at the top of the highest mountain in the world, he jumped for joy and a few more inches of altitude.

  The when and where of his future became incidental overnight to who and what, to any time, any place. He hated to press the issue on sexual felicitation, didn’t want to plead on behalf of an appetite and need hitherto unknown that now charged to life like a monster, a famished monster — or, worse yet, like a growing boy — but it wasn’t necessary. Their communion occurred as naturally as sundown, as ten, midnight, four and first light, because love, like time, is a constant, always there, unchanging and steady — even right after breakfast, home for lunch and mere minutes after quitting time.

  But Ravid and Minna shared a notable observation in this phase of amazement and anarchy, in which the rigors of etiquette and moderation were rent asunder. Each had reached the pinnacle of satisfaction in the past, however briefly. Ravid had actually spoken to himself during one exchange not so long ago with a lovely tourist woman whose name escaped him for the moment. During the event, he’d pledged to his heart of hearts that this is it, my one and only, true love, forever and ever, don’t stop, and so on and so forth. Yet separating the man from his seed also served to separate the man from his sentiment — returning the man to his better senses, such as they were. He knew clearly in a moment that she wasn’t it. She demonstrated expertise in fundamental friction on primed genitalia.

  That exchange with Marcia, the clinical psychologist from San Francisco was recalled for its generosity, its skill level and more: It proved the hazardous potential for false correlation in the love game, in which a man must consider love with caution. That is, a blowjob can be lovely and perceived as a loving experience. But it may also be, simply stated, a great blowjob and nothing more or less.

  On the reasonable side, a sated man is rarely romantic, proven by the aftermath of Marcia’s special gift; the confused woman with impressive credentials and skills indeed provided clarity between love and delusion.

  But here was the real article at last, true love, one and only, forever and ever and on and on. No sooner did one of these young folk whimper at the apex than the other would follow, so synchronous was the appetite, timing and communion between Ravid and Minna. Then came proof that this was the real McCoy, meaning eternal love and not just your standard squishathon orgasm medley with someone who merely looks and feels great — which it was, but with a brand-new twist that rendered desire immortal. Ravid suffered an impatience as yet unknown, a restlessness for the next hour or maybe only twenty minutes to hurry up and pass so that his youthful vigor could restore itself for another go, because he couldn’t get his fill, not with any opening of her beautifully innocent self
or with all of them, even as they oozed his effusions of love. Which would sound disgusting without the love, but with the love was purely loving and natural.

  Naturally, for most women, the need for cuddles was predictable, yet here too a difference overlaid the usual: She pledged her love verbally for eternity and got down to specifics of her life, its emptiness without him, her willingness to give him anything in all ways in exchange for his love, foremost of which would be her undying love.

  Between such exhaustive bouts of spoken pledge and unbridled lust they slept like the dead, or rather like people fatigued from a lifetime of love, even if theirs had lasted only a day or two. They snored like winter bears, mouths open, awkwardly splayed, drooling, their faces wrinkled with pillow imprints and in all manner graceless as the lumps of flesh and bone all souls are born into and then wear out till the day they depart. They woke to see each other in reality, in less glorious light than the dazzling first blush they’d shared; yet this reality seemed more glorious for the drive sustained. Then they mounted up for a most wondrous reawakening.

  Of course such a dreamy and rigorous regimen of physical and emotional endurance could not continue indefinitely, not if they had any hope of growing old together, which was the road they had already chosen to walk, hand in hand. Ravid sighed, not certain if he was dreaming or awake but fairly confident that it didn’t matter — Crusty Geizen had yelled in front of people once that he, Ravid, was a menace to society, such a bumbling idiot that he could fuck up a wet dream. Ravid had nearly cried, but now he laughed; maybe this was it, the ultimate wet dream, and he was pulling it off, so to speak, but boy oh boy, would he ever be disappointed, waking up from this one. Well, he didn’t think he could, because this was what became of him, what would become of him. Marriage had seemed unnecessary for the two decades since he’d first discovered women and women had made themselves available for sexual adventures and more; the adventures had been plenty enough, thank you very much, and with fondness, adieu. Except for what’s-her-name with the spiky white hair.

  Boy, good thing she split.

  And nothing had changed: Marriage still seemed unnecessary, a socially contrived by-product of something far greater than a formal ceremony. Marriage was a convenience, a device invented and promoted by the female faction to underscore what had been agreed upon and was fervently hoped to actually exist. Naturally the female faction wanted happiness on both the practical and technical levels, which, let’s face it, would secure everyone against that time when age and gravity would remove them from the nubile graces. Well, so be it. Here was a classic example of love that seemed destined for immortality. Here was a woman that Ravid could not for the life of him imagine ever wanting to lose. It was just that simple. And if life in society could be easier with a conventional bourgeois formality, then let it occur. It still wasn’t necessary, but he flat didn’t care.

  It happened quick as a wink, hardly an hour or two after a rousing exchange of passion and competitive lack of inhibition perhaps triggered by her absence; she was off working the swing shift at the hospital after a half day of regular work and a few afternoon classes. She came home to announce that she’d received a promotion. It brought no money or benefits or whatnot, but it was nonetheless recognition of her skills, commitment and service. She would be Volunteer Coordinator, which she wasn’t even sure she wanted to be; it would take so much paper pushing and mean less time on the ward, where she could make her biggest contribution, but still, she’d give it a chance, because doing a good job would make her a shoo-in for administrative bonuses once she got her nursing degree.

  Ravid surged with pride because his woman was far more than beautiful; she was recognized as a key player, just like he was. And so, proudly, he disrobed her and made his own greatest contribution, which she called a benefit after all. Then they ravaged the pornography potential between them and reached the summit in a chorus of celebration.

  Ravid had rolled over and drifted off as often as most men do, but the unique nature of his satisfaction roused him to greater levels. So he rolled off the bed and stood before his player and messy CD collection, deciding on something different to capture the rare mood, something he hadn’t heard in a while, which meant something from the bottom of the pile. That’s where Annie Lennox had wound up, in spite of his love, and because of it. But time and fresh, new love had healed the pain. He scoffed at the notion of missing Annie and again at not even remembering her real name. In case-closing finality, he did ponder the great potential for fun with Annie and Minna together — with himself in the center, of course. Ha! Hey, Annie would go for it. Maybe she’d be back. Maybe not. Who cared?

  So he spun the disk and dove back onto the bed, advising his love to listen to a favorite song of all time. Oh, sure, he’d loved it for years in Bob Marley’s original form, but this rendition by Annie Lennox could really bend his knees — and play tricks on his heart like an echo off a canyon wall. He thought he heard a distant warble in harmony with the his stereo and turned to Minna as she brought up her own volume in perfect syncopation, in the rhythm and lilt of love.

  He could only listen until he had to move in the flow of a mighty current. Any man caught in the frictional flow knows that love is illusory, that brief, deep emotion may not actually source from the heart but from the hub of physical gratification. Ravid had been swept into those eddies and undertows before; he knew. Yet in that moment he knew something else, something greater, perhaps, as a man in a dream under water can know how to breathe between the water.

  He saw her as a mirror image of himself. She seemed to see the same thing.

  “You want to marry me?” he heard himself whisper in a dreamy sigh at the dream date beside him, as if the last breath of an old life drained out of him directly toward the object of his new life. He verged on tears, as this simple question brought them to an emotional summit of perfect sense — and he laughed; getting married seemed so much easier than another fuck. Let life together begin so they could relax for a change.

  “Oh, God!” came the dreamy response beside him. And so they agreed to become one more immutable force of nature, like sun up or lush, tropical growth, flowing inexorably as love until something had to give.

  Neither wanted to wait in vain or in any way. They wanted the dam bursting between them to flood their little village in rapturous immersion in each other.

  Their wedding set the tenor of love everlasting, though the ceremony itself seemed so incidental that it nearly made them laugh, like it was a goof, a thing to get out of the way, so unnecessary that it hardly warranted more than fundamental recognition — certainly not a hoedown. Expedience and efficiency would be much better. Then they could have a major shindig next week and announce their betrothal. Who would be invited? That was easy: everyone. In the meantime, their love was their relief.

  Minna revealed new skills that made her all the more endearing. In perfect pitch and communion with the gods of sweetness and harmony, she could sing, and so she did, while pursuing with administrative dispatch the Justice of the Peace. She found him and made an appointment for a small, private ceremony at the cottage the following afternoon. Skinny would be the witness — her acquiescent meow triggered wild laughter — and though she fit the bill on all qualifications at home, the State required a human witness. So Ravid called his old colleague and mentor, Carl Geizen, with a “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!...”

  Again the lovebirds squealed with laughter; it was so much fun, though Crusty didn’t think it one bit funny to call mayday if you weren’t really going down.

  “Hey, Crusty. Cut me some slack. Okay? I want you to be my best man. Okay?”

  “You want me?” Buoyed by this gesture of friendship, Crusty agreed and canceled his whale watch the following afternoon. “I only had four. They got on other boats.” Crusty showed up in a three-piece suit still serving as a point of pride, though he wore it more for funerals than for weddings. Threadbare and baggy, he rounded out his uptown ensemble with a m
ermaid tie.

  “Was that your bar mitzvah suit?”

  “Yeah. If that means ‘fourth marriage and shit-faced drunk.’” Like an old man with a lazy shuffle, he stepped to the line, ready to witness.

  The magistrate also stepped up — holding a bible with a red ribbon bound in it as a place marker, which Ravid had never seen in an Old Testament. So he said, “Can I see that, please?” And there before him were the words that would bind him forever to his one true love in the eyes of Jesus. “Oh!”

  “What?”

  “This says ‘Jesus.’ I’m Jewish.”

  “Good news: Jesus was Jewish. In fact, he was the king of the Jews.”

  Ravid didn’t know whether to brain the guy or tell him to get out, so he glared. Then he said, “Aren’t you a civil servant?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “And this is a civil ceremony?”

  “I pick my own ceremonies.”

  “That’s fine. You pick your own ceremonies, and I’ll pick mine.”