Obsession: Tales of Irresistible Desire

by Paula Guran

  VJ nods numbly.

  Reebok looks at him, blinking, gaping. “VJ?”

  VJ points at an exit. “That one.”

  The exit’s a good choice: Caltrans is doing a lot of construction there, though the workers have all gone home, so there’s lots of cover, what with the earthmovers and all the raw wood, to hide what they are doing from people passing on the freeway, and there are places where the earth is dug out, to hide the body. VJ made a smart choice—he’s the smart one of the two guys, smarter than she is, she decides, but that doesn’t matter, because she is stronger than VJ in a certain way. That’s what counts.

  She’s thinking all this as she takes the South Road exit onto a utility road, in the country, with the construction between the road and the freeway, and no one around.

  She pulls the car up in a good spot. Reebok looks at them and then bursts out of the car and starts running, and she says, “VJ, you know he’s going to tell, he’s too scared.” VJ swallows and nods, and gets out and the gun barks in his hand, and Reebok goes spinning. VJ has to shoot another time before Reebok stops yelling. Barbara, all the while, is watching the wind pinwheeling some trash by, some napkins from a Burger King . . . just trash blowing by . . .

  Some more yelling. VJ has to shoot Reebok one last time.

  She squints into the sky, watches a hawk teetering on an updraft.

  VJ is throwing up now. He’ll feel better after throwing up. Throwing up always leaves a bad taste in the mouth, though.

  She wonders what VJ’s penis will taste like. It will probably taste okay. He seems clean.

  And VJ’s smart, and handsomer than Avery, and much younger, and she knows they belong together, she can feel it. It’s cute how VJ tries to hide it, but she can see it in his eyes when he thinks she’s not watching: he loves her. He does.

  She breathed in the salt air above the cliffs, but it was him she smelled, his breath, the scent of evergreen boughs beside shallow water, the leaves in his hair.

  Calypso In Berlin

  Elizabeth Hand

  Yesterday morning, he left. I had known he would only be here for those seven days. Now, just like that, they were gone.

  It had stormed all night, but by the time I came downstairs to feed the woodstove, the gale had blown out to sea. It was still dark, chill October air sifting through cracks in the walls. Red and yellow leaves were flung everywhere outside. I stepped into the yard to gather a handful and pressed my face against them, cold and wet.

  From the other side of the island a coyote yelped. I could hear the Pendletons’ rooster and a dog barking. Finally I went back inside, sat and watched the flames through the stove’s isinglass window. When Philip finally came down, he took one look at me, shook his head, and said, “No! I still have to go, stop it!”

  I laughed and turned to touch his hand. He backed away quickly and said, “None of that.”

  I saw how he recoiled. I have never kept him here against his will.

  When Odysseus left, he was suspicious, accusatory. They say he wept for his wife and son, but he slept beside me each night for seven years and I saw no tears. We had two sons. His face was imprinted upon mine, just as Philip’s was centuries later: unshaven, warm, my cheeks scraped and my mouth swollen. In the morning I would wake to see Philip watching me, his hand moving slowly down the curve of my waist.

  “No hips, no ass,” he said once. “You’re built like a boy.”

  He liked to hold my wrists in one hand and straddle me. I wondered sometimes about their wives: were they taller than me? Big hips, big tits? Built like a woman?

  Calypso. The name means the concealer. “She of the lovely braids” —that’s how Homer describes me. One morning Philip walked about my cottage, taking photos off the bookshelves and looking at them.

  “Your hair,” he said, holding up a picture. “It was so long back then.”

  I shrugged. “I cut it all off a year ago. It’s grown back—see?” Shoulder-length now, still blond, no gray.

  He glanced at me, then put the picture back. “It looked good that way,” he said.

  This is what happens to nymphs: they are pursued or they are left. Sometimes, like Echo, they are fled. We turn to trees, seabirds, seafoam, running water, the sound of wind in the leaves. Men come to stay with us, they lie beside us in the night, they hold us so hard we can’t breathe. They walk in the woods and glimpse us: a diving kingfisher, an owl caught in the headlights, a cold spring on the hillside. Alcyone, Nyctimene, Peirene, Echo, Calypso: these are some of our names. We like to live alone, or think we do. When men find us, they say we are lovelier than anything they have ever seen: wilder, stranger, more passionate. Elemental. They say they will stay forever. They always leave.

  We met when Philip missed a flight out of Logan. I had business at the gallery that represents me in Cambridge and offered him a place to stay for the night: my hotel room.

  “I don’t know too many painters,” he said. “Free spirits, right?” He was intrigued by what I told him of the island. The sex was good. I told him my name was Lyssa. After that we’d see each other whenever he was on the East Coast. He was usually leaving for work overseas but would add a few days to either end of his trip, a week even, so we could be together. I had been on the island for—how long? I can’t remember now.

  I began sketching him the second time he came here. He would never let me do it while he was awake. He was too restless, jumping up to pull a book off the shelf, make coffee, pour more wine.

  So I began to draw him while he slept. After we fucked he’d fall heavily asleep; I might doze for a few minutes, but sex energizes me, it makes me want to work.

  He was perfect for me. Not conventionally handsome, though. His dark eyes were small and deep set, his mouth wide and uneven. Dark, thick hair, gray-flecked. His skin unlined. It was uncanny— he was in his early fifties but seemed as ageless as I was, as though he’d been untouched by anything, his time in the Middle East, his children, his wife, his ex-wife, me. I see now that this is what obsessed me—that someone human could be not merely beautiful but untouched. There wasn’t a crack in him; no way to get inside. He slept with his hands crossed behind his head, long body tipped across the bed. Long arms, long legs; torso almost hairless; a dark bloom on his cheeks when he hadn’t shaved. His cock long, slightly curved; moisture on his thigh.

  I sketched and painted him obsessively, for seven years. Over the centuries there have been others. Other lovers, always; but only a few whom I’ve drawn or painted on walls, pottery, tapestry, paper, canvas, skin. After a few years I’d grow tired of them—Odysseus was an exception—and gently send them on their way. As they grew older they interested me less, because of course I did not grow old. Some didn’t leave willingly. I made grasshoppers of them, or mayflies, and tossed them into the webs of the golden orbweaver spiders that follow me everywhere I live.

  But I never grew tired of Philip.

  And I never grew tired of painting him. No one could see the paintings, of course, which killed me. He was so paranoid that he would be recognized, by his wife, his ex, one of his grown children. Coworkers.

  I was afraid of losing him, so I kept the canvases in a tiny room off the studio. The sketchbooks alone filled an entire shelf. He still worried that someone would look at them, but no one ever came to visit me, except for him. My work was shown in the gallery just outside Boston. Winter landscapes of the bleak New England countryside I loved; skeletons of birds, seals. Temperas, most of them; some pen-and-ink drawings. I lived under Andrew Wyeth’s long shadow, as did everyone else in my part of the country. I thought that the paintings I’d done of Philip might change that perception. Philip was afraid that they would.

  “Those could be your Helga paintings,” he said once. It was an accusation, not encouragement.

  “They would be Calypso’s paintings,” I said. He didn’t understand what I meant.

  Odysseus’s wife was a weaver. I was, too. It’s right there in Homer. When Hermes came
to give me Zeus’s command to free Odysseus, I was in my little house on the island, weaving scenes into tunics for Odysseus and the boys. They were little then, three and five. We stood on the shore and watched him go. The boys ran screaming after the boat into the water. I had to grab them and hold them back; I thought the three of us would drown, they were fighting so to follow him.

  It was horrible. Nothing was as bad as that, ever; not even when Philip left.

  Penelope. Yes, she had a son, and like me she was a weaver. But we had more in common than that. I was thinking about her unraveling her loom each night, and it suddenly struck me: this was what I did with my paintings of Philip. Each night I would draw him for hours as he slept. Each day I would look at my work, and it was beautiful. They were by far my best paintings. They might even have been great.

  And who knows what the critics or the public might have thought? My reputation isn’t huge, but it’s respectable. Those paintings could have changed all that.

  But I knew that would be it: if I showed them, I would never see him again, never hear from him, never smell him, never taste him.

  Yet even that I could live with. What terrified me was the thought that I would never paint him again. If he was gone, my magic would die. I would never paint again.

  And that would destroy me: to think of eternity without the power to create. Better to draw and paint all night; better to undo my work each dawn by hiding it in the back room.

  I thought I could live like that. For seven years I did. And then he left. The storm blew out to sea, the leaves were scattered across the lake. The house smelled of him still, my breath smelled of him, my hair. I stood alone at the sink, scrubbing at the pigments caked under my fingernails; then suddenly doubled over, vomiting on the dishes I hadn’t done yet from last night’s dinner.

  I waited until I stopped shaking. Then I cleaned the sink, cleaned the dishes, squeezed lemons down the drain until the stink was gone. I put everything away. I went into the back room, stood for a long time and stared at the paintings there.

  Seven years is a long time. There were a lot of canvases; a lot of sheets of heavy paper covered with his body, a lot of black books filled with his eyes, his cock, his hands, his mouth. I looked up at the corner of the room by the window, saw the web woven by the big yellow spider, gray strands dusted with moth wings, fly husks, legs. I pursed my lips and whistled silently, watched as the web trembled and the spider raced to its center, her body glistening like an amber bead. Then I went to my computer and booked a flight to Berlin.

  It was a city that Philip loved, a city he had been to once, decades ago, when he was studying in Florence. He spent a month there— this was long before the Wall fell—never went back, but we had spoken, often, of going there together.

  I had a passport—I’m a nymph, not an agoraphobe—and so I e-mailed my sister Arethusa, in Sicily. We are spirits of place; we live where the world exhales in silence. As these places disappear, so do we.

  But not all of us. Arethusa and I kept in touch intermittently. Years ago she had lived on the Rhine. She said she thought she might still know someone in Germany. She’d see what she could do.

  It turned out the friend knew someone who had a sublet available. It was in an interesting part of town, said Arethusa; she’d been there once. I was a little anxious about living in a city—I’m attached to islands, to northern lakes and trees, and I worried that I wouldn’t thrive there, that I might in fact sicken.

  But I went. I paid in advance for the flat, then packed my paintings and sketchbooks and had them shipped over. I carried some supplies and one small sketchbook, half-filled with drawings of Philip, in my carry-on luggage. I brought my laptop. I closed up the cottage for the winter, told the Pendletons I was leaving and asked them to watch the place for me. I left them my car as well.

  Then I caught the early morning ferry to the mainland, the bus to Boston. There was light fog as the plane lifted out of Logan, quickly dispersing into an arctic blue sky. I looked down and watched a long, serpentine cloud writhing above the Cape and thought of Nephele, a cloud nymph whom Zeus had molded to resemble Hera.

  Why do they always have to change us into something else? I wondered, and sat back to watch the movie.

  Berlin was a shock. We are by nature solitary and obsessive, which has its own dangers—like Narcissus, we can drown in silence, gazing at a reflection in a still pool.

  But in a city, we can become disoriented and exhausted. We can sicken and die. We are long-lived, but not immortal.

  So Arethusa had chosen my flat carefully. It was in Schöneberg, a quiet, residential part of the city. There were no high-rises. Chestnut trees littered the sidewalks with armored fruit. There were broad streets where vendors sold sunflowers and baskets of hazelnuts; old bookstores, a little shop that stocked only socks, several high-end art galleries; green spaces and much open sky.

  “Poets lived there,” Arethusa told me, her voice breaking up over my cell phone. “Before the last big war.”

  My flat was in a street of century-old apartment buildings. The foyer was high and dim and smelled of pipe tobacco and pastry dough. The flat itself had been carved from a much larger suite of rooms. There was a pocket-sized kitchenette, two small rooms facing each other across a wide hallway, a tiny, ultramodern bath.

  But the rooms all had high ceilings and polished wooden floors glossy as bronze. And the room facing a courtyard had wonderful northern light.

  I set this up as my studio. I purchased paints and sketchpads, a small easel. I set up my laptop, put a bowl of apples on the windowsill where the cool fall air moved in and out. Then I went to work.

  I couldn’t paint.

  Philip said that would happen. He used to joke about it—you’re nothing without me, you only use me, what will you do if ever I’m gone, hmmmm?

  Now he was gone, and it was true. I couldn’t work. Hours passed, days; a week.

  Nothing.

  I flung open the casement windows, stared down at the enclosed courtyard and across to the rows of windows in other flats just like mine. There were chestnut trees in the yard below, neat rows of bicycles lined up beneath them. Clouds moved across the sky as storms moved in from the far lands to the north. The wind tore the last yellow leaves from the trees and sent them whirling up toward where I stood, shivering in my moth-eaten sweater.

  The wind brought with it a smell: the scent of pine trees and the sea, of rock and raw wool. It was the smell of the north, the scent of my island—my true island, the place that had been my home, once. It filled me not with nostalgia or longing but with something strange and terrible, the realization that I no longer had a home. I had only what I made on the page or canvas. I had bound myself to a vision.

  Byblis fell hopelessly in love and became a fountain. Echo wasted into a sound in the night. Hamadryads die when their trees die.

  What would become of me?

  I decided to go for a walk.

  It is a green city. Philip had never told me that. He spoke of the wars, the Nazis, the bombs, the Wall. I wandered along the Ebersstrasse to the S-Bahn station; then traveled to the eastern part of the city, to the university, and sat at a cafe beneath an elevated railway, where I ate roasted anchovies and soft white cheese while trains racketed overhead. The wall behind me was riddled with bullet holes. If this building had been in the western part of the city, it would have been repaired or torn down. In the east there was never enough money for such things. When I placed my hand upon the bullet holes they felt hot, and gave off a faint smell of blood and scorched leather. I finished my lunch and picked up a bit of stone that had fallen from the wall, put it in my pocket with some chestnuts I had gathered, and walked on.

  The sun came out after a bit. Or no, that may have been another day—almost certainly it was. The leaves were gone from the linden trees, but it was still lovely. The people were quiet, speaking in low voices.

  But they were seemingly as happy as people ever are. I began to take m
y sketchbooks with me when I walked, and I would sit in a cafe or a park and draw. I found that I could draw Philip from memory. I began to draw other things, too—the lindens, the ugly modern buildings elbowing aside the older terraces that had not been destroyed by the bombings. There were empty fountains everywhere; and again, here in the eastern part of the city there had been no money to restore them or to keep the water flowing. Bronze Nereids and Neptunes rose from them, whitened with bird droppings. Lovers still sat beside the empty pools, gazing at drifts of dead leaves and old newspapers while pigeons pecked around their feet. I found this beautiful and strange, and also oddly heartening.

  A few weeks after my arrival, Philip called. I hadn’t replied to his e-mails, but when my cell phone rang, I answered.

  “You’re in Berlin?” He sounded amused but not surprised. “Well, I wanted to let you know I’m going to be gone again, a long trip this time. Damascus. I’ll come see you for a few days before I go.”

  He told me his flight time, then hung up. What did I feel then? Exhilaration, desire, joy: but also fear. I had just begun to paint again; I was just starting to believe that I could, in fact, work without him.

  But if he were here?

  I went into the bedroom. On the bed, neatly folded, was another thing I had brought with me: Philip’s sweater. It was an old, tweed patterned wool sweater, in shades of umber and yellow and russet, with holes where the mice had nested in it back in the cottage. He had wanted to throw it out, years ago, but I kept it. It still smelled of him, and I slept wearing it, here in the flat in Schöneberg, the wool prickling against my bare skin. I picked it up and buried my face in it, smelling him, his hair, his skin, sweat.

  Then I sat down on the bed. I adjusted the lamp so that the light fell upon the sweater in my lap; and began, slowly and painstakingly, to unravel it.

  It took a while, maybe an hour. I was careful not to fray the worn yarn, careful to tie the broken ends together. When I was finished, I had several balls of wool; enough to make a new sweater. It was late by then, and the shops were closed. But first thing next morning I went to the little store that sold only socks and asked in my halting German where I might find a knitting shop. I had brought a ball of wool to show the woman behind the counter. She laughed and pointed outside, then wrote down the address. It wasn’t far, just a few streets over. I thanked her, bought several pairs of thick argyle wool socks, and left.