by Unknown
It was a short while later that she took my head in her hands and kissed me. And I started to believe that she was falling in love with me. Our acquaintance lasted from about nine o’clock, when we arrived at the club and she sat down on a chair next to me, to seven A.M., when we left the place, unwillingly (I, in any case, was unwilling).
Every single time she left me in the course of the ten hours, for example to be with the short Chinese, I felt like I was missing something. As if my existence were a clutching at empty air (which it quite possibly is). That’s exactly how it was when, over fifteen years ago, I met Charles. Empty, lonely, hollow, all wrong—if he wasn’t close by.
TRANSLATED FROM DANISH BY ROGER GREENWALD
[ROMANIA]
DAN LUNGU
7 P.M. Wife
He left the tinted-glass high-rise building without looking back. Not once. He was walking with resolute, unhurried steps, his eyes trained on the impeccably shined toecaps of his Timberland shoes. He hadn’t even bothered to reply to the doorman who had probably wished him well, smiling like someone in a dental-floss ad. He’d had enough of smiling and talking nicely. Being polite. Not being able to afford to lose his temper. That was what he did all day long. “Hell’s fuckin’ bells,” he hissed in spite of himself. He jumped into his car and took off his jacket and tie. Meaning it was Friday. On regular weekdays he’d only loosen his tie.
He nosed into the traffic instinctively, his mind void of all plans. He drove with the flow.
It was Friday after all.
The images around circled his brain like so many soap bubbles around a fan.
He reached the outskirts of the city and pulled over. He didn’t want to go anywhere. Well, he did, sort of, but not all that badly. Some other time.
He got out of the car to look at the hills.
Everything was so beautiful. Nothing was ever beautiful.
Still two hours to go until seven.
How long till seven? He glanced at his watch again. Two hours.
Sometimes he’d ask himself something and forget what it was.
Alternately, he’d answer his own questions and forget the answer.
“Hell’s fuckin’ bells” echoed through his mind.
His own voice. Or the memory of his own voice.
His temples were throbbing. The weekend headache. Nothing out of the ordinary. Everything was under control. Sales were doing well. What sales? He started. The memory of his boss’s voice.
He went into a bar and ordered a double shot of brandy. Closest bar to where he’d parked.
He eavesdropped on the patrons’ conversation, but their words circled his brain like so many soap bubbles around a fan. He liked the thick smoke. He liked the squalor in there. He liked the people—ugly, toothless, unshaven. Come to think of it, it was a good thing sales were doing so well. What sales? Installment sales, what else …
“Hell’s fuckin’ bells,” his voice snapped back at the memory of his boss’s voice.
A tumble with Carolina, a tumble with Carolina, kept ringing through his head.
One hour to go till seven.
It would have been nice if it had started raining out of the heavy smoke. A downpour of beer into the mugs of the toothless. Let the losers have a field day. Let ’em dance in the rain.
As for him, Carolina was going to save him. She was going to suck all the headache out of his head.
It was Friday after all.
How long till seven?
He drained his brandy and called her, though she was expecting him. No one answered. He left no message. Could be she was with another one of her johns.
“Hell’s fuckin’ bells.”
7 P.M. was booked exclusively for him; no one could take that away. He was paying for it. He was a faithful customer. He didn’t take anything on credit.
A tumble with Carolina, a tumble with Carolina.
He was a paying customer, wasn’t he? No one could take his hour away from him.
Frantically pressing the keys of his cell phone, he finished a second glass of brandy. Carolina wouldn’t answer. He panicked. It was the first time anything like this had happened to him. As a rule, Carolina was always waiting for him. There, in her rented flat.
He felt cheated.
Without fail, at the beginning of the weekend, he’d come to Carolina. She’d be waiting for him in lingerie he’d bought her himself. Sand-colored. 7 P.M. was his hour. He didn’t care about anything else.
He felt double-crossed. It just wasn’t fair. He had never ever barged his way in at any other hour. He didn’t care who she was screwing the rest of the time. But at 7 P.M. she was supposed to be at home for him. At 7 P.M. she was as good as his wife.
Carolina knew him well. Knew all his whims.
After a tumble with Carolina, he was back on his feet.
His temples throbbed.
Everything is under control. Nothing is ever under control.
Carolina had been unfaithful to him.
Like the cheapest whore.
Carolina was screwing another guy at his hour. She didn’t give a fuck about his headache. About his tiredness. About his having to go back to work on Monday. Having to talk nicely and keep smiling. Not losing his temper. Boosting sales.
“Hell’s fuckin’ bells …”
Carolina is a bitch in heat, he chalked on an imaginary wall.
He made up his mind to call Renata. She was a friend of hers, sort of. Well, to the extent two women working in that profession could be friends. She used to talk to him frequently enough about Renata, whom she had kind of adopted. Taught her the tricks of the trade. She’d given him her phone number the moment they started seeing each other. If you can’t reach me, you should try Renata, she’d told him back then. There’d never been any need to.
Renata answered the phone.
He didn’t have to go into any details about who he was before she said: oh, right, the 7 P.M. customer, aren’t you? No, she knew nothing about Carolina. Nothing whatsoever. They hadn’t seen each other in days. But she was available herself. Sure, right away.
He jumped into his car and drove back to the city.
A tumble with Renata, a tumble with Renata, kept ringing through his head.
It was getting dark.
On his way, he drove past Carolina’s block. All the lights were off. Totally off. He groped his way around the neighborhood till he found the right address.
Renata was waiting for him in a satin gown. Her curves hinted she was naked underneath. She was medium height, plump, and she looked somehow mischievous.
“While you undress, I’ll go to the bathroom,” she said.
He listened to her peeing for a long time.
The flat was dingy—two adjoining rooms. Probably rented. Sparsely furnished with odd pieces. A country rug for a bedspread. He lowered himself into a loose-springed armchair and started undressing listlessly. The atmosphere of impoverished improvisation depressed him. Not an ounce of warmth, not an ounce of imagination. Not one flower. At Carolina’s place everything had been shipshape.
He listened to Renata washing her hands and spraying herself. He didn’t hear her flush the toilet, though.
He watched her enter, brisk and roly-poly, crotch shaved. She’d left her gown in the bathroom.
“What’s up? Are we feeling a bit grumpy today?”
He nodded his assent. She started undressing him expertly.
“We can’t afford to be grumpy,” she grumbled.
She stood him on his feet as for some kind of physical and moved into gear. She started by nibbling at his nipples with her teeth, then little by little glided down towards his pubis. She was giving off a strong odor of cheap deodorant. Yet he had to admit she was adroit at using her tongue, she was almost as good as Carolina. When performing the act of fellatio, Carolina had once explained, unless you can make good use of your tongue, you’ll just botch the whole thing. Ever since, he’d been always alert to that particular skill. He felt his
member beginning to get stiff and his tiredness seemed to disperse. While getting on with her business, Renata watched him with her big blue eyes and attempted to smile at him, which made her face look rather sinister: like a snarling dog fiercely defending its bone.
“Now, that’s more like it … Who’s a pretty-pretty baby? Let’s put a nice hat on, so we don’t catch cold.” She went on talking to his sex while completely ignoring the rest of him.
She pulled one of the chest drawers open and produced a condom. She ripped the package open with her teeth. She caught its tip between her lips, dropped to her knees, and before unrolling it down his penis, she started chomping on it the way babies do a pacifier— imitating a baby’s gurgling cries all the while: ngwa-aa! ngwa-aa! ngwa-aa! He found it quite funny. He smiled.
“You liked my toy, didn’t you?”
He nodded his assent.
“Let’s get down to business and chase all your troubles away,” she said, bursting with optimism and cheerfulness, as if it’d been ages since she’d last done it.
He positioned himself behind her. Her back was broad and powerful.
“You’re from Transylvania?” he asked, panting slightly.
“How did you know?” she replied with another question, her voice muffled by a pillow.
“I could tell by your accent,” he went on, a barely audible tremor in his voice.
“If you don’t like it this way, we can change position …”
“Nah, this suits me fine … we can talk while we’re at it …”
Her groin, not quite recently shaven, prickled him a bit. He found she had rough skin in that area, somewhat leathery. Professionally calloused, flashed through his mind.
“You from somewhere in the country?” he asked, no hint of disdain in his voice.
“Yea, a village not far from Cloo-oojj … but how’d you figure that out?” she queried him earnestly, her voice seeming to rise from the bottom of a well.
“Well … it was that rug … gave me the clue,” he said in a quiet voice.
“Yup, it’s from Mom. It’s very precious to me. I take it along wherever I go working …”
Then they both gave up talking as things were moving to a crescendo.
When he was spent, he eased himself onto his back in satisfaction, eyes closed. His headache was beginning to let up. Renata sprang to her feet to walk off her accumulated stiffness.
“What about having another go?” she asked him cheerfully.
He signaled to her with his finger: he wasn’t game.
“Maybe next Friday,” he added a moment later, forcing the words out.
“I didn’t want to tell you right away, but since you’re bound to find out anyway … looks like Carolina might have found herself someone. She might leave the profession … At least that’s what people say …” she said, ill at ease.
He said nothing. She joined him in his silence.
A few moments later he heard her going to the bathroom again. A series of obscene plops, this time followed by the sound of a flush.
He rose heavily and started getting into his clothes.
He left her money on the table and cleared out while he could still hear the shower.
Back home he jumped into bed with his clothes on, a glass of brandy in his hand.
Eyes boring into the ceiling.
All that remained in his head was the echo of that prolonged piss, followed by obscene plops.
TRANSLATED FROM ROMANIAN BY JEAN HARRIS AND FLORIN BICAN
sons
[SWITZERLAND]
BERNARD COMMENT
A Son
“Orange juice.” The label in red letters on a white placard seemed decisive, rather too much so for this mixture of concentrate and water. That’s the most deplorable thing about chain and low-scale hotels: breakfast, this simulacrum of luxury divested of any attention for the guest. A flabby croissant, a jar of marmalade, two strips of cheese under plastic, an apple that’s too green and too smooth, sometimes some grapes out of season, looking Botoxed, with thick, flavorless skins, and coffee, there’s a coffee machine, we always have a slightly stupid look before a clipped conversation, especially in the morning when we haven’t slept well.
The notary public saw me first, it’s not charming at all, but you’re close to it all, to the cemetery, to the house, if you took a room that looked out on the courtyard, it wouldn’t be too noisy, the Périphérique is still far away, and in this weather the windows stay shut, he sniggered. It’s been raining for about an hour, with a low sky, everything is gloomy. The ceremony takes place at ten. I would have liked to get an umbrella at the reception desk, the lady looked confused, no, monsieur, we don’t have those, she might as well have said, this isn’t a palace, you’ll have to take care of yourself here, go on and find a store that sells those, I went out into the drizzle, going down side streets whenever I could. When I came to the cemetery entrance, it was early, too early.
I crossed the paths between the graves, thinking about going out the other exit, in this long narrow rectangle between the lanes of the Périphérique and the boulevards des Maréchaux, but the second door, black and solid iron, was shut, I had to retrace my steps and then go around the surrounding wall almost to the Châtillon gate where I finally found some newspapers. I couldn’t start the day without having read the paper, the sports scores, the major political events, that night’s TV shows, like a promise against boredom, but I told myself right away that this wouldn’t be smart, to show up at a father’s funeral with a newspaper in my pocket. I scanned the headlines, the general information predating what I’d heard on the radio this morning, the sports pages were boring, I discreetly threw the folded-up paper in a trash receptacle, one of those green plastic bags fluttering in the wind. I only had to wait ten minutes, we were meeting at the entrance, I hadn’t had any desire to be present for the closing of the coffin, in any case I would be alone, for whatever might happen.
In 1998 he decided to come live here, for the convenience of a ground-floor apartment, the notary public said, he lived entirely on the ground floor, the upper floors were only useful for storing things, this house was a nice setup, and he joked about no longer being in the center of Paris, but he didn’t go there much anymore, the attached garage was how he made his decision, you’ll get a great price for it, the market’s up again, the neighborhood to the south’s getting trendy, there’s a few celebrities in the area. I replied that we were going to bury my father, and as for the rest, we would see to it later, this was without question the first time I’d used the phrase “my father” out loud. The notary public understood, but he kept talking, the layout was simple, everything was ready for us, no possible contestation, there wasn’t anybody left in his family, you’re the last and sole representative. I thought that my mother must have been the last, at the time, she had been the last since her childhood, an orphan at three years old, malnourished, anemic, and graceful, with a fragile beauty, terribly fragile, but he was the one who would know.
The hearse started up, an elegant Mercedes, the red and black gate rose, I followed on foot, the burial plot wasn’t too far to the right. When the notary public came, I had to greet him, we were the only ones there aside from the two funeral home employees, but also because he had a face that matched his voice, and a raincoat on, I told myself. We could have asked for a priest, or an old friend, surgeons always had stories to tell, they thought of themselves as saviors, playing with the line between life and death, but it seems that he hadn’t been in touch with anyone for three or four years, was completely isolated, even from myself, he had stopped sending these pathetic letters that arrived more or less frequently for all five years, the memories, the regrets, how he had loved my mother, and how that love had been stronger than he had been, I remember that about him, he couldn’t sustain it anymore, I had every reason to bear a grudge against him, but he would have loved to see me again, to know more about me, about my studies, about my life now, the last letter must have c
ome in 2002, with forceful handwriting that had pressed down on the paper with a Bic pen, like a prescription, contrary to what somebody might have said to me he didn’t really know the risks, or the seriousness of the risks, she wanted a baby at any cost, only motherhood would give structure to her life, jobs in healthcare were rarely careers, no matter what people claimed, it was just a way to earn some money, or to ward off one’s fears, but for her, it was a full commitment, such determination that life gave her, what destinies followed, he put together sentences like that, an exceptional midwife, who wanted to have that same experience, he doubted that any other baby in the world had been more wanted than I was, this lachrymosity disgusted me, and then, for five years, silence, no more news, not one letter. It’s true that with Carole and her children we had moved abroad in 2003 without any forwarding instructions for the mailman. But I doubt that he wrote. I’m sure he let it pass.
The notary public walked with me to the cemetery exit, he was parked nearby, and when he went his way he told me, you’ve seen that the burial plot is set aside for two people, your father insisted it be like that, I don’t know what your intentions are, and this isn’t the time, but for what it’s worth, the fee’s been paid for a very long time, you know your father, he liked to plan for the long term, not to have to depend on anybody else. I replied curtly that no, I didn’t know my father. I didn’t have any memories of the first four years. Or they were hazy.
I came back to the boulevard Brune, inexplicably calm at this late hour in the morning, in the middle of the week. A tram passed, almost silently, then a few cars, going slow. I walked nonchalantly, aimlessly, in the emptiness of the hours to come. A new tram came toward me, it gave out a little chime. A strange chime, in juxtaposition with the machine’s modernity. It reminded me of the milkman’s van, elsewhere, at my aunt’s, in Switzerland, she who I called my aunt, anyway, by some strange convention, she’s been dead for several years, by a lake, I believe that she was happy at the end of her life, alone, sipping aperitifs and watching television or putting together the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, she wrote me every week, I went to see her three or four times a year, then my kids were born, we moved away from Europe, didn’t get back in touch when we returned, after so much time it would have been too difficult, I learned about her death from a neighbor to whom she always spoke highly of me and my family, her words filled with pride. I took the milk can and went down the stairs whenever the piercing chimes pealed far off so I wouldn’t miss the truck, and I loved the noise of the ladle that brought up milk from the huge boille, that’s the word we used there, the boille, there was a steel footboard at the back of the truck so kids could get up enough to see over the counter, we tipped him, then we put the other coins in our pockets, a secret we all shared, it was a little bit of money for candy, sometimes lollipops, usually chewing gum.
