Not a rosy overhaul

I've just finished rewriting chapter 18. I felt it needed a major overhaul. Well, it's the longest chapter yet and, believe me, it was far from rosy rewriting it. The original version (finished at 3 in the morning, which, in a way, is fitting) had lots of mistakes (grammar, punctuation) and was a bit too jumbled up to make sense. It should read better now. Now, the question is: even if it reads better, does it make any sense to you?

19. Of ripe figs cut open in the dark

Nicole took two Valiums to sleep, and that normally should’ve done it; its effects should’ve been almost immediate. Yet, half an hour later she was awake as ever before and staring at the ceiling in the dark, eyes wide open. She had only taken her jeans off and, finally giving up on sleep, raised herself from the bed where, by now, Dick should’ve been with her. The fact was, he had not come home and, at 3.30 a.m., it was late – too late, even for him, to return home. For some years now, Dick had been arriving later and later. From the hospital, he had told her. In the beginning, he used to call her to tell her when he'd arrive or simply that he'd be coming home later without giving her any precise indication of the hour. Over time, he had stopped calling and had even switched off his mobile phone. But he had always come home, eventually. Gradually, Nicole started worrying less, without, however, ever getting used to it; without ever really ceasing to worry.

She made her way to the kitchen, where she found a bottle of Portuguese red wine, almost full, next to a plate of fresh figs. After a moment’s hesitation, she uncorked the bottle and poured herself a glass that she took, at random, from the cupboard above the sink. She didn’t bother to switch on the lights.

It was only half a glass, but she drank it in one gulp. And, then, for no apparent reason, she took another glass from the cupboard and placed it next to hers on the kitchen table by the window. There Nicole sat – where she usually sat when she and Dick had breakfast or, when they still ate together, dinner. She remembered Dick’s fancy for trying exotic wines and when they went to wine shops together; he with the wine guide he’d gotten for that year, she with the list of New York merchants, circling in red their names and addresses. She remembered the arguments over directions that always finished in a good laugh. The awkward moments when neither Dick or the merchants could agree on the pronunciation of European wines and how it later became their private jokes. The fun they had, coded in their common language that no‑one else shared. How none of them could cook and thus often ended up just drinking with a can of asparagus, mushrooms or whatever preserve they could get their hands on, from what they called their “emergency stash”. It turned out their “emergency stash” was far more commonly used than either of them had ever anticipated. Their obstinate refusal to acknowledge their inability as housekeepers always, without exception, brought a smile to their faces whenever one of them opened the cabinet of cans and sealed jars and of dried fruits and nuts. It was their furtive ritual to which no explanations nor words were needed.

Nicole glanced at the empty glass in front of her, imagining Dick seating in front of her. To do this was relatively easy in the almost darkness; the shadows and the shimmering street lights down below, diffused by the pale grey or yellow‑ochre building walls, helped her make up a shape and, consequently, a presence with her in the kitchen space. And this presence she made out to be Dick and she miracle‑hoped to hear his voice from within those shadows, asking her to pour him a glass of wine too. For a few minutes she waited, every breath she took hinging on that impossible figment of her imagination. Slowly, so that she could be aware of the most infinitesimal sound or tangible sign of him, she poured a second glass; this time, a full glass. She took it to her lips, her eyes never quitting Dick’s empty glass. By now, so she had determined, – obliterating from her mind the fact that she took that second glass herself, unasked – it was his glass. She simply refused to believe in the inutility of that empty glass on the kitchen table. The glass was there and it was his; it was there for him. And she only let her mind work from that moment, from that reality, on, erasing everything that preceded it. The logics behind any particular chain of events, where one thing leads to any other possible thing, was, at that instant, something too painful for her to bear, and so she chose to act purely out of belief. She drank the glass to the last drop, tilting her head backwards, eyes shut. When she’d open them, she made herself believe, Dick would be there. He would appear to her in the same way the numbers of the lottery do: random and meaningless at first, but when combined in the right sequence, transmute into the lucky winner’s prize. Without thinking, she put her glass down, filled it and glanced again at Dick’s glass. Nicole slouched in the chair, twisting her glass on the table with her left hand; her breath the only sound in the kitchen. The wine and the tranquilizers were beginning to kick in and her eyelids began weighing on her.

A fathom of light shone on the plate of figs, illuminating the blade of the dessert knife resting on the brim of the plate. Nicole took it and breathed once, letting out a deep sigh that echoed in the apartment. She listened to her own sighing and waited for its vanishing sound to subside. When finally contented with the silence back in the kitchen, she began cutting the figs open. They were ripe. She pondered about eating them, but could not bring herself to do it. The figs remained there, languidly bleeding their syrup; and Nicole abandoned herself to watching them, immobile as if time had been halted.

And that’s when, as if to break a spell, she made a sudden move for the bottle and filled the glass she had set for Dick. In the same abrupt movement, she grabbed her glass and quaffed it in one swig. She put it down violently on the table with a loud bang; and, stealing one look at his glass and the wine as she'd poured the instant before, Nicole shouted

“Bingo!”

And it was then, when she heard herself shout, nearly choking, that she noticed she had been crying all along – a steady stream of heavy tears carving through the skin of her face.

18. The end is nothing (How far north can roses grow?)

Somewhere in northern parts, late first roses might be coming into bloom.

My concern – if you can call it a concern – is those first roses, the first ever to come out of their buds when all else around them is just green. If I were to assume that flowers blossom later in the North than in the South – which is a fair assumption, I think – then roses that have blossomed in New York, haven’t yet further north. Let’s say upstate New York or New Hampshire or Maine. And because it’s June, New York roses have withered by now. By May, roses in New York have already given place to new roses – second and third successions of roses. The point I’m trying to make is: but maybe not yet somewhere to the north. If this were April or May, I wouldn’t have to think about any other places and could settle for New York. But it’s June, which is to say, it’s too late for first roses in New York. For those inaugural rose blooms. As first rose blooms matter, my thoughts, because they’re set in New York, have arrived too late.

So, I suppose there are no first roses left, but those late roses in northern latitudes. So, really, my question is: how far north can roses grow?

And if I try and picture roses, I see them growing in rose beds. In places with people. On gardens, on terraces, on verandas, in flower pots and in garden corners. Some against a wall or a fence, or climbing, in uneven spirals, up a pergola. The only roses I can see are those that come up in my recollection. And, in my recollection, they’re all roses whose evolution, from bud to full flower, is harnessed to the aesthetic pleasure of whoever tends to them and in accordance to an expected calendar. Roses: go into a flower shop, and roses will just be thorny branches with a promise. A plastic card will tell you what type, colour and shape it’ll have when it blossoms. And on the back, there’ll be a table with the twelve boxes for each month of the year, each identified with their initial letter:

J F M A M J J A S O N D

Together with planting, watering and pruning instructions, sometimes only in ciphered signs, these boxes will be ticked or coloured differently to mark the expected time of bloom. There’ll be indications of fertilisers, herbicides, insecticides, too. And so, rose blooms are reduced to controlled surprises. In the end, they have to deliver – lushness and ever changing variety in the apotheosis of spring. And the more the better. Just remember to pluck them in their prime - what you want is the ecstasy. It doesn’t matter whether you put them in a vase in the living room or in the centre piece of your dining table or by your bedside. Keep just one or bundle them up in a bouquet. You choose. Do whatever you want according to what you fancy. Go ahead. Just wear gloves and you’ll be OK. Tend them well and you’ll be certain to enjoy them in the time span marked in the ticked boxes overleaf:

A M J J A S

Next year, you’re up for another round. Unless, of course, you go back to the flower shop and chose new ones to plant. The offer on rose varieties is far greater than you’ll ever be able to cultivate, you can bet on that. Or, if you lack the patience, there’s always cut roses you can buy. They last for less longer, but they already come blossomed. If you’re into it, the price tag for cut roses is nothing if compared to the time and work put into cultivating your own. I’m pretty sure that, in any case, whether you buy a bouquet or keep a garden, you should always wear gloves. I know I said that already.

But, really, the thing is, I can’t remember a place in Manhattan where roses grow. In people’s places, gardens and parks, I imagine. But I can’t remember ever seeing them. No, let me correct that. There are plenty of roses to be seen. For instance, every deli shop has roses for sale. By the bucketful, literally. And deli shops are just about anywhere in the city. Not that I’ve ever taken a great deal of time to spend on the subject, but I suspect you can even find them during off‑season. Imported roses. Roses from South America or from across the Atlantic, maybe. (I’m curious: what, on the same parallel of New York, lies on the other side of the Atlantic?) Local or imported, these will always be art flowers, designer roses. Uncanny as it may sound, what I don’t remember is seeing an actual rosebush. Surely, because I never went looking for them. Never have I woken up one morning and told myself to go looking for roses; the thought simply never crossed my mind before. Or maybe I just didn’t look in the right places. Now that roses have entered my mind, next time, if I pay proper attention and keep my eyes peeled for them, I’ll probably stumble right into them and marvel at how they’d always been there, just before my eyes, and I didn’t notice. Probably.

Wild roses.

I wonder if wild roses still grow somewhere. Maybe I should find this out and look for them instead. That’s because I wonder – I mean, I really wonder – what it’d be like to witness the spontaneous bloom of the first wild rose to open its petals in the rosebush. And if you’d ask me what a wild rose looks like, I wouldn’t be able to answer you. Not even the colour. Rose, I suppose. But this is really only a supposition: wild roses are rose. Maybe white, too. But, then again, why else would roses be called “roses”, if their original colour was not rose? This is me speculating, of course, but it all makes sense. And, what’s more, no matter what any encyclopaedia might say, this is sense good enough for me. Another thing: wild roses must be smaller, too. Definitely smaller and without ruffles and double, treble petals of those roses with their attached plastic badge and composed Latin names. They’re just plain small rose flowers. They’re not selected, not tamed in their genes, and no-one gives them fertilizers or herbicides or insecticides; they’re entirely dependent on the sun and the elements. And, let me make this point clear, no‑one waters them, either. The point is: wild roses survive on Nature’s whim. And because of that, maybe their scent is more intense; maybe more condensed for such small sized flowers. But I’m only guessing here; there’s no cause-effect relationship I could put forward in any convincing way, and, as I said, all of this is based more on supposition than on facts. I’ve heard Nick Cave’s ballad about wild roses, but I don’t know for a fact if they really exist. But, for all it matters, this makes sense to me and, for that reason, it suffices; there’s no further information I need. I state this freely out of my own mind and therefore, as far as I’m concerned, this is true; this is truth as I know it, whether fact or fiction. Makes no difference. If there’s such a thing like wild roses, then somewhere – even if it’s far, far away –there must be fields where wild roses grow. They’re out there and if they’re out of reach is because they’ve been eluding me for all this time. This I make to be true as well.

I imagine.

Wild roses grow in green islands, in pockets of unploughed land, tucked and cloaked away in swathes of green. I realise that if they exist – if wild roses exist – they must inhabit a different world to this one; a parallel world if you’d like to give it some additional thought. I mean, sure, they’re there amidst other patches of land – but neighbouring the world of agriculture, not belonging to it. They must grow in places people – farmers, builders, oh, you name it – deliberate chose to ignore. Too difficult to access, too rocky to farm, too distant to be of interest; whatever the reason for ignoring parts of the geography, it's there where they thrive. Well, as far as I’m concerned, I’m not ignoring them. I want to know where they are. I don’t know how much time I’ve got left, though. Their days are counted. Eventually they’ll be ploughed or bulldozed giving way for the constant great urban sprawl. This is the wild roses’ inescapable fate. After all, wild roses, too, have roots. They can’t run.

Anyway.

Anyway, I’m not a gardener and I’m not that interested in flowers or plants. I guess this train of thoughts is leading me somewhere else, to a different destination, maybe even unrelated to roses – wild or tame. I just have to cross the street and something else will pop up in my brain. And, eventually, this too will be forgotten. Like my lost steps on the wet sidewalk. You see, they leave an imprint, but that’s only temporary. They’ll vanish once the rain evaporates. So, come to think of it, me too, I may actually be walking over someone’s thoughts. Only: these are discarded thoughts, because I can only imagine, fabricate, construct them. Once I do, then they’ll become mine – my own thoughts. However, these too, in turn, will evaporate or be trampled over; losing their identity, their shape and contents, with each successive superimposing imprint that blends and merges with the one before. In the end they’ll be all so tangled up that they’ll form an undistinguishable mesh of footprints, a shallow pool of water, mud and dirt. And this too will disintegrate once they dry up.

Keep on walking.

So, maybe I should forget about this too and just cross the street. From Greenwich Avenue to Seventh. And, farther, 14th Street. Northbound. North.

I run my hands through my hair and it feels brittle like dry hay. The skin on my hands has dried up too; all moisture breathed away in the wind channelled through the high‑rise buildings. I swallow instinctively to feel my saliva, for any remnants of liquid in my body. My mouth, too, feels dry and my throat and gullet ache. I gulp down another empty mouthful just to remind my body that’s what it needs to do once saliva resumes its furtive flow under my tongue. I need to drink, but there’s nowhere I can find anything to drink and there’s no-one I could ask. I could buy some on 42nd Street, but that’s already past my house, so I have no option but to keep on going. If only it’d rain again I could get under it and soak my skin in it. It wouldn’t probably quench my thirst, but I’d get some relief.

On 23rd Street, I turn east to my place in a more hurried step; the box with the silicone implants bothering my pace. I should just leave it there and later tell Wu I’d lost them or that they were stolen or some other excuse. Yet, somehow, something tells me I have to keep carrying it. I have to see the end of the story of Mrs. Wu’s breast implants, no matter what happens. On the corner with 24th Street, three black guys in baggy jeans and oversized basketball shirts stare at me. I don’t know whether because of any particular signs of my behaviour or because of what I’m carrying. It’s funny and my face almost breaks into a smile: if only these guys knew what’s inside the box, they’d never bother stealing it! Anyway, I pass them and they leave me alone. Perhaps they were just dumbstruck – a sweaty white guy in a dinner suit with a black lacquered black box under his arm at this hour must surely come across as some oddity. And, it’s true, they look at me like an animal that escaped the zoo Yet nothing in their attitude – which seemed intimidating at first, but, seconds later, on hindsight, was maybe just defiance; that expression on their faces black guys have – meant no harm. Nor particular interest in the box, I later also realise. I make a right turn, while, abstractly, rewinding Wu’s dinner in my memory, and the wind suddenly blows in my face, sweeping dust in my eyes. I decide to turn east a few blocks farther up instead. But as soon as I start moving northbound, the wind abates. I stop on the next corner and check whether it’s quieter, calmer to walk.

Something freezes me to the ground.

I feel the adrenaline surging through my veins, blood rushing to my heart and brain, overriding my rational thinking. I’m suddenly in a state of total alert, of full awareness. My senses are sharp and heightened by every movement, every shadow, every sound, and my mind purged of all structured, thought. My instincts take over: I’m more animal than human. And my instincts are ready to take over. Once they’ll be set in motion, they’ll decide events.

Run, hide, fight.

I scan the surroundings, poised to react, but there’s nothing. Nothing, except the billowing fumes from the subway.

These fumes not billowing upwards. Rather, they flow close to the ground and towards me, as if there’s something behind me sucking those white fumes. Only, I can feel no air draught. They uncoil, spawning what looks to be more like tentacles than clouds of vapour. As I look around me, I notice the street’s deserted; there’s no-one I can ask for help: around me, the city is empty. I secretly hoped the three black guys had followed me, after all. But I knew they hadn’t. I am on my own. The subway fumes condense, spiralling inwards, into white milky ropes of smoke. No, not smoke – smoke doesn’t behave like that: something denser, instead. And those fumes are watching me, my bones tell me. I look for a pair of eyes in their cloudy substance. No, those fumes are blind. Yet I’m sure they feel my presence. I can sense they know I have no-one to turn to. I turn towards them and a gust of wind blows on my face, striking me like a slap. It’s warm and dry. True, subway fumes are warm. But this is something different. For one, subway fumes smell of burnt rubber on scraped metal and these have no smell . (But this may be an inconclusive observation, since my olfactory senses had left me ever since Wu’s place on Pell Street). And, secondly, these fumes don’t appear to dissipate in the air. Their whorls encroach on me, thick and massed, now unequivocally aware of my presence and the shape of my body. Tentatively, I take one more step towards them and they seem to try to come for my ankles, like silent whips about to be lashed. As they approach, the wind blows stronger at me, making it harder for me to keep my eyes open.

There’s when I feel a force – a hidden, unknown force lurking inside those white coils. Squeezing my eyelids together to withstand the wind, I take one deep look into them, although I know the truth behind that force won’t be revealed to me through my sight. And that’s because, I know what it is, I’ve sensed it before. And it’s there. And only I can see it.

I know.

I know; it’s coming back. It’s all coming back. There’s no sound, there are no signs, but I can see the inscriptions; even with my eyes closed, I could see them. The inscriptions of old; of the beginning of times; of evermore. Pencilled in the blood of birth and the sweat of years, there they are again, hovering like dozen half moons, like a dozen white smiles, before my closed, clenched, eyes. Inscriptions of hatred and loathing, of thundering anger and corroding fury. The inscriptions of what can never be lost. They tell the tale of insidious betrayal caught in the throes of unpaid vengeance. One thing leads to another, all caught in the jaws of fate. Before me, glittering in their whiteness, there they are: the sharp, cold fangs of my fate, slashing through the air I breathe.

What I read is my name.

There’s a sharp buzz in the air, swishing through the edifices, sending sound ripples in its wake. Barely audible at first, but then, progressively louder, infiltrating my pores, getting inside my skull. Reverberating and crackling in my ears; resounding in my jaws; blinding me… The Cyclops.

Still stunned, I straighten myself upright and face east; to the east at large trying to understand the source of the wind, but I already got the message. And this is: I must steer away and keep north. I must hurry.

I hasten my step, cold sweat running down my back; the last traces of liquid in my body, I realise. But I must run, nonetheless. Run north.

I gather speed, fuelled by fear. My cowardice turns out to be my last advantage; where before it was my most supreme weakness, it is now my last supply of strength. So, I run. I run as fast as I can and faster still. The skin of my foot soles burns in my shoes, but I pick up even more speed. I don’t dare look behind me at the shadows following me. I don’t need to: I know they’re there, and that’s enough; that’s all I need to know at this moment. They’re there and I need to run. I know that they’ll catch up with me if I as much as quiver. I cannot afford to even think of not speeding up my pace. Thinking, entertaining thoughts of any kind, will distract me and I must concentrate on getting the most of my muscles. I have only one choice, and that’s to run even faster. Everything narrows down to this. Yet, despite the fear and the horror haunting me, knowing I have no other alternative feels, for the briefest of moments, almost like a relief. And, so, I run.

When I pass 29th Street, my body’s desiccated, my skin clinging to my flesh like it’s not there; like I’m a moving plasticized skeleton, mummified in the dry air. I know I’ve crossed the threshold of my endurance and of my physical powers, and that soon I’ll be out of breath. My forces will fail me; I’ll break down and be caught. However, I also know I must go on and accelerate, even if takes me to terminal exhaustion. My only hope is to run so unattainably fast that I’ll detach myself from my body. Like a lizard discarding its tail when pursued by a predator, I’d run and leave my flesh for spoils to rescue my soul.

I miss the turn on 33rd Street to my house. Too risky; turning might’ve slowed me down. And, two blocks further up I almost get run over by a firemen truck on call, blaring its horn and flashing its blinding white-blue-and‑red lights. But I don’t slow down. Much to my astonishment, I’m still running. And still picking up speed. The Cyclops buzz is like a train swirling inside my skull, clunking, hammering and howling in what seems a maelstrom of scattered syllables that once belonged to words, howled from somewhere deep and long ago. Like shards of sentences, still shrill, but too distant in space and time. Words beyond rescue, like the cries of drowning children; futile in the abyssal depths from whence they’re shouted, and unintelligible like words yelled underwater.

42nd Street.

With the Port Authority Terminal on sight, everything begins to blur and I can no longer feel I’m breathing. My eyes are as dry as glass and hurt against my eyelids, so I force myself not to blink and concentrate exclusively on moving one leg after the other as fast as I impossibly can. I made it to 42nd Street, after all, and I’m still going. In the distance, I catch the lights of Times Square, but they all merge into a constant white neon flash.

And, then, suddenly.

Suddenly, I think of Wu and wonder again why I’m still carrying his black wooden box, the events of dinner playing back in my mind in a succession of flashes. This must’ve thwarted my pace and slowed me down for just a fraction of a second, but it was enough. On my back and thrusting into my chest, I felt the cold whip of the shadow tailing me, and it blew icy daggers of pain on my skin, burning my innards. Only, this time, there’s no rocket ship to fly me out and I black out, strung out, everything getting dark around me. So instantly dark - pitch dark -, that I can’t tell whether I’ve gone blind or if all the lights have been turned off in a flick of a switch. The remnants of my conscience tell me the first to be more probable, but, in all truth, I’m now beyond caring and I’m now beyond fear. Even the fear of getting permanently blind; of becoming a prisoner chained to eternal, hopeless, darkness. It makes no difference.

And, so that’s what it came to. I made it to Times Square. But no further. I surrendered and collapsed, and fell to the ground. Somehow, as if it’d mattered, I thought I’d be breaking into a million little pieces, like an old glass vase; my bones hitting the hard sidewalk and splintering in a galaxy of shiny, tiny fragments. But, no, there’s only a thud, merely audible, when I fall, like a discarded dirty mop, thrown away from a window high up. In the utter blackness I begin to see specks. Little specks of, first, unascertainable colour, and I think: It's the sky. It's the stars in the sky, I'm not blind! But, afterwards, I notice, these specks are pink. Light pink. As they gradually become larger, I realise what it is: rose petals; rose petals are showering on me. They never reach me, though; I pass out before they can touch me or before I can feel them touching me. I can’t tell.

And so, this is it: this is how the end is like. The end is like nothing.

I guess you figured that too by now if you were listening in; if you’d be following me, running with me through the streets of Manhattan. But there’s no “you”. The truth is, I’m not talking to anyone. I’m not even talking, and that’s how simple it is. The truth, the ultimate truth, is like the wall at the end of an alleyway or the neon light bulbs of a Times Square billboard ad: it stares in your face and there's nothing else beyond it. And the truth is: I’m not sharing this with anyone. And, so, soon all thoughts of wild roses will be lost.

Oblivion will plough them away too.

17. Bitter morning

Saul lifted himself from bed.

A large, hefty frame, muscular like a rugby player; he had wide toned shoulders and powerful arms; his midsection like marble sculpted under the skin. Saul's naked torso reminded Marge of a rock jutting in the ocean; a stronghold withstanding the fury of the waves thrusting against a sturdy mass.

He stood up by the bed, furled back the bed sheets and straightened his pillow.

His hair, pitch black, was cut short and parted left to right in a perfect line. He only needed to comb it with his hand once to make his hair fall into that perfect division. His green eyes had a comforting niceness to them, big and tucked over his salient cheekbones – another sign of his physical force translated into facial features. Particularly so when he smiled. It was always a kind smile, exuding the tranquility of self‑reassurance. Saul’s chiseled jaw made dimples on the corner of his lips when he did that. When he smiled. And he had a twitch on his nose – a straight‑shaped, not too big and round at the nostrils, Latin nose – which gave him a boyish look. Saul had this candid honesty about him that made people immediately trust him and whom he always – always – greeted with his ready smile.

The truth is, Saul was a very beautiful man. And to his uncommon beauty, he added the particular charm of truly being coy about his looks.

Marge had succumbed to that charm. And she further surrendered herself to him, when – despite all the obvious signs of her interest in him – he was timid to acknowledge her attraction to him. God only knows, there were endless other beautiful and younger women interested in him, even lusting for him, but he appeared distraught and positively unbelieving that Marge should’ve taken an interest in him when they first met. As if he was undeserving of her.

“It’s eight o’clock, sweetie. We better hurry – breakfast is only until 9.30.”

Marge let herself linger in bed, languidly stretching her muscles, which let her tee‑shirt roll up to her breasts, exposing her nudity. Exposing him her nudity.

Saul went into the bathroom and opened the cold water faucet. He splashed some water on his face a couple of times and ran his hand under his chin, feeling the stubble. He took his toothbrush from the glass in the sink, wetted it under the faucet. He turned the water off and opened the cap of toothpaste, squeezing the blue‑and‑red striped white paste the full length of the brush.

All the while, Marge entangled herself in the bed sheets, snuggling in the coziness of the cotton linen and the smooth pillows. Her thoughts carried away in day dreams like lewd clouds in a clear midday summer sky.

Saul closed the cap and put the tube back in the cabinet. Started brushing. His upper front teeth first, in circular movements. From left to right. Then the lower front teeth. From left to right. In circular movements. Opened the faucet. Wetted the brush once more. Closed the faucet. Now his back teeth. Right side first. Then the left. He spat. Opened the faucet. Wetted the brush, washing off the excess foam. His lower back teeth, the top of them. Left side first. Then those on the right.

Marge tossed and played with her skin and the texture of the fabric enveloping her.

His upper back teeth; left to right; circular movements; left side first; open water; wet the brush. Then the right side. Filled glass with water, halfway full. Rinsed the brush; gurgled; washed his mouth. Rinsed the glass. He opened the cabinet and took the dental floss out. He cut a string the length of his palm and looped the ends twice around his index and middle fingers on both hands. Canines; molars; upper front teeth; lower front teeth; back teeth; left side first; then right side. Opened water. Filled glass. Halfway full. Gurgled. Spat. Drank the remaining water in the glass. Put the glass back on the sink; put the dental floss back in the cabinet. Opened the faucet on hot water. Let in run till it was at the right temperature. Closed the faucet. Opened the cabinet and took the shaving cream and the razor blade.

“You not getting ready, dear?”

Marge opened her eyes, her visions flushing away in a dark corner of her mind: “Mh?”

He shook the shaving cream canister and put it to his right hand side on the sink. He turned on the water and let it run again. Cupping his hands, he brought the hot water to his face a couple of times. Turned off the water. Took the canister and shook it. Once, twice. And sprayed some of the bright blue viscous gel in a ball, the size of a hazelnut on his left palm. He began applying it. On his left cheek first. Then moving down to his chin. His right cheek next. And down to the right side of his chin. Open the faucet and washed his hand. Closed it and sprayed some more blue shaving gel onto his palm. The size of a hazelnut. He started rubbing the gel, making it foam, under his nose – the exact width over his lips till it met the foam he had applied on his cheeks. Then proceeded to rub the shaving gel on his neck; starting under his chin towards his throat; then its left side; then its right side.

From the bed, on which she was still laying, half naked, Marge said “I actually think you’re cute when you don’t shave. I think a stubble can be sexy on you…”

He let the cold water run over his razor blade.

“Said something, dear?”

“Yes. I said, you look cute with a stubble, Saul.”

“Well, sweetie, we have to go down for breakfast.”

He began shaving his face. His left cheek, in the sense of the hair growth, down to the chin. Once the foam removed leaving his skin bare, he proceeded to the left cheek.

Foam removed. Opened water and rinsed the blade. Turned water off. Dried his hands on the towel next to the sink. Folded the towel. Put the towel back on the hanger.

Marge jerked herself out of bed and took her tee‑shirt off, which she threw, without looking, onto the chair at the corner of the bedroom. She took a look at her naked body in the mirror. She examined the firmness of her breasts; how they sat on her chest; how they looked from the front and the side. She still heard the rasping of Saul’s razor blade, cutting along the side of his cheeks, in the bathroom next door. She then approached the mirror at the end of the bed by the desk and chair for a close scan of her face: the thin wrinkles around her eyes and the corner of her lips, less full now than when she was younger – when she met him; the texture of her pale skin; the depth of the lines on her brow (she grimaced, forcing those lines to its deepest); and the brightness (or dullness, she briefly wondered) of her brown eyes. She posed for herself.

With his left hand, Saul stretched his neck, making the skin of his throat flat, while tilting his head askew so as to still being able to catch himself in the mirror. With the razor blade in his right hand he resumed shaving.

Upright in full view of the mirror, Marge entwined her fingers at the back of her head, feeling the smooth, heavy brown ropy curls – her pride and joy of all her physical attributes. She caught it high, revealing her neck and making her breasts bob upwards and perkier, and her tummy taut. She tiptoed, her hands still holding the back of her hair, and spun to both sides, seeing her body reflected. High heels make legs slender and longer, she thought.

Open water. Rinse blade. Close water. Shave against the hair growth. His cheeks first. Left side. Then right.

She was almost dancing. A slow dance with her reflection.

“Saul? D’you think my butt has flattened?

“Whaddya say, honey?”

“Oh, nothing – nonsense.”

She came into the bathroom, leaning against the threshold with both arms outstretched. “Are you taking your shower now?” “No, baby, you go right in, I’m still not finished shaving.”

She got into the bathtub and let the water run. “What about a bath? You fancy a bath?”

Saul looked over his shoulder at her, her eyes still looking at his reflection in the mirror. She could see the bulging muscles of his neck.

“Oh, baby. Breakfast! We don’t have time…”

“Yeah ­– I’m just feeling lazy this morning, you know?”

“Well, of course”, Saul said between his teeth; the blade now carefully shaving his chin, “you had some troubled night, didn’t you, honey?”

Caught off‑hand, she blushed, wondering if he’d suspected anything more than she’d told him about the events of that night. Maybe she should tell him exactly what happened. She pondered, searching her mind for the right words, for the right way to put it. But before she could even utter a mouth, Saul turned his face towards the mirror and, continuing shaving, said “It’s probably the heat in the room. That can give you nightmares. I’ll speak with the guy in charge to check the thermostat. That OK, baby? You need your rest, that’s for sure. As soon as we finish breakfast, I’ll have a word with him.”

“You’re such a beautiful man, Saul.”

“Well, anything to keep my baby happy.” And with that he smiled. His frank, kind smile of sheer goodness of heart.

Marge put the shower on. The noise of the water muffled a gentle sigh. She immersed under the pouring shower, lingering.

Last part: the area above the lip. Left side first. And then the right. The blade upwards towards the nostrils. And then, she knew, would come the rinse off, the after-shave balm (the one she bought him, because she insisted he should take better care of himself; he’d never thought of moisturizers for men, and much less for himself).

Marge took the soap and began rubbing it against her skin; bubbles forming in the back of her neck. Moving down her arms from her armpits, in slow motion, gently kneading the surface of her skin. Longer than necessary, she massaged the soap under her breasts, letting the slight foam converge between them and down to her navel. And further down.

Open faucet. Rinse off. Close faucet. After‑shave balm.

Marge felt a surge of modesty and took her eyes off the mirror abandoning, resolute, any prospect of catching any further glimpse of Saul – in the mirror or otherwise - before he had finished. She put the soap down and began shampooing her hair energetically.

“I’m all finished”, Saul said, wiping off the excess balm in a Kleenex.

Marge brushed her legs and the rest of her body, now in a most efficient and through manner of personal ablution. “I don’t suppose you want to join me under the shower, do you?” Saul hesitated, noticing the nakedness of Marge under the running water. “Mh, tempting”, he said finally with a smile. Again his smile. Marge stopped and looked straight at him. “So, why don’t you?” She was half hoping, half unnerved – for a reason she could not really put into words. “No", he replied slowly, "I’ll let you finish. Breakfast!”

“Is that all you have in mind – eat?”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Oh, Saul – oh!, never mind!”

“Baby – look. I’d jump you anytime, you know that – …”

“So, why don’t you?”

“What? You mean now?”

“No, Saul – I mean when you’ve made the digestion of your breakfast. Better still, maybe after lunch!”

“Oh, come on, baby!”

“What ‘come on, baby’? You said anytime, didn’t you? Do you want me to beg for sex, is that it?”

Saul paused in his thoughts, dumbfounded.

“I’m sorry. Stupid of me, dear. Really! God, you’re beautiful! Yes, let’s do it! Why the hell not?”

Marge looked at him, frowning. And then, realizing she was being probably unfair on him, gave off a sigh and smiled. “No, honey, you’re right – I guess lack of sleep makes me cranky. I love you. It’s me who’s sorry…”

“Oh, it’s quite alright, honey”, he said with relief. He gave her a nod a wink, “why don’t you dry up and let me take a shower, and I’ll be right with you. OK, pussycat?”

Saul took off his pajamas and, on the way of exchanging places with Marge in the bathtub, gave her a brief kiss. On the shoulder. “Be right with you, baby!”

Marge took a bathrobe from the hook in the door and wrapped herself in it. “OK”, she said with a gentle, but faded, smile.

She sat on the bed, buried in the bathrobe, looked at the sun, shining brightly over the ocean and the beach; an image as in those postcards sold everywhere. Listening to the water fall on the bathtub where Saul was showering made her think of rain.

And, like breath exhaled, she realized the mood was gone.

Signpost: STOP and Re-read

Stop.

After re-reading my posts (the "chapters"), I realised there may be some confusing names; namely Dick and Richard.

So, now Richard is no longer Richard, but Saul. Saul as in Saul before he became Paul in the road for Damascus. Maybe.

Maybe simply it's a name that begins with "S". Because "S" follows "R" in our alphabet. Maybe.

You choose whatever interpretation suits you better.

So, in the next post (chapter 17), Marge's partner is Saul. I've changed chapters 9 and 11 accordingly.

And, for the distracted and lost, here's the couples' line-up:

Marge with Saul;

Dick with Nicole (and with Rosemary) - a love triangle in which the characters bear the same names as in Scott Fitzgerald's "Tender Is The Night"; and

Mr and Mrs Wu.

The 'singles' (for the time being, of course):

The narrator;

Lyubova;

Anna; and

Alfred Schmied.

Oh, and there are a few odd ones out, aren't there? Side characters? Maybe.

End of sign. Road free ahead.

16. The red thread

"Don't answer! Just - don't answer."

Dick coiffed his hair around his temples. Age had abated the strength of his reddish curls, which were now grey and wavy. His hair was also longer now, winding in light loops above his ears and down to his neck. In all, it gave a jaunty appearance to his matured face; a freshness of youth visible under the crust of years. The image of experience blended with vigour time could not wilt.

“I mean, you’re the psychiatrist and all! For crying out loud, Dick, you’re a psychiatrist! How can you not understand?”

He put his glasses down on the kitchen table. Light turtle‑rimmed glasses, carefully picked after extensive scrutiny and painstaking trial so as to render his appearance exactly as he intended: concerned and attentive towards his patients, and moderate – in a conservative way. It was not so much vanity as professional discernment.

“I don’t know. Really – I don’t know. I don’t know how you’d expect me to put up with all of this. And for this long! And you know what else? I really feel sorry for your wife! I mean, it's not that I like her, but, frankly - I really feel sorry for her, you know?”

His cold blue eyes briefly met hers, which made her tone of aggressiveness dwindle to one degree lower. But this was Dick’s power over people: to convey a familiar, almost accessible and confiding nature, to which one felt compelled. Both women and men felt attracted to him. Men eager to share in his calm grandeur fell under his spell of sovereign restraint; women were seduced by his allure of solitary disengagement.

“All the promises you made. To me, to her... To yourself, maybe. Look, Dick, this is all hopeless…” She was buying herself time.

He sat down at the kitchen table, not facing her. She had decorated her kitchen with a Mediterranean flair. Pale pinewood cabinets and cupboards; matching tables and chairs, with hand‑painted Provence motifs. Yellow olive oil and vinegar jars, tucked away in a corner by the stove; a large fruit plate in blue and white arabesques on the table centre; a set of little corked squared bottles with spices and herbs hanging in a black iron basket on the wall; clay pots and animal‑shaped bits and pieces arranged carefully by the window ledge.

They had first met in France.

She learned to like Mediterranean cuisine and he had learned to cook it for her – saltimbocca, cannelloni, bouillabaisse, pasta and meatballs in tomato sauce. Clumsy at first and always thereafter, he put into his cooking all his joy of life. And all his joy of life seemed to consist in one thing only: to please her. The moment they met, she felt immediate attraction. But, to him, it was instant love. The purest, most sublime and absolute love. A love unsurpassed. A love that could never be greater. Only lesser.

“What do all your words mean, if you don’t know what you want, Dick? You just keep me on hold, feeding me words and words and words… I’m not one of your bloody loony patients, you know that? I’m not – I deserve more!” She was at it again. The onslaught of her anger.

She read his face for his reaction. But all she could see was an image of a man unperturbed, aloof in his thoughts.

“Do you even listen, when I talk to you? My God, I feel like such a joke! Oh, please… I must be really stupid!”

His face had a slight red tan that barely concealed the web of wrinkles around his eyes and the corner of his thin lips. These were deeply ingrained marks of the passage of time; a record of pain and joy, of loss and discovery, of passion and disenchantment, of impulse and patience, of anguish and relief, of distress and rescue, of episodes lived and relived. He ground his white teeth behind pursed lips, making his muscles flex on his jutting, but even, jawbones. He frowned and his blue eyes sparked, bringing out a stern expression. This was his way of signalling he was paying full attention, that whatever was being said was something serious to him; something of relevance – even if you didn’t know what exactly.

“Yes, that’s what I am. Stupid! Just plain stupid. Oh God, it was so, so, so, evident. My God – a married man! Why do women keep repeating these stupid, stupid, stupid mistakes? Why do I make’em?

Oh, and don’t you dare answer!”

He stood up and walked around, her eyes following him, probing into his every move for the key to his thoughts. At 6’3” he had a commanding figure; his slender and toned body capable of supporting all his griefs, as well as those of others, in a seemingly effortless way; a physical capacity beyond the powers of common, less attractive men. He made sure he made slow movements – as if every single one of them was meaningful –, so that she could peer into him as intensively as she could – yet finding nothing. Not until she asked him a question; not until she invited him to answer, regardless of the consequences.

“Why don’t you leave your wife, Dick?”

In Cannes they’d met, years back. She was enraptured by his calmness and gentle devotion to her, seduced by his apparent invulnerability to his own frailties and his understanding of hers. She felt protected when he cast his solicitous blue eyes on hers; enthralled by his kindness; tempted to rescue him of all his sorrows in return for the exclusivity of being looked at the way he looked at her.

She felt wonderful.

She felt like his abettor, chosen by a force greater than the two of them. To be by him in good and bad times; able to withstand – with him ­– his past, present and future.

She felt privileged.

She felt like a princess, the keystone sustaining a dome high over envy, jealousy, dismay, misgivings. Over all other women.

She felt like a woman ­– her path to fulfilled womanhood laid clearly before her and through him. She’d only had to reach out and take his hand. If only he’d reach out his hand to her.

She would wait.

“I’m just your mistress. A mistress you fuck when you’re available. A mistress who has to be available for you to fuck whenever you’re available! Can’t you see how this makes me feel, for Christ’s sake? Can’t you?”

He touched his wedding ring, rolling it around his finger. Yes, he was married.

He wouldn’t hide it – he never did. He had a solemn engagement with another woman. He lied. He cheated. He was unfaithful. And not by accident or fortuity or fate or lust or any unavoidable impulse. And desire wasn’t the only reason either. But he never hid any of this. He deceived, yes, but he did not lie.

“I love you, Rosemary.”

What he did was, he only told the truth she wanted to hear.

15. The funniest thing

You open your eyes and see the city. You see the people walking by and you just watch people passing by. The city is a huge glass bowl holding people instead of fish. And sometimes it's as if you just happen to jump out of that bowl and watch the people inside; floating in mid-air, watching all those people inside the bowl.

This is New York.

You can't tell a New Yorker from another. You can't tell anyone's from New York. Everyone's different; everyone speaks differently; not everyone speaks English; not everyone speaks Spanish; not everyone speaks either. Everyone dresses differently, eats differently, walks differently, moves differently, acts differently, reacts differently. It takes a New Yorker to tell the differences and make sense of them all. Because, really, in the bowl, everyone's alike.

And that's not the funny thing.

The funny thing is you can always tell tourists apart. They're the ones looking up. Looking up at the skyline, at the top of the buildings. New Yorkers no longer have the neck muscles to do it. So, they no longer notice New York buildings. Yet, New York buildings made New York.

Alright: Manhattan.

A quarter past midnight and I passed this dingy pizza place next to the Village Vanguard, after walking all the way from Pell St. And there was this couple from the Netherlands ordering slices of pizza and coke. What struck me was that they were still looking up, even though this is the Village. That's how I knew they were tourists, and, because they knew I knew they were tourists, they knew I was not. So, that's how I knew they were from the Netherlands: they told me so. And they'd never tell that if they think I was another tourist.

That's how intricate this island, this glass bowl, can be.

But the funniest thing is, clinically, I should be dead by now, or comatose, at best, with all the stuff I took and the booze I drank. And, instead, I saw myself walking alone the streets of Manhattan, at a quarter past midnight, talking to tourists who think I'm just another New Yorker like everyone else.

Carrying silicone implants inside a wooden box, under my arm.

14. The strangest thing

“Call On Me”, the ringtone, played on her Nokia. She let it ring, in loops, once, twice, three times, before pressing the green button and take the call.

“Marge? Is that you? Hell, what time is it over there? – It’s, er… well, I don’t know what time it is here, but, er, it must be, like, midnight or something. You still in Cannes?”

“Hello, Nic. Yeah, it’s me. Dunno the time either. Just – it’s six hours later here. That’s all I know. It’s daybreak, actually. And, yeah, I’m still in Cannes.”

“Saul?”

“Oh, he’s fine. He’s gone back to –… He’s still asleep. Yeah, we’re still in France. We’re still in Cannes. Oh, where's my mind? - I already told you that... How’re you?”

“Well, sis, I should be asking you that, shouldn’t I? I mean, you called me, right? Anything the matter? Anything wrong, love?”

“No, no, everything’s fine.”

Marge paused, but Nicole gave no reply, and thus she resumed “… No, really – everything’s fine, don’t worry. I just woke up really early, you see, and Saul’s still asleep and, er, welll… Well, I guess I was just sorta bored and decided to give you a call. I’m sorry if I’m bothering you, Nic.”

“No-no-no, love. Not at all! Actually, and this is the strangest thing, I was thinking about you. Isn’t it funny?”

“Oh, really? Yeah, telepathy, I guess”, Marge chuckled, “now we have mobile phones to put our thoughts through. Amazing little things, hey? You still have your Nokia? I bought myself a new one at the airport, go figure. I guess I was dying to try it out and couldn’t wait any longer!”

“Yep, I still have my old Nokia”, Nicole chuckled too.

“So, OK, I called you. To tell you – that I love you, old sister. So, there, I said it. I miss you. Cannes is lovely, but sometimes I miss New York and I miss you. So – what’s so strange?”

“Well, the thing is ­– do you remember Dad’s watch collection?”

“Er – yes. Yes?”

“Well, um – who’s got it? I know, not Mum. Do you have it?”

“OK, this is strange, Nic. You never took any interest in Dad’s collection. In fact, you and watches and paying attention to time… That’s simply not you. That’s so not you.”

“Yeah, OK”, her voice was eager, “but, do you have it or not?”

“Yes, I do. Listen, can we talk about this when we get home? I think Saul’s waking up.”

“No, sure. It’s that it’s, well, strange, you see. I was thinking about it and then you call me up… But, sure, let’s talk about it when you’re back. Sure, everything is OK?

“Sure. You alright, too?”

“Oh, yeah, absolutely. Everything’s fine. Nothing much going on, you know. Everything’s fine.”

“I’m glad. Love ya, big sis!”

“Love ya back, munchkin!”

Nicole clicked off. She looked at her new watch, bought at Schmied’s. Quarter past midnight. It seemed correct. She smiled giving off a deep sigh.

13. All the way to Pluto

I caught a glimpse of the window: rain was beginning to pour outside, hitting the glass in large fat droplets. I wish I’d be outside and bathe in the rain, because, really, I was scalding in the room

Wu was ecstatic: “Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy. ENJOY!” His arms wide, looking up, waiting for a blessing from the skies above. Or so it seemed.

Drink had no visible effect on me.

A foghorn blared. A metallic, nasal, female voice in the speakers started a countdown from 20, and I saw the two turbaned priests, making their appearance, entering the room from an invisible door in the shadows. And from the speakers:

“19”

Dahlia placed one large purple silk and chiffon cushion before Wu’s feet, knelt down and began licking the shine of his Alastair shoes. Wu gave her a nod of approbation and patted her head, her straight-combed black hair parted in the middle.

Klipspringer howled frantically. He slurped his wine, stood up and unbuttoned his trousers. Black woollen trousers, unknown brand, black faux snake belt with rather oversized square steel buckle, unknown brand. He climbed up a chair and threw his arms around, as if making ready to take off and fly. He seemed to be shouting something over to Mrs. Wu, but I couldn't make out what - only guttural noises from his throat. His prick, hairy and sinewy, fully erect, was oozing pre‑cum from his dark purple gland. And it was loud, loud, loud in the room. Japanese techno again, played in the loops, like the CD was on auto‑replay. Loud. You could barely hear a thing in the thumping noise.

“18 ”

Mrs. Wu knelt on the cushion and started – voraciously – sucking Wu’s cock. I shouted over to Lyubova, “Jeez, look at’er go! Looks like the old woman don’t like monkey much either, does she, hey? Looks she had nothing to eat all dinner!”

Lyubova paused and stared at me, paused once more, and starting laughing out loud. Hysterical, I thought, but I decided to go hysterical too and laughed like savage. Ha, ha , ha and she ha, ha ha back at me, and me ha, ha ha at her in return, but louder, and she’d make it even louder – like two dogs barking at each other through a fence!

“17”

I swallowed two Elavils. I felt stomach cramps.

She pulled her skirt up and, raising her knees to her chest, took her panties off. “Suck me, Anna. Suck me dry, bitch!” She grabbed the other Russian by her hair and motioned her between her thighs, making her suck her clit and forcing Anna’s tongue inside her.

Monkey blood and pussy juices. Now, here's something for those fancy cocktail bartenders in hip fancy TriBeCa!

“16”

There was this underground cracking noise like the floor was being jacked up. I’m watching Anna and Lyubova. I’m watching Dahlia and Wu and Mrs. Wu. I watch Klipspringer’s wild primate acrobatics with a hard‑on. I watch the raindrops.

I'm lucid.

“15 - All systems check”

Wu grabbed Dahlia’s apron from behind her buttocks to expose her bare behind, while she was still on her fours and licking his shoes. Her tongue: pink. Her pussy, swollen – wet, I’d swear, by God, I’d swear – tucked between her thighs. Shaven, like she’s never had any hair grow in those parts. Cream‑chocolate‑pink: her butthole. Pop, another purple firework. Just above Dahlia’s back, illuminating, for the briefest of moments, her cunt. The wrinkled contours of her swollen labia, the whitish viscous stream of her juices forming a bubble about to drop from her clit.

“14”

The vulva is the external sexual organ of women. When the vulva is opened, and from the top down, one can clearly see the mons veneris, clitoral hood, clitoris, and labia minora. The mons veneris is the pad of fatty tissue that covers the pubic bone below the abdomen but above the labia. The mons is sexually sensitive in some women and protects the pubic bone from the impact of sexual intercourse. The labia majora are the outer lips of the vulva, pads of fatty tissue that wrap around the vulva from the mons to the perineum. These labia are usually covered with pubic hair, and contain numerous sweat and oil glands, and some medical literature has suggested that the scent from these are sexually arousing. This is, of course, true, but you should never give that much credit to medical literature.

The labia minora are the inner lips of the vulva, thin stretches of tissue within the labia majora that fold and protect the vagina, urethra, and clitoris. The appearance of labia minora can vary widely, from tiny lips that hide between the labia majora to large lips that protrude and that you can make dangle with your fingers or the tip of your tongue. Like damp petals on a rose.

Both the inner and outer labia are quite sensitive to touch and pressure. The clitoris has the appearance and size of a pea and sits between the top of the labia minora and the clitoral hood, and is a small body of spongy tissue that is highly sexually sensitive. The clitoris is protected by the prepuce, or clitoral hood, a covering of tissue similar to the labia minora. During sexual excitement, the clitoris may extend and the hood retracts to make the clitoris more accessible.

“13”

“Hey, Lyuba, darling, d’you think if old madame Wu keeps at this pace, Wu here will hold it much longer? Fer chrissake, the man must have is pecker sharp enough by now to pierce right through Mao’s fucking pants – hey?” And Lyubova, her pussy being eaten by Anna, just ha, ha, ha me like she’s insulting me, like she’s calling me names, like this is the supreme form of verbal abuse. “You ha‑ha‑ha me? Hey, HA, HA, HA! You like it? HA, HA, HA!”, I barked back. And I shout over “Hey, I wanna fuck you in the ass!” And then I smile like I just said hello to an old relative I don’t really want to talk to.

“12”

Hot - it almost blinds me.

“Nick, old boy”, Wu calls me, “I need a favour from you. Come on over.” I leave my seat and approach Wu, not sure from which side, not sure if I can come close enough to hear him. He makes a sign for me to stand on his right and slaps Dahlia over the face for her to stand up. I’m disgusted: such a pretty face. But I can’t see her eyes, which makes Wu’s slapping sort of OK, I guess.

I stand next to him and he puts an arm over my shoulder. “Listen –…” and he points his finger to a box, wooden, black-lacquered and bobs his head to the Filipino, like you would “go fetch it” to a dog, “There’s something I’d really appreciate you’d do for me. Mrs. Wu is getting an operation. You know: liposuction. Tummy tuck. Mini face‑lift and chin implant – but that’s just to smoothen up her skin, really; she has lovely features. Lovely. But, hey, everyone’s doing it, so – hell, let her indulge herself, no? No? – Nick old friend? Yeah, you understand; I can count on you. And, also, breast augmentation.” He paused for the Filipino to arrive with the box and open it. “Now, there are the implants we chose. Give me your opinion.”

Dahlia was now behind me, holding me by my waist and, with her right hand, getting down to my crotch, feeling my rod from over my trousers. Tightening her hand around my balls and shaft. Stroking me.

I say “Hell, huh, I don’t know –…”

Wu’s not even looking at me. “Feel them. Come on, Nick, feel them. Tell me what you think. We’re among friends, hey Nick?, we can be honest among friends. Go ahead, tell me what you think. This is beyond C-cup or D-cup or whatever. It goes beyond that. I need your opinion, buddy.” Something in my face must’ve told him I resented him calling me “buddy”.

Dahlia slips a finger, then two, through my fly, and I can feel her cool touch on my balls. My dongle’s getting harder. But only half hard.

“11 - Systems now loading”

“Here, Nick, why don’t you keep the box and lemme know. D’you wanna feel my wife’s breasts and then lemme know?” Mrs. Wu keeps sucking his boner. Deep‑throating. She wiggles her head when her chin reaches the testicles, but her hair doesn’t move one bit. Chinese hairspray, no Elsett fucking stuff – the real thing, with Chinese characters, red cap and a poor photo offset print of a 1970's beauty on the cylinder, and all. The stuff that really sticks to your hair. The stuff that has been around, unchanged, since 1970. Since they invented hairspray in China.

Dahlia is running her hands up and down my shaft. I don’t get it hard. I try to have a look at her eyes, her green eyes, again, but she avoids my look and keeps rubbing my dick. I want to slap her now. “Really, no need”, I say apologetically, but Wu grabs my wrist and takes my hand under his wife's bra. And she groans, I don’t of pleasure or of surprise or of revulsion.” Feel them, Nick, go ahead and feel them and lemme know!” Mrs. Wu then calms down and lets me feel her breast and her hard nipples, still sucking on her husband’s prick. I see her nipples are deep pink.

“10”

One of priests pulls a lever from under the floor and lights fill the room. A flat screen lights up on the wall and there are more levers, and gauges and buttons. There’s a blue bar on the screen moving from left to right and, above it, the word “LOADING”.

I go back to my seat, holding the box with the silicone implants under my arm. I noticed some of them were saline implants. From McGhan.

There are saline and silicone implants. Saline implants are considered to be less dangerous if there's a rupture of the envelope – salty water is absorbed by the body with no complications –, but are harder to the feel. Think like feeling a bag full of water, you get the idea. There are anatomical and round implants, and there are textured and smooth implants. Breast implants can be placed under or above the chest muscle. Under‑the‑muscle implants require longer recovery times, but endure longer and have a more ‘natural’ appearance when they ‘drop’. When they ‘drop’ means the post‑op time till they have their final appearance. It’s normally 9 months to a year. Post‑op means the time after surgery is completed. Textured implants are arguably better at preventing capsular contracture, but there’s no firm evidence of this. Same claims are made of implants placed under the muscle. There are, really, all sorts of implants and techniques, but I don’t feel like thinking about it right now.

“9”

This is what it is: it’s a rocket ship. It’s a Chinese rocket ship. And my mind wanders off, wondering things like whether Wu has painted a Chinese flag or a US flag on the ship’s flaps.

My tongue feels like cork. I swallow some Vicodin. I have some more wine. I have some more of whatever the Filipino is serving me. It has no taste.

There’s a number at the end of the moving blue bar on the computer screen, which is now halfway through its span. It reads 49%. 50%. 51%.

The room shakes and vibrates and rocks back and forth, but there’s no noise except from the ever‑repeating Japanese music and Klipspringer’s growling.

“8 - Levels check”

Suddenly, I remember Anna’s Pomeranian. Suddenly, I remember I forgot to drop by Nat Sherman’s to buy me some cigars. I forgot to take my Winstrol shot, too. I search my pockets for an Ecstasy pill. There was one with a smiley on it.

Can't find it. Shit.

I can’t see the dog; I can see Klipspringer. Wish I'd done coke. But that's so not done anymore.

“7”

I take a deep breath.

“6 - Check now completed”

Japanese trash techno. No more. The music has changed. It’s. It’s German. German trash metal. Loud.

I thought couldn’t possibly get worse: German.

“5”

Gimme Austrian yodels. Gimme all the fascists in lederhosen. Julie Andrews and the hills are alive with the sound of music. Boy, I ask you, wouldn’t that make the title of a horror movie? Think about it – the hills are alive! You get my point?

But not Germans. That’s my point.

“4’”

88% on the computer screen. I wonder if Julie Andrews is fuckable. I down a glass of what looks like peach vodka. I guess so.

Julie Andrews, I mean.

“3”

Above the rain, above the clouds, the moon shines full. There’s no rocket engine, this spacecraft works on mysterious ways. Unless you believe in angels, there’s no way of telling how it works.

Purple flickers and purple fireworks and purple shooting stars from outer space.

We will pass Jupiter and its moon, Io, to gain speed and loop around Saturn’s ring. And gain even more speed. We’re heading for Pluto. So, this is what it is: this is us on a Chinatown launch pad. This is the pre‑ejaculatory take‑off.

“2”

Wu preaches “Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy!” He comes. He comes in a convulsive way, his body arching in waves. And no more is heard. Music fades out, lights fade out. Mrs. Wu swallows his load. All of it. She sucks him till his dick is all limp.

Klipspringer crouches, hardly grunting anymore. Anna and Lyubova hold each other in their arms as of they had been in that position all evening.

You can hear the rain.

“1 - Ignition”

It's as if.

It's as if time'd come to a standstill. And so, there it is, this is what it is: it’s a baptism. It all starts now, if you’re willing to believe. You can cry now, if you want. If you still have tears, that is.

“0”

I close my eyes.

12. The Clockmaster sets the time

Nicole studied the shopkeeper’s face. There was something about his face.

“I’m sorry, I’m still a bit dazed…” She was startled at this confession. Back at school, she’d done the same thing. There was this History teacher – a balding old man who’d always instilled in her the most profound mistrust – to whom she’d confess, sometimes without even being asked, her misbehaviours. And she hated herself for it, in particular because, contrary to what happened with her father, whom she loved so devotedly and unconditionally, she could never lie or hide anything from that teacher. But she wasn’t thirteen anymore.

“I – bad day.” She attempted a clumsy smile, trying to charm her way out of the awkward moment.

“I see. Yes, we all have bad days. It happens…” His answer was civil; understanding of her embarrassment, imparting, to her relief, that he’d rather move on and not dwell on matters which were her personal affairs, anyway.

“What about the watch, then? Does the Baume & Mercier interest you? If, not, I may have something else… Why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for? Maybe if we’d start from there ­– …”

Yes, please, start from there – start this whole thing all over again!

She wanted to say she’s looking for a watch like the one she left back in the apartment and she couldn’t remember the make or model. “You see, the thing is, I don’t know what I want…”

Before she could correct herself, the shopkeeper retorted “And maybe I can be of help?”

This perplexed her.

It wasn’t so much what he said, but the fact of making a question out if. Then again, maybe no; maybe this was just her imagination. But somehow – somehow she had the feeling of touching something hidden in his words, the shape of a truth unknown to her. Or was she reading too much into his words?

“Of help? Sure, I’d like your help”, she avoided his question. “I really don’t know where to begin. I keep losing stuff and forgetting stuff and, you know, always going from one place to another and, like, not keeping track of things. So, there. I don’t want anything too expensive. I left my watch at my place, you know –… And it’s not, like, I can go back now and fetch it, you see?...”

She stopped, realising the nonsense of her last sentence. A woman, she knew, can make men forgive them for their momentary lack of logic in trivial matters, but she had no intimacy with this shopkeeper to achieve that.

“It’s like your watches here, you know? – none of them tells the same time. It’s like me, my life sometimes gets the better of me. I need a watch – another watch, in case I lose or misplace mine.” This didn’t make much sense either, but she knew she had a point in alluding to the illogic in his shop.

His face became stern once more. “Do you live far, do you?”

She couldn’t understand his question and looked befuddled; an expression in her face that then turned into one of indignation at such an extemporaneous intrusion into her privacy. Undaunted at her expression, the shopkeeper added “I mean, if you can’t go back to your place to fetch your watch…”

Nicole realised she had betrayed herself. His question made sense; it was her lie that didn’t, had he known the truth – which, obviously, he could not have known. Yet, she couldn’t shake off the impression he knew more than his apparently commonplace words conveyed. And he kept staring at her, in the same uncaring way her History teacher did.

He relented from his gaze and sighed deeply as if what he had to say would weigh on him and had to be carried from deep inside him; like a painful confession that had been repeated several times but no-one paid attention, and that made him weary not only from confessing but also from not having someone that would listen.

“You see this big clock behind me? It’s a strange clock, isn’t it? The two dials – the hours that don’t match in neither –… Strange, no? People come in and notice it, and I can see it puzzles them. It has been puzzling them for years. For years, you have no idea. Year in and year out, they come in and look at this clock. But they never ask. It’s an oddity, but they never ask. And I see, you too, you want to know, but you don’t ask.

I’m sorry I don’t have a chair, but, if you don’t mind standing, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you because I see sufferance.

My name is Alfred Schmied and this clock is an experiment, my first attempt at making a unique and very special clock ­– but it's an experiment that never really worked properly, so this is the only and the last Schmied clock you'll probably ever see. The story of it goes back a long time, years back. Back to 1953. I was 19, a young man with lots of dreams laid on straight paths, if you see what I mean. I could’ve chosen to pursue one or the other dream, but no matter what dream I chose, I would always be on a straight path. That’s what happens when you’re 19. And, like everyone else, I chose my path. And, again, like everyone else, I realised later that the dreams I left unfulfilled were more alluring than those I’d accomplished. But I travelled; if a place didn’t please me, I’d move on. And I gave my heart away, too, only to recover it later when I thought it was lost for good. Like everyone else.

But one day I wondered what would happen if I’d be able to stop time. My time. What if, by – by some deal with the devil –, I could bring everything around me to a standstill? Do you see? Imagine the possibilities – every dream you ever had, you’d have a go at. Every love you ever felt you’d chase it. All at once, all in the same time. And it wouldn’t even matter if you’d grow old, everything was available because you had time on your side. And it wouldn’t matter either – do you follow me? – if eventually you’d die. Because you’d never see death coming; all you’d ever feel and perceive would be you being alive; you’d chase one cloud after the other in the sky and never know death; all you’d ever know was life. Timeless life.”

He no longer worried if she’d be following his train of thoughts.

There was a crack under the floor and the walls began to shake. And then stopped. Rain started pouring outside.

“Imagine this: imagine it’s June and it’s the end of spring. Your spring, according to your time. You’d have all the smells and aromas of spring and of early summer, concentrated into one day. And all the flowers would blossom and all the fruits would ripen and the sun would shine and love would come to you in all its manifestations and your dreams would be like one, like an apple you could pick with your hand. All into one minute. One instant.

All the clocks and watches would tell different times; you'd simply choose which time you'd want. Once the time told by one wouldn’t suit you, you’ take another one. All in the same day. And you could forget your watch, and never buy another watch again, because you wouldn’t need to measure time. Not anymore.”

Rain poured heavily now and Nicole felt the shop being lifted into the air. Angels carried it over the skies of New York. And she spun, weightless, in the words of the shopkeeper.

“That’s when I built this clock with double dials. The dial on the right would tell the time as any other watch; but the one on the left would tell the opposite time. I set the exact hour on both and let the clock run. I became the clockmaster from that moment on: all I had to do was subtract the hour told on the left dial from the hour on the right and the result would always be the hour I had initially set. For one day. And for every day after that. But one day – and that’s when, you see, I realised the experiment was flawed – the clock no longer told time. Any time. The fingers on one dial were just the opposite symmetry of the others, with the same day on both.” He rolled the crown setting the day, a large golden knob between the dials, and the same number appeared. “These are the days I lived.”

The shop floated on a cloud where tulips were blooming in splendour, before moving onto another cloud with hyacinths and cornucopias of abundance. Of fruits and flowers in a lush lost garden, where nights are mild and tender.

And the rain fell in torrents like the tears Nicole couldn’t – wouldn’t – shed.

“These are the days of lies and deception and of repeated mistakes.”