rien ne va plus
First published in 2009 by
Clockroot Books
An imprint of Interlink Publishing Group, Inc.
46 Crosby Street, Northampton, Massachusetts 01060
www.clockrootbooks.com
Text copyright © 1991 by Margarita Karapanou
Translation copyright © 2009 by Karen Emmerich
Originally published in Greek by Hermes Publishing in 1991
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Karapanou, Margarita.
[Rien ne va plus. English]
Rien ne va plus / by Margarita Karapanou ; translated from the Greek by
Karen Emmerich. —1st American ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-56656-772-5 (pbk.)
I. Emmerich, Karen. II. Title.
PA5622.A696R5413 2009
889’.334—dc22
2009010926
Cover art and design by Ihrie Means
Printed and bound in the United States of America
for my cousin, Constantine
People interpret an action, and each
interpretation is different. Because
in the telling and the retelling, people
reveal not the action, but themselves.
—Akira Kurosawa’s Rashomon
Demons have faith,
but they tremble.
—Dostoevsky
part one
1.
His eyes were purple, cold, the eyes of a fish. But he was so dazzlingly handsome that his beauty instantly obscured the sense I had of the horror that was to come. All evening, though I found him very attractive, I had the impression that among the guests in the room roamed a reptile with purple eyes, a perfect nose, a handsome mouth, and an exquisite, aggressive sophistication. Alkiviadis talked of nothing but water heaters, how you should leave them off so as not to waste money, and if you do turn them on, it should only be an hour before showering.
—Of course, I always take cold showers, he said, and laughed.
2.
—Why do you suppose I like homosexuality? Alkiviadis asked me.
—Because the people who love you can’t ever follow you to the place where you go with the boys. Homosexuality is a hermetically sealed world that belongs to each of us alone. It’s almost as if you’ve died.
Only years later, after the unspeakable had happened, did this statement take on its full significance.
3.
On our wedding night, Alkiviadis suggested we go to a gay bar. I agreed. I still had rice and flowers in my hair.
—I want to show you something, he insisted, flushed and excited, like a child.
I was the only woman in the bar. When I walked in, the men eyed me aggressively, then with curiosity. But when they saw Alkis, they settled down.
—Watch this, he told me.
A blond boy directly across from us was staring at Alkiviadis. He was young, skinny and shy, not even good-looking.
Alkiviadis, who also had rice and flowers in his hair, took a business card from the pocket of the suit he’d worn to the church and went over to the boy. From a distance I listened to his cool, metallic voice, to the insolence barely disguised by his courteous manner.
—My wife and I—we just got married today— would be very pleased if you would come to see us tomorrow evening. Here, the address is on my card, we live in Glyfada. It would make us very happy.
He gave the boy his card. There was something so bizarre about the formality of the scene. My eyes welled with tears. Alkiviadis in his wedding suit, the boy in jeans.
—Well, goodbye, Alkis said.
He came back over to where I was sitting.
—Did you see that? He looked at me.
The boy couldn’t have been more than fifteen.
Much later I understood that even then, on the first day of our marriage, Alkiviadis wanted urgently to prove something to me.
—I don’t even like him. He lit a cigarette.
There was something so repulsive, yet so seductive about this exchange. I felt as if I’d eaten something I couldn’t quite digest right away. It was more than I could deal with, so I erased it from my memory even as it was taking place.
And so on the first night of our marriage I loved Alkiviadis absolutely, as if nothing had happened.
It started to snow. Glyfada went completely white. There were no taxis or buses. Alkiviadis’s place didn’t have heat. And the water heater was off, so I couldn’t even take a hot bath.
—Should I turn it on? I asked.
—No. Go and sit by the space heater.
The snowstorm kept up the next day, too. All day long we made love. Around six Alkiviadis decided to read Proust. He was reading Le temps retrouvé when the doorbell rang.
—Who could that be? I asked.
—Must be one of the neighbors. No one would go far in this cold.
I went to answer the door.
The blond boy stood before me, shivering, soaked to the skin.
—I walked for hours. Is your husband home?
It occurred to me that I wouldn’t have gone out for anyone in such weather. The boy must have wanted Alkis very badly.
I started to shiver, too.
—I’ll be right there, Alkiviadis called from the bedroom. Keep him company, I’ll be out in a minute.
The boy and I sat down on the sofa. He seemed uncomfortable. I was wearing one of Alkis’s sweaters over my nightgown. We were both shivering.
—What sort of work do you do? I asked.
—I’m training to be a flight attendant.
—You like to fly?
—Yes, he said, and smiled, glancing toward the bedroom.
—Would you care for a drink? I’m the lady of the house here, you know.
—Yes. A little brandy, in one of those tall glasses.
His hands were blue from the cold.
—I’m a writer, I told him.
—And I don’t really like women, he replied. He took a sip of the brandy and lit a cigarette. This time his smile was twice as wide.
—I can’t believe you two got married yesterday.
—Neither can I.
Alkis came into the room wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Barefoot. He sat next to the boy and kissed him on the mouth. The boy embraced him so passionately that I understood why he’d walked so far in the snow. It frightened me.
I rose and started toward the bedroom. The cat, Caesar, jumped up on my back as if to strangle me.
Alkiviadis pushed the boy away and chased after me.
—Stay here, he said. It’s no fun with just him.
I went back and sat in the armchair. They started kissing again.
—I can’t, not with your wife watching.
—But that’s what I want, Alkiviadis answered. If you can’t, then leave.
They undressed. Their bodies twined together, unbelievably beautiful. I watched, smoking. I liked it. But I still cried.
It’s just a bad dream, I thought, I’ll wake up soon. Then my mind started to wander, as if I really were dreaming, or feverish.
I started to think about my dog Alana. How she sleeps in her very own chair, how she looks at me when she’s hungry or wants to be petted, how she rests her head right at the base of my neck as if in prayer. I’d never loved my dog as much as I did on that night with the snow and the moaning, the cold, the two pairs of jeans tossed on the rug.
The boy seemed to feel more at home when they were done.
—Why’d you get married, man? Are you crazy?
Still out of breath, he lit a cigarette and stroked his naked belly. It was the first time he’d spoken to Alkiviadis so informally,
using the singular.
—Man, why’d you get married? Are you nuts?
—Get dressed and get out, Alkiviadis snapped. We did what we had to do. Now I want to be with my wife, whom I adore, and to enjoy Proust with her.
—What’s Proust?
—A brand of ice cream. Now get up, get dressed, and get out. Just close the door behind you, I don’t feel like getting up.
—The jerk went and got married, the boy went on. She’s a lucky lady, your wife. She even gets a free show…
—Beat it, or I’ll beat you.
Alkis’s eyes had gone dark purple, as they always did when he was very angry.
The boy got dressed and left, whistling.
Alkis and I lay down on the bed and began to read Proust.
The answering machine was on, the volume high: This is Alkiviadis… I’ll be back in the office on Monday, January 21st. Until then I’ll be away on my honeymoon. All evening while the blond boy was in the house, and all night after he left, this message kept blaring.
4.
—I love you more than anything, Alkiviadis told me, eyeing the boys around him in the café, who returned his gaze.
—Alkis, are you only attracted to boys?
—Yes, but it’s you I love.
My cup of coffee spilled on the lap of the blond boy at the table next to ours. He was wearing green corduroy pants.
—It’s nothing, he said, catching Alkis’s eye.
5.
—Do you love me? I asked.
—More than anything in the world.
—But you don’t love anything.
—That’s why I love you.
6.
—You should be careful, Alkis told me. You’re the suicidal type. Depression is a sure road to suicide.
I laughed.
—But Alkis, I could never kill myself. It isn’t in my nature, my character; I just don’t have it in me. Besides, I find suicide vulgar and aggressive. People only kill themselves in order to hurt other people. It isn’t heroic, it’s a despicable crime. No, I could never do it. Could you?
Alkis laughed.
—Can you picture me committing suicide?
We both laughed.
—No, I told him. You’re the last person in the world who would destroy yourself. You’re too narcissistic.
Alkis lit a cigarette, deep in thought. Then he burst out laughing again.
—I’d only kill myself on a weekend, when you were here. For the company.
7.
Alkiviadis was a veterinarian. It was strange, because he didn’t like animals. He never petted them. Even my dogs, he’d never petted them, not once.
But during surgery, he handled the animals with infinite tenderness. He was an extraordinary surgeon. I would see such love in his eyes when an animal awoke from anesthesia, an animal he’d saved from death.
It was the same way he looked at me when we’d just made love.
And just as he never touched animals except during surgery, he never touched me unless we were in bed. So, with profound tenderness, I’d come to associate our bed with the operating table.
I never understood Alkiviadis; he was a mystery to the very end. I didn’t understand the end, either. But I worshipped Alkis. I was like a dog being taken to the vet, a dog that both worships and fears its doctor. Now, looking back, I see that in the beginning my love for Alkis was very much like the love of a frightened animal in a veterinarian’s waiting room.
Alkiviadis once operated on his cat, Caesar. He removed the cat’s claws to keep him from ruining the furniture. Like me, Caesar was happy because he loved Alkis. Only one thing scared me: if the cat ever escaped from the house, how would he defend himself against other cats in the street? Me, I let my nails grow.
8.
I watch Caesar jump onto the sofa, the chairs. He scratches at the velvet with his paws. Not a single mark appears, the surfaces remain smooth. Alkis’s face, too, remains smooth.
—He doesn’t know his claws are gone, so he enjoys it just the same, Alkis says.
Caesar looks quizzically at the sofa and chairs, then down at his feet. He licks his paws and runs to hide under the table. This is the last time I’ll see him rush at the furniture with such enthusiasm.
9.
—Alkis, how did you learn to make love like that?
—First with my own body. Then with bodies like mine. And then with you.
—You’ve never been with another woman? Besides me?
—Sure I have. But they bored me. You don’t have to take boys out, or any of that crap. You don’t eat in restaurants. You screw. With them it’s like being alone. And sex with them isn’t at all like making love with a woman.
—What about me?
—You’re different. First of all, we’re friends, like two men. Besides, I’m in love with you precisely because you’re a woman. It’s what I always dreamed of. Male bodies bring me closer to you. And you send me back to them.
—Do you still sleep with men?
I was very jealous.
—Now and then.
He laughed.
—No one should have to break his habits.
10.
—I’m a pathological skinflint.
Alkiviadis himself used to tell me this.
—No amount of money could ever be enough. Even if I had a billion dollars it wouldn’t be enough, it would seem like nothing. Without money I feel naked, exposed. No matter how much I had, I would still feel that way. Without money I simply don’t exist.
—But Alkis, you’re incredibly rich.
—And yet I live in a state of panic. I don’t like to spend. I like to hoard. Even the sight of an ashtray piled with cigarette butts fills me with satisfaction. When I have to open my wallet to pay for our tickets at the movies my heart pounds, I get dizzy. I didn’t want to get married because I didn’t want to spend the money. If I could, I’d never leave the house; that way I’d never have to touch my wallet. At night I dream of money. I once dreamed that you were with another man, naked, burning hundreds of thousands, maybe millions of dollars in a fireplace. Afterward the two of you made love in the ashes. I wasn’t upset about the other man, just about all that wasted money.
And your little extravagances drive me crazy. It makes me want to throw up every time you buy a pack of cigarettes. Quit smoking, or buy your cigarettes when I’m not around. Don’t spend in front of me. Money is my only passion. That’s why I like boys: with them, you don’t have to pay for anything.
—Alkiviadis, what is homosexuality?
—To be alone and always to pay for two. But that’s when you’re old. Me, I’ve got time.
11.
After we were married, the first thing Alkiviadis did at my place was hang a nylon curtain around my bathtub, with a huge metal bar for support. My bathroom was ruined; it seemed so small and miserable. The curtain was white with pink and purple flowers. Whenever I took a shower, I secretly opened it all the way. And I left the water heater on all the time.
Naturally we received lots of wedding presents. But Alkiviadis wouldn’t let me look at them. He put them all in the crawl space. He numbered each one and listed them on a big sheet of paper according to value and size and the guest’s reason for buying the gift. He taped the list to the wall and told me:
—We won’t ever use them. That way we can send them as gifts whenever we’re invited to a wedding or baptism. Why spend money if we don’t need to?
—But what about the rocking chair I sent to the island?
—Have it sent back.
One of my aunts had given us a dinner service painted with pale dragons. I liked it. I liked all of the presents, because I loved Alkiviadis. One day Alkis disappeared with the set and didn’t come home until evening. He told me he’d spent the whole day going from shop to shop, to all the stores in that chain, trying to exchange the set. And he finally succeeded. He returned home triumphant, carrying a set of white dishes, each with a single yellow butterfly i
n the center.
—This set is much nicer, he said, and it was cheaper, too, since it has more pieces: there are big plates, little plates, soup bowls, fruit bowls, platters, a gravy boat, even coffee mugs.
—But I don’t like it, I said.
He lit a cigarette and started to read. Then he raised his head and looked at me, smiling.
—Rien ne va plus, he said.
—Isn’t that what they say in roulette?
—Yes. It’s not as ominous as it sounds. But it marks the most crucial moment of the game. That’s what gives it that terseness, that sense of conclusion.
—What exactly does it mean?
—It’s the moment when you can’t affect the future anymore, for better or worse. When you hear the croupier’s famous Rien ne va plus, you either win or lose whatever you’ve bet. Usually you lose.
—But sometimes you win, I insisted.
—Hardly ever. Roulette is a deadly game.
12.
After we were married, Alkiviadis decided that we would continue to live separately, each in our own apartment. We would only see each other on weekends, at Alkis’s place. But going to visit my own husband at his house every weekend proved as difficult as arranging an adulterous affair. I had to leave my dogs with a friend, pack a suitcase, lower the blinds, and turn off the water heater—Alkis insisted on that. He lived in Glyfada. I remember the busy avenue, the hideous glass buildings, the ugliness, the thousands of cars, the noise, the cab drivers’ curses… I always arrived hungry.
—Tonight I have a delicious meal planned for you, Alkiviadis would tell me. Bulgur and tomatoes.
I was always very hungry, and I liked whatever Alkiviadis made, because I loved him. And because after the bulgur and tomatoes we would fall into bed for two days, and the water heaters, the ugly dishes, the aggravation of the trip there, all dissolved into pleasure.
After we were married, Alkiviadis told me:
—I need days when I can be alone, to think, to daydream.
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