After many toasts and speeches the reception became more casual. The guests left the banquet table, and the waiters moved with difficulty through the crowds, serving drinks from trays they held high above their shoulders. Photographers followed in the steps of the master of ceremonies, who was busy introducing the most prominent guests to each other.
Now the guests began exchanging their national and political badges and insignia, a Party ritual symbolizing mutual understanding.
One guest would approach another, then, bowing, remove a badge from his pocket and pin it to the lapel of his new comrade. I watched the scientist moving through the crowd and pinning onto the chests of the Party functionaries round gold-colored badges, clearly distinguishable next to the highest State medals they wore so proudly. I was just about to leave when I saw him embracing one of the most highly decorated marshals of the country. Leaning toward the marshal’s glittering chest, he fastened the golden badge to his uniform, piercing it and the fabric with the pin he held in his right hand.
I approached the marshal for a closer look, and instantly had to restrain myself: the badge was a foreign-made prophylactic. The condom was wrapped and pressed into a shiny golden foil, and the name of the foreign factory stood out clearly in small letters embossed around its edges.
On my way out I saw the results of the scientist’s activity: almost all of the high Party and government officials displayed foil-wrapped contraceptives pinned to their lapels. After I left the reception, it occurred to me that only when the dignitaries had reached home and removed their heavy badges would they discover the lighter one. I wondered whether they would remember who had decorated them this way, and if they did, what their reaction would be.
The student’s union had decided to punish me for my lack of involvement The Party and the university had approved the recommendation: I was ordered to spend four months as an assistant lecturer in a new agricultural settlement
It was a long journey, and on the train I shared a compartment with three other men. They were all graduates of economic-planning institutes, eagerly looking forward to their new life, when they were to manage virgin land projects.
The settlement consisted of several collective farms and two experimental breeding stations, linked by a recently completed road. It was managed by a single Party cell. The workers spent six days in the field, using the most modern machines; Sundays were devoted to classroom lectures on social and political subjects.
I realized I would not be accepted. I was eyed with suspicion and was often asked the name of the authority for which I was investigating or spying. My lectures were attended since the schedule required it, but the workers listened to me with hostile politeness or studied disinterest: my requests for questions were met with stony silence. I knew there was no point to what I was doing; it was merely a question of spending the remainder of the four months in the settlement and doing what was required. I hadn’t made any friends, and there seemed to be nobody I could consider a companion. In the end I devoted my spare time to studying for my examinations and preparing a report on the lecture series.
During those weeks only one event seemed to excite any general interest. It was the visit of the state circus, which was scheduled to remain at our settlement for several days so that workers from outlying stations could be brought over to see the performances. The program was impressive: there were dancers, clowns, trapeze artists, bareback riders, jugglers, tightrope walkers, and wild-animal acts. The workers, full of admiration for the troupe, constantly broke into exuberant applause, demanding encore after encore.
There was one act I found particularly exciting: a young female acrobat performed with uncanny skill and grace on the trapeze. The girl went through a series of tightrope routines before ending her act with a gymnastic display in which she demonstrated unequaled suppleness. It seemed as though her whole body were molded from a single flexible fiber, so fluid were the complex positions into which she bent herself. Every part of her radiated lightness and strength. As I watched her, I felt turgid and slow.
She climaxed her act by facing the audience, her legs apart, her hands on her hips, the spotlights playing on her tunic. Then, to an increasingly swift accompaniment from the band, she raised her arms above her head, stood on tiptoe and stretched up and over backward like a taut steel spring. The spotlights followed the perfectly balanced arc of her head as it sank lower and lower; soon only her tightly bound auburn hair reflected the light as her head emerged from between her knees. The entire audience, sensing her suppressed energy, watched with bated breath, expecting her to flick up and back to her original stance. But almost miraculously she coiled her body even more, the lights picking out the gleam of her eyes and teeth as she thrust her head still further forward and up till it shielded her belly. She held this pose for an instant
The band hit a single, thrilling chord in harmony with the entrancement that had seized everyone, and as the chord struck she seemed to throw her lower limbs forward: her face vanished, and in the second it took us to realize that her head was hidden by her legs, the girl sprang back to her original position, arms up and outthrust as if embracing the applause which filled the air. She stood there, possessed by the tension and energy she had mastered moments earlier. An unwonted desire grew in me.
I watched her performance for three successive nights; the program said she had spent all her life in the circus and had been trained as a trapeze artist and gymnast by her parents, both highly talented performers.
The circus was scheduled to perform for three more evenings; I decided to try to meet the girl. I knew it would be difficult since the circus artists kept to themselves, and I had no convincing reason for intruding upon them. Neither the circus nor the farm managers encouraged any sort of fraternization.
The next day a luncheon was organized for the circus artists and the section leaders of the farm units, so that both groups could toast each other with speeches in praise of their mutual contributions to national life under the leadership of the Party and the government As the luncheon guests arrived I managed to greet the girl, and immediately led her to a seat at my table. To her left was a wall, and I sat down next to her, beckoning to an elderly farmer to take the seat on my right.
She sat beside me, seemingly oblivious of time and place, looking down at her lap, where she knitted and unknitted her fingers like a paraplegic working through a therapeutic exercise. After a moment she parted her hands and raised them up to her chest She drew them over her breasts and then down to her hips, thrusting her elbows back, her head and bosom forward.
I looked around the hall. The artists seemed restless, squirming uneasily on the hard wooden chairs. The representatives from the various farm collectives, inured to such meetings, slumped listlessly in their seats. I turned guardedly to the girl.
As I moved she must have moved also, for I felt the pressure of her thigh against mine. I stared across the table at the speaker, affecting great interest The pressure against me had become a series of slow pushes. I squinted at the girl: she was sitting upright, alternately parting and closing her legs, her knees meeting and whiteening with the pressure.
Slowly I placed my hand on the back of her chair, my fingers half clenched and my knuckles extended toward her spine. I couldn’t tell whether she noticed or not As she pulled herself in and back, the material of her dress touched my knuckles. Each of her movements was now more pronounced. I fdt as if she were trying to fuse her spine with my knuckles, to make the fleeting contact permanent Again I looked cautiously at her: her lips tightened and a slight flush heightened the color of her face.
The luncheon ended by midafternoon. The guests left for their dormitories in the clearings along the wooded roadside. The girl and I also left, but we walked quickly into the shelter of the trees.
I told her of the excitement I had experienced in watching her act, describing my fantasy of possessing her at that moment of great tension when her head sprang from between her thighs. She neit
her paused nor spoke; we walked on.
It was now barely light No wind reached the lower branches of the birches, and the leaves on the bushes hung inert as though hammered out of lead. Suddenly she turned and stripped, laying her dress down on the leaves piled deep at our feet.
She faced me, gently forcing me down onto my bade. As she knelt over me she seemed stocky, almost short-limbed. Her forehead rested on my chest, her hands on the ground behind my shoulders; then, in a single smooth movement, she swung her legs into the air. As they passed the highest point of the arc her back made, they seemed to take on the willowy suppleness of young birch boughs weighed down by falling snow. Her heels slowly passed the crown of her head; with her face framed between her thighs, and her knees bending, she brushed against my face her mouth and womb.
No one was able to claim the privilege of being her boy friend; she refused to have a steady companion. Admired, she was never possessed.
At the beginning of the term I was elected editor of the university newspaper. I invited her to contribute a weekly theater column and gave her the freedom to report on any play or literary event that might appeal to her. This post was much sought after and she accepted it immediately.
As editor of the paper I received many invitations and arranged whenever possible for the two of us to attend these gatherings together. I was envied by some of my colleagues, none of whom knew the exact relationship between this girl and myself.
As the term wore on, I noticed her preoccupation with her own body. We would meet at her apartment before going out From her small living room I often watched her gazing at herself in the dressingtable mirror, examining her profile, craning her neck, drawing her hands over her hips. Her robe, carelessly thrown over her shoulders, was not always closed. Occasionally I ventured a suggestive remark or casually touched her waist while handing her a brush, a dress, or a pair of stockings. She behaved as though she had not noticed anything. After the failure of two or three overtures I acknowledged her restraint.
One day, while she was dressing for a concert, I was sitting a foot or two away from a bureau. The bottom drawer was open, and as I glanced down at some old notebooks and a few odd pieces of costume jewelry I saw a stack of photographs of her, half hidden by the folder in which they lay. I looked toward the bedroom, but she was not at her dressing table. A moment later, when I heard the water running in the bathroom, I leaned over and pulled out a handful of the photographs and slipped them into my inside pocket After the concert I took the girl home and returned to my own room, where I freely examined them. They showed her nude. The poses, the lighting, the imperfections of focus suggested that she had stood before a camera equipped with a time exposure. They were all fairly recent—the paper had not lost its crispness. I recalled that on several occasions she had stayed after hours in the small office darkroom, saying that she wanted to look over the layouts for the newspaper. Presumably it was then that she had developed the photographs.
I did not mention my discovery to her, nor did I return the photos. Nothing changed in her manner during the next few days, and I assumed she had not noticed the loss.
Whenever I expected a visit from friends, I chose two or three pictures and placed them carefully among my papers and books. I was quite sure that the prints would be examined when I was out of the room preparing drinks or food. Within a few weeks I discovered that those who knew us believed we were lovers, and a few of my closer friends occasionally inquired about our marriage plans.
Shortly before the end of the term the girl and I were invited to a party given at a hotel in a neighboring resort All of us had been asked to stay overnight and spend the next day swimming. As I had examinations on the following morning, I refused. The girl stayed on, happy enough to be among admirers.
That day, at the end of my exams, I was given a note by the proctor. In answer to the request, I went to the professor’s office. He rose when I presented myself, offered me a cigarette, and rather helplessly told me to prepare myself for a shock. The girl had been found dead in the bathroom of the room she had occupied at the hotel: the pilot light of the water heater was on, but not lit.
The next day the news of her death spread through the university. Wherever I went I was stared at or pointed out. Two of my closest friends told me of the prevailing opinion—her death had been a suicide. Later in the day I realized that this conclusion was based more on imagination than on fact, for when I entered the auditorium for the afternoon lecture I found a number of anonymous notes on my desk. In each one the writer ao cused me of having seduced the girl, forced her into sex* ual excesses, photographed her in depraved situations, and finally of having abandoned her when she became pregnant
In the days that followed I was ostracized. I found myself eating alone in the cafeteria and sitting without neighbors in the classrooms. On the day of her funeral almost all of my class attended the service.
At the cemetery the mourners stood around the grave three-deep, in what would have been a circle except for the obvious gaps to my immediate right and left I felt this sudden isolation even more acutely because my closest friends were standing opposite me, giving me quick, uneasy glances. The grave was open: the soil was heaped to one side; on the other, the coffin, flower-decked, rested on the turf. The university chaplain stood at the head of the coffin, and the girl’s parents waited silently at its foot
They were probably farmers or small merchants, and I realized suddenly that she had never spoken to me of her home or family. Covertly I looked at the man’s worn suit, his pale, anguished face. His few wispy gray hairs blew about in the cold breeze. His wife’s legs bowed grotesquely. It was hard to believe that she and the worn man beside her had conceived the girl I had known. Someone bent toward them, whispering. They raised their heads and looked at me. As they did, all those present, who had been watching them, now shifted their gaze to me. Wherever I glanced, I met unyielding stares. By mistake I looked directly at the father.
For a moment he stared at me. Then he pushed aside his wife, who tripped and had to be stopped from falling by the two gravediggers. Frantically he clawed his way through the crowd. I knew that something violent was about to happen, that the old man would strike me or abuse me. The crowd seemed threatening, like a weight poised to fall at my slightest movement I could not move.
The crowd gaped. The old man strode on toward me, gasping and puffing, his lips twisted into a lipless grimace. He stopped in front of me, and raising his head with difficulty, spat into my face. I waited. His eyes seemed to sink into their sockets, his hands now fell helplessly at his sides. He turned away, silent, weary, old.
WHEN I WAS a schoolgirl my parents, the teachers, and our priest always warned me against it.
You were taught not to do it?
I was taught that if a woman did it, some dreadful punishment, a foul disease or a deformity, would befall her: some of my friends claimed the taste of it was horrible, oily, slimy, lumpy . . . and besides, it was degrading, almost like eating living flesh.
You seem to have thought a lot about it
Yes, often. But I received absolution from the priest.
You went to confession?
Yes; I still go. You see, during confession one doesn’t separate the intention from the act; one just confesses one’s guilt
Have you always received absolution?
So far, yes. But just for my thoughts. I’d be embarrassed to say I’ve actually . . . you know, it’s a weird sensation having it in one’s mouth. It’s as if the entire body of the man, everything, had suddenly shrunk into this one thing. And then it grows and fills the mouth. It becomes forceful, but at the same time remains frail and vulnerable. It could choke me—or I might bite it off. And as it grows, it is I who give it life; my breathing sustains it, and it uncoils like an enormous tongue. I loved what was ejected from you: like hot wax, it was suddenly melting all over me, over my neck and breasts and stomach. I felt as though I were being christened: it was so white and pure.
I examined the map but could not identify the road on which I was driving. I decided to take the first turn leading down into the valley, where I would presumably find a small town or at least a sizable village.
Three or four miles farther I was driving past unfenced hayfields on the outskirts of a settlement in which a church overlooked a ragged, dusty square.
Farmhouses and barns stood on the level ground. All was quiet It was Sunday and there were no signs of life except for the wisps of smoke curling lazily up from a few chimneys. I heard organ music swelling and realized it was the time for midmorning Mass. I stopped the car. I got out, and within seconds dogs were barking and baying on every porch. As I walked forward, their chorus seemed to increase in intensity. Rather than go toward the church, I turned away from the car and found myself approaching a solitary bam standing some yards off the road. I sat down, gazing at the soil which steamed in the sultry heat, at the clover and the unfamiliar wild flowers growing along the fences. The dogs were silent now. The muted voice of the church organ hovered over the houses and bams and lost itself in the fields.
Then I heard a strange sound coming from the bam; I thought it might be the whining of a puppy or the crying of a child. I walked cautiously around the bam, stopping in front of the padlocked doors. I pushed and tugged at the lock, but though it was old, it would not yield. I pulled at it once more: the rotten wood splintered and fell away.
Opening the door I stood on the threshold between light and shadow, listening and peering into the dark interior. Not a sound. As I stepped inside, I could smell dry hay, threshing-floor clay, and moldering wood. For a moment I could see nothing.
Gradually my eyes made out two small plows with broken handles leaning against a wall along with an old harness and various hoes, rakes, and pitchforks with splayed and crooked tines. In one corner I could see a pile of rusted, burnt-out oven pipes, mounds of scrap, hooks, bent pokers, shovels. Along the other wall stood small buckets filled with nails of many sizes and thicknesses, large metal keys, parts of old irons, broken braziers, sections of window fittings, door handles and locks, pots and pans, pieces of kitchen china. Still further on were rimless wheels, clusters of horseshoes, whips, buckles, and belts hanging on nails, and two axes driven into a short, thick tree stump.
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