A good fuck.
ROSES
Evelyn Lau
THE PSYCHIATRIST CAME into my life one month after my eighteenth birthday. He came into my life wearing a silk tie, his dark eyes half-obscured by lines and wrinkles. He brought with him a pronounced upper-class accent, a futile sense of humor, books to educate me. Lolita. The Story of O. His lips were thin, but when I took them between my own they plumped out and filled my mouth with sweet foreign tastes.
He worshipped me at first because he could not touch me. And then he worshipped me because he could only touch me if he paid to do so. I understood that without the autumn leaves, the browns of the hundreds and the fiery scarlets of the fifties, the marble pedestal beneath me would begin to erode.
The first two weeks were tender. He said he adored my childlike body, my unpainted face, my long straight hair. He promised to take care of me, love me unconditionally. He would be my father, friend, lover – and if one was ever absent, the other two were large enough on their own to fill up the space that was left behind.
He brought into my doorway the slippery clean smell of rain, and he possessed the necessary implements – samples of pills tiny as seeds, a gold shovel. My body yielded to the scrapings of his hands.
He gave me drugs because, he said, he loved me. He brought the tablets from his office, rattling in plastic bottles stuffed to the brim with cotton. I placed them under my tongue and sucked up their saccharine sweetness, learning that only the strong ones tasted like candy, the rest were chalky or bitter. He loved me beyond morality.
The plants that he brought each time he came to visit – baby’s breath, dieffenbachia, jade – began to die as soon as they crossed the threshold of my home. After twenty-four hours the leaves would crinkle into tight dark snarls stooping towards the soil. They could not be pried open, though I watered his plants, exposed them to sunlight, trimmed them. It was as if by contact with him or with my environment, they had been poisoned. Watching them die, I was reminded of how he told me that when he first came to Canada he worked for two years in one of our worst mental institutions. I walked by the building once at night, creeping as far as I dared up the grassy slopes and between the evergreens. It was a sturdy beige structure, it didn’t look so bad from the outside. In my mind, though, I saw it as something else. In my mind it was a series of black-and-white film stills; a face staring out from behind a barred window. The face belonged to a woman with tangled hair, wearing a nightgown. I covered my ears from her screams. When he told me about this place I imagined him in the film, the woman clawing at him where the corridors were gray, and there was the clanking sound of tin and metal. I used to lie awake as a child on the nights my father visited my bed and imagine scenes in which he was terrorized, in pain, made helpless. This was the same. I could smell the bloodstains the janitors had not yet scrubbed from the floors. I could smell the human discharges and see the hands that groped at him as he walked past each cell, each room. The hands flapped disembodied in the air, white and supplicating and at the same time evil.
He told me that when he was married to his first wife, she had gone shopping one day and he had had to take their baby with him on his hospital rounds, “I didn’t know where to put him when I arrived,” he said. “So I put him in the wastepaper basket.” When he returned the child had upended the basket and crawled out, crying, glaring at his father. “I had no other choice,” he said, and he reached into his trenchcoat and gave me a bottle of pills. “I love you,” he said, “that’s why I’m doing this.”
I believed that only someone with a limitless love would put his baby in a trash can, its face squinched and its mouth pursing open in a squawk of dismay. Only someone like that could leave it swaddled in crumpled scraps of paper so he could go and take care of his patients. I could not imagine the breadth of the love that lay behind his eyes, those eyes that became as clear as glass at the moment of orgasm.
He bought a mask yesterday from a Japanese import store. It had tangled human hair that he washed with an anti-dandruff shampoo, carefully brushing it afterwards so the strands would not snap off. It had no pupils; the corneas were circles of bone. He took it home with him and stared at it for half an hour during a thunderstorm, paralysed with fear. It stared back at him. It was supposed to scare off his rage, he said.
After two weeks his tenderness went the way of his plants – crisp, shriveled, closed. He stopped touching me in bed but grew as gluttonous as dry soil. I started to keep my eyes open when we kissed and to squeeze them shut all the other times, the many times he pulled my hand or my head down between his legs.
He continued to bring me magazines and books, but they were eclipsed by the part of him he expected me to touch. Some days, I found I could not. I thought it was enough that I listened to his stories. I fantasized about being his psychoanalyst and not letting him see my face, having that kind of control over him. I would lay him down on my couch and shine light into his eyes while I remained in shadow where he could not touch me.
His latest gift, a snake plant, looks like a cluster of green knives or spears. The soil is so parched that I keep watering it, but the water runs smartly through the pot without, it seems, having left anything of itself behind. The water runs all over the table and into my hands.
Tonight I did not think I could touch him. I asked him to hit me instead, thinking his slim white body would recoil from the thought. Instead he rubbed himself against my thigh, excited. I told him pain did not arouse me, but it was too late. I pulled the blankets around my naked body and tried to close up inside the way a flower wraps itself in the safety of its petals when night falls.
At first he stretched me across his knees and began to spank me. I wiggled obediently and raised my bottom high into the air, the way my father used to like to see me do. Then he moved up to rain blows upon my back. One of them was so painful that I saw colors even with my eyes open; it showered through my body like fireworks. It was like watching a sunset and feeling a pain in your chest at its wrenching beauty, the kind of pain that makes you gasp.
How loud the slaps grew in the small space of my apartment – like the sound of thunder. I wondered if my face looked, in that moment, like his Japanese mask.
The pain cleansed my mind until it breathed like the streets of a city after a good and bright rain. It washed away the dirt inside me. I could see the gutters open up to swallow the candy wrappers, newspaper pages, cigarette butts borne along on its massive tide. I saw as I had not seen before every bump and indentation on the wall beside my bed.
And then he wanted more and I fought him, dimly surprised that he wasn’t stronger. I saw as though through the eye of a camera this tangle of white thighs and arms and the crook of a shoulder, the slope of a back. I scraped his skin with my fingernails. I felt no conscious fear because I was the girl behind the camera, zooming in for a close-up, a tight shot, an interesting angle. Limbs like marble on the tousled bed. His face contorted with strain. He was breathing heavily, but I, I was not breathing at all. I knew that if I touched his hair my hand would come away wet, not with the pleasant sweat of sexual exertion, but with something different. Something that would smell like a hospital, a hospital with disinfectant to mask the smells underneath.
And when he pushed my face against his thigh, it was oddly comforting, though it was the same thigh that belonged to the body that was reaching out to hit me. I breathed in the soft, soapy smell of his skin as his hand stung my back – the same hand that comforted crying patients, that wrote notes on their therapeutic progress, that had shaken with shyness when it first touched me. The sound of the slaps was amplified in the candlelit room. Nothing had ever sounded so loud, so singular in its purpose. I had never felt so far away from myself, not even with his pills.
I am far away and his thigh is sandy as a beach against my cheek. The sounds melt like gold, like slow Sunday afternoons. I think of cats and the baby grand piano in the foyer of my father’s house. I think of the rain that gushes down th
e drainpipes outside my father’s bathroom late at night when things begin to happen. I think of the queerly elegant black notes on sheets of piano music. The light is flooding generously through the windows and I am a little girl with a pink ribbon in my hair and a ruffled dress.
I seat myself on the piano bench and begin to play, my fingertips softening to the long ivory, the shorter ebony keys. I look down at my feet and see them bound in pink ballerina slippers, pressing intermittently on the pedals. Always Daddy’s girl, I perform according to his instruction.
When it was over he stroked the fear that bathed my hands in cold sweat. He said that when we fought my face had filled with hatred and a dead coldness. He said that he had cured himself of his obsession with me during the beating, he had stripped me of my mystery. Slapped me human. He said my fear had turned him on. He was thirsty for the sweat that dampened my palms and willing to do anything to elicit more of that moisture so he could lick it and quench his tongue’s thirst.
I understood that when I did not bleed at the first blow, his love turned into hatred. I saw that if I was indeed precious and fragile I would have broken, I would have burst open like a thin shell and discharged the rich sweet stain of roses.
Before he left he pressed his lips to mine. His eyes were open when he said that if I told anyone, he would have no other choice but to kill me.
Now that he is gone, I look between my breasts and see another flower growing: a rash of raspberry dots, like seeds. I wonder if this is how fear discharges itself when we leave our bodies in moments of pain.
The psychiatrist, when he first came, promised me a rose garden and in the mirror tomorrow morning I will see the results for the first time on my own body. I will tend his bouquets before he comes again, his eyes misty with fear and lust. Then I will listen to the liquid notes that are pleasing in the sunlit foyer and smile because somewhere, off in the distance, my father is clapping.
WHITE NIGHT
Françoise Rey
Translated by Maxim Jakubowski
WE’D BEEN DRIVING for some time already. The night was cold and icy. Thin snow was falling. Suddenly, we moved straight into a blizzard. The flakes rushed towards us through the daze of the headlights, waltzing wildly, blinding our sight of the road. You slowed down.
“I’m married,” you suddenly said. This did not offend me, interrupting as it did a lengthy silence I had neither sought nor wanted.
“I know,” I answered. You looked down at your left hand and examined, as if it had never been there before, the ring, smiled as if confronted by undeniable evidence and my admission that I already knew. Which implied some form of idle curiosity on my part at least. Then you looked round at my own hands.
I think I wore five or six rings, but in the semi-darkness you had no time to count them as the road was becoming increasingly treacherous and invisible. You peered up through the wind-screen, changed the wipers’ speed, looked round at me again quizzically. I answered your silent question with a faint laugh and, still smiling, you accepted both my silence, and my wish to say nothing . . .
It was warm in the lorry’s cab, I was feeling good. Then you said: “My wife is at a ski resort, with the small ones.” I answered: “We’re also in the snow.” You put your hand on my knee and I closed my eyes.
Our meeting had been a bit of a miracle. Because of the time of year . . . It was the evening of December 24th . . .
My luggage in hand, I had crossed the road a bit too fast. There were a lot of people, many of them laden with parcels. A bike had shuffled against me, awkwardly squeezing me against the hood of a parked car, against which my case noisily brushed.
You were on the other side of the street, about to climb into your lorry. A big lorry which had probably just delivered oysters to the covered market which stood nearby. The company’s name was painted in large letters on the side of the vehicle, together with its address: “Rue B. Patoiseau – MARENNES.”
You halted in mid-ascent, then climbed down again to come to my rescue. I was a trifle shaken, no more.
“Are you OK?” you asked. “You’re not hurt?”
You picked up my case. You were much taller than me, film star-size. With a cheerful, sly glint in your winter sea green eyes, which reminded me – why not? – of clear, fresh oysters.
“You were leaving on holiday?”
“Yes,” I answered. “I was going to spend Christmas with my family in La Rochelle. But I’m worried that my train might be full and I forgot to make a reservation . . .”
You looked me straight in the eyes, pondered just half a second, turned toward your lorry.
“Say, I’ve thought of something . . .”
And there we are . . .
Just enough time for you to go to some office to complete the paperwork and for me to make a phone call, and we were on our way, on a long, unexpected, delicious Christmas Eve journey.
We had reached a hill. You slowed down, had to change gear, your hand left my knee for a moment, then swiftly returned. “The truth is,” you said to me, “I’m very shy.” And I was so enjoying this strange conversation where words seemed to be possessed of different meanings. The charming way you said “the truth is”, so pregnant with possibilities.
“Really?” Did I doubt you?
“Not usually,” you added.
“But tonight?” I sought confirmation.
“A bit.”
“Because of me?”
“Thanks to you.”
“And does it feel good?”
“It’s delectable!”
I thought that for a lorry driver your vocabulary was quite charming. And I loved the way you thought.
“How funny . . .” I said.
“Yes, for a lorry driver, eh?” you answered, and smiled once again. I looked back at you and drowned my gaze in your deeply lined brow. I had always known vile seducers had wrinkles just like yours. And I allowed myself to be seduced . . .
I put my hand on yours. It was warm, strong. Wise. I pulled my skirt up and encouraged your large hand to shed its innocence and explore further.
“You’re really funny!” you said. “You don’t really look like. . .”
“But I’m not . . .”
“What, only tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It’s Christmas!”
The disappointment on your face was almost comic.
“I thought it was because of me . . .”
“Thanks to you!” I corrected you.
And we sealed our complicity with an exchange of meaningful looks and smiles.
“Keep your eyes on the road. Our hands are old enough to look after themselves. Especially yours.”
“It’s not always an advantage to have such large hands,” you said, as your fingers approached the edge of my knickers.
The Mammoth Book of International Erotica Page 5