The Anchor Book of New American Short Stories

by Ben Marcus

  The bride’s mother obligingly removed her lips from the darkened protuberance no longer veiled by white fabric. She awaited permission as an accompanist awaits the signal from another instrumentalist to initiate music, so as to create, all the more precisely, unity of sound and feeling.

  And when that signal came, and she lowered again her head to grasp with her lips what hands would not be useful for, a stream of pale white squirted out, startling us all. I nearly toppled over but repositioned to correct myself, careful to utter no sound. The bride’s mother also made adjustments; she appeared to take a deep breath and then, after one unsuccessful attempt, arrested the stream. With enviable dexterity, she reached, while thus occupied, toward the couple’s dressing table to retrieve a crystal bowl, into which she released, in an astoundingly refined fashion, the translucent whitish liquid from her mouth, the latter which she dabbed with the same linen cloth. Ignoring the unimpeded flow, she breathed again, and said, “I only wish I had two mouths.” Valiantly she resumed her relief measures, acquiring an almost graceful regimen of intake and release, growing, it seemed to me, increasingly acclimated, mother and daughter both, approaching a state of trance-like serenity.

  Now I am an efficient man, as I have said, and it troubled me to think of the ignored twin of the bride’s mammae, engorged as it was, unattended. Mrs. Callahan, pragmatic woman that she was, had obviously elected not to attempt a system of alternation, fearing the rhythmic complications of leaking and squirting. It had never occurred to me, until that moment, that a baby might nurse from both a mother’s breasts, in careful sequencing. Already today I had learned a great deal, primarily with the aid of sight, the sense that is not usually my instructor. But having thus benefited from observation, was it not my duty, now, to intervene? So often we men of cloth are accused of being “out of touch” with the pragmatic needs of our parishioners, particularly alienated from the needs of women, and inhabiting a comfortably ethereal realm. I looked into my heart and knew I had to overcome my resistance; sometimes matters far less grand than exorcising demons were well worthy of a priest. Such contact, though it be ostensibly at odds with propriety, and with my own inclinations, would be the gift that I could offer. The analogy of artificial respiration seemed fitting: this sort of detachment, yet commitment and intensity.

  I crept into the room, literally, for I would need to remain on my knees—I am well practiced—for this novel process. Neither stirred and I made only the softest sounds.

  “I am here.” I whispered it so softly that it might have been an angel’s voice, or strand of dream. And the bride’s gasp was likewise a subterranean response to dreamt image or sensation, when I took into my mouth the darkened mounded center of the aureole, controlling my distress to find it already wet, leaking in fact, all the while that Mrs. Callahan attended its twin. The breast itself was hard, like a boulder, but with a quality of translucence, blue veins protruding through the flesh. I had the unique opportunity to use as visual instruction the template across from me, and let this be my focus, rather than the disconcerting image immediately before me. I was prepared now for the energy with which its contents would gush forth. I moved my lips, and not my teeth, in time with Mrs. Callahan’s, and found, by some small miracle, a rhythm that seemed appropriate to Kathleen’s needs. Inadvertently I glanced at the crystal bowl to see that within the clearer fluid, resembling white watercolor paint, some globules of fat had collected. I managed to check, at first, an impulse to gag, but after this sight, the taste—for I could not approximate Mrs. Callahan’s demure dexterity in spitting out every drop of the substance to make room for more—of the cloyingly sweet liquid overwhelmed me. Already, it took all my concentration to be one with it. But certainly my training should have equipped me with the discipline required to transcend my squeamishness, to put mind and spirit over matter, in order to overcome the body’s limitations.

  And so I did, offering a silent prayer of thanks. And just as when one engages in physical exercise, and after passing a certain threshold of pain, gains momentum and achieves sustained transcendence, I too felt altogether delivered from my limitations. Such a strange suspension this state was, to be intensely present yet entranced: unique in my adventures as a servant. I felt no impatience whatsoever, only a curiosity as to how long a milk-filled mother’s breast required to empty its contents. My only reference was a single farming experience one summer as a boy, tentatively touching a cow’s udder—the farmhand laughing, “That won’t get you anywhere, little feller, ya gotta use some muscle,” as she squeezed my arm to add emphasis before demonstrating the far more vigorous maneuvers required to make the milk squirt into the silver pail. She might, I supposed, be proud of me now—though the bishop would demand an explanation.

  Most unfortunately, the indigestion—which was engendered when I indulged in gluttony over Mrs. Callahan’s repast, followed by hearing the bride’s reproach, and finally by coming to the aid of a woman—who happened to be the same as she who had reproached me—in distress—now welled up in my gut anew, and I was ashamed of my weakness. Mortal that I was, I would have to admit my subservience to the body. Such a vast intake of milk for an unaccustomed adult system was bound to result in some degree of gastric distress. I thought it best to absent myself before either woman “awakened,” for certainly my becoming ill would be no contribution to the situation. My gift would be left unsigned, as it were, and how happy this made me, for this is the joy of my vocation: to help without ostentation, to offer subtle assistance without expectation of boast or virtue. We must give freely even when—especially when—the gift entails sacrifice; even when we would wish nothing so much as to have the cup pass from our lips.

  It seemed in many ways the opportune time to go. I am a man of God and I had done what I could for the family. There were other families: a vast world in need of instruction, and I myself with so much to learn. In some other sense, however, I had just arrived; for my observance of these women, and the unique form of my participation in physiological processes that had remained for the greater part of my life abstract, had been instructive in a way I could not define or assimilate. Feeling thus overwhelmed made me want to flee, and yet I was to an equal degree entranced. Perhaps if I rested here with them, as quiet as I had been all this time, I could become for them a part of their landscape, a part of their life. I had the sense that they had been changed by their visit with each other, as most certainly had I by my covert interaction.

  Here the undertaker had no place, it seemed. And my own truths seemed disturbingly incomplete. What could I learn from this? How could I apply these lessons? In so many senses, failure felt the order of the day.

  Why, then, could I not pull myself from the room, from the sight of the two women, one of with whom I had had particular and unprecedented carnal interaction, for which I had no reference and lacked all vocabulary. I wished her to regain normal consciousness; felt, in fact, that I kept vigil to it—and yet it was this very transformed appearance that mesmerized me—for I am a man of ritual, am I not, performing every day again and again an invisible transformation of the ordinary into the extraordinary: bread into body, bread into body, but that body seen only in mind. Was my nausea and near-vertigo perhaps my own body’s excuse to remain?—weakness a catalyst for instruction: address your ignorance, servant, in order to better be that which you were meant? Humble yourself before the creatures made of Adam’s rib, made of man, but who themselves make men?

  I myself had seen the process; participated, in some sense, in its perpetuation—though all my efforts likely misinterpreted as thwarting. From sacred texts, from prayer, and from my superiors, had come my instruction in the past, but where was I now led? As they reclined, I too would recline, but apart from the bed, here in the corner, where I would witness, but not disturb; reflect upon the role I had played in their sustained interaction. Instinctively I took out my pen: “My children, ladies and gentlemen, good people”—I put a line through each in turn—“brothers and s
isters in Christ”—all addresses seemed prosaic, formulaic—“I would ask that you reflect today on something rather esoteric, something challenging and perhaps initially off-putting. Christian responsibilities are far more complex than they first appear, than we might have learned through the catechism lessons of our youth. Consider me, if you would, a kind of … midwife, who mediates collectively your birth in Christ, your baptism into new life. You must remind yourselves, should you ever feel mistrustful toward me, that my sole purpose on this earth is to assist you, as your servant.”

  No sooner had I penned the words than I began to feel some mitigation of the turbulence within my bowels. Realizing that these were indeed the means through which I could calm myself and my digestion, I proceeded with the outline for my homily.

  THE LIFE AND WORK OF ALPHONSE KAUDERS

  ALEKSANDAR HEMON

  Alphonse Kauders is the creator of The Forestry Bibliography, 1900–1948, published by the Engineers and Technicians Association, in Zagreb, 1949. This is a special bibliography related to forestry. The material is classified into seventy-three groups and encompasses 8,800 articles and theses. Bibliographical units are not numbered. The creator of The Forestry Bibliography was the first to catalog the entire forest matter in a single piece of work. The work has been viewed as influential.

  Alphonse Kauders had a dog by the name of Rex, whose whelp, in the course of time, he gave to Josip B. Tito.

  Alphonse Kauders had a mysterious prostate illness and, in the course of time, he said: “Strange are the ways of urine.”

  Alphonse Kauders said to Rosa Luxemburg: “Let me penetrate a little bit, just a bit, I’ll be careful.”

  * * *

  Alphonse Kauders said: “And what if I am still here.”

  Alphonse Kauders was the only son of his father, a teacher. He was locked up in a lunatic asylum, having attempted to molest seven seven-year-old girls at the same time. Father, a teacher.

  Alphonse Kauders said to Dr. Joseph Goebbels: “Writing is a useless endeavor. It is as though we sign every molecule of gas, say, of air, which—as we all know—cannot be seen. Yet, signed gas, or air, is easier to inhale.”

  Dr. Joseph Goebbels said: “Well, listen, that differs from a gas to a gas.”

  Alphonse Kauders was the owner of the revolver used to assassinate King Alexander.

  One of Alphonse Kauders’s seven wives had a tumor as big as a three-year-old child.

  Alphonse Kauders said: “People are so ugly that they should be liberated from the obligation to have photos in their identity cards. Or, at least, in their Party cards.”

  Alphonse Kauders desired, passionately, to create a bibliography of pornographic literature. He held in his head 3,700 pornographic books. Plus magazines.

  Richard Sorge, talking about the winds of Alphonse Kauders, said: “They sounded like sobs, sheer heartrending sorrow, which, resembling waves, emerged from the depths of one’s soul, and, then, broke down, someplace high, high above.”

  Alphonse Kauders, in the course of time, had to crawl on all fours for seven days, for his penis had been stung by seventy-seven bees.

  * * *

  Alphonse Kauders owned complete lists of highly promiscuous women in Moscow, Berlin, Marseilles, Belgrade, and Munich.

  Alphonse Kauders was a Virgin in his horoscope. And in his horoscope only.

  Alphonse Kauders never, never wore or carried a watch.

  There are records suggesting that the five-year-old Alphonse Kauders amazed his mother by making “systematic order” in the house pantry.

  Alphonse Kauders said to Adolf Hitler, in Munich, as they were guzzling down their seventh mug of beer: “God, mine is always hard when it is needed. And it is always needed.”

  Alphonse Kauders:

  a) hated forests

  b) loved to watch fires

  These proclivities were happily united in his notorious obsession with forest fires, which he would watch, with great pleasure, whenever he had a chance.

  Josip B. Tito, talking about the winds of Alphonse Kauders, said: “They sounded like all the sirens of Moscow on May 1, the International Labor Day.”

  Alphonse Kauders impregnated Eva Braun, and she, in the course of time, delivered a child. But after Adolf Hitler began establishing new order and discipline and seducing Eva Braun, she, intoxicated by the Führer’s virility, sent the child to a concentration camp, forcing herself to believe it was only for the summer.

  * * *

  Alphonse Kauders hated horses. Oh, how Alphonse Kauders hated horses.

  Alphonse Kauders, in the course of time, truly believed that man created himself in the process of history.

  Alphonse Kauders stood behind Gavrilo Princip, whispering—as urine was streaming down Gavrilo’s thigh, as Gavrilo’s sweating hand, holding a weighty revolver, was trembling in his pocket—Alphonse Kauders whispered: “Shoot, brother, what kind of a Serb are you?”

  Alphonse Kauders described his relationship with Rex: “We, living in fear, hate each other.”

  There are records that Alphonse Kauders spent some years in a juvenile delinquents’ home, having set seven forest fires in a single week.

  Alphonse Kauders said: “I hate people, almost as much as horses, because there are always too many of them around, and because they kill bees, and because they fart and stink, and because they always come up with something, and it is the worst when they come up with irksome revolutions.”

  Alphonse Kauders wrote to Richard Sorge: “I cannot speak. Things around me do not speak. Still, dead, like rocks in a stream, they do not move, they have no meaning, they are just barely present. I stare at them, I beg them to tell me something, anything, to make me name them. I beg them to exist—they only buzz in the darkness, like a radio without a program, like an empty city, they want to say nothing. Nothing. I cannot stand the pressure of silence, even sounds are motionless. I cannot speak, words mean nothing to me. At times, my Rex knows more than I do. Much more. God bless him, he is silent.”

  Alphonse Kauders knew by heart the first fifty pages of the Berlin phone book.

  Alphonse Kauders was the first to tell Joseph V. Stalin: “No!”

  Stalin asked him: “Do you have a watch, Comrade Kauders?” and Alphonse Kauders said: “No!”

  Alphonse Kauders, in the course of time, told the following: “In our party, there are two main factions: the Maniacs and the Killers. The Maniacs are losing their minds, the Killers are killing. Naturally, in neither of these two factions are there any women. Women are gathered in the faction called the Women. Chiefly, they serve as an excuse for bloody fights between the Maniacs and the Killers. The Maniacs are the better soccer team, but the Killers can do wonders with knives, like nobody else in this modern world of ours.”

  Alphonse Kauders had gonorrhea seven times and syphilis only once.

  Alphonse Kauders does not exist in the Encyclopedia of the USSR. Then again, he does not exist in the Encyclopedia of Yugoslavia.

  Alphonse Kauders said: “I am myself, everything else is stories.”

  Dr. Joseph Goebbels, talking about the winds of Alphonse Kauders, said: “They were akin to the wail of an everlastingly solitary siren, sorrow in the purest of forms.”

  * * *

  One of the seven wives of Alphonse Kauders had a short leg. Then again, the other leg was long. The arms were, more or less, of the same length.

  In the Archives of the USSR, there is a manuscript which is believed to have originated from Alphonse Kauders:

  “1) shoot under the tongue (?);

  2) symbolism (?); death on the ground (?); in the forest (??); by an anthill (?); by a beehive;

  3) take only one bullet;

  4) the sentence: I shall be reborn if this bullet fails, and I hope it won’t;

  5) lie down, so all the blood flows into the head;

  6) burn all manuscripts => possibility of someone thinking they were worth something;

  7) invent some love (?);

&n
bsp; 8) the sentence: I blame nobody, especially not Her (?);

  9) tidy up the room;

  10) write to Stalin: Koba, why did you need my death?

  11) take a bottle of water with me;

  12) avoid talking until the certain date.”

  One of Alphonse Kauders’s seven best men was Richard Sorge.

  Alphonse Kauders regularly subscribed to all the pornographic magazines of Europe.

  Alphonse Kauders removed his own appendix in Siberia, and he probably would have died, had he not been transferred to the camp hospital at the very last moment. And that was only because he had informed on a bandit in the bed next to his for secretly praying at night.

  Alphonse Kauders said to Eva Braun: “Money isn’t everything. There is some gold too.”

  * * *

  Alphonse Kauders was a fanatic beekeeper. In the course of his life, he led fierce and merciless battles against parasitic lice that ruthlessly exploit bees, and are known as “varoa.”

  Alphonse Kauders said: “The most beautiful fire (not being a forest one) I have ever seen, was when the Reichstag was ablaze.”

  The very idea of creating Alphonse Kauders occurred for the first time to his (future) mother. She said to the (future) father of Alphonse Kauders: “Let’s make passionate love and create Alphonse Kauders.”

  Father said: “All right. But let’s watch some, you know, pictures.”