Sun Alley

by Cecilia Stefanescu

  Dori appeared in a haste and then stopped, grabbing hold of Matilda with all her might. She was instantly surrounded from all sides, asked what was wrong, comforted. The girl kept repeating over and over again: ‘The lady is in the bathroom!’, but no one understood why exactly she was crying and what had bothered her so much.

  Mari still held on to Matilda, having taken over something of her mother’s wise demeanour. Sorin asked her in a whisper if she knew what was wrong with her sister. She looked at him as if he were a stranger, but still answered, in another whisper, ‘Dori is upset that the lady made a mess in the bathroom and soiled her beach towel.’

  He crept into the hall, his heart pounding madly in his chest. He stepped with caution, careful not to knock over the buckets Matilda had just used to mop the floor and had placed next to the bathroom door. The door was ajar, but it was dark inside. First, he thought that Emilia had left: that she had jumped out the window, scuttling away, leaving them to sort things out by themselves; perhaps she had gone to her lover, the brother of her cuckolded husband, leaving them both, spectacularly and irrevocably.

  He postponed the moment in which he would see the window open wide and the prints of her pointed shoes on the yellow tiles. He told himself that, if he were to lose her, he would rather find her lying dead on the floor in a pool of blood, her skirt and her blouse half soaked in the clammy, sweetish liquid. Better like that than to fall asleep knowing that she was with another man, crumpling bed sheets in crummy hotels. Better for her to be gone at once than for him to suffer because of her, to search for her, to haunt her, to secretly partake in a life that no longer included him. He had decided that it was better that way.

  From behind the door, he heard a tiny voice, crooning:

  ‘Haaaaaryyyy, Haaaaryyyy, going on safari!

  Toooooma, Toooooma, scared of his aroma!

  Max-wax, on his tracks!

  Eeeeemi, cockamamie!

  Sal, Sal, be my pal!’

  IX

  FIN’AMORS

  She was lying in bed, a rumpled blanket at her toes and an extra-large white T-shirt half covering her thighs. Though her eyes were shut, there was a brief, quick motion behind her eyelids, a sort of unbroken back-and-forth movement that could have misled anyone who might have walked in and seen her stone-still. But there was no one in the room, and the chance that someone would come in was so slight that she hung limp, legs wide apart, already enjoying the delightful illusion of having risen up above the sheets, where she hovered happily. The day had worn on, as time goes by when nothing happens: you try to sleep on, but the eyes dry out beneath the eyelids and open fitfully, grasping at the faintest image, at the haziest noise. She was hastily approaching the night’s sleep and yet was radiating an energy that could have moved all the hospital beds away. The neon lamps were whirring, the tables were whirring, the hallway chairs were whirring, the hallways were whirring at the blasting passage of the human-repair squad, the doors were whirring in tune with their long creaks. Her strained nerves themselves, seemingly animated with a life of their own, wearing her clothes and striving to survive on her behalf, were also whirring in vain abeyance, bathed in the dim, cold light.

  She remembered Harry. In fact, it would be more accurate to say she had dreamt about Harry even before uttering his name at the party. He looked exactly like he did back then, in the room, when they had locked themselves in and he wouldn’t open the door to Sal; he wore the same clothes – those short, ragged trousers reeking of soiled linen. Yet she had her present body, which made her look big and inadequate in the boy’s Lilliputian room, striving to fit in. She sat on the edge of the bed and tucked up her white skirt, revealing her legs. Harry was laughing his head off, telling her how they would hide in Max’s mother’s medical office, peeking from behind the sofa at the ladies who undressed for the examination, and how they would masturbate, sitting back-to-back. She had felt disgusted and wanted to leave, but Harry had grabbed her ankle and knocked her down with unexpected vigour. Then he had climbed on her with all his weight, his legs astride and his buttocks on her chest.

  She was choking and, as he forced the air out of her lungs, she could see him pulling faces and riding her, jumping above her in a way that, she realised just before collapsing, resembled the sexual jerks of a beginner. When she came back to her senses, Harry was sitting next to her, naked, his legs tucked underneath him and his palms resting on his knees. His pearlescent pink skin was immaculate, gleaming like a sheet of waxed paper; he was waiting for her with the face of an angel who ardently contemplated its host before getting inside them through their belly button and filling their bowels with feelings of guilt and terror. She tried to get up, but instantly realised she had been tied up with a string; it resembled one she would bind jam jars with after her mother had poured out the hot, pungent mixture from pots simmering on the stove.

  Harry had grinned and bared a string of jagged teeth. She shut her eyes and told herself she was dreaming. And yet there was something very familiar, as if those intense sensations, meticulously curbing her urge to resist, were stirred not by the dream itself but by recollection. The boy had grabbed his penis between his white, thin fingers. It was a pinkish piece of flesh that, seen at close range, had a pasty texture. It was wagging about excitedly, bouncing and moving freely. He approached her, and this time he gently curled her legs round his thighs; before she could squeeze her eyes to try and wake up, she merely felt the piece of flesh sliding in through her labia, tickling her as it went. She giggled as if encouraging him to go on. As he kept fumbling around, failing to find the hole through which to enter, he made his way in with his fingers. They were extremely cold and tiny, particularly clumsy; they were scratching and furrowing the membrane, the internal walls and the soft, slippery flesh as they strove to get through. It only took a few seconds for the boy to lose his temper and start to bore as if digging the soil. His hands were sinking into her vagina, ripping out tiny red scraps of skin, while, sunken into a deathlike blackout, she could still see him moving further down, ruthlessly and cruelly, seemingly unaffected by the howls that, although not her own, were breaking down the walls.

  Then she woke up, but Harry was still astride her, watching her with the familiar, mature gaze of somebody else. It was that feeling of intimacy that ultimately made her abandon herself, allowing the inexperienced boy to pluck up his courage. He inserted his small cock in her big vagina and started to wriggle until finally, exhausted and with dark circles under his eyes like a small animal, he picked up the motion. Harry was visibly growing above her, slowly turning into an adult who, lovingly and tenderly, was molesting her, almost with her consent.

  When she truly woke up, she realised her dream was more like an echo of a recollection. She was at Harry’s, just before she heard Sal collapsing outside the door, when he had taken her hand and placed it upon his dirty, soggy pants, straight over his bump, which had been stirring and responded to the touch. She wanted to scream, but he silenced her with his palm and kept her quiet for a long time; she imagined that would be the end, till Sal collapsed outside the door. For a long time, she thought he had known what was happening behind the door; that he had seen them, too, as he managed to see other things, and that the repulsion triggered by that image had not only made him pass out but also made him determined to show indifference later on. Only once did she want to make amends, or even thought of testing whether he actually knew about it or not. But Sal was unfathomable, and the Harry episode remained buried.

  She opened her eyes, but the light in the room hadn’t changed and the noises were the same as before. It may have been an hour or it may well have been only one second since her thoughts had wandered away, just as it could have been endless years since she had walked into the neon-lit room. By the number of spiky pills she had to take – twice daily at first, now solely in the morning – a whole lifetime might have elapsed since Sal’s party, and she wouldn’t have been surprised to see, instead of her own reflection in t
he mirror, the image of a brown-skinned, grizzle-haired lady, with bags under her eyes and swollen flesh on her bones. But she had only changed her T-shirt twice so far and, in their undefiled world, two T-shirts was too short a time for one to grow old. They only accounted for a couple of days of anguish and strain in order to forget what had happened.

  She sat up and looked over her shoulder at the bedside table. There was a book, upon which her watch was laid, a plastic cup and a bottle of mineral water. It was a sign of Matei’s having visited. She might have wished to see, instead of that bottle, a flowerpot with an exquisite plant from the greenhouses on Liberty Park’s hill, or the slightest token meant for her. But the things resting neatly on the hospital bedside table conveyed no message at all.

  The door opened with a slight creak. She sat up, but instantly lay back down and shut her eyes again. The entire room was drenched in formaldehyde, filled with that familiar fragrance which had been pervading her nose every bedtime.

  Matei looked fresh and lively. When he showed up, he filled the room with joy; the spotlights turned on, sweeping the metal objects in the room with their fluorescent rays, making it come to life and move about. He was all smiles, and with the bunch of flowers fluttering above, he looked as if he had just returned triumphantly from the battlefield. He was glowing with an inexplicable exuberance that seemed to be hiding something; he had an ace up his sleeve that he was not yet prepared to wave in front of her, but which made him gloat in anticipation.

  He dropped the bouquet on the nearby bed and leaned down to hug her. The scent of a healthy man, just in from the fresh air, made her snuggle into his arms.

  ‘How is our patient feeling?’

  His question was so inappropriate that even though she had been tempted to answer, she halted. She sat stone-still, watching him and waiting to see what was coming next.

  ‘You look much better today! I’m so glad! That means we’ll be going home in a short while.’

  She resented the kind-hearted, haughty use of the plural and his obstinacy to deny any recollection of what had happened. Not a word was said; not a reproof showed through his exhilarating remarks. Before him was a dangerously sick person whom he had better not disturb or hassle with an unpleasant memory. Yet she knew that was not all. He appeared to have knowledge of something else, something she failed to grasp although it made her cringe within.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, at her feet, and touched her ankle. They remained quiet for a few minutes.

  ‘What do you want?’

  She was the first to speak, since she somehow felt he would prefer it that way; she wanted to be through with it all as quickly as possible and to be left alone.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘What do you want?!’ She had raised her voice.

  ‘I want you to get well and come back home.’

  ‘Okay. And besides that?’ She paused, cautiously. Eventually she decided to speak her mind without beating about the bush. ‘First of all, I’m not sick.’

  Matei laughed.

  ‘I’m not. Or, if you like, I’ve been sick for quite a while, and since I managed to handle it this far, I’ll manage to handle it from now on too.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Don’t interrupt me!’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘I’d like to talk about what happened…’

  ‘I don’t want to!’ he said, raising his voice.

  ‘You promised not to interrupt.’

  ‘Maybe I did, but you can’t make me talk about something I don’t want to. And besides, nothing really happened anyway.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘What? That you have a wacky childhood pal? That you think you’re still in love with him? Or that he has the impression that if he keeps on squeezing you like this, we’re going to break up? Is that what happened? In fact, you want us to break up, don’t you? Well, it’s not going to happen!’

  Emilia closed her eyes and, as she used to do in her childhood, imagined she had disappeared. When she opened them again, she saw Matei staring at her, visibly irritated.

  ‘Would you tell me one thing, if you please?’ He didn’t wait for her answer anyway. ‘Has he come to see you? Has he been here?’

  ‘Who?’ she muttered.

  ‘What do you mean, who? Has he or has he not?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Speak up already!’

  ‘I can’t say exactly.’

  ‘You’re lying! See? If you told the truth, it would be easier for you.’

  ‘I am not lying… what would you like me to say?’

  ‘That he came by and you were extremely disappointed at his behaviour. That you were expecting something else. Maybe you were expecting him to kneel down at your feet and ask you to run away. Maybe you dreamt of his leaving his family, his wife and girls, utterly committing himself to your love, right? Wasn’t it like that? Did he beat around the bush and suggest that you should be patient? Did he reprimand you for misbehaving at his place, in front of everybody? For driving him crazy? Did he ask you what you wanted from him? Have I summed it up clearly enough? Maybe deep down he was angry; maybe what he really wanted was to slap you and tell you it was over. But he didn’t do it because of your condition.’

  She buried her head in her arms and wailed. Matei stood up and moved away from the bed. He looked scared, but in fact he merely felt appeased for having spoken his mind even sooner than he had expected.

  Emilia was still wailing jerkily, her face buried, as Matei opened the window and contemplated the view. The night had fallen and, from the seventh floor of the municipal hospital, you could see the Dambovita winding between deserted structures, wastelands and factories, heading toward the blocks of flats in the distance, where the swarming and the real life began. He had brought her in by helicopter, pulling every string he had, setting a throng of people into motion to make sure she got there safe and sound, after they had given her a stomach pump, sewn her up and bound her tight in Constanta. When they got there, the entire hospital appeared to be waiting on the rooftop, while Bucharest, dimly illuminated, was glimmering in expectation.

  He didn’t want to take her to the nuthouse, so he settled her in the best room of the neurology ward. His best friend, head of the unit, ensured him as he tapped his shoulder that such things occurred more often than he could imagine, adding that his sewn, washed and bound wife just needed rest. He had stood beside her for a day and a night, without closing an eye and hoping, despite the watchful care she received from the ceaselessly fussing nurses, that his wife wouldn’t make it and would quietly pass away. She had made her decision, and now he wanted to comply with her wish. Had he seen her rattling and struggling between life and death, he would have let her alone, undeterred by the anguish and remorse that probably awaited him in an indefinite, misty future. He wouldn’t have called for anybody. But she did nothing but sleep, dream and wince from time to time.

  ‘I didn’t ask you to come.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What do you want, then?’

  ‘Nothing. Just to go back home and see what’s next.’

  ‘I can’t…’

  You can’t what?’ He had grown threatening and turned gloomily away.

  ‘I can’t. How can you live with me after all this?’

  ‘I didn’t say I wanted to live with you, I only said we’re going back home. Is that clear?’

  Hearing his imperative and commanding voice and sensing his self-assured attitude, Emilia suspected that Matei knew a lot more.

  ‘I want you to answer me!’

  ‘We’re going home.’

  Matei headed for the door, but stopped short. He turned around on his heels and instantly hurled himself upon the numb body, shaking it, punching it and smacking it, venting his pent-up anger so carefully subdued until then. He was ridding himself at last of the overwhelming burden he had been carrying along. He was taking vengeance for his humiliation, while she didn’t utte
r a word, trying to stay quiet so she wouldn’t raise his pity, for she knew he would have killed her then and there. She was amazed to find out that, in spite of it all, she feared for her life and that she didn’t want to die in the whirring room, in the rumpled T-shirt, with doubt hanging above the hospital bed like a cutting sword. He got up, exhausted, and mumbled a few words Emilia couldn’t grasp. He smoothed out his clothes, arranged his hair and smiled before touching the door handle and walking out of that hell, as radiant as when he had come in.

  The night went slowly by. She hardly closed her eyes and remained all ears, wincing at every noise. Once she thought she heard the door slam again, yet she couldn’t turn around to see who it was. It might have been her fantasies or, if it had to be someone, she preferred to imagine it could have been Sal. Daybreak found her in the same position: crouched, her face turned to the window. She didn’t even realise when night turned into day. The room felt more deserted now and even sadder.

  After Matei’s departure, a nurse had stopped by with a plate of soup and an apple pie on a tray. She had eaten them meekly, seated on the edge of the bed. The nurse had watched her closely while she was eating without speaking to her. She looked like a stern guardian, hired to watch over the lunatic confined to the tower. It was only after taking the empty dishes, while getting ready to leave, that she had sputtered over her shoulder: ‘Your husband is coming to pick you up tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. Make sure you’re ready!’ By the way she had said it, Emilia felt her guardian knew exactly what the situation was and didn’t refrain from showing her contempt.