Lust

by Elfriede Jelinek

  They topple out of the silk, whoops! – another moving picture! Nature, it seems, has slapped down two ill-judged meatballs from its catering supply can. Laughter. After the TV show, my dear fellow Austrians, you can go off and mix with each other. Often a finer fate lies beneath soft footfall; but wherever did I stick the wallpaper? Silly me, there it is – on me! What a fool. Gerti has to prise her mouth open and suck this thing in. Incidentally, tobogganing is good fun too, but – please – never ever where people are skiing: the last upright citizens in this world, they cannot stand it if someone squatting on one dumb lump of wood disturbs them. It affronts them. Their middle class sledges, fully paid off, are in the parking lots, and they open their doors to their owners as they return from the fire a little too late, having turned a little brown. This is the very place you'll find them. See the map attached! You just have to believe absolutely in something really smashing, and then smash someone else's teeth in. And meanwhile in Gerti a fine fire is still crackling, a whole metre of pork sausage like a fire hose in her mouth. Well now, gentlemen, heroes all: let me take a look down my sights, and see if you haven't all got a cock of your own, cocked and ready to fire!

  No, there are no spare parts for the moment. The storm caused by our god, sex, sends us all to our ruin by the shortest route. Leave the man his senses, so that he can make sense of himself in peace and quiet. We women have to fix ourselves as best we're able, and then hark to the distant, echoing silence from your lifeless gadgets, oh gentlemen, still trembling slightly at the thought that the guarantee might have expired. Of us the men think last of all! A stranger Michael came, a stranger he must away, and so must his thing. Contemptuously he dribbles a droplet or so off his semi-stiffy into Gerti's face, which cannot make it to safe cover in time. The lads and lasses, faces glowing with smiling and living, withdraw to warmer places too, to stretch their stamina a little before they enter the higher working echelons. Nothing to be done about it. So get out of the bar and into life and don't worry! Gerti's freebie picnic is packed away again. Michael, who couldn't even warm to a foreplay prologue, laughs heartily. Now all of them, a refreshing stream, propose to see wholl be first sliding down the Alps. And so they start a war in this bright light, just so that they, the sons of the valley, can go cracking their very own whiplashes good and proper. Impatiently they take their place in line with those who will soon have departed. And even shove to the front. Not that those who were born poor will complain! They well know the Father's commandments. Let there be no misunderstanding: outside the chairlift station, where the ground is strewn with paper cups. These dimwits who have driven to strange territory and meet there, now they're pushed aside and must take a stop at their own inn. In themselves. Patiently queue, with all their nice long-play cassettes that they've been collecting a whole life long. Their princes are singing in chorus now, and much louder! Anyway, Youth goes by all by itself, and not at all badly either.

  I've grasped… it. And you… feel warm.

  These are not the children of sorrow. They help the woman to her feet, brush her down, the snow crunches a laugh underfoot. She has not had to suffer too too much for the sake of these sons. Someone thrusts her wet knickers, a postcard souvenir, into her hand. Her coat is even buttoned up for her. Her body's nutrient production begins to grease her hair properly. And she has already signed the cheque, it's just that the new clothes will have to be altered at the boutique. She's been wanting to re-cover her body, and yet with every day that comes she is the more aware of the heavy bags her skin has to carry. That wasn't the way it was meant, that stuff about the sons and daughters, the gold eggs in the nests of high schools. We too could be knocked right off our feeble trunk at any moment! Like leafage we would fall into the beautiful gardens of the owners, mildewed, and no matter how often the Frau Direktor does her calculations she can't come up with a decent number of incinerators. Only the children, led by the angels, sing in chorus when they enter into this house on a magic carpet and laugh at their parents. We won't hear it later. Michael feels like talking now, now that it's too late. He grabs roughly inside the front of her coat and dress, and, laughing, tugs and twists her nipples. His other hand he jams between the cheeks of her behind. And then he puts a civil tongue in her mouth. He has already retracted his shlong of his own accord, to give it an overhaul. He's always glad of an opportunity to pick up where he left off. The fellow's always out somewhere wanting to be picked up! And the whole thing has been nothing but time passing. The car doors slam, they talk of pleasures and friends that have been paid for and to which one entrusts oneself, like the fitness trainers they possess or in fact are. AH in vain! The angels will never be just like human beings. Only they can experience pleasure and go within themselves. Helplessly the people retch with drink. They bring it up when it ought to be having a lie down. They puke in the snow, leaning on their cars. The women fuss, the children moan. Fine. The car drives off, but the content of these people remains behind, asleep in nature, where the true and good dwelleth and goods are lied to by their own labels. In a rage they all cry out to make a stop, for ever, and hold an attractive human being in their arms, for ever. But the rulers feed the animals only once a month, and then we exert ourselves too much. Time will bring everything to light.

  Gerti is put in her car. Quiet, now! How shall I put it? She has been at the mercy of hands and tongues. She almost made off, angrily shifting her sticks and belts and apron strings. A mere safety belt will suffice to hold her back.

  Others in bondage have advised her to use it. Just as the artist finds his way to art, so too the village children find their way to her, to endure their rhythmical trials at the hands of this woman. The child bows over its violin, the man over the child to punish it. The works choir sings on Sunday to express itself. Many of them sing, and yet they sing as one. This choir really exists, so that the members all tug as one man at their vocal chords while the factory crouches in wait high above them. Every now and then it's thirsty and swallows up the herd, and then the pylons far and wide can hear the humming of poor people getting in line. Like children. Many came but few were chosen to sing a solo. The Direktor has his work for a hobby, so he's okay. The youngsters pour into their vehicles, now they are off to their holiday homes, where they can stuff yet more into and out of themselves. The rooms are booked out. Blessed highway, crossing the flatland, preserving the peace and quiet for all but those who live there, whose ears bleed with the racket – till they themselves can get away for a holiday.

  The woman tears across the countryside. Her mind is rioting in her head, banging at the walls of the skull it is contained in, that is to say: it goes to the limit. She is chased off by the skiers, who for their part are blown back on the wind, chirping in their nesting boxes (which can sometimes be as big as wardrobes, and still there's no more than a couple of little nuts in them!), to their cages. We contemplate the peace Nature has seeded in our hearts and promptly eat it up from the carton. The light bulbs shed their solitary glow on us. The last of the litter is cleared up. The fathers of families obey their whims and fall upon their dependants. They scrutinize the remains of the day to see if there's anything left to eat. At the edge of the sullen forest a deer appears, we'll take it, it'll fatten up nicely on our sandwich wrappers. They chew it over and over, then they relax with a nice book and a nasty programme. For the last of them, who just won't stop, there's a trek up a narrow path which they will presently come plunging down again, while down on the banks the wild creatures are already slinking about to whose keeping the landscape is consigned after 17.00 hours. Out of laziness the locals stay hidden away in their houses. The men give their attention entirely to the TV set, where they can look at the animals and countryside and learn about their own nonsensical customs. The women are unemployed. The wind breezes about the peaks and soothes the pain as much as is necessary if one's to be entertained by a series about beer brewers and farmers who grow sunflowers for the oil. Yes indeed, TV doesn't pull its punches, and the viewer
s punch the buttons and are knocked out by what they see.

  Seriously, the day isn't going to be laying on that blue for much longer. Gerti takes a lengthy break in a pub on the way. How pleasant this effect of drifting distance is! She drinks for the love of it, others drink dutifully, separated from the lovable bunch who airily want a drink just as they wanted the air to play about them as they whizzed down the slope. A whole horde of them to crown the day, they crowd to the bar and tank up, brimful. Once again Nature is simple and monochrome. Tomorrow it will be woken by human voices once more and will merrily hammer the public down the pistes. Ah yes, the public. The public has shed the blanket of Nature but is still wearing its today of many colours, the pub currently on duty is completely stuffed with these tourists. A brawl that's seething around the drink source is quietened by the barwoman. How nice, from far away we come, tumbling from mountaintop to valley, and already we're full of beer. A couple of woodcutters, the most amiable of those who tend the mountains, are already making trouble in the bar, egged on by the city folk, and will presently, like axes, split their wives open. Gerti sits silent, forehead furrowed, amid the party, who have their own snack with salad garnish to get stuck into.

  Tomorrow or even this evening, this woman will be standing outside Michael's holiday home spying in at the windows to see his friends making good use of what is his. And she, spurned, will vanish, no one knows whither, into the distance, like a fleeting thought. While her husband deforests the region and murders music. I'm cold. They've screwed one into the other, rummaging about in all the garbage for that treasured picture which they acquired only yesterday in the photo store. Only yesterday. And today they're already on the look-out for a new partner, to charm him into smiling please before they press the release. Yes, us! Torn and tormented, we become visible, and we want to look good for others, to think of what we paid for our clothes, we no longer have what we paid and we notice the lack when we have to undress and caress our partner in love. But for the time being this woman is living on alcohol; and the harvest of other people who drink too, the merry multitudes, is not for her to reap. There's a slight dispute over her mink coat, which a skier has trodden on, but it's soon settled. This breed of people beneath the farmhouse-style lamp: how they do contrive to show off their shapes within the colourful plastic limits they've set themselves so that their forms and norms won't run over and out (and certainly not the models from which they were constructed). They decorate themselves wall-to-wall like their flats and take themselves out.

  There's plenty going on, it's divine. The woman takes an unaimed step back. A glass is shoved across to her, the day seems almost in a hurry, it is already dusk over the mountains. The poor popular opinion is sprayed at Gerti like water from a child's hand. Ponderously the poor people of these parts are leaving their nearest and dearest, to be spilt from dirty hands in the pubs, to gush forth like springs because of what they put inside them. But this woman had best be off home. They won't have her drinking here. She'd best be quiet. This is where the herd live, complete with their good shepherds, see the TV pages for the complete programme! The Frau Direktor is a bright cloud, at least that's how she looks, sinking from her seat to the floor, where she makes her bed and lies in it. The barwoman kindly takes hold of her under the armpits. A small stream puddles from Gerti's chin and spreads. This can't go on like this day after day. From outside, Nature gleams magnificently one last time, and the herds of Nature's users head patiently pubwards, glad to be able to raise the elbow at last instead of having to rebel at the lashes of Olympic broadcasts and be sent skedaddling across the hills. If these people are left alone, you'll see how quickly their true charm fades, which is that they look like film stars and look truly charming in their own photo albums, which is where we assess what we expect of ourselves. But here the waves spray up against them and they have to compete with Ideals all cut to a single format. They win by means of noise, colour, perfume and money. A song is struck up, the time of day has a-changed abruptly, the weather too. The wind is howling through the crystal ice hanging from the trees. Even more people claw hold of the woman's hollows, look, now two men are lifting her to her feet. Their loose change empties out over the woman. A glass of wine and one of schnapps are paid for her. They find pretexts, unable to conceal their coarse sexual parts, to feel Gerti up all over. A flood of laughter from their wives, who are also readying their hairy crevices, quickly, before the light changes, and taking up their positions. They are all still dripping with Nature, that is how much life they have soaked up. And it has cost quite enough, too, sitting like islands in this bar and vomiting. One man gives a woman a piggy-back for a bit of fun, she reddens between her thighs, which she squeezes left and right against the man's cheeks. Nobody wants to be missing this. They hop about, even the best of floor shows has to be over sooner or later. Just a short way, laid back in seconds with a little effort, the genitals open, and already they're inside each other and squeezing the tube, whimpering for salvation, and their bowels are thunderous with what they have put away for the wilder times to come. In the dark, the first of them are already overspilling from the fetters of their clothes. Gerti's bust is pinched; as jolly and harmless as vegetables, we thrive in our lordsandmasters' gardens, ladies! On account of the higher regions where we dwell. Only to be pleasantly surprised by the instincts that shoot out of our ski pants.

  Heave ho. Now the woman's sitting properly on the bench again. Another glass, in which the alcohol is rapidly growing old, is shoved across. She swipes it away with a sweeping gesture. The trouser-wearers who bought it her yell in fury and shake the woman by the arm. The barwoman sends a girl to fetch a rag. Gerti gets up and sends her purse flying on the floor, and people instantly start to rummage in it, their sweaty faces clouding at the sight of the money. The poor crowd in the back room and remember their work, which once spread its legs to them unforced. But now they no longer have any access. Oh, if only they had! Now they are at home all day long, busy with the dishes. And the others in the pub? All they crave is good weather and wicked snow. Tomorrow in the mountains they will lead dashing lives again, or else merely splashing lives if the temperatures rise steeply as the forecast said and it rains. The barwoman gently followeth the path of righteousness. With Gerti tucked under her arm, it is as if she were walking on the water, across the scummy froth of day-trippers floating on the surface. Just see with what certainty these travellers, born of the void, load themselves with gifts acquired at sports trade fairs and go off to their deaths in the mountains. A national anthem is thumped out, without any trace of embarrassment. The singers have but little in common with sirens: maybe the sound, but not the looks. But they go on and on singing, let 'em haye it! Local people who cannot even work at the paper mill sit stunned before their screens and stare at the canny invention of themselves – does no one have a heart for their sorrows? And why are they divorced and dismissed from life even before they, plus their skis, can be safely stowed in the cellar?

  In a state such as this one really ought not to drive, alone or even in groups, otherwise one won't be safe from oneself as long as one lives! But Gerti cuts her coat to fit the cloth of her modest privates, and pushes off from the bank. She puts her back into it and belts up. Free and easily she indulges in her feelings. Michael: now we'll go and fetch him out of his house before he goes cold. Presently this woman, impelled by her senses, will be howling outside a strange house because no one's at home. Let's move on. Switching on the lights is quickly done. In the number in which we usually remain, one, solo, single, but never mind, she drives after her quarry, the other drivers on the roads. As if by a protracted miracle, nothing happens. Wearing their homeshirts, the lordsandmasters rumble and grumble because they're kept waiting for their dinners, the dogs attack visitors and keep their jaws healthy and exercised. Which is why we all like to live in our own places and keep our own pet animals, ourselves, in safe keeping there. Just now and then we take a timid pull at someone else who claims to be brim
ming over with sweet sweet desire. But if ever you really do desire something of him, you don't get it!

  14

  THE DROPS OF GRAVEL spray up in front of the house, the dogs leap at our throats, and the door is opened. The woman even takes a few steps further, towards the balmy light that plays radiantly about her warm, waiting husband. The children have long since been sent home without the comforts of music and rhythm, and now they are half emerging from their lairs, beaten by their fathers. Relieved at seeing the springs of art dry up at the lips, and cheerful as in family photographs, the children have already attacked each other on the forest path, tearing each other's bodies and clothing to shreds. One oughtn't to get the neighbours together too often, all they do is make a nuisance of themselves! Everything the Herr Direktor wanted, he now has again, his word is our command. The kisses crash from his mouth. He holds his spoonful of distraught senses under the light, but nothing becomes heated. He kisses his wife like a mother licking her calf, his tongue even wants to get into her armpits. Automatically he warms at the sight of her, but for the time being his moist figure remains closed. He is built like a mountain, and streams have already coursed across his brow, though there's no comparison to what his workers are cursed with when, the mark of their health vacation upon them (insult and injury added to their lives), they receive the letter in the blue envelope. Not one of them, though, would see his wife as this inflated Direktor, who wants to channel her back between her banks, now sees his. What has she got there in her pocket, it's only her wet knickers, which he throws on the hall floor. As he so often has done in the past. Usually the servants do the mopping-up when the water in the tap's got out of control again. The charwoman will remove this sign of life tomorrow. Gerti has plenty of room to run around, it's time she was stabled. The boy, who's been running aTound to various stables all day, now shoots out at his mother, his babble all too horribly comprehensible, sweaty with the vexation he's been causing his friends. Heavenly homely things about Mother are sent across his lips, Mother for her part is sent from heaven. She is the parcel whole peoples have to carry and to fear. Who pushed this family's button again? To set the realization in motion: there are three of them, at the end of the day, when they bed down snug against the weather. The family: the woman is no longer sober, goodnaturedly it is put on her account by Father, who has the chequebook about his person. His property is what he loves dearest. Smiling, the Man strokes the woman, but a mere second later he is grubbing about like mad, like a terrier in a newly-discovered earth, under her coat, pawing at the cleavage of her dress, which he wants to have off this naughty woman right now, oh and talking of having it off, her cheek is lovingly stroked by his fingers, as if the creator had broken his pencil and now life itself had to correct the job he started. The woman can't cope with the steering of her automatic. She is learning to walk, and listing badly.