Mercy

by Andrea Dworkin

  couldn’t spell it right. The peace wom an fed me sometimes

  and let me sleep there sometimes and she talked to me so I

  learned some words I could use with her but I didn’t tell her

  most things because I didn’t know how and she had an

  apartment and w asn’t conversant with how things were for

  me and I didn’t want to say but also I couldn’t and also there

  was no reason to try, because it is as it is. I’m me, not her in her

  apartment. Y ou always have your regular life. She’d say she

  could see I was tired and did I want to sleep and I’d say no and

  she’d insist and I never understood how she could tell but I was

  so tired. I had a room I always stayed in. It was small but it was

  warm and there were blankets and there was a door that closed

  and she’d be there and she didn’t let anyone come in after me.

  M aybe she would have let me stay there more if I had known

  how to say some true things about day to day but I didn’t ask

  anything from anyone and I never would because I couldn’t

  even be sure they would understand, even her. And what I

  told her when she made me talk to her was how once you went

  to jail they started sticking things up you. T hey kept putting

  their fingers and big parts o f their whole hand up you, up your

  vagina and up your rectum; they searched you inside and

  stayed inside you and kept touching you inside and they

  searched inside your mouth with their fingers and inside your

  ears and nose and they made you squat in front o f the guards to

  see i f anything fell out o f you and stand under a cold shower

  and make different poses and stances to see if anything fell out

  o f you and then they had someone w ho they said was a nurse

  put her hands up you again and search your vagina again and

  search your rectum again and I asked her w hy do you do this,

  why, you don’t have to do this, and she said she was looking

  for heroin, and then the next day they took me to the doctors

  and there were two o f them and one kept pressing me all over

  down on my stomach and under where m y stomach is and all

  down near between my legs and he kept hurting me and

  asking me if I hurt and I said yes and every time I said yes he did

  it harder and I thought he was trying to find out if I was sick

  because he was a doctor and I was in so much pain I must be

  very sick like having an appendicitis all over down there but

  then I stopped saying anything because I saw he liked pressing

  harder and making it hurt more and so I didn’t answer him but

  I had some tears in m y eyes because he kept pressing anyway

  but I wouldn’t let him see them as best as it was possible to turn

  m y head from where he could see and they made jokes, the

  doctors, about having sex and having girls and then the big

  one who had been watching and laughing took the speculum

  which I didn’t know what it was because I had never seen one

  or had anyone do these awful things to me and it was a big,

  cold, metal thing and he put it in me and he kept twisting it and

  turning it and he kept tearing me to pieces which is literal

  because I was ripped up inside and the inside o f me was bruised

  like fists had beaten me all over but from within me or

  someone had taken my uterus and turned it inside out and hit it

  and cut it and then I was taken back to m y cell and I got on m y

  knees and I tried to cry and I tried to pray and I couldn’t cry and

  I couldn’t pray. I was in G od ’s world, His world that He made

  H im self on purpose, on my knees, blood coming down m y

  legs; and I hated Him; and there were no tears in me to come as

  if I was one o f G o d ’s children all filled with sorrow and

  mourning in a world with His mercy. M y father came to get

  me weeks later when the bleeding wouldn’t stop. I had called

  and begged and he came at night though I had shamed them

  and he wouldn’t look at me or speak to me. I was afraid to tell

  the woman about the blood. At first when she made me talk I

  said I had m y period but when the bleeding didn’t stop I didn’t

  tell her because a peace boy said I had a disease from sex and I

  was bleeding because o f that and he didn’t want me around

  because I was dirty and sick and I thought she’d throw me

  aw ay too so I said I had called m y parents. I f you tell people in

  apartments that you called your parents they think you are fine

  then. M y mother said I should be locked up like an animal for

  being a disgrace because o f jail and she would lock me up like

  the animal I was. I ran aw ay for good from all this place—

  home, Amerika, I can’t think o f no good name for it. I went far

  away to where they don’t talk English and I never had to talk

  or listen or understand. N o one talked so I had to answer. N o

  one knew m y name. It was a cocoon surrounded by

  cacophony. I liked not knowing anything. I was quiet outside,

  never trying. There was no talking anyw ay that could say I

  was raped more now and was broke for good. If it ain’t broke

  don’t fix it and if it is broke just leave it alone and someday it’ll

  die. Here, Andreus is a m an’s name. Andrea doesn’t exist at

  all, m y m om m a’s name, not at all, not one bit. It is monstrous

  to betray your child, bitch.

  F IV E

  In June 1966

  (Age 19)

  M y name is Andrea but here in nightclubs they say ma chere.

  M y dear but more romantic. Sometimes they say it in a sullen

  way, sometimes they are dismissive, sometimes it has a rough

  edge or a cool indifference to it, a sexual callousness; sometimes they say it like they are talking to a pet dog, except that the Greeks don’t keep pets. Here on Crete they shoot cats.

  They hate them. The men take rifIes and shoot them o ff the

  roofs and in the alleys. The cats are skeletal, starving; the

  Cretans act as if the cats are cruel predators and slimy crawling

  things at the same time. N o one would dare befriend one here.

  E very time I see a cat skulking across a roof, its bony, meager

  body twisted for camouflage, I think I am seeing the Jew s in

  the ghettos o f Eastern Europe sliding out o f hiding to find

  food. M y chere. Doesn’t it mean expensive? I don’t know

  French except for the few words I have had to pick up in the

  bars. The high-class Greek men speak French, the peasants

  only Greek, and it is very low -brow to speak English, vulgar.

  N o one asks m y name or remembers it if I say it. In Europe

  only boys are named it. It means manhood or courage. If they

  hear m y name they laugh; you’re not a boy, they say. I don’t

  need a name, it’s a burden o f memory, a useless burden for a

  woman. It doesn’t seem to mean anything to anyone. There is

  an Andreus here, a hero who was the captain o f a ship that was

  part o f the resistance when the Nazis occupied the island. He

  brought in guns and food and supplies and got people o ff the

  island who needed to escape and brought people to Crete who

  needed to hide. He killed Nazis when he could; he killed some,

&
nbsp; for certain. N o occupier has ever conquered the mountains

  here, rock made out o f African desert and dust. Andreus is old

  and cunning and rich. He owns olive fields and is the official

  consul for the country o f N orw ay; I don’t know what that

  means but he has stationery and a seal and an office. He owns

  land. He is dirty and sweaty and fat. He drinks and says dirty

  things to women but one overlooks them. He says dirty

  words in English and makes up dirty limericks in broken

  English. He likes me because I am in love; he admires love. I

  am in love in a language I don’t know. He likes this love

  because it is a rare kind to see. It has the fascination o f fire; you

  can’t stop looking. We’re so much joined in the flesh that

  strangers feel the pain if we stop touching. Andreus is a failed

  old sensualist now but he is excited by passion, the life-and-

  death kind, the passion you have to have to wage a guerrilla

  war from the sea on an island occupied by Nazis; being near

  us, you feel the sea. I’m the sea for him now and he’s waiting to

  see if his friend will drown. M venerates him for his role in the

  resistance. Andreus is maybe sixty, an old sixty, gritty, oiled,

  lined. M is thirty, old to me, an older man if I force m yself to

  think o f it but I never think, no category means anything, I

  can’t think exactly or the thought gets cut short by the

  immense excitement o f his presence or a m emory o f anything

  about him, any second o f remembering him and I’m flushed

  and fevered; in delirium there’s no thought. At night the bars

  are cool after the heat o f the African sun; the men are young

  and hungry, lithe, they dance together frenetically, their arms

  stretched across each other’s bodies as they make virile chorus

  lines or drunken circles. M is the bartender. I sit in a dark

  corner, a cool and pampered observer, drinking vermouth on

  ice, red vermouth, and watching; watching M , watching the

  men dance. Then sometimes he dances and they all leave the

  floor to watch because he is the great dancer o f Crete, the

  magnificent dancer, a legend o f grace and balance and speed.

  Usually the young men sing in Greek along with the records

  and dance showing off; before I was in love they sent over

  drinks but now no one would dare. A great tension falls over

  the room when sometimes one o f them tries. There have been

  fist fights but I haven’t understood until after what they were

  about. There was a tall blond boy, younger than M. M is short

  and dark. I couldn’t keep my eyes o ff him and he took my

  breath away. I feel what I feel and I do what I want and

  everything shows in the heat coming o ff m y skin. There are no

  lies in me; no language to be accountable in and also no lies. I

  am always in action being alive even if I am sitting quietly in a

  dark corner watching men dance. This room is not where I

  live but it is my home at night. We usually leave a few hours

  before dawn. The nightclub is a dark, square room. There is a

  bar, some tables, records; almost never any women, occasional

  tourists only. It is called The Dionysus. It is o ff a

  small, square-like park in the center o f the city. The park is

  overwhelm ingly green in the parched city and the vegetation

  casts shadows even in the night so that if I come here alone it is

  very dark and once a boy came up behind me and put his hand

  between m y legs so fast that I barely understood what he had

  done. Then he ran. M and the owner o f the club, N ikko, and

  some other man ran out when they saw me standing there, not

  coming in. I was so confused. They ran after him but didn’t

  find him. I was relieved for him because they would have hit

  him. Women don’t go out here but I do. Ma chere goes out.

  I’ve never been afraid o f anything and I do what I want; I’m a

  free human being, w hy would I apologize? I argue with m yself

  about my rights because who else would listen. The few

  foreign women who come here to live are all considered

  whores because they go out and because they take men as

  lovers, one, some, more. This means nothing to me. I’ve

  always lived on m y own, in freedom, not bound by people’s

  narrow minds or prejudices. It’s not different now. The Greek

  women never go out and the Greek men don’t go home until

  they are. very old men and ready to die. I would like to be with

  a woman but a foreign woman is a mortal enemy here.

  Sometimes in the bar M and I dance together. T hey play

  Amerikan music for slow dancing— “ House o f the Rising

  Sun , ” “ Heartbreak H otel. ” The songs make me want to cry

  and we hold each other the w ay fire holds what it burns; and

  everyone looks because you don’t often see people who have

  to touch each other or they will die. It’s true with us; a simple

  fact. I have no sense o f being a spectacle; only a sense o f being

  the absolute center o f the world and what I feel is all the feeling

  the world has in it, all o f it concentrated in me. Later we drive

  into the country to a restaurant for dinner and to dance more,

  heart to heart, earth scorched by wind, the African wind that

  touches every rock and hidden place on this island. There are

  two main streets in this old city. One goes down a steep old

  hill to the sea, a sea that seems painted in light and color,

  purple and aqua and a shining silver, mercury all bubbling in

  an irridescent sunlight, and there is a bright, bright green in

  the sea that cools down as night comes becoming somber,

  stony, a hard, gem -like surface, m oving jade. The old Nazi

  headquarters are down this old hill close to the sea. They keep

  the building empty; it is considered foul, obscene. It is all

  chained up, the great wrought iron doors with the great

  swastika rusting and rotting and inside it is rubble. Piss on you

  it says to the Nazis. The other main street crosses the hill at the

  top. It crosses the whole city. The other streets in the city are

  dirt paths or alleys made o f stones. N ikko owns the club. He

  and M are friends. M is lit up from inside, radiant with light;

  he is the sea’s only rival for radiance; is it Raphael who could

  paint the sensuality o f his face, or is it Titian? The painter o f

  this island is El Greco, born here, but there is no nightmare in

  M ’s face, only a miracle o f perfect beauty, too much beauty so

  that it can hurt to look at him and hurt more to turn away.

  Nikko is taller than anyone else on Crete and they tease him in

  the bar by saying he cannot be Cretan because he is so tall. The

  jokes are told to me by pointing and extravagant hand gestures

  and silly faces and laughing and broken syllables o f English.

  Y ou can say a lot without words and make many jokes. N ikko

  is dark with black hair and black eyes shaped a little like

  almonds, an Oriental cast to his face, and a black mustache that

  is big and wide and bushy; and his face is like an old

  photograph, a sculpted Russian face staring out o f the

&nbs
p; nineteenth century, a young Dostoevsky in Siberia, an exotic

  Russian saint, without the suffering but with many secrets. I

  often wonder if he is a spy but I don’t know why I think that or

  who he would spy for. I am sometimes afraid that M is not safe

  with him. M is a radical and these are dangerous times here.

  There are riots in Athens and on Crete the government is not

  popular. Cretans are famous for resistance and insurrection.

  The mountains have sheltered native fighters from Nazis,

  from Turks, but also from other Greeks. There was a civil war

  here;

  Greek communists

  and leftists

  were purged,

  slaughtered; in the mountains o f Crete, fascists have never

  won. The mountains mean freedom to the Cretans; as

  Kazantzakis said, freedom or death. The government is afraid

  o f Crete. These mountains have seen blood and death,

  slaughter and fear, but also urgent and stubborn resistance, the

  human who will not give in. It is the pride o f people here not to

  give in. But N ikko is M ’s friend and he drives us to the

  country the nights we go or to my room the nights we go right

  there. M y room is a tiny shack with a single bed, low,

  decrepit, old, and a table and a chair. I have a typewriter at the

  table and I write there. I’m writing a novel against the War and

  poems and theater pieces that are very avant-garde, more than

  Genet. I also have Greek grammar books and in the afternoons

  I sit and copy the letters and try to learn the words. I love

  drawing the alphabet. The toilet is outside behind the chicken

  coops. The chickens are kept by an old man, Pappous, it

  means grandpa. There is m y room, thin w ood walls, unfinished wood, big sticks, and a concrete floor, no w indow ,

  then the landlady’s room, an old woman, then the old man’s

  room, then the chickens, then the toilet. There is one mean,

  scrawny, angry rooster who sits on the toilet all the time. The

  old woman is a peasant who came to the city after all the men

  and boys in her village were lined up and shot by the Nazis.

  T w o sons died. She is big and old and in mourning still,