Semmant

by Vadim Babenko

  I chased after it, throwing myself at the defenseless bodies, greedily drinking in their juices. Often the boundaries of my illusory captivity receded, even if by an imperceptible magnitude. At times an orgasm brought a tiny bit of freedom. It reminded me of fulfillment, creation – in the purest form. I felt like I was reconstructing the original harmony of the world. I was groping for hidden strings – slipping away into an ecstasy, into a kingdom of joy. Then, coming back to the surface, I would remember. From what was left in the sub-cortex I would extract features of the specter sought by all.

  Of course, my search was fraught with hardship; fortune did not befall me that often. I had to go through all circles, to know all sides of paid sex. More than once, I encountered wheedling for money and poor hygiene, unconcealed coarseness and repugnance. Some of the putanas turned out to be so vile, so primitively, that I could not compel myself to use their bodies. At times there was just no spark between us, and I was impotent despite my partner’s efforts. Often it seemed the girl was a revelation, a genuine find. Her laughter, her voice could not, would not lie. But the first touch would give away the forgery; from the very beginning it would turn boring, and all I wanted was for it to end as soon as possible. And then I would shudder, as if in pain, without experiencing any pleasure. Even swearing sometimes: no, no more!

  Still, I neither despaired nor complained, as I knew I was chasing after the unattainable, after what should not exist. It should not exist, but it did. And, knowing this, I was not angry at the insincere, the inept – hearing their unnatural groans, sensing the aversion of their bodies. There was no insurance from anything, and I considered that to be fair. Neither price, nor age, nor nationality could guarantee success. And then the more stunning the success was – sometimes when I least expected it.

  Indeed, it was not infrequent that I met those who seemed to be looking for the same thing as I. It was even funny – after all, I was paying them pennies relative to what I was trying to get. And yet, no one griped about the injustice of it. I found many, many with something to share. They gave me much more than agreed upon in the silent pact of buying and selling. I had sincerely thought before that the world was completely different. Anyone who has dealt with the market would understand me well. Who could have suspected some treasures that had apparently been squandered long ago turned out to be hidden in a secluded place? There, where it would never occur to look for them.

  Lidia did not call me or answer my calls, but I wasn’t so heartbreakingly anxious anymore. My Indigo brain, having received new data, worked to assess it, like a powerful classifier. I got intimately close to many women in a short time, and now they filled my consciousness – colorful butterflies, vivid, eccentric flowers. The generosity of their responsiveness did not astonish me anymore. I concluded: everyone who has anything at all in their soul wants to share, and they share with those who are truly able to grasp it. All of us from the School knew firsthand how much needs to be hidden from the incompetent, the incapable, from consumers who need only crumbs. And all of us, intentionally or not, looked around – as if to see where to put the rest.

  I told Semmant about this – about Brighton and myself, but also about them, the good Samaritans with the artificial, plastic-doll armor. The armor that would fall off at the first magic word and turn to dust. Over and over they rushed to entice, even knowing they would most probably be deceived. This was an abstraction worth being admired, the eternal female pursuit, squeezed into the shortest time. Its essence was just an idea; in this instance it was extreme. The only thing comparable to it was another extremity – to love a single man your entire life, to be faithful to him always, in everything. The Virgin Mary, Mary Magdalene – mythmakers have always tended to place extremes side by side!

  I met no examples of the Virgin Mary, alas. But girls from brothels I knew in abundance, and I wrote to the robot about the best of them, without fearing exaggeration. Maybe this was the beginning of what happened later, but I could have predicted nothing at that time. I merely shared with him as a sympathetic friend, telling him about Rocío and about Andrea…

  And about the dark-eyed Spaniard, Estela, an inveterate cyclist whose legs and butt were as hard as rock. She never turned her gaze away, but looked me straight in the eyes, attentively and firmly. She had thick hair, a confident stride, steadfast habits. A man who was to her liking could have no doubt: all of her was with him now, all her thoughts, her being.

  When we went into the room, she pulled off my shirt herself, along with my boots and jeans, looking right into my pupils. It was hard to peel away to go into the bathroom – and then, when I came out, she was right there again, with a big double sheet, and her gaze was right there; and I stopped being shy about it. I remember she smelled like a fresh breeze, like mountain grass. Later I told her, “You look younger than your age.” She laughed, “Now I love you even more,” and kissed my nipple.

  I wrote about the shapely Paola with a tattoo under her right breast. There they sat, embracing: a girl and her monkey. The girl was laughing, while the monkey was sad. They were a pair in perfect harmony.

  Paola had grown up in the family of a confectioner, and she smelled of cakes, almond, and cinnamon. She was meek and tactful, but she was also talkative – including in bed.

  She apologized, “I talk too much. It probably bothers you, doesn’t it?”

  “Sorry,” she whispered. “I can’t do this in silence,” and she would throw herself at me, talking and talking the whole time.

  She had a regular admirer: a banker who gave her expensive presents. Paola felt sorry for him, “He’s fallen in love, you see? What a misfortune. What’s he going to do now?” She felt no pity for me though. She was convinced I had been born under a lucky star – maybe a whole constellation of them – so that my life came up roses.

  I wrote also about Bertha, a tall Swede, careful and detailed in everything. On her breath I sensed northern pine and the sea. She didn’t like Spanish; we were similar in that. She really despised the language. “I only need two words: señor and dinero,” she said with a serious face. “And cabrón too, just in case.”

  Bertha was special in many ways. She played chess like an evil prodigy. “It’s hereditary,” she explained. “My father used to win tournaments in Malmö. And my uncle is a doctor of philosophy. He studied at Cambridge, and now teaches in Vienna. I’m from a very intellectual family.” She gave a fake sigh. “I just got distracted with oral sex too often.” That was her Swedish sense of humor.

  I wrote about pudgy Lilia, a fervent lover of chocolate. She smelled of chocolate all the time – her whole body. “Women can be clever,” Lilia affirmed, “but they don’t wise up, even when they learn what they should about men. And I won’t wise up either – despite the sweets. That’s why I’m so careless!” – and she would laugh, whirl around the room, and let loose with passion.

  Later, cuddled up and fawning like a kitten,she would call me Alex, or Jeremy, Brad, Steve. She completely lacked a memory for names. Catching herself, she would ask whether I was offended. Maybe I didn’t like it, and I was mad at her?

  “No, of course not. Let your boyfriend be the one to get upset,” I would tease her with a chuckle.

  “I don’t have a boyfriend,” she would giggle, then roll me over on my stomach and slide her large breasts over me…

  I wrote about the future stewardess Melanie, a young Argentine with beautiful hips. She wore short skirts, high heels, bitter-sweet perfume. In contrast to Paola, Melanie was quiet – even, perhaps, quieter than I. She expended the minimum essential words when answering questions.

  She cost more than the rest, more than Bertha or the sporty Estela. Unspoiled innocence lived in her smile. Perversion, limitless as an ocean, was in her narrow ankles, in her toes. Her taste was not vanilla sugariness, but musk, absinthe, saline. The engrossing eternity of the sea, a salt lake that would never dry up. Her every groan was sincere, not faked. No actress could have played a part so well. I cares
sed her shoulders and imaged how obliging she would be with an airline captain.

  And I told him of many, many more, and then about Cristina… But no, in fact I did not write Semmant about Cristina María Flores. I had just started – and cut it short. I erased the file and got lost in thought. Because it was with her in particular that the aforementioned phantom nearly materialized into flesh. The specter of love began to cast its shadow. Then, after Cristina, I forgot about brothels. And I started thinking of Lidia again, but now in a different way.

  The best torero from the province of Aragon had sired Cristina under the Andalusian sun after seducing a simple girl from Seville, with whom he then lived for twenty years. I found this out when she asked how I felt about Spanish bullfighting.

  “In the bullfight I always root for the bull” – as soon as I said this, Cristina batted my lips.

  I believed her, concerning the torero – her facial features were too delicate. They suggested breeding, a famous name. A tendency to look at the world without holding back. And her destiny, of course, should have turned out differently.

  Everything went downhill following her father’s demise. He died the death of a toreador, but they were ashamed to speak of it to their friends. The Aragonese hero was gored to death, but not on the horns of a bull in the ring. A young cow killed him as he was using her to warm up in the backyard of his estate. Right in the morning, in his boxers and house slippers. Without a gold-embroidered jacket, without a cloak, without a sword. He was armed only with the red apron belonging to their cook Juana. He was still yawning sleepily, without breakfast or a shave…

  Cristina’s father wanted to test out how bold, intelligent, and agile the vaca was that he had bought at a fair the previous Thursday. Was she worthy of the brief passion of the breeding bull, Alonso? Of the high-priced seed of Alonso, which cost a pretty penny? Was there a chance that from her posterity would issue forth a male that was good for something more than cutlets and filet? A male endowed with killer instinct – that is prepared for a ritual death at the hand of a much better-equipped killer? The questions were many, but the toreador from Aragon would never receive his answers. The vaca made an unexpected maneuver and was not halted by his red apron, or his threatening yell, or his majestic visage. She was probably too smart for a cow.

  I told Cristina, “You’re too smart for a whore.”

  “Yes,” she answered. “I know. So what?”

  She was never ashamed to speak the truth, and only lied to wearisome devotees. With all the rest she was brutally honest. Her body, lithe and slender, did not know how to live halfway – it was young, demanding, insatiable. Being an expensive puta did not bother her in the least. The only thing that could trouble Cristina was an infringement upon her freedom.

  More than once she had undertaken to study – languages, business, public relations – but she would soon abandon it; her heart embraced only one science. That’s what happens when you know where your main talent lies: it’s tough to force yourself to waste energy on the rest. But then Cristina was curious to no end. Once I brought her a book, and she started to read eagerly – buying herself one paperback after another. I brought verses – she got into poetry. I told her about Modigliani, about Jackson Pollack and Arshile Gorky – she listened, fascinated, then cried on my shoulder. She asked me once who Freud was, and I told her: a man consisting of complexes. She asked what black holes were made of, and I explained: they were composed of lost money. “Ha ha ha!” we laughed together, knowing that was just a joke. She asked what a jade rod was. “A man’s dick,” I told her. Cristina nodded, “That’s what I thought.” We really understood each other well.

  With her I learned all there is to know about love for hire. About what can be bought and sold – and about what cannot, ever. Stocks, gold, bodies, sighs… Everything, in fact, mixed in a heap. And dirty tricks lie in wait everywhere, but sometimes you happen upon a place where there are none!

  I looked at her and heard the bell of the wise Skanda Purana, that sound that encompasses all sounds. I looked and saw: she seemed to encompass all the female traits in the world. Paola and Estela the cyclist were in her – as well as the others whose names I didn’t remember; and still others, from my imagination, whose names I did not yet know. But what struck me even more was the half-smile of Lidia Alvares Alvares that flitted across Cristina’s lips at the most intimate moment. This was a sign that could not be ignored.

  “If I were your angel, would you be content with my wingspan?” Cristina asked me, and I didn’t know how to answer. I started to ponder this, and knew I would not go back to her again. And I didn’t go back – not to her or to anyone else. I felt she had outlined the event horizon for me – the limits of that universe beyond whose boundaries no signal could ever reach an observer. And the houses of sin lost all meaning for me.

  The elusive phantom was almost within my clutches, but I had seen the border I could not cross. It was not enough to hear the rustling of his clothes, to feel on my face the breeze as they fluttered. I wanted more – like every creator. I wished to snatch him up, take him apart like a toy to know what was hidden inside. With the voracity of a naturalist, I wanted to master him – and I could not. He was everywhere, belonging to all. Like the nympho Diana – either from Manchester or Corot’s canvas. And what difference did it make that Diana didn’t take money?

  Still, my picture of the world seemed to be coming into focus. Its contours became defined and sharp. I did all I could and was left with almost nothing, but I felt this “almost” was something to grab on to. And the main thing was that I breathed with my full chest again. My illusory captivity lessened by a large degree.

  Lidia, I thought, Lidia… She was someone who could be mastered without reservation – if I tried hard enough. Now it was clear to me what I had wanted from her from the very beginning. Or what had rustled its wings in Anna de Vega’s house – and confused me, made me weak. Or what kind of freedom a woman really wants. It is in the half-smile – for those involved in the tireless pursuit – and I discerned why Lidia had broken up with me so suddenly. I even figured out how to get her back. What to give her she would not brush aside.

  One had only to recognize that in her heart she had always been a genuine whore; life had simply put her on a different path. One could bet on it – and I was no stranger to courageous bets. And besides, right before my eyes was the epitome of perfection. How was that for a beginning?

  My apathy vanished without a trace. I now knew what to do. Cristina María Flores had become my muse, turning into Adele.

  And I also understood, shared essence – it would never be, not with anyone.

  Chapter 18

  My new plan wasn’t perfect, but, all the same, it was doomed to success. It included the most important element that leads to success: an idea. And this idea even had a name.

  I also knew to get Lidia back I had to do something beautiful. And my idea – it was beautiful, no doubt.

  Having the name as a starting point, I began to move further. I was assisted by its fabric, the tender poetics of its sounds. I imagined a girl who had never been, the greatest courtesan in the world. Or, if not the greatest, then at least one close to me in spirit. Close to Lidia and Little Sonya, to the twins from Siberia and the circus teen with the endlessly kind heart. She was tall, green-eyed, and delicately blonde. She had graceful legs. Her name was Adele.

  Of course, everything started with Cristina. She inspired me, provided an impetus, but I wanted to go beyond the prototype. It was clear that using just her I would only get a dim shadow. An exact casting from the live model in this case would turn out boring, dry. No, Cristina could serve merely as a beginning. A jumping-off point, after which there was a lot to come up with on my own. There, near that point, were also Rocío, Bertha, Melanie. Lidia was also not far away – but no closer than the others.

  Adele, the ideal hetaera, became the quintessence of my experiences. A reflection of my successes – in a merciful mi
rror that concealed their faults. I told myself I was doing this only to recover what was lost. I said that and lied – actually, I needed to create something anyway. I had to put together all I had discovered during the last weeks. Not to recover, but rather to preserve what I had apparently gained. Even though this was what I didn’t want to admit.

  In any case, the goal was clear and well understood. With my dark-blue pen I wrote on snow-white paper about a girl with snow-white skin. With velvety skin, invulnerable to the Spanish sun. With thick eyelashes and hair of silk. Utterly desirable – the kind of girl you couldn’t resist, ever.

  I was planning from far away, almost from her distant ancestors. I outlined genealogical charts, mixing nationalities and social classes. Everything had significance – their family name, community standing, status. Then, in one jump, I leaped to her, to Adele. It was important to determine a place – the place of birth, where she, who was really born in my Madrid apartment, had come into the world. Before my eyes I pictured continents and islands, countries, cities – and all of them turned out useless. I wanted something alien, unusual, but was limited in my choice of types. I deliberated: Norwegians, Dutch, Finns. Maybe even Irish with a smattering of freckles. They were all good in their own way, but they would not do; they did not fit the mold. They identified neither with Lidia nor Cristina; something prevented it, eviscerating the core.

  Finally, after racking my brain, I made the right choice. The cry of the Siberian twin over the boundless Taiga, which I would never hear, resounded with a lingering echo. I wrote the word and drew a black frame around it in memory, yearning for her amazing body. This was a city of gray gloom and a leaden sky. It presented an antithesis, the complete opposite of Madrid. At the same time they were related – recalling empires that existed no more.