Semmant

by Vadim Babenko

  Well, all right, I said to myself, then waited two more days and launched an all-out attack.

  Adele came to life, became real – in a truer sense even than those who hid behind aliases in this forum for onanists. Many of the women I knew seemed like an illusion compared to her. I started with her early childhood, then moved onto further details. Different periods of her life revealed themselves at each step. Secondary school, troubled youth. Playing – with cars, not dolls – and her first school parties. Girlish whispering on stuffy July nights and shy kisses in the half-darkened hall. The neighbor’s glances at her bare legs. Her thoughts, innocent for the time being, about her own body.

  I did not hurry to pull back the veil but tantalized my audience, built up the tension. The readers would be impatient, I knew, thirsting for the spicy, the explicit. And they got it – the loss of virginity, pain replaced by acute pleasure. I described it, sparing no color. No one was left with any doubt: something shifted in her consciousness, something unexpected was revealed from within herself!

  Yes, Adele’s body concealed many secrets. They compelled her to fickleness, making her change lovers easily and often. Then, when the initial curiosity wore itself out, it was replaced by another thirst – to lose her head, to fall desperately in love. A candidate showed up right away, that same chemistry teacher; he was morose and withdrawn, tall, dark-haired, gaunt. His sunken eyes peered out, like the eyes of a wolf. Awkward in real life, he was a completely changed man in bed. With him she understood it’s possible to move not broader, but deeper: to know each other without walls or barriers, allowing themselves very shameful things. Then she noticed that in the depths was an abyss – you could fall into it if you didn’t stop in time. The spiral narrowed, and the mad whirlwind spun faster and faster, but the instinct for self-preservation finally took over. She learned to control her impulses, to stop halfway, to say “No.” This turned out to be quite easy – uttering an unshakable “no” to a man. Her personality formed then for the first time, became whole, closed in on itself. It seemed to her she would not change any further…

  The image of Adele was becoming increasingly multifaceted with each day – everything written over the last month was put to use. Perhaps, getting carried away, I had wandered into foreign territory, strayed into a forbidden jungle to which I had no right. But the readers grew all the more favorably disposed. They encouraged me and kept asking for more and more. I had surely touched some of their secret chords; I had reached their back alleys, picked up the master keys. I even thought once again: they could probably be told about Semmant!

  But it was too late anyway. Now I was pursuing other goals. The phantom of love beckoned to me without revealing its face, and I dogged it relentlessly. My plan was executed perfectly, point by point. The decisive plot twist came at its appointed time. Adele became a whore – I wrote about her first experience of sex paid for by a man. I held nothing back: alcohol, excitement, involvement, then a complete lack of brakes…

  I anticipated protest, objection; but the audience, in the main, took this event calmly. Only a few individuals raised a fuss, reproaching me for banality and cynicism. Almost all of them hid behind male nicknames. The women mostly kept silent – without expounding on morals or calling society to arms. Obviously, something else concerned them – I saw that many were rereading the text several times. I wondered: could these be their dreams?

  Among the dreamers was Lidia – she could not help but be hooked. I was clearly on the right path. The breakthrough had not yet arrived, but the foundation was laid, the substratum established. The time for the fine energies had come – and Adele changed, grew, matured. From the exaltation of her body to the exaltation of her world. From the power over a man’s member to power over a man entirely. I wasn’t overly meticulous now, painting just bare-boned strokes. Nothing more was required – all flowed from one thing to another on its own.

  Sometimes I concocted pretty strange stuff – I don’t even know why it came to mind. Sometimes I wrote frank nonsense simply because I felt like it. Still, all the stories had a goal. Reading them, Lidia was supposed to want me. This was predetermined by context, undercurrent – it was evident to all how much I wanted Adele. Or, for example, Rocío, Bertha, Martha. It’s easy for a woman to put herself in the place of another. And to know she’ll be better.

  I imagined: Adele and I in the store, in the car, on the tennis court. The topics of conversation were innocent at first glance, but what we remained silent about was exciting and eloquent. Adele aroused me all the more but was still unapproachable. And I made no attempt, remembering: there’s no love for free. Only friendly kisses and heartfelt kinship.

  Maybe I idealized her – so what? That was really how I believed her to be. And not just me – many of our conversations provoked a fervent response. “What a woman!” her admirers would exclaim again and again. They adored her, wanted her; though I knew: she’d be way beyond their reach.

  At the very height of reader interest, I drastically altered my style and form. There were no more stories about Adele and me. It was as if we had split up and moved to different countries, and I wrote her letters, one after the other. They were not about her – but about me.

  I gave them deliberately simple names: “First Letter to Adele,” “Second Letter to Adele,” Third, Fifth, Eighth. As far as the content was concerned, it made no pretense of simplicity. It harbored a struggle, a rivalry – who is tougher than whom? Her sexuality or my something – and how to define that something? I thought the question itself should be interesting enough.

  If it ever occurred to me to alter my sex, then I would become an inspired slut. If, on the contrary, I changed from a woman into a man, then I would be a warrior, nothing less. Perhaps, I have an unbalanced Yin. Or Yang, I wrote in one of them.

  In another I fantasized:

  Once, my girlfriend walked with no clothes on from the pool to the sauna and back, under the gaze of a dozen naked men. The unusualness of this so excited her that I was forgotten, pushed out of her surging thoughts. Then it turned out this was permanent; I didn’t interest her anymore at all – yet, before that, our ardor was genuine. This is how they find the medicine for love – and immediately request a double dose!

  Or else:

  To be honest, the insects are terrible; they have a fearful disposition. One doesn’t even finish the act of love before, instead of an embrace, its partner bites its head off. But they still crawl into the light spots – although they know the rules of the game. Shame on you, so false in your art – because you know the rules of the game. All the same, sincerity always wins out!

  The forum kept silent at first; the audience was puzzled. They did not know how to react; but then someone voiced timid approval, and others followed suit. My plan was working – I understood that and became more severe, more malevolent.

  I wrote, furiously banging on the keys:

  Each reincarnation makes sense. In the quagmire of dreariness and meager impulses, here and there rigid hillocks are scattered. They can bear the pressure, though just a little. The trick is to catch them with your eye, to feel them out with your limbs, to achieve balance. Standing on all four – or five, six, however many you can manage. Then it’s not so hard to seize the moment and spit out the blade hiding on your tongue. And to breathe out a fiery flame – if only for effect. It’s unfortunate that, in addition, you can’t lash with your tail at the marshy swill – balance, after all, is not so steadfast. But you can fluff up the mane on your neck – as if the mating season has come. The issue, of course, is not females: they are sluggish and weak-sighted. The issue is for someone to challenge it – if they would find the courage. And then, even if the blades ran out, you could try to burn them with your gaze… This is how legends are born!

  Early in the morning, looking out the window, I scribbled:

  Getting up with the sunrise. In solitude wandering the streets damp from the night’s rain. This is the only way to make contact with
the city that knows no mercy. Only at this time are we alone together.

  I love doing this, but I have to sleep until at least nine. Otherwise I’m lethargic, beat up, in a fog all day. Therefore, I think, why not involve others? Pay them money for this as work. Let them wake up before dawn, prior to daybreak – and sleepwalk, and register their feelings. Let them be women of about twenty-five – or at least just one.

  Yet the city won’t appreciate this at all. It will reject my gift as a meager pittance. So I’ll keep it just for myself; I’m also egocentric beyond measure. The more bitter the result for all the women who rise so early.

  Me and the city, we will free ourselves with a small ransom, recharge our memories, and turn away. And we will remain with each other one-on-one after this momentary touch, which sets off sparks. Let us both keep our thoughts to ourselves. Until the next contact, no farewells just yet.

  Or I wrote: Madness is often available in the cleverest of forms…

  Or: In the objects of your passionate devotion there is no better navigator than you yourself…

  Each miniature concealed its own links, its own springs and mechanisms. I reread the lines and saw, this is beautiful! Others thought so too – followers, male and female, besieged me all the more actively. I was affable with them, but impersonal and detached. Let all see: I am very fastidious. I’m waiting for someone in particular – not from here, maybe from a different time, a different planet. Sometimes I straightened out with a sharp word those who grew overly familiar. And with all the women I adopted a derisively indulgent tone.

  Lidia did not comment on my letters, but I saw that she read them. She was coming to my page several times each day. She was almost already living this life – the one born from my words. I knew the goal was near – and changed my tone again.

  The words were different, and I became coarse. I pumped up the tension as if hinting that something in me was ready to explode. Somewhere inside, a mutiny, a countermove was brewing.

  She asked – drunk as a skunk – ”Well, what do you want now, handsome?” And I admitted in reply, “Nothing,” and looked at her without emotion when she reached into her own panties. Then she said, ”I’m not offended. No, but you – you won’t just sneak out,” – and we took another roll in the hay for a couple of hours, maybe more, though I don’t remember exactly how it was. Seven short years have passed since then. I ran into her not long ago. She looked like a mummy; she smelled of despair and bitter smoke. She was young enough to be my daughter, but looked older than me by a lifetime. Before, she had been fresh as a peach. Does life really slip away from you with each orgasm?

  This was in the twelfth letter to Adele, and here Lidia showed her face. She sent a short “!!!” which was quite sufficient. My heart leaped, and I made my final move. As if disappointed to the depths of my soul, I turned everyone away and withdrew in disbelief.

  I wrote – harshly, with no frills,

  She will come in, having finally decided to give herself to you, all overflowing with bitchy thoughts about what costs what, envisioning your gifts, beaches on warm seas, first-class tickets, caviar, and champagne. And you will simply say to her, ”Get lost,” and then clarify it, ”Out! Out!” She won’t even believe it at first, wrinkling her forehead as she waits for a redeeming thought. But no thought comes, and she disappears, fervently picturing how to destroy you forever. Then you will open a second bottle and lose yourself in dreams about the other one who never leaves your mind. And you will throw yourself onto the bed – to masturbate in pure thoughts, to have these thoughts and the dream of her carry you to sleep.

  I ended with the quote: “What dreams may come?” – and Lidia took the bait. She asked for my personal address and sent me a passionate letter. “I want to be in your dreams,” she confessed. “Now tell me at last, who are you?”

  I replied quite arrogantly, “I guess you’ll see for yourself when we meet.” And she agreed, “I’ll be there,” and added, trying to save face, “After all, you’re such a gentleman!”

  “A gentleman is nothing more than a patient wolf,” I replied, with yet another quote. It was someone else’s thought, but it hit the mark.

  Chapter 20

  I set our rendezvous for the next Saturday – and looked forward to it eagerly. May in Madrid fevered my blood with its stuffy nights and stormy skies. Stock exchanges all over the world were in a deep frenzy. The spirit of despair permeated all, but I was not subject to its power.

  Lidia tried to insist on choosing the place, but she quickly acquiesced, not daring to argue. Funny, but she suggested the Café Incognito, where we had seen each other for the first time. It occurred to me in passing: how many men had she invited there? How many did she sleep with afterward, have an affair with – be it a long one or merely a fleeting moment? Their ghosts did not stand in my way. They didn’t hinder me, but, all the same, I rejected her proposal straightaway – in a dry, brief letter.

  “Worthless games, superfluous dates, empty words are of no use to me,” I declared plainly.

  “I want everything at once,” I wrote her; and she agreed, “You’re right. So do I.”

  I also asked, just in case, “Do you understand what ‘everything’ means here? Can you sense that you won’t be able to play tricks on me, tease me, slink off?”

  “I won’t, I won’t,” she typed back immediately, and added a thousand kisses.

  “All right,” I agreed, and sent roguishly, “So that means you’ll give it to me right away?”

  “All I can!” she replied. I liked our mutual sense of humor. “Let’s not show our faces,” I suggested with a smiley face, and her “Okay” sounded playful. Then we didn’t correspond anymore; there was no need.

  On Friday evening I sent a note with the precise address and the exact time. The tension increased; I even thought I wouldn’t sleep that night – and, in fact, I tossed and turned until morning. Then I fell asleep, slipping into a tenacious slumber. There I remained until midday.

  The meeting was set for the late afternoon. I had selected a hotel on Cortes Square – not the most expensive, but with solid style. In the room all was as it should be: featureless, clean, and spacious. A large bed stood precisely in the middle, and dense drapes let no light through. I lit a few candles, went into the bathroom, and thoroughly inspected the shower stall. Then I undressed myself and slipped on a formless gown, gloves, and a lion mask I had bought the day before at a theater store. I also had a nylon rope – it was fairly thick, to keep from cutting into the flesh. And small handcuffs covered in leather…

  Lidia arrived, without running late. I recognized her steps as I heard the clack of heels. She exuded a smell of anticipation – even through her sweet perfume. I saw she was excited as never before. Her lips moved without making a sound; her eyes glowed in their feline sockets. All this was more arousing than any ordinary foreplay.

  We spoke no words, but merely looked at one another in silence – at our clothes that were about to be cast off, at the masks that were now our true faces. Then Lidia turned and passed a glance over the walls of her dungeon, over the drapes, mirror, bed.

  Walking through the room, I blew out the candles one by one. Full darkness fell, which sharpened the senses. The smell of anticipation became stronger, and I moved on it, reached out to touch her hand. It shivered slightly but was pliable, warm. The flow of her blood incited a shiver in me as well.

  I clenched her fingers, causing pain. She did not object. I nibbled her earlobe with my teeth. She sighed fitfully and pressed her hip against me. Through the fabric I felt all of her – her body, her hot skin. My own head was spinning slightly. Everything was intoxicating – better than I had imagined.

  I led Lidia to the bed, started unbuttoning her dress without removing my gloves. Moaning, she ran her palms along my gown. She muttered something half-consciously, pushing her lips toward me. I was gentle at first, then suddenly became rough. The dress fell to the floor; I kicked it away with my foot. I tossed Lidia
onto the bed, stomach down on a pillow. I spread her legs, took off my gloves and the mask that was no longer needed, and attacked her body. Greedily, desperately, like a ravenous lion. Like a savage ravishing his woman. But I acted not savage at all. With my fingers and tongue, I caressed all of her – unceremoniously, shamelessly. She climaxed immediately, then came again. She whispered, “Yes, yes,” and sobbed like a child. I merely growled in response, drinking in the sweet spoils.

  The madness continued for a long time. I entered her in various positions, turned her this way and that, treating her like a plaything.

  “More, more,” Lidia whispered, writhing beneath me, matching my rhythm, submitting.

  I cuffed her and bound her hands to the bed. I squeezed her body, bit it, affirming my possession, not allowing it to slip away. I made her bend, shift to meet me. I ordered her around, punished and encouraged her.

  In the middle of the affair, not hiding anymore, I spoke up with my own voice. Lidia was not surprised; she was past that point. I told her my name, revealed everything. I laughed – without malice – about how I had drawn her into my trap.

  I told her, “You’re a depraved girl!”

  “Oh, more!” Lidia groaned, arching her back.

  “Do you want to be my whore?” I asked.

  Lidia didn’t answer, as she was approaching her next orgasm.

  “Of course you want to,” I agreed for her, and slapped her butt cheek.

  “Yes, yes,” she was racked by convulsions, not hearing any words…

  When everything was over and we were catching our breath, Lidia lit the lamp on the nightstand. She was clearly getting confused.