Semmant

by Vadim Babenko

  “Finally,” I thought.

  “It’s about time,” I thought, recalling my torment, my yearning, and my hurt.

  She looked into my face for a long time. Then, as if reading my thoughts, she asked, “Are you angry at me? Will you dump me now to get even?”

  I answered, “No. I’m going to own you.”

  “Thank you!” said Lidia, and this was very sincere gratitude.

  “Thank you,” she intoned again; then she was quiet for a moment and asked, “Will you tell me about Adele?”

  “Defiort will be the one to tell you about Adele,” I said and yawned. “If you behave, of course.”

  “Oh, yes!” Lidia exclaimed. “I will be obedient. I will be very obedient, you won’t even recognize me. Just thinking about this is making me wet – wet and hot!”

  She looked at me with the wild eyes of an angel who had just first tasted sin. I understood: a new chapter had opened in our history. A fresh era had begun – like after the Flood. As if once, not so long ago, the murky waters receded from the foothills, frothing in the streets and squares, and flowed over my head. I choked and nearly suffocated but was able to grasp a thin branch to swim to the surface. I gathered all the splinters into a heap, built an ark, and escaped in it. All without an explanation of what I had been saved from.

  The elusive phantom caught me unaware – at the countess’s house, on the lynx-skin rug. Its breath aroused my soul, and I rushed after the call of its shade. It teased me, ensnared me, but here: I tore myself away and turned everything around. I twisted it my way, however I wanted. Or how someone wanted who did not wish to be known.

  Yet, after that Saturday, no one demanded explanations from me. My victory was undisputed, though I did not know the enemy. Lidia surrendered like a fortress whose defenders have fled in fear. They galloped away, disgracing their names. They gave it up to plunder: their homes, warehouses, stables. The temples of gods who had extended no aid. All their white-skinned, full-chested women.

  But then, even after my victory I did not become arrogant or allow myself to rest on my past glories. The memory of despair was still fresh, the wiles of the world well known. Someone in the couple always dominates; I could not abdicate the throne. It was essential to strengthen my leading role.

  After waiting two or three days, I resumed posting short stories about Adele on the forum. They became more insolent, frank, brutal. I stayed on the right course – the one that had helped me to conquer Lidia again. I relied on the sexual context, the coarse animal subtext, as if deciding: sentiments be gone. Ultimately, Adele was nothing more than a puta! Less romanticism, I told myself, though I did not forget: Adele has a kind heart. Kinder than any of those who knew of her, including Lidia and me.

  In our dialogues Adele shared the details of her encounters ever more often. I wrote, openly and without reservation, of what happened in her bed. I invented all kinds of things about the eccentricities of physiology. About the mysteries of the male body that were apparently hard to uncover. My fantasies acquired confidence; I saw how they were incarnated in real life. Often I imagined: let it be thus – meaning my next date with Lidia – and my Adele did it thus, precisely as I wanted. The forum read on and on, was silent, ashamed. Lidia read and picked up on the hint. The next day she exerted herself, wanting to surpass it – so I would tell her she was the same, only better. And so I said it; this got her even more excited. And that, in turn, got me more excited as well.

  Sometimes I provoked in her not action, but anticipation. I wrote the most innocent things – about Adele alone, without men. I imagined how she would walk the streets, go shopping, bustle about the house. How she looked at her reflection in storefront displays. How she arranged her hair, making faces as she recalled her appointments of the previous evening. Or as she thought of what lay ahead today.

  I took a seat in a café, made myself comfortable, ordered a double espresso. I looked at the girls; they came and went, changed, but I easily combined them into one. With furtive glances I noticed characteristic traits, remembered facial features, habits. A quick smile over a portion of sushi, thoughtfulness over a hot chocolate, a flirty look over aioli sauce. To keep from forgetting later, I wrote down: a small, graceful nose over a cup of minestrone, touching locks of hair over rúcula salad. Slender fingers, lascivious lips – over a plate of asparagus or carrots. There and then I made up their stories – what could have happened before and after, what they felt, what they desired. The point of the accounts was always the same: sex.

  I saw how they joked with friends and laughed on their mobile phones. Each one expected something ahead: shopping, museums, concerts. But this was a temporary expectation. A momentary, insignificant one. Preceding what was to happen later: sex.

  Beautiful strangers ordered desserts, coffee. They licked their lips, squinting in satisfaction. I noticed the contented look after the sweets had been eaten. This was short-lived contentment. Because ahead waited the main event: sex!

  At times I was distracted – completely different thoughts occupied my mind. I fantasized and dreamed; but then, right away, I took myself in hand, reduced all the daydreams to questions of sex appeal. No longer did I stray into meager, sightless theories, into jungles of banal truths. Half a year ago I wrote Semmant about the female aura and tempting flesh; that was a miserable, weak experience. And no wonder: on what back then was I to rely? There had been almost no facts, nothing concrete, no living details in my possession. But now I had them in abundance.

  I studied attractiveness – discerned what it was in any girl that made men want her so. This could not be reduced to the size of her breasts, the thickness of her lips, or the length of her legs. Each emanated the substance of sexuality in her own way. From some of them it issued forth of its own accord; others tried, quite skillfully, to create the illusion, which, in my opinion, was no worse: I knew the power of illusions. There were also those who didn’t know how to try – I regarded the majority of them with pity. Only some did not provoke any pity; for them I felt contempt and called them “the worst of bitches.” They did not hide that there was not an ounce of femininity in them, but they wanted to dominate men all the same, and they did – through insolence and pressure. Constantly sending the message that men were indebted to them – though it was not clear for what in particular.

  At times, on the weekends, they were out in droves. They filled the space, ungroomed, undesirable, the matrons of proper, politically correct families. Their beleaguered husbands fussed nearby, wiped capricious children’s noses, goofed around with carriages, diapers, pacifiers, showing in every way the compliant nature of the defeated. This looked terrible; I twisted my lips and thought: here they are, those Spanish “macho men,” whose former arrogance has returned like a boomerang – and turned into contrariety. It returned and struck them in the back, undercut the knees, flipping them backward. Consumer society pushed them to the fringes, restricting their assets to cheap food and wine – and frequent disappointment, and stress. It wants too much from them – what is not in their weak strength to give. The worst of the bitches dominate in the land of former dons. Governments flirt with them, following their penchants. They are clamorous, like birds of prey; their voices are heard above the rest…

  Indignant, I rose and went elsewhere, and was seeking again those beautiful strangers from whom there flowed vibrations, currents, an invisible magnetism. Hours passed; I scribbled in my notebook, ordered another coffee, looked around. Avidly, so as not to miss anything – to write it down and put it into action.

  My sight was now sharp and sure; I had learned to see through the subterfuge. Upon taking a closer look, some girls turned out to be unhappy. They proved to be lonely – inexorably, endlessly alone. They had no memory of the Brighton waves; they didn’t know how to laugh at loneliness under the cries of seagulls by the cold sea. No matter whom they sat with, I saw it in their eyes. I wanted to say, “Come with me. I’ll introduce you to Semmant, tell you about Little Sonya. P
robably even let you read about Adele.”

  Each loneliness had its own twist. Some pushed their way to the surface; others hid, burying themselves deep down. Some were desired and in demand; they were fought over and protected. Their capricious nature was maintained with the tenderness of a word, an affectation, a casual gesture. Others seemed unneeded – they were concealed behind a grin. Behind affected vivaciousness, behind a torrent of the same nonessential, though habitual, words. There were solitudes conscious and unconscious, enduring and sudden, planned and incidental, abruptly aroused. But the bearers, I reminded myself, always expected something at the end of the day. At the end, at midday, at the onset of night. In the middle of the night or as morning came. Sex awaited them all as a panacea. As a momentary release from loneliness, at least. An escape from memory – of the place where the specter of love could never be seen at all. Where there were only daily trifles and the merciless rule of money, or else the feast of thought and demanding teachers. Where everyone marched in place on a dime, or ran on a treadmill – faster and faster – and rushed somewhere in a mad gallop, weakening in the icy wind.

  I looked and inscribed this indelibly on my mind, then I put it to use, selecting the best. Choosing what I wanted to make real, to live through, even if such reality would always be hypothetical in some sense. At times I was angry at its imaginary nature, enraged at Lidia, Adele. Unconsciously, without reason, or else when I understood there would be no spark with one of the beauties flirting at the next table. I could fantasize about her; I could even sleep with her, but I would never master the entirety of her femininity. Only Lidia and her body were fully within my reach – a luxurious body, but one and the same.

  Because of this, I became acrimonious. I tossed about truths unflattering to the female ear. In the next story I wrote something to the effect of: young girls are all-around better than middle-aged women. Better than those who try to look fresh but are already mature and just inspire pity. “There’s no substitute for youth,” I wrote, knowing this would seriously wound Lidia. “Girls of twenty are much better than twenty-six-year-olds. The ones who haven’t hit twenty-five yet are so much more attractive than those over thirty…” Yes, I knew well: it’s not always so. Yet I transgressed against the truth, albeit a little. This was undignified revenge. Vengeance upon all the beauties who turned up their noses. Upon the chicks who were cold to me in advance. Upon Lidia for her recent defection. And even upon Adele – don’t ask me why!

  One way or another, my tactic worked. I posted comments – alternating between porn and melodrama, light S&M and erotic flirtation. It soon became clear: Lidia craved Adele like a drug. She sensed in her something more than simply a kindred spirit. Something united them, something stronger than what had once united Lidia and me.

  But her feelings toward me were also quite different now. She had changed a lot; the new copy was exclusive, shaped for its owner. The effect exceeded expectations; Lidia admired me more and more.

  “You are my creator,” she said to me. For her, this was no exaggeration. I felt I was growing in her eyes: a creator of the amusing – a creator of the brilliant – then a creator, per se. It was as if she was proud of having fallen into a dependence on me. Perhaps she had lived without dependency for a long time – as I had lived long without love. Now she could not refuse it until she sated herself to the full.

  Of course, I understood: the whole spirit of our affair was the essence and meaning of a surrogate. The new copy was just a counterfeit, and the lie could not help but be exposed. But everything suited me, and I drove doubt away. Dependence was an alternative means, a potion for those unable to forgive. Medicine against longing for the stuff of life. For Lidia, it was not even bitter.

  Soon she began to show me off to her friends. In front of them she was not shy – she rubbed tenderly against my shoulder, embraced me, gazed into my eyes. Before each one she underscored our new roles. She melted into me in sight of all. And she did not call me by name – for her I was Defiort.

  A couple of times we encountered former lovers of hers. She denied it, would not admit it at first – but I saw it with the unaided eye. Later she confessed, of course, when I pressed her against the wall. When I ripped her blouse off and started to fondle her nipples roughly…

  “Let them be happy for me; let it be pleasing to them,” she whispered in reply to my angry question: Why?

  Caressing my hands, she said, “You want to punish me? Then name my punishment!”

  But no, to punish her was not my intention. I wished only to laugh at the strange turn of events. I understood: this was vendetta. She was taking revenge on them, as I was on all the touch-me-nots. She took revenge because they were unable to subjugate her – they knew not, they would never know how to be audacious. She was stronger than all of them and obviously saw no gain in that. Such were the realities of society, and she had lived as an obedient captive of realities. Now she was celebrating her getaway.

  Those former lovers, two Spaniards, both looked pathetic. Rafael, a forty-year-old director of a bank, resembled a toad, with his miniscule hands and thick, grandmotherly face. “He became that fat after I had already dumped him,” Lidia assured me, but I didn’t believe her. He was repugnant; his whole body quivered like a piece of Jell-O. It was as if there were an entire jamón ibérico rolling around in his gut.

  “Rafa, Rafa,” she muttered, screwing up her face; she had gotten more drunk than the both of us. Suddenly, turning to me, she declared, “By the way, Rafael is very much into whores!”

  He shuddered, sighed, and his face flushed. I fixed my gaze on him.

  “He really likes them,” Lidia persisted. “Remember, Rafito, how you told me about that Brazilian from the nightclub? She was a pole dancer, but you tried to seduce her like a lady – although she charged a firm rate, and everybody knew it. Paco knew, and so did José and Arancha. They made fun of you, but you fawned over her as though over a bride. In the end, I remember, she did take your money. I’m just not sure she gave you anything in return. What was her name? Wouldn’t happen to be Adele, would it?”

  Blushing, Rafa tried to crack a smile. He was accustomed to humiliation – it showed in his eyes. That was a sad spectacle, but I was not sorry for him. Just as I was not sorry for the second one, a tall, skinny man, rather timid and rather rich. He consonantly went by the name Manuel. I later laughed at Lidia: Rafael and Manuel, Gargantua and Pantagruel, Rafa and Manu…

  Something in Manuel’s features hinted at a hidden defect, despite his education and manners. He also had a passion – not for whores, but for Iberian pigs. He hunted pigs, raised pigs, and prepared pork himself in all conceivable forms.

  With an innocent smile, Lidia asked about his beloved boars. About the lovely black piggy whose picture he had e-mailed her. “Do you know,” she turned to me, “how ugly that breed is?”

  Manuel shook his head, smiling uncertainly. A large plate of jamon lay before us, glistening with fat. It gave off the most appetizing smell. And Lidia emitted her own scent, the odor of the Gucci I had bought for her the previous week.

  I reached out and took a sip of wine. I grabbed Lidia by the neck, and she went limp. “You look like a piggy, don’t you?” I asked her. “Like a little pink piggy?”

  Lidia rubbed my hand, purring with pleasure, but Manuel almost fell out of his chair. Afterward, in the bathroom he said to me, “Calling a woman a pig is maltrato. You could land in prison for that!”

  Neither of the two men was worthy of her. Neither of them had ever lived in the same house with a woman – unless you count their despotic moms. They grew old earlier than their moms. They grew old before they matured, turning into useless material.

  It was unlikely they would ever find a match for themselves, I thought without gloating, though somewhat disgusted. Lidia had probably been the only bright spot in their lives. Random, brief luck – and nothing more would shine. Women who were at all attractive passed them by on the other side of the street. Beau
tiful strangers looked away – for they felt here their vibrations and fine currents would be pointless, fruitless, fading in vain.

  I later asked Lidia how she could have sex with them. How she could climax with them, whisper something in their ear? Lidia shrugged, “What’s the big deal? Sometimes you don’t know who you’ll end up sleeping with.”

  I said to her, “That’s what scattered balls of pearl powder are worth!”

  “That sums up all your stories,” I admonished her, and she was frightened: “Are you disappointed with me?”

  “Well, yeah,” I sneered. “Yes and no.”

  Then I consoled her, “It’s all in the past.”

  “You’re different now,” I admitted, and Lidia pressed her lips toward me. She smelled like jamón of the highest grade.

  I thought some more about Rafa and Manu. Better for them, I guessed, to move in together. To run their house together, grow old, live out their days – in a cramped attic not far from a hospital. All the same, the fear sown in their hearts will drive off a more vivacious fate. Or they can yield to the dubious favor of the worst of the bitches – unappetizing, spiteful, prowling in search of a submissive victim. Well, these two are precisely those victims – along with their legion of doubles. They have been cheated, driven into a corner by the worst of females, with whom you cannot argue. Go on, object, try to take a stand, and society will let loose on you with all its fury. Europe – an aging bitch still full of confidence – will declare you the enemy, choke you, force you to surrender. Force you to bow your head, admit your weakness. For you – they will inform you with contempt – are only a man!

  What is said here by the specters of love, its dim shades? Do they whisper anything to themselves? They are likely silent – it’s uncomfortable for them in this land. They, I suspect, don’t live here much – except for the mutants grown in test tubes. Except for the ones nursed on artificial milk in a boarding school – like the one of Brighton, but different. Those who are born of a perverted consciousness – like the one of mine, but different. Our things are, nonetheless, full of life. But these here, they’re not worth a nickel. They are brought into the world on thin, bowed legs. Is there really any strength in them?