by Ray Furness
Thus he put his soul in front of the mirror, combed it out and groomed it.
The Girl
It was too late to start anything before dinner.
Reading: nothing but obscenities and idiocies; he knew them off by heart.
Up and down, to and fro. Smoking, smoking. At least tobacco kept its promises, that was one thing that was still honest and true – smoking, smoking.
Start again from the beginning, that breathless trek through his thoughts?
Must he always, always be thinking? Those rosebuds outside, they had no thoughts. But they gave off their scent and they would bloom.
A woman, a woman! Whatever Marius might say. It was all very well for him to advocate cocottes, a different one every night, never the same one twice – yes, when one had reached the same stage as him! But he was nowhere near that, thank God … unfortunately. A woman, a woman!
Then he would have peace, would have some rest. That would be bliss, bliss!
Work, as long as the mood flowed. Then, when it came to a halt, away with the paints on the spot to go out with the little woman, out, one day into the country, the next dancing, but always finding oblivion.
Sometimes he was so tired of the eternal struggle, so sick of his eternal cravings. He longed for the bliss of a quiet, undemanding friendship. And most of his socks had holes in them, as well.
Bliss, bliss!
The only snag was the beginning, until everything was running smoothly: looking round, searching, taking trouble, wavering, deciding on one, then deciding on another.
It was a nuisance that she had not come back with him. But to wait for a week and then rush to a rendezvous that, perhaps, she had already forgotten by now – well, perhaps if he were head over heels in love!
But he could write, it suddenly occurred to him; he would write to her as he had promised. A long, detailed letter that would fill in the hour that he still had before it was time for his absinthe. A crazy love-letter. Was he still up to it? One didn’t forget that easily how to lie.
It amused him. He chose the most delightful declarations and sought out the most precious gems of language. From these he composed such a beseeching prayer to his guardian angel, of such fervour and humility, that when he read it he was moved to tears of pity for himself. Let him see one of those novelists do that, and they were paid for it! He really had the gift, though only on paper. Face to face he was awkward and embarrassed; it put him off that they would not keep quiet and let him work himself up into the right mood, gradually, from one sentence to the next.
The letter contained a lot of flattery and a lot of passion. He described to her how he saw her now, in the yearning of his loneliness, as a heavenly nymph, the first pleasant, alluring vision on this sullen, miserable day. And as he read out the words to himself again, savouring their delicate flavour, he was astonished that she was so beautiful, and that he liked her as she was; it was only now that he realised it.
Expectation
But at the end of the month, when he had seen her every Sunday and then, during the last week, accompanied her home from work every evening, when that week was over, on the last day, something happened. He waited for her in vain, at the corner, beneath the crooked lamp, in the wind. She did not come, nor the next day, nor on the third day.
From the unutterable fear that struck him – was she ill? was she unfaithful? – and from the way the volcanic letter erupted from his lacerated soul, he realised it was not the problem that concerned him, it was love. But no answer came to his letter. In the store where she worked they knew nothing. ‘She no longer works here.’
On the fourth day, at the tenth hour of the morning, as he was wrestling with his wild dreams, there was a gentle knock at the door, like an embarrassed beggar, or a model looking for work, then another, and after he had repeated his surly grunt and was already preparing a crude rebuff, then, after a while, she came in, tiptoed up to his bed, her bemused gaze stumbling inquisitively over the jumble of dingy bibelots, and, after she had given him a hearty kiss, sat down on the edge and said, a little timidly and despondently, ‘You see, I’ve left my cousin’s, because I can’t live without you … it was the most sensible thing to do … last Saturday.’
Then he let out a howl, like a hungry beast that has finally caught its prey, and tore her to him and threw himself onto her and ran his trembling fingers over every inch of her and rolled back and forth with her, giving short, shrill, hoarse whistles of ecstasy and covering her whole body with biting kisses, as if he wanted to tear her to pieces.
But she twisted out of his arms, for she was wearing her new hat, the one made of black lace with a spray of roses and anemones hanging down at the back, very crushable, very fragile. And sitting in front of the mirror, smoothing herself out and putting up her hair, she said, ‘You always wanted to go out into the country … just look outside, today, the sun.’
His first impulse was not to let her go before he had tasted of her flesh, that glowing, quivering, rosy flesh, the overpowering, sultry scent of which he was greedily sucking in with wide-stretched nostrils like some exquisite oriental spice; not before his thirsty embrace had sipped of her blood from the lips, breasts and loins he had already gnawed; not before this unutterable craving to devour her, to drink her dry, to enjoy her with each separate sense, was finally, finally satisfied. But he pulled himself together and let her be. He realised he did not want to spoil the bliss that had finally arrived. No, now was the time to prove that he knew how to enjoy happiness by not hastily swallowing it in large gulps, but by savouring its sweet berries on his palate, slowly, deliberately, letting them seep into his every pore, jealous of every drop, so as not to lose the least atom of its full flavour. He wanted to tend his bliss, methodically, systematically, so as to gather in a lush harvest.
He would spend the whole day imagining it, the whole, long, summer’s day, filling his mind with detailed images. The whole day he would sleep with her in his mind, constantly assuring himself, through kisses and embraces, that that night he would sleep with her body. The whole day he would luxuriate in the rapturous certainty that in the evening he would finally luxuriate in the rapture which had for so long been uncertain. He kept fondling her in his mind with such tireless antitheses, just as he kept fondling her with tender, lustful, fumbling fingers. And he would have wished the day everlasting and eternal, spread out over aeons, without end, because already he was filled with fearful doubts, which, however, did not dare moan out loud; already he was afraid of the fulfilment: could it, could it ever match up to his expectation?
Fulfilment
As protection against the cool evening air, he threw his coat round them and they each enveloped themselves in the other, their two bodies growing into one. He had his arm round her neck and could feel the warm buds of her breasts. And everything she said, every word, was like the heavenly music of happy angels, and he was most astonished, for the first time he realised what spring was. He would have liked to have stayed sitting on the rock and died.
Slowly, very slowly, after their meal in the little garden by the river – surrounded by buds; a nightingale sang – they returned home up the Seine, through the brightly coloured flames of the Exhibition. It was even more beautiful than he had expected. Slowly they walked along the boulevard to his apartment.
He lit the light, she tied the flowers into a large bouquet and put them in water. As she undressed, he smoked one more cigar and drank in the odour of the flowers and of her flesh. Neither spoke a word, she just softly hummed an old air from the Auvergne as she sat at the mirror releasing her tresses. Then, as if they had long been accustomed to it, they went to bed. And it was with a sudden shock, almost horror, that he realised he had made love to a virgin.
Stuttering and stammering, overcome with confusion, he raised himself to his knees, ‘Oh, you … how then … You didn’t mention that … is it … can it really …?
She sat up, buttoning up her bodice again, her gaze fixed on the far d
istance, as if seeking help against some inconceivable danger, and with quivering lips, ‘You thought I was one of those?!’ And she turned to the wall and cried, cried bitterly. But soon sleep took pity on her.
But he, in a feverish turmoil, could not find peace. He tossed and turned, looking for coolness in the sultry pillows. His throat was burning.
He jumped out of bed, craving water, took a deep draught, wet his eyes and plunged his face into the bowl; he wanted to swim out into the wide ocean until this parching, choking thirst was cooled. And then, closing the curtain round the bed so as not to wake her, he lit the light and walked and walked, breathless, if only he could have climbed the mountains, straight up into the ice, if only he could escape somewhere. And he wondered what all this could be.
Yes, it was bliss, his reason could prove it. It was bliss, ultimate bliss. It was just that he was not yet used to it.
* * * *
Outside, dawn was breaking and the trees were shaking themselves. Gently he pulled back the curtain of the bed. She was breathing softly. He knelt down and placed an ardent kiss on the rosy-pink sole of her foot, which was peeping out of the bedclothes. And thus, in the attitude of prayer, he fell asleep.
Blessing or Curse?
Often when, the morning rays saluting her, covering her hyacinth flesh with golden scales, she sat upright in front of the mirror braiding her hair, his desire flickering round her, and slowly, with plucking fingers that gleamed like swift snakes, gently and insistently pulled at her tangled lashes, her recalcitrant brows, damped and shaped them, her lips pursed in a silent whistle whilst her restless tongue flickered out quickly and darted back in with a soft smacking, and then, lids closed, bending forward as if in prayerful humility, softly, carefully, tenderly she wiped the powder puff – her little nose, fearful of the dust, twisting to the side – over her lowered cheeks, assiduously, many times and with a very serious, solemn, sacred expression, as if performing an act of worship; or at other times when, going out on an errand, she left him alone in bed, among the traces of her smell in the sultry hollows from which clouds of delightful images rose up, intoxicating, ecstatic shapes; or in the peace of the evening, as they were waiting for night, as, slowly, the soft memory of light faded, and conversation was already asleep and only a song from some childish game flitted shyly across her lips – then, sometimes, he could have soared up to the stars in exultation, with boundless joy, because he felt so unutterably happy.
But at other times, immediately after, abruptly, he felt the urge to throttle her, to whip her, to tear her apart, his fingers ripping into her hated flesh, until she was gone, eradicated, in his anger, fury and disgust; and he could not have said what the reason was, there was no reason, the urge just came to him, no idea where from, it was a turmoil which overcame him, alarming, irresistible, at the mere sight of her, catching him unawares, sometimes at moments when his happiness seemed complete.
So he never knew where he was with himself, because it was like a sickness which kept reappearing with different horrors, and he did not know what to do, he could not settle to a constant, reliable feeling towards her and was ever anxious and apprehensive as to what might happen next, the next moment, and never, through all his eager curiosity, was it settled whether it was a blessing or a curse.
The Sign of the Whip
No, it meant nothing, there was no need to get worked up. It was just one of Fifi’s dreadful habits – he knew them well enough by now – that she could not sit still for a moment, but took every opportunity to be jumping up and down, now looking in the mirror if a bow were coming undone, or going to fetch water, salt, vinegar, or the newspaper to read the theatre reviews – and her ringlets bobbed up and down, and her hips swayed, and her fingers clicked. And out in the street she could never quietly walk straight along the pavement, but had to look in every shop window; she always walked down both sides of the street at the same time, as Marius put it; across, back, an incessant zigzag.
And then, she just wanted to tease him a little.
Probably.
Because of the lecture he had given her about table manners, about the way she used to eat things with her knife.
That was it.
She wouldnt forgive him for that. Very prickly.
She couldnt stand it when he reminded her of her lowly origins, that she hadn’t been brought up properly.
Took her revenge.
She was doing it deliberately.
But he wouldn’t fall for that. It showed just how little she knew him!
On the contrary. She amused him, with all her vain stratagems, which he could see through straight away.
Barking up the wrong tree!
Just grin and bear it. Dont react. The two men were already at coffee. That would make her the one to look silly.
He’d have a good laugh at her.
No he wouldn’t, he still felt sorry for her, after all that fuss about the knife, which was really all nonsense. And how charming she was, the way she was pulling the leaves off the artichoke, dipping them, tasting the sauce, with those roguishly innocent eyes.
Why torment her? Have patience, educate her – and love, lots of love.
You have to treat women like children.
More sweets than the whip.
And it was better for him, too, better for his digestion.
The two swells had finally left and gone into the smoking room.
Make it up. Take her to a grand theatre to see the latest play.
And buy roses. She couldn’t resist flowers. Everything would be back to normal.
And then, just as he was making these noble resolutions, she was away, jumped up, knocked her chair over, dress streaming out behind her, and took the three steps down into the salon in one leap.
Like a bird taking off.
Like a shooting star.
And she was gone. All that was left was the echo of her giggle.
Music, of course. She got carried away, her legs simply took over.
It was a little inconsiderate towards him, though. After all, he was her lover!
Then why didn’t he dance, ever? His own fault. Him and his idées fixes.
She was not the kind of girl who would be silly enough to to let that ruin her life. There was nothing like a lively waltz.
So there she was, jigging about the floor with ‘Twisted Nose’ while ‘Iodoform’ played the piano.
He fell into such a rage that he smashed the bottle of cognac.
Rushed out and tore her from ‘Twisted Nose’s’ arms, so violently that he went tottering across the floor.
If he had said one word, one single word of protest!
Nothing but cowards, the whole lot of them. Just stared in amazement. And women fall for such pathetic specimens!
She just turned very pale, and bit her lips to stop herself crying out as he dragged her with him, and held back the tears that came to her eyes because he was hurting her so much.
He did not let go, the whole way home, but hauled her along like an obstinate calf. She did not dare say a word, nor cry out loud. She was filled with great fear, and with great love, because he was strong.
When they arrived home he was exhausted and trembling, and all he could say was, ‘You whore!’
Then her defiance returned, and she tried to humiliate him, scoffing, ‘Well go and find another one, then, if you can find one who’ll take you!’
Then he hit her in the face with his clenched fist. As she had no other way of defending herself, she spat at him.
He ripped off her clothes, tearing them to rags, bent her over and set about her with his dog-whip. He wanted to scourge her till the flesh fell from her bones, till there was no trace left of her and he was free. His mind was empty apart from this one irresistible desire, and he could not stop until it was assuaged.
Just blood, blood. He only came to himself again when it was dripping down from the weals.
Then he forced her to make love and chastised her with kisses, whi
le she pushed at him, spat and bared her teeth.
Until they fell into an insensible, death-like stupor.
Outside, their cat, which had fled, glided softly over the brightly lit roof, beneath the silent, shimmering sky.
From that day on their relationship was transformed, under the sign of the whip. Their caresses turned into blows, and every kiss, like a lash with thorns, tore open stinging cuts, from which their flesh began to fester, as if from the contagion of their shame. It was a cruel and depraved torture, insatiable lust, the waves of which pounded more and more furiously with each renewal, inventive in cruelty, sensuality that had lost its way and was heading towards madness. They could no longer find satisfaction unless they were glued together with blood; they had to dig into each others vitals with clenched fingernails and tear at their innards just to elicit a response from their deadened, debilitated nerves, pounded, ridden to exhaustion by so much passion. And again and again, restless and unyielding, their panting, never-satisfied senses howled ‘More, more!’
He worked out a new theory about it, that they were on the trail of a new kind of love: through torment.
And then that would flush the new art out of its hiding place.
As if they first had to destroy their bodies so that their souls could come together, freed from base flesh and happy.
Yes, strangle each other so their souls might be resurrected.
That was it – more or less, he had not yet worked it out in detail, only that first of all they had to kill the flesh which held them imprisoned.