Cockpit

by Jerzy Kosiński

  “I haven’t come to ask if I should join a kibbutz,” I interrupted.

  “What have you come for?”

  “A remedy. You know what for.”

  “If I possessed such a remedy, I would be listed in the Kamasutra, not in the Paris telephone directory.”

  “There must be a drug that would …” I pleaded, but he interrupted me.

  “There isn’t. There are certain combinations of drugs and injections and long-term therapy.”

  “I’m not impotent, doctor. Merely cautious.”

  “When is she arriving?”

  “Noon tomorrow.”

  He frowned as he scribbled a prescription, which he then handed to me. “You can have this filled in any good pharmacy. Take the pills every two hours, the tablets every three and one capsule every six.” I paid him in cash and he cautioned me, “Don’t expect miracles.”

  “I never do,” I said.

  I stopped at the first pharmacy I came to, had the prescription filled and swallowed the medication before I left the store. I had a busy day ahead of me. Pleading illness, I had postponed several less crucial appointments, but there were two important meetings and a large press conference that I had to attend. Between meetings and mail and telephone calls, I had no time to rest or eat, but I took the medications without fail. I returned to my room after midnight, tired and short of breath, with my heart palpitating, feeling no pick-up from the medicines. I thought about the woman who in twelve hours would arrive to see me. I recreated her image as I had last seen her at the dinner party, reviewing her features, her gestures, her expressions. I tossed restlessly until at last the sleeping pill I had taken diluted her image. At dawn, I fell asleep.

  I woke up a few hours later, walked to the window and looked out. The city sparkled in the sunlight and the sky was cloudless. Having completed my remaining business commitments before noon, I returned to my hotel, shaved once more and waited restlessly for her call. In order to have my medicines on hand throughout her visit, I loaded my pockets with a good supply of all three drugs.

  I was apprehensive. I lay down but could not sleep. Just as I decided her call would not come, the phone rang. I let it ring three times before I picked up the receiver with an unsteady hand.

  She sounded relaxed and composed as she told me she had just arrived at the Hotel de La Mole. She thanked me for the flowers and for choosing such a beautiful suite. When I invited her to lunch, she asked me to come to the hotel to pick her up.

  The convertible I had rented was waiting in the hotel driveway. I put its top down and drove slowly through the sunlit city, familiarizing myself with the car and with the Paris traffic. Each time I glanced at the empty seat next to me, I could almost see her sitting there, her legs stretched toward me, her arm resting on the seat behind my back, her fingers inches from my neck.

  At La Mole I told the garage attendant to keep my car ready, then took an elevator to the floor above hers, inspected the staircases and the corridors and went down the stairs. Listening outside her door, I could faintly hear her footsteps.

  I paused for a moment to calm myself and knocked; she opened the door immediately. She was wearing a tweed suit with a skirt that ended below her knees and accented her slender calves. Her hair fell abundantly onto her shoulders, and I noted that in daylight it looked lighter than it had the night I met her.

  She ushered me into the room. “It’s hard for me to believe you’re here,” I said. “At your party, I was sure I would never see you again.”

  “But when I tried to find you after dinner, you had gone.”

  “I was restless and you were so inaccessible. Now, the more I look at you, the more awe-struck I am.”

  She laughed and told me, “Proust says, ‘Leave pretty women to men without imagination.’ Do you disagree with him?”

  “Not at all, but I also know your beauty can be fully appreciated and defined only by a man with imagination. In any case,” I continued, “I am taking you out to lunch. My car is waiting downstairs.”

  At the restaurant, she explained that her husband had left that morning on a campaign trip. She had told him she was going to visit her sister and brother-in-law at their farm fifty miles from the capital and would be staying overnight. She had confided in the couple about her Paris escapade, and they had agreed to cover for her.

  She left the table to go to the ladies’ room; I removed two pills from my pocket and swallowed them before she returned.

  After lunch, we drove out to Combray. I parked the car and we walked through the woods. I had brought my camera with me, and I asked if I could photograph her. I examined her through the lens as she posed. I approached her for a close-up and pushed her hair back gently. She did not move. I put the camera aside.

  We stood facing each other without speaking. Suddenly, she reached for my shoulders and drew me against her while her hands explored the contours of my hips. Kissing her lips and thrusting my body against her, my flesh remained flaccid in spite of my excitement. I realized that if I continued to press against her, she would know I was not aroused. I disengaged myself and stepped away.

  “Let’s go back to La Mole,” I said, as if suddenly overcome by desire.

  She stepped in front of me, her fingers stroking my face, and asked in a husky voice, “Which way do we go? By Méséglise? It’s shorter, isn’t it?”

  “Let’s take Verrières. It’s prettier,” I said. By the time we reached Paris, it was dark. I let her out on the street around the corner from the hotel, so that if she were being watched, she would be seen entering La Mole alone. I left the car in the garage, then rang her room. She said to come up.

  She had changed into a soft white caftan that seemed to float around her as she moved. Her hair was pulled back loosely with a white ribbon. I wrapped my arms around her waist. We kissed, her pelvis grinding against mine, but I realized that, again, my excitement was not apparent. I moved away. “Let’s order champagne,” I said, pressing the service button. I sensed she was growing irritated and confused, but she said nothing to indicate her mood.

  Before the waiter arrived, a maid appeared. She introduced herself and asked whether the suite was in order. She noticed my companion’s robe and, while we waited for the champagne, she prepared the bed. Finally, the bed was ready, the champagne was open and we were alone in the room. I sipped the wine slowly, afraid that my drugs might not mix with the alcohol.

  We moved onto the bed and kissed again. Her hands were aggressive and I could feel myself growing excited, but my body still failed to respond. I continued to kiss and stroke her and when, at the height of arousal she whispered that she wanted me, I felt as if my sight, touch, and hearing had abandoned me. I stood up; without a word, I dashed into the bathroom.

  I looked at myself in the mirror. There was no perceptible change in my expression. I looked at my body; there was no perceptible change in it, either. I downed a double dose of medication even though I had last taken a prescribed amount only an hour before.

  She looked at me anxiously but said nothing when I returned. I suggested that because it was late we should order dinner before the kitchen closed.

  The waiter who previously had brought us champagne now arrived with our dinner. He assumed we were married, and as he wished us good luck and many children I caught her look of embarrassment.

  Toward the end of the meal, I suggested we go to a show. She did not seem to mind and changed into an evening gown that she said she’d bought just for me, and put on a diamond necklace, a gift from her father-in-law. We went to a nightclub famous for its blatant sex shows. I tipped the head waiter in advance, and he seated us close to the stage, on which naked performers acted out seduction scenes. I could see she was enjoying the show as well as the attention she attracted from the performers and the rest of the audience.

  Against the background of the stage light, her hair fanned out around her face like a copper flame. I became acutely aware of how beautiful she was and reached for her, c
upping her breast in my palm. She moved closer to me and I felt her hand on my thigh. With many women from my past, this would have been enough to excite me; now that I was with one who really mattered, I remained sexually dormant.

  We returned to the hotel. While she was undressing in the bathroom, I swallowed the remaining pills. She was giddy from the drinks at the nightclub and already aroused. A single need dominated my thoughts. I wanted to appropriate her, to imprint myself upon her. We went to bed. I caressed and kissed her and she murmured that she wanted to be taken. She placed her hand on my groin and tried to make me swell. She begged me to enter and saturate her, but soon realized that, even with her help, I could not do it.

  She pushed me off her, climbed out of bed and went to the bathroom to take a shower. When I heard the water running, I immediately called the doctor. His phone rang several times before he answered.

  I gave him my name, but he sounded too groggy to recognize me. I repeated the name and said, accentuating every word, “Yesterday you advised me to irrigate the dry land.”

  “Oh, it’s you,” he murmured.

  “You prescribed pills and tablets and capsules for me. I took them all.”

  “Did they make you ill?”

  “Not even that. They have done absolutely nothing.”

  “You wake up an old man to tell him that? I warned you not to expect a miracle.”

  I lowered my voice. “The miracle I expected is here, but the drugs that were supposed to help me worship it do not work.”

  “There are other ways of worshiping a miracle.”

  “They come later. Now I need the one enjoyed by the village peasants you and I left behind.”

  “If that’s what you need, call these peasants instead of me. I can do nothing more to help you.” He hung up.

  As she returned from the bathroom, she overheard the final words of conversation. I apologized for making a business call. “What language were you speaking?” she asked.

  “Ruthenian. It’s the language of the peasants I lived among as a boy.”

  She threw her clothes over a chair, put her necklace on the night table and turned off the light. I lay with my eyes open, listening to her breathe.

  We got up early. She seemed at ease but slightly withdrawn. Her eyes were distant, but she still attempted to make conversation.

  “Where did you get those boots?” she asked.

  “I made them myself.”

  “Really?”

  “As a boy, I worked with a shoemaker. Every few months, I select leathers and pay a shoe repair shop for the use of the equipment after hours. I now have three or four pairs of shoes and boots that fit perfectly.”

  “Why don’t you get them custom-made?”

  “I prefer making them myself.”

  “Do you always have a reason for everything you do?”

  “Always,” I replied. “Custom-made by me.”

  She hardly touched her breakfast and asked me to call a taxi to take her to the airport earlier than I knew was necessary. When I started to object, she placed her fingers over my lips. We embraced. She walked to the door, and, just before closing it, turned back to me and said, “God spare beautiful women from men with imagination.” Then she was gone.

  Soon after her departure, the floor maid, alerted by the concierge, came to collect her tip. She asked me why my wife had left before me, and I replied she had been notified of a death in her family and had to return to our home that morning.

  During the afternoon, I was too preoccupied with business to brood about what had happened. Just as I returned to my hotel to change, the phone rang. I lifted the receiver, expecting a business associate; instead, the concierge said it was Madame Leuwen calling long-distance. Sounding desperate, she told me I must listen very carefully.

  She had packed so hurriedly, she said, that she had forgotten her diamond necklace, which she must have left on the night table in her hotel room. She pleaded with me to retrieve it immediately and to arrange an absolutely safe way of delivering it to her.

  “What if the necklace has already been stolen?” I asked.

  “That would be the end of everything,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Once I report it missing, the insurance company will make a thorough investigation. The police and possibly even Interpol may become involved. They will drag you into it. The press will seize on the affair, and my husband’s political future …” She faltered.

  “What is the value of that necklace?” I asked.

  “It’s insured for over three-quarters of a million dollars.”

  “I’d better get moving,” I said. “How do I get in touch with you?”

  “Call me at home. My husband won’t be back until tonight. But please …” Her voice broke. “Please find it.”

  I looked around my room, uncertain where to begin. From now on, if the jewels were not found I would be a prime suspect. I could see the headlines in the newspapers. My removal from Service. My trial. The end of her marriage.

  As soon as I arrived at the Hotel de La Mole, the reception manager recognized me as Madame Leuwen’s travel agent.

  “Was Madame pleased with the accommodations?” he asked.

  “Delighted,” I said. “She hopes to visit you again soon. Meanwhile, I want to pick up a necklace she left in her room.”

  “Let me check,” he said, disappearing into his office. During his absence, it seemed that my life hung on that necklace, but he came back all smiles. “The floor maid found the necklace and locked it away in the second-floor vault. I told her that you will be right up to sign for it.”

  I thanked him, and handed him a large tip.

  The maid recognized me as Monsieur Leuwen. “I just had a call from the reception desk that your travel agent is on the way here. What a coincidence!” she exclaimed.

  I noticed her for the first time. She was in her late forties, a tall, powerfully built woman with uneven skin pigmentation and a high-pitched, resonant voice.

  “I’m here to pick up the necklace,” I said.

  “Of course, Monsieur. But since your travel agent is apparently also on his way, let me check with the manager to make sure …”

  When she reached for the phone, I removed her hand from the receiver. “There’s no one else coming. To some, I am a travel agent. To others, a husband.” I reached into my pocket and handed her a roll of bills. She took the money, counted it carefully, then, giving me a knowing look, handed me a rectangular package. “Please check it, Monsieur. And if everything is in order, please sign for it.” She passed me a receipt.

  I opened the package. Now that it was found, the glittering necklace seemed so trifling. I wrapped it up again, signed the paper, and hired an insurance courier to deliver the necklace.

  My business in Paris ended. I packed a small suitcase and drove aimlessly through the countryside. I ate in small local restaurants and stayed at out-of-the-way inns in solitary villages. I left by dawn every day and was well on my way by the time the sun had risen over the fields. I crossed the border into Italy and kept on driving. A gust of southern wind brought me the smell of manure mixed with the acrid odor of factories and mines. Soon it began to rain. After the downpour, the splotched fields were like stained glass windows, full of multicolored pools. Behind them, rotted by the poison of industrial waste, the woods looked gray and barren.

  I drove on. In the rearview mirror, I saw a man in a small car coming up behind me. He was wearing a white shirt, a jacket and tie. He honked his horn ceaselessly and revved the engine to indicate he was in a hurry. I slowed down to let him overtake me. He took off, glaring at me as he passed.

  An hour later, I saw a crowd gathered on the highway and stopped to see what had happened. The little car that passed me had hit a highway pole and been ripped in two, like an envelope torn apart by an impatient hand. Out of it fell scraps of flesh and crushed bones, jagged metal and broken glass.

  I picked up my camera and began to take photographs
. The crowd of bystanders said nothing to me but stared as I moved around the remains of the body taking pictures. I got back into my car and drove off.

  As dusk fell, I stopped in a small town, checked into an inn, changed and went for a stroll. I walked idly through street after street, past broken-down houses surrounded by wooden fences, delapidated villas with iron gates, whitewashed churches and cheap, prefabricated apartment complexes.

  Slowly the streets emptied of pedestrians. Occasional cars roared down the road, and the drivers shouted to the streetwalkers, who pretended to ignore them.

  One of the whores, who was dressed in a raincoat open to her waist, called me. I approached her.

  “They call me Fiammetta. Don’t you want Fiammetta’s love?” she asked.

  I looked at her exaggerated make-up, at her full breasts pushed up by a tight corset, at the silver stockings and black patent leather shoes. “Maybe I do,” I said. “How much does it cost?”

  She looked me over, quoted the price and waited expectantly. “Is it too much for you?” she asked.

  “It’s reasonable. What do you do for the money?”

  She smiled, exposing large white teeth. “I do everything. Everything.” Then she reflected. “Except, not inside.”

  I wasn’t certain what she meant. “Only outdoors?” I asked.

  She laughed politely, as if I had made a joke. “Of course not, you stupid man. In a hotel. The room is included in the price. It has electric lights and even a basin to wash yourself.”

  “But you said ‘not inside,’ ” I persisted.

  “You can do everything with me,” she emphasized, “but not inside.” She glanced down at herself.

  “Even if I wear a rubber?” I asked.

  “Even if you wear a rubber,” she replied.

  “But what if I like to be inside?”

  “What for?” She raised her voice. “I can undress very slowly for you. I walk naked for you. I touch you. You touch me.” She began to unbutton the rest of her raincoat, revealing that she wore only a corset. “With Fiammetta’s body, you come like an explosion …”

  “But not inside?”