They kissed in the doorway.
When Aimée left she noticed the skin on Dominique’s hand, around the glossy nails, was ripped and chewed.
*
Aimée took a walk down Frederico Arouca Street, then turned north towards a garden she had spotted. She crossed the street and walked past the fold-out tables, one with cheap jewellery and another with piles of books. Between the stone fountain and the span of freshly cut grass was a merry-go-round, the roof a white and tan striped tent, music tinkling and the plastic horses going up and down. Behind the carousel leaned an immense willow tree, the cernuous vines resting on the roof beams, where a row of light bulbs flickered.
When she left the park, she looked at the sign, Jardim Visconde da Luz, and made a note to take Dominique here when she was done rehearsing. On her way around the streets, she spotted bright red flowers with ridged petals, ones with tiny magenta buds and white eyes, pinkish tiger lilies with yellow spotted tongues, others with alternating yellow and violet petals, then a daisy patch.
She took the curving road up, past the car rental shop, then saw some people walking with blue plastic bags full of fruit and vegetables, so she followed the track up, then around to the smaller road, Padre Moisés da Silva, into the large covered market. She wandered around the stalls and stopped at the green crate containing a layered pyramid of bright yellow lemons. She wanted to buy just one to show Dominique, but ended up getting a kilo of them. She got out of the market with her kilo of lemons in a thin blue plastic bag and sauntered across the street to smell an almond tree she had spotted, blooming with its peach bunches of flowers at each branch. She walked past the glass-paned shopping centre, stopped to touch the beautiful cobalt-blue painted tiles that covered a façade, thinking of Dominique’s irises, then looked at her mobile phone and realised she had been wandering for over an hour. Although she wanted to go back already, she thought she should give Dominique her space, let her indulge if she wanted to rehearse a bit. So she walked back down to the beach, took off her sandals and stuck her toes in the yellow sand. She sat, watching the waves, but couldn’t enjoy them. She felt like a punished child, all she wanted to do was go back and be with Dominique, to pull her outside and walk around with her, take her to all these places. She began making angel wings with her feet in the sand, wiping them back and forth, as if they could fly up from her heels. She looked at her phone again. Finally, two hours had passed, and she got up, dusted off her shorts, put her sandals on, and headed back to the Albatroz Hotel.
*
(A knock)
*
Aimée walked up the carpeted hallway, got out her key card, and slipped it into the door. The light flashed green and she turned the metal doorknob and pushed the door open. It slid across the carpet like a crashing wave. There were Dominique’s high heels, standing orderly side by side. She put her bag of lemons on the coffee table and looked around. The bedroom door was closed. She took a couple of soft steps towards it, wondering if Dominique was still working. There was no sound in the suite. She tiptoed up to the door and put her ear to it. Completely silent. And yet, she could feel there was someone in there. She waited for a weight to shift.
*
Who’s there?
A friend!
A beast!
*
“Dominique? I’m back.”
*
She turned the doorknob and pushed the door open, shushing every bristle of the carpet in its path.
Face down on the hotel linen, the body—
*
Dominique was slumped face down across the bed, still, naked, a plastic bag cinched over her head.
*
No no no no . . . !
*
Aimée, with her arms reaching out far in front of her, grabbing for Dominique. She began to lift her naked body up, but it was heavy and fell back towards the pillows. She stumbled, then turned the body over and let it fall against her, then back down to the bed. Her fingers scrambled beneath the rubber band around her neck, trying to get it off. It snapped and flew across the room. She tore the bag off. Dominique’s lips were pale and cracked.
“No no no no . . . !”
She let go of the body and drew her hands to her scalp, then dropped her hands down to her sides.
“Dominique no . . . !”
She climbed onto the bed and leaned her ear near Dominique’s mouth. She couldn’t feel any breath there. She put her two fingers on her throat, then to her wrists, but couldn’t find a pulse.
“No, No!”
She pulled Dominique’s body up again by her armpits and tilted her weight against herself, then slid her clumsily off the bed, then lay her on the rose-coloured carpet.
She got on her knees beside the body, then sprung back up again and went to the phone at the bedside, picked up the receiver, her hand shaking and rattling the plastic device against her cheekbone.
She dialled and said no no no as it rang.
When the front desk picked up, she tried to say it, but her mouth kept stuttering, “P-p-pa-pa-po-por-por favor por favor-or-rh-EMERGENCY!! AMBULANCE!!” The receiver slid from her grip and fell down onto the carpet and bounced. The voice of the front desk clerk was still rattling out, but she was back on her knees now at Dominique’s body.
“Okay okay, okay okay,” she told herself.
She placed the heel of her left hand just below the sternum, then her right on top, and began to pump, un deux trois quatre cinq six . . . until she reached trente, thirty. Then she leaned down, pulled the corner of the bed sheet to wipe the cold saliva from Dominique’s mouth, tilted Dominique’s head back, lifted her chin up with two fingers, pinched Dominique’s nose, and put her mouth completely over her wife’s and breathed one long breath. Her mouth tasted sour and spoiled. She looked to see if her chest was rising. There was no movement. She turned to her again, put her mouth over Dominique’s and gave her one long, strong breath, then a second. She looked at her chest. It was as still as the mountains. She put her palm back on Dominique’s sternum and began to pump, un deux trois quatre cinq six . . . She leaned down, pinched Dominique’s nose, put her lips firmly over Dominique’s and exhaled, exhaled, exhaled . . .
—un deux trois quatre cinq six sept huit neuf dix onze douze treize quatorze quinze seize dix-sept dix-huit dix-neuf vingt vingt-et-un vingt-deux vingt-trois vingt-quatre vingt-cinq vingt-six vingt-sept vingt-huit vingt-neuf trentre—
“DOMINIQUE!” she screamed.
She leaned down and gave her two more breaths.
Un deux trois quatre—
There was a knock on a door.
She kept pumping.
She heard the beep and the sliding door and the footsteps on the carpet. He stopped at the doorway to the bedroom.
“Meu Deus . . .” he said under his breath.
She looked up. He had acne all over his face and his hotel-shirt was slightly untucked.
“AMBULANCE!” Aimée shouted in English.
The young man began nodding but stood still.
Aimée crawled over to him and started pushing at his legs, until he stumbled back, then ran off. She turned towards Dominique and put her palms to her chest again and began to pump. Droplets rolled off her and hit Dominique’s chest, and slid down her ribs. Aimée thought, why is she sweating?
Un deux trois quatre cinq six . . .
“Please, please, please, please.”
Another droplet hit Dominique’s neck and rolled down into the dip between her collarbones. Aimée drew her hand to her face and realised that the droplets were tears coming from her own eyes. She smeared her cheeks dry and wiped her nose against the back of her hand, then leaned back down and gave Dominique two more breaths.
“Please. . .”
Aimée took two fingers in a hook and pushed them to the back of Dominique’s throat, feeling the mucus gathered there, fishing to the right then to the left, but Dominique wouldn’t lurch or vomit. She took her fingers out and grabbed Dominique by her shoulders
, shaking, and screaming at her face.
“DOMINIQUE!!”
The whirling sound of the ambulance filled the street. More footsteps. The manager was pacing, pushing the young clerk out of the way. A dark-skinned woman with a fringe, and a blue-eyed, red-bearded man behind her, both wearing forest-green trousers and a matching button-up short-sleeve shirt, tucked in and belted.
“Fala Português?” the woman said, leaning down.
“I don’t speak Portuguese!” Aimée yelled back. “We’re on holiday here!”
“Please, Madame,” the man said in a nasal tone, buzzing his consonants. “Please, move aside.”
Aimée looked up at the man, but all she could see was the patch above his heart with the thin red snake.
The woman touched her shoulder and repeated, in a more determined tone, “Please, Madame, come here, Madame . . .” She pulled Aimée up and led her away from the listless body of Dominique lying on the rose carpet.
The man was already on his knees, his fingers at Dominique’s neck, then wrist.
Aimée screamed from behind the woman, “I checked already!”
“Are you a doctor?” the woman asked in a soft voice.
“No . . . but . . . my father is . . . I—” she began pushing past the woman, yelling, “I already checked all that, please, please, she’s going to die!” The woman held her back by her shoulders. It was almost a hug.
“I understand, Madame. Please help us. Can you tell me what medication this woman has taken?”
“It’s not ‘this woman’! She’s my wife!” Aimée screamed, trying to see beyond the woman to what the man was doing on the floor with Dominique.
“I understand. Can you please tell me what medication your wife has taken?”
“I . . . don’t know . . . I don’t know . . .”
The man was unzipping a pouch and getting the defibrillator out. He stuck the wires on her chest, then on her side. Aimée was trying to nudge herself past the woman, looking over her shoulder into the bedroom.
“Clear,” the man pronounced in Portuguese and Aimée saw Dominique’s body jump up and fall back to the carpet.
The woman was suddenly holding a square packet of pills in front of Aimée’s face.
“Are these hers?” she asked.
“Uh . . . yes, they’re just . . . anti-histamines, they’re not . . . lethal . . .”
Then the woman was holding a cap-less empty plastic bottle of medication, unfamiliar to Aimée, the ingredients written on the label with bulky print, “m”s or “z”s or “d”s . . .
“And this, Madame?” the woman asked.
“Clear,” the man said again from the bedroom. Aimée jerked towards the doorway, she could see Dominique’s chest pulled up, then thrown back down against the rose-threaded ground.
“I . . . don’t . . . know,” Aimée was saying, trying to get past the woman, who kept trying to get her to sit down.
The woman pulled up her walkie-talkie and said something in a hushed Portuguese. Another man was coming in, wearing all forest green, along with the manager. The forest-green man had a stretcher. Aimée began to scream at the sign of the stretcher. Afaste-se, Madame, por favor, Step aside, she felt her eyelashes on fire, DOMINIQUE!! Estapa de lado, Madame, move aside, DOMINIQUE!! Aimée’s hands grabbing at things that turn soft, pillows, blankets, towels, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING Por favor, Madame, GET OFF ME, Por favor, DOMINIQUE PLEASE, Aimée’s reaching out her fingers, Meu Deus, PLEASE DON’T GO, Por favor, Madame! Then she’s gripping through forest-green fibres and thin red snakes, for the body, somewhere, within the leaves of hands, flesh, just beyond the fingertips, Dominique, fleeting across those woods, where rows of trees are scratching out the daylight from her eyes.
PART FOUR
The forest
Before Jan Zajíc, the second student, took the train to Prague and went into No. 39 on Wenceslas Square to set himself on fire, he wrote a letter to his family.
He ended the letter with, Say hi to the boys, the river and the forest.
Directions
Dominxxika_N39: At bus stop, there is another road. Road goes up, like hill. On one side, field is only ploughed dirt – nothing planted yet. Other side, bushes, one two three four five. Behind, farmhouse. Go up hill, stay on farmhouse side. Metal road barrier soon will break on this side. 500 metres in front of break, three small houses, red roof shingles. Go through barrier opening, follow row of tall trees.
0_hotgirlAmy_0: Okay.
Dominxxika_N39: Then you see wire fence. This is beginning of big hospital-bed plant. Follow fence line, but not touch fence (it is security, maybe electric shock I do not know), just follow fence line. Then it open on another road. So you get on that road. And there, one house, distance on hill, but has blue fence, close to road. This is my favourite fence, because wires are knit close together and when it rain, it make dew-drop pattern in fence like wall of tears. It is beautiful like u.
0_hotgirlAmy_0: *blush
Dominxxika_N39: Follow beautiful blue fence. Then fence end. It look like there is only big forest in front of you. But it is not true. Continue straight. Straight, straight, straight, into forest. Thick trees, dark, wet soil, muddy, be careful. On other side, you see the dirt path. The dirt path lead to my house.
0_hotgirlAmy_0: And which one’s your house?
Dominxxika_N39: There is only one house on this road. This is where I live.
0_hotgirlAmy_0: Okay.
0_hotgirlAmy_0: . . . Dominika?
Dominxxika_N39: Yes my beautiful Amy.
0_hotgirlAmy_0: I’m a lil scared . . .
Dominxxika_N39: O my love, I am lil scared too.
0_hotgirlAmy_0: . . . oh.
Dominxxika_N39: But it’s ok, my angel. Remember, we are together.
0_hotgirlAmy_0: Yes, we are!
0_hotgirlAmy_0: It’s just that . . . I’m really scared.
Dominxxika_N39: O my Amy, you are also really brave.
0_hotgirlAmy_0: Yeah.
Dominxxika_N39: Do not forget to pack ur cute jeans.
0_hotgirlAmy_0: Okay.
0_hotgirlAmy_0: . . . Dominika?
Dominxxika_N39: Yes my angel.
0_hotgirlAmy_0: I’m really, really scared.
The sky
I’m all out of pee now, Mamka.
—why certain children couldn’t be born and others just dropped down dead—
He’s whispering . . .
I think my ears are going to shit.
I knew your friend.
You dunno shit about shit
So what is violence?
Her eyes of green venom glowing in the spotlight . . . Go play!
Even her knees were mesmerising.
Dominique, I swear to God . . .
I never asked—
you knitted me together
Die schönen Berge
holds the body of the patient in “zero pressure”
No, no, no, no, no
I hope you like sad music.
No, no, no, no, no,
I THOUGHT I WAS THE LOVE OF YOUR LIFE
(Give him back.)
I don’t know what to do with History,
Go online, Amy
the big one that belongs to all of us
Go downstairs, now.
and my small one, like a keychain.
. . . wish us luck . . .
Shh . . . Let me,
But I can’t see you . . .
Does that feel good?
The dress
Aimée put on the form-fitting black dress that Dominique had picked out for her years ago. Aimée had worn it, to please Dominique, to those social occasions when she was present as Dominique’s wife, a cocktail party, after-show party, birthday dinner – but no matter the event, it never seemed to fit her body or the occasion. It was too stiff or too tight, or too elastic, too close to her own flesh, groping through her skin towards her skeletal structure, disapproving of where her limbs extruded, arced, softened, receded
or hinged, insisting its own form and order upon her figure, determined to be more her skin than her own skin, like pencil-lead being pressed into paper, commanding another silhouette, to squeeze out a more natural voice from her waist, a more natural roll from her pelvis, a more natural spiral for her DNA helix, to flick the tongue in her mouth and glimmer the eyes in her sockets and tip the weight towards her toes.
*
Not just the dress, but also. Gestures, but also. Words, but also: nature’s will. Pencil-pokes and paintbrush strokes. A dead rabbit flopped next to a branch of tears as plump as green grapes, a rash-red pomegranate spread wide, kernels glistening like siren songs, a lemon rind curling off like the same old story, but also: nature morte – still life or life stilled – that woman (in the movies), who knows when to stand in the shadow, and when to let herself be kissed, and when to die off.
*
Every time, the dress demanded, by its curve, its zipper, its thickly stretched fabric, that Aimée be more flirtatious, that she coil and tease like a modern woman while still appeasing her ancestors with a reverence for tradition, that she indulge in her own allure, while regulating it with the permission to be alluring, that she fit in with her sexy contemporaries, stay young enough by growing older to look younger in such a dress, worthy of having a partner in such a dress, worthy of their fidelity, of their eye on you, their hands on you, their mouth on your mouth in the bathroom while the dress digs into your waist and with your eyes closed you imagine that pressure is not the dress, but your lover’s grasp, a validating pinch, bestowed – at the end of the night, in their bedroom, Aimée peeled off the dress, her flesh exhaling in a timid claim to its freedom, as Aimée looked down at her skin lined with imprints of the threading, the zipper, the seams, etchings, notes of critique, stipulations from the dress, zipped up and back on the hanger now, and Aimée, left to her own nakedness, looking across the room at Dominique, trying to read her eyes.
Virtuoso Page 16