You’re messed up, “sweetness.” You are really messed up. You’ve hit the end of the line—three months now that tremor has not left your body; in the mornings when you wake up (and especially now, when you wake up alone), the first thing you feel is your racing heartbeat and there’s no putting it down—at least now you’re sleeping without pills, and those horrible attacks of dry heaving you’d get at night remind you of themselves perhaps only when you’re brushing your teeth and accidentally shove the toothbrush too far in—a swift nauseous gag, a subconscious repressed memory of your own dumb submission to those immediate, from the very first time—initially aroused, passionate whispers but after several weeks merely dry admonishments: “Take it in your mouth… Take it in deeper… More, come on!”—a dry spoon scratches your throat, the philosopher once said—here it is, right here. In the beginning she would still try to come to some understanding, to explain that she too may have some preliminary requests, and not just “down there:” is there nothing other than my sex organs that interests you? And: if you had plans for tonight, you might have let me know before I went to bed rather than sitting there scratching away at your engraving, and anyway, you know I don’t like to get undressed by myself… Okay—he cheerily promised—we’ll whip up such a grand overture for you tomorrow!—tomorrow, however, never did come. Come here—but I just took my sleeping pills—so, great, you’ll fall asleep with “him” inside you. God, what a nightmare it was. How is it even possible to comprehend the world of those who contemplate their own sex organ in the third person? When they say to you, and that’s the only way that man said it—“Open ‘her’ up,” all your senses are immediately transported to the gynecologist’s stirrups—because it’s not “she,” it’s you that’s opening up—or in this case, rather, locking down with a dead bolt. You know how many women I’ve had!—and not once was it bad, just plain bad! Sure, not for you, but what about them, ever think of asking? I also never imagined things could be like this—but just how bad it is, sweetheart, if you only knew. Did you just bite me, he asked, fixing you with a strange, glassy stare, as on one of your first nights, after lovemaking, he sat smoking at the foot of the bed, what is this—meanwhile you were sprawled back on the pillow giggling and feeling safe and stroking his head with your outstretched foot, you had lovely legs, all the Dior–St. Laurent models on their spikes would have to run out and drown themselves immediately at the sight of legs like that; it’s only now that you’ve been wearing pants for two months because your calves are decorated like a map of an archipelago of multicolored, reddish and brownish, peeled and peeling spots—scars, cuts, burns, a visual manifestation of your nine-month (that’s right, nine months!!!) “mad love,” from which you emerged as madness itself, but back then you were simply stroking his head with your foot, overcome with tenderness, drooling idiot, the rough masculine “hedgehog” haircut felt good as it prickled your foot—when he suddenly turned and deftly pinned your leg to the bed: Ah-hahh? So you like to bite? And what if I like to set you on fire, what then?—you saw the cigarette lighter pressed against the inside of your knee and, rather than freeze in terror—as you stared down the barrel of that first apprehension of a steady, inhuman, somehow different, malevolently and madly searching gaze, on the edge of a grin of bared incisors protruding steeply from the upper lip, from which you afterward always defended yourself with laughter—you were only mildly surprised, and not all that consciously either—it’s strange to what extent his presence, like dynamite, silenced in you all the previously not-too-badly developed instincts of self-preservation, which all floated to the surface belly-up, while the river kept on convulsing, blast after blast.
No, the premonitions were there; premonitions never lead you astray, it’s only the determined force of our will that muffles their voice, interferes with our hearing them. The very first evening, at the arts festival where it all began—it was then that he rushed toward you as though you were all he’d been waiting for, “Oksana, I’m Mykola K., perhaps I can show you the city, perhaps I can take you to the castle, I have a car”—it was a ten-minute walk to the fabled castle up quiet, cobbled streets planted with plump baroque churches on each side; small-town seducer, you thought to yourself suppressing a smile, provincial dandy in your narcissistic get-up—tiny white collar peeking out from the sweater, manicured nails (and he’s a painter!), an appropriately faint whiff of cologne—a feral cat with a gray buzz cut and roguish green-eyed squint, a slightly worn, threadbare artist’s charm, dry wrinkled smile, furrowed bags under the eyes—“and you said,” he recalled later, when you had entered the phase of creating the common mythology that no couple can do without (together with the legend about the Golden Age of their love with its own petty customs and rituals), the phase ended as quickly as it began—“you said, hit the road, Jack”—well, maybe not like that, or rather not exactly like that, but you showed no interest, that much is true—so it was all the more strange when on the evening of that same day you were visited by a glimpse of clear, penetrating insight, which, it would be a crime to say otherwise, has never stood you up in a tight spot, but you tried to smother it, didn’t you, many times, many! That evening, when the program was in full swing and you descended into the thick vapors of sweat and alcohol after reading your piece—two poems, two damned good poems projected straight into the intoxicated din of splotchy yellow faces congealed into one encompassing mass of flashing lights, or, more precisely, projected straight over it—holding on to the sound of your own, oblivious-to-all-around-and-subservient-only-to-words voice, a public orgasm, that’s what you call this, but it does it for the crowd—every time and every place, even when they have no clue what the words mean, even in a foreign-speaking environment. You first discovered this at a writers’ forum in one Far Eastern country where out of politeness they asked you to read in your native language (“you mean, it’s not Russian?”)—and you began reading then, in insult and desperation listening only to your own text (you were sick to death of their “Russian” even then), concealing yourself within it the way one slips into a lit house at night and locks the door behind, and midway you suddenly realized that in the frozen silence you were being heard: mova—your language, even though nobody understood it, in full view of the public it had concentrated around you into a clear, sparkling sphere of the most refined, crafted glass inside which magic was happening, this could be seen by alclass="underline" something was coming to life, pulsating, firming up, arching into broad billows of flame—and then misting up again, as happens with glass that is exposed to heavy breathing; you finished your piece—enveloped, crystal-clear, protected, now that would have been the time to realize that your home is your language, a language only about a few hundred other people in the whole world can still speak properly—it would always be with you, like a snail’s shell, and there would not be another, non-portable home for you, girl, ever, no matter what you do. And afterward all those people—round-faced, balding, dark- and curly-haired, with turbans and without—shook your hand long and with feeling and not letting you, incidentally, get to the bathroom (your stomach was giving a decided thumbs-down to their musky-spicy cuisine and was trumpeting, the bastard, precisely at the moments when gracious thank-yous were called for)—after that there was no audience you couldn’t handle, even hardened criminals!—whether you call it exhibitionism or not, it was your own text that would always protect you from abuse and humiliation, you read it the way you wrote it—out loud, led by the self-propelling music of the verse, one normally does not allow witnesses to this process except in the theater, and that’s why, in fact, it’s so powerful. And that festival rabble, too, piped down somewhere in the middle of your reading—it surrounded the glass sphere and breathed in unison, and then when you, cooling off from the applause, were no longer on the platform but down below in the half-darkness in some tight, friendly circle: it’s humid, smoky, someone was pouring a glass, someone was laughing, faces flashed by like film frames—you were stretching out your hand to get either a cigarette or a wineglass, that man appeared beside you for an instant as though he’d tripped over you accidentally, cat-eyes gleaming in the dark and excited whiskey-breath whisper: “You were great!”—and, equally casually, without pausing, he tried to squeeze your hand, reaching for it as it stretched toward the cigarette (or wineglass)—and you remembered this because (after all, who didn’t shake your hand in that teeming multitude!) with that awkward grasp, that perpendicular chop across the thrust of your own arm, the same way he later raced up a one-way street the wrong way and got the police sirens after him, he managed to bend your thumb back in a particularly painful way, and your sirens also instantly started screaming—a lightning-quick flash through your consciousness—strange, how in that confused moment the message was so clear and you knew, as if some bystander in your head uttered a calm, meaningful, grammatical sentence: “This man is going to hurt you.”