Semmant (16 page)

More than once she had undertaken to study – languages, business, public relations – but she would soon abandon it; her heart embraced only one science. That’s what happens when you know where your main talent lies: it’s tough to force yourself to waste energy on the rest. But then Cristina was curious to no end. Once I brought her a book, and she started to read eagerly – buying herself one paperback after another. I brought verses – she got into poetry. I told her about Modigliani, about Jackson Pollack and Arshile Gorky – she listened, fascinated, then cried on my shoulder. She asked me once who Freud was, and I told her: a man consisting of complexes. She asked what black holes were made of, and I explained: they were composed of lost money. “Ha ha ha!” we laughed together, knowing that was just a joke. She asked what a jade rod was. “A man’s dick,” I told her. Cristina nodded, “That’s what I thought.” We really understood each other well.

With her I learned all there is to know about love for hire. About what can be bought and sold – and about what cannot, ever. Stocks, gold, bodies, sighs… Everything, in fact, mixed in a heap. And dirty tricks lie in wait everywhere, but sometimes you happen upon a place where there are none!

I looked at her and heard the bell of the wise Skanda Purana, that sound that encompasses all sounds. I looked and saw: she seemed to encompass all the female traits in the world. Paola and Estela the cyclist were in her – as well as the others whose names I didn’t remember; and still others, from my imagination, whose names I did not yet know. But what struck me even more was the half-smile of Lidia Alvares Alvares that flitted across Cristina’s lips at the most intimate moment. This was a sign that could not be ignored.

“If I were your angel, would you be content with my wingspan?” Cristina asked me, and I didn’t know how to answer. I started to ponder this, and knew I would not go back to her again. And I didn’t go back – not to her or to anyone else. I felt she had outlined the event horizon for me – the limits of that universe beyond whose boundaries no signal could ever reach an observer. And the houses of sin lost all meaning for me.

The elusive phantom was almost within my clutches, but I had seen the border I could not cross. It was not enough to hear the rustling of his clothes, to feel on my face the breeze as they fluttered. I wanted more – like every creator. I wished to snatch him up, take him apart like a toy to know what was hidden inside. With the voracity of a naturalist, I wanted to master him – and I could not. He was everywhere, belonging to all. Like the nympho Diana – either from Manchester or Corot’s canvas. And what difference did it make that Diana didn’t take money?

Still, my picture of the world seemed to be coming into focus. Its contours became defined and sharp. I did all I could and was left with almost nothing, but I felt this “almost” was something to grab on to. And the main thing was that I breathed with my full chest again. My illusory captivity lessened by a large degree.

Lidia, I thought, Lidia… She was someone who could be mastered without reservation – if I tried hard enough. Now it was clear to me what I had wanted from her from the very beginning. Or what had rustled its wings in Anna de Vega’s house – and confused me, made me weak. Or what kind of freedom a woman really wants. It is in the half-smile – for those involved in the tireless pursuit – and I discerned why Lidia had broken up with me so suddenly. I even figured out how to get her back. What to give her she would not brush aside.

One had only to recognize that in her heart she had always been a genuine whore; life had simply put her on a different path. One could bet on it – and I was no stranger to courageous bets. And besides, right before my eyes was the epitome of perfection. How was that for a beginning?

My apathy vanished without a trace. I now knew what to do. Cristina María Flores had become my muse, turning into Adele.

And I also understood, shared essence – it would never be, not with anyone.

Chapter 18

My new plan wasn’t perfect, but, all the same, it was doomed to success. It included the most important element that leads to success: an idea. And this idea even had a name.

I also knew to get Lidia back I had to do something beautiful. And my idea – it was beautiful, no doubt.

Having the name as a starting point, I began to move further. I was assisted by its fabric, the tender poetics of its sounds. I imagined a girl who had never been, the greatest courtesan in the world. Or, if not the greatest, then at least one close to me in spirit. Close to Lidia and Little Sonya, to the twins from Siberia and the circus teen with the endlessly kind heart. She was tall, green-eyed, and delicately blonde. She had graceful legs. Her name was Adele.

Of course, everything started with Cristina. She inspired me, provided an impetus, but I wanted to go beyond the prototype. It was clear that using just her I would only get a dim shadow. An exact casting from the live model in this case would turn out boring, dry. No, Cristina could serve merely as a beginning. A jumping-off point, after which there was a lot to come up with on my own. There, near that point, were also Rocío, Bertha, Melanie. Lidia was also not far away – but no closer than the others.

Adele, the ideal hetaera, became the quintessence of my experiences. A reflection of my successes – in a merciful mirror that concealed their faults. I told myself I was doing this only to recover what was lost. I said that and lied – actually, I needed to create something anyway. I had to put together all I had discovered during the last weeks. Not to recover, but rather to preserve what I had apparently gained. Even though this was what I didn’t want to admit.

In any case, the goal was clear and well understood. With my dark-blue pen I wrote on snow-white paper about a girl with snow-white skin. With velvety skin, invulnerable to the Spanish sun. With thick eyelashes and hair of silk. Utterly desirable – the kind of girl you couldn’t resist, ever.

I was planning from far away, almost from her distant ancestors. I outlined genealogical charts, mixing nationalities and social classes. Everything had significance – their family name, community standing, status. Then, in one jump, I leaped to her, to Adele. It was important to determine a place – the place of birth, where she, who was really born in my Madrid apartment, had come into the world. Before my eyes I pictured continents and islands, countries, cities – and all of them turned out useless. I wanted something alien, unusual, but was limited in my choice of types. I deliberated: Norwegians, Dutch, Finns. Maybe even Irish with a smattering of freckles. They were all good in their own way, but they would not do; they did not fit the mold. They identified neither with Lidia nor Cristina; something prevented it, eviscerating the core.

Finally, after racking my brain, I made the right choice. The cry of the Siberian twin over the boundless Taiga, which I would never hear, resounded with a lingering echo. I wrote the word and drew a black frame around it in memory, yearning for her amazing body. This was a city of gray gloom and a leaden sky. It presented an antithesis, the complete opposite of Madrid. At the same time they were related – recalling empires that existed no more.

“Adele was born on the outskirts of St. Petersburg.” As soon as I had scrawled it on a piece of paper, I understood this is how it should be. I had not lived in Russia, but I knew Russian women; it seemed to me their northern capital provoked a response in the heart of Spanish Lidia, exciting her like a forbidden fetish. There, everything was different. Russians seemed to be an enigma for her when viewed from here, from another world. She would think about it, use her imagination – and then exaggerate, and want more!

I described this city where gray-eyed, green-eyed divas wandered with snow-covered souls and ice in their hearts. The energy threads of living cells swirled there in a cocoon – in the prisons of apartment blocks, in musty, festering, double-entry courtyards, in entryways where doped-up teenagers and stray dogs congregate. A damp wind blows there unceasingly – from the dirty river, the canals, the swamps. Nearly everything in those places is devoid of life, though you may not guess this at once. Only the hardiest life-forms are able to grow there without dying in infancy, able to remain bright against a miserable, gray background – and Adele grew up and remained. Herein lay the enigmatic essence, for those who could understand.

Letting fantasy run free, I did not skimp on the details and fine points. I knew they were necessary – without them, no one would believe. You can’t guess beforehand what exactly will be important, what will catch someone’s eye and play to your advantage. The image needed flesh, volume – though Adele was slender, to the envy of many. Though in her distant childhood she had been quite fragile and light…

Her parents at first glance seemed an ideal couple – this was what all who knew them said. Adele took after her father: he was also thin with good breeding. Women adored him, and he responded to them in kind – too many of them, as it soon became clear. Her mother sought consolation in prayer books and icons, but she soon threw up her hands and became hysterical and spiteful. They argued every day and separated in tears and hate, and after the breakup they fought ferociously over their daughter, the only fruit of their union. Each one wanted to give her a happy future. Sadly, neither knew how to do that. A child of love who had taken the love away – this was who Adele had been in infancy. A missionary of love, its unrelenting priestess – this is who she became in a little over twenty years.

She was an obedient girl, despite a tendency toward wild impulses. She started reading early, devouring children’s books one after another; then she progressed to adult novels, which secretly fueled her daydreams. However, soon she had her fill of them, and her own dreams moved into the foreground. At about twelve years old, Adele fell in love – with an older schoolboy, a thoughtful giant who looked her full in the face without turning away, and carried her in his arms for hours. He spoke almost no words, and she learned to emulate his silence. Later, when his family moved to another city, she sobbed violently for a whole week. After that, she never let anyone pick her up in his arms again – not a single one of her men.

Her mother married a second time, and her stepfather was rich and well-known. When Adele turned sixteen, a friend of the family – her stepfather’s partner in the oil business – started to court her. Her parents never minded, but she kept her virginity – despite his affectionate promises. Then the stepfather went broke, and she somehow fell into the arms of the “friend” who rented her an apartment nearby, took her to Nice for a week, and began supporting her by paying expenses. She honestly tried to fall in love with him, but soon despaired, and this despair led her to cheat on him with whoever happened along. He, however, put up with it all – for two or three more years – until they finally parted for good. Adele was already studying at the university by that time. Having quickly tired of her peers, she started living with a chemistry professor and nearly drove him out of his mind. This episode hit her hard as well: she quit school, had the definitive fight with her mother, and began working as an artistic model. And then she landed in Madrid. It was there she finally found herself.

Everything seemed to happen on its own. They were taken to Europe for a photo shoot – an assorted selection of ten beautiful women. The first day they actually did shoot a little, then they were asked to pose at an auto show, and finally they were offered work without further ado – as call girls, escorts for money.

Her companions laughed a lot and joked with each other; everything looked like fun. No one refused, and Adele agreed to try it as part of the group. Unexpectedly, she liked it. She tried it again – and liked it even more. Thus she became an elite whore.

Many men offered to make her their mistress; some even wanted to marry her, but stability did not interest Adele in the least. She was in an active state of exploring her body – as well as her own self. The money was just a cause; self-expression – that’s what was important! When you’ve already gotten paid, there’s no need for trifles. You can be insatiable, unrestrained – and your territory is safe from harm. Anyone unable to understand you will merely think you are skillful and earnest. He’ll know he’s not your only man – and won’t get cocky and self-important from finding happiness in your bed. He won’t start to think he is so good that you are warming to his virtues – on the contrary, he will be grateful to
you!
That’s a lot, any way you slice it. No one, yourself included, will suspect you sold out cheap. That you gave too much and received little. Because the price is agreed on in advance. Afterward, it’s too late to count up and have doubts.

Ah, Adele… She was smart and passionate, spontaneous and romantic in her own way. Her skin smelled of honey, her hair of a sweet meadow. She, Adele, was the object of desire for all. And many, if not all, could afford this luxury.

I imagined her, how she was when plying her trade – different with different men, yet always similar in some way. I saw her with those who awoke a response in her, and with others who did not interest her at all. With shy adolescents and full-grown men. With regular lovers and one-time clients. I observed – dispassionately, from the outside – how she sometimes hid her indifference, or even animosity bordering on contempt. Or how she would throw back her head, curving her neck and baring her moist teeth. Or how, once she was alone, she would look in the mirror, surprised at her reflection, and pondering with a certain irony: Where do I go from here? I knew her gaze – languid and opaque, or direct, eye-to-eye, as if fighting for the main prize. I saw all of her – beautiful hands, flat stomach, and small breasts. Bangs hanging over her eyebrows, her prominent collarbone and graceful neck. Her look through narrowed eyes, with lips whimsically pressed together – a mask to keep from giving herself away when passion suddenly took over.

Adele had mastered the elements of Tantra, knew the special pressure points, had learned something of S&M. She often started her games with a massage – and those who already knew her asked for it themselves. She was skillful, confident, and strong – squeezing her palms and elbows into their fat backs and haunches; using her knees and feet as well. And then a pink electric massager would appear – the very sound of its buzzing could bring many to ecstasy.

Sometimes she would turn into a little girl, on her knees looking up as she cocked her disheveled head to one side. Then she would work with her lips and tongue, lift her gaze again and ask, “Like that?”

“Or like that?” she would continue, changing her rhythm and technique. Pretending to be inexperienced, just recently corrupted.

“Maybe like this?” she would whisper, on the verge of sobbing. This was a very effective method. It let her feel her power in full. Sometimes Adele was even a little ashamed. “Who is supposed to pay whom?” she would ask herself in all sincerity. The male body never grew boring; it provoked bold experiments. Everything was interesting to her – to have no scruples about it she asked for more money. More, and more, and still more – for this, and that, and even that. Then later she would say, “You’re such a pervert! See what you made me
do
?”

I invented her every day, indefatigably, as I had once created Semmant, but with a much cooler head. Coming up with depictions of lust and lechery, I was calculating and composed. Not once did it occur to me to masturbate at my desk – though I did not sleep with women and often woke up with an excruciating erection. But as soon as I sat down to work, my manhood grew tranquil. Sometimes I went into the bathroom and stood on Buddha’s mat, but this too did not excite my flesh. Only the fantasies on the page became more explicit.

Weeks passed in this fashion, and they did not pass in vain. The mound of papers written in my small hand attested clearly: the deed was done. The image of the best of courtesans was nearly complete. This was a perfect
puta
, the kind you don’t meet in real life. But it is of them that men dream – I had given the world a dream again, ha ha! It even seemed to me my apartment was almost the garden paradise of Eden!

And the city outside the window beckoned with forbidden fruits. They were accessible, sweet, juicy. I finally thought about myself and felt boundless craving. What had been said on paper now delighted in revenge, exhausting me day and night. I needed a woman – the more compliant, the better.

This, fortunately, was easy to achieve. I caught a taxi and darted off to the Plaza del Sol, to the buxom Roberta, who was up for anything. They brought us drinks and a snack; I ripped the dress from her shoulders, threw myself at her, and knew no fatigue for the full three hours I had paid for. Even for Roberta this was something – toward the end she almost smothered me in her embrace. And she whispered to me with utmost tenderness, “You are my animal, my voracious beast!”

Outside, as I left her I said aloud, “Adele!” and laughed in Madrid’s face. I was exhausted, deflated – and greatly satisfied with myself. One more accomplishment filled out my list – maybe just to spite the city. To spite its principles, its petty breadth of view. To spite the stereotypes considered indisputable.

Everything was in my hands: a girl who did not exist – now I knew she really did. And I felt she would help – both me and the phantom that many no longer believed in. The one that many no longer thought of – well, I would remind them of it. The time had come to take the next step.