Gilbert Sorrentino - The Moon In Its Flight

But it is not my intention to tell the story of our wedding and the twisted, dreamlike interlude of our honeymoon and first months together. It may well be that the fact of this period has, in the past, asserted itself so strongly that I’ve lost, again and again, the impetus to tell the real story, if you will. Or perhaps I have been distracted by my wife’s injury, by my accumulative reimaginings of its reality, its domination of her fine-drawn face, the way I touched it. My consistent, predictable arousal when clutched by these drifting memories and half-memories, these semi-fantasies, always seemed to point toward the necessity of the “wedding story” or the “honeymoon story.” This, or these, stories will never be told, but their seeming demands always precluded my telling any story: this story.

I should, however, put the phenomenon of my wife’s injury — and the oddly perverse timing of the accident that caused it — to rest, of a sort, by speaking, candidly, of my feelings, as I now construe them to have been, at the time. This can, admittedly, be a supremely inexact business, but I see no way of ignoring it. It is quite possible that my past failures to complete this story have had to do with my avoidance of the centrality of this compelling wound, this fabulous wound. It has always been an assertive image, one that threatens all the other elements of my tale. But to avoid it has always meant to be driven into the faltering discourse that ends in silence.

My wife’s scab was the result, as I’ve said, of a terrible fall down the stairs of the local subway station, although I never quite believed that the fall was accidental. For a long time, I thought that she had thrown herself down the stairs in a seizure of misery, or even despair, at the prospect of our impending marriage. I took, as may well be imagined, little pleasure in thinking this. Later, I began to believe, groundlessly, that her fall was the unexpected and unintended outcome of a subtle sadomasochistic adventure gone awry. I was possessed of an unshakable sense of the truth of this fancy, of its actuality, and spent many hours, many many hours, trying to picture the partner with whom she had been so thrillingly involved.

This spectacularly disfiguring scab that thickly encrusted the left side of her face from hairline to eyebrow, thence from cheekbone to lower jaw, had the uncanny effect, although I have vacillated and hedged concerning this for years, of making me doubt my wife’s identity. Not in any melodramatic or mystical or metaphysical sense, reverberant with implications of mystery and anima, but in the simplest and most pedestrian sense, so to speak: the scab was for me a mask that concealed half of her face, a half whose contours I could no longer bring to mind. This mask was all the more efficacious since the part of her fact not affected wore precisely the innocently wanton expression that was habitual to her, a misleading expression, and one that often duped me into humiliating behavior.

The other aspect of the scab, one that I have already adumbrated, was its sexuality: it possessed an erotic component strong enough to make me virtually stupid with desire. Its surface glistened in the way my wife’s nylon stockings glistened, and as, too, did her labia. Over and again I was moved by the perverse desire to use the small and perfect architecture of her broken face as I did her sex. To put it crudely, I wanted, for as long as she wore that crusted domino, to fuck it. I remember that my terrific desire made me weak with wonderful fear, and placed a cold, stone-like nausea just below my breastbone. Yet as my desire increased, my nausea lessened, my intoxicated self-disgust and sexual terror were smoothly transcended by what I thought of as the sacramental purity of my undeviating lust. I even felt, and this was indeed so, complacently proud of myself for finding my damaged bride still desirable, for overlooking this egregious flaw in her beauty, for being so understanding. And all the while that I blithely misled myself, my genitals ached with desire: I could not wait to marry this imperfect Venus so that I could have her with me day and night. What did I tell her, what could I have told her? I can’t believe that I told her of my distorted lust, but I know that I did. I waited, however, until her scab had been replaced by new, creamy skin, and until our marriage had been pushed, as marriages are, now here and now there, by whatever we took love to be. My confession was an act of meaningless courage that, perhaps, disgusted her.

After our honeymoon, I got a job, not worth describing, as a clerk in a midtown office, and we moved from our gloomy first apartment to the one behind the barber shop. I began to write at night and on the weekends, and to publish occasionally in little magazines. I soon met, as one might expect, other young writers or would-be writers, those who could be writers had they the time, husbands and wives and lovers of these people, and many others. They began — we began — hesitantly at first and then with increasing confidence, to use our apartment as a gathering place, and hardly a weekend, and then hardly an evening passed that did not discover one or more people at our table or bedded down on the floor, trading small-time literary gossip and tales of academic backbiting for beef stew or spaghetti or bean soup and a few cans of beer. It is emotionally numbing for me to acknowledge, to admit, that I never thought of these perpetual visitors as anything other than legitimate, as the cream of the tottering fifties. We made fun, we actually, good Christ, made fun of other people! How we waited for things to happen, successful things, adventures and journeys and relocations to exotic locales, events that would soon metamorphose us into the glittering figures that we knew we were beneath our unfashionable and superior shabbiness. We were, certainly, but deadbeats, impotent, arrogant, lazy, and headed toward peripherally creative jobs in public relations and advertising and publishing, we were perfect American clichés, too good for mere work. Some, assuredly, would become hip assistant professors, bored and jaded and ticketed for the limbo of a hundred committees and MLA meetings. My wife and I were willing members of this clique, as I have suggested.

A few years passed, the scene, ramshackle and unimportant, barely changed, save for the fact that my wife and I permitted ourselves occasional adulteries, I with women I met in the jobs I felt myself much too talented for, she with one or another of our stream of guests and visitors. I did not then know of her adventures but was aware of the longing glances given her by the shifting cast that streamed through our apartment. With true delight, trite but true delight, I was proud of her ability to enflame these freeloaders. I once, perhaps more than once, jokingly, as I recall, asked someone if he’d like to watch her undress so that her lilliputian perfections might be seen rather than merely imagined: her adolescently rosy breasts, her toy vagina with its reticent screen of silky hair, her perfectly round doll’s buttocks. She was always furious and embarrassed by these crudities, yet I believed that she would have been more than pleased to exhibit herself. I often, in that period of our marriage, masturbated, fantasizing myself as a guest, and my wife as a willing partner: I would, so to say, cuckold myself, with pleasure. When our wretched apartment was ours alone for a day or so, I would ask her to fuck me with her face partially covered by a scarf or kerchief. I pretended that she was a whore whom I had hired to play my wife. She seemed to like this game, and I remember how her face would flush, loose with pleasure, her lips swollen and slightly parted as she entered the role.

My writing, if I may use such a word for the sporadic affectation in which I was fitfully engaged, had more or less ceased, save for a review or two, once or twice a year, in some ruthlessly mediocre magazine or the pitiful book-review section of a newspaper’s Sunday arts page. Thankfully, I can recall nothing of these reviews, except that I’m pretty certain that I usually would take an author to task for such grave sins against the body politic as cynicism, and lack of belief in the redemptive powers of art and the wisdom of the common man. One of my boilerplate remarks, I think, was to the effect that this blight on good letters was self-indulgent, and that it is never enough for fiction to point out the failings of a terrible world for the pleasure of literary voyeurs. These reviews were as insubstantial as they were insufferable. In the meantime, our marriage collapsed a little more each day.