Danilo Kiš - The Attic

“About your horns,” I said, in the calmest possible voice.

He grew a bit more serious, and then exploded in laughter. “Maybe you’re just a big jerk, banjo-meister. A joker is what you are.”

“I was talking about horns,” I said again. “About yours. . and about mine. I wouldn’t joke about such things. You know that quite well.”

He stopped laughing. All at once he grew as pale as. . well, simply pale, like. .

“It’s not that. .”

“Uh-huh,” I said, nodding my head. “Forgive me for having to tell you this. . You know. . this is unpleasant for me, but since you already. .”

“Just go on,” he said quietly, clenching his teeth. “I can take it.”

“Marija. .”

“I know. She was making out with someone in the lobby of the building.”

“No.”

“Something more serious? She didn’t. .?”

“No,” I said impatiently, “but it’s simply that. .”

“Maybe it’s simple for you!” he cried out and slammed the binoculars to the ground.

“That’s a shame,” I said. “And to think that tonight they’ll be celebrating the ‘golden wedding anniversary’ in the constellation of Orion.”

“I don’t care,” he said, with his head thrust into the palms of his hands. “Finish telling me what this is all about or I will kill you.”

“Take a look at this,” I said, handing him the postcard that I’d gotten at the Grand Festival of Coiffures, Flowers, and Pop Tunes. “I have no choice but to show you this. . It wouldn’t be fair.”

He grabbed the Marija-postcard out of my hand and held it closer to the light.

“So what?” he said. “That’s Marija. What are you trying to say? This particular number is called ‘Unforgettable Pussy.’ She strips to the tune of the Persian March for a whole fifteen minutes. .”

“And you knew about this?”

“Of course,” he said. “I got her this gig. . Is that all you had to tell me about Marija? Just that?”

“Isn’t that enough for you, you old goat? Isn’t that enough?!”

He doubled over with laughter, blushing, and his tears flowed down like. . His tears were gushing out because of the laughter. When he had calmed down a bit, he pulled out his wallet, which was made of donkey leather and adorned with initials of mother-of-pearl, and he silently handed me another postcard. Then he went back to rolling around in the straw, convulsing with laughter.

Oh, Capricorn. . why didn’t you spare me this?

Why did you help me destroy that monument of gold, flesh, and moonlight?

Oh, Eurydice: the image, the shadow — the whoring viper!

BEGINNING OF FORGETTING

I recall that it was at the outset of the long, painful Walpurgis Night.

“I can hardly wait to get horizontal,” said Dirty Pussy, squeezing my arm.

I said nothing. It was the beginning of Walpurgis Night.

“Do you live far away, Tomcat?”

“Uh-huh,” I said absentmindedly.

“And your folks aren’t at home?”

“No,” I said. “They live several stories above me. Way up on the top floor.”

Then I fell silent. We walked a while, without talking, across the bumpy cobblestone streets of the late-night suburb. Her mouth reeked of kakaform and her hair stank of shedding cat. From time to time, she rammed her tongue in my ear, so that I practically had to run along in front of her.

“Why don’t you want to flip on the light?” she asked, as she entered the attic.

“It’s an idiosyncrasy of mine,” I said.

“Then at least put me in the bed,” she said.

I began to undress her without turning on the light. I only left her her silver-and-black slip, which was the color. . the color of snakeskin. (I recognized the colors more by their scent than by their feel under my fingers.) She stuck her panties into a red plastic tote bag. I heard the zipper whirring as she opened and closed it. Then I took her in my arms and whirled wildly several times around the room. When I had distracted her in this way, I placed her on the straw that was lying on the floor. She got up in a hurry.

“You tricked me,” she said. “You don’t even have a bed in your room, Mister!”

“I sold it,” I said. “But don’t get formal with me. As you can see, I’m plenty informal with you.”

“I was raised that way,” said Dirty Pussy.

“But still,” I said placatingly. “You shove your tongue in my ear and then you call me ‘Mister.’ That’s not right. One must be completely naked. Without a condom on the tongue.”

“You’re just a run-of-the-mill poet, nothing more,” she said. “And you’ll always remain a poet. And nothing more.”

I recoiled, insulted.

“How do you know that? It wasn’t. .”

“You’re just blabbering away. That’s how.”

“Aha,” I said, now relieved. “I thought maybe I had called you something like Eurydice. . or. .”

“Did you sell your bed on account of her?”

“No,” I answered. “I was kidding. I’m having it chromed. I’ll be ready tomorrow. I think it will be ready. . tomorrow.”

“Eurydice or the bed?” she asked mockingly.

I clenched my teeth. (Had I dared utter that name in front of her?)

“The bed!. . And don’t ever say that name again!”

“ Eurydice, Eurydice, Eurydice —how’s that? Eurydice! ”

“Please, don’t! I implore you!”

“Eurydice!”

At that moment I swung my fist in the direction of her voice. I felt her teeth sink into my hand. Then I covered her mouth tightly with the palm of my hand so that she wouldn’t be able to spit her teeth out. I was afraid that the neighbors, or the cleaning lady, would hear us. It had already been two months since I’d paid any rent. She twisted out of my grasp and scraped me with her grubby fingernails. This riled me up, and I started squeezing her harder and harder. A moment later I felt her arms descend gently around my neck. That was when I removed my hand from her mouth. Then I pressed my lips to hers. Just in case.

“You’re good at that,” she said, spitting out one of her eyeteeth.

“Oh,” I said, feeling flattered. “I’m actually not quite myself tonight.”

“You’re gentle, Mister,” she said. “I don’t like brutes.”

“What did I say about being formal with me?”

“I was brought up to do that,” she said, and I heard her unzip her little tote bag. “Put on my underwear for me,” she said with a whimper. “The straw is poking me.”

Obediently I raised her leg. Corpses are dressed with the same attentiveness after they are washed.

Then I lit a cigarette. I smoked for a while in silence. A clear beam of moonlight glided through the attic. Like the distant tones of an accordion. Then it disappeared, unexpectedly.

I was thinking of Eurydice.

Around four in the morning we set out from the attic. A cold, raw wind was blowing, showering us with needle-like snowflakes. I wrote down her address and accompanied her to the first streetcar of the day.

When I returned, I still had the taste of her skin in my mouth. The taste of rancid meat and goat’s blood.

The next day I sold my lute at the flea market. After that I went to the post office and wired half the money to Dirty Pussy’s address (77 Walpurgis Vista Road). With the rest of the money I bought a large bouquet of white carnations and took them to her in person. I wanted to apologize to her for being vulgar and inconsiderate.

She met me in a colorful nightgown made of Chinese silk. She had done up her hair like a geisha. And on her feet I noticed pearl-studded Arabian slippers.

“Well, what do you know!” she said when she caught sight of the flowers. “Didn’t I say that you were some kind of poet? Flowers and women. .” And with that she took the bouquet out of my hands. Then she chucked it into the garbage can standing by the door. Before the carnations landed, I saw maxi-pads blooming luxuriously amid the trash. Fortunately the flowers then blocked the sight of them.