John Hawkes - Death, Sleep & the Traveler

In my dream I am once again a child tall and thickset though very young and alone in the large white chateau in the village of my childhood and youth. The day is mysteriously cast, the afternoon is indeterminate, the enormous sleeping chamber in which I stand is not mine, in a single slanted plane the late sun lights the room with a brightness that will never die. And I am alone, I am unable to hear the slightest sound, neither the ringing of cutlery from the kitchen far below nor the voices of women nor the sounds of our white geese gabbling outside. I am safe, or so I believe, safe and unaccountably standing in the center of a room that is large, warm, scented with dusting powder and a skin lotion distilled from the oil of pine. The room is familiar and unfamiliar both. I know it to be the room from which I am ordinarily excluded except by invitation. And yet alone and trembling in the midst of this serenity, with the door shut and sunlight penetrating my young life in a single plane, I also know that I have not seen before this bed, this dressing table, this chair as soft as a giant peach, this soft carpet which is like a field of snow. And yet I recognize the pair of black masculine hairbrushes on the dressing table.

I am precisely aware of why I have risked entry into this large and seductive and, yes, even precious room. I know what I want. I have known about it for days, for a month, for seasons of childish need. It is an agony, a thought of joy. And standing in the center of the room, my innocent fleshly body bisected by the plane of light, and glancing at the vast bed and at the icy full-length mirror affixed to what I assume to be a closet door, again I tell myself that it must be so, that I will not be denied, that once and for all I must know with certainty what a woman looks like without her clothes, or without most of her clothes.

I tremble, I am an impresario, the director of a magical actor on a secret stage because I am all too well aware that I myself am my only access to what I want to know. I smell the feminine smell of some hidden powder puff, I feel the tension in the pale coverlet drawn so tightly across the enormous bed that this decorous piece of furniture now openly appeals to me as forbidden, lewd. Yes, I ask myself, how else am I going to discover what a woman looks like without her clothes? Since the actuality is quite impossible, since I am unknown to any woman except those who live in our house (mother, two maids, an old cook), since I am young and innocent and not given to spying, even though my urge is desperate — yes, how else will I ever see what I need to see, know what I must know, if not through myself and my own ingenuity?

I am aware of the bed, the sunlight, the silence, the undergarments on the bed, the mirror occupying the entire space of the closet door. My plan has leapt to me from the silence. The mystery will be revealed.

Quickly and with precision I squeeze out of my short pants, remove my underpants and square black shoes and wintry socks and my tie, shirt, undershirt, and then possessed of myself and my brilliant plan and in agonizing control of my desperate self, slowly I approach the bed and seize the delicate lilac-colored undergarment. With care and languor and excitement I manage to put my bare feet through the holes, clumsily, deftly, and to draw that flimsy garment tightly up my childish thighs, careful not to tear the silk, with each tug smoothing the thin delicious tissue against my skin. Finally that undergarment, fragrant and lilac-colored and clearly intended for an adult woman, has become the second skin perfectly fitted to my young boy’s substantial buttocks and yearning loins.

How did that intoxicating vulnerable undergarment appear so magically on the inviting bed? And whose body was it actually intended for? My mother’s? One of the maids? I do not know, I do not care, at last I am touching, feeling, actually wearing what I had only seen before fleetingly in the pages of slick and sumptuous magazines. I am filled with the breath of my commencing transformation. The warmth of all the world to come is about to be revealed. The sun’s plane is stationary, my rapid breath is clear.

Then I execute the final moment of my plan. I conclude my magical performance on the secret stage. Naked except for the lilac-colored underpants and smiling, calculating, swiftly I slide along the wall to the closet door, then seize the knob, and without once peering into the mirror turn the knob and maneuver the door to an angle of approximately forty-five degrees and turn, push the heavy peachlike chair to the edge of the field of vision inside the mirror. Then I steady myself against the chair and, with more care than ever, position myself so that my body from the waist down will lie entrapped but free to assume a quite different life in the silvery glass.

I open my eyes. I move my head as does a snake to his charmer’s pipe. I prevent my head or torso, or much of my torso, from appearing in the magic glass. And there it is, the belly and hips and thighs and calves of a smallish tight-skinned woman wearing only a pair of lilac-colored panties in the afternoon. She is alive. She is moving. Already the elastic bands in the legs and waist are leaving little red teeth marks in the flesh of the woman in the glass. Her skin is white, it is tight and smooth, the muscles with which she is working her buttocks are entirely visible inside the transparent lilac flowers of her panties, and her thigh nearest the now ecstatic viewer is plumply raised, naturally concealing the most secret of all soft triangulations from the fixed and eager eyes of a viewer who would never have spied on a living woman but who spied with love and relish on himself.

An arm appears, a limp foot flexes into a tempting arc, the calf of the raised leg dangles in the lovely glass, the left hand travels up the calf and down the raised thigh in a tender stroking motion as if in a long tactile appreciation of a bolt of rare silk. The plane of sunlight bisects the plump waist. The small hand rests on the hip, then snaps the elastic, and then slowly appears over the top of the thigh and down to the concealed thirsting front of the underpants.

I gasp, I look away, the room goes dark in a single subdued shadow, and young boy once again, and wet with the strain of imagining, quickly I pull aside the crotch of the underpants and resting my limp back against the chair, watch as a long thin phosphorescent string shoots from the tip of my small red panicky penis and in slow motion coils sinuously across the room and floats, wafts, rises to the high ceiling where endlessly it gathers itself up in vast wet stringy loops and masses.

My little performance is over. I have seen it all. In countless forms I will see it all again. And as I sink into darkness I hear behind me the opening door and the cool comforting voice of a woman saying, “Tomorrow you must get a haircut. For a fine young man like you, my dear, your hair has gotten much too long.”

One of the maids? Mother? In my new-found serenity I do not need to know.

When I recounted this dream to Ursula, she told me that if only I had had a sister I would not have had to ingest within myself the explosive Oedipal ingredients of the boy-child’s life. If I had had a sister, she said, I would have been happier and would not have had to become my own mother, as well as her admiring little voyeur, in my earliest dreams. Or perhaps I should have been a girl. But then again perhaps such a spectacular ejaculation, she said, was worth any price.

At this moment the tone of Ursula’s voice was a typically soothing, and in the dark it was no doubt the tone of her own voice in her ears that precipitated the tender but deliberate movement of Ursula’s hand in quest of the rumpled front of my trousers. When she might have hurt me worst she pleased me most.