Curt Leviant - Kafka's Son

Her eyes told me: kiss me.

First we sat on her bed and then stretched out side by side.

I kissed her lips. Her eyes. Her cheeks. Her throat.

As I kissed her I felt that same jolt of energy K had felt when he kissed the curtain of the Aron Kodesh in the Altneushul and was restored to health. I felt Katya’s soul energy flowing into me, our two sparks locking, and I knew I didn’t have to hold her to know I loved her. I always loved her. I loved her before I met her and I loved her even before I knew her. And this love flowed up and overwhelmed the cup of my soul.

“Isn’t it strange — actually, beautiful — how the heart opens up and starts blooming like a tree in spring. And you feel as if you’re a tree, a flower, a bird that can fly anywhere. And it’s always sunny and warm and that flower in you is happiness.”

“They call it love, don’t they?” Katya said. “And I feel like a flower too,” she said and smiled a naughty smile at me.

“Your blessing is working. All my life I have been looking for you without knowing who or where you were. And then, like magic, I found you…under”—I laughed—“a blue beret.”

“So how did you find me now that I’m not wearing it?”

I disregarded her rhetorical question.

“Remember that note I gave you at the marionette shop? Remind me what it said.”

“Oh, you know what it said. That was so nice, written in the Old South Bohemian dialect. It said: ‘Oth,’ as everyone knows means ‘I’…‘I never met anyone I liked as much as you…’ Where did you get that phrase from?”

“A native linguist wanted to show me an interesting line in Old Czech.”

“Did you really know what it meant?” Katya asked.

“Everyone, even a wild Ostrogoth, knows that ‘Oth’ means ‘I.’”

Katya brought her face even closer to mine. “Once you gave me those sweet words I knew you really liked me.”

“So why didn’t you want to show them to me?”

“Because they were mine.”

“You are mine,” I said, and I slid my lips over every atom of her mouth. Our tongues touched, embraced. I took her bottom lip between my lips and slowly ran my tongue over it. “You are so delicious, Katya.”

Even with my eyes closed I felt her lips stretching into a happy smile.

“Next to listening to a Bach Brandenburg Concerto or a Vivaldi guitar concerto, this, now, here, you, is the best thing.”

She gave me a teasing pinch in the waist, then raised her head from the pillow.

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

“Pretty?” I laughed. “You’re gorgeous…. No.” I stopped. “I take that back.”

At once Katya opened her mouth in astonishment. But she must have sensed I was joking, for I saw her sparkling white teeth; let’s call it an astonished smile.

“I have a better word,” I said. “Lovely.”

“I like the sound of that word.”

“Yes, lovely, Katya. That’s the word for you. It encompasses everything about you — your soul, your personality, your beauty and your wit and your mind…. All of these combine to make you radiate with loveliness.”

And she kissed me again. She closed her eyes and bound herself to me.

I couldn’t help it. The words just poured out of me. “I’ve never felt anything like this before, Katya. It’s as if you’ve opened a magic door and I’ve stepped into a blessed never-never land, a magic garden where cupids play.”

“Really?” she said in a low voice that sounded like a song.

“Yes, really,” I whispered.

Katya pressed closer to me. She hugged me so tight I was amazed at her strength. She put her hands around my back and pulled me close. I had never felt a hug like that before, a hug that said, Now that I found you, I will never ever let you go.

Later, she got up to go to the bathroom. When she returned I told her I missed her.

“Even these few moments?”

“Yes.”

“That’s called separation anxiety,” said Katya.

“I never heard of that. Where did you get that from?”

“A course in psychology I once studied.”

“But I wasn’t separated from you. We’re both here. If you have to give this new disease of mine a name, rather call it return anxiety. I was worried if you’d return. Or even better — presence anxiety. I was worried that one of us present, me or you, wouldn’t be here when you or me returned.”

“So you really missed me?”

“Yes. Even for a blink of an eye. Look.” I faced the other way for a moment. “See, I miss you again.”

Katya thought I was joking, but the truth was I missed her even those two seconds I turned away from her. What’s more, when I woke in the morning the first thing that flashed in my mind was Katya’s lovely face, in full color no less. I open my eyes and — zhoop! — there you are. What you wear is unclear, because you appear like a passport photo from the neck up. But the blue beret is on your head and your dimple is perfectly in focus, even though it’s early in the morning when your visage comes to me. But all this I didn’t yet want to tell her.

“Do you ever miss yourself?” she asked.

“Only when I’m away.”

Katya gave me a sleepy, contented smile.

“Put your arms around me again,” I said. “I can’t get enough of your heartfelt kisses.”

Where, I wondered, did that adorable ardor, that from-the-depth-of-the-heart loving come from? Was it really me who inspired all this? I felt like a kid. Yes, like a kid. And I, who am usually shy and reticent, I shared my feelings with Katya, saying words to her even before they came into my thoughts.

“Do you know why I keep kissing you so much?”

“Tell me.”

“I’m making up for all the years I didn’t know you and should have known you.”

“That’s so sweet,” Katya said. But the truth is, I expected her to say more. But as for me, I couldn’t stop talking, sharing, confessing:

“I love being with you, Katya. I love holding you. I can’t get enough of your lips, your long green cat eyes, your throat, that soft skin by your shoulders. I say things to you I’ve never said before, and feelings swirl in me I’ve never felt before. I know it sounds like a song from a musical comedy, but it’s true. I can’t get enough of you, Katya. I love to kiss you. I love to touch you. The more I kiss you, the more I want to kiss you. The more I see you, the more I want to see you. The more I kiss you, the prettier you become. The prettier you become, the more I want to kiss you.”

Again, as she pressed her body against mine and slipped her knee between my legs, again came that softly intoned, “Really?” That “Really?” of hers, a sweet mélange of eros and incredulity.

I moved my hands slowly over her body and said, “You don’t say much, sweet Katya, but even in that tender and incredulous, songlike ‘Really?’ I sense you’re agreeing with everything I say. It’s as if you can’t believe the nice things you’re hearing. That you’re surprised to hear such words, words you’ve maybe never heard before. As if you’re unsure of yourself and are wondering if these lovely words are really really being directed at you…

“You know, if I could eat one word it would be that sweet and musical and, yes, erotically charged ‘Really?’ of yours and at once become like Chaucer’s Criseyde who, taking one look at the handsome Troilus and feeling she’s drunk a love potion, exclaims, ‘Who hath given me drinke?’… So open up, Katya, let me hear more. Don’t hold back.”

Katya cocked her head at me with a humorous glint in her eye, as if preparing me for another “Really?” But she fooled me, did clever Katya.

“You make me feel so weak,” she said. “I’ve never been kissed like this before.”