Ilja Pfeijffer - La Superba

“Don’t be so cynical, Giulia.”

“I apologize. Carry on.”

“The story is actually quite short and rather predictable.”

“I want to hear it.”

“Do you know what it means if you decide to love a woman for once and for all?”

“Don’t ask questions, just tell me the story.”

“She sat in the highest towers of my longings and writhed under the tentacles of my darkest nights. She was the impregnable plateau I had to conquer and the fertile garden I would lay myself down to rest in afterward. She was the fire that scorched me and turned me to ashes and she was the fire that gave me warmth and strength. She was the hissing ice that cooled me down and reassured me, and she was the hard ice that rejected me.”

“Why are you talking like that all of a sudden?”

“Like what? Poetic?”

“You said it.”

“Bastard.”

“And then?”

“It’s a very dramatic, painful story. But given your lack of interest, I’ll skip to the heart of the matter — she found someone else. And at the end of the day, it didn’t even matter that much. I’d learned what I needed to learn.”

“Good story. And then you became a transvestite?”

“Watch it, you. I’ll read you something I wrote recently. Do you want to hear it? Hang on, here it is.”

“I don’t seem to have a choice.”

18.

“There are people who say I’m a fiction. But you could say that about anybody. Just as the man in the real estate agent’s suit I saw walking along the street this morning invented himself in a real estate agent’s suit, and the politician I saw on television yesterday invented, in consultation with his advisors and spin doctors, his air of authenticity so attractive to voters, I invented myself. I dreamed myself up and then granted myself the freedom to exist.

“There are other people who say that I’m a man’s dream. As though that’s a crime. Since I’ve allowed myself to walk through every world imaginable on the haughty legs of sorrow, the echo of my high heels resounds in many people’s dreams. I like to be desired, because I’m as much a desirer as the rest of them. Sometimes I’m just like everybody else.

“Do you know that particular story? Pygmalion was his name. He had a funny name because he was an ancient Greek. He was a sculptor, an artist. Let’s say he knew what beauty was. And of course he was in love with Aphrodite, the goddess of desire. Men shaped gods in their own image and Aphrodite was lust’s incarnate fantasy. Or how do you say that? The fantasy of incarnate lust. Anyone not desiring her hadn’t properly envisioned her. And no one was better at envisioning her than the artist Pygmalion. He made a sculpture of her from the whitest, most expensive ivory that was available in those days. It was a work of love. It was a sacrifice to the goddess. It was a sacrifice to his own fantasy. And when the statue was ready, he took her to bed with him. In crude human words, you’d say he made love to her like a pimply computer nerd might fuck a homemade inflatable doll. But those are crude human words. He united himself with his deepest longing. It was the highest form of love. The goddess Aphrodite understood. And to reward him, she brought the statue to life.

“I might not have told the story entirely correctly because now it sounds like there are three characters: Pygmalion, Aphrodite, and the statue brought to life. But that’s wrong — all three are one and the same person. It’s very important to understand that. Alright, it’s not easy, I admit. But people who don’t understand it will never understand what love is. That’s the tragedy.”

That was all, apparently. He shut up. Or paused for a moment. I reflected. I understood what he wanted to say and it wasn’t even that badly formulated. But I wasn’t at all thinking about what he’d said. I was thinking about the situation. As far as I was concerned, it was much more interesting. Because imagine this, dear friend: in the dead of the night, in the sketchiest part of a thoroughly corrupt town, the author so celebrated in my home country is perched on a rickety cot next to a disastrous transvestite with one leg reading a story he wrote himself, intended as a valuable lesson. During my countless interviews and public debates back home, I’ve often been asked for my definition of poetry. This nocturnal scene came closer to the truth than any smart answer I ever gave. I smiled. I was grateful to my new friend. I wrapped my arm around his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Why are you smiling?”

“Because of the situation.”

He kissed me gently on the cheek. I allowed him to. “Tell me about your leg.”

19.

“What?”

“How it happened.”

He sighed. “Do you really want to know? One leg more or less is not that important, certainly in comparison to what I just told you.”

“I really want to know. Were you born that way?”

“No.”

“When did it happen?”

“Not that long ago. I was the victim of my own success. I know that you see me as a man with a beer belly in a tight dress wearing a wig. In some ways, you’re right. I am, too. But I can bewitch men with my availability. In their rough hands, I can change into the woman of their dreams by becoming an empty mirror for their obsessions. Here in the Ghetto your main clients are Moroccan adolescents whose religion forbids them from loving and leads them to perversity. When they’re together they act tough and brag but once they’re alone in this room, they quiver like children. But if a boy wants me to be a sheep, I’m a sheep. If he wants me to be one of the promised virgins in paradise, I will be. And that’s how he falls in love.”

“Did he fuck you?”

“He didn’t dare. He bought me gifts. Rings and bracelets. Like these ones. Cheap trinkets. But he was sweet. He wanted to lie down next to me and then said he felt small.”

“But all of a sudden he did dare.”

“Exactly. It could only lead to that. He said he’d asked his parents’ permission.”

“Really?”

“He was only saying that, of course. It became kissing and stroking. I gave him a good blowjob. But he wanted more. He felt between my legs.”

“And then he found…”

“This.” He pushed aside his lacey panties. “And I was harder than I am now. Really hard. Can you imagine?”

“Make it really hard.”

“For you, Giulia? Do you want that? Will you help me?”

“No.”

“Do I have to do it all on my own? You’re a cruel girl.”

“I’m not a girl. I just want to see what a one-legged transvestite looks like jerking off. I’m interested in a journalistic way.”

“In a journalistic way? Are you writing a comparative analysis for a consumer guide? Well? What do you think? Am I doing it well? How many stars do I get?”

“Tell me about your leg.”

“He turned up with friends with knives.”

“And then?”

“He had a knife, too.”

“And then?”

“Then he wanted to cut it off.”

“Your cock?”

“Yep.”

“And then?”

“And then I said, please, cut off my cock. I want to be a girl.”

“You were hoping he wouldn’t do it, then.”

“He didn’t do it. He paused and reflected for a moment and then said he’d only be doing me a favor by cutting off my dick. Then I’d really be a girl. He didn’t want to grant me the pleasure.”

“And then…”

“And then he took my left leg.”

“Have you come?”

“Sorry. Do you want to lick it up?”

“No, thank you.”

“It’s free.”

“That’s very kind of you, but no thanks.”

20.

“This didn’t happen.”

“Of course it didn’t,” I said.

“It’s a strange night. I can hear the griffins screeching. Could you pass me a tissue? Thanks. I was lucky. As a matter of fact, I was lying there bleeding to death. But someone saw me and called an ambulance. Code red in the hospital. I can still remember it. I was more or less conscious. They asked for my papers. I didn’t have them. They asked who I was. I gave my tranny name. They asked whether I was allergic to antibiotics. Not a clue. They asked so many things. And after that the carabinieri came and asked even more. As soon as the wound was a bit better, I left through the back door using two stolen crutches. These two. I still have them.”