Violette Leduc - Thérèse and Isabelle

I trailed garlands of bronze, suspended cast-iron roses around her neck.

“Ceremony, ceremony,” I said, severely.

Isabelle was shielding her neck, inflamed all over by my touch. She stepped back but watched me intimately. The distress was growing; the sky, a single cloud, lingered inside me: the rope of my desire was spinning out between my legs. Eye to eye, we summoned each other. We had either to die or bring ourselves to act. I came to.

“Open your collar.”

I had my eyes closed, I was listening for the sound of her unbuttoning her nightgown.

“I’m waiting for you,” said Isabelle.

The rosy eyes were looking at me, the rose in the tooth-glass was leaning their way. My arms fell back; I was ready to become their martyr. They were sending out their shafts of warmth and already their silken shapes were heavy against my empty hands. I moved toward them and, like fruit, they ripened without spoiling. They were swelling: I entrusted the sun to them. Leaning against the partition, Isabelle was watching them as I did.

“Do up your collar,” I said.

As on other nights, a whisper from one of the girls refreshed the night.

Isabelle smiled down at her breasts. I know where I would make love to her if I had her still: I would make love to her in a sheepfold, among the low-slung ewes’ bellies.

Isabelle undid my nightgown, Isabelle hesitated, Isabelle was greedy. I was not helping her: I was savoring the ardor of a queen let loose. The sigh tumbled from the tree of silence, two throats thrust forward, four springs of sweetness shone out. Breasts suckled my breasts, absinthe was flowing in my veins.

“Better than this,” begged Isabelle.

It did not leave my mouth as we dropped slowly onto the parquet.

I was sheltering it in my hands, holding on to its weight of warmth, of pallor, of affection. My belly was starving for illumination.

“Caress it,” said Isabelle.

“No!”

I opened my mouth, it entered. I was biting down on precious veins, I remembered that bruising: it was choking me. My hand faded away in smoke, my hand dropped, resonating. Such a crowd of voyeurs, the shadows above us. . You’re looking down.

“What can you be afraid of?” said Isabelle.

I was muttering evasively about her neck. Magnets below Isabelle’s chin were attracting me. My flashlight fell onto the rug.

“You’ll get us caught!” said Isabelle.

“Your neck. .”

She accepted the worship without basking in it.

Sly, I looked for the channel between her breasts and it was in response to my hypocritical gaze that she drew the collar of her gown closed. The gateway between her eyes and mine opened: we had regained the freedom of loving and looking. My gaze was returned like waves that crash down into themselves. I tamed the mirrors in her eyes, she tamed the mirrors in my eyes.

Isabelle settled on my lap:

“Say that we have time. Say it.”

I did not reply.

The night was cooling our coupled lips.

“I am counting the hours we have left,” said Isabelle.

The time came and moved on with its veils of black crepe. I was sheltering Isabelle with her long hair, winding it around her neck.

“Stay, stay some more,” said Isabelle.

We held each other close, but we could not be sheltered from the great tide of hours; rather, night in the great courtyard, night from the town came over us.

“I’m cold,” said Isabelle.

We heard a tree’s shroud cracking in the wind.

“I’m frightened of the time that’s passing,” said Isabelle.

I made myself laugh. I turned on the light.

Isabelle looked at her watch:

“It’s eleven o’clock, Thérèse. Turn it off.”

She stood up: my seasick knees took me aback.

I fell at her feet, reunited with my bouquet.

“You must come to my mouth,” said Isabelle.

I heard the rustle of funereal skirts. It was her hair that she was pushing away.

Isabelle shook the battery inside her watchcase.

“I must put the clock forward,” I said, “we must do that.”

She gave me her wristwatch:

“What else have we left now?”

“We shall stay ahead,” I said.

I was molding a spun-glass doe, touching it without quite reaching it, but with my jeweller’s tongue I dropped jewels into her mouth.

She wiped her lips with my hand, she pretended indifference.

“Don’t go on.”

She escaped my arms: there I was, powerless over the swarms languishing in my belly. Isabelle threw herself at my neck.

I took her up where I had left her. Our mouths one on the other opened into an easy dream. I tipped her upside down without losing my hold, I cupped her head in my hands as I always did, as I would have held the weight of a decapitated head. I entered. I noticed a trace of dental paste, a souvenir of freshness. Our limbs were ripening, our cadavers decomposing. Exquisite decay. I half-opened my eyes: Isabelle was watching me. I had declared war inside her mouth; I had been beaten. An oriental melody snaked among my bones, the threnody circled in my elbows, in my knees. There was a blessing in my blood; my death gave way to corruption. I was purifying her gums, I still wanted to obliterate Isabelle with my kiss. I thanked her twice with two other, businesslike kisses on her hands. Little heads were turning: nighttime sparrows observing us.

We got into bed, we listened to the sheets’ crispness. The night was leaning in and watching over us, the night was offering us a virginal final scene.

Isabelle took my hand, she pressed it down on the gilded tangle.

“Don’t move,” said Isabelle.

My hand aspired to the moistness of a cowshed. Isabelle would come with her arm crossed over mine, with her forthright hand, with a dream that would come to rest on my hair.

“Be quiet, be quiet!”

Isabelle was speaking to the two hands, each cradling its kingdom.

Inside, my calves are full of rags; I bear the summer weight of the climbing rose. The hordes. . have pity. . now I can no longer hold you at bay.

I was watching, hoping for a movement from the delicate hand. My heart was beating in my eyelids, in my throat.

“I can’t go on!”

I have destroyed everything: our hands, our arms, our tangled hair, the silence, the night.

We parted, we waited for each other, we saw fear’s chasm open between us. If the thread of our waiting should break, we shall fall into the bowels of the earth. I lay facedown, I hugged myself close with my fever.

Isabelle dragged me into the middle of the bed, she mounted me, she lifted me up, let the air flow around my armpits.

You rode me: this wasn’t new. You lit a powder keg of memories. Encountering you, I found a sense in my abyss.

Isabelle sawed at my shoulders, braced and bucked, scaled me, opened herself, drove deep, rocked from side to side and made me rock. The watchers revived, the octopus recommenced its struggle.

“Don’t leave me anymore,” I said.

Night, belly of silence.

Isabelle rose slowly, slowly, her inward lips closing on my hip. Isabelle toppled.

I felt for her hand, I laid it on my back, I moved it down to below my waist, I put it down by my anus.

“Yes,” said Isabelle.

I waited, I gathered myself.

“This is new,” said Isabelle. Shy, it entered, Isabelle spoke:

“My finger is warm, my finger is happy.”

The anxious finger did not dare.

We listened, we were ecstatic. The finger would always be importunate inside the greedy sheath. I contracted, to encourage it, I contracted, to imprison it.

“Further, I want further,” whimpered Isabelle, her mouth squashed against my neck.

She pressed into the impossible. Again the knuckle, again the prison around it. We were at the mercy of the poor, diminutive finger.