Andrea Dworkin - Ice And Fire

Undulating, he knows.

*

In my throat there is a lump the size of a man’s fist. In my

throat there is a rock the size of my tears. In my throat unsaid

words lie down to die: they are buried there: the writer is

dying: the woman is being reborn. Oh, says the breathy little

thing, you are so wonderful.

*

The air tries to push past the fist of tears. It comes out in a

rush, having had to push through. Oh, says the air having

rushed past the swollen lump in the throat, oh— breathe—

breathe— pause— a tear silently dies, a word dies— oh, you are

so wonderful.

*

His voice undulates, confident, melodious, whispery, I try not

to have to talk to him, the phone rings: I have begun already

to be afraid: he never says who he is: the undulating voice says

hi, deep, whispery, melodious, hi, hi, it sort of slithers out long

and slow like a four-syllable word, the inflection going up and

down singsong: and he begins talking: it is invariably chivalrous— I thought you would like, I thought you would like, to know, I remembered that you like, I protected you from, I

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saved you from, I remembered that you wanted, I was thinking

about you and wanted to know if you wanted— but the voice

undulates: like there is some secret: the voice of someone whispering a secret: each time I think it is an obscene phone call but something warns me and I don’t hang up, I am courteous and

quiet, I listen, and it goes on and on, this undulating voice,

and then he says something recognizable, businesslike, but in

a deep whisper, and I know it is him, my savior, the one I have

to undulate with or die. The phone rings: I have come to dread

it: he never says who he is: the voice is melodious, undulating

or the wind rushing through the trees at dusk carrying the

edge of night, chill, fear. I am breathy, uncertain, timid, tenuous:

in his world it means fuck me.

*

Have you ever seen a snake on parched ground, undulating?

His voice was like a snake. I am the parched ground.

*

“ I can’t, ” I say.

“ What will you do then? Where are you going to go? ” asks

my agent, smart, humane, serious, a serious woman with a

serious question. There is nothing to do, nowhere to go.

“ I don’t know what to say, ” I say.

“ Just say..

I write it down. I cross out the adjectives. I pause. I am

breathy. I can barely choke it out. It sounds desperate and

sexy. I never have to finish a sentence. “ I know, ” he says,

melodious, undulating.

*

The lump in my throat is tears, a fist. It is repulsion, coiled up,

ready to spring. Then the wild wires will cut through the silky

skin lining the throat and blood will flood the lungs and spill

out over the shoulders, and the child will be like a stone statue,

ancient marble, desecrated with red paint: head and shoulders

cold and polished, throat torn open: Brian DePalma and

werewolves: the stone statue on a stand, shoulders and head,

eyes empty, no pupils, stone hair matted down in cold ivory:

blood tearing out of the torn throat: called Loved. I am the

child, silent now: a girl sleeping on a bed, it is dark, she is

wearing a turquoise dress with old-fashioned buttons all up

the front from below the waist to the high neck, and her daddy

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comes in to say goodnight, and slowly, slowly, he undoes each

button— she has not been able to sleep, he says go to your room

and just lie down and rest and I will come in, no don’t worry

about changing your clothes, so she lies down just as she is, in

her old-fashioned dress with all the buttons— and slowly,

slowly, he undoes each button: it is a dream but she is awake,

a fog, in the dark, she waits, he undoes each button, he is

nervous, throaty, he rubs her, he is throaty, he runs out: the

lump in my throat is tears. I am the child, silent now. It takes

me back that far: that close to annihilation.

*

The phone rings late Friday evening. The whisper goes on and

on. He wants me to come to dinner at his apartment the next

night. I say, well no, I don’t think, maybe sometime next week

we could meet, in a restaurant because I know how busy he is.

The whisper deepens, chills. No that really wouldn’t be good

because he really wants me to meet this friend of his, a woman

whom he knows I would like very very much and whom I just

absolutely must meet and the problem is that she has been in

Nicaragua with the Sandinistas for the last three months and

she is just back in New York now for a few days and she is

leaving early Monday morning and she and I have so much in

common and the women’s struggle in Nicaragua is really so interesting and so essential: he just can’t stand to think of her and me not meeting and he is really just going to be there to cook

dinner: do I like steak? and this is the only chance there is for

me to meet her and find out from someone firsthand, a woman,

you know, more about the situation of women down there. Oh,

yes, well, certainly, I say. I chastise myself for attributing seduction to him. Paranoid, paranoid, I accuse myself. I am nervous and unhappy: does he or doesn’t he: will he or won’t he: it doesn’t

matter, another woman will be there. Tonight I am safe.

*

Late fall, November already, is blustery, cold. I walk there, to

his apartment, a long walk, an hour, over urban cement,

against a strong wind. Some of the streets are entirely desolate,

deserted. A man offers me $50. I walk fast, against the wind. I

smoke cigarettes one after another. I am on edge, nervous. I

hope to tire myself out, walking miles against the cold wind.

*

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The street is dark, deserted. The man lunges out at me and

offers me $50. Oh, shit, mister, you have $50 for me. I am put

in my place by this stranger, lunging out, I am nervous, on

edge: the wind almost knocks me down. The streets are wide.

There is no traffic. The streets are dark, deserted. The wind is

fierce. I am cold. I am sweating.

*

I find the building where the editor lives. It is on a wide, dark,

deserted street, dangerous, deserted. I knock and knock on the

heavy wooden door to the lobby. The doorman is elsewhere

and there is no other way to get in. I knock and knock, the

street is deserted except for the wind, the cold, I almost leave.

The doorman opens the door. I go up in the elevator. I am

cold. His windows will be closed, his apartment will be warm: