Two Stories

TO THE FLOOR

      Anna is at a costume ball in a chalet. The walls of the ballroom are covered with drapes of green and crimson velvet, marred by video monitors that are playing expressionistic science fiction movies. Anna knows no one there; the friend who invited her has failed to show up. She has the luxury of being anonymous-she does not need to wear a mask. She has come in what she considers the costume of a virgin: a white flowing nightgown, a satin string tied beneath the breasts, demure forbidding slippers. Her long dark hair is tied in tight braids, slightly overwound. As she sips her champagne, she keeps her eyes directed at the floor. Wooden parquet: spotless, polished, with occasional scars. Although she has been fucked lengthily by many men, this chaste attitude becomes her. She even looks prone to hysteria.
      Couples wearing giraffe skins, leather hoods and other animal decor are attempting to waltz in the wide open space. But just as their invented steps come to approximate a structured dance, the music changes. Now the beautiful laments of an Armenian woman echo through the chalet. The notes bury their faces in the velvet drapes; a delicate fog has seeped into the rooms and becomes noticeable only now. Anna thinks of her last remaining relative, who is lying on his deathbed in a nearby hospital. She looks up, trying to make eye contact with someone to relieve her sudden melancholy. A man dressed as a minotaur, who has been watching her for a while, approaches.
      "I have a mad story for you," he says. "If I tell you how tragic it is, will you undress for me?"
      "Yes," she says. "If it doesn’t make me laugh."
      "I have loved many women," the man begins, looking at her intensely through half-closed eyes. "I have corrupted them all."       Anna bursts out laughing. Her voice is loud. Its shrillness shocks her. Her laugh falls into a silent space in the tragic Armenian aria. A toothless Mussolini turns and gives her a reprimanding look. The minotaur slinks away.
      Anna walks to the other end of the room. I have loved many women. I have corrupted them all. Their smells have turned my stomach, but I am entranced by the softness of their hair. I drink from a cup and find that the teeth inside are biting on my tongue. She sprinkles drops of champagne as she walks. She comes to an armchair and a small mahogany table. An old book lies on the table. She picks it up: Book of Manners for Catholic Girls, copyright 1917. In between the lines of advice, someone has scribbled a passionate commentary.

         It is important to remember that the          family HAPPINESS IS ONLY ATTAINED         BY LOVING THE SELF and that the father,         as a direct representative of God I LOVE         MYSELF I LOVE MYSELF when addressing         yourself to your parents, the voice must I HAVE         CREATED MY OWN RACE, ONE THAT DOES         NOT NEED MATERIAL WEALTH TO ESTABLISH A         KINGDOM and cherishes all living beings on earth,         no matter I AM AN AUTO-EROTIC FATALITY          I COME HAND IN HAND WITH MY DEATH       She closes her eyes. Auto-erotic fatality: the words are long and sharp, like a knife; she will have to be careful if she lets them enter her. She pictures tearing the page from the book and folding it into a narrow strip.
      Moving hips in Armenian voodoo experiment. Lifting dress: up past ankles, calves, knees, thighs, then sliding paper into underwear right up into crack. Breaking into scar on wooden parquet. Possession. Will she dare? She eases herself into the first paper tear. Then someone taps her on the shoulder.
      The brilliant fog seems to have dissipated. A woman stands in front of her, wearing large diapers and nothing else. Painted blood dribbles from her lips. Anna looks at the woman’s naked breasts, the nipples like rusted nails. Who would want to suck the breasts of an infant? She closes the book and lays it back down. The woman steps closer.
      "Spank me," the woman mumbles quietly. "I have been so very bad."
      Anna punches her in the shoulder. The diapered woman hisses and steps
back, her eyes opening wide. Anna walks up to her. Her fingers form a solid fist. The woman gasps and runs off, holding her upper arm where she has been hit. Anna turns back to the table where the book lies, displaying a cracked leather back. She has lost its words. The Armenian voice empties itself into a vast silent space.
Tears are running down Anna’s cheeks. She wants to die.
      Just to die.

---

HOME

    I walk outside. It’s drizzling. The grass stretches on and on, its shrill green fading into a veil of mist. Far from the house is a tall iron fence, enclosing a plot the size of a bed. Its narrow gate stands ajar. On the small grass patch inside the fence lies my grandfather. He wears a suit; his arms are crossed over his chest. Raindrops trickle down his face with the affectionate tranquility of milk on an oilcloth. He is sleeping.

         I slept upstairs and he below, my bed right over his.
        When he died, I was relieved that his soul went
         straight to hell. Or else it would have passed through me.

I stand at the gate and watch his peaceful, wet face before I speak.
"Grandfather, wake up."
His eyes open. He does not turn his head.
"You didn’t have to sleep out here," I say. "The beds are made up inside. The sheets are clean and the blankets warm..."
He lifts his head.
"Oh?" he says, surprised.

         I could sense it all night.
         When he died, the flies fell silent.
        It was as if a lid had been put
        on a trash can
         that smelled.