The Attic (8 page)

“
No matter,
”
I said.
“
I would make a point of attending out of professional curiosity, even if I were under sixteen . . .
”

Billy the Goat laughed.
“
That
’
s a good way to put it,
”
he said.

“
Flowers grow on the dung-heap
,
”
I said sagely.

“
What do you mean by that? What kind of flowers?
”

“
Nothing, nothing. I was just thinking out loud. Besides . . .
”

“
Why do you always stumble to a stop before you finish your thought?
”
he said.
“
What kind of flowers are at issue here?
”

“
The ones that are sprouting from me. With their roots in my heart and their blossoms in the sunlight. With their pollen in my eye . . . Those are the ones.
”

?!

After some sort of incident
—
I don
’
t remember what
—
Eurydice either couldn
’
t or didn
’
t want to come see me in the attic anymore. Maybe it was after that note she
’
d left me while I
’
d been licking my plate clean in some pub. I don
’
t know. I no longer even know if that attic ever existed or if I just conjured it up. And I also don
’
t know if Eurydice ever climbed up into that attic through that narrow, dirty stairwell, where the cockroaches rustle about when the light catches them by surprise. Then, with a light crack, they squish under your feet like berries. A little greasy spot remains; it spreads out and becomes darker the farther it gets from the epicenter of the eruption. I don
’
t know
—
I don
’
t believe
—
that she ever climbed those filthy steps. But then where did that slip of paper come from, which I found at some point under the bell jar next to the rocking chair? Maybe she passed the note to the cleaning lady downstairs in the hall, and then she put it under the bell jar so the rats wouldn
’
t shred it like lettuce. Who knows if I ever really read this note? Or whether she, Eurydice, really wrote it with her own hand. But I can
’
t believe that I planted this note here myself. For God
’
s sake, how would I have been able to imitate her handwriting so skillfully . . . ? It truly was odd handwriting. And worthy of further comment. At first glance it resembled Sanskrit. To tell the truth, I
’
ve never actually seen Sanskrit, but in any case I think that Eurydice
’
s handwriting has its roots in some secret dream. In places her writing was utterly illegible. All the consonants looked like a single letter, which looked like all of them together, so that you could never determine precisely which was intended. Each and every vowel was also written identically, with the one difference that you could at least produce its sound: that eternal letter
—
a multitude of circular, oval, large-eyed and bewitched letters rolled around between those indeterminate, exotic consonants. Come to think of it, everything she wrote looked like it contained only one and the same imperishable letter, so that her words, once written, scrolled past like a vague tolling of bells. But I never had sufficient time then to ponder all this. I was always completely preoccupied with deciphering her notes, which I found unexpectedly here and there, most frequently right in the attic upon returning from my travels. These really weren
’
t missives in the true sense of the word. On a slip of paper ripped from a memo pad she would string together a necklace of sighs, with pretty much every other little square containing either an
O
, or a kiss, or a tear, or an eye.
It all depends on who
’
s reading them, and how.
And of course on what the word denotes outside of its pictorial meaning. Such a letter-kiss, a letter-poem, had ten, or a hundred, variants and interpretations, and I believe that my fate was sealed by one such misunderstanding. I would remind you of that well known, historic misunderstanding which resulted in the godhead being represented with horns instead of a halo; thus Moses became a garden-variety cuckold, ridiculed in secret by everyone in the neighborhood
—
beginning, of course, with the cleaning lady. And the fact that one venerates him in public, or even prays to him
—
that is, I believe, the result of hypocrisy. But one should not forget to observe a moment of pathetic reverence: even a cuckolded godhead does inspire respect, after all.

“
You
’
ve really gotten carried away, Cuckold,
”
said Igor, peering over my shoulder.
“
I
’
d bet my life that you no longer know what you
’
re talking about.
”

“
I do know,
”
I said, offended.
“
About the horns! And next time don
’
t stick your nose into my papers.
”

“
What horns are you talking about?
”
he said.
“
About yours? That
’
s obviously the reason you started hiding your papers from me.
”

“
About your horns,
”
I said, in the calmest possible voice.

He grew a bit more serious, and then exploded in laughter.
“
Maybe you
’
re just a big jerk, banjo-meister. A joker is what you are.
”

“
I was talking about horns,
”
I said again.
“
About yours . . . and about mine. I wouldn
’
t joke about such things. You know that quite well.
”

He stopped laughing. All at once he grew as pale as . . . well, simply pale, like . . .

“
It
’
s not that . . .
”

“
Uh-huh,
”
I said, nodding my head.
“
Forgive me for having to tell you this . . . You know . . . this is unpleasant for me, but since you already . . .
”

“
Just go on,
”
he said quietly, clenching his teeth.
“
I can take it.
”

“
Marija . . .
”

“
I know. She was making out with someone in the lobby of the building.
”

“
No.
”

“
Something more serious? She didn
’
t . . .?
”

“
No,
”
I said impatiently,
“
but it
’
s simply that . . .
”

“
Maybe it
’
s simple for you!
”
he cried out and slammed the binoculars to the ground.

“
That
’
s a shame,
”
I said.
“
And to think that tonight they
’
ll be celebrating the
‘
golden wedding anniversary
’
in the constellation of Orion.
”

“
I don
’
t care,
”
he said, with his head thrust into the palms of his hands.
“
Finish telling me what this is all about or I will kill you.
”

“
Take a look at this,
”
I said, handing him the postcard that I
’
d gotten at the Grand Festival of Coiffures, Flowers, and Pop Tunes.
“
I have no choice but to show you this . . . It wouldn
’
t be fair.
”

He grabbed the Marija-postcard out of my hand and held it closer to the light.

“
So what?
”
he said.
“
That
’
s Marija. What are you trying to say? This particular number is called
‘
Unforgettable Pussy.
’
She strips to the tune of the Persian March for a whole fifteen minutes . . .
”

“
And you knew about this?
”

“
Of course,
”
he said.
“
I got her this gig . . . Is that all you had to tell me about Marija? Just that?
”

“
Isn
’
t that enough for you, you old goat? Isn
’
t that enough?!
”

He doubled over with laughter, blushing, and his tears flowed down like . . . His tears were gushing out because of the laughter. When he had calmed down a bit, he pulled out his wallet, which was made of donkey leather and adorned with initials of mother-of-pearl, and he silently handed me another postcard. Then he went back to rolling around in the straw, convulsing with laughter.

Oh, Capricorn . . . why didn
’
t you spare me this?

Why did you help me destroy that monument of gold, flesh, and moonlight?

Oh, Eurydice: the image, the shadow
—
the whoring viper!

I recall that it was at the outset of the long, painful Walpurgis Night.

“
I can hardly wait to get horizontal,
”
said Dirty Pussy, squeezing my arm.

I said nothing. It was the beginning of Walpurgis Night.

“
Do you live far away, Tomcat?
”

“
Uh-huh,
”
I said absentmindedly.

“
And your folks aren
’
t at home?
”

“
No,
”
I said.
“
They live several stories above me. Way up on the top floor.
”

Then I fell silent. We walked a while, without talking, across the bumpy cobblestone streets of the late-night suburb. Her mouth reeked of
kakaform
and her hair stank of shedding cat. From time to time, she rammed her tongue in my ear, so that I practically had to run along in front of her.

“
Why don
’
t you want to flip on the light?
”
she asked, as she entered the attic.

“
It
’
s an idiosyncrasy of mine,
”
I said.

“
Then at least put me in the bed,
”
she said.

I began to undress her without turning on the light. I only left her her silver-and-black slip, which was the color . . . the color of snakeskin. (I recognized the colors more by their scent than by their feel under my fingers.) She stuck her panties into a red plastic tote bag. I heard the zipper whirring as she opened and closed it. Then I took her in my arms and whirled wildly several times around the room. When I had distracted her in this way, I placed her on the straw that was lying on the floor. She got up in a hurry.

“
You tricked me,
”
she said.
“
You don
’
t even have a bed in your room, Mister!
”

“
I sold it,
”
I said.
“
But don
’
t get formal with me. As you can see, I
’
m plenty informal with you.
”

“
I was raised that way,
”
said Dirty Pussy.

“
But still,
”
I said placatingly.
“
You shove your tongue in my ear and then you call me
‘
Mister.
’
That
’
s not right. One must be completely naked. Without a condom on the tongue.
”

“
You
’
re just a run-of-the-mill poet, nothing more,
”
she said.
“
And you
’
ll always remain a poet. And nothing more.
”

I recoiled, insulted.

“
How do you know that? It wasn
’
t . . .
”

“
You
’
re just blabbering away. That
’
s how.
”

“
Aha,
”
I said, now relieved.
“
I thought maybe I had called you something like Eurydice . . . or . . .
”

“
Did you sell your bed on account of her?
”

“
No,
”
I answered.
“
I was kidding. I
’
m having it chromed. I
’
ll be ready tomorrow. I think it will be ready . . . tomorrow.
”

“
Eurydice or the bed?
”
she asked mockingly.

I clenched my teeth. (Had I dared utter that name in front of her?)

“
The bed! . . . And don
’
t ever say that name again!
”

“
Eurydice, Eurydice, Eurydice
—
how
’
s that?
Eurydice!
”

“
Please, don
’
t! I implore you!
”

“
Eurydice!
”

At that moment I swung my fist in the direction of her voice. I felt her teeth sink into my hand. Then I covered her mouth tightly with the palm of my hand so that she wouldn
’
t be able to spit her teeth out. I was afraid that the neighbors, or the cleaning lady, would hear us. It had already been two months since I
’
d paid any rent. She twisted out of my grasp and scraped me with her grubby fingernails. This riled me up, and I started squeezing her harder and harder. A moment later I felt her arms descend gently around my neck. That was when I removed my hand from her mouth. Then I pressed my lips to hers. Just in case.

“
You
’
re good at that,
”
she said, spitting out one of her eyeteeth.

“
Oh,
”
I said, feeling flattered.
“
I
’
m actually not quite myself tonight.
”

“
You
’
re gentle, Mister,
”
she said.
“
I don
’
t like brutes.
”

“
What did I say about being formal with me?
”

“
I was brought up to do that,
”
she said, and I heard her unzip her little tote bag.
“
Put on my underwear for me,
”
she said with a whimper.
“
The straw is poking me.
”

Obediently I raised her leg. Corpses are dressed with the same attentiveness after they are washed.

Then I lit a cigarette. I smoked for a while in silence. A clear beam of moonlight glided through the attic. Like the distant tones of an accordion. Then it disappeared, unexpectedly.

I was thinking of Eurydice.

Around four in the morning we set out from the attic. A cold, raw wind was blowing, showering us with needle-like snowflakes. I wrote down her address and accompanied her to the first streetcar of the day.

When I returned, I still had the taste of her skin in my mouth. The taste of rancid meat and goat
’
s blood.

The next day I sold my lute at the flea market. After that I went to the post office and wired half the money to Dirty Pussy
’
s address (77 Walpurgis Vista Road). With the rest of the money I bought a large bouquet of white carnations and took them to her in person. I wanted to apologize to her for being vulgar and inconsiderate.

She met me in a colorful nightgown made of Chinese silk. She had done up her hair like a geisha. And on her feet I noticed pearl-studded Arabian slippers.

“
Well, what do you know!
”
she said when she caught sight of the flowers.
“
Didn
’
t I say that you were some kind of poet? Flowers and women . . .
”
And with that she took the bouquet out of my hands. Then she chucked it into the garbage can standing by the door. Before the carnations landed, I saw maxi-pads blooming luxuriously amid the trash. Fortunately the flowers then blocked the sight of them.

“
Don
’
t you like them?
”

“
They
’
re beautiful,
”
she said.
“
But my doctor prohibits me from having them. I
’
m allergic to flowers. I always break out in a rash . . .
”

“
Sorry,
”
I said.
“
I didn
’
t know. If I had . . .
”

“
It doesn
’
t matter. It
’
s okay,
”
she said.

“
How are your teeth?
”
I asked, in order to break the silence.

“
Fine,
”
she said.
“
I put in my spare dentures. The other ones were worn out anyway.
”

As soon as I had paid that visit, I felt terribly hungry, but I couldn
’
t eat. My hands disgusted me, as did my mouth. That
’
s why I went and bought a small bottle of alcohol and a bar of pink soap. I bathed and scrubbed myself with a sponge all morning long, until they threw me out of the bathhouse.

“
What
’
s wrong with you?
”
asked the woman at the counter, when I handed her the money for my visit to the
hammam
.

“
Nothing,
”
I said.
“
I
’
m just a little scorched.
”

My hands and face, and indeed my whole body, were one giant scald and blister, in which the lymph wobbled at my every motion. The strong alcohol solution I had rinsed with chewed up my mouth.

For several days I was unable to eat anything. As soon as my temperature had fallen a bit and I could move again, I popped into Pygmalion
’
s and ordered myself a bottle of gin.

“
Shall I wrap that up?
”
the waiter inquired.

“
No,
”
I replied.
“
Just bring me a big glass.
”

Then I drained the whole glass at one gulp. Afterward, dear Igor, I vomited, vomited so beautifully, so passionately.

Igor, my brother
—
my eyes were clear, my hands were innocent like those of a maiden. My hands, comrade Igor
—

“
See to it that you get them dirty
,
”
came Igor
’
s response.

“
What?
”
I said.
“
How
’
s that?
”

“
Well, you know,
”
he said.
“
How long do we intend to remain sleepwalkers?
”

“
I don
’
t know, Igor. I regret what happened to my hands.
”

“
Cleanliness has infected you the way syphilis does,
”
he said.
“
It
’
s messed up your head. I still maintain that the only medicine is prostitution and lust. Physical therapy.
”

“
I know, Igor, I know. But I
’
d prefer to kick the bucket this way. And, by the way, I
’
ve already tried it all.
”

“
You have not,
”
he said.

“
You have not.
”

“
For instance?
”

“
Yellow Fever!
”

“
Give it to me immediately!
”
I said.
“
Infect me!
”

Igor called the waiter over and ordered two pomegranate juices, two cognacs, two maraschinos, two glasses of palm wine, two gins, two shots of whiskey, and some other drink the name of which I forget. Then he shook it all up and stirred it with the little silver spoon he always carried with him. Next he put in a little mint, rhubarb, vanilla, and clove, and then squeezed in several drops of essence of violet.

“
Down the hatch!
”
said Igor.

“
Down the hatch!
”
I whimpered.
“
To the spirit of Eurydice!
”

The taste of vanilla reminded me of her mouth.

“
It
’
s already been a light year since you sang anything,
”
Igor remarked. The fever had dulled his eyes.

“
Not since I sold the lute.
”

“
So start up again,
”
said Igor.
“
Say:
‘
I don
’
t give a shit about the lute.
’
Say it.
”

“
I don
’
t give a shit about the lute.
”

“
Thaaaaat
’
s it . . . And now sing something,
”
he said, twirling the little silver spoon inside the empty glass.

I launched into a song, bellowing:

“
Lute-meister, Lute-meister!
”
exclaimed Igor.
“
The same old song again.
”

“
Sorry, Billy. Forgive me.
”

Then Billy Wiseass chimed in with his silvery voice:

Then I intoned:

“
Bravo! Bravo, Lute-meister,
”
Billy screeched, clapping his hands hysterically.
“
Now that
’
s what they call
‘
therapy.
’
Long live yellow fever! Long live the blockheads! Down with sleepwalkers!
”

At dawn we regained consciousness under a table, in a condition beyond excruciating. Between the two of us some naked, grungy body was sleeping the innocent sleep of a child, hands stretched out above her head. Her eyes were half open, dark violet. Her breasts sagged down onto the filthy, spit-covered floor, their tips poking into the dust. Slowly it all dawned on me. I remembered that Igor and I had wrenched her away from some sailor types in a quayside bar. The ache on the top of my head and Igor
’
s black eye reminded me of that much. At first it was a fistfight, until a red-headed sailor raked a beer bottle across my head. But Igor and I managed to reach the bar. At first she was rooting for the sailors, but when we got hold of the bottles and started toppling the drunken seamen, she began laughing so hard she bent double and started cheering for us. In the end she gave the victors a big wet kiss on the mouth and ordered herself a Yellow Fever. On our tab.