Love and the Dark Night

THREE

Rudi’s POV

I looked through the spy-hole. Perhaps the tapper is at the side wall, and removing the chain lock, I peeped out. But only the blank wall stared back. The lift cage was in one of the lower floors. But as I was about to close the door, a whoosh sounded; and something soft brushed past my legs.

            Near the fridge a shadow appeared, a hazy being, like the dog. And again that sound. But this time it had a soft wail. I had absent-mindedly cleaned the plastic bowl and filled it with fresh water from the kitchen tap. Now a part of the bowl’s orange colour was covered and a soft noise of lapping came. The water in the bowl was beginning to reduce and was about to touch the bowl bed when the lapping sound stopped, and along with that the water level stopped moving down.

            The wail now sounded in my ears and there was no escape from it. It seemed the noise had lain down on the mattress of my ear-wax.  

Leave me alone! Let me enjoy my weekend!

After lunch I tucked into bed with The Good Wolves. The author had done her research on soldiers quite well. Her descriptions of the feelings and emotions of the survivors of the post Liberation Movement had been richly explained. There was the mention of a child found in the woods. A frail child of around ten years with a hairy birthmark on her left arm. She had thin arms, the writer mentioned, and was eating a fruit which I hadn’t seen before. She looked at me in a strange way… When I came to this part, the wail in my ears, all the while resting quietly, sounded again.

Stretch your hand, Rudi…

I stretched my hand to the bedside table, opened the journal to a fresh page, and began writing. The date 1957… Dear Diary

Mother wasn't aware of my existence, but it was the other day her menstruation cycle stopped and she felt a nausea rising within her. But this nausea didn't hurt me; instead my tiny heart glowed with happiness. At last I will be owned. At last I will say Mother to someone. But a dread haunts. Will I be aborted or drop out accidently? Doubts from all corners aim their missiles at me. Mother must have yearned for me, but when nausea hit her today, I knew I had made my existence. An unknown star in the sky with its pin-point of light. I know I have become a part of her. And she also, I'm sure, feels the same. I came to know you, mother since a few days, but such feeling rises within that it seems I know you since ages. And a poem revolves in my mind. For you. Mother.:

Since the time I've come to know you/ I've been born afresh./ Like the message-full flowers in spring/ Swaying t the friendly breeze/ Whispering about the springtime. / This poem I recite is for you/ My unheard whispers because of you / And compressed in these few lines/ Is my love showered on you/ Like thousand fragrance petals of flowers…

What can this tiny being present you with but these humble lines?

*

The wail in my ears increased into a crescendo, clutching tight to my nerves, pressed itself to the soft bones inside. It clawed and scraped my eardrums with its fingers.  

 *

Knock. Knock.  

I stirred and dragged myself out of the bed and was at the door.

            “Hi.” Anais grinned. “I’d been rapping at the door from the last one hour.”

            I looked at her through sleep-filled eyes. And seeing my state, her grin faded. She insisted and sitting on the cool marble floor I told her about the noise, the dog curled up near the fridge. I had already hidden the journal under the mattress.

We got up, stood at the window, her hand on my shoulder. She felt the round mole on my neck and rubbed it gently. She put back the strands of hair from my forehead. She kissed my neck. She comforted me in her way.

She did not say a word but she turned her back to me and began to undress.

Standing, I watched her clothes fall off onto the floor, one by one, into a big red and yellow heap like the hibiscus and daffodils, reminding me of a movie my father had taken me to at New Empire where the woman held the wilting flowers and handed it to the temple priest before the priest took her to his secret chamber behind the temple covered with palm leaves to hide it from the public.

One of these days I think I am going to surprise Anais by buying her a six-inch-above-the-knee khadi cotton skirt more soft and subtle, maybe white and snake-grass green like the ones I see models in the advertisements at commercial break.

She unzipped her top, slipped it over her head, it rumpled her hair; the bra was the next to go, and I could see where the white straps had gouged themselves on her dusky back. She unzipped the mini skirt, she held the sides and wriggled out and let it drop. Then she turned to me, naked and smiling.

“Why do you do this every time?” She asked. “No one does this, watch me undress. Go take everything off, I won’t look but I might change my mind.”

“I do this because you said you love me.” I said while removing my jeans followed by my brief, my eyes on the small birthmark on her left breast.

“Now I am your prostitute. You, the customer, arrived at the brothel. I saw you from the tiny window of my hired room. You looked at the girls standing at the stairway from the ground floor all the way up to the second floor. They touched you as you passed by them one by one, each looking at you, hoping that you will make one of them happy. But my heart fluttered when you passed by them all and pushed the brown door ajar.”

“Now that you are saying this, let’s play the game of Love and Loss.

I moved inside her, my face inches above hers, my mouth on her eyes. She moved, her mouth sucking my throat. I could see yesterday's news paper in the paper bin with the headline Suicide by Lovers printed in large black font. I could smell the perfume on her neck, and also the wisp of perfume from her armpits, the glisten of sweat on her forehead. I thought I heard someone laughing from the next door, a prostitute putting her crying child to sleep, now and then a lullaby softly filling my ears, telling the child to go to bed.

I knew I was about to come, but I delayed it by shutting my eyes and opening ajar the door inside my head to let the heavy silence come crawling out, the shadow of the street dog now lying curled up near my fridge, the words of the foetus dripping out from the pages of its diary.

We were both lying in bed, Anais on her side, her eyes on the lone crack on the wall like a streak of lightening, while I faced her back. Do I like this part the best, when we are close and it reminds me of a pair of spoons resting one behind the other, inside the kitchen drawer?

And then it came, from the cracked mirror of my life, here and there. A diary I had written last month: She Is My w***e, My Sweet Little Girl. The words appeared from the pages, She does not say a word, she turns her back to him and begins to undress. And next, She unbuttons her top clothing, slips it over her shaved head, it creates a rustle over the roots of her hair sitting on the scalp. The bra is the next to go, I can see where the white straps have gouged themselves on her dusky back.

How come whatever we took part in this game of love, I had written it earlier, and when I was writing, I could imagine it taking place in the present at that time? And now Anais and I did make the words of the diary happen, ditto, word to word.

But why did I write she was my w***e?

“Sleepy?” Anais asked.

Her words nudged me out of my hazy world of thoughts. “A bit,” I said. “Well, I don't know,” I added. “How long do we have before leaving for Oly Pub?”

“About two hours." Her voice was soft and far away like the child's whimper.

Why does she sound so strange, as if this is the first time we have met, and that too straight in bed? Is she my girlfriend? Is she the freelance journalist? Questions after questions riddle inside my head boring deep into the recess and driving my thoughts haywire.

Already one hour went by after making love when I gently touched her breast, a signal I have always used to wake her up.

Walking towards the chair where my jeans lay, I dug into the wallet of the front pocket and handed over two thousand. She counted and handed me back one thousand. She smiled.

“We are playing a game, a physical game. A body game of love and loss, a game called the Foreplay, the During-play Game, the After-play Game." And she smiled from the corner of her mouth. “This game played by the first man and woman who came into existence.”  She laughed, but her laughter had no sound.

I could see the mole on her left lobe like a black stud moving as she moved her head while talking.

Next I held her panty, she slipped her legs through the openings and I watched her wriggling in it as I gently pulled it up. The silk undergarment rested around her slim waist in a gentle loving clasp, hugging all over her upper thighs covering her abdomen.

“See you tomorrow,” she said and smiled, proceeding towards the other room.

When she came out, the open diary lay resting, covering my abdomen and I was scribbling words after words. 

And the voice in my head stirred out of its slumber.