Read Best European Fiction 2013 Online
Authors: Unknown
Best European Fiction 2013 (43 page)
“He got them in Hamburg,” said the alcoholic.
“Uh, a person shouldn’t go to Hamburg.”
“No, avoid going to Hamburg.”
“I’ve never been to Hamburg,” Charles said and stuck his wallet into his pocket. Obviously he’d shown them pictures of his grown sons. Two enterprising men in their twenties. Business, that slightly fishy word. The younger one earned his first million when he was seventeen. A happy story. He isn’t my son. But I too have expectations of him.
Charles fell back in his chair laughing and looked at me, shaking his head: we had landed among surrealists. (I thought of Gulliver and what he’d been subjected to, how surprised he was. As a kid I could never look long enough at the illustration in which the giant Gulliver wakes up among the Lilliputians and finds himself tethered to the ground by countless thin threads, while on and around his body there swarm an army of miniature humans, as industrious as ants, all of them carrying some useful object or other in their hands, on their way to carrying out useful tasks.)
“He’s a stallion.”
“Unnnh, a stud-boy,” my darling said, pulling a chair up behind mine and embracing me.
“You devil,” she said.
It was a short while later that she took my head in her hands and kissed me. And I started to believe that she was falling in love with me. Our acquaintance lasted from about nine o’clock, when we arrived at the club and she sat down on a chair next to me, to seven
A.M
., when we left the place, unwillingly (I, in any case, was unwilling).
Every single time she left me in the course of the ten hours, for example to be with the short Chinese, I felt like I was missing something. As if my existence were a clutching at empty air (which it quite possibly is). That’s exactly how it was when, over fifteen years ago, I met Charles. Empty, lonely, hollow, all wrong—if he wasn’t close by.
TRANSLATED FROM DANISH BY ROGER GREENWALD
[ROMANIA]
He left the tinted-glass high-rise building without looking back. Not once. He was walking with resolute, unhurried steps, his eyes trained on the impeccably shined toecaps of his Timberland shoes. He hadn’t even bothered to reply to the doorman who had probably wished him well, smiling like someone in a dental-floss ad. He’d had enough of smiling and talking nicely. Being polite. Not being able to afford to lose his temper. That was what he did all day long. “Hell’s fuckin’ bells,” he hissed in spite of himself. He jumped into his car and took off his jacket and tie. Meaning it was Friday. On regular weekdays he’d only loosen his tie.
He nosed into the traffic instinctively, his mind void of all plans. He drove with the flow.
It was Friday after all.
The images around circled his brain like so many soap bubbles around a fan.
He reached the outskirts of the city and pulled over. He didn’t want to go anywhere. Well, he did, sort of, but not all that badly. Some other time.
He got out of the car to look at the hills.
Everything was so beautiful. Nothing was ever beautiful.
Still two hours to go until seven.
How long till seven? He glanced at his watch again. Two hours.
Sometimes he’d ask himself something and forget what it was.
Alternately, he’d answer his own questions and forget the answer.
“Hell’s fuckin’ bells” echoed through his mind.
His own voice. Or the memory of his own voice.
His temples were throbbing. The weekend headache. Nothing out of the ordinary. Everything was under control. Sales were doing well. What sales? He started. The memory of his boss’s voice.
He went into a bar and ordered a double shot of brandy. Closest bar to where he’d parked.
He eavesdropped on the patrons’ conversation, but their words circled his brain like so many soap bubbles around a fan. He liked the thick smoke. He liked the squalor in there. He liked the people—ugly, toothless, unshaven. Come to think of it, it was a good thing sales were doing so well. What sales? Installment sales, what else …
“Hell’s fuckin’ bells,” his voice snapped back at the memory of his boss’s voice.
A tumble with Carolina, a tumble with Carolina, kept ringing through his head.
One hour to go till seven.
It would have been nice if it had started raining out of the heavy smoke. A downpour of beer into the mugs of the toothless. Let the losers have a field day. Let ’em dance in the rain.
As for him, Carolina was going to save him. She was going to suck all the headache out of his head.
It was Friday after all.
How long till seven?
He drained his brandy and called her, though she was expecting him. No one answered. He left no message. Could be she was with another one of her johns.
“Hell’s fuckin’ bells.”
7
P.M.
was booked exclusively for him; no one could take that away. He was paying for it. He was a faithful customer. He didn’t take anything on credit.
A tumble with Carolina, a tumble with Carolina.
He was a paying customer, wasn’t he? No one could take his hour away from him.
Frantically pressing the keys of his cell phone, he finished a second glass of brandy. Carolina wouldn’t answer. He panicked. It was the first time anything like this had happened to him. As a rule, Carolina was always waiting for him. There, in her rented flat.
He felt cheated.
Without fail, at the beginning of the weekend, he’d come to Carolina. She’d be waiting for him in lingerie he’d bought her himself. Sand-colored. 7
P.M.
was his hour. He didn’t care about anything else.
He felt double-crossed. It just wasn’t fair. He had never ever barged his way in at any other hour. He didn’t care who she was screwing the rest of the time. But at 7
P.M.
she was supposed to be at home for him. At 7
P.M.
she was as good as his wife.
Carolina knew him well. Knew all his whims.
After a tumble with Carolina, he was back on his feet.
His temples throbbed.
Everything is under control. Nothing is ever under control.
Carolina had been unfaithful to him.
Like the cheapest whore.
Carolina was screwing another guy at
his
hour. She didn’t give a fuck about his headache. About his tiredness. About his having to go back to work on Monday. Having to talk nicely and keep smiling. Not losing his temper. Boosting sales.
“Hell’s fuckin’ bells …”
Carolina is a bitch in heat, he chalked on an imaginary wall.
He made up his mind to call Renata. She was a friend of hers, sort of. Well, to the extent two women working in that profession could be friends. She used to talk to him frequently enough about Renata, whom she had kind of adopted. Taught her the tricks of the trade. She’d given him her phone number the moment they started seeing each other. If you can’t reach me, you should try Renata, she’d told him back then. There’d never been any need to.
Renata answered the phone.
He didn’t have to go into any details about who he was before she said: oh, right, the 7
P.M.
customer, aren’t you? No, she knew nothing about Carolina. Nothing whatsoever. They hadn’t seen each other in days. But she was available herself. Sure, right away.
He jumped into his car and drove back to the city.
A tumble with Renata, a tumble with Renata, kept ringing through his head.
It was getting dark.
On his way, he drove past Carolina’s block. All the lights were off. Totally off. He groped his way around the neighborhood till he found the right address.
Renata was waiting for him in a satin gown. Her curves hinted she was naked underneath. She was medium height, plump, and she looked somehow mischievous.
“While you undress, I’ll go to the bathroom,” she said.
He listened to her peeing for a long time.
The flat was dingy—two adjoining rooms. Probably rented. Sparsely furnished with odd pieces. A country rug for a bedspread. He lowered himself into a loose-springed armchair and started undressing listlessly. The atmosphere of impoverished improvisation depressed him. Not an ounce of warmth, not an ounce of imagination. Not one flower. At Carolina’s place everything had been shipshape.
He listened to Renata washing her hands and spraying herself. He didn’t hear her flush the toilet, though.
He watched her enter, brisk and roly-poly, crotch shaved. She’d left her gown in the bathroom.
“What’s up? Are we feeling a bit grumpy today?”
He nodded his assent. She started undressing him expertly.
“We can’t afford to be grumpy,” she grumbled.
She stood him on his feet as for some kind of physical and moved into gear. She started by nibbling at his nipples with her teeth, then little by little glided down towards his pubis. She was giving off a strong odor of cheap deodorant. Yet he had to admit she was adroit at using her tongue, she was almost as good as Carolina. When performing the act of fellatio, Carolina had once explained, unless you can make good use of your tongue, you’ll just botch the whole thing. Ever since, he’d been always alert to that particular skill. He felt his member beginning to get stiff and his tiredness seemed to disperse. While getting on with her business, Renata watched him with her big blue eyes and attempted to smile at him, which made her face look rather sinister: like a snarling dog fiercely defending its bone.
“Now, that’s more like it … Who’s a pretty-pretty baby? Let’s put a nice hat on, so we don’t catch cold.” She went on talking to his sex while completely ignoring the rest of him.
She pulled one of the chest drawers open and produced a condom. She ripped the package open with her teeth. She caught its tip between her lips, dropped to her knees, and before unrolling it down his penis, she started chomping on it the way babies do a pacifier— imitating a baby’s gurgling cries all the while: ngwa-aa! ngwa-aa! ngwa-aa! He found it quite funny. He smiled.
“You liked my toy, didn’t you?”
He nodded his assent.
“Let’s get down to business and chase all your troubles away,” she said, bursting with optimism and cheerfulness, as if it’d been ages since she’d last done it.
He positioned himself behind her. Her back was broad and powerful.
“You’re from Transylvania?” he asked, panting slightly.
“How did you know?” she replied with another question, her voice muffled by a pillow.
“I could tell by your accent,” he went on, a barely audible tremor in his voice.
“If you don’t like it this way, we can change position …”
“Nah, this suits me fine … we can talk while we’re at it …”
Her groin, not quite recently shaven, prickled him a bit. He found she had rough skin in that area, somewhat leathery. Professionally calloused, flashed through his mind.
“You from somewhere in the country?” he asked, no hint of disdain in his voice.
“Yea, a village not far from Cloo-oojj … but how’d you figure that out?” she queried him earnestly, her voice seeming to rise from the bottom of a well.
“Well … it was that rug … gave me the clue,” he said in a quiet voice.
“Yup, it’s from Mom. It’s very precious to me. I take it along wherever I go working …”
Then they both gave up talking as things were moving to a crescendo.
When he was spent, he eased himself onto his back in satisfaction, eyes closed. His headache was beginning to let up. Renata sprang to her feet to walk off her accumulated stiffness.
“What about having another go?” she asked him cheerfully.
He signaled to her with his finger: he wasn’t game.
“Maybe next Friday,” he added a moment later, forcing the words out.
“I didn’t want to tell you right away, but since you’re bound to find out anyway … looks like Carolina might have found herself someone. She might leave the profession … At least that’s what people say …” she said, ill at ease.
He said nothing. She joined him in his silence.
A few moments later he heard her going to the bathroom again. A series of obscene plops, this time followed by the sound of a flush.
He rose heavily and started getting into his clothes.
He left her money on the table and cleared out while he could still hear the shower.
Back home he jumped into bed with his clothes on, a glass of brandy in his hand.
Eyes boring into the ceiling.
All that remained in his head was the echo of that prolonged piss, followed by obscene plops.
TRANSLATED FROM ROMANIAN BY JEAN HARRIS AND FLORIN BICAN
[SWITZERLAND]
“Orange juice.” The label in red letters on a white placard seemed decisive, rather too much so for this mixture of concentrate and water. That’s the most deplorable thing about chain and low-scale hotels: breakfast, this simulacrum of luxury divested of any attention for the guest. A flabby croissant, a jar of marmalade, two strips of cheese under plastic, an apple that’s too green and too smooth, sometimes some grapes out of season, looking Botoxed, with thick, flavorless skins, and coffee, there’s a coffee machine, we always have a slightly stupid look before a clipped conversation, especially in the morning when we haven’t slept well.
The notary public saw me first, it’s not charming at all, but you’re close to it all, to the cemetery, to the house, if you took a room that looked out on the courtyard, it wouldn’t be too noisy, the Périphérique is still far away, and in this weather the windows stay shut, he sniggered. It’s been raining for about an hour, with a low sky, everything is gloomy. The ceremony takes place at ten. I would have liked to get an umbrella at the reception desk, the lady looked confused, no, monsieur, we don’t have those, she might as well have said, this isn’t a palace, you’ll have to take care of yourself here, go on and find a store that sells those, I went out into the drizzle, going down side streets whenever I could. When I came to the cemetery entrance, it was early, too early.
