EQMM, November 2009 Read online

  "Did you faint?” asked Lien.

  "Yes,” Trix said. “No. Well, sort of.” She hung her head. “I fell down. My ears were ringing. I only half realized that he was pushing my dress up around my waist. He held my wrists together above my head with one hand. I could hear him cursing. I thought it would never stop."

  "What a pig,” said Cora. “I wish I could get my hands on him."

  They say Cora once broke up a fight at the factory, banged two men's heads together. She's incredibly strong, they say. In a vision, I saw her as an omniscient goddess of revenge crushing Trix's husband to her breast, a faint smile on her lips, a bonbon between her teeth.

  It was almost impossible to breathe. There was condensation on the inside of the window. We were sitting in a steam cooker under high pressure.

  "What are you going to do?” asked Lien.

  Trix stared at the toe of her shoe with her one good eye. Her long hair spilled loose across her face.

  "I can't leave him,” she said. With trembling fingers, she shook another cigarette from the pack.

  No one spoke. Lien pulled out her knitting. Cora helped herself to a bonbon. I finally scratched my leg.

  We had reached the edge of the comprehensible and dashed against the contrariness that lives inside each of us and perhaps leads us each to our doom. We We had reached the edge of the comprehensible and dashed against the contrariness that lives inside each of us and perhaps leads us each to our doom. We acknowledged that reality in silence.

  I knew exactly how it felt to be powerless. Whenever I sat behind Ruud on his dirt bike, I could sense the other girls’ eyes boring into my back. Before Ruud came along, they barely acknowledged my existence, but now they just had to know where I bought my skirts and my black ballet slippers, how I managed to keep my ponytail standing so tall. Even my bad report cards worked in my favor: They proved that I didn't care about our parents’ world, a world where ambition, self-discipline, and appearances were all that mattered.

  When Ruud took a corner at full speed, we came so close to the asphalt it was as if he wanted to polish the road surface with our bodies. I held my skirt down with one hand, clamped the other tightly around the front of his stiff leather jacket. We'd left the other kids behind on the square, beneath the blue-and-white signboard in front of Milano, the ice-cream parlor. They'd all scatter in different directions, now that Ruud was gone. They were nothing without him. His presence turned them into a group.

  It was drizzling. The news that the frost had pulled back to northern Scandinavia had brightened up our dinner hour at home. “Anything can happen,” my father said. “I remember one year the canals were still frozen in March. King Winter has not yet been defeated.” He talked like that to the children at school, all that “King Winter” stuff.

  Despite the light rain, the air was almost warm. I'd never been in this part of the city before. The rowhouses were all four or five stories high, set like two parallel walls with a narrow street between them. There was a cafe on every corner, people hanging around outside as if it were a summer evening. A little girl sat on an orange crate, sipping lemonade through a straw.

  We stopped before the dimly lit window of a furniture store. Ruud set his dirt bike on its kickstand, fished a key from his pocket, and opened the door. We slipped inside, and he carefully locked up behind us. All around us in the gloomy half-light were couches, dressers, dining-room sets, all jumbled together. I wanted to ask what we were doing there, although I knew exactly what we were doing there. I just didn't want to believe it. We moved to the back of the store, where rolls of carpet standing on their ends kept watch over bedroom sets that just hulked there waiting for someone to buy them and carry them away.

  "Whose place is this?” I asked.

  "My father's,” said Ruud gruffly. He shrugged out of his leather jacket and tossed it on the nearest bed. In three steps, he was beside me. He stood there for a moment, motionless. Now he's supposed to tell me he thinks I'm beautiful, I thought, and special, and all he can think about, that he'll go crazy with desire if I don't give myself to him right this second.

  He leaned in to me and pressed his lips to my mouth. I was huddled against one of the rolls of carpeting, and it prickled my back. Must be coconut, I thought, only coconut matting prickles like that. My upper lip was snagged for a moment between his teeth and mine.

  "Have you ever done it before?” asked Ruud.

  I resisted the temptation to act all experienced and indifferent, as if I had a real past to be ashamed of. “No,” I said truthfully, annoyed that my voice sounded so shy and uncertain.

  With a sweeping gesture, Ruud said, “Which of these lovely beds strikes your fancy?"

  I looked around the showroom. The beds were monstrous, each with its matching night tables and gold-braided bedside lamps. They were like my parents’ bed, pompous and prudish at the same time. It disgusted me to think that I'd been conceived in their bed, that I'd originated from their bodies.

  "Pick one out,” Ruud ordered. There was an undertone of insult in his voice.

  As obediently as if I'd been hypnotized, I walked between the rows of four-posters, king-sized beds, and bunk beds, searching for the one in which I would have done to me what everyone always talks about without saying the actual words, that thing the girls in the group assumed I'd done long ago and about which my parents maintained a tight-lipped silence. At the end of a row, I discovered the most nauseating display of them all: golden posts at all four corners, topped with heavy finials and chubby little angels bedecked with garlands of carved wooden flowers.

  "Ruud,” I cried, “I found one!"

  He came towards me with a thick folded comforter.

  "Now this,” I said, running a hand over an angel's head, “is fantastic."

  I hoped he'd notice my sarcasm, but he just said, “Great!” and began to arrange the conforter on top of the satin spread that was already arranged there. The sacrificial cloth, I thought.

  Why didn't I just turn around and go, back between the rows of beds, the rolls of carpet, the kitchenettes, the bureaus, the sectional sofas? Why did I always let him make my decisions for me, from the very first moment I saw him? Was it his eyes, bluer than blue, that gazed over other people's heads and saw far-off horizons they never noticed? Was it his dark blond hair, so perfectly combed? Was it his self-confidence?

  He smoothed the wrinkles from the comforter and stood up straight. He laid his hands on my shoulders, looked meaningfully into my eyes, and pressed me slowly to the bed.

  When I was about twelve, my mother's oldest brother had innocently brainwashed me into a realm of erotic fantasy. Since then, I'd cherished the dream of the ideal, irresistible woman, a role I myself would sooner or later yearn to play.

  "The most beautiful women of India,” said Uncle Harry, “came from Singaraja. Supple, enchanting, as perfect as a lotus blossom. They knew what a man wanted and deserved."

  I saw before me girls with waist-length blue-black hair, light brown skin, narrow hips, wreathed in sarongs and with garlands of flowers around their necks.

  "Harry,” my father said, “I don't doubt that the women of Singaraja were lovely creatures, but would you try to remember that we're in Holland, with two impressionable young girls at the table?"

  Uncle Harry laughed uproariously. My mother glanced nervously at my father, and then hid a giggle behind her hand.

  "You know,” said Uncle Harry, “that girls their age—” he nodded towards Louise and me—"are already ripe? They already know how to get their hooks into a man.” He lowered his voice. “Your Dutch girls are artificially locked into childhood for much too long."

  My father, who wasn't used to being lectured in his own house, haughtily suggested that it was time to change the subject.

  Uncle Harry brought my mother fragrant soaps from faraway places, bottles of perfume, hand-painted fans, and exotic candies—all gifts which were over the top in my father's eyes and, for that very reason, seemed incredi
bly wonderful to us. Anytime Louise and I asked him, Uncle Harry would gladly pull up his sweater to show us the scars on his back. The Japs had whipped him because he would imitate even the most feared of them behind their backs. We wished we were Uncle Harry's kids and could go to India with him—at least if it really looked like the painting in his room promised: in the foreground, deep green oases surrounded by palm trees, in the background a towering mountain's snowy peak bright against the pale blue sky. Why didn't that snow melt, if it was really as hot as Uncle Harry claimed?

  After Ruud tugged off my petticoats and skirt, unsnapped my garters, and stripped off my stockings, he turned his attention to the top half of my body. I'm an object, I thought. I just let him do whatever he wants. He untucked my blouse, and I raised my arms. As if it were perfectly normal, I gave myself over to the age-old tradition of the submissive woman. The only moment I was even involved was when I interrupted his fumbling with my bra to unhook it for him. These ridiculous details completely contradicted the dreams I'd built up and cherished over the years, dreams of an unbridled passion which would ultimately explode into dazzling fireworks, followed by an eternity of tender caresses, explorations of each other's bodies, and finally a total melting together that would make the world disappear, at least for a while.

  He tossed my bra aside as if he hated it. And then his cool hands finally slid across my skin. To my disappointment, I wasn't the least excited. I just lay there, thinking clinically and rationally: What's he going to do now? What's his next move?

  His hands moving quickly, expertly, he pulled off my panties. Then he sat up, took off his own clothes, and dropped them to the floor. For a moment, he stood beside the bed, looking down at me. And although I was surely as curious about his body as he was about mine, I immediately shut my eyes. How attractive could I possibly be? I wished I could see myself through his eyes. If only I could sink away through the bed, through the floor, through the depths of the city, straight down through the earth to the other side of the world to land on a quiet beach where everyone would just leave me in peace.

  He slowly lowered himself onto me. And now I'm supposed to have these deep, intense emotions, I thought, aimed at this man who's about to give me a brand-new experience that can never be undone. But the conscious, contemplative experience I'd dreamed of simply wasn't there. It was as if I was being dissected by a razor-sharp blade. From the center of my body, a flaming gulf of pain spread through me in every direction, to the tips of my fingers, to my toes, to the roots of my hair. I screamed, but—as in a nightmare—made no sound. Again and again he thrust into me, as if he wanted to tear me apart, as if I would never be whole, never be myself again. With each rush of pain, I felt warmer, oceans of my life's essence drained out of me and washed away in the dry bed.

  His head rested on my shoulder; his hair smelled earthy, male, and consoled me in some incomprehensible way. I burrowed my face into him until he raised his head with a brief cry of surprise. From far off, I heard the wail of an ambulance. Suddenly, it seemed clear to me that I had been wounded and would have to be taken to the hospital, where an understanding surgeon would lovingly heal me, would restore my virginity and purity.

  Ruud lay on top of me as if he was incapable of movement. He seemed to be getting heavier. I could barely breathe. Finally, he rolled over and lay with his back against me. He gazed up at the ceiling, then turned his face toward me to gauge my condition.

  "How'd you like it?” he asked.

  "It hurt,” I said.

  "It's supposed to hurt,” he told me with an abrupt laugh, almost proud of the pain he had brought me.

  He lit a cigarette. I stole a glance at the glowing red point of light. It irritated me that he was able to switch from one form of enjoyment to another so effortlessly. Soon afterwards, I was quickly and efficiently driven home. The drizzle had turned into a driving rain. There's no one I can tell about this, I thought, and I cried with my face pressed against his back. My tears mixed with the raindrops and fell onto the asphalt, marking the route from the furniture store to my parents’ house like a trail of breadcrumbs.

  * * * *

  At the factory, every day was the same.

  As quickly as a fire spreads, that's how slowly the time passed. This was where we spent the largest part of our week—everything else, the outside world, was just window dressing. It was as if we labored in an enormous blacksmith shop deep in the heart of the earth, feverishly stoking the fires that kept the planet revolving, ignorant of what was happening up on the surface.

  One afternoon, the boss bustled into our department with a man who looked American with his healthy appearance, his bebop hair, and an easy laugh that promised that anything was possible, no mountain too high, no problem that the human brain couldn't solve, no battle that couldn't be fought and won.

  "We need a charming hostess,” said the boss, raising his voice to be heard above the hiss and rattle of the machinery, “who can demonstrate our product line to potential customers."

  They examined us closely. Our eyes remained shyly lowered, and the sealing of the little bags of candy proceeded without interruption.

  What did they see, our jolly boss and his crewcut colleague, as they searched for their Chosen One?

  They saw themselves reflected in Lien's thick spectacles, they saw the permanented gray hairdos of the two other women, they saw me the way I'd been feeling since I'd spotted a girl with a tower of black hair sitting behind Ruud on his dirt bike with her arms clasped around him.

  "No beauty queens here,” cried Lien snippily. “You want a beauty queen, try over there.” And she waved them over to Trix.

  "They're all the same,” Lien growled. “They want a Madonna for their kids and a Marilyn Monroe in bed. Look at this!” She pulled her hands from the line and, as the unsealed bags immediately began to pile up against each other, smoothed down her sweater. “You wouldn't think I've had two children, would you?"

  The handknitted yellow-and-black-striped sweater accented her little-girl breasts, then bunched up again the moment she stopped smoothing it.

  "Paul's the same as the rest of them,” she said. “That's why I keep my eye on him."

  "You mean you don't trust him?” I asked.

  "What do you think?” She was indignant. “You think I like going to all those soccer games and boxing matches?"

  * * * *

  The sun tries its hardest to break through the low-hanging mist. We are moving through the prettiest part of our route: the heath, dotted with fantastic pines and beeches that glimmer silvery white through the fog.

  I would gladly step out into that mysterious world. In my poor, city-girl imagination, I envision the gradual clearing of the mist and reemergence of the sun. In my mind's eye, I can see the forest animals awaken and stretch themselves lazily.

  I can't remember the last time I was in the woods. All I can recall is the city park, which has too little that's natural and too much that's man-made: gravel paths, mown grass, neatly planted flower beds, geometric streams littered with orange peels and decaying half-eaten sandwiches, patrolled by well-trained ducks and crawling with pensioners, actually nothing more than a graveyard except no headstones, the corpses out in the open, sitting on the green park benches, twittering, scattering crumbs to the birds.

  Maybe none of us has gotten enough sleep over the weekend. Like overfed house cats on velvet cushions, we gaze drowsily out the window. Cora sucks on a bonbon for a long time, apparently not realizing what she's doing.

  When the compartment door is suddenly thrown open, we are shocked out of our lethargy. A young, gleamingly polished conductor—new to us but equipped with all the tools of his trade—steps into our car.

  "All tickets, please,” he says, his voice stiff and formal.

  He examines us impatiently from behind wire-rimmed eyeglasses, as if it surprises him that we're not sitting on the edge of our seats with our tickets at the ready. As slowly as possible, searching distractedly in handbags
and coat pockets, we locate and present our monthly passes. With the precision of a schoolmaster, he studies the small print on each pass.

  "This is expired,” he says, and glares at me through the glittering lenses of his spectacles. “You should have renewed it this morning."

  "Oh,” I say, and my hands fly automatically to my cheeks, “I completely forgot."

  "Nothing to worry about,” says Cora good-naturedly. “It happens to all of us. You'll take care of it tomorrow."

  "Then you'll need a round-trip ticket today,” says the conductor.

  "What do you mean, a round-trip ticket?” asks Cora suspiciously.

  "For today,” he says again. He's irritated; this is taking too long. Cora stares at him, speechless. I flush with the realization that I have no money on me.

  "You're funny,” Cora laughs. “I haven't heard that one before."

  With furrowed brow and unpleasantly tight lips, he looks her up and down. He seems to want to will her away, to wish he was looking at something else—his girlfriend, perhaps, who always has her ticket with her, who at this hour of the morning is still in her frilly pink bed, dreaming of him and of the everything-first-class trips they'll someday take at someone else's expense.

  "We've been riding this route for years,” cries Cora, insulted. “The railroad's made a fortune off of us, but you can't excuse one honest mistake?"

  The conductor pulls out his ticket book and begins to scribble.

  Cora turns red. “What's your problem? We were riding this train before you were born!"

  He ignores her and tears a ticket from his pad. As he offers it to me, Cora's pudgy hand snatches it from his fingers.

  "Jesus!” She leans towards Trix. “Look at this: The bastard's charging her a fine."

  And then, as I sit there like a fool with my empty wallet open in my hand, Cora gives him a withering look and takes action in the same cool and detached way a queen of the olden days whose patience had reached its limit would turn away from an accused subject and wave an imperious hand at her bailiff and order, “Lock him up!” or, “Off with his head!” and then instantly forget all about it and move on to other matters.