Twisted (4 page)

And so, raising my face to him, I declare, “I am what I am. With all my faults, all my weaknesses... I am,” the words come easily now, they ring loud and clear, “Job’s wife.”

And I know that with this I am doomed to be lost here, with boils on my feet, forever on my quest.

 

The Hollow

 

S
he closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally decided to walk through the door. By now her eyes could barely stay open, and yet she knew, without having to look closely, that it wasn’t a door really—only the opening for one. And over that threshold down there, she could somehow read the shape of the shadow. How it appeared suddenly, spilling out of nowhere, was quite beyond her, but she could tell, couldn’t she, that there was no floor. 

This time, perhaps because of starting to fall asleep, her diary seemed heavier than usual. Getting up, she brushed her fingers over it and could feel the raised spine, and rough spots where the gold lettering spelling ‘
Love
’ had peeled off.

If she were to take it with her, the book might slip. It might drop from her hands. It might then continue dropping, farther and farther away from view through the empty elevator shaft, releasing letter after letter into the air, filling its darkness with white feathery pages, rustling, whispering what she had written such a long time ago, what had been clamped—until now—between the front and back covers, as if it were a flower meant for drying.

Her longing for him.

She wiped her face, and now her sight cleared. With every step toward that door, she could see his eyes shining brighter and brighter across from her, as if David—yes, as if he were right there, hanging in midair, framed by the hollow. By what twist of imagination did this happen? How did this outline of his jaw suddenly appear, how did it open now, as if he was just about to call her name?

In a moment, she thought, he would reach for her hand, smiling as if nothing bad could happen. And just like that last time, he would try to lead her over the scaffolding at the tenth floor of his newly erected skyscraper, with the blueprint rolled tightly under his arm. 

She recalled: t
hey had been married for ten years at the time of the accident. Since then, never once did she open her diary. Reluctant to decipher her own handwriting, which had looked different back then, more childish, she kept the book closed.

Let it all be forgotten: their first date, their wedding, honeymoon, because these memories would be followed—how could they not?—by that which had to be blocked: the image of him holding out his hand to guide her over, and the sound of his foot, stumbling. 

But this morning, for some reason, she found the book open. How could that have happened? With a sudden shiver, she turned a page. To her surprise, that didn’t bring back the sight of the void. This time the slanted sky, and the unstable earth below her—crisscrossed by metal poles and wooden planks—didn’t rise up into view. There were no stains, even though she expected them to start spreading at that spot, far down below, where his body had come to its rest. She remembered his head giving a sharp tilt, which had been playing in her mind ever since, over and over and over again, as if he were just about to greet her. But to her amazement, this time there was no splutter.

Yes, a page must have turned...

So she closed her eyes, and brought back the last touch of his hand. It was as firm as ever. His fingers—she could almost feel them around her, all the way to the small of her back—his fingers gave her a sweet, strange feeling, which she had been missing for so long: the feeling of being home. 

That was when, with a clap, she closed the book, then went through the missing door. With one easy step, which helped her ignore how final it was, she was flying, her hair pointing up, blowing wildly in the vertical wind. At first she avoided spreading open her arms, for fear of scraping them against the walls. Then, she heard her laughter, swirling loud and free, because there were no walls, only papery architectural designs around her. Sliding dreamily down, she was closer and closer to where she was headed all these years. 

His kiss.

 

I, Woman

As told by a has-been slab of clay

 

The light in this place is so blinding, so intense, that as far back as I can remember, it has forced me to close my eyes. Now this is about to change. Coming out of a brilliant haze, here is her footfall. Here she is: my Creator. I am clay in her hands. Let her do with me as she pleases; for what am I to do?

Now listen, listen to that sound: the air is vibrating around her. I can feel her breast, it is heaving. I can hear her breathing in, breathing out... Yes, she is coming closer. Is she about to blow life into me? My skin starts shivering. Here, now, is her touch—

She puts a mark on me, pressing the sharp end of a chisel until it stings, it pierces me right here, under my eyelid. I shriek! I cry—but somehow no one can hear me. If I were not reduced to tears, I would pay more attention to this nagging sense, the sense of astonishment in me. Why, why can’t I be heard? Have I lost the ability to make a sound? Then I wonder, did I ever have it? And even in this crinkling, crushing silence, can’t she sense my pain?

It is not until later, when she pulls out the blade, that I become afflicted—for the first time in my life—with vision. To you, vision may be a gift, but I think it a burden. Emerging from the glow that has so far pervaded my existence, I open my eyes.

The haze is gone. Alas, there is not much to see here around me. This is a dim place. A place of doubt. Clutter. Confusion. From this point on, I start sensing shadows. I find myself forced to make some sense of them.

So first, I spot her, the Creator. She is twice as tall as I am. With a heavy step, she paces around the space, coming in and out of my field of vision. Then, looking down, I spot that other presence, which in my blindness I could only guess. Him.

I used to imagine he was flat, a slab of clay. But now, to my surprise, he is no longer that. He, too, has risen from his slumber, yet he is not fully alive. Like me, he is immobile. At first glance he is blurry, gradually turning sharper and gaining more and more definition.

His hand is extended, as if to reach, to touch me. This, I figure, is a gesture of hope; which, out of spite, I may as well turn down. Being so close to him brings me too close to blushing, but I will never allow him to put a hand on me, and neither will she.

With a great deal of precision, the Creator coils a metal wire around the palm of his hand, loops it around and ties it to my fingers, fixing a small distance between us: clay, separation, clay. That way we are close—but not quite intimate.

From time to time, a slight vibration is transmitted from him. It comes through the coils, in a quiver that pierces me all the way through, right into the deepest parts of my flesh. The sound is, for lack of a better word, metallic. It sings about our pain, about the tension between us. I listen, and so does he. Weakness runs through our limbs, it twists in secret places inside us. He does his best to hold still, bravely maintaining his pose. And so do I.

The studio lights fall over him, casting shadow over shadow over the sharp, fragmented features of his face. They combine into a constantly changing countenance of definite indecision. Head tipped back in a most awkward manner, he seems to be straining, somehow, to look up at me. A sentence must have just died on his lips, for they are slightly parted.

Listen, I tell myself... Listen—can you hear?

But no. There is no breath left in him. Maybe there never was. So fragile, so irregular are his ribs that one of them, I think, may be missing.

He falls to his knees right here, at my feet, bending over backwards almost to the point of falling to pieces, and so, greatly straining every wire in his armature. His ankles are chained to a wooden base, where an assortment of chisels, pairs of pliers, sharp implements of every kind, wires thick and thin, hammers and nails are strewn in no apparent order, all around him. Am I chained, too? If so, I cannot tell.

Standing behind him on tiptoe, and leaning ever so lightly against his shoulder, I spread my arms. I feel entirely free—if not for these wires—to fly away. I have no need, I think, for this wooden base; nor do I find any use for this armature. I can tear out my ties. I can leave him. I can take wing! I can fly! Really, I am pretty sure I can.

And yet, it is my curiosity that will not allow me to do so.

For now that I am afflicted with vision, I appreciate how obscure things really are. The sharper the perception—the more complex the interpretation. There is nothing here, I tell myself: nothing but doubt. Every object is merely a shell, a container for so many uncertainties. And so I cannot help but wonder, Who am I? Did she make me in her image?

And who is he? What has happened here between us? What is our story? How will it unfold? How will it end? How much longer will we remain here, connected yet apart, suspended like this in frozen animation? And why, why are we in this place, at this particular moment? For whom are we posing?

Meanwhile, the Creator goes on to define me, curve by curve; tightening a wrinkle here, shaping a muscle there, carving my armpits, my wrists, my fingers, lifting and turning my head, polishing my skin, until—little by little, bit by bit—my body becomes silky smooth and my posture becomes light-footed, and ever more graceful.

And before long I sense a change. No longer am I clay; I am matter no more. Somehow, her touch has awakened a soul in me, teased a divinity out of dirt. I have become an icon, an embodiment of something larger. An eternal quality, an idea, more profound than Beauty, more lasting than Youth.

And so I find myself thinking, I am not an object. I am more than merely a figure. What I am is an idea:

I, Woman.

Can he name me? Can he guess who I am?

I whisper to him, I hint—I nag, even—but he is obstinately silent and furthermore, refuses to hear me. His head seems to hang down even lower than before; which may be explained, I tell myself, simply by the force of Gravity.

I call out to him. I signal in any one of my subtle ways—rising even higher on my tiptoe, stretching out my arms to snap his coils, pressing my weight into his back—but no matter how hard I try, he goes on giving me the the same old, cold shoulder. Leaning against it, I stand there telling myself, Never mind. Let me forget how lonely I am. Let me try to amuse myself. So I invent different names for him. It is the name Adam he ignores most passionately.

Meanwhile she wields the chisel with great flare, gouging his body in several places, and excavating the sockets of his eyes. I know how it must feel. Throughout the process, his jaws remain tightly locked. He may be beside himself with the usual agony; he may be suffering from boredom; or both.

 

“You’re so talented! Such an inspiration,” says a shrill voice just outside the studio.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” says the Creator, as if overcome, all of a sudden, by a sense of humility. “Lucky to walk and talk,” she says, “just like the rest of us.”

“Walk? Talk? Lucky you,” grumbles a deep, melancholy voice from below.

Astonished, I turn my gaze to Adam. It could not have been him—now, could it? He seems so paralyzed, so restrained and so utterly focused on kneeling down in his particular shackled position as to have said absolutely nothing at all.

Meanwhile, she opens the door for the first guest. He offers numerous praises; which she accepts with a mix of visible pleasure and concealed distrust. I can tell she believes none of it—but all the same, praise, to her, is intoxicating. She can never get enough of it, which she will never admit, and which makes her angry with herself as well.

Now if you ask me, the guests are here for no other purpose than to pay tribute to me, as I rise over their heads in the flesh. Being in the nude, modesty has never been my strongest suit. Is it vanity, I ask you, to let them lay eyes on me, to delight in their cheers with such an open, shameless joy, and with no inhibitions whatsoever? Why should I refrain from basking in my own glory?

If you ask me, guilty pleasures are the only ones worth having.

More men come into the studio. Judging by the whistles and claps they do seem, at first blush, to revere me. They examine me all around: front to rear, top to bottom. My figure is so slender, my cheeks so voluptuous, and my bottom so round, that they have no choice but to adore me, and they do so tremendously. In particular, they hold my rump in high regard.

One of them shouts, “What an ass!”

The sentiment, I wish to tell him, is mutual.

But then, upon discovering the horribly disfigured figure at my feet, they tend to shrink away. I can feel them shuddering; yes, shuddering at the thought of coming face to face with their own mortality. I take a look at Adam, finding him in the worst of moods and as lost for words as ever.

Presently the women come in and start laughing at the poor devil. They peer into his vacant eyes, poke fun at his sunken cheeks, even yank at his chains, which makes him rattle on.

I feel so sorry for him. I wish to tell them, Enough! In this place, we are stuck—but not senseless! We are immobile—but not inanimate! We have feelings, for crying out loud!

My coils creak and at once, the women turn their attention to me; more precisely, to my supple breasts, which they seem to admire, and which inspire them to exchange information, detailed information about where to shop for some contraption called a bra. I figure, Oh well, they need support. If you look closely, everyone needs some kind of an armature.

Just then, a baby stumbles into the studio. The little one is so cute I could hug her, take her at once into my clay bosom, if only I were free to move. She points her pink little finger straight at my nipples, and cries hungrily, “Milk!”

Come here. Come to me, little one. Let me nurture you, I murmur. I, Woman.

Which is precisely the instant when, to my astonishment, Adam decides to come out of his silent stupor. And he does so with nothing less than pure poetry on his tongue. His eyes meet mine and then, with the deepest, most dramatic tones I have ever heard, he starts breathing out words:

From dust you gather me; I beg you on my knee

Look away... Imagine me, the way I used to be

Now shadows spread upon me, stain by stain

Make you whole? Sure, I say, Why not! And finding myself aroused—which is quite easy in my state of undress—I tug at his strings as tenderly as I know how. To tell you the truth, I have a soft spot in me, when I think of him... I can truly feel it, deep inside. But then again, I cannot begin to imagine the way he used to be, and I am the last creature in the world to tell him that.

 

Meanwhile, the Creator puts on one of her shoes, and hobbles along the corridor after him, one heel clicking. “No!” she cries, in an unusually high pitch for her. “Stop! What do you think you are doing? Wait—”

He finds no need for explanation, and for her part she finds no reason to wait for one; for she immediately follows up with, “I told you to wait for me, didn’t I? Yes I did. You forgot? It’s no problem? I’m ruined. That’s it! Enough! You’re going to destroy them. I know you will. Too impulsive, is what you are. Reckless fool.”

This bickering, so early in the day, is simply too much for me. So is this abrupt shake, as the man carries us over one final threshold, at which point we cross, quite sharply, from darkness to light.

I have never felt sunshine before—but all of a sudden it brings back a memory, a hazy memory of that glow, that blinding radiance that had pervaded my earlier, more innocent existence. At that moment I wish I could simply close my eyes and go back to being a slab of clay again.

“Careful! No... Slow down,” she cries. “I swear, there will be nothing left of them by the time we get there. All thanks to you.”

The man shrugs her off, which is a tricky thing to do while at the same time carrying the base, carrying us.

“Open the car,” says he.

She takes her time to hop around, to put on her other shoe. Nothing is more urgent than the need to look your finest, I suppose.

“Hurry,” he groans. “This thing is heavier than I thought.”

She pulls out a handkerchief and wipes something under her lashes. Now I can see tears in her eyes and beads of sweat on his upper lip, both of which seem entirely unnecessary to me, for I can convey emotions more purely, through my pose alone, without all that excessive excretion. No need for tears and sweat.

The man bends down, sets us on the pavement and tries to catch his breath. As soon as the car door swings open, it becomes abundantly clear that the space inside may be too confined for Adam and me, not only emotionally speaking—but in a plain and literal sense, and that fitting us in is going to present a major challenge.

At first, great attention is given to the passenger seat. She covers it with a cloth and holds the door open as wide as mechanically possible, and possibly even wider.

He picks us up again, and proceeds to calculate his angle of approach into the car. Somehow, he succeeds in placing Adam and me halfway in—with our left hands spread out directly into the dashboard. It becomes clear that our right hands will not make it through the door without major damage to life and limb.