Crumbs (5 page)

Everybody was looking around.

My acquaintance blushed.

There were three people before the bony poet.

I noticed that all the speakers had dedicated their first poem to the publishers who were such bastards for not wanting to publish their work. From that, there is only one step to self-publishing, like Poet. Maybe he, too, had been a member of such a circle in his youth, how would
I know? I looked around. There were no publishers to be seen. Who were they reading this to?

Themselves.

Again, we clapped a bit.

Two more people.

Applause.

One more.

Her.

I concentrated. Looked her in the eyes.

She sat down at the table and started to read from the sheets in front of her. She had a beautiful, slightly husky and very gentle voice.

She didn't dedicate her first poem to the publishers, even though she hadn't been published either, which made me like her even more.

Her poems weren't bad. There was something that made them stand out from the other lamentations. After three millennia of paper scratching it's still very hard to write poems about the nuances of feeling inside you, without resorting to whining. She finished and I raised my hands to applaud loudly, when a guy sitting in front of me got up. The previous reader. He was wearing a hat, one of those variations on hats worn by soldiers fighting for the Confederacy in the American Civil War, wherever that may be.

I'd applauded him earlier. By mistake. In fact I was applauding my plan for getting another bottle of Cartier aftershave, but he appropriated my self-congratulation for himself.

He started speaking.

I couldn't believe it.

Everybody listened to him respectfully, with full attention. Even those who'd already dozed off, waiting for
their turn. The head of the circle?

‘First, I have to say that this is an example of typically female poetry. Yes, typically female.'

He looked around him.

Into my eyes, too. Eyes that could kill.

‘And that, of course, is inferior poetry per se. It lacks something which is characteristic of all good male poets. Divine inspiration.'

Another look around. Everybody was agreeing.

I felt like a kettle, full of steam. I was boiling, bubbling with fury.

And pure horror joined the anger.

Where am I? Are they serious? Which day is it today? Which year, century?

A sharp chord from an electric guitar cut through my head. A wave from the past.

All the world cannot be wrong

Must be me I don't belong…

The guy continued.

‘Yes, divine inspiration. Women write poetry while in emotional turmoil. When their boyfriend has walked out and so forth. A poet gets up. Early in the morning. He goes into the countryside. Lies on the grass under a tree. He has a pencil and a sheet of paper with him. In pure, unspoiled nature, in the bliss of a new morning, he experiences an inspiration, which I call divine inspiration. And only thus can true poetry be created, the essence of pure beauty.'

I was looking at his face, and in my mind it began mingling with the face of an old man, an academic of high culture. Even their voices seemed to be alternating. First one face would talk with the voice of the other and then
vice versa. Oh, these young poets.

Hahahaha ha ha!!!

I looked at her. She didn't seem upset. She was calmly watching the speaker.

He shut up.

Everybody applauded.

Him.

She got up and left. She pushed the door open, gently. The speaker took his seat.

I tapped him on the shoulder. He looked back into my sincerely enthusiastic face.

‘Congratulations! Congratulations! Well said.'

I offered him my hand.

He took it.

‘Really wonderful.'

I squeezed his hand.

‘Divine inspiration! That's what I really liked.'

Slowly, with pleasure I started to squeeze my fingers together. Strongly.

‘Female poetry! That was good, too.'

Even stronger.

‘Pure nature, yes.'

With all my strength.

‘The essence of beauty, that was the best.'

I was interested to see whether I'd have enough strength break a few of his bones. Probably not.

He was getting taller and taller. His body jerked. He was wriggling in his chair. He didn't want to scream with pain. Anything else but scream.

Silently he looked around for help.

Everybody was asleep again. A few insomniacs were listening to the whining at the table.

He groaned. In a muffled, throaty sort of way.

Tears poured from his eyes. Ran down his cheeks and gathered into half-moon shaped puddles at the bottom of his glasses.

The man at the table finished reading his last poem.

We clapped. Everyone, that is, apart from the head of the circle. He pressed his hands onto his balls and bent forward, maybe expecting to be hit as well. I let him nurse his wounded limb at the source of divine inspiration and stepped outside. I closed the door firmly behind me. If I'd had a hammer and some nails, I'd have permanently nailed the door shut.

The poet was still there. She was slowly finishing her cigarette, looking out onto the lit-up street through the window.

I approached her. Leaned on the left edge of the window. Lit a cigarette and gazed through the windowpane.

Squashing that guy's hand wasn't the right thing to do. I know that you have to fight words with words, often without success. Force proves nothing. My only excuse was that the man had every chance of becoming a bigwig. In a few years he'd have worked his way up. He'd be protected by his status. He couldn't be defeated by words or hands. There's permanent peace up there. So it was necessary to beat him now while he was still young.

I spoke, still turned towards the window.

‘Maybe he's sorry now. When I was leaving he had tears in his eyes.'

I got a cramp in my right hand, so I began stretching and massaging it.

She turned towards me. Looked at my face, then at my hand and my face again, and said, ‘Really?'

I turned towards her. Caught a smile in her eyes.

‘Really,' I confirmed and put on the most innocent
smile I could muster.

‘Is this your first time in this library?'

‘Yes, the first and last time. A friend talked me into coming here.'

‘Me, too.'

She put her cigarette out on the windowsill, leaned back on the wall and turned the light off with her shoulder. She didn't turn it back on.

A police car drove past with its siren on. The blue light flickered over us. The siren moved off. We were silent, watching each other in the intervals of light and darkness caused by car headlights.

‘You are upset nevertheless.'' I broke the silence. It didn't sound like blasphemy. It wasn't that kind of silence.

‘Well you know, these things are very personal. When you write you expose yourself.'

‘If you have anything to expose,' I added, ‘And you have.'

We fell silent again.

Another police car.

‘Let's forget this shit,' I said, ‘Let's kiss a little.'

It seemed to me that I could see surprise in her eyes in the next beam of light. She said neither yes nor no. She didn't move away when I came closer.

I kissed her lightly on her slightly parted lips. Ran my hand through her hair. I liked her scent. I slid my fingers across her skin, and the response of her skin, the sensation under my fingertips gave me pleasure, too. I kissed her again. She opened her mouth. We teased each other with our tongues. With my left hand, I uncovered her shoulder and the light shone on it. I slid my fingers into the opening of her dress, caressed her breasts, slight bulges around pointy nipples. She was good at the tongue game. We got
on very well. I pressed her against the wall, which was covered with books from floor to ceiling. And there, in one and the same place, were the two things I like the most.

Books and women.

Not necessarily in that order.

While still kissing her I pulled up her thin skirt. My palms travelled right up the inside of her legs until I touched the hairs peeping out of her panties. I was considerably taller than she was, which necessitated some special manoeuvres on my part. I moved my palms back down and again slid them up her thighs. Faster and faster I circled towards the hairs but touched them only in passing, always quickly moving away again. My prick threatened to burst through my fly. My trousers rose into a bulge between my legs. We pressed against each other. She wasn't passive anymore, she put her arms around me and bit into my neck.

She moved her head away and said, ‘No, please.'

While her body said yes.

I grabbed her behind. It was small and firm. I lifted the poet up. We looked at each other. I asked, ‘Why not?' And let her slide down my body. With her pelvis over the bump on my trousers.

She sighed deeply. I repeated the manoeuvre. Looked in her eyes. They were cloudy.

‘No,' she whispered. More with a shake of her head than her voice.

I let her down the slide.

Lifted her up again.

‘Why, don't you like it?'

Down again.

‘Please,' she whispered so pleadingly that I stopped. Her body was definitely willing. I put my arms around her shoulders and we sat on the windowsill. She pressed
herself against me.

‘I'd feel like a whore tomorrow morning, you know. At home there's a man I love, with our child, waiting for me. It does feel good, but I'd have such a moral hangover tomorrow.'

‘I understand.' I offered her a cigarette. She accepted it and we lit up.

‘But look, I see it all as a game. I like being here with you, kissing, fondling you. We don't have to fuck, just be together. So…'

‘Yes, I know, but I can't look at it like that. Maybe I take it all too seriously. Maybe all women are like that, I don't know.'

We slowly finished our cigarettes. A wave of applause came from inside the room.

‘I've earned it.'

She smiled and agreed.

‘Really, thank you.'

She put out her cigarette. She smoked faster than me.

She paused a few inches from my face.

‘I'm going,' she said softly and apologetically. If I'd reached for her and pulled her towards me, she'd have stayed.

Our lips touched.

Very, very gently.

She stepped towards the door. Paused in the streetlight. We looked at each other. Again I caught a smile in her eyes. She said, ‘You really do kiss well.'

‘Yes, I regularly attend the literary evenings.'

‘And you read Raymond Chandler,' she added over her shoulder and disappeared.

Another round of applause.

I liked her. Only now for real. I turned towards the
window. With a single drag I finished the rest of my cigarette. Burned a bit of the filter. I couldn't see her. She didn't go down the street. She must live in the other direction.

And again a bittersweet sadness. A quiet regret. When we meet next time, if there is a next time. It won't be the same. It'd never be the same again. I'd tried it before. I put the cigarette out on the window and left.

Fuck it, nothing but leaving all the time. I'd like to know how we ever find the time to arrive so often.

The night was all car headlights colliding with passersby. I went towards the campus. Juggling with numbers of blocks of flats, floors, and rooms in my head, trying to visualise the faces of the girls I knew behind these combinations of numbers. I soon gave up. When I got there I'd rely on my sight and compare the pictures with the ones I remembered. I didn't feel like going into any bars. I did, however, look through the windows into the well-lit rooms. Maybe I'd see another beer. A crowd of people had gathered in front of the cinema for the last performance. A little bit away from the crowd stood Selim, leaning on the wall. He had his left side turned towards me. His right hand was hidden behind his body.

He greeted me.

I gingerly returned the greeting and added, ‘Did you cut it badly?'

The hand came out of its hiding place. The bandage shone in the light from an advertisement panel.

He blushed like a tomato.

I started to give him fatherly advice.

‘Hey, you don't steal posters just like that. Smashing the glass with your bare hands. Couldn't you have picked up a stone at least?'

His embarrassment was subsiding, the blood was draining from his head.

‘I don't know what came over me. I went past the cinema on the way to my room at the dormitory and I saw it there. I went nearer and looked at her. And then suddenly I was holding her in my hands. Only the broken glass under my feet woke me up. In my room I noticed the blood on my hand and then drops of blood in the corridor.'

I asked a woman who was lighting up with her back towards us for a cigarette, and she gave me one.

‘Are you coming to the cinema with me?' he asked.

I looked in the direction of the campus, then back at Selim.

I nodded. He went to buy a ticket for me. He'd been clutching his in his left hand all along.

I finished my cigarette. A stream of people started moving towards the entrance. I joined in and met Selim half way. I stepped through the entrance sheltered by his wide shoulders. I noticed a look which the woman collecting tickets gave to her colleague opposite.

They both found it hard to stop themselves from laughing.

We sat down and made ourselves comfortable.

I looked at Selim's profile and wanted to colour it red.

‘Well, Selim, fourth time lucky, eh?'

I succeeded. A wonderful colour. He was saved from my gloating look by the darkness, interrupted only by the ray of light running from the film projector towards the screen. He'd been to all three previous performances of this film. It was only when the opening sequence started rolling that I realised which movie I was watching. The title was
Maria's Lovers
. It starred Nastassja Kinski. The same one as in
Tess
. During the performance, I kept looking
sideways at Selim's profile, which looked completely still as if it was carved out of stone. He was somewhere else, wherever that may be. When the lights came on he got up like a sleepwalker and went out. I followed him past the illuminated poster. I was half expecting him to smash the glass. It didn't happen.