Soul Mountain (55 page)

“Don’t think about anything else while you’re dancing.” You have just met her, and are dancing together for the first time when she says this to you.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“When you’re dancing just dance, don’t put on an act of being lost in thought.”

You laugh.

“Be a bit more earnest, put your arms around me.”

“All right,” you say.

She giggles.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Can’t you hold me tighter?”

“Of course.”

You hold her tight and become aware of the springiness of her breasts and the fragrant warmth of her neck from her open-neck top. The room is dark, the table lamp in the corner has been covered with an open black umbrella and the faces of the couples dancing are indistinct. The tape recorder is playing soft music.

“This is good,” she says quietly.

Your breathing blows the soft strands of hair brushing against your cheek.

“You’re lovely,” you say.

“What are you saying?”

“I like you but this is not love.”

“It’s better that way, love is stressful and wearisome.”

You say you feel the same way.

“We’re two of a kind,” she says with feeling and with a smile.

“A perfect match.”

“But I wouldn’t marry you.”

“Why would you want to?”

“But I really want to get married.”

“When?”

“Maybe next year.”

“That’s a long way off.”

“It wouldn’t be with you next year either.”

“That goes without saying, but who will you marry?”

“Sooner or later I’ll have to marry someone.”

“Just anyone?”

“Not necessarily. Anyway, sooner or later I’ll have to get married.”

“And then get divorced?”

“Maybe.”

“Then we’ll dance together again.”

“But I still wouldn’t marry you.”

“Why would you want to?”

“There’s something nice about you.” She really seems to mean it.

You thank her.

Through the glass window the lights from countless homes can be seen. These lights, some on and some off, go up in a regular manner and belong to building after building of the same rectangular box-style high-rise residences. A couple suddenly starts to whirl around in the small room and crashes into your back. You quickly come to a stop and hug her.

“Don’t think I’m praising how you dance,” she seizes the chance to start up again.

“I’m not a professional dancer.”

“Then why do you dance? To get close to women?”

“There are ways of getting even closer.”

“You’ve got a sharp tongue.”

“That’s because your tongue never stops.”

“All right, I’ll keep quiet.”

She snuggles against you and you close your eyes. Dancing with her is sheer bliss.

You meet again one night in the middle of autumn, when a chilly north-west wind is blowing. You are riding your bicycle into the wind and from time to time, chased by the wind, leaves and scraps of paper on the road fly up into the air. You decide to drop in on an artist friend to wait for the weather to calm down a bit before going on and turn off into a small lane lit by a dim yellow street light. Only one solitary person can be seen walking ahead with his head huddled down into his coat. You feel wretched.

In this dark little courtyard, there is a faint, flickering light coming from his window. You knock on the door and a deep voice answers. He opens the door and warns you to watch out for the step because it is dark. The room is lit by a small candle which flickers from a sawn coconut shell.

“This is great,” you say, really appreciating the warmth. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing in particular,” he replies.

It is very warm in the room. He is only wearing a bulky woollen pullover and his hair is a mess. The chimney has already been fitted on the heater-stove for the winter.

“Are you sick?” you ask.

“No.”

Something moves by the candle, you hear the springs creak on his dilapidated old sofa and realize that a woman is sitting at one end of it.

“You’ve got a guest?” you say apologetically.

“It’s all right.” Pointing to the sofa he says, “Sit down.”

It is then that you see it is her, she lethargically puts out a limp and soft hand to shake. She is wearing her hair long and she blows away a loose strand hanging over the corner of her eye. You joke with her.

“If I remember rightly, your hair wasn’t as long before.”

“Sometimes I wear it up, sometimes I have it down, you simply didn’t notice.” She smiles petulantly.

“Do you know one another?” your artist friend asks.

“We danced together at a friend’s place.”

“You still remember.” There is a tinge of sarcasm in her voice.

“Is it possible to forget having danced with someone?” you say, sniping back.

As he pokes the stove, the dark red fire lights up the paper canopy on the ceiling.

“Do you want a drink?”

You say you’re just passing by and can only stay for a short time.

“I’m not doing anything in particular either,” he says.

“It’s all right . . .” she adds, quietly.

Afterwards, they both fall silent.

“You two go on with what you were talking about,” I say. “I came in to warm up, there’s been a cold snap. When the wind dies down a bit, I’ll be on my way.”

“No, you’ve come just at the right time,” she says. Again there is a silence.

“It would be more accurate to say I’ve come at the wrong time.” You think you really should make a move to go but your friend doesn’t wait for you to start getting to your feet. He presses you down by the shoulders and says, “As you’re here, it will be possible to talk about something else. We’ve already finished saying what we were saying.”

“You two go ahead, I’ll just listen.” She curls up on the sofa and only the outline of her pale face is visible, her lovely nose and mouth.

After quite some time, she turns up on your doorstep at noon one day.

“How did you know where I live?”

“Aren’t I welcome?”

“Quite the opposite. Come in, come in.” Your get her to come inside and ask if your artist friend had given her your address. In the past you had only seen her in dim lighting and didn’t dare say it was her for sure.

“Maybe, maybe it was someone else, is your address a secret?” she answers with a question.

You say you hadn’t thought she would honour you with a visit and that you are indeed greatly honoured.

“You’ve forgotten it was you who invited me.”

“That’s also quite possible.”

“And it was you who gave me the address, had you forgotten that too?”

“I must have,” you say. “Anyway, I’m really pleased you’ve come.”

“How can you not be pleased with a model coming?”

“You’re a model?” You’re even more surprised.

“I’ve done modelling, moreover nude modelling.”

You say, unfortunately, you’re not an artist but that you do do some amateur photography.

“Do people who come always have to stand?” she asks.

You hasten to point around the room. “Make yourself at home, feel free to do whatever you like. By looking at this room you can tell that the owner doesn’t have rules and regulations.”

She sits herself down by the desk, glances around and says, “The place looks like it needs a woman owner.”

“If you’d like to be, but it would only be owning the owner of the room, because the property rights to the room don’t belong to the owner of the room.”

Each time you meet you engage in verbal sparring, but you mustn’t lose to her.

“Thanks.” She takes the tea you have made and smiles. “Let’s talk about something serious.”

She’s ahead again. You only have time to say, “All right.”

After you fill your own cup and sit on the chair at the desk, you relax and turn to her.

“We can start by discussing what to talk about. By the way, are you really a model?”

“I was an artist’s model but I’m not anymore.” She blows away some strands of hair hanging on her face.

“May I ask why?”

“He got sick of painting me and found someone else.”

“Painters are like that, I know. They can’t spend a whole lifetime painting the one model.” You have to defend your artist friend.

“Models are the same, they can’t live just for the one painter.”

She’s right, of course. You must get off the topic.

“But are you actually a model? I’m asking about your occupation, is that job?”

“Is that so very important?” She laughs again, she’s quite ingenious, always one step ahead of you.

“It’s not all that important. I’m just asking so that I’ll know what to talk about, so that I can talk about something which might be of interest to both you and me.”

“I’m a doctor,” she says with a nod. And before you get a chance to follow up, she asks, “Can I smoke?”

“Of course, I smoke too.”

You move the cigarettes and ashtray across the table to her.

She lights a cigarette and inhales the smoke.

“You don’t look like one,” you say, starting to catch onto her game.

“That’s why I said what I do is unimportant. When I said I was a model, did you think I really was?” She tilts her head back and slowly exhales the smoke.

And when you say you’re a doctor are you really a doctor? But you don’t articulate this.

“Do you think all models are frivolous?” she asks.

“Not necessarily, modelling is serious work, and there’s nothing bad in exposing one’s body, I’m talking about nude modelling. If nature endows one with beauty, then to present nature’s beauty can only be considered magnanimous, it has nothing at all to do with frivolity. Furthermore a beautiful human body is superior to any artwork. Art is invariably pale and insipid compared to nature and only a lunatic would think that art is superior to nature.”

You prattle away with passion and conviction.

“Then why are you involved in art?” she asks.

You say you haven’t got the expertise for art and are just a writer, saying what you want to say and whenever you want to.

“But writing is also a form of art.”

You insist that writing is a technical skill.

“It just requires learning the technique, like you for example, you’ve learnt how to operate with a scalpel. I don’t know if you’re a surgeon or a physician but that’s not important. As long as you acquire the technique anyone can write just like anyone can learn how to use a scalpel.”

She laughs.

You go on to say you don’t believe that art is sacrosanct, art is just a way of life. People have different ways of life, art can’t represent everything.

“You’re very intelligent,” she says.

“You’re not exactly stupid yourself,” you say.

“But some people are stupid.”

“Who?”

“Artists. They only perceive with their eyes.”

“Artists have artists’ modes of perception, they rely more on visual perception than writers.”

“Can visual perception allow one to understand a person’s intrinsic value?”

“I don’t think so, but the crux of the matter is what is value? This differs according to the individual, people have their own ways of looking at this. It is only for those with similar values that different values have any meaning. I won’t be ingratiating and say that you are beautiful and I don’t know whether you are all beautiful inside, but I can say that it is enjoyable talking with you. Don’t people exist in order to have some pleasure? Only fools go out looking for unhappiness.”

“I also feel happy when I am with you.”

While saying this she unthinkingly picks up your key from the table and starts toying with it. You can see she is unhappy, so you start talking about the key with her.

“What key?” she asks.

“The key in your hand.”

“What about the key?”

You say you lost it.

“Isn’t it here?” She shows you the key in her hand.

You say you thought you had lost it but right now it is in her hand.

She puts the key back on the table suddenly stands up and says she is leaving.

“Is there something urgent?”

“Yes,” she says, then adds, “I’m married.”

“Congratulations,” you say with a tinge of bitterness.

“I’ll come again.”

That’s a relief. “When?”

“When I’m feeling happy. I won’t come when I’m unhappy and make you unhappy. Nor when I am particularly happy–”

“That’s obvious, suit yourself.”

You also say you’d like to believe she will come again.

“I’ll come and talk to you about the key you lost!”

She tosses her head and her hair falls about her shoulders, then with an enigmatic smile she walks out the door and goes down the stairs.