A Matter of Love in da Bronx (20 page)

And he knew it for absolutely double-sure when they both started to say: --A mere bagatelle...!

--What?

--No, you.

--No, you. What were you going to say?

--She caught his eye and held it until she started to speak, then lowered her head, as if it were a holy moment. --I started to say, a mere bagatelle before the fact that we create our own atmosphere wherever we may we may be or go...

Wow! It seemed she was blushing, but he wasn't sure. Then, he was positive when he said that was exactly what he had in mind.

So, wonderment, too, there was in the short span of time that came from the acknowledgement of the innumerable levels of communication the both of them so speedily reached. As if they'd practiced the same secret language in separate spheres only to confirm their mutual facility in this one, basing their elation on the idea that if silence isolates, communication enraptures. Transfer of information through speech a civilized process; inferential propositions the store of reason, but, for Sam, those basic truths that intrinsically blossomed through intuition those he trusted most. --That inner voice that tells us things we have no right to know or understand, yet, do; which we sometimes listen to, and other times not. I've regretted only those moments to which sounds from within I've turned my unhearing ear. I remember best the clarion that warned me you were in Eden Farms last Monday, that your presence filled the air, and finally that you were on the bus, and I searched you out and found you! Yes! I did!

--But take a warning! We shall never meet again. On one level I say it because I don't want him to think I'm easy.

--You're only saying that because you don't want me to think you're easy. See, that's the way it goes. Don't answer the first knock or the first ring of the telephone, and decline politely on the first offer then grab it with both hands on the second.

--Not entirely. I don't want my father to kill me. I don't want my father to kill you. Murder is civilization short-circuited. That's no sanctuary air that permeates the atmosphere here around us; it's the cold breath of slaughterous contemplations. What disturbs him? I can see it in his eyes. Doesn't he know how deep it is?

Only the sincerity in her voice prevented him from running into the storm shelter of his mind which he was hair-triggered to do whenever he was out in "their" world... Nevertheless, he was caught out in the open, his guts in plain view, sliced neat through with a very sharp razor? Perhaps. As if she has to spell it out why it's a one-time date. --I'll take my moments one by one. You don't want to be with me because...because...

--Aiyyyyy! What's the matter, matamata?

--What's the matter, Matamata?

--Yes, Matamata, what's the matter?

--What's a matamata?

--I'm no mata. You're a matamata.

--And a matamata is a...?

--Turtle.

--Oh!

--Look at me. This is no charity date. That's the truth. Let's stick to that subject--truth, okay? Look, you're no Robert Redford. For that matter, I'm no Sigourney Weaver. That explanation is total. Period. Now, we can't be seen together. Your family would kill me, or my family would kill you. Maybe we could even have a double killing ceremony, what do I know? When my father has a couple glasses of wine, he wants to drag his wheel chair to your father's house and lay rubber tracks across Germano Scopia's back. What a waste, all his hate; he's got enough to include the whole Communist party. So, forget it! A Scopia-Dolorosso kiss-and-make-up party? It's not going to happen. And I know it hasn't crossed your mind, or you would've mentioned it, how do I know you're not married with seven kids, and you want me to risk my life for an insipid intermezzo? Or even for an exciting interlude! And maybe I'm committed! God! Look how down deep I've gone inside myself to put this fellow off! What the hell's the matter with me? It wasn't excitement that made me agree to this meeting! It was plain madness! I slipped a cog. Well, it's good that you end it. Don't start anything then don't have to worry about how to stop it. Good girl.

She talks plain enough, though I've never had anyone think of my face and Robert Redford's together in the same week. As for her, she's the damn sexiest thing I ever saw from Cleopatra down to the lip puckerings of Marilyn Monroe! What thoughts chase through my mind! How would they feel up against my cheek, just barely touching, not even leaving lipstick...? --If you thought I had responsibilities, or you had any, you'd never agree to see me the first time. The fact: I'm not married; I never have been. I've never lived with anyone. I don't have any children, known or unknown. I can only tell you, I'm attracted to you, I'm very happy to be with you right now--for however long it lasts. But, I'm not here to cause you any trouble whatsoever, not from me, my family, anybody. ...Wait...I should correct something because it might give you the wrong impression. It's not a lie. The known and unknown business. I don't have any kids. Period.

God! What am I getting into? He's coming at me too fast, too straight. I don't know if I want to get tangled up in this problem; don't I have enough of my very own? --Look, I have to leave soon. Cigarette. Big drag. Puff.

--Go when you like. I suggest you go to work on your dinner first. You might enjoy it. I sure can't eat both. Besides, I never ordered a roast beef rare on a bulky roll with a Moosehead before in my whole life! I mean...you don't have to; you can take it with you, if you want.

--No, I...ah...it's very nice of you. To take me out to dinner. I'm sorry it has to be this way. Why aren't you eating?

--I'm not hungry. You want to know about the problems between our families? I'm not sure I've got the whole story. You tell me yours, I'll tell you mine.

--You speak quite plain.

--Quite plainly, too. That fringes one of my pet peeves. We all see ourselves and the world differently than the rest of the world sees us and thinks of themselves; the difference is not that it is an area of dispute, nor of the expression of individuality; rather, the degrees of ignorance fostered by a lack of candor and proper communication.

--That impresses me! It does! He's a thinker. Not just stormsewer ordinary! And you don't have to be so defensive! I told you my biggest concern, and I expect you to respect it only. Now, don't mock me or make little of it unless you present a pretty good argument against my feelings--which you haven't done so far. Also, it's evident you've got a problem not brought on with me, because I just met you. You're very sensitive, and you expect me to read your mind to know what it is and where to tread carefully. Surprise! I can't do that! You tell me if there's a problem, and I'll work around it.

Can't you see I think you don't like me? And I guess I'm just crazy about you? So when you say you don't want to be here, I've got to feel that it's just because of me and not anything external at all. Now, how was your sandwich?

--I want you to know the sandwich is delicious! I mean, these people know what they're doing when you talk about eating delicatessen!

--I was just going to ask you...about the sandwich. I really want to ask about staying with you all night, all day, all week, all the rest of my life, that's what I really want to ask, and you're so smart you change the subject so adroitly you think I didn't notice but I still want to ask to see you another time.

--So? Ask me right out.

--I want to see you again.

--No. I told you why, because of the family, and that's the truth so don't go sensitive on me and pull a matamata.

--That's certain-certain?

--Positively.

--Then I might as well let it all out. Now, it's going to take a lot for me to come right out with this because ordinarily I don't spend long hours over dinner with a date in a deli. In fact, you're my first...nude...

--You're anticipating a little too much, aren't you? Quaint. From `Hello!" to ~Let's fuck!" without any foreplay! He gets right to it. Not like the B.S. from...? What the heck was his name? Some friend of Louisa's. So what? There he was telling me in a word that he was a virgin. That he never once saw a real woman, all of her. That he never got laid. If he thought he was winning my sympathy, he got it! But not as he expected! First, I know about virgin, and though it may be a sorry state, but not as bad as that character had in mind for me. I wonder if that routine ever worked on anyone else. Guess it's supposed to make the mother instinct gush forth or maybe just an ego trip to be the first, or something; or, just to use as an excuse to pull down your pants? Was he upset? Remember? When I told him he had a great thing going for him, and he should save it so he and his wife can become un-virgins at the same time! What a night that would have to be!

--No anticipation. I've already seen you with as much clothing on as that hard pickle on your plate. That's real smart, there, Duke! First embarrass her, then make her feel like a fool. It just may be another thirty-five years before you get another date in a deli.

--You mean it?

--Yes, I mean it. And you believe me, or you wouldn't be blushing.

--Just the thought of it.
Siame tutte assieme.
I can't possibly imagine where you--anyone--could see me...without clothes on. I'm...a rather private person in all ways.

--That's almost a bad choice of word. You don't mean `private,' you mean bashful. You should say things are as they really are. Not `without clothes on;' it's plainer to say `nude.' Or naked. Or naked nude. But, I saw you any way you want to say it. Look! She's at a disadvantage. Retreating. Looking for cover, both in her mind and here in the deli. Is that good? The worse she can do is start to get up to leave, then if she does, you just fall to the floor on your knees, and beg her to grind her heels up your nose as you beg her to stay. She'll stay. She's interested in who's seen her bareassed naked.

--We only just met. You couldn't possibly... I'm not talking to you until you tell me exactly where. Just one word: Where you saw me! Maybe this is a new line. Who knows? No one else ever came up with this. If he says in his dreams, I'll hit him with a bagel, and leave!

--I...

--...One word, where?

--Time! Like, time out? Please! If I answer and say, `In my dreams,' you'll hit me with the sugar dispenser, and leave... Look at her eyes light up! I must be doing something right! Okay, hold on. One word? Home.

--You saw me, in the nude, naked nude, in my home?

--Yes.

--In the bathroom?

--No.

--The bedroom?

--No. The kitchen.

--The kitchen? Out of your mind! What kind of a perverted joke is that? I never once in my whole life ever stood naked in the kitchen of my home. Ever. What's he trying to pull? I always wore my robe. And it was always closed up the front.

--I swear to God. In your kitchen. I saw you. I saw everything.

--So what? It was getting tiring. An interesting little diversion, but now it was getting boring because he was drawing it out too long. So what if you saw everything? What I've got is not so unique, you know?

--Is that so? Let me tell you how unique. And let me tell you everything. You go ahead and eat. I'll talk, okay? Okay. You had to be...seven? About seven years old. It was July, riding a hot summer. My mother sent me to your house to deliver something...groceries...to your mother. I walked into the kitchen. Your mother took the bag, left, and told me to wait. That's when I saw you were there. Not a stitch on. Except sucking on a toy. And your eyes, big as pizzas staring at me, staring at me, then, I guess you stared at me staring at you. I think my mouth fell open, slackjawed, when I saw. There it was. Chirpy's secret. Right there before me. To look at all I wanted. You didn't have the stuff sticking out of you like was sticking out of me. I was looking right at where your legs came together, and there was a half a pudgy-cup, involuted right down the middle like a parenthesized apostrophe. You know--(!)--like that? I don't remember how long I gaped at your vulva, but sometime then an explosion went off in my brain. In that split second I was able to fathom the strange sensation that ran rampant through my body, and its association with the whole and entire workings of the world. However old I was then, ten, say, it was clear, that was the best understanding I'd ever have of what this world meant. I don't know how I knew. Transcendentally? I just knew. This was the lodestone of life. What I saw before me was the magic. I saw you nude, and I saw woman's sex, and that awakened the maleness in me. I knew then that I was a boy. My perception was instantaneous that my penis was made to go into your patucka, as the boys referred to something girl's had that I didn't know about which was known to be "dirty" talk. That same revelation told me that when the boy thing and the girl thing came together it was fucking. Somewhere in the secret and dark snickerings of guy talk it was mentioned that this was how people made babies. Now,
that
was magic. Some of the exact mechanics had to be worked out in my mind, for instance, how a limp thing used to pee could be used for anything else. And what created that volcanic eruption just below my belly button when I saw this naked little girl? I'd never experienced anything like it before. Another question that remained unanswered for year! Was there anything else that could create this same sensation? No, this same exquisitely delightful sensation? But, there you were that day, standing before me, sucking on a toy, and I glued my eyes on that little slit between your legs for ten minutes, maybe it was an hour, I don't know, before you turned your little bare ass to me and ran away leaving me instantly and deeply depressed, and I seemed to think you knew exactly what you were doing and what you were depriving me of, and loving every second of it. From then on, I used to beg my mother to send me on errands to Aunt Lily's house, until the feud, and though I saw you every time, you were never as revealing as that first time, although the image of you was burned into my brain. So, you see, we go back a long way, but you must take my word for it, something I recognize and know this very instant without any forethought that I need never ever see you that way again if I could but just see you the rest of my life. That's a lot of crockery, right? That's what you think? I knew you'd think me strange. I'm a strange fellow with strange ways--that is when you compare my ways to the rest of the worlds. So? I've been forthright, and you're curious. You'd like to ask me if I'd like to take another look at your pudgy-cup? As a matter of actual fact, I don't, and you must believe me. Don't take it personally; understand it has nothing to do with lack of anatomical curiosity, or sexual dysfunction of the brain. For one, I'm abdicating from humanity, and rising above Nature. I'd be interested in seeing you because of you, nude or otherwise. Now, let's understand this sex thing. The rest of the whole and entire world gets involved with this because they must. There is no alternative. Fuck the world will because fuck the world must. Humans, in our civilized way, call it love. On the scale of consent--the only distinguisheri--its handmaidens range from love to rape. We like to believe it is given and it is received by choice, although, that is really not so because if we didn't find an approved manner in which to perform we'd all be back to our season of rut. Except me. I transcend all undirectable drives. My loving you means I need not ever touch you, not because I couldn't or wouldn't, but because I need not! And not in so simple a case if I were castrated, but, rather, even if I had a raging, erect penis in the place of each and every one of my fingers and toes! Can you now understand how stratospheric a gift I offer you? No. I can see you don't. I can see you cannot conceive of a love as mine remaining earthbound with the flush in your face that indicates you as an earthling would just as soon go the route of all others and get laid, and call it love, and call it life, and call it living. Well, my love for you is perfect so I can make it perfect for you and I could do that sex thing, too, so what does it matter who understands to what heights my feelings attain as long as I could but love you. --You know, I could get to like you very much.