Manly Art

I’m driving along the boulevard, passing by Hemingway’s childhood home. I peer at the crowds coming and going. Since the major renovation in 2001, the place has always been packed. Tourists of all races, mostly white, come from all over the world. I watch them as I slowly pass by. I ease off the gas pedal and stay alert. The street is full of children. I stay silent and watch.

smiles and conversations

oranges under the sun

parade of clothes and vanity

I continue down the street, toward the old part of the neighborhood. Everything there bears his name. Bar “Papa,” bar “Men Without Women,” bar “Kilimanjaro,” restaurant “The Old Man and the Sea,” bookstore “The Lost Generation,” even the dry cleaner’s “Spring Waters.” Mostly bars. The street is packed with them on both sides. I stop at the parking lot in front of the bar “To Have and Have Not.” I smile. I take my notebook and pencil, get out, and put 1.50 lev in coins into the meter in front of the car. I enter the bar. It’s dark inside, although the sun is at its peak outside. Soft music drifts from an old, rusty jukebox in the corner. I sit at a table by the window. A full mug appears in my hand. The waitress moves away with light, fluid steps. Several people sit hunched over at the bar. They have their backs to me, but I see their faces reflected in the large mirrors opposite. That doesn’t make me feel any better. They don’t care. I look through the window at the people walking along the street. There are many, and of all kinds. One of the thousands jogging for health clatters by. At his heels follows an anthracite-black shepherd dog. Its tongue is out, and it imagines endless meadows. I drink my beer slowly. Through the glass, the trees look like they have brown leaves, and the sunlight turns their color to fire. My lips are wet from the beer; I don’t wipe them on my sleeve but keep watching outside.

mailmen’s trucks

salty scent from the lake in the air

mothers with children, men, men, men

I want to write something manly. It’s high time to start my novel. The plot is somewhere here. I open my notebook and write:

“The music from the club below was muffled through the floor. The old bed creaked. Empty and crushed beer cans rolled underneath. She lay beneath him and moaned, trying to coax him to finish the act. Her hands appeared from under his armpits. Fingers tipped with incredibly long and bright red nails stood upright, as if afraid to touch his sweaty back. Several minutes passed without a change in the cyclic actions. Suddenly, he hastened, and his back arched further in greasy sweat. He groaned, growled, and turned to the other side. She got up and, with smooth movements of her juicy backside, headed for the bathroom. The sound of running water was heard. When she came out after ten minutes, wrapped in a towel, he was dressed. She picked up two bills from the nightstand. She told him they hadn’t agreed on that. One hundred, not seventy. The man replied that such lousy shaking wasn’t worth a hundred bucks in any way. The girl smiled thinly and menacingly and told him that if she were in his place, she’d pay right away. He laughed. What could you do to me, baby, he said, you don’t even have a pimp. The woman continued smiling the same way. He took a step toward the door and stopped. The girl had grabbed his stiff leather belt and was pulling. The man smiled, baring red gums with rusty, rotten teeth. He turned. He was a head taller than her and weighed twenty kilos more. Get lost, baby, he said and swung lightly. She bent quickly, and his hand brushed the air. His leg was faster. He kicked her in the stomach, and she flew back. She fell to the floor but immediately got up and screamed hoarsely. She rushed toward him. He waited calmly for her to come closer and slammed his big fist into her face. The girl collapsed on the floor. Thin streams of blood flowed from her nose and mouth. He bent down, pulled the towel off her, then wiped his hands. The female body on the floor whimpered and trembled. Baby, little baby, you’re such trash, the man said and took the bills that had fallen on the floor. He went to the bathroom, cupped water from the sink, and splashed his face. When he returned to the room, he saw she had gotten up and was looking him in the eyes. Her arms hung at her sides; her legs trembled. Blood dripped on her bare breasts from her nose and mouth. I don’t like whores, baby, who knows what you might’ve given me, he said and headed for the door. She screamed again, this time quietly. With one jump, she stood in front of him. Something shone in her eyes. Come on, enough of this game, or you really won’t leave this room, he said through clenched teeth. He pushed her lightly on the chest, and she fell backward onto the bed. The old springs creaked weakly and brought her back to the starting position, even intensifying the motion from the fall. She raised her hands forward and started hitting him all over his body and face. But light hits, almost caresses. The man was surprised and didn’t react. He only laughed. She continued sliding her hands with open palms over his body, running her fingers over his chest, throat, face, eyes, ears. A hissing sound was heard as her nails touched his skin without even scratching him. He grinned, baring his rotten teeth. The girl stopped, out of breath, and took several quick steps back. He hid his smile, growled throatily, and stepped toward her. And that was it. His leg froze in midair. A look of surprise appeared on his face. The entire front of his body began to redden. He quickly raised his hand and felt his face. His hand turned red. Some hot, gurgling sound rose from his throat and turned into a wild scream. His face began to take on a strange shape. Thin, hairlike strips of flesh spread open, and blood flowed from them. Streams and pools of thick, sticky blood. His eyeballs split in several places, oozing yellowish mucus. He slammed into the bed frame and collapsed on the floor. His entire face was a bloody pulp. He kept screaming. A dark puddle formed beneath his body. New long openings appeared everywhere, immediately pouring blood. He whimpered and tried to say something but couldn’t. His hands stretched out weakly and pleadingly toward the girl. Rasping sounds choked his torn throat. His entire body shook with convulsions and stopped. It became very quiet in the room. Only the sound from the club downstairs and the quiet dripping of blood could be heard. The man’s body lay in its own fluid. The girl hadn’t moved the entire time. She looked at the sprawled body with hatred. She stared a few more minutes and, once sure he wouldn’t move anymore, approached and spat on what remained of his face. The saliva slowly dripped down, mingled with the red liquid, and splashed into the puddle. She reached into his pocket with disgust and pulled out a leather wallet. She took all the bills and credit cards and threw it on the floor. She put on her jeans and went to the bathroom. She turned the water on until it got hot and carefully soaped her hands. She washed the tops of her fingers and then turned them over. Under the long nails appeared small metal blades attached to each one. They looked like miniature razors stuck to the nails. Only the thumbs and index fingers lacked them. Under two of the nails, the metal blades were broken. The girl held her fingers under the hot water stream. The dried blood and pink flesh collected underneath flowed down the drain. She carefully wiped her hands, put on a T-shirt hanging on the bathroom door, and left...”

I leave the pencil beside the empty mug. I think about Hemingway. They say he had a constant and insatiable sexual appetite. In an African village he often visited during his trips to that continent, he had a whole harem of dark-skinned concubines. I don’t understand that. I think about entirely different things. Different. Like worlds in words in worlds. I chew the pencil and lift my gaze. At the neighboring table sit a mother and daughter. The mother ordered a sandwich and a glass of white wine, and the child drinks a banana shake. She is a little girl, blonde, smiling, and beautiful. She noisily sips the yellow banana liquid through a straw and smiles at the world. I feel warm; I smile too—the man inside me is alive.

sun and bananas

the world keeps turning

few things are important

I lean over and read the text in the notebook again. It’s not weak, not at all! But is this what I’m looking for? How can there be such beauty a meter from me and such darkness in my words? Do I have to play the game this way? I wave an imaginary hand. That doesn’t interest me now. I keep watching the two bodies across from me. The big and the small. The jukebox music has faded. In the corner of the bar, a TV flickers with muted sound. Cars clatter hurriedly outside. I decide I won’t visit his childhood home today. I need more time to do that. I don’t know why, but I just feel that way. There will be many more like him, but not quite... not like that... whatever. I raise my hand to the waitress; she sees me and comes. I order another. My hand already grips the cold glass. I smile and lift it, in honor of someone who isn’t here. I hold it like that for a whole minute. I drink and put it back on the table. I open the notebook again...

I decide to write something else

and I write it