And people? Where are the people? Well, they're on the left and the right, sitting in such a way that they can't be seen from the window, beyond the reach of your gaze…
Rustle in the morning. Snow. Through the half-closed eyelashes, without his glasses – near-sighted – from a lonely hotel bed, with anxious interest: snow.
Suddenly he rememberes his two wives. With one he stared out the window – young he was, twenty two – kissing luxuriously and languorously. Luxurious this woman was, languorous. They stared at the snow. The scent of some kind of perfume, an October-novemberish phonograph record, and sadness. With the other one too, he more than once – out into the open window – catching the flakes with hair and lips. How happy he was!
Aimless motion. Instead of reading with a dictionary, a smart American book that's good for his ambition, he wastes a whole hour staring at the window recalling his high-school knowledge. The altitude of the clouds, maybe it depends on the wind? And over the Atlantic too? It melts in the water? Emptiness. The poor fish! Cold. The poor dead in the ground. Br-r-r! Frightened, he bares his arm. God forbid dying in winter. Snow. Apparently all day long.
Nowhere to go. Parents aren't waiting – there are none. Friends aren't waiting – there are none. The lover isn't waiting – he or she doesn't exist. The work isn't waiting – there's none – it's merged with me. Drinking buddies aren't waiting – I quit drinking. It stinks. Why get up at all?
What's funny is that it snows upwards too.
Bangs over his eyes, he sways and strokes – through the pants – the useless prick.
There was this girl. Ugly. Used to call her at night, then go to her. Pounced on her right by the door. She was ecstatic, then asked to meet during daytime. Said she loved me: ruined everything. In the mornings, in the American room with Beardsley, Yves Montand slowly sang. It was much better at night. Without taking off his coat, right on the floor.
«Strawberry Jam,» $1.79. In the mornings, toast – butter and jam. The appealing scent of toasted bread. What do I need this all for, Eduard Veniaminovich – son of Veniami'n Ivanovich – baptized in accordance with the Russian Orthodox rite, born in 1943?
I take a knife, I sit and stare. For hours I would stroke it, and when I had a drink, I would kiss it. What do I want, what do I pray for? No idea. And – it does happen – before the burning candle, to the Fiery Jesus I pray for love. To the young Jesus, give me love!
Basically I can't say a single prayer properly, and, besides, I know very little about these things.
There was this other girl too. Daughter of a well-known man. The girl fascinated me. For the first time in a long while. I knew I was in love – became very stupid. Fifteen years difference, only four meetings, two kisses – what pathetic arithmetic! Telephone, the monster. Parents interfering; she herself not that interested. Our worlds moved at different tempos. In her age everything is sleepy and barely moving. In mine, it's an insane spinning. In the case of this girl it's all uncertain. It didn't break, just got lost somewhere in the phone wires, rolled into some hollow, some ditch and is just lying there. It.
The snowfall isn't as dense now, there's more air between the flakes, their shape has changed. With the light in my room and the two spots on my left contact lens, it's as if I'm immersed in some Egyptian gloom, in the infirmary illumination, in that other light.
I'm in a Chinese blouse of violet silk. Picked it from the ground by some doorway. Didn't even need to wash it, it was clean. Maybe a drunk left it, or someone picky got rid of it. It fit. I love it. And it's silk. Silk I like.
There was this guy. Danced. A nice guy, very. Will give you anything you ask. Five or six years older than I. Stayed with him once. He was affectionate. Too furry though, and his prick, pardon me, was too big. «I came,» he said, «inside of you.» So you did, big deal. Gave me cufflinks in the morning. Gold. It was sad. I like it when it's sad. Why didn't I stay with him? (And I didn't.) Well, do you know, I hate the quiet life. With him the quiet life awaited me. I always flee from the good.
Shall I have a piece of candy? Yesterday I bought some Russian candy on First Avenue downtown. I wouldn't bother if it were just for me. There is this girl – a daughter of an alcoholic and a murderer; I bought it for her; she likes candy. Instead of her American name, I refer to her as Nyushka. «In my past life,» she says «I was a religious prostitute in Greece.» She was a cat too. Took off for New Orleans. Twice was all we saw of each other. The dreams she had – the last one about being raped by seven men! She was beautiful.
There was – for 24 hours – this other one. So thin and tiny, where does she get her energy? Kept pushing me into bed with her – hilarious. She got me in there, lay down, white breasts, a twenty-year-old woman. And what a woman! We sat at Johnny Day's – a restaurant in the Village, drank wine. «I love you,» she said. «You are my kind, the only one.» Came back, went to bed, only two hours before the flight (she was flying off). Like some wild creatures, couldn't pull us apart. Barely let go. Wrote her a letter: my prick, I wrote, is longing for you, it misses your c. She replied. It happens.
Crazy about white. Four pairs of white pants – and I want more. In winter too, I wear white pants. Once in the rain, on grimy uptown Broadway, at night, a half-drunk Russian intellectual told me with admiration: «You're like a ray of light in this dark kingdom. All around is grime and there you are – stunning – pressing on in your white pants. Right on!» Paid me a compliment. The snow now is barely visible: horizontally swift, fine. In a day, I'll be born. My birthday. I shall spend it alone, writing something refined, feasting on meat and wine. Then I'll go to Eighth Avenue and choose myself a prostitute. An inexpensive one. Most likely white. Semi-beautiful, semi-vulgar.
It stopped snowing. My bed, though neatly made, appears to have a flaw, a deficiency. I see it by looking at it from a distance but it's impossible to explain. And at the moment the thunder rumbles. Now, suddenly everything is illuminated, now it's dark again.
If you go out of the hotel about one in the afternoon and head downtown along any avenue, you'll keep on walking into the sun. And it's warm, even if it's February.
Sometimes, even in the eyes of the very rich – especially women – I see a wild sorrow. They are well-bred, diligent, they never tell, never betray. But this is when I want to embrace a dried-up old woman – a former beauty – press her gray head to my chest and stroke her short snow-white hair, saying: «It's okay, my little one, hush, it's all right. Let go; well, there's nothing we can do. Hush, my little one!»
to A.M.
I remember some names.
Especially Manfred and Siegfried.
I don't know where they came from, but they – these names – are within me.
Manfred is sitting on a bank; Siegfried is swimming in a lake.
«Pretty white lilies,» says Manfred.
«I don't know where to swim,» cries Siegfried
«Swim towards my voice,» cries Manfred.
Siegfried comes out of the water. Manfred throws a sheet over him and dries him.
Drying him, he kisses him at the same time. Descending with kisses along Siegfried's pure skin, half-way down to the ground he discovers something. His lips remain at that spot.
The music of the forest accompanies this prolonged tryst.
Whatever they wear afterwards, no matter what outfit…
Whether they're offered a carriage or they ride in a car…
I love the evening sky. The narrowing summer evening.
The quiet melancholy of my own past youth.
And – unexpectedly – you, my lovely friend.