— Get it? he said
— Yes.
He kept talking about this naivety; how someone who walked into a forest for the first time saw the pine trees, felt the air. He wanted, to make a long story short, a new author to look up to. He read lots of things but grew tired of everything after just a few pages. It all seemed so sloppy and stupid. Then he had been invited to an event a few weeks ago, and there, at this event, was the author. This was someone you rarely saw anywhere, and Calisto had never had the chance to get to know him personally. But there he was, in the middle of everything, with a glass in his hand, conversing lightly and openly, as if he was a well-adjusted person, and as if the knots and the darkness that were so evident in his books were all just fake. And suddenly, unexpectedly, the author had approached Calisto, put a hand on his shoulder, and said: You’re Calisto, right? I really admire the work you do. You, unlike many others, actually have something to say. At the time, Calisto couldn’t think of a single article he had written. All he could remember was this piece about burned-down buildings, and when he told me about this, he looked completely confused, as if he himself couldn’t remember what burned-down houses had to do with anything, but this was the only thing he had been able to recall. Blushing and stuttering, Calisto had told the author about his admiration for him. The author stood there with his glass in his hand and looked at him compassionately. Five minutes later they were friends. Ten minutes later the author had told Calisto that he would greatly appreciate if Calisto would read a manuscript that he had just finished — a manuscript no one had yet read.
— Sometimes you end up in the middle of a mystery just by chance, Calisto said as we laid there on the rug. Sometimes everything just opens up.
— Have you read it? I asked.
— Half, he replied.
His voice quivered.
— I’ll show you, he said. Come.
We stood up, Calisto lit a candle, and I walked behind him through the dark house until we got to his study. It was clean and tidy, just like the rest of the house. The desk stood in front of another open fireplace, and there was a strange sound coming from the chimney.
— It’s the wind, said Calisto.
— Yes, I said.
On the near-empty desk there were two neat piles of paper.
— There it is, Calisto said.
He placed the candle on the desktop.
— I’m not sure I should keep reading, he said, and put his hand on one of the piles. I’m afraid the spell will go away. Sometimes, he continued while stroking the top sheet on one of the piles, I don’t want to read because then I have to touch it with something so mundane as my hands.
— I see.
— There is only this one copy, he said. The author writes on a typewriter, and he hasn’t made a copy.
— Why?
— Because it’s too... valuable, Calisto said. If he had made a copy something mechanical would have impressed itself upon it.
— Mechanical how? I asked.
— I can’t explain, Calisto said. But it’s about respect.
— Respect for what?
— The inimitable.
I walked over to the desk and looked at the sheet of paper Calisto had under his hand and read: Every afternoon he slept, and in his sleep he managed to let go of the reality that had become too tense, too worn out, that could only be released with a complete extinction of conscience.
— This makes no sense, I said.
— No, Calisto replied, I understand every word.
We walked back to the living room. I was in front of Calisto and I knew he was watching me; that he was summoning up his courage for what was about to happen.
— With all due deference to the manuscript, I said once we were back by the fire, I’m not here to talk about literature.
— You are absolutely right, Calisto said, and laid down on his back on the rug. Now I want you to get on top of me.
I did as he said and Calisto pulled me toward him and tried to penetrate me, but I was tense and the situation with the manuscript hadn’t exactly turned me on. It took time for him to enter me and it hurt. He put his hands over my hips and pulled me downward.
— Tell me you’re my whore, he whispered. I need to hear it, tell me.
I shook my head. I didn’t want to say I was his whore. I don’t mind playing, but this was no game to Calisto. I leaned forward to kiss him and he stopped short. His lips were barely parted, but when I insisted with my tongue, his tongue started to find its way into my mouth as well. I could feel him grow bigger, harder, and then he started to touch me again, rougher than before. I sat up again and cried out when he pushed into me. They were shrill and rather silly shrieks, but it got him going, because soon he said he was almost there.
— First I want to ask you to do something, he said.
— What?
— Crawl across a mirror.
No one had ever asked me to crawl across a mirror before. I didn’t know how to reply, but Calisto didn’t wait for my response, and soon he looked ridiculous walking around with his erection bouncing up and down in front of him as he tried to decide which mirror was best for whatever it was we were going to do. Finally he found one that was long and rather narrow. He placed it on the rug.
— There, he said, crawl over it.
He stood beside me and grabbed his erection and started masturbating. What the hell? I thought, and started making my way over the mirror on all fours, trying to distribute my weight evenly so the glass wouldn’t break.
— I have to do you now, Calisto whispered. Stay there.
Then everything went fast — hard and raw. He grabbed me so my knees lifted from the mirror and my whole weight was on my hands. I heard the glass crack, and then I felt the pain in my palms. I screamed out, which only seemed to turn on Calisto even more, because he pushed into me violently and said a bunch of vulgar things that I don’t feel like repeating. Eventually he yanked me back and forth a few times, and then let me go, dropping my body onto the glass.
I don’t mind a slightly violent act. But when you start hurting each other for real it’s sacrilege, because there really is something holy about giving yourself completely to one another that way. You can approach the line, but you need to know when you cross it, and you need to take responsibility. And maybe all this was something Calisto used to do, but this time, with me, he had crossed the line, because I’m not one to take things lightly. I rarely attack first, but if someone harms me, I make sure I respond immediately and forcefully, so I can get closure and move on without carrying around a bunch of old baggage. I had shards of glass in my hands and legs. My whole body ached and when I touched the inside of my thigh I could feel that there was blood there too.
— I didn’t do anything against your will, did I? Calisto asked.
— Look, I said, and showed him my hands.
Calisto seemed scared when he saw the glass and blood.
— Shit, he said, then put his clothes on and hurried to the bathroom. Soon he came back with a toilet bag and took out a pair of tweezers. He started pulling the pieces of glass from my wounds, and then he disinfected them. I looked at him while he was working; his face was sweaty and puffy and red, and every once in a while he glanced up at me guiltily.
— You have to let me pay you for this, he said.
— You really think that’s how it works?