Garšva pulled back the quilt, slipped off his robe, and lay down next to her. Elena’s fingers wandered over his body.
“Do you want to know what happened to the handsome young man?”
“Yes?”
“The next morning he went back to the building. He found the guard and was let in. The building had been closed for many years. He found everything as he had seen it, when he had run out. The wooden trunks were some folk sculptor’s unfinished gods. Nobody knew why he hadn’t completed them. And…”
“And?”
“I’m lying. The old Polish woman told me this story. I went to see that building. And tried to play the rotted harpsichord. Dissonant sounds. Dust. Cold. The gilded statues were in fairly good shape. Did you like this story?”
“She gets herself excited with these kinds of stories. Hoffmann resurrected in service of Eros,” thought Garšva, and said, “I remembered my mother.”
“Make love to me,” Elena said.
And again there were only the Chagall reproduction, the tidy and scattered books, the ashtray full of cigarette butts, the purse, the pile of clothes, the floating Soutine child, the wrinkled sheet, two glasses on the linoleum, and next to them a tangled quilt in a blue cover.
Stanley comes back with two cups of coffee.
“I’m very sorry,” they say simultaneously, smiling guiltily.
“Drink your coffee,” says Stanley, pushing one of the cups forward.
“I didn’t want to upset you, Stanley,” says Garšva.
“You see, I ask myself a lot of questions too. I’m a writer, you know. I’m glad you came back.”
“Drink your coffee,” is all Stanley can mumble. Then, after a silence, says, “My father once said to me that Poles are quite a hot-headed people. I believe him. He used to beat me, would still like to. And I would love to beat up some of our guests. On the whole I promise not to swear in Polish, but you’ll allow me to in English, I hope?”
“Go for it.”
“OK, Tony.”
“OK.”
They drink their coffee.
“You want to know what I’m waiting for?” Stanley asks suddenly, looking Garšva in the eyes.
“Not necessarily.”
“You’re polite. I have a girlfriend. The same one with the sunken belly button. Kocham.{73 Kocham: I love (Polish).} Get it?”
“Absolutely. Because… I have a girlfriend too.”
“Aren’t we a couple of odd guys. Maybe we’re each other’s doubles.”
“There are a lot of doubles in the world. And they have girlfriends.”
“Does yours love you?”
Garšva sips his coffee. Then mutters, “I’ve lost her.”
“Why?”
“I gave her up.”
“She’s unfaithful?”
“I couldn’t love her.”
“Oh, so you…”
“Not that. I’m ill, Stanley. I fainted the last time. And I spoke to her husband. And promised him that I wouldn’t sleep with her any more. And the last time she came to see me, I didn’t let her in.”
“You still love her?”
“Very much, Stanley.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I… really don’t know. I once had my head split open. But even before that, when I was younger, I had seizures.”
“You’ve been to a doctor?”
“Yes. He told me to come one more time. But I didn’t.”
“Fucking hell,” curses Stanley, and drinks his coffee. He falls silent, then continues in a calm voice: