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Fiction

Harpooned Woman

By Anna Lidia Vega Serova
Translated from Spanish by Lawrence Schimel
Cuba's Anna Lidia Vega Serova describes the sparring courtship of two women.

 Two lonelinesses that sometimes came together
to feed the ego of destruction.

Marilin Roque

 

Upon a bed of frustrations, bed of lost hopes, a ghost ship bed, suddenly too wide, too deep, too chimerical, I watch the smoke of our cigarettes fade in the air, watch the puffs of smoke float and dissipate, disappear without trace, suddenly substituted by other gusts, vaporous and unpredictable. I will never again be able to enter this room. I will never again be able to enter my room, nor lie upon my bed, nor look at the beams of my ceiling, nor the walls, nor the mirror. The mirror in front of the bed holds those arabesques of smoke, the mirror more than the other objects guards in its memory gestures and words and smells, the mirror, artifice and betrayal. I was seated upon the bed, you on the floor. My right hand held the comb and with it I was caressing your hair, so fine, so light, and after the comb passed my other hand in an even lighter caress. Sometimes it brushed your neck, the edge of your back, an ear, perhaps. I paused, untangling some knot, looked at our reflection, saw your half-closed eyes. More than lovers, we were curanderas. I stub out the butt in the ashtray, reach for a magazine, flip through it, I’m looking for an image or a word, something to break the web I’m trapped in, something to stop the hemorrhage of memories, anything; I force myself to read, I almost didn’t catch the meanng of the sentences and suddenly I shudder. “I felt the desire to catch a girl,” she says. To pick up a girl, a solitary woman, bring her to my house, lay her on my bed, undress her slowly, kiss her slowly. “What’s the hurry?” after the first kisses. “Why the rush?” I didn’t understand the question, I didn’t know any other way to kiss that wasn’t trying to swallow some lips and a tongue that were trying to swallow my lips and tongue, until that so-revealing confession: “When I kiss you, sometimes I imagine that your mouth is your pussy.” . . . and then I could never imagine anything other than a mouth-pussy, and my kisses become slow and penetrating, while my fantasies offered me a pussy-mouth, something dark and sublime, something vibrant, until I had it before me (“all yours”) and that emptiness in the place where one’s viscera are supposed to be. I frantically search through my clothes; (“pick up a girl”) that night I need to get dressed up, that night I want to be overwhelming, devastating, perfect. I choose an ambiguous combination, both elegant and daring at the same time, and go down to bathe; the water will wash away the remains of this lethargy, restoring my essence. “I want you to bathe me forever.” I closed my eyes, your hand wrapped me in foam, I felt the waves, the salt, the tide; by your side, all time was hazy. You embraced me, murmuring, “Don’t be afraid, I won’t let you fall” . . . Then you dried me, dressed me; I felt like such a little girl, so candid and innocent that later, in bed, I wanted to be the mother, the breast, and I had her together with a confession, “My breasts, before you touched them for the first time, were completely insensitive” . . . I was worried. We were getting too close to certain limits, there were too many things “for the first time” for both of us, too much proximity. I kept tonguing your nipples in a less-naïve frolic, while I desperately clung to you. I look at myself at last before going out, I’m dazzling, only my eyes shine darker than my outfit, a shame that at night one can’t wear sunglasses, my eyes could scare anyone who looks deep into them. I half-close them and convince myself that under the shadow of my lashes the blaze is concealed. I smile at my double and leave. I feel euphoric, ready for any adventure, for any excess. We bit one another mercilessly. Like beasts who loved violently, we filled our bodies with bites, about to tear off bits of flesh. When caresses and kisses weren’t enough, we lost control and threw ourselves upon one another in search of more flesh and blood, perhaps. The mere sound of the word “blood” made us tremble relentlessly. More than once we swore to kill ourselves, planning our mutual murders or suicides or both. “I want to ask you for a favor.” You looked at me and I saw that you couldn’t control your eyes, tears escaped like fishes. “Tell me, love.” “Kiss me” . . . In a flash, I knelt before you and locked myself to your mouth in which, almost impetuously, you had placed a razor blade. Your lips wrapped around mine, your tongue offered me its wetness and the cold of metal. I licked the edge, swallowed the thick salt born under the sharp movement of our mouths, I closed my eyes and we were absent for an eternity, as we filled up with sticky incisions. I walk the entire Prado without paying attention to the calls shouted at me by all kinds of individuals (“pick up a girl”). I look at the benches hopefully, but only discover intertwined couples, stretched-out couples, locked-together couples. I don’t stop, leaving behind a trace of my perfume, oil of sandalwood, and the tinkle of my silver bells. Images intermingled in my head, visions of vulvas with long, licking tongues dripping saliva, kissing one another with razor blades, bleeding, absorbing blood and their mutual secretions into their uteruses and pulsing, giving birth to tremendous orgasms. “Have you never made love to a woman?” you asked. I shook my head no. I had an abyss in my abdomen and a naked woman in front of me. On reaching the Malecón, I stop for a few moments. It’s the classic dilemma: if you take the right-hand path you’ll reach one place, if you opt for the left you’ll reach another and if you go straight, you’ll have to face the dragon . . . In reality, to the left was the path toward your house. (“Pick up a girl . . .”) I quickly walked in the opposite direction, controlling my impulses. “Finger me.” “I don’t know how to.” “Do it like you would do it for yourself.” “Let me smoke a ciagrette.” . . . I took one from the box, lit it, noticed how my hands and lips trembled. I didn’t think I was prepared to face the situation. I had spent days masturbating, imagining time and again that body trembling with pleasure in my arms, every inch of that skin under my touch, that deepest hidden wetness, that most-violent furrow. I inhaled all the smoke that fit into my lungs and closed my eyes. Again I saw those fragmented figures: vulvas licking one another with red tongues that dripped blood, kisses between breasts that rubbed swollen nipples, the rhythmic movement of buttocks opening and closing like the wings of fat and hungry birds . . . “Are you going to do it?” you insisted. I sat before the mirror and opened my legs. “Come.” . . . I don’t know what made me think that the Malecón was full of women just waiting for me to show up to go with me off to the end of the world. The Malecón, beside the couples, is full of men who only hope I’ll pass by so they can say anything to me and I’ll offer to accompany them to the end of the world. But the men treat me carelessly. More than that, the men infuriate me. I try not to look at them so I don’t respond to their vulgarities. Various cars stop beside me, their drivers–always men–inviting me on a nocturnal spin. I turn my face away, hiding my abhorrance. It seems impossible that in this city of lonely women I can’t find a single one. I pick up my pace, about to regret this outing, and I urgently need to masturbate. Never before have I felt such an excitement of my nerves as when my hands brush your sex. I lost myself and the mirror was useless with two women shaking their impatient bodies, useless the stick of incense, useless those fantasies, almost absurd. Only touch, the warm dew beneath the skin of the fingers, neck a few milimeters from mouth, broken breathing and a superhuman effort to not bite, not destroy, not smash, to supress the blind fury that runs through my veins and slides in a burning fluid between my thighs, to tame my exasperated hands, restrain my impulses in order to fully enjoy that first time. I cross the avenue and quickly head up toward the Hotel Nacional. Some Italian men hassle me at the entrance, I avoid them, a Spaniard tries to stop me in the lobby, I slip away, some Germans look at me, smiling, from the table in the garden. I move away from all of them to the very end, looking for the most distant bench in front of the sea, its back to the others, and I order a beer from a waiter with an unhealthy expression. Later, with the frozen beer in my left hand and my right delicately concealed between my legs, I look at the sea, the waves, I try to mimic their smooth and deep movements, their rhythm. But it wasn’t enough to brush my fingers across that volatile crevice, I needed to verify its taste, to feel its folds close by, to re-examine its urgencies. And my mouth had an unexpected gift from the tenderest and most sensitive kiss it had ever received in its life, my tongue sunk in a sea of hot magma, while waves pounded my lips. “Don’t torture me any more and fuck me,” you murmured and again something within me turned over and again my vision went cloudy, leaving me on the banks of a tremulous and grandiose universe. I forced myself not to close my eyes, the overwhelming wave in my belly coinciding with the large wave that broke against the wall and over it, splashing the sidewalk of the Malecón. The can of beer slides from my hand and falls at my feet, spraying out. I watch it roll toward the grass, watch the sea calm itself little by little, breathe with greater gentleness, feel my pulse quiet, a certain dark pain in the depths of my belly, a few moments more to completely control myself and leave that place. It was like a leap into the abyss, fingers softly sinking as a knife sinks into the wound, and they were sucked in by the pulpy cleft that, after swallowing them, began to compress them with irregular and absorbent movements. I leave the hotel with the intention of catching a taxi home, I feel completely empty, my head hurts. My fingers, completely independent from me, moved in that humid refuge, increasingly more humid, while flashes of color exploded in my head, and snatches of melodies, words, abstract. Later, I licked your nectar from my fingers languidly, it was the taste of the deed. “Sabes a mar.” I wanted to repeat that phrase that you had asked some time ago. “¿Sabes amar?” But you took the lead, making the most unbelievable and fantastic confession that I could imagine: “You’re the first woman in my life that I’ve let penetrate me.” . . . Already crossing the street I bump into a man who doesn’t look at me as the others do. He’s stopped somewhat unsteadily, hugging a small suitcase and trembling. The expression on his face opens a small emptiness within me, moves me. “Do you feel unwell?” I ask. “Yes.” . . . “What’s wrong?” He doesn’t answer. “Are you drunk?” I guess. “Yes.” . . . He trembles, he doesn’t stop trembling. “Where do you live?” “In Alamar.” His voice is almost a whisper. “Come on, I’ll take you home in a taxi.” I hold him up under his arm. With weaving steps he follows me. “I don’t have money for the taxi,” he murmurs, “I drank it all, all.” . . . He’s very young, somewhere between twenty and twenty-three. “I’ll give you the money, come on,” I say, leading him carefully. I could bring him home with me, I think. What for? I think. “Why are you doing this?” he asks. “Why are you taking care of me?” “I don’t know . . . Forget it.” “You’re the most incredible woman I’ve met in my life. I’ve never met anyone like you. Tell me your name, how can I find you, thank you?” It seems some of the drunkenness has worn off. “Forget it,” I repeat, “I’m not doing anything extraordinary, you felt unwell and I’m helping you.” I wave my arm and stop a taxi. I give him the twenty-peso bill that I had brought for my return home with the girl I was going to pick up. “Take care. You know how to get home alone?” “Thank you.” He seems about to cry. “But tell me your name, just the name.” I close the door without answering. But those powerful fantasies with blood and butchered meat return. I frighten myself, where did such cruelty come from? They were terrible days, days of constant masturbation, of greater and greater disturbance, of unsatisfied, insatiable desires. “Your stories are so hot,” you said, and I didn’t dare tell you of my unwritten stories, my untellable stories, because no one can stand to read them or listen to them, not even I can bear to tell them or write them. I masturbate without stopping, at all times, in all places, thinking darkly that only in both of us dying in a mutation, only bleeding to death, opening our flesh, biting one another, chewing one another, devouring one another, only destroying one another, pulverizing and mixing the remains, stirring them into an inhuman mass, only then, perhaps, could I achieve a misery resembling pleasure. I take out a cigarette, light it unhurriedly and take the path home. I walk on the sidewalk across from the wall, avoiding the men with their impertinent courting and the couples with their unbearable exhibitionism. One night I caressed for a long time your deepest skin, until I felt beneath my tongue how the path slowly but surely turned toward the secret universe. I reveled in delaying the entrance, sucking with delight, capturing every barely perceptible movement, each liquid caprice, then placing the knife in my mouth. “Like that, my love, like that,” you whimpered. We had sailed beyond the frontiers. I kissed generously, opening furrows with each contortion, and I drank from the wells found there. “More,” you begged, “more.” . . . The blade slid, ruthless and sly, between two voracious mouths, blood ran down my chin and dripped between your cheeks like lazy lava. There was a moment of apparent peace and then your shout split the night into a thousand fragments. I climb the interminable steps of my building, trying to avoid the puddles of urine, I walk along the long hallway, forcing myself to not think–to not think–to not think. In the darkness, I seem to see a blurry shadow before the door to my house, I approach, unable to believe it, but I recognize you. I lean against the column and look at you watching me: like two hunting sharks, both knowing how it will all end.

© Anna Lidia Vega Serova. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2013 by Lawrence Schimel. All rights reserved.

English Spanish (Original)

 Two lonelinesses that sometimes came together
to feed the ego of destruction.

Marilin Roque

 

Upon a bed of frustrations, bed of lost hopes, a ghost ship bed, suddenly too wide, too deep, too chimerical, I watch the smoke of our cigarettes fade in the air, watch the puffs of smoke float and dissipate, disappear without trace, suddenly substituted by other gusts, vaporous and unpredictable. I will never again be able to enter this room. I will never again be able to enter my room, nor lie upon my bed, nor look at the beams of my ceiling, nor the walls, nor the mirror. The mirror in front of the bed holds those arabesques of smoke, the mirror more than the other objects guards in its memory gestures and words and smells, the mirror, artifice and betrayal. I was seated upon the bed, you on the floor. My right hand held the comb and with it I was caressing your hair, so fine, so light, and after the comb passed my other hand in an even lighter caress. Sometimes it brushed your neck, the edge of your back, an ear, perhaps. I paused, untangling some knot, looked at our reflection, saw your half-closed eyes. More than lovers, we were curanderas. I stub out the butt in the ashtray, reach for a magazine, flip through it, I’m looking for an image or a word, something to break the web I’m trapped in, something to stop the hemorrhage of memories, anything; I force myself to read, I almost didn’t catch the meanng of the sentences and suddenly I shudder. “I felt the desire to catch a girl,” she says. To pick up a girl, a solitary woman, bring her to my house, lay her on my bed, undress her slowly, kiss her slowly. “What’s the hurry?” after the first kisses. “Why the rush?” I didn’t understand the question, I didn’t know any other way to kiss that wasn’t trying to swallow some lips and a tongue that were trying to swallow my lips and tongue, until that so-revealing confession: “When I kiss you, sometimes I imagine that your mouth is your pussy.” . . . and then I could never imagine anything other than a mouth-pussy, and my kisses become slow and penetrating, while my fantasies offered me a pussy-mouth, something dark and sublime, something vibrant, until I had it before me (“all yours”) and that emptiness in the place where one’s viscera are supposed to be. I frantically search through my clothes; (“pick up a girl”) that night I need to get dressed up, that night I want to be overwhelming, devastating, perfect. I choose an ambiguous combination, both elegant and daring at the same time, and go down to bathe; the water will wash away the remains of this lethargy, restoring my essence. “I want you to bathe me forever.” I closed my eyes, your hand wrapped me in foam, I felt the waves, the salt, the tide; by your side, all time was hazy. You embraced me, murmuring, “Don’t be afraid, I won’t let you fall” . . . Then you dried me, dressed me; I felt like such a little girl, so candid and innocent that later, in bed, I wanted to be the mother, the breast, and I had her together with a confession, “My breasts, before you touched them for the first time, were completely insensitive” . . . I was worried. We were getting too close to certain limits, there were too many things “for the first time” for both of us, too much proximity. I kept tonguing your nipples in a less-naïve frolic, while I desperately clung to you. I look at myself at last before going out, I’m dazzling, only my eyes shine darker than my outfit, a shame that at night one can’t wear sunglasses, my eyes could scare anyone who looks deep into them. I half-close them and convince myself that under the shadow of my lashes the blaze is concealed. I smile at my double and leave. I feel euphoric, ready for any adventure, for any excess. We bit one another mercilessly. Like beasts who loved violently, we filled our bodies with bites, about to tear off bits of flesh. When caresses and kisses weren’t enough, we lost control and threw ourselves upon one another in search of more flesh and blood, perhaps. The mere sound of the word “blood” made us tremble relentlessly. More than once we swore to kill ourselves, planning our mutual murders or suicides or both. “I want to ask you for a favor.” You looked at me and I saw that you couldn’t control your eyes, tears escaped like fishes. “Tell me, love.” “Kiss me” . . . In a flash, I knelt before you and locked myself to your mouth in which, almost impetuously, you had placed a razor blade. Your lips wrapped around mine, your tongue offered me its wetness and the cold of metal. I licked the edge, swallowed the thick salt born under the sharp movement of our mouths, I closed my eyes and we were absent for an eternity, as we filled up with sticky incisions. I walk the entire Prado without paying attention to the calls shouted at me by all kinds of individuals (“pick up a girl”). I look at the benches hopefully, but only discover intertwined couples, stretched-out couples, locked-together couples. I don’t stop, leaving behind a trace of my perfume, oil of sandalwood, and the tinkle of my silver bells. Images intermingled in my head, visions of vulvas with long, licking tongues dripping saliva, kissing one another with razor blades, bleeding, absorbing blood and their mutual secretions into their uteruses and pulsing, giving birth to tremendous orgasms. “Have you never made love to a woman?” you asked. I shook my head no. I had an abyss in my abdomen and a naked woman in front of me. On reaching the Malecón, I stop for a few moments. It’s the classic dilemma: if you take the right-hand path you’ll reach one place, if you opt for the left you’ll reach another and if you go straight, you’ll have to face the dragon . . . In reality, to the left was the path toward your house. (“Pick up a girl . . .”) I quickly walked in the opposite direction, controlling my impulses. “Finger me.” “I don’t know how to.” “Do it like you would do it for yourself.” “Let me smoke a ciagrette.” . . . I took one from the box, lit it, noticed how my hands and lips trembled. I didn’t think I was prepared to face the situation. I had spent days masturbating, imagining time and again that body trembling with pleasure in my arms, every inch of that skin under my touch, that deepest hidden wetness, that most-violent furrow. I inhaled all the smoke that fit into my lungs and closed my eyes. Again I saw those fragmented figures: vulvas licking one another with red tongues that dripped blood, kisses between breasts that rubbed swollen nipples, the rhythmic movement of buttocks opening and closing like the wings of fat and hungry birds . . . “Are you going to do it?” you insisted. I sat before the mirror and opened my legs. “Come.” . . . I don’t know what made me think that the Malecón was full of women just waiting for me to show up to go with me off to the end of the world. The Malecón, beside the couples, is full of men who only hope I’ll pass by so they can say anything to me and I’ll offer to accompany them to the end of the world. But the men treat me carelessly. More than that, the men infuriate me. I try not to look at them so I don’t respond to their vulgarities. Various cars stop beside me, their drivers–always men–inviting me on a nocturnal spin. I turn my face away, hiding my abhorrance. It seems impossible that in this city of lonely women I can’t find a single one. I pick up my pace, about to regret this outing, and I urgently need to masturbate. Never before have I felt such an excitement of my nerves as when my hands brush your sex. I lost myself and the mirror was useless with two women shaking their impatient bodies, useless the stick of incense, useless those fantasies, almost absurd. Only touch, the warm dew beneath the skin of the fingers, neck a few milimeters from mouth, broken breathing and a superhuman effort to not bite, not destroy, not smash, to supress the blind fury that runs through my veins and slides in a burning fluid between my thighs, to tame my exasperated hands, restrain my impulses in order to fully enjoy that first time. I cross the avenue and quickly head up toward the Hotel Nacional. Some Italian men hassle me at the entrance, I avoid them, a Spaniard tries to stop me in the lobby, I slip away, some Germans look at me, smiling, from the table in the garden. I move away from all of them to the very end, looking for the most distant bench in front of the sea, its back to the others, and I order a beer from a waiter with an unhealthy expression. Later, with the frozen beer in my left hand and my right delicately concealed between my legs, I look at the sea, the waves, I try to mimic their smooth and deep movements, their rhythm. But it wasn’t enough to brush my fingers across that volatile crevice, I needed to verify its taste, to feel its folds close by, to re-examine its urgencies. And my mouth had an unexpected gift from the tenderest and most sensitive kiss it had ever received in its life, my tongue sunk in a sea of hot magma, while waves pounded my lips. “Don’t torture me any more and fuck me,” you murmured and again something within me turned over and again my vision went cloudy, leaving me on the banks of a tremulous and grandiose universe. I forced myself not to close my eyes, the overwhelming wave in my belly coinciding with the large wave that broke against the wall and over it, splashing the sidewalk of the Malecón. The can of beer slides from my hand and falls at my feet, spraying out. I watch it roll toward the grass, watch the sea calm itself little by little, breathe with greater gentleness, feel my pulse quiet, a certain dark pain in the depths of my belly, a few moments more to completely control myself and leave that place. It was like a leap into the abyss, fingers softly sinking as a knife sinks into the wound, and they were sucked in by the pulpy cleft that, after swallowing them, began to compress them with irregular and absorbent movements. I leave the hotel with the intention of catching a taxi home, I feel completely empty, my head hurts. My fingers, completely independent from me, moved in that humid refuge, increasingly more humid, while flashes of color exploded in my head, and snatches of melodies, words, abstract. Later, I licked your nectar from my fingers languidly, it was the taste of the deed. “Sabes a mar.” I wanted to repeat that phrase that you had asked some time ago. “¿Sabes amar?” But you took the lead, making the most unbelievable and fantastic confession that I could imagine: “You’re the first woman in my life that I’ve let penetrate me.” . . . Already crossing the street I bump into a man who doesn’t look at me as the others do. He’s stopped somewhat unsteadily, hugging a small suitcase and trembling. The expression on his face opens a small emptiness within me, moves me. “Do you feel unwell?” I ask. “Yes.” . . . “What’s wrong?” He doesn’t answer. “Are you drunk?” I guess. “Yes.” . . . He trembles, he doesn’t stop trembling. “Where do you live?” “In Alamar.” His voice is almost a whisper. “Come on, I’ll take you home in a taxi.” I hold him up under his arm. With weaving steps he follows me. “I don’t have money for the taxi,” he murmurs, “I drank it all, all.” . . . He’s very young, somewhere between twenty and twenty-three. “I’ll give you the money, come on,” I say, leading him carefully. I could bring him home with me, I think. What for? I think. “Why are you doing this?” he asks. “Why are you taking care of me?” “I don’t know . . . Forget it.” “You’re the most incredible woman I’ve met in my life. I’ve never met anyone like you. Tell me your name, how can I find you, thank you?” It seems some of the drunkenness has worn off. “Forget it,” I repeat, “I’m not doing anything extraordinary, you felt unwell and I’m helping you.” I wave my arm and stop a taxi. I give him the twenty-peso bill that I had brought for my return home with the girl I was going to pick up. “Take care. You know how to get home alone?” “Thank you.” He seems about to cry. “But tell me your name, just the name.” I close the door without answering. But those powerful fantasies with blood and butchered meat return. I frighten myself, where did such cruelty come from? They were terrible days, days of constant masturbation, of greater and greater disturbance, of unsatisfied, insatiable desires. “Your stories are so hot,” you said, and I didn’t dare tell you of my unwritten stories, my untellable stories, because no one can stand to read them or listen to them, not even I can bear to tell them or write them. I masturbate without stopping, at all times, in all places, thinking darkly that only in both of us dying in a mutation, only bleeding to death, opening our flesh, biting one another, chewing one another, devouring one another, only destroying one another, pulverizing and mixing the remains, stirring them into an inhuman mass, only then, perhaps, could I achieve a misery resembling pleasure. I take out a cigarette, light it unhurriedly and take the path home. I walk on the sidewalk across from the wall, avoiding the men with their impertinent courting and the couples with their unbearable exhibitionism. One night I caressed for a long time your deepest skin, until I felt beneath my tongue how the path slowly but surely turned toward the secret universe. I reveled in delaying the entrance, sucking with delight, capturing every barely perceptible movement, each liquid caprice, then placing the knife in my mouth. “Like that, my love, like that,” you whimpered. We had sailed beyond the frontiers. I kissed generously, opening furrows with each contortion, and I drank from the wells found there. “More,” you begged, “more.” . . . The blade slid, ruthless and sly, between two voracious mouths, blood ran down my chin and dripped between your cheeks like lazy lava. There was a moment of apparent peace and then your shout split the night into a thousand fragments. I climb the interminable steps of my building, trying to avoid the puddles of urine, I walk along the long hallway, forcing myself to not think–to not think–to not think. In the darkness, I seem to see a blurry shadow before the door to my house, I approach, unable to believe it, but I recognize you. I lean against the column and look at you watching me: like two hunting sharks, both knowing how it will all end.

© Anna Lidia Vega Serova. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2013 by Lawrence Schimel. All rights reserved.

La Mujer Arponeada

Dos soledades que algunas veces se juntan
para alimentar el ego de la destrucción.
Marilin Roque

 

Sobre la cama de las frustraciones, cama de las esperanzas perdidas, cama barco fantasma, demasiado ancha de pronto, demasiado profunda, demasiado quimérica, miro deluírse en el aire el humo de los cigarros, observo las fumaradas flotar y desvanecerse, desaparecer sin rastro, sustituidas súbitamente por otros chorros vaporosos e imprevisibles. Nunca más podré entrar a este cuarto. Nunca más podré entrar a mi cuarto, ni acostarme sobre mi cama, ni mirar las vigas de mi techo, ni las paredes, ni el espejo.  El espejo frente a la cama retiene los arabescos de humo, el espejo más que los otros objetos guarda en la memoria gestos y palabras y olores, el espejo, artificio y traición. Yo estaba sentada sobre la cama, tú, en el piso. En mi mano derecha sostenía el peine y con el peine acariciaba tu pelo, tan fino, tan leve y detrás del peine pasaba la otra mano en una caricia más ligera aun. A veces rozaba tu cuello, el borde de la espalda, una oreja, apenas. Me detenía desenredando algún nudo, pasaba la vista por nuestro reflejo, veía tus ojos semicerrados. Más que amantes éramos sutiles curanderas. Aplasto la colilla contra el cenicero, alcanzo una revista, la hojeo, busco una imagen o palabra, algo que rompa la telaraña en la que estoy atrapada, algo que detenga el desangrar de los recuerdos, cualquier cosa; me obligo a leer, casi no capto el sentido de las oraciones y de pronto me estremezco. “Sentí deseos de pescar una chica” – dice. Eso, pescar una chica, una muchacha solitaria, traerla a mi casa, acostarla en mi cama, desvestirla lentamente, besarla despacio. “¿Porqué corres?” – después de los primeros besos – “¿Porqué te apuras?” No comprendí la pregunta, no conocía otra forma de besar que no fuera simulando tragarme unos labios y lengua que simulan tragarse mis labios y mi lengua, hasta aquella confesión tan reveladora: “Cuando te beso, a veces me imagino que tu boca es tu bollo”… y entonces nunca pude imaginar otra cosa, que una boca – bollo, y mis besos por siempre se tornaron lentos y penetrantes, mientras mis fantasías me brindaban un bollo – boca, algo oscuro y sublime, algo vibrante, hasta tenerlo ante mí (“todo tuyo”) y ese vacío en el lugar que se suponen estar las vísceras. Busco frenéticamente entre mis ropas; (“pescar una chica”) esta noche necesito vestirme de gala, esta noche quiero estar deslumbrante, arrolladora, perfecta. Elijo una combinación ambigua, elegante y atrevida a la vez, bajo a bañarme; el agua me quitará el resto del letargo, restaurando mi esencia. “Quiero que me bañes siempre” – cerré los ojos, tu mano me envolvió en espuma, sentí las olas, la sal, el mareo; a tu lado todo el tiempo estaba mareada. Me abrazaste murmurando: “No temas, no te dejaré caer”… Luego me secaste, me vestiste; me sentí tan niña, tan cándida e inocente que más tarde en la cama deseé la madre, la teta y la tuve junto con la confesión: “Mis senos antes de que tú los tocaras por primera vez, eran absolutamente insensibles”… Me alarmé. Andábamos demasiado cerca de ciertos límites, había demasiadas cosas “por primera vez” para ambas, demasiada proximidad. Dejé que mi lengua siguiera jugueteando con los pezones en un retozo menos ingenuo, mientras te abracé con gesto desesperado. Me miro finalmente antes de salir, estoy deslumbradora, sólo los ojos brillan más oscuros que de costumbre, lástima que de noche no se usen gafas de sol, mis ojos podrían asustar a cualquiera que los mire a fondo. Los entorno un poco y me convenzo de que bajo la sombra de las pestañas se disimula la hoguera. Le sonrío a mi doble y salgo. Me siento eufórica, lista para cualquier aventura, para cualquier exceso. Nos mordíamos sin piedad. Como bestias que se aman violentamente nos llenábamos los cuerpos de mordidas, a punto de  arrancarnos pedazos. Cuando no alcanzaban las caricias y besos, perdíamos el control y nos lanzábamos una sobre la otra en busca de más carne y sangre, tal vez. El sólo sonido de la palabra “sangre” nos hacía vibrar tenazmente. Más de una vez nos juramos matarnos, planificando nuestros asesinatos mutuos o suicidios o ambas cosas. “Quiero pedirte un favor”- me miraste y vi que no dominabas tus ojos, se te escapaban como peces. “Dime, mi amor”… –  “Bésame”… De un salto me arrodillé ante ti y me prendí a tu boca en la que casi con vehemencia colocaste la cuchilla de afeitar. Tus labios envolvieron los míos, tu lengua me ofreció su humedad y el frío del metal. Lamí el filo, tragué la sal espesa que nació bajo el movimiento agudo de nuestras bocas, cerré los ojos y estuvimos una eternidad ausentes, mientras nos llenábamos de cortadas viscosas. Camino todo Prado sin hacer caso de los piropos que me lanzan individuos de toda clase (“pescar una chica”). Miro con esperanza los bancos, pero sólo descubro parejas enroscadas, parejas estiradas, parejas acopladas. Sigo sin detenerme, dejando el rastro de mi perfume, aceite de sándalo, y el repiquetear de mis cascabeles de plata. Las imágenes se mezclaban en mi cabeza sugiriendo visiones de vulvas con largas lenguas que se lamían chorreando baba, se besaban incorporando cuchillas de afeitar al beso, sangraban, absorbían la sangre y las secreciones mutuas hasta los úteros y palpitaban dando a luz descomunales orgasmos. “¿Nunca le has hecho el amor a una mujer?” – preguntaste. Negué con la cabeza. Tenía un abismo en el abdomen y una mujer desnuda delante. Al llegar hasta Malecón me detengo por unos instantes. Es el clásico dilema: si tomas el camino de la derecha llegarás a tal lado, si te decides por el de la izquierda, a tal otro lado y si vas recto, tendrás que enfrentar al dragón… En realidad, a la derecha quedaba el camino hacia tu casa. (“Pescar una chica”…) Avancé rápidamente en dirección contraria, dominando el impulso. “Mastúrbame” – “No sé hacerlo”… – “Hazlo como te lo haces a ti misma” – “Déjame fumarme un cigarro”… Lo saqué de la caja, lo encendí, noté cómo me temblaban las manos y los labios. No me creía preparada como para enfrentar la situación. Me había pasado los días masturbándome, imaginando una y otra vez ese cuerpo estremeciéndose entre mis brazos, cada fragmento de esa piel al tacto, la más recóndita humedad, el más violento surco. Aspiré todo el humo que me cupo en los pulmones y cerré los ojos. Otra vez vi aquellas figuras fragmentadas: vulvas lamiéndose con rojas lenguas que gotean sangre, los besos de unos senos que se frotan los pezones abultados, el movimiento rítmico de nalgas abriéndose y cerrándose como alas de  pájaros gordos y hambrientos… “¿Lo vas a hacer?” – insististe. Me senté delante del espejo y abrí las piernas. “Ven”…  No sé qué me habrá hecho pensar que el Malecón estaba lleno de mujeres que sólo esperaban a que yo llegara para irse conmigo hasta el fin del mundo. El Malecón, aparte de las parejas,  está lleno hombres que sólo esperan a que yo pase para decirme cualquier cosa, para ofrecerme acompañarlos hasta el fin del mundo. Pero los hombres me tienen sin cuidado. Más que eso, los hombres me dan rabia. Trato de no mirarlos para no responderles con groserías. Varios carros frenan a mi lado, sus conductores, siempre hombres, me invitan a un paseo nocturno. Les viro el rostro ocultando el aborrecimiento. Parece mentira que en esta ciudad de mujeres solas yo no pueda encontrar ni una sola mujer. Avanzo acelerando el paso, estoy a punto de arrepentirme de esta salida y tengo ganas de masturbarme urgente. Nunca antes había sentido tal exaltación de los nervios como cuando mis manos rozaron tu sexo. Me perdí y resultó inútil el espejo con dos mujeres agitando los impacientes cuerpos, inútil la varita de incienso prendida, inútiles aquellas fantasías, casi disparatadas. Únicamente el tacto, el tibio rocío bajo la piel de los dedos, el cuello a unos milímetros de la boca, la respiración entrecortada y un esfuerzo sobrehumano por no morder, no destrozar, no estallar, suprimir la furia siega que corría por las venas y resbalaba en un fluido ardiente entre los muslos, domar las manos exasperadas, retener los impulsos para degustar íntegramente aquella primera aproximación. Cruzo la avenida y subo veloz hacia el hotel Nacional. Unos italianos se meten conmigo a la entrada, los esquivo, un español intenta detenerme en el lobby, me escurro, unos alemanes me miran sonriendo desde la mesa del jardín. Me alejo hasta el mismo fondo, busco el banco más apartado frente al mar, de espaldas a todos, y le encargo una cerveza al camarero de expresión malsana. Luego, con la cerveza helada en la mano izquierda y la mano derecha introducida disimuladamente entre las piernas, miro el mar, las olas, intento imitar sus movimientos suaves y rotundos, su ritmo. Pero no era suficiente frotar con los dedos aquel rincón volátil, yo necesitaba averiguar su sabor, sentir de cerca sus pliegues, repasar sus apremios. Y mi boca tuvo el regalo insospechado del beso más tierno y sensitivo que ha recibido en su vida, mi lengua se hundió en un mar de cálido magma, mientras las olas golpeaban mis labios. “No me tortures más y síngame” – murmuraste y otra vez se volcó algo en mi interior y otra vez se me nubló la vista, dejándome a orillas de un universo trémulo y grandioso. Me obligo a no cerrar los ojos, coincidiendo la oleada arrasadora en mi vientre con la ola mayor que rompe contra el muro y lo sobrepasa salpicando la acera del Malecón. La lata de cerveza resbala de la mano y cae a mis pies, roceándolos. La miro rodar hasta la hierba, miro calmarse poco a poco el mar, respirar con más docilidad, siento aplacarse mis latidos, cierto dolor oscuro en lo profundo del vientre, unos pocos instantes más para dominarme del todo y abandono el lugar. Fue como un salto al vacío, los dedos se sumergieron blandamente como se hunde el cuchillo en la herida y fueron chupados por la pulposa hendidura que luego de tragárselos, comenzó a oprimirlos con movimientos irregulares  y absorbentes. Salgo del hotel con la intención de tomar un taxi de regreso, me noto absolutamente hueca, me duele la cabeza. Mis dedos, totalmente independientes de mi ser, se movían en el húmedo refugio, cada vez más húmedo, mientras en mi cabeza estallaban fuegos de colores y retazos de melodías, o palabras, o sonidos abstractos. Más tarde lamí tu néctar de mis dedos lánguidamente, era el sabor de la dicha. “Sabes a mar”- quise repetir la frase que habías pronunciado hacía ya un tiempo – “¿Sabes amar?” Pero te adelantaste haciéndome la confesión más inverosímil y fantástica que podía esperar: “Eres la primera mujer en mi vida que he dejado penetrarme”… Ya cruzando la calle me tropiezo a un hombre que no me mira como lo hacían todos los demás. Está parado de algún modo inestable, abrazando un pequeño maletín y tiembla. La expresión de su cara delata un vacío mayor que el mío, cosa que me conmueve. “¿Te sientes mal?” – pregunto.  – “Sí”… – “¿Qué te pasa?” – No responde. – “¿Estás bebido?” – adivino. “Sí”… Tiembla, no para de temblar. “¿Dónde vives?“ – “En Alamar” – su voz es casi un suspiro. “Vamos, te acompaño al taxi” – lo tomo debajo del brazo y lo sujeto fuerte. Con pasos oscilantes me sigue. “No tengo dinero para el taxi – murmura – me lo bebí todo, todo”… Es muy joven, tendrá entre veinte y veintitrés años. “Yo te daré el dinero, vamos” – digo, conduciéndolo con cuidado. Podría llevármelo para mi casa, pienso. ¿Para qué? – pienso. “¿Porqué haces esto? – pregunta – ¿Porqué te preocupas por mí?” – “No sé… Olvídalo”… – “Eres la mujer más increíble que he conocido en mi vida… Nunca me he encontrado a nadie como tú… Dime tu nombre, cómo puedo localizarte, agradecerte”… –  Al parecer, se le ha pasado algo de la borrachera. – “Olvídalo – repito – no estoy haciendo nada extraordinario, te sentías mal y estoy ayudándote”. Agito el brazo y paro un taxi. Le doy el billete de veinte pesos que traía para mi regreso con la chica que iba a pescar. “Cuídate. ¿Sabrás llegar solo?” – “Gracias. – parece a punto de llorar – pero dime tu nombre, nada más que el nombre”… Cierro la portezuela sin responderle. Pero volvían obstinadas aquellas fantasías virulentas con mucha sangre y carnes masacradas. Me asustaba de mi misma, ¿de dónde tanta crueldad? Eran días terribles, días de masturbación perpetua, de más y más turbación, de deseos insaciados, insaciables. “Tus cuentos son morbosos” – dijiste y no me atreví a hablarte de mis cuentos no escritos, mis cuentos no contables, porque no hay quien resista leerlos o escucharlos, ni yo resistiría contarlos o escribirlos. Me masturbaba sin parar, en todo lugar, todo momento, pensando sombríamente que únicamente muriendo ambas en una mutación, únicamente desangrándonos, abriéndonos las carnes, mordiéndonos, masticándonos, devorándonos, únicamente destrozándonos, triturándonos y uniendo los restos, mezclándolos en un amasijo inhumano, únicamente así, quizá, llegaría yo a una mísera semejanza del placer.  Saco un cigarro, lo enciendo sin apuro y tomo el camino a casa. Voy por la acera opuesta del muro, evitando a los hombres con sus impertinentes cortejos y a las parejas con su insoportable exhibicionismo. Una noche acaricié largamente tu más profunda piel, hasta sentir bajo mi lengua cómo se franqueaba despacio pero definitivo el sendero hacia el universo secreto. Me regodeé aplazando la entrada, succioné con deleite captando cada movimiento apenas perceptible, cada capricho líquido, entonces coloqué en la boca la cuchilla. “Así, mi amor, así”… – gemiste. Habíamos rebasado las fronteras. Besé con generosidad abriendo surcos con cada contorsión y bebí de los pozos descubiertos. “Más – rogabas – mas”… La cuchilla resbalaba despiadada y traviesa entre dos bocas voraces, la sangre me corría por la barbilla y goteaba entre tus nalgas como una lava perezosa. Hubo un instante de aparente paz y luego tu grito partió la noche en mil fragmentos. Subo las interminables escaleras de mi edificio tratando de evitar los charcos de orine, avanzo por el largo pasillo obligándome a no pensar – no pensar – no pensar. En la oscuridad me parece ver una silueta difusa delante de la puerta de mi casa, me acerco sin poderlo creer, pero te reconozco. Me recuesto a la columna y te miro mirarme; como dos tiburones al acecho, ambas conociendo el final.

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