|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| 
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| 
She was a Gypsy. He was a Jew. When she held his hand in public, something he knew she knew he hated, he created a reason to need it — to comb his hair, to point at the spot where his great-great-great-grandfather split the gold coins onto the shore like golden vomit from the sack — and would then insert in his pocket, ending the situation.
You know what I need right now, she said, reaching for his dead arm as they walked through the Sunday bazaar.
Tell me and it's yours. Anything.
I want a kiss.
You can have as many as you want, wherever you want them.
Here, she said, putting her index finger on her lips. Now.
He gestured to a nearby alley.
No, she said. I want a kiss here, she put her finger on her lips. Now.
He gestured to a nearby alley.
No, she said. I want a kiss here, she put her finger on her lips. Now.
They laughed together. Nervous laughter. Starting with small giggles. Summing. Louder laughter. Multiplying. Even louder. Squaring. Laughter between gasps. Uncontrollable laughter. Violent. Infinite.
I can't.
I know.
My grandfather and the Gypsy girl made love for seven years, at least twice every week. They had confessed every secret; explained, to the best of their abilities, the working of their bodies, each to the other; been forceful and passive, greedy and giving, wordy and silent.
How do you arrange your books? she asked as they lay naked on a bed of pebbles and hard soil.
I told you, they're in my bedroom on shelves.
I wonder if you can imagine your life without me.
Sure, I can imagine it, but I don't like to.
It's not pleasant, is it?
Why are you doing this?
It was just something I was wondering.
Not one of his friends — if it could be said that he had any other friends — knew about the Gypsy girl, and his parents, of course, didn't know about the Gypsy girl. She was such a tightly kept secret that sometimes he felt that not even he was privy to his relationship with her. She knew of his efforts to conceal her from the rest of his world, to keep her cloistered in a private chamber reachable only by a secret passage, to put her behind a wall.
She knew that even if he thought he loved her, he did not love her.
Where do you think you'll be in ten years? she asked, raising her head from his chest to address him.
I don't know.
Where do you think I'll be? Their sweat had mingled and dried, forming a pasty film between them.
In ten years?
Yes.
I don't know, he said, playing with her hair. Where do you think you'll be?
I don't know.
Where do you think I'll be?
I don't know, she said.
They lay in silence, thinking their own thoughts, each trying to know the other's. They were becoming strangers on top of each other.
What made you ask?
I don't know, she said.
Well, what do we know?
Not a lot, she said, easing her head back onto his chest.
|
|
|
|
|
