Bole: Chant 5

Somewhat like that

Answer-phone message

That arrives at three in the morning

I am suddenly an ear to a voice

Serving drunken confessions

We both regret we encountered

Avellana bursts in my apartment like a whirlwind and finds me reading. She was an attractive girl, and entered wearing her hair up in a wild style, and wore a dark leopard skin skirt and a black blouse underneath her jacket.

—Good. You’re still awake, she says in high spirits

—Wait. I’ve been reading two books from the eighteenth century and the author of this one, in the book, is talking to the author of this other one. Isn’t that funny?

She stands at the other side of the room, fingering the ficus.

—Not really.

—What did you come for? I ask

She looks at my window sill, and sees all my books piled up against the window.

—Why do you pile your books up like that?

—Single glazing, I say. Keeps the heat in.

—You seem to have more books than when I last came in here.

—Yeah, well you know how it is, you get a book, you’re in to it, you finish it, you get another one.

She looks at my desk with the pages of my notebook and lifts it up to examine it. And instead of answering me asks.

—What’s this? she said picking up the notebook. She liked her music and I liked to think she was full of all the passion I heard in it, she read aloud. Is that about me?

—No, I answered truthfully

—You’re the narrator? she asks placing it back on to my desk

—I prefer to call myself the navigator.

—Cute.

—So, what did you want?

—I have some writing of my own you know.

She immediately walks out of my room, across the hall to her place, and returned with some sheets of paper.

—Would you like to hear it?

Oh God no, a thousand times no!

—Of course, I say

It was a short story, a satyr play, called Woods I Join, about a bull who drinks, takes drugs, and hits the town on a rampage of violent sexual adventures. Your typical story of how close you can get to Hell.

When forced or even obliged to listen to someone’s work I had learnt to always hold my breath and refrain from blinking. That way, when they have finished, you gasp for breath as if in delight and blink as if astonished.

—What do you think? she asks when she had finished

—Wow, I gasp breathlessly. Really impressive.

She places her sheets of paper on to the table in the room and stands before me, yawning and moving her shoulders, as if trying to wake herself up.

—You look a little. . . I began to say before realizing the mistake of my words. Do you want some water? I ask instead

—No, but I’ll have a beer if you have one?

—I don’t drink.

Why does nobody get that yet? I think

I realize she is intending to stay for some time, and so get up to make a caffeinated drink, a tea, and one for her to balance her head.

—Here you go, I say putting down her cup.

—Thanks, she says not touching it

—You went out to the city? I ask

—Yes, she says cheerfully.

She was a real bacchante. Out most nights of the week. Mingling with the satyrs and centaurs of the city.

—What happened to that guy you were seeing? I ask, taking a seat. The one with all the piercing.

—Kentauros? Ah, he’s gone, she says with a flick of her hand. He turned out to be like most men: a fine liar.

—I see.

—But you’re honest aren’t you, Zy?

—Eighty percent of the time, I reply.

—And what are you the other twenty?

—A man.

—And which are you now?

—I’m not sure.

—You’re not sure, she says mocking the innocence of my answer.

She takes out the clip from her hair, and with a light shake of her head, allows her hair to fall freely over her shoulders, and moves closer across the room.

—And what are you now?

I look at her face, more attractive in the naturalness of golden hair..

—Amused, I reply.

Then she slides out of her coat and drops it where she stands, moves closer across the room and asks.

—And what are you now?

I look at her, able to see the curves of her body as her blouse hugs her skin.

—More amused.

She moves towards me and stands directly in front of me, her legs against my knees, looking down at me with a teasing smile and asks.

—And what are you now?

—Thrilled, I reply.

—Ha! She lets out a laugh that tilts her head back exposing her neck. And drops to sit beside me, facing me with an inquisitive stare, and waits for a moment for my reaction.

—You really aren’t sure are you, she says.

She leaps up and walks back across the room.

—I think you worry too much about which one you are, she says. Let the moment choose.

—But there are so many, I say.

—Then choose the most exciting one, she says over her shoulder, turning her back to me and walking slowly.

—You’ve got a lot to learn, Zylitol, she says. It’s like you’re a boy.

—I’ve had my share of living.

—Well, then you’ve retired too early, she says quickly. This is your prime of life.

—Yeah real living this is, I say sarcastically.

—Well you’re no where else.

She lets out a deep sigh and stares at me.

—Why don’t you drink? she finally says.

—Just a preference.

—You don’t drink at all?

—I have wine with a meal.

—Oh, you only drink sensibly, she laughs. Well, there’s a lot of point in drinking sensibly

—And only a glass as that.

—Well, I have some wine at mine, she says. I’ll go and get it and we can have a drink. You’ll have a drink with me wont you? If only a glass?

—.If I have something to eat.

She lets out a small laugh and taps the toe of her heel against the wooden floor.

—I’ll be right back.

As before, she immediately darts across the hall to her apartment and returns with half a bottle of wine and two glasses.

—Here you go, she says. I brought this as well.

And walks over to my stereo to put on the music she had brought. She pours me a glass of wine, I take it, and then pours one for herself. After a sip she makes a satisfied face.

—Dance with me, she says

—As well as I can.

I stand up wondering how this night began and put my hand on her hip and my other in her hand and she pulls herself to me swaying gently.

—Do like this music? she asks, resting her head on my shoulder

—It’s nice, I say.

—I like this music. Do you like me, Zylitol?

—You have your moments.

She laughs, treating it playfully.

—I like you, Zylitol.

She lifts her head from my shoulder and looks in my eyes to seek permission, then purses her lips giving me a soft kiss. I taste her lipstick and remember the times this has happened before. You sleep with a person once and they think they can sleep with you again by just looking at you. But I thought more fun to let her get there in different ways each time.

—I’d like to sleep here tonight, she says.

I let go of her hand and pull away, walk over to the coffee table, pick up her untouched cup and take a sip. It’s cold.

—I think it’s important that you sleep at your place tonight.

—Why?

—Why? Because what’s the difference.

She lets out a whip of laughter.

—You don’t get it, you idiot.

And immediately picks up her coat and bag from the floor and walks to the door.

—Goodnight! She says energetically. Enjoy your glass if you touch it.

—Avellana, I call to her as she open the door. No hard feelings?

She turns to me, smiles and raises her arms.

—No feelings at all.

“'Tis well thou'rt gone,

If it be well to live;”

After Avellana left, I thought about how she moved around the room and looked at the wine, and the short story she had left behind, and I was overcome by feelings that desired to write of her:

Avellana, Avellana, my conscience chants, for the moment, for the moment. You have always sought pleasure for the moment, Avellana. But what is there in you that lasts? Do you not seek lasting pleasure, do you instead repeat your pleasure so it feels to last? Avellana, Avellana, my conscience chants, a moment, a moment. Why did you come tonight? I know why you came tonight, but why could you have not done otherwise. Why at the end of your nights must you arrive at another’s? Why must you prevent arriving at yourself? O, Avellana, who walks in, golden with amber’d honey, whom lights my room ablaze, why did you come tonight with no pleasures of other kinds? You affirm your pleasure, Avellana, like a lioness affirms its hunted. I love that of you. When you affirm you are ablaze, and no one could deny to have felt your flame. Like a camp fire, your flames dance in the dark, I, mesmerized. But you are that, Avellana, a fire that burns in the dark. I shall lie awake tonight, replaying gestures which defined you. You shall fall asleep tonight with flutes blowing to your ears. Sleep well, Avellana, sleep well. I shall be kept awake tonight by the taste of your honeyed kiss.

But for more than Avellana, I lay awake in bed having been disturbed a wail of noise that called through my walls and window. I seem to remember a time not long ago being disturbed by the eerie vacuum of the village at night. But now I covered my ears and held a pillow, turning over one side to then the other, hoping that eventually I would grow exhausted of the low warble of passing planes that found its way to my ears, like a bolt of lightning does to the earth. And I thought to myself, this apartment was my shield to this place, but now this sound has even found its way in.

The night drew on, feeling I would not be able to sleep from the sound that breathed in to my room like a brass horn. I opened the curtains to see a violet sky, and saw a spider building its web against my window. I turned to the opening of Daphnis et Chloé, a favourite for the hours between starlight and dawn, so that I, like Orpheus, could drown out this song of Sirens. Tonight I will not sleep, I thought, I shall sit up all night with my ears covered. I shall listen to Ravel and think of insects. This apartment was what I had been to work for; for these four walls, this ceiling, this broken light, and this spider’s web. And in my exhaustion I began to feel wrestles, my body disputing over sleep and waking.