Bacacay Read online

  And as he passed by the municipal slaughterhouse he added: “Perhaps she also thinks that little ready-made lambs are brought by the stork? That roast lamb comes right onto the table? Oh, how sublime that is! How can one not love her?”

  And how can one not worship the Creator? It’s incomprehensible! How very wonderful nature is, that something like virginity is even permissible in this vale of tears. Virginity—in other words, a discrete category of beings who are closed, isolated, unaware, partitioned off by a thin screen. They tremble in fearful expectation, breathing deeply, brushing against things without penetrating them—separate from that which surrounds them, locked away from obscenity, sealed—and that is not merely an empty phrase, or rhetoric, but a genuine seal, as good as any other. A stunning combination of physics and metaphysics, abstract and concrete—from a minor bodily detail there flows an entire sea of idealism and wonders that are glaringly at odds with our sorry reality.

  As she eats her roast lamb she knows nothing and suspects nothing; and it’s the same with every matter from morning to evening. When was it that instead of spider she had said spidey—the spidey’s eating the wee fly? A marvel! Innocent both in the drawing room and in the dining room, and also in her little young lady’s room behind the white lace curtain, and on the toi- . . . Quiet! What a terrible thought!—He clenched his teeth, and his whole face twitched nervously. “No, no,” he whispered. “She, she doesn’t do that at all, she doesn’t know that; otherwise surely God would not be in his heaven.”—Yet he felt that he was lying. “In any case it happens apart from her; at such times she’s absent in spirit, it’s as it were—automatic . . .

  “Yes, but all the same—that’s a horrible thought!

  “Oh! And I? I, who am thinking about this, who am capable of thinking about such a thing, who do not go deaf and blind in the face of these horrors, but look on mentally? How despicable! It’s not her fault that this befell her but mine that I am rotten and dirty and that I’m not able remain silent in my mind. For my part, do I not owe her virginity a little unawareness? Yes—in order to love a virgin appropriately one should oneself be virginal and unaware; otherwise nothing will come of our idyll.

  “And so I desire to be virginal, but how can I achieve this? I’m not a virgin. True, like a priest or a monk I could wrap myself in black, in fasting and a cassock, and practice sexual abstinence; but what good would it do me? Is a monk virginal, or a priest? No, not in the slightest; the secret of male virginity lies elsewhere. Above all one should shut one’s eyes tight, and secondly rely on one’s instinct. I sense that instinct will show me the way. Yes—the way I felt with my instinct, though I wouldn’t be able to say why, that her ears are more virginal than her nose, and even more than her ears —the gentle incline of her back; her third finger more than her index finger; the way I’m able to appraise in this regard every detail of her figure—in the same way instinct will be my guide in attaining male virginity and becoming worthy of Alice.”

  Is it really necessary to dwell on the question of where instinct led him? After all, everyone has experienced something of this kind between the ages of thirteen and fourteen. His parents had ordained that he would become a merchant, but he was torn between two other professions—soldier and sailor. In the profession of soldier there is, to be sure, blind discipline and a hard bed, but on the other hand there is a lack of space. Whereas sailors have the advantage over others that, deprived of the company of the opposite sex, they have space, the elements, and freedom—and in addition, sea water is salty. Their ship, rocking lightly, bears them off to distant realms, amid fantastical palm trees and colorful people, to a world just as unreal as the one dreamed by Alice and her friends in their white beds. It is not without a deeper meaning that those far-off lands are called virgin—lands where the men wear plaits, where ears weighed down by metal earrings stretch to the shoulders, and where beneath the baobab tree idols devour slaves or infants, while the entire population indulges in ritual contortions. Is a kiss by rubbing noses, as practiced among the savage tribes, not something taken directly from an innocent, dreamy little head? Paul had spent long years there. He was struck by the fact that the virgins of those parts, who wore no skirts or blouses, were wholly on the surface. “Disgusting,” he would think. “The annihilation of charm . . . True, the color itself settles the issue . . . When one is red, black, or yellow—it can’t be helped, in a skirt or not—one cannot lay claim to the title of virgin.

  “You, Moni—Buatu,” he would say to one of the black women —“you bare . . . no blush . . . black, teeth bared, grotesque—you can’t comprehend the divine embarrassment of innocence enwrapped in fabric, and fearfully turning away its head.

  “Skirt, blouse, little parasol, prattle, holy naïveté dictated by instinct—these are delightful, but they aren’t for me. As a man I can neither clasp my arms together nor sully myself innocently. Quite the opposite: honor, courage, dignity, taciturnity, these are the attributes of male virginity. But I ought to maintain in relation to the world a certain male naivety constituting an analogy to virginal naivety. I must take everything in with a clear gaze. I must eat lettuce. Lettuce is more virginal than radishes—why, can anyone guess? Perhaps because it’s more bitter. But then lemon is even less virginal than radishes.

  “On the male side too there exist marvelous secrets, matters that are locked up with seven seals—the flag and death beneath the flag. What further? Faith is a great mystery, blind faith. A godless person is like a public woman to whom everyone has access. I ought to raise something to the dignity of my ideal, to come to love, to believe blindly and be prepared to sacrifice my life—but what should it be? Anything, so long as I have the ideal. I, a male virgin, bunged up with my ideal!”

  And here he was, after an absence of four years, walking with his betrothed along the paths of the garden. They made a handsome couple. Mrs. S. watched them gladly from the window as she embroidered a napkin, while Bibi dashed about the lawn chasing little birds, which fled chirping from his red tongue.

  “You’ve changed,” the young man was saying sadly; “you don’t prattle like before, you don’t wave your little hand about . . .”

  “No, no, I still love you just the same,” Alice replied distractedly.

  “There, you see! Before, you wouldn’t have said that you love me. I didn’t expect this of you—that such words would pass your throat, that your lips and tongue would form that shameful phrase. You’re altogether ill at ease, on edge somehow; you don’t have a throat infection by any chance?”

  “I love you; it’s just . . .”

  “Just what?”

  “You won’t make fun of me?”

  “You know that I—I never laugh. I only smile, and only with a cheerful smile.”

  “Explain to me: What does love mean, and what do I mean?”

  “Ah, I’ve been awaiting that question for a long time,” he exclaimed. “Come and sit on this bench.

  “When the first parents in paradise yielded to Satan’s whisper and tasted the tree of awareness, as you know, everything changed for the worse. ‘O Lord!’—the people begged—‘grant us at least a little of that lost purity and innocence.’ The Lord God looked helplessly at the motley band and had no idea where or how He could find a place for Purity and Innocence in that squalid herd. It was then He created a virgin, a vessel of innocence, locked her up tightly and set her among the people, who conceived a nostalgic longing for her.”

  “And what about married women?”

  “Married women are nothing—humbug, a stale bottle.”

  “But why is it, tell me, why is it that men throw rocks at virgins?”

  “What ’s that, Alice?”

  “It ’s happened to me a number of times,” said Alice, turning deep crimson, “that one or another man I’ve met on an empty street, when no one was watching—threw a rock at me.”

  “What did you say?” replied Paul in astonishment. “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” he whispere
d. “What do you mean, threw a rock?”

  “He took a rock, a big brick, and flung it at me. It hurt,” Alice murmured ever so quietly.

  “It’s . . . it’s nothing . . . They’re probably bad people . . . it’s for fun, or for target practice. Think no more about it.”

  “But why do virgins have to smile at such times?” insisted Alice.

  “Why do they smile? How do you mean ? What are you saying, child? Has this happened to you often, Alice?”

  “Oh yes, very often, almost every day, when I’ve been alone, or with Bibi.”

  “What about your girlfriends?”

  “They complain about it too. It’s impossible not to smile,” she went on pensively, “even though it hurts.”

  “This is novel,” thought Paul as he returned home. “Moving, even brutal. Throwing a rock at a virgin—I’ve never heard anything like it. True, such things are generally kept secret. She herself says it takes place only when no one is watching. It’s brutal—yes, but at the same time enchanting; and why? Because it’s instinctive. I’m touched, and curiously excited. Ah, the virginal world, the world of love, is full of such magical peculiarities. Strangers smile at one another on the street; someone strokes someone else’s elbow; a smile through tears, or a kiss by rubbing noses, is not at all odder than throwing a rock. It’s possible that there exists an entire code of agreed-upon signs and ways about which I, living all this time among the savages in China and Africa, know nothing.

  “Maidenhood is distinguished by the fact that for it, everything takes on a different meaning than it has in reality. For a virginal man, throwing a rock is not rocking one’s dignity to the same degree as even the slightest touch of the hand on a cheek. An ordinary person, a normal woman, would run away with a scream; whereas she—she smiled on account of some unfathomable depths. An ordinary person would think exclusively of fleeing the field of battle and, if only possible, saving their own skin; whereas for me, on the contrary, all is honor and the flag—the standard, that is, strictly speaking, a colored rag flapping in the wind.

  “A monarchy is more virginal than a republic, since it contains more mystery than do the garrulous members of parliament. A monarch—exalted, sinless, immaculate, free of responsibility—is a virgin, while to a lesser extent a general too is a virgin.

  “O sacred mystery of being, O miracle of existence: As I receive your gifts, I will not be the one to keep an eye on you. Quite the opposite—nothing but a humbly inclined head, veneration and gratitude, pantheism and contemplation, and no analyses disastrous in their consequences. Maidenhood and mystery—that alone; then let us guard against the lifting of the sacred curtain.”

  For her part, Alice also abandoned herself to reflection.

  “How strange the world is! In it no one answers straightforwardly but always symbolically. It’s never possible to find anything out. Paul was of course recounting a legend. I’m surrounded on all sides by symbols and legends, as if everyone were in cahoots against me. Paradise, God . . . who knows if that too wasn’t made up especially for me—for us young ladies. I’m convinced that everyone is concealing something and pretending, and it’s all a conspiracy. And Mama and Paul are in league together. It’s pleasant to slurp one’s tea and step on puppy-dogs’ tails . . . . Yes . . . . Religion, duty and virtue, yet it seems to me that beyond this, as if it were a screen, there are certain strictly determined gestures, certain movements; that every lofty watchword like this will be brought down to a strictly determined gesture and a strictly determined point.

  “Oh, I can imagine! Normally everyone is dressed and behaves politely—but when they’re left one on one, the men throw rocks at the women, and the women smile because it hurts. Then—they steal . . . for did I myself not steal a silver spoon and bury it in the garden, not knowing what to do with it?—Mama sometimes reads aloud from the newspapers about thefts; now I understand what that means. They steal, slurp their tea, tread on dogs’ feet and generally act out of spite, and this is love—while virgins are brought up in unawareness so that . . . things should be more agreeable. I’m all atremble.”

  Alice to Paul:Paul! Things are not quite the way you say. I feel so scattered! Yesterday I heard Mama telling Father that the unemployed were “multiplying” horribly—that they walk around “half-naked,” eat all kinds of disgusting offal, and that the number of thefts, brawls, and robberies was shooting up. Tell me everything—tell me what it means, what they need that “offal” for, why “half-naked”; Paul, I beg you, please, I want to know finally where I am; yours forever—Alice.

  Paul to Alice:My darling one! What is whirling around in this noggin of mine! I implore you by our love, never think about all that. Admittedly there are such things, and one sees them sometimes; but by dwelling on them, one can lose one’s virginity just like that—and then what would happen? The truth contained in purity is infinitely superior to the sordidness of reality. Let us be unaware, let us live by innocence, by our youthful, virginal instinct, and let us guard from mentally looking into places we shouldn’t, as once happened to me in the past, when I met you. Awareness disfigures, unawareness adorns; yours for all time

  —Paul.

  “Instinct,” thought Alice—“instinct . . . yes . . . but what does that instinct want, what do I want in fact? I myself don’t know . . . to die, or to eat something tart. I won’t regain my calm until . . . I’m so unaware; I have a blindfold over my eyes, as Paul says . . . at times it’s simply frightening . . . Instinct, my virginal instinct—that will show me the way!”

  The next day she spoke to her fiancé, who was gazing in rapture at her elbow:

  “Paul . . . I sometimes have the wildest notions!”

  “So much the better, my darling; that’s exactly what I expected of you,” he responded. “After all, what would you be without whims and notions. I adore that pure unwisdom!”

  “But my notions are strange, Paul . . . so strange I’m embarrassed to say what they are.”

  “You can’t have any other kind, unaware as you are,” he replied. “The wilder and the stranger the notion, the greater will be my zeal in carrying it out, my flower. Yielding to it, I’ll pay homage to your virginity and mine.”

  “But . . . you see . . . it’s—in fact, it’s somehow different . . . In any case, I’m sort of scattered by it. Tell me, have . . . have you also . . . like other people . . . have you ever stolen?”

  “Who do you take me for, Alice? What’s the meaning of these words? Could you even for a moment be drawn to a man soiled by such an offense? I’ve always tried to be pure and worthy of you, naturally in my own, male domain.”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know, Paul—but tell me, only please, please be honest—tell me, have you ever, you know—deceived someone, or bit them, or walked around . . . half-naked; or have you ever slept on a wall; or have you ever beaten someone, or licked them; or have you ever eaten something revolting?”

  “Child! What are you saying? Where have you gotten all this from? Alice, think for a moment . . . I, lick someone or deceive them? What about my honor? You must be mad!”

  “Oh, Paul,” said Alice, “what a marvelous day—there’s not a single cloud, and you have to shield your eyes with your hand.”

  Absorbed in their conversation, they walked right around the house and found themselves by the kitchen—where on a pile of refuse lay a bone with scraps of pink meat abandoned by Bibi.

  “Look, Paul—a bone,” said Alice.

  “Let’s go from here,” said Paul.—“Let’s go from here; in this place there are bad smells and the shouts of the kitchen maids. No, Alice, I’m surprised that such ideas could come out of that sweet little head of yours.”

  “Wait, Paul, wait—let’s not go away just yet—Bibi obviously didn’t finish gnawing it ... Paul ... oh, what am I like—I myself don’t know ... Paul.”

  “What it is, darling—maybe you feel faint? Perhaps the sun has tired you—it’s awfully hot.”

  “Not at al
l, nothing of the sort ... See how it’s looking at us—as if it wanted to bite us—to eat us up. Do you love me very much?”

  They stopped in front of the bone, which Bibi sniffed and licked, refreshing her memory.

  “Do I love you? I love you so much that I think you could only find another love like that in the mountains.”

  “I’d really like it, Paul, if you’d gnaw it—that is, if together we gnawed the bone on the trash heap. Don’t look, I’m blushing”—she nestled up to him—“don’t look at me now.”

  “The bone? What was that, Alice—what? What did you say?”

  “Paul,” said Alice, clinging to him—“that ... rock, you know, stirred a particular unease in me. I don’t want to know about anything, don’t say anything to me—but I’m troubled by the garden and the roses, and the wall, and the white of my dress, and, oh, I don’t know, perhaps I’d like my back to be bruised ... The rock whispered to me, whispered to my back, that there’s something behind that wall—and that I’ll eat that something, gnaw it in this bone, that is, we’ll gnaw it jointly, Paul, you with me, me with you; I must, I must ”—she insisted vehemently—“without it I’ll have to die young!”

  Paul was dumbstruck.

  “Child, what do you need a bone for? You’ve gone mad! If you absolutely must, then have them bring you a fresh bone from the broth.”

  “But the point is precisely that it has to be this one, from the trash heap!” cried Alice, stamping her foot. “And secretly, out of fear of the cook!”

  And suddenly a quarrel broke out between them, as hot and dizzy as the burning July sun, which was dropping toward the west. “Really, Alice, this is disgusting, noxious—ugh—it makes me quite simply sick. I mean, it’s right here that the cook throws out the slops!”—“ The slops? I feel sick too, I also feel faint—I’ve a hankering for slops as well! Believe me, for sure, it can be gnawed, Paul, it can be eaten!—everyone does it, I feel it—when no one else is watching.”