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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781628970425 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Deep Vellum Publishing |
| Publication date: | 08/05/2014 |
| Series: | Slovenian Literature |
| Pages: | 119 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.40(w) x 8.20(h) x 0.40(d) |
| Age Range: | 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Law Of Desire
By Andrej Blatnik, Tamara M. Soban
Dalkey Archive Press
Copyright © 2000 Andrej BlatnikAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-62897-042-5
CHAPTER 1
What We Talk About
I met her at the American Center. I was returning Carver's What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, which I'd been taking longer to read than I should have, so I went uneasily, listlessly, knowing what was in store—the librarian's piercing stare and shaking head when she realized I'd missed the due date by a mile.
To put off facing all that ill will, I resolved to leaf through the newspapers first. It was mid-morning, the reading room was empty—apart from one woman, sitting at one of the desks at the back, reading Esquire, with a closed book lying in front of her on the desk. I checked the title from force of bad habit: Female Criticism.
She glanced up at me, and I was given a reason for my uneasiness: I had been caught out, an observer, a peeper, a voyeur. I had to justify my look, I had to say something. I didn't have that many options. I asked her if she was interested in female literature. She said that was the only kind of literature she was interested in.
Talking about literature is one of the few things at which I excel. I jumped at the opportunity. I said I wasn't all that sure there was such a thing as female literature. She gave me a stern look. I spread my arms, like: You know what I mean? She said she'd known straight away I was just another typical phallocratic reader.
I couldn't help myself, her directness sent blood rushing to my head. I swallowed and said I'd translated two books by Anais Nin. She nodded and said that she'd read them. But she'd also read a third book I'd translated, and that was a typical conservative patriarchal yarn. The man takes care of his family, makes money and all the decisions, while the woman faithfully stands by him and does nothing else. That kind of thing. Typical.
I didn't dare ask if she'd also read the books I had written. I didn't dare ask how she knew who I was. I mumbled something about how I was translating Sylvia Plath's novel at the moment, which actually made me an aficionado of female literature. Unlike her, who read men's magazines. She ignored the jibe and asked me if I really thought female literature inevitably portrays women as helpless, pathetic featherbrains, which was the case, if I was honest about it, with The Bell Jar. It was an interpretation that could have been contested, but I reckoned I wasn't feeling up to it.
We may have been too loud, the librarian started to make meaningful throat-clearing noises. Although we were the only two people there—apart from the librarian, of course—this was nevertheless the reading room. I went out on a limb and asked her if she was so uncompromising about the macho act that she'd think me a pig if I asked her out for coffee. She said she wouldn't, she said she loved drinking coffee tremendously (yes, that's the word she used). But that she'd pay for it herself. I said I thought that was fair enough. She got to her feet and slipped the book back into its space on the shelf. For a brief moment I wondered if she hadn't placed it on her desk just to provoke me.
In any case, I in turn tossed my overdue book on the counter with a show of determination, muttered my name, and when the librarian speared me with that look and took a deep breath in order to give me the usual dose of reproof-cum-indignation, I drummed my fingers on the counter top and said we'd chat some other day because today I was in a tremendous hurry (yes, exactly that!). I winked at my new companion, and she winked back.
One thing I have to admit: if there's something physical I'm attracted to in women, it's large eyes. She had them, and on top of that a hairstyle like Glenda Jackson in Women in Love. We went across the street, to the Cafe Tivoli, which everybody still calls Petri?ek, though the name hasn't been changed for political reasons, and when I accidentally put sugar in my coffee, which I normally never do, I said to myself: Boy, oh, boy. You could have kept that book at home for another day or two. You could refrain from looking at what other people are reading. And you could have avoided speaking to her. Or, even, after all that, not invited her for coffee. Yes, you could have done all those things.
I asked her what she did for a living. (It's hard to talk to a stranger without asking them that sooner or later.) I wasn't trying to follow the advice of more experienced men who say that female intellectuals should generally be avoided, in a way I was just hoping that she'd placed that book there to catch me. Then I might know better whether my female acquaintances were justified when they complained about finding themselves prey. To be quite honest, I kind of desired that role for myself. They do say, after all, that the only thing to be gained in life is experience.
But on the other hand, what should I talk about with her if it turned out that the book was only there as a lure? (Which was a sort of secondary topic to one I was treating in a story I was writing at the time, viz. what can one talk about?) I have to admit, I rarely have dealings with the real world or whatever it's called. Most of the people I come into contact with are like me. We go to the movies. We read books. We listen to music. No harm in that, but it's not real either, so to speak.
And yet: If I've gained anything from all the books I've read, it's rhetoric. The gift of the gab. The ability to answer any question, as long as I feel like it. Perhaps not answer it in such a manner that I'm understood, but definitely so that it sounds interesting.
She said that she didn't actually know what she did exactly. (I would have answered the same, I thought to myself, while feeling a strange sense of pleasure.) She goes to the movies, she reads books, she listens to music. Good, I thought. We seem to speak the same language. I asked her about a film that was enthusing the people of Ljubljana at that time, and she said it was awful. I thought to myself: Here's a girl I could go to the pictures with. Then she asked me which magazines I'd come to read at the Center. I told her none, that I'd only come to return a book. She asked which one. I told her. She said she'd read it and the only part she liked was the title.
This made me almost dejected. I asked why. She said it was too sad, that all the characters talked past one another. I said something foolish, I said: But that's what life is like!
"Right," she said. "That's why."
We were silent. I toyed with the spoon in my empty coffee cup. Well, it's finally happened, I'm at a loss for words, I thought. And on the one occasion when I need something to say. Indeed: What can we talk about?
Although we'd run out of things to say, neither of us claimed to be in a hurry. We just waited and maintained our silence. She looked out the window, I glanced around the cafe. A young couple were sitting at the next table. The woman was crumpling her paper napkin while he was reading a comic.
"Hon," I heard her say, "why don't you ever talk to me? How come you're always silent?"
"Shut it, babe," he mumbled.
"Sometimes I think you don't love me at all," she continued. "Because you're always silent."
"I love you," he grumbled. "Now shut up."
I peered over his shoulder at his reading matter, and saw a hulk jumping up and down on a tiny fellow sprawled on the ground. The frame had SPLAT ... SPLAT ... inscribed over it.
I looked back at my companion. She was looking at me with raised eyebrows. She didn't say anything. We nursed out coffee cups. A waitress came by.
"Can I have the check, please?" I said and reached in my pocket. She did the same. "I'll get it," I said, as I usually do.
"No," she said, "no. That's not fair."
The waitress looked at us in surprise.
"It makes no difference," I said. "Just leave it, it doesn't matter."
"No," she said, "no. It does. We had a deal."
"Okay," I said, "then you pay. What difference does it make?"
"Your coffee too?" she said.
I felt like saying: No, I'll pay for my coffee myself. But I really thought it didn't matter. And besides, the waitress was already looking around. I hate to stall the natural rhythm of the world.
"Yes, if you like," I said. "I don't mind."
She nodded, looking at me. She extended her hand with the money, still looking at me. As I said – large eyes.
"It's okay," she said to the waitress, who was on the point of counting back the change. The waitress mumbled something and shoved the money into her pocket. She moved away from our table, walking backwards, looking at us, until she bumped against a newly arrived customer.
We held each other's eye. I heard laughter somewhere behind me and I jerked my head around. No, it wasn't meant for me. A group of high-school kids were looking at pictures in a magazine they'd just unwrapped from its foil. I knew the magazine. An ex-neighbor of mine was the editor. It was pornographic.
So, it crossed my mind as I was slowly turning my head back, now she's going to laugh at me. And I'll deserve it. For being paranoid.
She didn't laugh. She kept looking at me, right in the eye, and then she nodded.
"What?" I asked, with an edge of provocation.
"Nothing," she said.
For a moment I paused. "Well, then, let's go," I said in a reconciliatory tone. "What are you doing now?"
She shrugged. "Going home," she said.
A good little girl after all, I thought, and admonished myself immediately. Behave yourself, no sarcasm.
"And where's that?"
She told me the name of the street. I'd never heard of it.
"Do you want a ride?"
"Is it on your way?"
"I don't know where it is," I owned up.
She smiled.
"I can take a bus."
"No," I said, "I like driving. And one should get to know new places."
That wasn't very funny. You can do better than that, I again upbraided myself.
She was merciful and pretended she hadn't heard.
"Would you really give me a ride?" she said.
"Why, do you think I was just kidding you?" I said.
"You could've changed your mind now that you've see me in broad daylight."
I wasn't certain she was joking.
"I saw you before. When we crossed the street."
"That doesn't count," she said. "We were talking about books, and when you talk about books everything seems different. More beautiful, I guess."
I didn't know whether she was teasing me or speaking in earnest. It sounded serious, but I knew I would panic and leave her alone if I decided that she was in earnest. So I preferred to think she was just teasing me.
We reached the car.
"Here you are," I said. To hell with 'we'. It entailed more intimacy than I was willing or able to deal with at that moment. I unlocked the door on her side.
Once we were inside the car, with the engine running, I asked: "Where to now?"
"Aren't you going to take me home?" she answered.
"Sure," I said, somewhat puzzled. "But where is that?"
"Just drive. I'll tell you as we go."
I drove nervously, changing lanes, slamming on the brakes. Naturally, I tried to appear as relaxed as possible. And she spoke as though I were taking a driving test: "Over there. Turn left there. Now make a right turn." And then: "Stop there. Here we are."
"Here?" I said. It was the extensive parking lot of a housing development. We were surrounded by a forest of tall apartment buildings.
"I live here," she motioned indeterminately upward, "I can't help it. So, do you want to come up for a coffee?"
"Coffee?" I repeated like an idiot. "But we've had one already, haven't we?"
"So you don't," she said. "Well, then, thanks for the ride."
I felt that she was taking all the initiative away from me, and I couldn't have that.
"They say that going for a coffee is just a phrase, with something else hidden behind it," I said hurriedly.
"What?" she asked and looked at me attentively.
"Well, anything. Having a drink or something. Hanging out together. That's what it's all about. Company."
She kept looking at me.
"For a coffee," she repeated with insistence. "There's nothing behind it. Just coffee. Do you want to come up or not?"
It didn't sound impatient.
I knew if I declined, morally I'd walk away the top dog. I'd have an advantage. But then I would also have to hang out day after day at the American Center if I wanted this thing to continue. And I didn't have the time. But I did have enough to want the whole thing to continue. So I said I would come up.
In her apartment, I felt unusually at home for a place I'd never been before. After a while I became aware of the reason for this sense of harmony with my surroundings: The place was a mess. I have never been allowed disorder, despite it being, for me, the only natural state of affairs. First it was my mother who prevented it. Then the woman I live with. Their rule of thumb is: To put the world in order, one must start with the surface. That may well be true, but if everything is neat and tidy I simply don't feel well. I have somehow never belonged in orderliness.
Here, everything was different.
There were books strewn all over the floor, magazines, clothes. Bras. My woman doesn't wear one.
I tried to conceal that I was glancing around. But she noticed. Of course she noticed. She pretended it was nothing. That it was all right. Guts, I thought. In the bourgeois world it takes guts to invite a stranger into such a mess. Or insanity.
"Coffee, then," she said, not veiling the irony.
"Sure, coffee," I answered. "What else? That's what I'm here for."
"Come on, tell me," I said as the water boiled in the pot, "what do you really do?"
"I talk on the phone," she said. "I talk on the phone a lot."
"Is that so?" I said. "Then we can call each other up some time."
She looked at me seriously.
"I'm busy a lot."
"Me too," I added hurriedly.
"I mean, my phone."
"I don't hear it ringing."
"Today's my day off."
I didn't know what to make of that. Obviously she liked to express herself in an obscure fashion. I sipped my coffee, looking at her. She looked back at me. Without any uneasiness. We were silent.
"And what are we going to do now?" she said finally.
"Now we're going to kiss," I said.
"Oh no, we're not," she said.
"I didn't think we would," I said.
"Then why did you say it?"
I shrugged.
"You thought you had to. But you didn't."
I made no comment on that. "What do you suggest?" I asked.
"We could talk."
"About what?"
"About kissing, if you like."
"It's too innocent," I said.
"Okay, then about something less innocent."
"About what?" I pretended not to understand.
"About exactly that," she said calmly, unruffled.
"You don't talk about it, you do it," I objected.
"You're behind the times all right," she said.
"So what's in then?" I asked.
"Not to do it, but only to talk about it."
"Why?" I said. "Because of AIDS?"
She smiled. "What AIDS! Are you nuts?"
"Aren't you afraid of AIDS?"
"I have no reason to be," she said. "Why should I be afraid of AIDS?"
"I thought that was also in. Everybody I know is afraid of AIDS."
"That's just what women tell you because they don't want to have sex with you."
I decided to ignore that. The woman was capable of low blows. Good. Very good.
"I have a friend who kicks his wife under the table when they go visit his parents, to make sure she doesn't eat salad from the same bowl as them," I said. "Can you imagine that? He's afraid of catching it from his own father and mother!"
"Isn't it nice that he has more trust in his wife than his parents?" she countered.
"Or else he's simply paranoid."
"You like to make fun of other people," she said in a matter-off-act way.
"Yes, I do," I admitted.
"Me too."
I don't doubt that for a second, I thought. But I didn't say anything. Perhaps I was afraid that she'd say something back. I didn't want to take it any further.
"Aren't we going to talk?" she asked.
"About that? I'm not sure I have all that much to say about it."
I realized that I was beginning to become defensive.
She twirled her coffee cup.
"Never mind then," she said.
Now I didn't know what to say. I gulped down the rest of my coffee. It wasn't good. Too sweet. She didn't ask me how I took my coffee, I thought. She just made it the way she always does.
"Thanks for the coffee," I said.
"Are you leaving?" she asked.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Law Of Desire by Andrej Blatnik, Tamara M. Soban. Copyright © 2000 Andrej Blatnik. Excerpted by permission of Dalkey Archive Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Questions for Andrej Blatnik About Law of Desire, 7,What We Talk About, 13,
Closer, 42,
Too Close Together, 60,
A Thin Red Line, 64,
When Marta's Son Returned, 73,
Key Witness, 77,
Electric Guitar, 79,
Letter to Father, 86,
Nora's Face, 88,
No I, 92,
Bastards Play Love Songs, 94,
Total Recall, 105,
The Day of Independence, 111,
Just As Well, 115,
Surface, 120,