Читать книгу Feebleminded - Ariana Harwicz - Страница 13

I go outside jumping for joy. He’s sent me a message and it’s a shower of sparks like an ejaculation bringing me back to life. It creeps up through my body like an illness. I call him. I listen to him. He’s coming. I wait at the motorway intersection, under the bridge with its far-right posters and junkies’ graffiti. What is there to understand beyond this suffocation. My head is a huge flashing lamp, and now and then motors drive by at full speed. A lorry carrying a dozen carcasses of old cars. The road to the boneyard. It’s been days since I last saw him. And as I occupy the anteroom, I’m a beetle on its back with fleeting pulsions pushing me into the white. Rapid pulsions pushing me into the pure. To look through a crack and see only the tree branches. The air is sweating. Horses, grass, dung, air, all covered by a single sheet. All covered by compulsion. He appears, I get in the car, we pull up outside a motel. There’s nothing in between, no landscape, no motion, no succession of space time until we reach the room. Just a cut, a jump. I stay standing and my veins dilate. He unzips my trousers. I hear them fall. He turns me round, pulls down my underwear and his hand enters me like an object. With one blow the destructive force of sex obliterates my mother’s blonde mane, my mother from behind, from in front, running towards me on the shore, scrubbing the salt off my swimsuit lining in the middle of a sandstorm. The times I’d board the happy train with its silly music while she’d go for her aperitif and I’d wave down at her, my head floating in the colours. The times I’d search for her among groups of women, when I’d grasp a stranger’s hand. I have this monomania, how much higher can it go. Still it creeps up. While the room exists, it has the clarity of an axe.