Читать книгу ALCHEMIES OF THE HEART - David Dorian - Страница 21

The Scented Octopus

My hours in college were under the gravitational pull of the goddess. The proximity of a woman’s body plunged me into a state of agitation. I was a biology student at Queens College in Queens, New York. Girls from immigrant families filled classrooms. They were girls from Peru, Greece, Korea, Finland sitting on these narrow seats, their legs exposed, their sweaters stretched by blooming glands. I endured a constant erection. During the day, between classes, I’d rush into the men’s room to relieve myself, giving some slack to the taut skin of my penis. I then stored my now-limp penis in my brief, belted my pants, and joined my fellow students in the lecture hall to hear my professor’s discourse on molecular biology. I realized then an obvious truth, that genitals are a source of permanent, available, accessible pleasure. It was a compensation from all the ills the flesh is heir to. Genitals make us cling to life. And when other organs let us down one by one, as we endure the degeneration and humiliation of old age, we grip our sagging balls and rub our penises and feel that élan vital which makes life a vibrant journey.

The windowless auditorium was badly ventilated, and the feminine scents infused this closed planet. I was captivated by the feminine audience. I was calculating the mathematical probability of girls menstruating simultaneously in this place and time. The auditorium was full, all its five hundred seats occupied. I speculated 60 percent were women. They were at least around three hundred female students. I entertained there must have been at least seventy-five women having their period in the here and now, to use Eckhart Tolle’s expression which sold him a lot of books turning a German hobbit into a rich ascetic. Many students were wearing skirts, which promoted the aeration of their vaginas. That vesicle, the feminine organ, is not a lifeless amalgam of cells. Secretions lubricate it and protect it from bacterial infections. It exudes aromas. Didn’t the twelfth-century Tunisian Berber Umar Nafzawi write the erotic masterpiece The Perfumed Garden at the request of the sultan of Tunis Aziz Al Matawakki? I was inhaling a rich, scented air that didn’t in any way trigger my asthma. I rejoiced at the fact that I wasn’t allergic to women’s odors.

Years passed. I forgot about Samantha. One evening, I was alone in the house. I defrosted salmon and was marinating it in an olive tapenade in preparation for frying. I poured myself a glass of Graves. The program Cold Cases was on. It was about crimes that hadn’t been solved because the investigation had failed to identify any suspects and time had passed without any new piece of evidence. The reporter was examining the case of Samantha Waters. Photographs of the victim flashed on the screen. Interviews with friends and neighbors were replayed. There was nothing new in the investigation. Her parents made an appeal for anyone who had some information to call a particular number. Anonymity was promised. The sum of thirty thousand dollars was allocated to anyone with a solid lead.

Sleep evaded me that night. I swallowed three clonazepams.

I don’t know why, after I had seen Samantha in that Cold Cases show, I bought a finch. I got a spacious cage with swings. But the bird was mute. It was autistic, I figured. I found out finches don’t like to be alone. I got my zebra finch a companion. I placed it in the cage. The excitement was palpable as they flew around the cage performing a mating dance. A romance flourished. In a few days, music filled the room. They were both singing—sometimes solo, other times duos. I called it harmonic resonance.