Desire

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

Page 126 of 344 · 20 per page

• From Middlesex (2002)

  She was looking at me, low-lidded. Her eyes in the brightness of day with heat currents rising over the baking grass looked very green, even if they were only slits, crescents. Her head was bent forward against the arm of the swing; she had to look up to see me. This gave her a vixenish attitude. Without taking her eyes off mine, she ad- justed her legs, spreading them slighdy. "You have the most amazing eyes," she said. 389 "Your eyes are really green. They almost look fake." "They are fake." "You've got glass eyes?" "Yeah, I'm blind. Pm Tiresias." This was a new way to do it. We'd just discovered it. Staring into each other's eyes was another way of keeping them closed, or off the details at hand, anyway. We locked onto each other. Meanwhile the Object was very subtiy flexing her legs. I was aware of the mound be- neath her cutoffs rising toward me, just a little, rising and suggesting itself. I put my hand on the Object's thigh, palm down. And as we continued to swing, looking at each other while crickets played their fiddles in the grass, I slid my hand sideways up toward the place where the Object's legs joined. My thumb went under her cutoffs. Her face showed no reaction. Her green eyes under the heavy lids re- mained fastened on mine. I felt the fluffiness of her underpants and pressed down, sliding under the elastic. And then with our eyes wide open but confined in that way my thumb slipped inside her. She blinked, her eyes closed, her hips rose higher, and I did it again. And again after that. The boats in the bay were part of it, and the string section of crickets in the baking grass, and the ice melting in our lemonade glasses. The swing moved back and forth, creaking on its rusted chain, and it was like that old nursery rhyme, Little Jack Horner sat in the corner eating his Christmas pie. He stuck in his thumb and pulled out a plum . . After the first roll of her eyes the Object resettled her gaze on mine, and then what she was feeling showed only there, in the green depths her eyes revealed. Otherwise she was motionless. Only my hand moved, and my feet on the rail, pushing the swing. This went on for three minutes, or five, or fifteen. I have no idea. Time disappeared. Somehow we were still not quite conscious of what we were doing. Sensation dissolved straight into . forgetting.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  I took a minor sip, and as soon as I swallowed, I felt my body rejecting the stinging syrup of it. It washed back up my esophagus, but I swallowed hard, and there, yes, I did it. I was drinking on campus. So we lay in the tall grass between the soccer field and the woods, passing the bottle back and forth and tilting our heads up to sip the wince-inducing wine. As promised in the list, she brought a Kurt Vonnegut book, Cat’s Cradle , and she read aloud to me, her soft voice mingling with the frogs’ croaking and the grasshoppers landing softly around us. I did not hear her words so much as the cadence of her voice. She’d obviously read the book many times before, and so she read flawlessly and confidently, and I could hear her smile in the reading of it, and the sound of that smile made me think that maybe I would like novels better if Alaska Young read them to me. After a while, she put down the book, and I felt warm but not drunk with the bottle resting between us—my chest touching the bottle and her chest touching the bottle but us not touching each other, and then she placed her hand on my leg. Her hand just above my knee, the palm flat and soft against my jeans and her index finger making slow, lazy circles that crept toward the inside of my thigh, and with one layer between us, God I wanted her. And lying there, amid the tall, still grass and beneath the star-drunk sky, listening to the just-this-side-of-inaudible sound of her rhythmic breathing and the noisy silence of the bullfrogs, the grasshoppers, the distant cars rushing endlessly on I-65, I thought it might be a fine time to say the Three Little Words. And I steeled myself to say them as I stared up at that starriest night, convinced myself that she felt it, too, that her hand so alive and vivid against my leg was more than playful, and fuck Lara and fuck Jake because I do, Alaska Young, I do love you and what else matters but that and my lips parted to speak and before I could even begin to breathe out the words, she said, “It’s not life or death, the labyrinth.” “Um, okay. So what is it?” “Suffering,” she said. “Doing wrong and having wrong things happen to you. That’s the problem. Bolívar was talking about the pain, not about the living or dying. How do you get out of the labyrinth of suffering?” “What’s wrong?” I asked. And I felt the absence of her hand on me. “Nothing’s wrong. But there’s always suffering, Pudge. Homework or malaria or having a boyfriend who lives far away when there’s a good-looking boy lying next to you. Suffering is universal. It’s the one thing Buddhists, Christians, and Muslims are all worried about.” I turned to her. “Oh, so maybe Dr.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  I waited ten or so minutes, just to be safe. Then, as though toss- ing in my sleep, I rolled over so that I was looking at the Object. The moon was gibbous and filled the room with blue light. There upon the wicker bed the Obscure Object slept. The top of her Groton T-shirt was visible. It was an old one of her father's, with a few holes. She had one arm crossed over her face, like a slash on a sign that meant "No Touching." So I looked instead. Over the pillow her hair was spread out. Her lips were parted. Something glinted inside her ear, grains of sand from the beach maybe. Beyond, the atomizers glowed on the dresser. The ceiling was up above somewhere. I could feel the spiders working in the corners. The sheets were cool. The fat duvet rolled up at our feet was leaking feathers. I'd grown up around the smell of new carpeting, of polyester shirts hot from the dryer. Here the Egyptian sheets smelled like hedges, the pillows like water fowl. Thirteen inches away, the Object was part of all this. Her colors seemed to agree with the American landscape, her pumpkin hair, her apple cider skin. She made a sound and went still again. 382 Gently, I pulled the covers off her. In the dimness her oudine ap- peared, the rise of her breasts beneath the T-shirt, the soft hill of her belly, and then the brightness of her underpants, converging in their V shape. She didn't stir at all. Her chest rose and fell with her breath. Slowly, trying not to make a sound, I moved closer to her. Tiny mus- cles in my flank, muscles I hadn't known I possessed, suddenly made themselves available. They propelled me millimeter by millimeter across the sheets. The old bedsprings gave me trouble. As I tried non- chalantiy to advance, they called out ribald encouragement. They cheered, they sang. I kept stopping and starting. It was hard work. I breathed through my mouth, quieter that way. Over the course of ten minutes I slid nearer and nearer to her. Fi- nally I felt the heat of her body along my entire length. We were still not touching, only radiating against each other. She was breathing deeply. So was I. We breathed together. Finally, gathering courage, I flung my arm across her waist. Then nothing more for a long while. Having achieved this much, I was scared to go further. So I remained frozen, half hugging her. My arm grew stiff. It began to throb and finally went numb. The Ob- ject might have been drugged or comatose. Still, I sensed an alertness in her skin, in her muscles. After another long while I plunged ahead.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  The corset seemed to possess its own sets of hands. One was softly rubbing her between the legs. Two more cupped her breasts, one, two, three hands pressing and caressing her; and in the lingerie Desdemona saw herself through new eyes, her thin waist, her plump thighs; she felt beautiful, desirable, most of all: not herself. She lifted her feet, rested her calves on the oarlocks. She spread her legs. She opened her arms for Lefty, who twisted around, chafing his knees and elbows, dislodging oars, nearly setting off a flare, until finally he fell into her softness, swooning. For the first time Desdemona tasted the flavor of his mouth, and the only sisterly thing she did during their lovemaking was to come up for air, once, to say, "Bad boy. You've done this before." But Lefty only kept repeating, "Not like this, not like this . ." . And I was wrong before, I take it back. Underneath Desdemona, beating time against the boards and lifting her up: a pair of wings. "Lefty!" Desdemona now, breathlessly. "I think I felt it." "Felt what?" "You know. That feeling? 70 "Newlyweds," Captain Kontoulis said, watching the lifeboat rock. "Oh, to be young again." After Princess Si Ling-chi— whom I find myself picturing as the im- perial version of the bicyclist I saw on the U-Bahn the other day; I can't stop thinking about her for some reason, I keep looking for her every morning— after Princess Si Ling-chi discovered silk, her nation kept it a secret for three thousand one hundred and ninety years. Anyone who attempted to smuggle silkworm eggs out of China faced punishment of death. My family might never have become silk farmers if it hadn't been for the Emperor Justinian, who, according to Procopius, persuaded two missionaries to risk it. In a.d. 550, the missionaries snuck silkworm eggs out of China in the swallowed con- dom of the time: a hollow staff. They also brought the seeds of the mulberry tree. As a result, Byzantium became a center for sericulture. Mulberry trees flourished on Turkish hillsides. Silkworms ate the leaves. Fourteen hundred years later, the descendants of those first stolen eggs filled my grandmother's silkworm box on the Giulia.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  didn't have to be so vigilant about keeping your knees together or your skirt tugged down. The Object's knees were spread apart and her legs, which were somewhat heavy in the thigh, were bare high up. Without moving, she said, "I forgot my book." Mr. da Silva compressed his lips. "You can look on with Callie." The only sign of agreement she gave was to sweep her hair off her face. She placed a hand to her forehead and ran it back like a plow though her hair, her fingers leaving furrows. At the end of the stroke came a little flick of the head, a flourish. There was her cheek, per- mitting approach. I scooted over. I slid my book onto the crack be- tween our desks. The Object leaned over it. "From where?" "Top of page one hundred and twelve. The description of the shield of Achilles." I'd never been this close to the Obscure Object before. It was hard on my organism. My nervous system launched into "Flight of the Bumblebee." The violins were sawing away in my spine. The timpani were banging in my chest. At the same time, trying to conceal all this, I didn't move a muscle. I hardly breathed. That was the deal basi- cally: catatonia without; frenzy within. I could smell her cinnamon gum. It was still in the back of her mouth somewhere. I didn't look directiy at her. I kept my eyes on the book. A strand of her red-gold hair fell onto the desk between us. Where the sun hit the hair, there was a prismatic effect. But while I was witnessing the half-inch rainbow she began to read. I expected a nasal monotone, riddled with mispronunciations. I expected bumps, swerves, screeching brakes, head-on collisions. But the Obscure Object had a good reading voice. It was clear, strong, supple in its rhythms. It was a voice she'd picked up at home, from poetry-reciting uncles who drank too much. Her expression changed, too. A concentrated dignity, previously absent, marked her features. Her head rose on a proud neck. Her chin was lifted. She sounded twenty-four instead of fourteen. I wonder which was stranger, the Eartha Kitt voice that came out of my mouth or the Katharine Hep- burn that came out of hers. 326 When she was finished there was silence. "Thank you," said Mr. da Silva, as surprised as die rest of us. "That was very nicely done." The bell rang. Immediately the Object leaned away from me. She ran a hand through her hair again, as tiiough rinsing it in the shower. She slipped out of the desk and left the room.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "Once upon a time in ancient Greece, there was an enchanted pool. This pool was sacred to Salmacis, the water nymph. And one day Hermaphroditus, a beautiful boy, went swimming there." Here I lowered my feet into the pool. I lolled them back and forth as the narration continued. "Salmacis looked upon the handsome boy and her lust was kindled. She swam nearer to get a closer look." Now I began to lower my own body into the water inch by inch: shin, knees, thighs. If I paced it the way Presto had instructed me, the peepholes slid shut at this point. Some customers left, but many dropped more tokens into the slots. The screens lifted from the port- holes. "The water nymph tried to control herself. But the boy's beauty was too much for her. Looking was not enough. Salmacis swam 490 nearer and nearer. And then, overpowered by desire, she caught the boy from behind, wrapping her arms around him." I began to kick my legs, churning up water so that it was hard for the customers to see. "Hermaphroditus struggled to free himself from the tenacious grip of the water nymph, ladies and gentlemen. But Salmacis was too strong. So unbridled was her lust that the two became one. Their bodies fused, male into female, female into male. Behold the god Hermaphroditus!" At which point I plunged into the pool entire, all of me exposed. And the peepholes slid shut. No one ever left a booth at this point. Everyone extended his or her membership to the Garden. Underwater I could hear the tokens clinking into the change boxes. It reminded me of being at home, submerging my head under bathwater and hearing the pinging in the pipes. I tried to think of things like that. It made everything seem far away. I pretended I was in the bathtub on Middlesex. Meanwhile faces filled the portholes, gazing with amazement, curiosity, disgust, desire. We were always stoned for work. That was a prerequisite. As we got into our costumes Zora and I would fire up a joint to start the night. Zora brought a thermos of Averna and ice, which I drank like Kool-Aid. What you aimed for was a state of half oblivion, a private party mood. This made the men less real, less noticeable. If it hadn't been for Zora I don't know what I would have done. Our little bun- galow in the mist and trees, neatly surrounded by low-lying Califor- nia ground cover, the tiny koi pond full of pet-store goldfish, the outdoor Buddhist shrine made of blue granite— it was a refuge for me, a halfway house where I stayed, getting ready to go back into the world. My life during those months was as divided as my body. Nights we spent at Sixty-Niners, waiting around the tank, bored, high, giggling, unhappy. But you got used to that. You learned to medicate yourself against it and put it out of your mind.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  438 • Appendix A: Seductive Environment/Seductive Time show. Keep everything light and playful, full of distractions, noise, color, and a bit of chaos. No weight, responsibilities, or judgments. A place to lose yourself in. 3. In 1746, a seventeen-year-old girl named Cristina had come to the city of Venice, Italy, with her uncle, a priest, in search of a husband. Cristina was from a small village but had a substantial dowry to offer. The Venetian men who were willing to marry her, however, did not please her. So after two weeks of futile searching, she and her uncle prepared to return to their village. They were seated in their gondola, about to leave the city, when Cristina saw an elegantly dressed young man walking toward them. "There's a handsome fellow!" she said to her uncle. "I wish he was in the boat with us." The gentleman could not have heard this, yet he approached, handed the gondolier some money, and sat down beside Cristina, much to her delight. He introduced himself as Jacques Casanova. When the priest complimented him on his friendly manners, Casanova replied, "Perhaps I should not have been so friendly, my reverend father, if I had not been attracted by the beauty of your niece." Cristina told him why they had come to Venice and why they were leaving. Casanova laughed and chided her—a man cannot decide to marry a girl after seeing her for a few days. He must know more about her character; it would take at least six months. He himself was looking for a wife, and he explained to her why he had been as disappointed by the girls he had met as she had been disappointed by the men. Casanova seemed to have no destination; he simply accompanied them, entertaining Cristina the whole way with witty conversation. When the gondola arrived at the edge of Venice, Casanova hired a carriage to the nearby city of Treviso and invited them to join him. From there they could catch a chaise to their village. The uncle accepted, and on the way to their carriage, Casanova offered his arm to Cristina. What would his mistress say if she saw them, she asked. "I have no mistress," he answered, "and I shall never have one again, for I shall never find such a pretty girl as you—no, not in Venice." His words went to her head, filling it with all kinds of strange thoughts, and she began to talk and act in a manner that was new to her, becoming almost brazen. What a pity she could not stay in Venice for the six months he needed to get to know a girl, she told Casanova. Without hesitation he offered to pay her expenses in Venice for that period while he courted her.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  else?"— getting up now,smiling—"even Lucille'sstarting to smell okay. Every timeshe comesover,Ismell flowers."(He waslying, of course. Neither girllookedorsmelled moreappealing tohim than before. His enthusiasm was onlyhis wayofgiving in tothein- evitable: anarrangedmarriage,domesticity,children— thecomplete disaster.) HecameupclosetoDesdemona."You wereright," hesaid. "The most beautifulgirlsintheworldareright here inthisvillage." Shelooked shyly backup intohis eyes."Youthink so?" "Sometimesyoudon'tevennoticewhat'sright underyour nose." Theystood gazing at eachother, asDesdemona'sstomach began to feelfunnyagain.AndtoexplainthesensationIhave to tell youan- other story.Inhispresidentialaddressattheannual conventionof theSociety fortheScientific Study of Sexualityin1968(heldthat yearinMazatianamonglotsofsuggestivepinatas), Dr.Luceintro- ducedthe conceptof"periphescence."The worditselfmeansnoth- ing;Lucemadeituptoavoidanyetymologicalassociations.The stateof periphescence,however,iswell known.Itdenotesthefirst feverofhumanpairbonding.Itcausesgiddiness,elation, a tickling onthechestwall, theurgetoclimb a balconyontheropeofthe beloved'shair.Periphescencedenotestheinitialdruggedandhappy bedtimewhere you sniffyourloverlike a scentedpoppyforhours running.(Itlasts,Luceexplained,uptotwoyears—tops.) The an- cientswouldhaveexplainedwhatDesdemonawasfeelingasthe workings ofEros.Nowexpert opinionwould put itdowntobrain chemistryandevolution.Still,Ihavetoinsist:to Desdemonaperi- phescencefeltlike a lakeofwarmthflooding up fromher abdomen and acrossherchest.Itspreadlikethe 180-proof,fieryfloodofa mint-greenFinnishliqueur.Withthepumpingoftwo efficientglands inherneck,itheated herface. Andthenthe warmth got otherideas and startedspreadingintoplacesa girllikeDesdemona didn'tallowit togo,andshebrokeoffthestareandturned away.She walked to the window,leavingtheperiphescencebehind,and the breezefromthe valleycooledher down."I willspeaktodiegirls' parents,"shesaid, trying tosound like her mother."Thenyoumust gopaycourt." Thenext night, the moon,like Turkey'sfuture flag, wasacrescent. Down inBursa the Greektroopsscrounged for food, caroused,and shot up anothermosque. In Angora,Mustafa Kemal letitbe printed 34 inthe newspaper that hewould beholding a teaatChankayawhile in actuality he'dleftforhis headquarters in thefield. Withhismen, he drank thelastrakihe'dtake untilthe battlewas over.Under coverof night, Turkishtroopsmoved notnorth toward Eski§ehir, aseveryone expected,butto theheavily fortified cityofAfyon inthe south. At Eski§ehir, Turkishtroopslit campfires toexaggerate their strength. A small diversionary force feintednorthward toward Bursa. And, amidthese deployments, Lefty Stephanides, carrying twocorsages, stepped outthefront doorofhishouse andbegan walkingto the house whereVictoriaPappaslived. Itwasan event onthelevel ofabirthor adeath.Each ofthe nearly hundredcitizens ofBithynioshad heardaboutLefty's upcom- ingvisits, andtheoldwidows, themarried women,andthe young mothers,as wellastheold men,werewaitingto seewhichgirlhe wouldchoose.Becauseofthesmallpopulation, theoldcourting rit- ualshadnearlyceased.Thislackofromanticpossibilityhad created a viciouscycle.No one to love:no love.Nolove:nobabies. Noba- bies:no one to love. Victoria Pappasstoodhalfinandhalfoutofthelight,theshading acrossherbody exacdythatofthephotographonpage8ofLingerie Parisienne.Desdemona (costumelady,stagemanager,anddirector all inone)hadpinnedup Victoria'shair, letting ringletsfalloverher foreheadand warninghertokeep herbiggishnoseinshadow.Per- fumed, depilated,moistwith emollients, wearingkohlaroundher eyes, VictorialetLefty lookupon her.Shefelttheheat ofhis gaze, heardhisheavy breathing, heardhim try to speak twice—small squeaksfromadry throat— and thensheheard hisfeet coming to- ward her,andshe turned, makingthe faceDesdemona hadtaught her;but shewas so distracted by theeffortto pout herlipslikethe French lingerie model that shedidn't realize thefootsteps weren't approaching but retreating; and sheturnedto see thatLefty Stephanides,theonly eligible bachelorin town, hadtaken off . . . . ..Meanwhile, back at home, Desdemona opened herhope chest. She reached in and pulled out herown corset. Her motherhad given it toher years ago in expectation of her wedding night,saying, "Ihope you fillthis out someday." Now, before thebedroommirror, Desdemona held the strange, complicated garment againstherself. Down wenther knee socks, hergray underwear. Offcameher high- 35

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Gently,I pulledthe coversoffher.Inthedimness heroudineap- peared,the rise ofherbreastsbeneaththeT-shirt,thesoft hill ofher belly, and thenthebrightnessofherunderpants, convergingin their V shape. Shedidn't stiratall. Herchestroseand fellwithher breath. Slowly, tryingnot tomake a sound, I movedclosertoher.Tinymus- cles inmy flank,muscles I hadn'tknownIpossessed, suddenlymade themselves available. They propelledmemillimeterby millimeter acrossthe sheets. Theoldbedsprings gavemetrouble.As Itriednon- chalantiyto advance,theycalled out ribaldencouragement.They cheered,they sang.Ikeptstoppingandstarting.Itwashardwork.I breathed throughmymouth,quieterthatway. OverthecourseoftenminutesIslidnearerandnearertoher.Fi- nallyIfelttheheatofherbodyalongmyentirelength.Wewerestill nottouching,onlyradiatingagainsteachother.Shewasbreathing deeply.Sowas I. We breathed together.Finally,gatheringcourage,I flungmyarmacross herwaist. Then nothingmorefor a longwhile. Havingachievedthis much, Iwasscared to gofurther. So Iremainedfrozen,halfhuggingher. Myarmgrewstiff.Itbegantothrobandfinallywentnumb.The Ob- jectmighthavebeendruggedorcomatose.Still,Isensedanalertness inherskin,inhermuscles.AfteranotherlongwhileIplungedahead. I tookholdofherT-shirtandlifteditup.I gazed athernakedbelly foralong whileand,finally,withakindof woefulness, bowedmy head.I bowedmyheadtothegod ofdesperatelonging.I kissedthe Object'sbellyand thenslowly, gatheringconfidence,workedmy way up. Do youremembermyfrogheart?InClementineStark'sbedroom it hadkicked offfromamuddybank,movingbetweentwoelements. Now itdid something evenmoreamazing— it crept uponto land. Squeezing millenniaintothirtyseconds,itdevelopedconsciousness. While kissing theObject'sbelly,Iwasn'tjustreactingtopleasurable stimuli, asIhad beenwith Clementine.Ididn't vacatemy body, asI had with Jerome. NowIwasawareofwhatwashappening.I was thinking about it. I was thinkingthatthiswaswhatI'dalwayswanted.I was realiz- ing that Iwasn'ttheonlyfakeraround.Iwaswondering whatwould happen ifsomeonediscoveredwhat we were doing.Iwasthinking thatit was allverycomplicatedandwouldonlygetmore so. 383 I reacheddownandtouchedherhips. Ihookedmyfingers inthe waistband ofherunderpants. Ibegantoslipthemoff. Just then,the Object liftedherhips, veryslightly,tomakeiteasierfor me.Thiswas her onlycontribution. Thenext day wedidn'tmention it.WhenIgot up, the Objectwasal- readyout of bed.Shewasinthekitchen,observing herfather's preparationofscrapple.Making scrapplewasMr.Object'sSunday morningritual.Hepresided overthebubblingfatandgreasewhile theObjectperiodicallylookedintothefrying panandsaid,"Thatis sodisgusting." Soonshewasworkingonaplateofit,andmade me haveone,too."I'mgoingtohavetheworstheartburn," shesaid. Iunderstood theunspokenmessageimmediately.TheObject wantednodramatics,noguilt.Noshowofromance,either. She was goingon about thescrapple toseparate night fromday,tomakeit clearthatwhathappenedatnight,whatwedid at night,hadnothing todo withdaylight hours.Shewasagoodactress,too,andattimesI wonderedifmaybeshereallyhadbeensleepingthroughthewhole thing.OrmaybeIhadonlybeendreamingit. Shegaveonly two signsduringthe day thatanythinghad changed betweenus.Intheafternoon Jerome's filmcrewarrived. Thisconsistedoftwofriendsofhis,carryingboxesandcablesand a long,fuzzy microphonelikea dirty,rolled-upbathmat. Jerome was by thistimepointedlynotspeakingtome.Theysetupina small equipmentshedonthe property.TheObjectandIdecidedto seewhattheyweredoing. Jerome hadtoldustostay away,sowe couldn'tresist. We crept up, movingfromtreeto tree. Wehad to stopoftentofightofflaughattacks, slapping at eachother, avoiding eachother'seyesuntilwecouldcontrol ourselves.Atthebackwin- dowoftheequipmentshed wepeeked in.Not muchwashappening. Oneof Jerome's friendswastapingalightto thewall. Itwashardfor us bothtoseethroughthesmallwindowat once,so theObjectgot in frontofme.Sheplacedmyhandson herbellyand heldmywrists. Still,herattention was officiallygivenoverto whatwas goingonin- side theshed. Jerome appeared,dressedasthepreppy vampire. Insidethetradi- tional Draculawaistcoat,heworeapink Lacoste shirt.Insteadofa bow tiehehadanascot.His blackhairwasslicked back,his face 384 whitened witha cosmetic,andhe carried a cocktailshaker.One ofhis friends helda broomstick dangling a rubber bat. Another operated the camera. "Action,"said Jerome. Heliftedthecocktailshaker. He shookit with bothhands.Meanwhilethebatswoopedand fluttered above hishead.Jerome removed thelidandpouredthe bloodinto the martiniglasses. Heheldone up forhisfriend thebat, who promptiy plopped intoit. Jerome sippedhisbloodcocktail. "Just howyou likeit, Muffle,"hesaidtothe bat. "Verydry." Undermy hands the Object'sstomachjiggledasshelaughed.She leanedback intome andher fleshcapturedinmyarmsshookand yielded. Ipressed mypelvis againsther.Allthiswentonsecredy be- hindtheshed,likea gameoffootsie. But then thecameramanlow- eredhis camera.Hepointedat us and Jerome turned around.His eyesfixedonmy handsandthenrose tomyeyes. He bared hisfangs, burningmewithalook.Andthenshoutedinhisregularvoice, "Get thehelloutofhere,youfuckers!We'reshooting."Hecame uptothe windowandstruckit,butwewerealreadyrunningaway. Later,aroundevening,thephonerang.TheObject'smotheran- sweredit."It'sRex,"shesaid.TheObjectgotupfromthesofawhere wewereplayingbackgammon.Irestackedmychipstohavesome- thing todo.Itidiedthemup,overandover, while theObjecttalked toRex.Shehad herbacktome. Shemovedaround asshetalked, playingwiththecord.I kept lookingdownatthechips, moving them. MeanwhileIpaidcloseattentiontotheconversation. "Noth- ingmuch, justplayingbackgammon...withCallie ...He's making hisstupidfilm ...Ican't,we're supposed to have dinnersoon...I don'tknow,maybelater ... I'msortoftired, actually."Suddenlyshe wheeled around toface me.WitheffortIlooked up.TheObject pointed atthephoneandthen,openinghermouthwide, stuck her finger downher throat.My heartbrimmed. Night cameagain.Inbedwewentthrough thepreliminaries, plumping our pillows,yawning.Wetossedaroundto get comfort- able.And thenafteranappropriate time of silencetheObjectmade a noise. Itwas amurmur, a crycaughtinthethroat, as if sheweretalk- ing inher sleep.Afterthis,herbreathing becamedeeper.Andtaking this astheokay, Calliopebeganthelongtrekacrossthe bed. Sothat wasourloveaffair.Wordless,blinkered, anighttime thing, a dreamthing.Therewere reasons onmy sideforthis aswell. 385

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "Youcan usemine." "That's gross." "I'llgetyoua newtoothbrush.We've got a boxof them.God, you'resucha priss." Iwas onlyfeigningsqueamishness.In actualityIwouldn't have minded sharingtheObject'stoothbrush. Iwouldn't have minded be- ing theObject'stoothbrush. I wasalreadywellacquainted withthe splendorsofhermouth.Smokingis goodforthat.Yougetafulldis- playof thepuckering and thesucking. Thetongueoftenmakes an appearance,lickingfromthelipsanystickinessimparted bythefilter. Sometimesbitsofpaper adhere tothebottomlipandthesmoker, pullingthemaway,revealsthecandiedlowerteethagainst thepulpy gums.Andifthesmokerisa blower of smoke rings,yougettoseeall thewayintothedarkvelvetoftheinnercheeks. Thatwashowit wentwith theObscureObject.A cigarette inbed was thetombstonemarkingeach day's endandthereedthrough whichshebreathedherselfbacktolifeeachmorning. You've heardof installationartists?Well,theObject was anexhalationartist.Shehad awholerepertoire.TherewastheSidewinder, where she politely fun- neled smokeawayfrom the personshe wastalking to outthecorner of hermouth.TherewastheGeyserwhenshewas angry. There was theDragonLady,featuring a plumefromeachnostril.Therewasthe French Recycle,wheresheletsmokeouther mouthonlytoinhaleit backthroughher nose.And there was theSwallow. The Swallowwas reservedfor crisissituations.Once,inthe ScienceWingbathroom, the Objecthadjustfinishedtakingalong dragwhen a teacher charged in.Myfriend hadtimeto flickhercigarette into thetoilet bowlandflush. Butwhat about thesmoke? Wherecoulditgo? "Who's beensmoking inhere?" theteacherasked. The Objectshrugged, keepingher mouthclosed. Theteacher leanedtoward her, sniffing.AndtheObject swallowed. No smoke cameout. Notawisp. Notapuff.Alittle moistness inher eyes the only signof theChernobyl inherlungs. Iacceptedthe Object'sinvitation to sleep over.Mrs.Object called Tessietosee if itwasall rightand, by eleven o'clock,my friendandI wentuptobedtogether. Shegaveme a T-shirtto wear. Itsaid "Fes- senden"onthe front. I put it onandtheObject snickered. "What?" 346 "That'sJerome's T-shirt.Doesitreek?" "Why'dyou giveme hisshirt?"Isaid,goingstiff,shrinking from the cotton's touch whilestillwearingit. "Mine aretoo small.YouwantoneofDaddy's?Theysmelllike cologne." "Yourdad wears cologne?" "He livedinParis afterthewar.He'sgotallkinds offruityhabits." Shewas climbingup ontothebigbednow."Plushe sleptwithabout a million Frenchprostitutes." "Hetoldyou that?" "Not exactly.ButwheneverDaddy talks aboutFrance heactsall horny.Hewas intheArmy there. Hewaslikeinchargeofrunning Parisafterthewar.AndMummygetsreallypissedwhen hetalks aboutit."Sheimitatedhermothernow. " That'senough Fran- cophiliaforone evening,dear.' " Asusual,whenshedid something dramatic,her IQsuddenly soared.Thenshefloppedonto herstom- ach. "Hekilled people,too." "Fiedid?" "Yeah,"saidthe Object,addingbywayofexplanation, "Nazis." Iclimbedintothebig bed.AthomeIhadonepillow. Herethere were six. "Backrub,"theObjectcalled outcheerily. "I'lldo youifyoudome." "Deal." Isatastride her,onthe saddleofherhips,andstarted withher shoulders. Herhair wasinthe way,soI movedit. Wewerequiet for awhile,me rubbing, andthenI asked, "Have youeverbeento a gy- necologist?" The Object noddedinto herpillow. "What's itlike?" "If storture. Ihate it." "What dothey do?" "First they make youstripand put this littlegown on.It'smade of paper and allthiscoldair gets in. Youfreeze.Then theymake you lie onthis table, spread-eagled." "Spread-eagled?" "Yep. You havetoputyourlegs inthesemetal things. Then the gynogives youapelvicexam, whichkills? 347 "Whatdo youmean, pelvic exam?" "Ithought youweresupposedto bethesexexpert." "Come on." "Apelvicexamis,youknow,inside. Theyshove thislittle doohickey inyoutospreadyouall openandeverything." "Ican't believethis." "It kills.Andit's freezing. Plus you'vegotthegynomaking lame jokes whilehe'snosingaround in there. Buttheworstiswhathe does withhishands." "What?" "Basicallyhereaches in until hecantickleyourtonsils." NowIwasmute.Absolutelyparalyzedwithshockand fear. "Whoareyougoingto?" the Objectasked. "Someone namedDr.Bauer." "Dr.Bauer!That'sRenee'sdad. He's atotalperv!" "What do youmean?" "IwentswimmingoveratRenee'sonetime.Theyhave apool. Dr.Bauercameoutand stoodthere,watching.Then hegoes,Tour legshaveperfectproportions.Absolutelyperfectproportions' God, whataperv!Dr.Bauer.Ipityyou." Sheraisedherstomachinordertofreehershirt.Imassagedher lower back,reachingundertheshirttokneadher shoulder blades. The Objectgot quietafterthat.SodidI.Ikeptmymindoff gynecology bylosingmyselfintheback rub.Itwasn'thard. Her honey- orapricot-colored backtapered atthewaistinawaymine didn't. There werewhitespotshereand there,anti-freckles.Wher- everIrubbed, herskinflushed.Iwasawareofthe bloodunderneath, coursing and draining.Herunderarms wereroughlikeacat's tongue. Below themthesidesofherbreasts swelledout,flattened againstthe mattress. "Okay,"I said,after alongwhile,"my turn." Butthatnight was likealltheothers.She was asleep. Itwas never my turnwiththeObject. Theycomebackto me,thescattereddays ofthat summer with the Object, each encased inasouvenirsnow globe.Let me shake them up again. Watchthe flakesfloat down: We arelying inbed togetheron a Saturday morning.TheObject 348

• From Middlesex (2002)

  played songs about lust,death, prison, andlife onthestreet. "Atthe hash den onthe seashore,wherePdgoevery day,"Leftysang along, "Every morning, brightandearly,tochase theblues away;Iraninto two harem girls sittingonthesand; Quitestoned thepoorthings were, and they werereally looking grand." Meanwhile, thehookah was being filled. Bymidnight,Lefty camefloating backontothe streets. Analleydescends, turns,dead-ends. Adooropens. Afacesmiles, beckoning. ThenextthingLeftyknows,he'ssharing asofawiththree Greek soldiers, lookingacross at seven plump,perfumed women sharingtwosofas opposite.(Aphonographplays thehitsongthat's playingeverywhere:"Ev'rymorning,eVryevening .. .") And nowhis recentprayeris forgottencompletely becauseasthemadam says, "Anyoneyoulike,sweetheart,"Lefty's eyespass over theblond,blue- eyed Circassian, and the Armenian girlsuggestivelyeating a peach, andthe Mongolianwiththebangs;his eyeskeepscanningtofixona quiet girl at theendofthefarcouch, asad-eyed girlwithperfect skin andblack hairinbraids.("There's ascabbardfor every dagger,"the madamsaysin Turkish as thewhoreslaugh.)Unconsciousofthe workingsofhisattraction,Leftystandsup,smoothshisjacket,holds outhishandtowardhis choice ... andonly as she leads him up the stairs doesa voiceinhisheadpointouthowthisgirlcomesuptoex- acdywhere...andisn'ther profile just like ...but nowthey've reached the roomwith its uncleansheets,itsblood-coloredoillamp, itssmell ofrosewateranddirtyfeet.Inthe intoxicationofhisyoung sensesLeftydoesn't pay attentiontothegrowing similaritiesthe girl's disrobingreveals.Hiseyestakeinthe largebreasts,theslim waist, thehaircascadingdowntothedefenseless coccyx; but Lefty doesn't makeconnections.Thegirlfills a hookah forhim.Soonhe drifts off, nolongerhearingthevoiceinhishead. Inthesoft hashish dream of the ensuing hours,helosessenseofwho heisandwhohe's with.The limbs ofthe prostitutebecomethoseof anotherwoman.A few times he calls out aname,butbythenhe istoo stoned to notice. Only later, showing himout,doesthegirl bring himback to reality. "By the way, I'm Irini.Wedon'thave a Desdemona here." The next morning he awokeattheCocoon Inn, awash inrecrim- inations. He left the city andclimbedback up the mountain to Bithynios. His pockets (empty) madeno sound. Hungoverand 32 feverish,Lefty toldhimself that hissister wasright: it wastime for himtoget married.He wouldmarry Lucille, or Victoria.Hewould have childrenandstopgoing down toBursa andlittle by little he'd change;he'dget older; everything hefeltnow would fadeintomem- oryand thenintonothing. Henodded hishead; hefixed hishat. Back inBithynios,Desdemona wasgiving thosetwo beginnersfin- ishing lessons.WhileLefty wasstillsleeping itoffattheCocoon Inn, she invited Lucille Kafkalisand VictoriaPappasover tothehouse. The girlswereevenyoungerthanDesdemona, stillliving athome withdieir parents. Theylooked up to Desdemonaasthemistress of herownhome. Envious of her beauty,theygazed admiringlyather; flatteredbyher attentions, theyconfidedinher;andwhenshe began to givethem advice ontheirlooks,theylistened.ShetoldLucille to washmore regularlyand suggested she use vinegar underherarmsas anantiperspirant. ShesentVictoriato a Turkishwoman whospecial- izedinremoving unwantedhair.Overthenextweek,Desdemona taughtthegirls everythingshe'dlearnedfromtheonlybeautymaga- zineshe'dever seen, a tattered cataloguecalledLingerieParisienne. Thecataloguehad belongedtoher father.Itcontainedthirty-two pagesof photographs showingmodelswearingbrassieres,corsets, garterbelts,and stockings. Atnight, wheneveryone wassleeping, herfatherusedto takeit outofthe bottomdrawerofhisdesk.Now Desdemona studiedthe catalogue insecret, memorizingthepictures so that shecould re-create themlater. She told Lucille and Victoria tostopby everyafternoon.They walkedintothe house, swaying their hips as instructed,andpassed throughthegrape arbor where Leftylikedtoread.They woreadif- ferent dresseach time. They also changedtheirhairstyles, walks,jew- elry,andmannerisms. Under Desdemona's direction,thetwo drab girlsmultiplied themselves intoa smallcityof women,eachwitha signature laugh,a personal gemstone, afavoritesong shehummed. After twoweeks, Desdemona went outto thegrape arboroneafter- noon and asked her brother, "What areyou doinghere? Whyaren't youdown inBursa? I thought you'd havefounda nice Turkishgirl to marry bynow. Or do they all have mustaches likeVictoria's?" "Funny you should mention that," Lefty said."Haveyou noticed? Vicky doesn'thave a mustache anymore. Anddoyou know what 33

• From Middlesex (2002)

  English class.A group ofonly fivestudents,we metinthe green- house onthe second floor.Spiderplantslet downvines fromthe glassroof. Closer toour heads geraniumscrowdedin,giving off a smell somewhere between licoriceandaluminum.Inadditiontome, therewas Reetika, Tina, Joanne, andMaxineGrossinger. Though our parentswere friends, Ihardly knewMaxine. Shedidn'tmix with the otherkidson Middlesex.Shewas always practicingherviolin. She wasthe only Jewish kidat school.She ate lunchalone, spooning kosher foodfrom Tupperware.I assumedherpallorwas theresultof being indoorsallthe timeandthatthe bluevein thatbeatwildlyat hertemplewasakind ofinner metronome. Mr.daSilva hadbeenborn inBrazil.Thiswashard tonotice.He wasn't exactlytheCarnivaltype.The Latin detailsofhischildhood (thehammock, theoutdoortub)hadbeenerasedbyaNorthAmeri- caneducationandaloveoftheEuropeannovel.Nowhewas a liberal Democratandworeblackarmbandsinsupportofradicalcauses.He taughtSundayschoolatalocalEpiscopalchurch.Hehad a pink, cul- tivated face anddarkblondhairthatfellintohis eyes whenhe recited poetry.Sometimeshepickedthistiesorwildflowers fromthegreen andworetheminthelapelofhis jacket. He hadashort,compact body,and oftendidisometricexercises betweenclassperiods.He playedtherecorder, too.Amusicstand in his classroomheldsheet music,earlyBaroquepieces, mostly. Hewasagreat teacher,Mr.daSilva.Hetreated uswithcomplete seriousness, asifweeighth graders,duringfifth period,mightsettle something scholarshad beenarguingaboutfor centuries.Helistened toourchirping,his hairlinepressing downon hiseyes.Whenhe spokehimself, itwas incomplete paragraphs.If youlistenedcloselyit was possible tohearthe dashesand commasinhisspeech,eventhe colons and semicolons.Mr. daSilvahad arelevantquotationfor everything that happened tohimandinthis wayevadedreallife.In- stead ofeating hislunch, hetoldyouwhat OblonskyandLevin had for lunch inAnna Karenina. Or,describing asunsetfromDaniel Deronda, hefailed to noticetheone thatwaspresendyfalling over Michigan. Mr. daSilvahad spent asummerin Greecesixyearsbefore. He was still keyed upaboutit. Whenhe describedvisiting theMani, his voice became evenmellower than usual,andhis eyesglistened. Un- 321 able to finda hotel onenight,hehad sleptontheground, awaking the next morningtofindhimselfbeneath anolivetree. Mr. daSilva had neverforgottenthattree.They hadhad ameaningfulexchange, the two ofthem.Olivetreesareintimate creatures, eloquentin their twistedness. It's easytounderstandwhy theancientsbelieved human spiritscouldbetrappedinsidethem.Mr. daSilvahadfeltthis, wak- ingup inhissleeping bag. IwascuriousaboutGreecemyself,of course.Iwaseager tovisit. Mr.daSilvaencouragedmeinfeeling Greek. "MissStephanides,"hecalledon meone day."Sinceyouhailfrom Homer'sownland,wouldyoubesokind astoreadaloud?"He clearedhisthroat."Pageeighty-nine." Thatsemester,ourlessacademicallyinclinedsisterswere reading TheLightintheForest.Butinthegreenhouse weweremakingour waythroughThe Iliad.It wasapaperbackprosetranslation, abridged, set loosefromitsnumbers,robbed ofthemusicofthean- cientGreekbut—asfarasIwasconcerned—stillaterrificread.God, Ilovedthatbook!FromthepoutingofAchillesinhistent(whichre- mindedmeofthe President'srefusal tohandoverthetapes)toHec- tor'sbeingdraggedaroundthecitybyhisfeet(whichmademecry), Iwas riveted.ForgetLoveStory.Harvardcouldn'tmatchTroy asaset- ting,andinSegal'swholenovelonlyonepersondied.(Maybethis was anothersignofthehormonesmanifestingthemselvessilentiyin- sideme.Forwhilemyclassmatesfound TheIliadtoobloodyfor theirtaste,anendlesscatalogueofmenbutchering one another after formallyintroducingthemselves,Ithrilledtothe stabbings andbe- headings,the gougingoutofeyes,the juicyeviscerations.) Iopenedmypaperbackandloweredmyhead. Myhairfellfor- ward,cuttingoffeverything—Maxine,Mr.da Silva,thegreenhouse's geraniums—exceptthe book. Frombehindthe velvet curtain,my lounge singer'svoice beganto purr."Aphroditeput off her famous belt, inwhich allthecharmsofloveare woven,potency, desire^ lovelywhispers,andtheforceofseduction, whichtakesawayfore- sight andjudgmentevenfromthemost reasonablepeople." Itwas one o'clock.Anafter-lunch lethargylay over the room. Outside, rainthreatened. Therewasa knockatthe door. "Excuse me, Callie.Couldyoustop fora moment,please?"Mr. daSilvaturned toward the door. "Come in." 322 Along witheveryone else,I looked up. Standing inthe doorway wasa redheaded girl.Twoclouds bumpedup above, skiddingpast each other,andlet downa beamoflight.This beamstruck theglass roof ofthe greenhouse. Passing throughthehanging geraniums,it pickedup therosy light whichnow,inakindof membrane,en- veloped the girl.Itwasalso possiblethat the sun wasn'tdoingthisat all,buta certainintensity,a soulray, frommy eyes. "We're inthemiddle ofclass,dear." "I'msupposedtobe inthisclass," saidthegirl,unhappily.She heldouta slipof paper. Mr.daSilva examinedit."Areyou sureMissDurrellwantsyou transferredinto thisclass?"hesaid. "Mrs. Lampedoesn'twantmein herclassanymore,"repliedthe girl. "Take a seat.You'llhavetosharewithsomeone. MissStephanides hasbeenreadingfromBookThreeofTheIliadforus." Istartedreadingagain.Thatis,myeyeskepttracing over thesen- tencesandmymouthkeptformingthewords.Butmymindhad stoppedpayingattentiontotheir meaning. WhenIfinishedIdidn't tossmyhairback.Iletitstayhangingovermyface.Throughakey- holein itIpeekedout. Thegirl hadtakenaseatacrossfrom me. She was leaningtoward Reetikaasthough tolookonwithher, but her eyes weretakingin the plants.Hernose wrinkled upat themulchysmell. Partofmyinterest wasscientific,zoological.I'dneverseenacrea- turewith somanyfreckles before.ABigBanghadoccurred, origi- natingatthe bridgeof hernose,andtheforceofthisexplosion had sent galaxies offreckles hurtlinganddriftingtoeveryendof her curved, warm-blooded universe.Therewereclustersoffreckleson herforearms andwrists, anentireMilky Way spreadingacrossher forehead, even afew sputteringquasarsflungintothe wormholesof her ears. Sincewe're inEnglishclass, letmequoteapoem. GerardManley Hopkins's "Pied Beauty,"whichbegins,"GlorybetoGodfordap- pled things." When Ithinkback aboutmy immediatereactiontothat redheaded girl, itseems tospringfroman appreciation ofnatural beauty. Imean theheart pleasureyou get fromlookingatspeckled leaves orthe palimpsested barkofplanetreesinProvence.There was 323

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Eight years before conception T HE POPPERS HIT. Purple jellyfish expanded and pulsated across the backs of Amy’s eyelids. She had just enough time to get her mouth back on Reese’s soft cock before her constant interior monologue, that complicated apparatus that processed all the raw signals from her body into a tolerable meaning, for the first time in her life, cut out. Some critical component of consciousness withdrew like the needle lifted from a still-spinning record. No words. No thought. Just raw, unprocessed, open fire hydrants of data that rushed in from Amy’s senses. Time became a slippery fish among it. Fragments of atomized notions began to coagulate. Slips of words formed, as cosmic dust gloms together by its own weak gravity, drawn together into molecules of gas, pressed against other molecules, collectively gravitated pressure growing, until a change: fusion, heat, light—and Amy flared back into an interior language, into words and the possibility of reason. The purple jellyfish descended back into the depths. Her vision cleared. Where was she? Oh. There: sobbing with Reese’s cock in her mouth. Shivering. How long had she been sobbing? She didn’t want to sob, she wanted to kiss the pretty dick resting on the pad of her tongue. For the last month, she had been obsessed with Reese; all she wanted to do was get closer and closer to her. It was to the point that the phrase “I just want to eat you up” took on shades of the literal—digestive incorporation being the only act that Amy could imagine getting her closer to Reese than sex. Just an hour before, Amy had watched Reese brush her teeth, her long brown hair hanging loose, and her arm pistoning back and forth so hard as she brushed that her tits waggled side to side under her slinky nightgown. Amy decided it was the sexiest thing she had ever seen, topping each of the fifty other Reese actions she’d decided one after another that day was the sexiest vision ever. The simultaneous emotions of wanting Reese so badly, the happiness of actually having her, and the fear that something might happen to either herself or Reese to ruin it all made her stomach fizz with a virulent form of a crush.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  She told Lucille and Victoria to stop by every afternoon. They walked into the house, swaying their hips as instructed, and passed through the grape arbor where Lefty liked to read. They wore a dif- ferent dress each time. They also changed their hairstyles, walks, jew- elry, and mannerisms. Under Desdemona's direction, the two drab girls multiplied themselves into a small city of women, each with a signature laugh, a personal gemstone, a favorite song she hummed. After two weeks, Desdemona went out to the grape arbor one after- noon and asked her brother, "What are you doing here? Why aren't you down in Bursa? I thought you'd have found a nice Turkish girl to marry by now. Or do they all have mustaches like Victoria's?" "Funny you should mention that," Lefty said. "Have you noticed? Vicky doesn't have a mustache anymore. And do you know what 33 else?"— getting up now, smiling—"even Lucille's starting to smell okay. Every time she comes over, I smell flowers." (He was lying, of course. Neither girl looked or smelled more appealing to him than before. His enthusiasm was only his way of giving in to the in- evitable: an arranged marriage, domesticity, children— the complete disaster.) He came up close to Desdemona. "You were right," he said. "The most beautiful girls in the world are right here in this village." She looked shyly back up into his eyes. "You think so?" "Sometimes you don't even notice what's right under your nose." They stood gazing at each other, as Desdemona's stomach began to feel funny again. And to explain the sensation I have to tell you an- other story. In his presidential address at the annual convention of

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Behind the velvet rope rises a flight of stairs edged with blinking lights. To climb these stairs you must pay a separate admission of five dollars. Upon reaching the club's second floor (Mr. Go has been told), your only option is to enter a booth, where it is then necessary to in- sert tokens, which you must buy downstairs for a quarter each. If you do all this, you will be afforded brief glimpses of something Mr. Go does not quite understand. Mr. Go's English is more than adequate. He has lived in America for fifty-two years. But the sign advertising the attractions upstairs doesn't make much sense to him. For that rea- son he is curious. The chlorine smell only makes him more so. Despite the increased traffic going upstairs in recent weeks, Mr. Go has not yet gone himself. He has remained faithful to the first floor where, for the single admission price of ten dollars, he has a choice of activities. Mr. Go might, if he so desires, quit the Show Room and go into the Dark Room at the end of the hall. In the Dark Room there are flashlights with pinpoint beams. There are huddled men, wielding said flashlights. If you work your way in far enough, you will find a girl, or sometimes two, lying on a riser carpeted in foam rubber. Of course it is in some sense an act of faith to postulate the existence of an actual girl, or even two. You never see a complete girl in the Dark Room. You see only pieces. You see what your flash- light illuminates. A knee, for instance, or a nipple. Or, of particular in- terest to Mr. Go and his fellows, you see the source of life, the thing of things, purified as it were, without the clutter of a person attached. Mr. Go might also venture into the Ball Room. In the Ball Room there are girls who long to slow-dance with Mr. Go. He doesn't care for disco music, however, and at his age tires easily. It is too much ef- fort to press the girls up against the padded walls of the Ball Room. Mr. Go much prefers to sit in the Show Room, in the stained Art 480 ! Deco theater seats that originally belonged to a movie house in Oak- land, now demolished. Mr. Go is seventy- three years old. Every morning, to retain his virility, he drinks a tea containing rhinoceros horn. He also eats the gall bladders of bears when he can get them at the Chinese apothe- cary shop near his apartment. These aphrodisiacs appear to work. Mr. Go comes into Sixty-Niners nearly every night. He has a joke he likes to tell the girls who sit on his lap. "Mr. Go go for go-go." That is the only time he laughs or smiles, when he tells them that joke.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Milton played his instrumentwiththesame fingersheused for the Boy Scout salute,but histhoughtswere anythingbut whole- some. Breathing hard,bentover Tessiewithtrembling concentra- tion,he movedthe clarinetincircles,likeasnakecharmer. AndTessie wasa cobra, mesmerized,tamed,ravishedbythesound. Finally,one afternoon whenthey wereallalone, Tessie, hispropercousin,lay downon herback.She crossedone arm overherface."Whereshould Iplay?" whispered Milton,hismouthfeelingtoodrytoplayany- thing.Tessie undidabuttononherblouseandina strangledvoice said, "My stomach." "Idon't knowasongaboutastomach," Miltonventured. "Myribs,then." "Idon'tknow anysongsaboutribs." "My sternum?" "Nobodyeverwroteasongaboutasternum,Tess." Sheundidmorebuttons,hereyes closed. Andinbarelyawhis- per: "Howaboutthis?" "That one Iknow,"saidMilton. Whenhecouldn'tplayagainstTessie'sskin,Miltonopenedthewin- dowofhisbedroomandserenadedher from afar. Sometimes he called theboardinghouseandasked Mrs.O'Tooleifhecould speak withTheodora. "Minute," Mrs.O'Toolesaid,andshoutedupthe stairs, "PhoneforZizmo!"Miltonheardthesoundoffeetrunning downthe stairsandthenTessie'svoice sayinghello. Andhebegan playinghis clarinetintothephone. (Yearslater, mymother wouldrecallthedayswhenshe was wooed byclarinet."Yourfathercouldn't playverywell.Two orthree songs.Thatwas it.""Whaddya mean?"Miltonwouldprotest."Ihad awhole repertoire." He'd begintowhisde"BegintheBeguine,"war- bling the melodytoevokea clarinet'svibrato and fingering theair. "Why don't youserenade meanymore?"Tessiewouldask.ButMil- tonhad something elseonhis mind:"Whateverhappenedtothatold clarinet ofmine?" And thenTessie:"HowshouldIknow?Youexpect meto keep trackof everything?""Isitdowninthebasement?" "Maybe I threw itout!" "You threw itout! Whatthehelldid youdo that for!" "What are yougoingtodo,Milt, practice up? You couldn't play the darnthingbackthen") 177 Alllove serenadesmustcome toanend.Butin 1944, there was no stopto themusic.By July, when thetelephonerang atthe OToole Boardinghouse,there wassometimes anotherkind oflove songissuing from theearpiece: cc Kyrieeleison, KyrieekisonP Asoft voice, nearlyas feminine asTessie'sown, cooinginto aphoneafew blocks away.Thesingingcontinued foraminute atleast.Andthen MichaelAntoniou wouldask,"Howwas that?" "Thatwasswell,"mymothersaid. "Itwas?" "Just likeinchurch.Youcouldhavefooled me." Whichbringsmetothefinal complicationinthatoverplotted year.Worriedaboutwhat Milton andTessieweregetting upto,my grandmotherwasn'tonlytrying to marry Miltonofftosomebody else.Bythatsummershehadahusbandpicked out forTessie, too. MichaelAntoniou—FatherMike, as he wouldcometobeknown inour family —wasatthattimeaseminarian at theGreekOrthodox HolyCrossTheologicalSchool outinPomfret,Connecticut.Back homeforthesummer,hehadbeenpayingalotofattentiontoTessie Zizmo.In 1933, AssumptionChurchhadmoved out ofitsquarters inthestorefrontonHartStreet.Nowthecongregationhadareal church,onVernorHighway just offBeniteau.Thechurchwasmade ofyellow brick.Itworethreedove-graydomes, likecaps,andhad a basementforsocializing.Duringcoffeehour,MichaelAntonioutold Tessiewhat itwaslikeoutatHolyCrossand educatedheraboutthe lesser-known aspectsofGreekOrthodoxy.Hetoldherabout the monks ofMountAthos,whointheirzealforpuritybannednot only womenfrom theirislandmonasterybutthe femalesofeveryother species, too.There wereno femalebirdson MountAthos,nofemale snakes, nofemale dogsorcats."A littletoostrict forme,"Michael Antoniou said, smilingmeaningfullyat Tessie."Ijustwanttobe a parishpriest. Marriedwithkids."Mymother wasn'tsurprisedthat he showedinterest inher.Beingshortherself,she wasusedto short guys asking hertodance.She didn't likebeing chosenbyvirtue of her height, butMichaelAntoniou was persistent. Andhemightnot havebeen pursuing herbecause she wastheonly girl shorterthanhe was. He mighthave beenresponding to theneed inTessie'seyes, her desperate yearning tobelieve that therewas somethinginsteadof nothing. 178 Desdemona seizedheropportunity."Mikey isgoodGreekboy, niceboy," she saidto Tessie. "Andgoingtobea priest!"Andto Michael Antoniou: "Tessieissmall butshe isstrong.Howmany plates you thinkshecancarry,FatherMike?""I'mnot a fatheryet, Mrs. Stephanides." "Please,how many?""Six?""Thatallyouthink? Six?" Andnow holdinguptwohands:"Ten! Tenplates Tessie can carry. Neverbreaka thing." She beganinvitingMichaelAntoniouover forSunday dinner. The presenceofthe seminarian inhibitedTessie,whonolongerwan- dered upstairsforprivateswingsessions.Milton,growingsurly at this newdevelopment, threw barbsacrossthedinnertable."Iguessit mustbealot harder tobea priest overhereinAmerica,huh?" "Howdoyou mean?"MichaelAntoniou asked. "Ijust meanthatoverintheoldcountry peoplearen'ttoowell educated,"Miltonsaid."They'llbelievewhateverstoriesthe priests tellthem.Hereit'sdifferent.Youcangotocollegeandlearn tothink foryourself." "The Churchdoesn'twantpeoplenottothink,"Michaelreplied withouttaking offense."TheChurchbelievesthatthinkingwill take apersononly sofar.Wherethinking ends,revelation begins." "Chrysostornos!"Desdemonaexclaimed."FatherMike, youhavea mouthofgold." ButMilton persisted,"I'dsaywherethinkingends,stupidity be- gins." "That'show peoplelive, Milt"—MichaelAntoniou again,still kindly, gentiy— "by tellingstories.What'sthefirstthing a kid says when helearns how to talk?Tellmeastory.' That's how we under- stand who weare,where we come from.Storiesare everything.And what story doesthe Church havetotell?That'seasy.It'sthegreatest story evertold." My mother, listeningto this debate, couldn'tfail tonoticethe stark contrasts betweenhertwo suitors. Ononeside,faith;onthe other, skepticism. Onone side,kindness;ontheother,hostility. An admittedly shortthoughpleasant-lookingyoungmanagainst a scrawny, pimply, 4-F boywithcirclesunderhiseyeslikeahungry wolf. Michael Antoniou hadn't somuchastriedto kiss Tessie, whereas Milton hadled her astray with a woodwind. D flats and Asharps licking at herlikesomanytonguesof flame, herebehind the 179

• From Middlesex (2002)

  cle Pete said when it came to the reproductive timetable. His head on a throw pillow, his shoes off, Madama Butterfly softly playing on my parents' stereo, Uncle Pete explained that, under the microscope, sperm carrying male chromosomes had been observed to swim faster than those carrying female chromosomes. This assertion generated immediate merriment among the restaurant owners and fur finishers assembled in our living room. My father, however, adopted the pose of his favorite piece of sculpture, The Thinker, a miniature of which sat across the room on the telephone table. Though the topic had been brought up in the open-forum atmosphere of those postpran- dial Sundays, it was clear that, notwithstanding the impersonal tone of the discussion, the sperm they were talking about was my father's. Uncle Pete made it clear: to have a girl baby, a couple should "have sexual congress twenty-four hours prior to ovulation." That way, the swift male sperm would rush in and die off. The female sperm, slug- gish but more reliable, would arrive just as the egg dropped. My father had trouble persuading my mother to go along with the scheme. Tessie Zizmo had been a virgin when she married Milton Stephanides at the age of twenty-two. Their engagement, which coin- cided with the Second World War, had been a chaste affair. My mother was proud of the way she'd managed to simultaneously kin- dle and snuff my father's flame, keeping him at a low burn for the duration of a global cataclysm. This hadn't been all that difficult, however, since she was in Detroit and Milton was in Annapolis at the U.S. Naval Academy. For more than a year Tessie lit candles at the Greek church for her fiance, while Milton gazed at her photographs pinned over his bunk. He liked to pose Tessie in the manner of the movie magazines, standing sideways, one high heel raised on a step, an expanse of black stocking visible. My mother looks surprisingly pliable in those old snapshots, as though she liked nothing better than to have her man in uniform arrange her against the porches and lampposts of their humble neighborhood. She didn't surrender until after Japan had. Then, from their wed- ding night onward (according to what my brother told my covered ears), my parents made love regularly and enjoyably. When it came to having children, however, my mother had her own ideas. It was her belief that an embryo could sense the amount of love with which it had been created. For this reason, my father's suggestion didn't sit well with her. "What do you think this is, Milt, the Olympics?" "We were just speaking theoretically," said my father. "What does Uncle Pete know about having babies?" "He read this particular article in Scientific American" Milton said. And to bolster his case: "He's a subscriber." "Listen, if my back went out, I'd go to Uncle Pete. If I had flat feet like you do, I'd go. But that's it."

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Even lookingbackthrougha daughter'sforgivingeye,Ihave to admit: my father was nevergood-looking. Ateighteen,hewasalarm- ingly, consumptivelyskinny.Blemishes dottedhisface.Beneath his dolefuleyestheskinwasalreadydarkening inpouches. His chinwas weak, hisnoseoverdeveloped,hisBrylcreemed hairasmassive and gleaming asa Jell-O mold.Milton, however, was awareofnone of thesephysicaldeficits.Hepossessed a flinty self-confidence that pro- tected himlike ashell from the world's assaults. Theodora'sphysicalappealwasmoreobvious. She hadinherited Sourmelina's beauty on a smaller scale.Shewasonly five footone, thin-waistedandsmall-busted,withalong,swanlike neck supporting herpretty,heart-shapedface.IfSourmelina hadalways been a Euro- peankindofAmerican,asortofMarleneDietrich,thenTessiewas thefullyAmericanizeddaughterDietrichmight havehad. Hermain- stream,evencountrified,looksextendedtotheslightgapbetween her teeth andherturned-up nose. Traitsoftenskip a generation.I lookmuchmoretypicallyGreekthanmymotherdoes.Somehow Tessiehadbecome a partialproductoftheSouth.Shesaidthingslike "shucks"and"golly."Workingeverydayatthe florist's shop, Linahad leftTessiein thecare ofanassortment ofolderwomen,manyofthem ScotchIrishladiesfromKentucky,andinthisway atwanghadgot- teninto Tessie'sspeech. Compared withZoe'sstrong,mannishfea- tures,Tessiehadso-called ail-Americanlooks,andthiswascertainly part of whatattracted my father. Sourmelina'ssalaryattheflorist'sshopwas not high.Motherand daughterwereforcedtoeconomize.At secondhandshops,Sourme- lina gravitatedtoVegas showgirloutfits.Tessie pickedoutsensible clothes. Back atO'Toole's,shemended woolskirts andhand-washed blouses;shede-pilledsweatersand polishedused saddle shoes.But the faintthrift-storesmellneverquitelefther clothes.(Itwouldat- tach tomeyearslaterwhenIwent ontheroad.) Thesmellwent along withherfatherlessness,and withgrowingup poor. Jimmy Zizmo:allthatremainedof himwas whathe'dleft on Tessie's body.Herframewasdelicatelike his,her hair,thoughsilken, wasblack like his.Whenshedidn'twash it enough,itgotoily,and, sniffing her pillow, she wouldthink, "Maybe thisis what mydad smelled like." She got canker soresin wintertime (againstwhich Zizmo hadtaken vitamin C). But Tessiewas fair-skinned andburned easilyin thesun. 174 Ever since Milton couldremember,Tessiehadbeeninthe house, wearing the stiff, churchyoufitshermotherfoundso amusing. "Look at thetwo ofus,"Linawould say. "LikeaChinese menu. Sweet and sour." Tessiedidn't likeit when Linatalked this way.She didn't think shewas sour;onlyproper. She wished that hermother wouldact more properherself.WhenLinadranktoomuch,Tessie wasthe onewho tookherhome,undressedher,and put herto bed. Because Linawas anexhibitionist,Tessiehadbecome a voyeur.Be- cause Lina wasloud, Tessie hadturnedoutquiet.Sheplayedanin- strument,too: theaccordion.Itsatinitscaseunderherbed.Every sooften shetookitout,throwingthestrapoverhershouldersto keep thehuge,many-keyed,wheezinginstrumentofftheground. Theaccordionseemed nearly asbigasshewasandsheplayeditduti- fully,badly,andalways with thesuggestionofacarnivalsadness. Aslittle childrenMiltonand Tessiehad shared thesamebedroom andbathtub,butthatwaslongago. Up untilrecently,Milton thought ofTessie as his primcousin. Wheneverone ofhis friends ex- pressedinterestinher,Miltontoldthem to give up theidea."That's honeyfromtheicebox,"hesaid, as ArtieShawmighthave."Cold sweetsdon'tspread." And thenone day Miltoncamehomewithsomenewreedsfrom the musicstore.Hehunghiscoatandhatonthepegsinthefoyer, tookoutthereeds, andballedthe paper bagup inhisfist. Stepping into thelivingroom, hetookaset shot.Thepapersailedacross the room, hittherim ofthetrashcan, andbouncedout.Atwhichpoint a voicesaid, "You better stick to music." Milton lookedto see whoitwas.Hesaw who itwas.Butwhoit was wasnolonger whoithad been. Theodora waslyingonthe couch,reading.Shehadonaspring dress, apatternofredflowers.Herfeetwere bare andthatwaswhen Milton sawthem: thered toenails.Miltonhadneversuspectedthat Theodora wasthe kind ofgirlwhowouldpainther toenails.The red nailsmade her lookwomanly whilethe rest ofher—thethinpale arms, the fragileneck—remainedasgirlishasalways."I'm watching the roast," she explained. "Where's mymom?" "She wentout." "She wentout? She nevergoesout." "She did today." 175 "Where'smysister?" "4-H." Tessielookedattheblackcase hewasholding. "That your clarinet?" "Yeah." "Playsomethingfor me." Miltonsethisinstrument casedown onthesofa.Ashe openedit andtookouthisclarinet,heremained awareofthe nakednessof Tessie'slegs.Heinsertedthe mouthpieceand limbereduphisfingers, runningthem upanddownthekeys.And then, at themercyof an overwhelmingimpulse,hebentforward, pressingtheflaring endof theclarinettoTessie's bareknee,andblew alongnote. She squealed,movingherkneeaway. "Thatwas a Dflat,"Milton said."Youwant to hear a Dsharp?" Tessiestill hadherhandoverherbuzzing knee.Thevibrationof theclarinethadsent a shiverallthe wayupherthigh.Shefeltfunny, asthoughshe wereabouttolaugh,butshedidn't laugh.Shewas staringathercousin,thinking, "Willyoujustlookathimsmiling away?Stillgotpimples butthinkshe'sthecat'smeow.Wheredoeshe getit?" "Allright," sheansweredatlast. "Okay,"saidMilton."Dsharp.Here goes." Thatfirst day it wasTessie'sknees.The following Sunday,Milton came up from behindandplayedhisclarinetagainstthebackof Tessie's neck.Thesoundwasmuffled.Wispsofherhairflew up. Tessie screamed, butnotlong."Yeah,dad,"said Milton,standing be- hindher. And soitbegan.Heplayed"BegintheBeguine"againstTessie's collarbone. He played"Moonface"againsther smoothcheeks.Press- ing theclarinet rightupagainstthered toenailsthathadsodazzled him,heplayed "ItGoes to YourFeet."With a secrecythey didn'tac- knowledge, Miltonand Tessiedrifted offtoquiet partsof thehouse, andthere,lifting herskirt alittle,or removingasock, oronce,when nobody washome, pullingupherblouseto expose herlower back, TessieallowedMilton topresshisclarinet toher skin and fillher body withmusic. Atfirstitonlytickled her.But afterawhilethe notesspreaddeeperinto herbody.Shefelt the vibrationspenetrate her muscles,pulsing inwaves, untilthey rattled herbonesandmade herinner organs hum. 176

• From Middlesex (2002)

  OPfl! [nrQheyalwaysthinkit's theold-school,gentlemanlyroutine.The slownessofmyadvances.Theleisurely paceofmy incursions. ,1 (I'velearnedtomakethe firstmovebynow, but notthesecond.) Iinvited Julie Kikuchi togo awayfor the weekend.ToPomerania. Theideawas to drive toUsedom,anislandintheBaltic,andstayin anold resort oncefavoredbyWilhelmII.Imadeapointtoempha- sizethatwewouldhaveseparaterooms. Sinceitwastheweekend,Itriedtodressdown.Itisn'teasyfor me.Iworeacamel-hairturtleneck,tweedblazer,andjeans.Anda pairofhandmade cordovansbyEdward Green.Thisparticularstyle is called theDundee.Theylookdressyuntil younoticetheVibram soles.Theleatherisof adouble thickness.TheDundeeisashoede- signedfortouring thelandedestates, fortrompingthroughmud whilewearing atie,withyourspaniels trailingbehind.Ihadto wait fourmonthsfortheseshoes.Onthe shoeboxit says: "Edward Green:Master Shoemakerstothe Few."That'smeexactiy. Thefew. Ipicked Julie upinarented Mercedes,an unquietdiesel.Shehad madea bunchof tapesfortherideand hadbrought readingmaterial: TheGuardian^ the lasttwoissuesofParkett. We droveoutthenar- row,tree-lined roads tothenortheast.We passed villagesofthatch- roofedhouses. Theland grewmarshier,inlets appeared, andsoon we traveled overthe bridge totheisland. ShallIget righttoit? No, slowly,leisurely, that'stheway. Let 232 me first mentionthatitisOctoberhereinGermany.Thoughthe weatherwas cool, the beachatHerringsdorfwasdottedwithquitea few diehard nudists.Primarilymen,they laywalrus-likeontowelsor boisterously congregatedin thestripedStrandkbrbe,thelittle beach huts. From theelegantboardwalksurrounded bypineandbirchtrees,I looked outatthese naturists andwonderedwhat Ialwayswonder: What isitliketo feelfreelike that?Imean,mybodyis so much bet- terthan theirs.I'mtheonewiththewell-defined biceps,thebulging pectorals, theburnishedglutes.ButIcouldnever saunteraroundin public likethat. "Notexacdy thecoverof SunshineandHealth"said Julie. "Aftera certain age, peopleshould keep their clotheson,"Isaid, or somethinglikethat.WhenindoubtIresort to mildly conservative or British-soundingpronouncements.Iwasn'tthinking aboutwhatI wassaying.Ihadsuddenlyforgottenallaboutthenudists.BecauseI was lookingat Julie now.She had pushedhersilverDDR-era eye- glassesonto the top ofherhead so thatshecouldtakepictures ofthe distant sunbathers.ThewindofftheBalticwasmakingherhairfly around."Youreyebrowsarelikelittleblackcaterpillars,"Isaid."Flat- terer,"said Julie, stillshooting. I said nothingelse.As onedoesthe returnofsunafterwinter,Istood stillandacceptedthewarm glow of possibility, offeelingright inthe companyofthis small,oddly fierceperson withthe inkyhair andthelovely,unemphasized body. Still,that night, andthe nightafter,wesleptinseparaterooms. My fatherforbademeto talkto MariusGrimesinApril, a damp, cool-headed monthin Michigan.ByMay theweathergrewwarm; June washot and July hotter still.Inthe backyard ofourhouseon Seminole, Ijumped through the sprinklerinmybathingsuit, a two- piece number, while Chapter Elevenpickeddandelionstomakedan- delionwine. During thatsummer, as thetemperature climbed,Miltontried to come togripswiththe predicamenthefound himselfin.Hisvision had been toopen not onerestaurant buta chain.Nowhe realized that the firstlinkin that chain,the Zebra Room, wasa weak one,and 233 hewas thrownintodoubtandconfusion. Forthefirsttime inhislife Milton Stephanidescameupagainstapossibility he'dneverenter- tained: failure.Whatwashegoingtodo withtherestaurant?Should he sellit forpeanuts?Whatthen?(Forthe timebeing,hedecided to closethe diner on Mondaysand Tuesdaystocutpayroll expenses.) Myfatherandmotherdidn'tdiscuss thesituationinfrontof us andslippedinto Greekwhendiscussing itwithourgrandparents. ChapterElevenandIwerelefttofigure outwhat was goingon by thetoneofa conversationthatmadeno sensetous,andto be hon- est,we didn'tpaymuchattention.Weonlyknewthat Miltonwas suddenly aroundthe house during theday.Milton,whomwehad rarely seen insunlightbefore,wassuddenlyoutinthebackyard, readingthenewspaper.We discovered whatourfather'slegslooked like inshortpants. We discoveredwhathelookedlike whenhedidn't shave.Thefirsttwodayshisfacegotsandpaperythewayitalways didonweekends.Butnow,insteadofseizingmyhandandrubbing it againsthiswhiskersuntilIscreamed,Miltonnolongerhadthehigh spiritstotormentme. He justsat onthepatio as thebeard,like a stain,like a fungus,spread. UnconsciouslyMiltonwasadheringtothe Greek customofnot shavingafter a deathinthefamilyOnlyinthiscasewhathadended wasn'talifebut a livelihood.Thebeard fattened up hisalready plumpface.Hedidn'tkeepittrimmedorvery clean.And becausehe didn'tutterawordabout histroubles,hisbeardbegantoexpress silentiyallthethingshewouldn'tallowhimselftosay. Itsknots and whorlsindicated his increasinglytangledthoughts.Itsbitterodorre- leasedtheketonesofstress.Assummerprogressed, thebeardgrew shaggy,unmown, and itwas obvious thatMiltonwas thinking about PingreeStreet;he wasgoingtoseed thewayPingreeStreetwas. Leftytriedtocomforthisson."Bestrong,"he wrote.Withasmile hecopied out thewarriorepitaph at Thermopylae: "GotelltheSpar- tans,strangerpassing by/thathere obedient to theirlawswelie."But Milton barely readthe quote.Hisfather's strokehad convincedhim that Leftywasnolongeratthe top ofhis game.Mute, carryinghis pitiful chalkboard around, lostinhis restoration ofSappho,Lefty had beguntoseemoldtohisson.Milton found himselfgettingim- patient ornotpaying attention. Intimations of mortalitybroughtonby aging family members , that's whatMiltonfelt, seeinghisfathersunk in desk light, juttingouta moistunderlip,scanning adead language. 234

• From Middlesex (2002)

  something richlyappealinginhercolorcombination, theginger snaps floatinginthemilk-whiteskin, thegoldhighlightsin thestraw- berryhair. Itwaslikeautumn,looking ather.Itwaslike driving up northto seethecolors. Meanwhile she remained slumped sidewaysinherdesk,her legs withthebluekneesocksshoved out,revealingthewornheels ofher shoes. Becauseshehadn't donethereading she wasexempt from be- ing calledon, butMr.daSilvasentconcerned looksherway.The newgirldidn'tnotice.Shesprawledin herorangelightandsleepily openedandclosed hereyes.Atonepointsheyawnedand,halfway through,cuttheyawnoff, as thoughit hadn'tgoneright.Sheswal- lowedsomethingback andpoundedafistagainstherbreastbone. She burped quietlyandwhisperedtoherself, "Ay, camrnba." Assoon as class was overshe wasgone. Whowasshe?Wherehadshe come from? WhyhadI never noticed herin schoolbefore?ShewasobviouslynotnewatBaker&Inglis. Heroxfordswerestamped downattheheelssothat shecouldslip into them like clogs.ThiswassomethingtheCharmBraceletsdid. Also,shehadanantiquering on herfinger,witiirealrubiesinit.Her lipswerethin, austere,Protestant.Hernosewas notreally anoseat all.It wasonly a beginning. Shecame toclasseverydaywearing thesamedistant,boredex- pression.She shuffledinheroxford-clogs,witiiaglidingor skating motion, herknees bent andher weight thrustforward.Itaddedto theoverall desultory impression.Iwouldbe wateringMr.daSilva's plantswhen sheentered.Heaskedmetodo thisbeforeclass. So every daybeganlike that,meatoneendof thecrystalroom,engulfed by geranium blooms, andthisanswering burstofred coming through thedoor. Thewayshedragged herfeetmadeitclear howshefeltaboutthe weird, old,dead poemwewerereading.She wasn'tinterested.She neverdidthehomework. She triedto bluffher waythroughclass. Shehackedup the quizzesand tests.If she'dhada fellowCharm Braceletwithher,they couldhaveformeda factionofuninterested note-passers.Alone, shecouldonlymope.Mr.da Silvagaveuptry- ingtoteachheranything andcalledonheras littleaspossible. Iwatchedherinclassand Iwatchedher outsideit,too. Assoon 324 asI arrived at schoolIwas onthelookout. Isatinone ofthe lobby's yellow wing chairs, pretendingtodo homework,and waited for her topass. Herbrief appearancesalwaysknockedme out.Iwas like somebody ina cartoon, withstarsvibratingaroundthe head.She wouldcome around the corner,chewingonaFlairpenand shuffling, as if wearing slippers. Therewasalwaysa rush to herwalk.If she didn'tkeep herfeet digging forwardhercrushed-downshoes would flyoff. Thisbrought outthe musclesinhercalves.Shewas freckled down there,too. Itwasalmosta kindofsuntan.Sliding,she charged by, talkingto someotherCharm Bracelet,bothofthem movingwith that lazy, confidenthauteurthey allhad.Sometimesshe looked atme but showednorecognition. Anictitating membranelowereditself over her eyes. Allowmean anachronism.LuisBunuel'sThat ObscureObject of Desiredidn'tcomeout until1977.Bythattimethe redheadedgirl andIwereno longerintouch.Idoubtsheeversawthe movie.Nev- ertheless, ThatObscureObject of DesireiswhatIthinkabout whenI thinkabouther.Isawitontelevision,inaSpanishbar, whenI was stationedinMadrid.Ididn'tcatchmostofthedialogue. Theplot wasclearenough,though.Anoldergentiemanplayedby Fernando Reyissmittenwith a youngandbeautifulgirlplayedbyCaroleBou- quetandAngelaMolina.Ididn'tcare about anyofthat.Itwasthe surrealisttouchthat gotme.InmanyscenesFernandoRey isshown holding a heavy sackoverhisshoulder.Thereasonforthissack is never mentioned.(Orif itis,Imissedthat,too.)Hejustgoes around lugging this sack,intorestaurants andthroughcityparks. Thatwasex- actlyhowIfelt, followingmy ownObscureObject.As thoughIwere carrying around amysterious, unexplained burdenorweight.I'mgo- ingtocall herthat,if youdon'tmind.I'mgoingtocallherthe Obscure Object.For sentimentalreasons. (Ialsohavetoprotect heridentity.) There shewas ingymclass,malingering.Thereshewasat lunch, having alaugh attack.Doubledoverthetable,shetried tohitthe joker responsible. Hermouthbubbled milk. Hernoseleakedafew drops, which started everyonelaughingharder.NextIsawher after school, riding doublewithanunknown boy. Sheclimbeduponthe bicycle seat whilehestoodon thepedals.She didn'tputher arms around his waist.Shemanaged thething by balancealone.Thisgave me hope. 325 Oneday inclass Mr. da Silva askedtheObjecttoread aloud. She was loungingin herdeskasusual.Atagirls 5 school you didn't havetobesovigilantaboutkeeping yourkneestogetheror your skirttuggeddown.TheObject'skneeswere spreadapartand herlegs, whichweresomewhatheavy inthethigh,werebarehigh up.Without moving,shesaid, "I forgot mybook." Mr.daSilvacompressedhislips. "YoucanlookonwithCallie." Theonly signof agreementshegavewastosweepherhairoffher face. Sheplaced a handtoherforeheadand ran it back like aplow though her hair,herfingers leavingfurrows. Attheendofthestroke camealittleflickofthehead,aflourish.Therewashercheek,per- mitting approach.I scooted over.Islid mybookontothecrackbe- tweenour desks. The Object leanedoverit. "Fromwhere?" "Topofpageonehundredandtwelve.Thedescriptionofthe shieldofAchilles." I'dneverbeenthisclosetotheObscureObjectbefore.Itwashard onmyorganism.Mynervoussystem launchedinto"Flightofthe Bumblebee."Theviolinsweresawingawayinmyspine.The timpani werebanging inmy chest.Atthesametime,tryingtoconcealallthis, I didn'tmove a muscle.Ihardlybreathed. Thatwasthedealbasi- cally:catatoniawithout;frenzywithin. Icould smellhercinnamongum.Itwas stillinthebackofher mouthsomewhere.Ididn'tlookdirectiyather.Ikept my eyes onthe book.Astrand ofherred-gold hairfellontothedesk betweenus. Wherethesun hitthehair,therewasa prismaticeffect.But whileI was witnessing thehalf-inchrainbowshebegan toread. Iexpectedanasal monotone, riddledwith mispronunciations.I expectedbumps,swerves, screechingbrakes, head-on collisions.But theObscure Objecthad a goodreadingvoice. Itwas clear,strong, suppleinitsrhythms. Itwas a voiceshe'dpicked upat home,from poetry-recitinguncles whodranktoomuch. Her expressionchanged, too.Aconcentrated dignity,previouslyabsent, marked herfeatures. Her head rose onaproud neck.Herchinwas lifted. Shesounded twenty-four instead offourteen. Iwonder whichwas stranger,the Eartha Kittvoicethatcame outofmymouth orthe KatharineHep- burn that cameout ofhers. 326