Resting
Under a Blue Yellow Moon
(Novel Excerpt)
by
Liston Grant
-
Chapter 1 -
April 30, 1996 - 6 p.m.
As shameless representatives of some kind
of rootless jet-set generation, Kenji and
I were about to meet again in yet another
city I sighed with weary contentment before
remembering that I had arrived in Slovakia
with no local currency.
A shifting and edgy cold mingled with the
smell of stale smoke and filled the central
train station with bleak austerity, and
despite my thick clothing I was unable to
feel warm. An old bag-lady dressed in layered
rags shivered on a bench a few feet away
and emptied tobacco dregs from trampled
cigarette butts into a tin can. She was
the only other person present; all my co-passengers
on the bus from Vienna had disappeared.
A gust of wind blew through the desolate
corridors scattering dead leaves and slamming
a window shut. Nothing else was open: shutters
were clamped down on storefronts, bars and
change booths. The large clock at the end
of the main hallway was broken.
I slung my duffel bag over my shoulder,
traipsed down the hallway to the exit and
emerged in the frosty Bratislavan air—it
was late April, but winter had not yet subsided
in Central Europe. I drew my collar tighter
around my neck, and gazed down the wide
deserted boulevards that stretched like
gray tarp into a dim yellow haze of street
lamps and fog. An occasional Skoda or diesel-fuming
bus sputtered by. The driver of a solitary
cab idling near the building yelled out
something to me but I shook my head. I presumed
he was asking me if I wanted a ride and
I would’ve loved one, but that cost
money and I had none. As I walked along
the streets lined with hardened grimy snow,
I wondered how Kenji would deal with the
situation. Probably he would hop in a cab,
direct it down a one-way street near his
destination, wait for another car to drive
up behind them as he pretended to fumble
for cash, then dash out and run away.
I lacked his audacity.
A car edged up behind me—I glanced
over my shoulder and slowed my pace. The
car continued to follow. I stopped, turned
around, and stared. The car sped up and
passed me, only to stop a few seconds later.
I watched the red brake lights hover in
the mist a hundred feet away like enticing
will ‘o’ wisps, and I wondered...
But no-one got out. I looked away and didn’t
turn back, as if a conscious act of will
could dispel the unnerving presence of the
car. I found myself at the edge of a parking
lot lined by a small park sprinkled with
evergreens that bowed to the ground like
praying mantises under the weight of the
snow-encrusted branches. The whole scene
appeared before me in black and white and
streaks of jaded blue like an Ansel Adams
photograph.
I couldn’t help it: I glanced back
at the car. It jerked into reverse and pulled
up beside me: a grimy white Trabant with
chipped paint spitting nauseous fumes. The
driver’s window rolled down and a
head of short-cropped brindled hair popped
out. Asked me in broken in English if I
was lost or if I needed a ride.
“I
am sorry—I do not have any money—no
money—no Koruna,” I said, as
if speaking in halting English would make
it easier for the woman to understand.
The woman laughed. “No, no! No need.
You want to go to Old Town?”
“Ah,
I don’t need a tour guide…”
I said and forced a smile. Then thought
of Kenji. “But maybe you could take
me to a friend’s apartment?”
The woman stared at me, a smile frozen on
her angular face. Far from menacing, it
was rather warming, yet I felt suddenly
gripped with a heightened sense of disorientation:
I had the distinct impression that I knew
this woman, and that she knew me, yet I
couldn’t imagine how. I leaned forward
in an attempt to better discern her features
in the subdued lighting, but she snapped
back into the dark recess of the driver’s
seat. Finally she opened the passenger door
and invited me in, and I squeezed into the
tight space with my bag. I could still barely
distinguish her in the dark, but her eyes
were bright and her perfume assailed me
immediately, a delicate lilac scent of sensuality.
“My
name is Gene,” I said.
“Really?”
she said, amused.
I gave her Kenji’s address and asked
her if she knew where it was. She laughed
again and nodded confidently. I settled
in the car and felt the warmth radiating
from this woman’s laugh, if not from
the car heater. She didn’t speak and
I was tongue-tied. I coughed and stuttered
as the car drove off.
“Oh,
you must be cold,” she said. “Sorry,
heater is not working. Stupid commie car!
Here!” She unraveled her scarf and
handed it to me. I protested feebly, but
the chance to wrap my neck in her perfume
was too tempting. I recognized the scent—it
was the only perfume that I was actually
able to recognize—and to my addled
brain that started to mean something.
“Eternity?”
I mumbled but she did not respond. I wondered
whether she had been following me, why she
was giving me a ride, but I was simply too
tired to ask.
Then she looked at me smiling. “Yes,
I was waiting on you. Six o’clock
bus from Vienna, no?” Her words fluttered
around me like strips of aluminum, light
and raspy, with the sharp edges of a foreign
accent that I assumed was Slovakian.
“Yes,
yes… But why were you following me?”
“Sorry?”
I reconsidered. Not sure that it really
mattered. Perhaps Kenji had asked her to
pick me up. I tried to remember if I had
told him when I was arriving, and was unable
to do so. I glanced back at my driver, and
in the intermittent light of the street
lamps I studied her dark boyish haircut,
the sharp edge of her jaw tensed in concentration,
and her lips. I couldn’t quite distinguish
them—her profile was etched in gray
against the tungsten light of the street
lamps that flashed across the car, like
a paper cut-out. Then I noticed the sparkle
of a studded piercing in her right nostril,
and my heart raced with a rush of adrenaline.
There was something familiar about her,
I began to sense the promise of a name…
but I was left only with a jumble of letters
that hung off my lips like gossamer, unformed.
I spat them out like broken teeth and felt
her expectant gaze upon me. I turned away.
“You
do know where we’re going, don’t
you?” I asked, looking out the window.
“Yes,
you give me address.”
“Kenji’s
place.”
She shrugged, refusing to take the bait.
“That is a funny name for a Slovakian.”
“Oh,
no, he’s American… You don’t
know him?”
“Is
it necessary?”
“In
the grand scheme of things, probably not,”
I answered with an angry sigh. “But
it would certainly make more sense.”
Actually the sigh was more of frustration,
but it was borderline. “Kenji’s
parents were working in Japan when he was
born. They were very taken in by the culture,”
I said, offering an explanation when I would
have wanted one from her. But I didn’t
want the ride to end: I wanted and I needed
more time, and I would have said anything
to obtain it.
The city and its wide boulevards were unnervingly
deserted. A sallow light, harsh in its lack
of color, reflected off the decrepit facades
and gloomy socialist realism architecture,
perpetuating the oppressive feel of the
former Communist regime. Eventually we turned
off the main boulevard onto cobblestone
streets that became narrower as we entered
an older part of the city. We drove over
tram tracks and more cobblestones, then
turned down a steep one-way street and stopped
before a derelict building four stories
high, with lights shining in only a few
windows.
She turned to me. “This is where you
needed to go, I think?”
“Positive?”
She giggled. “I am always positive,
yes!”
She did not turn to look at me, and I failed
to see anything funny in what she had said.
But I stared at her and wished I could say
something, a sharp comment that would make
her laugh again.
I asked for her name.
She said, “Oh, maybe I will see you
later, then I tell you. If not, then it
doesn’t matter!”
I was tired and I hadn’t even seen
Kenji yet. I gave up. “No, probably
not,” I mumbled. As I opened the car
door, I felt a gentle push encouraging me
to confront the outside cold. I turned around
and extended a hand. She shook it slowly,
then her fingers slipped through mine as
the car rolled forward and she drove away.
“Then
maybe later…”
Her voice trailed off and I watched her
taillights disappear, and I shuddered at
that brief moment of intimate contact of
fingers on fingers.
I inhaled her perfume, realizing that I
had forgotten to return her scarf.
The entrance door to Kenji’s apartment
building was unhinged, the paint was chipped,
the front steps were crooked. Inside was
a different matter, however, as I passed
through a second door, jarred open, and
entered a hallway lined with brand new mailboxes
on either side, at the end of which was
a circular staircase, carpeted and inviting.
Kenji lived at the top, on the fourth floor,
and when I reached his apartment the front
door was wide open as if he were expecting
me at that very moment. I threw down my
backpack, entered the living room, and found
him on a cellular phone with his feet propped
up on the desk next to a bottle of beer.
He twirled a pen between his fingers, ran
a hand across his slightly spotted juvenile
face, and pulled once in a while on a rebellious
strand of long blond hair. I stood there
as he wrangled and haggled over the phone
with his back turned, oblivious to my arrival.
He spoke with an insistent yet laid-back
voice, sometimes retrieving information
on his laptop computer with an outstretched
hand and nimble fingers. “Listen,
I understand your concerns, but I believe
I have the situation well under control…
The bird’s a tight box, hermetically
sealed, she won’t—” He
turned and smiled, acknowledging my arrival,
lit a cigarette, sipped his beer, and continued
the conversation. “Oh, yes, I wouldn’t
dare presume and I know I can’t guarantee…
Of course, of course—look, I’ll
see you in two weeks since you also believe
that there’s no immediate concern,
and you’re better placed to…
Yes, yes, yes… Look, well I appreciate
that, thank you… Okay, great, Dosvedanya!”
When Kenji had read in Shakespeare that
‘All the world’s a stage, And
all the men and women merely players’,
he had taken him literally, living his life
like a play, embracing—provoking—every
new twist in plot and every new ensuing
adventure. And here in Bratislava, sitting
at his desk, he was on his own stage again,
filling every nook and cranny with his presence
and energy. Only the set decorations had
changed from the last time we’d met.
He hung up, threw down his headset, spun
around, and exclaimed without missing a
beat: “Well, Gene my friend, by God
you made it!”
I glanced around at the Spartan decor—a
desk, a few chairs, a couch, prefab cupboards,
and a chest of drawers, a stack of empty
beer bottles—and said, “Sold
all your stuff to make home-made Slovakian
speed, Kenji?”
He glided around the living room, cradling
the bottle of Czech Pilsner between his
thumb and forefinger. “You should
have seen the dump the company gave me across
the river when I first moved here! This
is five-star accommodation next to that
netherworld of terror…” My eyebrows
shot up. Kenji came up to me and we embraced,
an effusive masculine hug of friendship
with great slaps on the backs. “So
how are you, Geno? How the hell are you?!”
Then Kenji stepped back theatrically: “Say,
there’s a mighty strong smell hanging
around you, and it ain’t men’s
cologne!”
“You
wouldn’t believe what happened,”
I sighed. “Ah, then again, you probably
would…” I launched into the
story of the woman offering me a ride, how
she seemed to know where I was going, and
how she gave me her scarf to fend off the
cold. Kenji watched me with a strange smile.
“Fascinating…”
“And?
So what would you have done?” I asked.
“Ah,
well, invited her up for a drink at least!
Crazy things happen if you let them, Gene!
Besides it would have been an easy thing
to do—a way of thanking her for the
ride.”
“You
know, Kenji, what appears easy to you is
not exactly easy for other people.”
All he said was, “oh Gene, oh Gene,”
and I realized that I hadn’t seen
him in a long while. I’d missed him.
I looked around the apartment and knew it
was pointless to take a tour. I headed straight
for the fridge and grabbed a beer.
“The
service hasn’t improved around here.”
Kenji was giving me a blank stare, something
that rarely happened—his face was
always expressing something—and I
couldn’t help but feel just a little
afraid. “Look, I am sorry to disillusion
you, Geno, and take away the mystery…
“Yes…”
“I
don’t know why she had to play games
with you, but that’s why I love the
woman to death…”
“Yes?”
“That
woman was Sevrina in the car—I asked
her to pick you up tonight because I knew
I’d have some business to handle and
didn’t know how long it would drag
out…”
The sound of his voice trailed off as the
scene around me came into sharp focus in
contrast to my muddled mind. I collapsed
on the couch, but missed it by three feet
and landed painfully on my ass amidst a
scattering of empty beer cans.
“Sorry
to disappoint you.”
“Disappointed?
I don’t know… I feel—well,
I feel pretty stupid I guess.”
I took a swig of beer… or at least
tried to, raising the bottle almost vertically
before realizing that it was empty.
A wave of doubt hit me and I tried to catch
my breath but heaved and choked, and there
was that disturbing feeling once again of
vague familiarity, a name lurking in the
dark recesses of my brain. “It doesn’t
make sense—are you sure it was Sevrina?
I mumbled. “I mean, I knew that woman,
I’m sure I did!” Something told
me that the name should stay buried but
it struggled to emerge. I was caught in
the crossfire: I wanted to know; I didn’t
want to remember. Emotions… There
were no emotions attached to the name; if
I could grasp the emotion, I would find
the name… Love? Hatred? Betrayal?...
All of the above? Yes, they all sounded
familiar but wouldn’t coalesce—but
of course they would, of course they did,
I’m lying, fearing, I know that name
I just can’t speak it aloud in my
mind. I don’t want to remember but
the memory is all I have. At once the most
beautiful and the most painful—the
name shatters through my last defenses and
it’s all I can do to keep back the
tears. RENÉE—Renée?
NO! NO! Too incongruous, impossible—too
impossible? It made no sense, that could
not be Renée in the car, that must
not be … NO! I slammed the door on
the memory, the voice was silenced, the
emotions bottled up—the name remained
unuttered as it should, vanishing as quickly
as it had appeared, banished to the chthonic
depths of my mind where I dared not—
“Ah,
Gene?”
I glanced up with bloodshot eyes and crawled
on to the couch. “Sevrina? Good, that
sounds good. I’m looking forward to
meeting her...” Forgetting that I
had already tried, I took another swig of
beer. The bottle was still empty.
“Kenji?
Did you put empty beer bottles back in the
fridge?”
He reached the fridge in three giant steps
and tore the door open. Spun around to face
me: “Shit… Was I that drunk
last night?... Well, my friend, we’ll
just have to head out. Time for dinner anyway,
wouldn’t you say?”
I didn’t answer, I hadn’t really
heard him. Hadn’t wanted to, probably.
My mind had skipped ahead.
“So
you’re still seeing Sevrina? Must
be several months now?” I asked.
I was disconcerted and surprised. Borderline
worried even. Since I had known him, Kenji
had changed women the way others change
wardrobes—by the season, by the day,
by the night. I guessed that it wasn’t
so much boredom as a desire to experience
continuously something new. The fact that
his current relationship with Sevrina was
lasting so long left me unnerved. Definitely
Worried. “Could this be love, Kenji?”
He said, He said, “Yes, well, that’s
for me to know and you to guess... Maybe,
just maybe, I'll tell you a short while.
In the mean time—you must want a beer?
Ah, but let’s not stick around here,
my friend! I, for one, need some cool Slovakian
evening air—so let’s get the
hell out of here and find some food and
drink to satiate our starveling souls!”
For the past year Kenji had been working
as a traveling plastic pipes salesman for
a US-based firm, plastic conduits used to
the encase the fiber-optic cables that telecom
companies were laying down—not just
your basic tubes, as Kenji reminded me.
Now he had branched out into some business
venture about which he remained somewhat
murky. Or perhaps I just didn’t understand.
On our way to dinner, Kenji began by telling
me about the old buildings and a new K-Mart
in town, about the changes occurring in
Bratislava since the Soviet Union collapsed
a few years earlier, as the country moved
towards capitalism and democracy, like in
most cities in the former Eastern bloc though
not quite as rapidly as in Poland, Hungary,
the Czech Republic or East Germany. Bratislava
seemed shy and reluctant about the whole
affair, Kenji told me, like a cantankerous
adolescent who had just started to experiment
with make-up and wasn’t yet convinced
of the results.
“Of
course it doesn’t help that President
Meciar is an authoritarian asshole with
dictator-like tendencies and little apparent
love for democracy,” said Kenji. “But
the business possibilities are huge. See
Geno, the fall of the Berlin Wall and the
collapse of the Soviet Union are providing
a host of opportunities for start-ups, new
technology and quirky maneuvers.”
He traced a map of Eastern Europe on the
frosted window of a closed department store
to illustrate. “Look here: Bratislava
is the wire mesh of an East European sieve,
through which fresh money pours in from
the former Soviet Union—Russians with
a strange sense of money, and this goes
back well into the Czarist times, Gene,
Dostoïevsky said so—Russians
who love to gamble with the idea of capitalism.
So I’ve found a few eager investors,
and terrain in Austria, and I’m cutting
some deals…”
Kenji was positively beaming.
“Sounds
like mafia money to me, and I doubt that
the Russian mafia originated in the kitchen
of a pizzeria. More like in the offices
of the former KGB. And I wouldn’t
underestimate their sense of money, either.”
“For
one, who said anything about dealing directly
with the mafia? And for two, hate to disillusion
you, my trusting and idealistic friend,
but businesses in the East have little chance
of succeeding these days without some collusion
with the mafia.” He seemed lost in
his own world for a few seconds, then his
smile returned with vengeance. I thought
he couldn’t beam any wider; he did.
He said between stretched lips: “And
by the way, I never said I underestimated
their money sense—it’s they
just do things with money that make Keynes
look like Karl Marx.”
Kenji seemed to be constantly involved in
some kind of adventure, and with him borderline
fun was always much easier to slip into
than to avoid. I never minded living vicariously
through his stories—he breathed in
life fully and oozed it from every pore.
Listening to Kenji talk about a particular
adventure he’d had was like hearing
someone describe an orgasm and realizing
that in fact you’ve never truly had
one, that all those simulacrums were just
hallucinatory blanks, pale imitations of
the real thing.
We arrived at a restaurant that resembled
a European version of the American diner,
one of the many café-bars that had
sprouted in Eastern Europe since the fall
of the Wall with the intention of being
hip and modern: guitars, pictured vinyl
records, and other music memorabilia were
ostentatiously displayed; t-shirts and posters
of various hard rock, heavy metal, and New
Wave bands of the eighties plastered the
walls; and an oversized poster of the 1990
Rolling Stones’ Prague concert—the
iconographic lips and tongue, with an inscription
underneath: the tanks are rolling out, the
Stones are rolling in—covered the
entrance door.
The restaurant was crowded, loud and smoky.
We found a table near the window next to
two young couples deeply engrossed in conversation,
and ordered two large beers and a standard
fare of breaded schnitzel, roasted potatoes,
and baby carrots soaked in grease. The couples
smiled warmly at us as we sat down; we nodded
back. They could not have been older than
twenty, but for some reason they seemed
so much younger to me, exuding a strong
sense of freedom. Kenji turned to me and
smiled.
As we dipped into the beers and waited for
our meal, we plunged into the past, evoked
fond memories of the last time we had spent
a few rambunctious days together, the previous
summer in Nice, where we got tumbled by
neo-Nazis in a side-alley after we had tried
surreptitiously, in a drunken stupor, and
quite unsuccessfully, to make off with their
girlfriends...
We finished our beers before the food arrived,
and I slipped away to use the bathroom.
“Still
have a weak bladder, eh?”
“Some
things will never change, Kenji…”
I ordered two more beers on my way back,
which involved much more time, arm waving,
money flashing, and voice raising, than
I had expected. Not to mention that it took
courage to raise my voice in a language
that I didn’t know. Kenji had told
me how to ask for a beer in Slovak: an pivo
prosim. Didn’t mean I could yell it
out competently in the company of dashing
Slovaks.
I returned to the table to find our dinner
served, Kenji’s half-eaten, and two
other large beers standing proudly next
to our plates. “I told you I’d
order more,” I said.
“I
thought,” said Kenji between mouthfuls
of schnitzel, “that I would.”
“I
speak English, don’t I?”
“Maybe,
but you have a funny accent… Either
that, or a speech impediment. Haven’t
quite decided after all these years. No
offense.”
“None
taken.”
“Besides,
the waitress was too cute to resist. She
smiled at me and I found myself ordering—oh,
don’t look at me like that! We’ll
drink them anyway!”
“So
that’s why you chose this place? The
waitresses?” I asked.
Kenji looked over at the four Slovaks next
to us, smiling and winking at each other,
babbling away, and glancing over from time
to time.
He said: “Why do I get the impression
that they’re making fun of us?”
He raised his glass, and the guy next to
him lifted his glass also. “You making
fun of us?”
“Yes!
Fun, yes?” the Slovak said. “You
order too much beer? You drink all that?”
“Hell,
no! Hell, yes, CHEERS!”
They clinked glasses, Kenji made new friends.
Eventually he turned back to face me. “Look,
Gene, aren’t the waitresses always
a good reason to choose a restaurant? But
this also tends to be a regular expat’
hang-out. Gives us the illusion that we’re
mingling with the locals, when in fact we’re
just hanging among ourselves.”
“Speaking
of locals—are you going to tell me
what your relationship is with her? I mean
Sevrina… Is this long-term?”
“Bah!
Nothing to worry about Geno… Yes,
we’re still together in our own way.
She lives an hour from here and that suits
me fine. I like long-distance relationships.”
“Must
be six months now that you’re with
her,” I said.
“About
eight, actually,” he corrected me.
I eyed my friend curiously.
“What?”
he asked, and if I didn’t know any
better, I would have said that he was actually
blushing.
“You’re
counting! You wouldn’t be in love,
would you Kenji?”
There it was again and this time I was sure:
his ears were tinged pink. I’d never
seen Kenji blush, not over a woman. He let
out a gush of laugher. “Oh Geno, give
me a dictionary and then maybe I’ll
tell you.”
“I
mean, I can understand. I met Sevrina, and…”
How could I hide from Kenji the attraction
I’d felt? At least Kenji, unlike almost
every other person I know, didn’t
require some form of approval of their chosen
partner. “Well she’s…
She seems magical.”
“Don’t
eat your heart out over it. She’s
a real bitch too sometimes. Keeps me on
my toes.” He stopped short and looked
around the room expectantly. “We’ll
be seeing her later on,” he said,
confirming my worst fears.
A crack of laughter from the couples next
to us made us turn. We saw one of the couples
kissing. The other looked on, laughed, and
kissed also. Then one of the guys stood
up, leaned across the table, and kissed
the other’s guy’s girlfriend
squarely and deeply on the mouth. And then
the other two did likewise.
“I
feel old,” I muttered. I wasn’t
sure what do with my hands so I removed
my glasses and pretended to clean them.
Kenji, on the other hand, was thrilled—he
bounced in his seat and turned to our neighbors.
“Having loads of FUN with those wonderful
women of yours? Mucho FUN exchange? Good
for you!”
“Kenji…”
I murmured, while the Slovaks watched him
with barely contained bewildered smiles.
They didn’t seem like they were going
to start a fistfight but then you never
know what can set some people off.
“A
little swapping later on? Loads of FUN!
Why not a gay parade in Bratislava Slovensko?
Wild place!—mind if we join in?”
“Kenji…”
The guy closest to Kenji finally moved,
raising an arm and slapping on my friend’s
shoulder. “Yes, fun! You like Bratislava?”
“Are
you kidding? I LOVE it here!”
Kenji was pumping away with his fists, and
came dangerously close to splattering beer
all over the Slovak. He started to wiggle
his shoulders. Finally we clinked glasses
and toasted to each other’s health,
or to whatever the Slovaks had said.
“But
what about you? Whatever happened to that
Nathalie you were seeing?”
I let out a long sigh. I didn’t want
to him shift the discussion. I needed time
to adjust. The possibility that a woman
could change the whole fraternal equation
between us made me uneasy. Our adventures
together had always just been the two of
us. I let out another heavy sigh before
answering and almost belched from all the
beer. Perhaps it was better after all not
to talk about Sevrina.
“No,
no, Natalie and I are no longer together.”
I stopped and lifted my pants to show Kenji
my different colored argyle socks. “I
can never find a matching pair of socks
to wear. Since most of the time people don’t
see them anyway, I don’t care. Maybe
I don’t try very hard, but in any
case Natalie found that too messy and disorganized.”
I shrugged. “So now the womanizer
has a girlfriend, and the romantic keeps
floating around...”
There was a moment of silence. A long moment.
They don’t happen often with Kenji,
but when they do, they last. As if each
one has drifted off into his own space without
regard for the other, without unease either,
and when we returned to face one another
it was as if we’d been gone a long
time.
“Kenji?
Have you heard from Renée?"
I asked him.
The answer came much faster than I expected.
“Funny you should ask. I wasn’t
sure I should tell you, but since you seem
to want to know...”
“Not
sure I do.”
“Ah,
well, you shouldn’t’ve asked
me then, right?” he said with a Machiavellian
grin.
“Life
provides some amazing serendipitous encounters,
and it’s true that fact can often
be stranger than fiction so listen to this
tale—”
“Tale,
Kenji? That’s not very promising!”
I said. This was heading in a frightening
direction. Kenji’s tone, his choice
of words, his delivery. Such ornateness
hid something, but I was thankful for it—it
enabled to take my mind off my own question.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to bring my
memories of Renée fully out of retirement.
I’m sure I didn’t really want
to make her part of my present again, make
her real. But like a man attracted to the
void I couldn’t help myself.
“No,
Gene, it’s a crazy tale, but true
nonetheless…” Why the emphasis
on ‘true’? “You know that
Renée’s parents moved to Berlin
in the winter of ‘89-’90, right?
Well, she’s studying cultural anthropology
now at Humboldt University. She lives with
this whacked-out elderly lady who’s
a performance artist and puts on these shows
in the streets of Kreuzberg, and wants to
build a Celtic Sun Gate on the top of Teufelsberg
with blocks of the Berlin Wall. Anyway,
at night, she’s a stripper. Or at
least a dancer in a club.
“Renée,
or the woman she lives with?” I asked,
and Kenji gave me a withering look of pity.
“It’s
to pay for her studies, so she says—you
know how dismissive she was of her father’s
money!—but I think she quite enjoys
the exhibitionist side to her job. Anyway…
I was in Berlin recently on business and,
well, decided on a little evening fun in
the red light district—and wouldn’t
you know it?! I hit upon the very club where
Renée works!”
“Go
figure, what a coincidence!”
But I believed him. It rang true. And besides,
I’ve never known Kenji to lie. Not
blatantly.
I didn’t know what to think, and Kenji
didn’t give me time to do so. “I
have an idea,” he said.
“What?”
Kenji reached through his pockets and pulled
out a small pack of chewing gum. He popped
one in his mouth, turned to me, and smiled.
“Before
I present you with our plan of action, let’s
order a bottle of champagne!”
“A
plan, Kenji?
He
refused to answer immediately. He hailed
down a waitress—somehow they always
seem to appear when he needs them, while
I can wait long enough to grow cobwebs between
my fingers. She left, and Kenji still wouldn’t
answer. He just smiled at me, toying with
me, bopping his head to the music, drumming
his fingers…
“Ah,
listen to that funky electronic sound. That’s
Berlin!” Kenji said eventually. “I
went there with my mother on August eighth,
eighty-eight, can’t forget that date…
I remember looking out over the Berlin Wall
from a small wooden observatory on the edge
of Tiergarten. And I could see over the
Wall right through the Roman pillars of
the Brandenburg Gate, and there were people
watching from the other side. Like aliens
they seemed because I tried to imagine their
half-lives in their half-city, but was unable
to relate. And I realized how West Berlin
was also dying in the Eastern shadow, in
ecstatic death throes of decadence...”
Kenji looked at me with a large smile and
raised eyebrows. “But when I returned
a few months ago, they were selling hotdogs
and Soviet army uniforms right there among
the columns. Big companies have set up cranes
and buildings are rising in barren Potsdamer
Platz… Ah! the grand old dame is getting
a face lift, and she deserves one, mind
you… The city’s alive again!
Moving along with grace and power! Surging
forwards oblivious to time and history,
confident of her appeal… Berlin’s
the cosmic sponge, the revitalized whore
of Europe who’d like to forget and
mend her divided past and put it behind
her, and forget the men who tried to sell
her soul…”
“Berlin,
a dame?” I exclaimed. “What
about Prussian patriarchy and the German
Vaterland?”
“Ah,
yes… But you see, Geno, I think the
war changed that. Yes, the new generation
had to deal with their past, their parents’
past, and show the world a tamer and kinder
Germany,” Kenji laughed raucously.
“You wander the campuses of Free University
in the western divide or Humboldt University
in the east, and the boys and girls seem
so alike—the guys gangly and effete,
the girls with boyish cuts and flat chests
like Renée… Well, anyway, that’s
how it struck me at least: none of that
Aryan masculinity and arrogance, none of
that heavy-chested Fräulein sexuality!
Just intellectual intensity and artistic
sophistry! You see, Berlin is shaped by
her inhabitants: free-willed, open-minded,
strong-willed, and eminently androgynous.
But feminine nonetheless!”
I said nothing. I could see where this was
going, and I felt that familiar tingle at
my nape. Terribly seductive.
Finally the champagne arrived.
“A
plan, Kenji?”
“Ah,
a plan—never have a plan! I was about
to say that you and I are heading to Berlin,
tomorrow—and don’t argue, you
know you want to!”
I laughed, but there was frustration there
too. I said, “How can you be so sure?
What could she mean to me now? Okay, I’ll
admit that I’ve played with the idea
of wandering off and finding her—if
only to talk to her again, and enjoy the
pleasure of another fun and crazy time with
you—but that was several years ago!
What’s the point now?” Yes,
what’s the point? What’s your
point, Kenji? “Why? Why are you so
interested in seeing her again?”
“Me?”
Kenji dipped a finger in his beer and held
it up like a weather vane, as if to test
the direction of the wind— and I knew
he was getting serious. It made me anxious.
“You were going to spend a week here,
and I was going to take time off—let’s
go on a road trip! What’s there to
lose?”
“What’s
there to gain?”
“Ah,
l’esprit de contradiction? Always
looking for issues, for problems, instead
of grabbing the moment—carpe diem,
Geno!”
“When
it suits you… Look, what would we
accomplish by going there? I’m sure
Renée doesn’t give a shit.”
“Listen
brother, trust me on this one—if anything
else, she’ll be impressed and intrigued
as hell that you came all the way from Bratislava
just to speak to her.”
“But
why on earth would I want to impress and
intrigue her?”
“Ah,
well that’s up to you to tell me…”
He fell silent and I felt confused. He’d
turned the tables on me. Then: “No,
no, no! I know what your problem is—already
you’re imagining things, creating
a multitude of possible futures. Let go,
you can’t control it. No-one can say
where it will take you, but it’ll
definitely will be further than sitting
on your ass. Berlin can’t wait, no
she can’t, my friend!”
“Well
then,” I said angrily, “perhaps
she doesn’t need me.”
“No,
she’s what you need… And I can
promise you this: if you don’t know
what you’re looking for exactly or
why you’re going there, she will provide
the answer—since that’s what
you seem to need. Answers.”
I threw my hands up in anger and despair:
Kenji was all ready to tear off to Berlin
and I couldn’t quite believe that
it was only in my interest. But I didn’t
have the strength to resist. Yet if he claimed
to know me, I could say the same, and I
knew that the idea would pass and diminish
as the alcohol content in his blood grew
greater. I loved him for his energy but
sometimes he stretched me too thin. I was
always tempted to go wherever he shined
the light but sometimes—this time—well,
I didn’t think that even he would
seriously consider driving to Berlin by
tomorrow morning. If we kept on drinking,
he might even forget about the whole thing.
“Okay
then. I have another idea.”
“Now
what?”
He jumped up. “Follow me!... Come
on—trust me?”
“That’s
always an intriguing prospect. Not sane,
perhaps, but always intriguing.”
“You
think too much, Gene,” Kenji said,
grabbing my hand and pulling me through
the crowd for a fast egress from this bar
that, apparently, no longer served its purpose.
-
Chapter 2 -
The first words that Kenji ever said to
me are still etched in my mind.
The summer before I left Paris at eighteen
to start college and renew with my American
heritage, I began working in a small bar
between Châtelet-les-Halles and Centre
Pompidou. Kenji swept up to the counter
one night near closing time, while I was
behind the bar wiping glasses and sipping
iced tea. He was heady from his own private
excitement.
“In
every country, in every culture, people
have made beer!” he exclaimed. “I
think beer was invented before religion—so
serve one up, Maestro, and may you be granted
a meaningful existence!” He said it
in French, and it would never fail to amaze
me how, despite his American accent, Kenji’s
entire personality shone through when he
spoke in a foreign language.
I smiled and drafted a Guinness, placed
it front of him. He dipped a finger in the
froth, licked it with relish, and looked
me squarely in one eye. Unnerving. “Good
choice Maestro!” he said.
“No...”
said a girl standing behind him. “No,
you’re wrong,” she continued.
Kenji and I looked at her expectantly. She
took a cigarette from Kenji’s pack
and rolled it between her fingers, then
smelled it with her eyes half-shut. She
slipped it between her curled upper lip
and wrinkled nose. “See? No hands!”
she said, and burst out laughing. She put
the cigarette back in the pack. “No,
you see, sex came before beer, right? And
sex created the need for religion…
So religion came before beer!”
Kenji put money down on the bar to pay for
his Guinness and said to me, “Friendly
bartender, meet Renée Simone, enlightened
virgin!”
“And
I present you Kenji Cannon, drunk Buddhist,”
Renée retorted quickly, but she was
blushing.
“You
listen to your nihilistic your brother too
much,” said Kenji.
“And
you listen to your–”
Kenji threw his hand across her mouth before
she could finish. “Cliché,”
he said.
They remained at the bar and I spoke with
them sporadically, between several servings
of beer, and after the last customers had
left, I began wiping the tables, stacking
the chairs, wiping the tables… Delaying.
“Okay!
Come on, one more round Gene! You haven’t
even had a drink with us!”
“I’ve
got to close up and balance the cash register,”
I said with very little conviction. “And
it isn’t going to be easy with all
those beers I’ve offered you guys.”
“Ah!
the register, the register! You’re
too young for that...” Kenji swilled
half the beer I set before him. “Okay,
okay, let’s get it done, and have
a drink together... Renée asked me
to ask you.”
“Yes,”
Renée said. “Look at me! My
parents don’t even know where I am.”
Kenji said, “And you’re proud
of that? You know you’ve got to go
back home. Tomorrow. It’s been three
days. I’m not staving off your dad
anymore. Hotel’s closed!”
Renée flapped her hands and took
a sip from Kenji’s glass, but remained
silent. She was good-looking but not striking:
at sixteen she’d already had time
to shed her baby fat and develop a new layer—everything
about her cried defeat, as if her prime
were just around the corner and then it
would be all downhill. She would, of course,
prove me wrong on this account. It would
seem to me later that I had met her at a
painful time, when she was going through
some awkward metamorphosis from caterpillar
to magnificent butterfly. And I fell in
love with her, not because I recognized
the future butterfly, but for the worst
possible reason: she inspired in me the
desire to save her.
I toasted to the night with these new friends,
while Renée told me about her parents
whom I’d never speak to, about her
chronically unemployed dad who watched television
all day, and her functionally alcoholic
mother who worked as a metro conductor to
keep the family afloat. Renée finally
said, “Well, if it is my last night,
Kenji chéri, then I want to go to
a club and dance.”
Kenji turned to me with raised, questioning
eyebrows. What could I say? Already I could
not refuse him—I couldn’t help
but be drawn to someone who seemed so confident
at eighteen and who ran around so nonchalantly
with a girl like Renée. We headed
to Pigalle and wandered amidst the soft
stroking sex-shop neon lights before entering
a swanky nightclub where Kenji knew the
bouncer. I was quickly caught up in the
lights, the beat, the wavy dancers... I
drifted to the middle of the floor, dazzled
by the laser pointers and pulsating black
light beams that made our teeth glow when
the club was plunged into darkness. I quickly
lost Kenji and Renée, and merged
with the shirtless crowd, felt the sweat
percolate my skin, and my lingering fatigue
vanished on the dance floor. I lifted my
head at one point, emerged from my trance,
and my eyes crossed paths with those of
a girl dancing with some guy a few feet
away. She smiled. I leered accidentally.
She dismissed her dancing partner, walked
over to me, and wrapped her arms around
my waist like a child with too many toys
opening yet another Christmas present. She
tilted her head back, closed her eyes. Placed
an insistent hand behind my neck and drew
me in. I nibbled her vein, tickled her skin,
felt gooseflesh along my forearm. Then she
left me for someone else.
Time passed in rhapsody. Some girl dancing
in front of me turned around with a glare.
I was staring at her gyrating hips, a world
of their own: it was Renée. She laughed,
leaned into me. “You could be cute
with different glasses and a change of hair
style!” she yelled over the music,
and it sounded like a whisper. She pecked
me on the lips, then turned around and arched
her back. I put my arms around her waist
and we danced for awhile.
Some thousand beats later Kenji found us.
We left the club and I was surprised to
see that it was already dawn. We walked
along the Seine until mid-morning, talking
about so many hopes and desires. We slept
at Kenji’s duplex on Ile St. Louis,
and Renée and I shared the pull-out
sofa bed.
Overcome by a moment of intense sincerity,
just after we’d kissed, I told her
that I had never slept with anyone either.
“Oh,
that… Kenji was just kidding,”
she said with all the maturity of her sixteen
years. “I’m not a virgin. Not
that he would know that,” she insisted.
And so, even though she was two years younger
than I, she became my teacher—and
that first time already, I learned the pleasures
of delayed satisfaction, of moans and hips
that reached up to meet my own, of penetration
that became unity. That first time already,
I was willing to confuse lust and love—though
I know for certain that I loved her.
“Why
did you run away from home? Did your father
hit you?” I asked her that night,
and she looked at me as if I’d been
reading the wrong books. Then she laughed
and told me that she had made up the whole
story of her family.
“Why?”
I insisted.
“Why
did I run away, or why did I invent that
story?”
“Both.”
She said soberly after a pause, “My
father plays too much golf.” I wasn’t
sure what to believe anymore. Kenji later
confirmed that Renée’s father
was a member of the French government, and
that she resented his public persona, his
status, his money.
Kenji was working at the post office that
summer, and joined me every evening in the
bar when I was working. We tasted most of
the beer in the place, settling on Guinness
because I could tap it for free. At some
point Kenji told me about his own volatile
background: growing up in New Jersey, then
moving to Paris at the age of sixteen, where
his parents had bought an apartment so that
he could finish high school at a local French
school and learn the language. They traveled
constantly and Kenji spent his nights and
weekends hitting the night clubs, getting
into fights, scamming off tourists on the
Pont Neuf, housing drug addicts and youthful
runaways... Through it all, he seemed to
have retained a certain innocence, and I’ve
always been surprised at how relatively
sane he’s turned out. As to the origins
of his name, about which he remained abstrusely
mysterious, Renée finally told me
that it was because he was born in Japan
while his mother was working for the Emperor.
At least, that was the story that he had
told her, she said.
Whenever I wasn’t with Kenji, I was
with Renée. I thought that her passion
matched my own—in fact I have tried
to match every relationship with the effect
Renée had on me, in vain—but
when Renée ran away from home again,
she went straight to Kenji’s, and
for the first time I experienced despair
and deep-seated confusion. Then Kenji and
I left for college in the States. We kept
in touch, but Renée never answered
my letters, and Kenji claimed to see her
only very infrequently—he didn’t
want to get between us. Then he learned
that she had relocated with her family to
Berlin in the winter of 1989, just after
the fall of the Wall, and he didn’t
hear from her again for several years. By
the following summer, when I returned to
Paris, Kenji and I stopped talking about
her. I think the last time she was mentioned,
I asked Kenji whether he had ever slept
with her. “No,” he answered
hesitantly. “And I’m surprised
that I never really wanted to. She was like
a sister to me. I’m still hurt that
she never gave me her address in Berlin.”
He had said it with an expression that I
found too honest to doubt.
Resting
Under a Blue Yellow Moonn
© 2006 by Liston Grant
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