Read Online The Last Resort by Carmen Posadas - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Carmen Posadas
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so good-looking? Don’t tell me you’ve already . . . ?”
Reza fidgeted slightly, but Molinet paid no mind.
“You know who I mean. He’s Italian, isn’t he? I saw him leave your apartment the other day. Now, he looked like a real gentleman. I’m good at noticing certain things, Reza, and you would be smart to notice them, too, instead of wasting your time with boys named Mohammed who run laundromats. You’re not going to be young forever, you know.”
“You’re not going to be young forever, you know,” he had said, as if he were the screenwriter of a bad Italian soap opera,
porca miseria.
And he knew that it came out sounding like the advice of a maiden aunt to the nephew she has always been in love with in the most incestuous and inappropriate way, but Molinet didn’t give a damn. He also knew that young Reza did not take kindly to his recommendations, but he nonetheless remained in the apartment, pacing about the sitting room as if waiting for the moment to object—or perhaps provoke Molinet further. He chatted, he laughed, but most of all he took special care to strut around in front of Molinet like a cowboy, splaying his legs so that the metal-tipped comb peeking out from his back pocket shifted positions: First it bristled against his ass, then it tilted diagonally, always erect, always provocative. And he chatted away about Morocco as if he actually gave a damn about Molinet’s trip. What did he care? Such a stupid concept, Molinet said to himself. Nobody gives a damn about anyone.
Reza finally left, but his scent hung in the room for a long while afterward. Molinet hadn’t quite ascertained the nature of his aroma—it was a mix of disinfectant and the aggressive, cloying sweetness of young skin. Reza’s love for animals, however, was entirely undetectable, which was a good thing, for it would not have produced a very felicitous olfactory blend.
Reza’s scent was still present in the room when, suddenly, he returned—this time through the front door—to give Molinet his dog. He didn’t even cross the threshold. Nothing more than a brief farewell, a few words, and that was it.
As Molinet watched him retreat down the hallway, he called out, “Good-bye, Reizzaah, don’t get into any trouble, now.” And as he hugged his little dog, running his hand through all the little nooks and crannies of his warm body in search of elusive tenderness, he thought about what Dr. Pertini had said: “Whenever you start to feel nostalgic, dear Molinet, why not write to a friend, get your feelings out on paper. Why, anyone would be thrilled to receive a letter from you. Your life is like a novel . . .”
Like a novel! Dr. Pertini could rot in hell for all Molinet cared, Dr. Pertini and the rest of those goddamn doctors at Cedars of Lebanon. Who did he think he was kidding? His life was the most typical, commonplace soap opera, and it could be summarized in all of three lines: He was nothing but an old queer who hadn’t been smart enough to take advantage of his beautiful flesh in his youth—flesh that had once been as young and beautiful as Reza’s, and much more willing for that matter. That was why he had ended up old and decrepit, cast aside by all. And so, in his old age he had turned to his mother with an adoration that was equaled only by his hatred for his dead father, the person he blamed for everything, even though, of course, it was far too late to do a damn thing about it. That was his story. It wasn’t even original.
Molinet stood at the door to his flat for some time, which was rather remarkable given that the hallway was filled with all of its usual abominable odors. Gomez was squirming about in his arms, his young body searching for a comfortable position, when the phone rang.
Molinet did not move. Two . . . three . . . four rings. He waited for the answering machine to pick up, because the phone was not usually a harbinger of good news, and he silently prayed that it wasn’t some
Reza fidgeted slightly, but Molinet paid no mind.
“You know who I mean. He’s Italian, isn’t he? I saw him leave your apartment the other day. Now, he looked like a real gentleman. I’m good at noticing certain things, Reza, and you would be smart to notice them, too, instead of wasting your time with boys named Mohammed who run laundromats. You’re not going to be young forever, you know.”
“You’re not going to be young forever, you know,” he had said, as if he were the screenwriter of a bad Italian soap opera,
porca miseria.
And he knew that it came out sounding like the advice of a maiden aunt to the nephew she has always been in love with in the most incestuous and inappropriate way, but Molinet didn’t give a damn. He also knew that young Reza did not take kindly to his recommendations, but he nonetheless remained in the apartment, pacing about the sitting room as if waiting for the moment to object—or perhaps provoke Molinet further. He chatted, he laughed, but most of all he took special care to strut around in front of Molinet like a cowboy, splaying his legs so that the metal-tipped comb peeking out from his back pocket shifted positions: First it bristled against his ass, then it tilted diagonally, always erect, always provocative. And he chatted away about Morocco as if he actually gave a damn about Molinet’s trip. What did he care? Such a stupid concept, Molinet said to himself. Nobody gives a damn about anyone.
Reza finally left, but his scent hung in the room for a long while afterward. Molinet hadn’t quite ascertained the nature of his aroma—it was a mix of disinfectant and the aggressive, cloying sweetness of young skin. Reza’s love for animals, however, was entirely undetectable, which was a good thing, for it would not have produced a very felicitous olfactory blend.
Reza’s scent was still present in the room when, suddenly, he returned—this time through the front door—to give Molinet his dog. He didn’t even cross the threshold. Nothing more than a brief farewell, a few words, and that was it.
As Molinet watched him retreat down the hallway, he called out, “Good-bye, Reizzaah, don’t get into any trouble, now.” And as he hugged his little dog, running his hand through all the little nooks and crannies of his warm body in search of elusive tenderness, he thought about what Dr. Pertini had said: “Whenever you start to feel nostalgic, dear Molinet, why not write to a friend, get your feelings out on paper. Why, anyone would be thrilled to receive a letter from you. Your life is like a novel . . .”
Like a novel! Dr. Pertini could rot in hell for all Molinet cared, Dr. Pertini and the rest of those goddamn doctors at Cedars of Lebanon. Who did he think he was kidding? His life was the most typical, commonplace soap opera, and it could be summarized in all of three lines: He was nothing but an old queer who hadn’t been smart enough to take advantage of his beautiful flesh in his youth—flesh that had once been as young and beautiful as Reza’s, and much more willing for that matter. That was why he had ended up old and decrepit, cast aside by all. And so, in his old age he had turned to his mother with an adoration that was equaled only by his hatred for his dead father, the person he blamed for everything, even though, of course, it was far too late to do a damn thing about it. That was his story. It wasn’t even original.
Molinet stood at the door to his flat for some time, which was rather remarkable given that the hallway was filled with all of its usual abominable odors. Gomez was squirming about in his arms, his young body searching for a comfortable position, when the phone rang.
Molinet did not move. Two . . . three . . . four rings. He waited for the answering machine to pick up, because the phone was not usually a harbinger of good news, and he silently prayed that it wasn’t some
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