Read Online The Life of Polycrates and Other Stories for Antiquated Children by Brendan Connell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Brendan Connell
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kiss her dewlaps as a thick semi-fluid substance oozed from her mouth. Distracted, restless during each day, he only wishing to spill himself into the night glory of letting her gnaw the lips from his face.
“ No, don’t come tonight. I have to go to Torino.”
“ Torino?”
What did she have to do in Torino?
He spent a nearly sleepless night perspiring solitary beneath his sheets. The next day, Sunday, he smoked countless cigarettes, toured the bars, sampled all the second-rate wines the city had to offer, seeing in the depth of each glass the burning labbra of Mirta; and he craved to feel the air of her flaring nostrils, hot as a desert wind, against his stomach and thighs.
Darkness; and standing beneath her window; but if she were there, in bed, there would probably be no light anyhow. He listened attentively, thinking he might hear some voice, or groan, from the story above him, through the glass or thick walls. There was a car engine in the distance; it faded; then silence. So he walked away, wandered along streets, the Corso Elvezia, the Via Serafino Balestra, then found himself circling, back around to the Via Luigi Lavizzari, spying on her dwelling. He stood in an alcove, for several hours, and then finally, around four in the morning, made his way home, exhausted, thoroughly depressed.
The next day at work his face was pale and his eyes looked like raw sores. For lunch he had four rolls of shredded tobacco enclosed in thin paper and ignited and then, after work, drank several purple glasses followed by a grappino. He knew very well that Mirta was far from being honourable; she would not hesitate to lie, to him or anyone else; in his guts he felt that she had never gone out of town, but simply wanted to get rid of him; to have her pleasures in some other way. He slunk out onto the street; it was summer and still light; warm, and he wished for the sky to be black.
VI.
He stood again beneath her window and listened attentively to the ringing in his own ears; then crossed the street and took up his position in the alcove. He chewed on his bottom lip and then his tongue. The distant church bells sounded the hours, first three, then four, then five, then six.
“ What’s the use,” he told himself morosely.
A hulkingly masculine figure came out the door and proceeded to walk down the street; the gait of an ape, a large and tailless monkey, with tight jeans and absurdly broad shoulders. Claude followed him. The man turned the corner and so did Claude. Then they were eye to eye. The man was there opening the door of a car.
“ What do you want?”
“ I’m Claude.”
“ So what? Do you think you deserve some kind of prize for it? Do I owe you money?”
“ Mirta. . . . She’s my girl.”
The man laughed. “Get away from me or I’ll break your nose,” he said.
Claude hit him on the side of the head with his open hand. Then Claude was on the ground. The man sunk his huge fist into Claude’s face; the latter’s nose seemed to explode, turn into a mass of red jelly. And he felt the man’s fist several more times, and the man’s boot as well.
VII.
After making his way to the hospital, where he received numerous stitches, he returned home, lay on the couch and cried. The woman-hunter in him, the man who sought out the beds of the females of the species for mere sport, seemed to be dying a tragic death; the body of Claude was now animated by a variety of weak and needy soul, a soul that cried out for Mirta’s stroke and affection, squealed to be treated to her coarse favours, ridden by her lard and grotesque self; and, exhausted from sleepless nights and unnatural emotional tension, he slept, dreamt of her as a great hippopotamus, her huge butt-like breasts spangled with a thousand greasy nipples and, crawling out from betwixt her gargantuan thighs, a multitude of beasts; a writhing viper of three heads; a slippery shark snapping at the air with blood-drenched fangs; a creature half scorpion
“ No, don’t come tonight. I have to go to Torino.”
“ Torino?”
What did she have to do in Torino?
He spent a nearly sleepless night perspiring solitary beneath his sheets. The next day, Sunday, he smoked countless cigarettes, toured the bars, sampled all the second-rate wines the city had to offer, seeing in the depth of each glass the burning labbra of Mirta; and he craved to feel the air of her flaring nostrils, hot as a desert wind, against his stomach and thighs.
Darkness; and standing beneath her window; but if she were there, in bed, there would probably be no light anyhow. He listened attentively, thinking he might hear some voice, or groan, from the story above him, through the glass or thick walls. There was a car engine in the distance; it faded; then silence. So he walked away, wandered along streets, the Corso Elvezia, the Via Serafino Balestra, then found himself circling, back around to the Via Luigi Lavizzari, spying on her dwelling. He stood in an alcove, for several hours, and then finally, around four in the morning, made his way home, exhausted, thoroughly depressed.
The next day at work his face was pale and his eyes looked like raw sores. For lunch he had four rolls of shredded tobacco enclosed in thin paper and ignited and then, after work, drank several purple glasses followed by a grappino. He knew very well that Mirta was far from being honourable; she would not hesitate to lie, to him or anyone else; in his guts he felt that she had never gone out of town, but simply wanted to get rid of him; to have her pleasures in some other way. He slunk out onto the street; it was summer and still light; warm, and he wished for the sky to be black.
VI.
He stood again beneath her window and listened attentively to the ringing in his own ears; then crossed the street and took up his position in the alcove. He chewed on his bottom lip and then his tongue. The distant church bells sounded the hours, first three, then four, then five, then six.
“ What’s the use,” he told himself morosely.
A hulkingly masculine figure came out the door and proceeded to walk down the street; the gait of an ape, a large and tailless monkey, with tight jeans and absurdly broad shoulders. Claude followed him. The man turned the corner and so did Claude. Then they were eye to eye. The man was there opening the door of a car.
“ What do you want?”
“ I’m Claude.”
“ So what? Do you think you deserve some kind of prize for it? Do I owe you money?”
“ Mirta. . . . She’s my girl.”
The man laughed. “Get away from me or I’ll break your nose,” he said.
Claude hit him on the side of the head with his open hand. Then Claude was on the ground. The man sunk his huge fist into Claude’s face; the latter’s nose seemed to explode, turn into a mass of red jelly. And he felt the man’s fist several more times, and the man’s boot as well.
VII.
After making his way to the hospital, where he received numerous stitches, he returned home, lay on the couch and cried. The woman-hunter in him, the man who sought out the beds of the females of the species for mere sport, seemed to be dying a tragic death; the body of Claude was now animated by a variety of weak and needy soul, a soul that cried out for Mirta’s stroke and affection, squealed to be treated to her coarse favours, ridden by her lard and grotesque self; and, exhausted from sleepless nights and unnatural emotional tension, he slept, dreamt of her as a great hippopotamus, her huge butt-like breasts spangled with a thousand greasy nipples and, crawling out from betwixt her gargantuan thighs, a multitude of beasts; a writhing viper of three heads; a slippery shark snapping at the air with blood-drenched fangs; a creature half scorpion
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