tingling enter her fingers? Yes, and who knew? Perhaps she even screamed for joy and felt a mysterious stirring somewhere within her, the call of womanhood. Yes indeed, no doubt about it at all. And wonderful too. A thing of great beauty, a thought to ponder over. And so I got the book, and there it was, in my own two hands. To think of it! Yesterday she had held it with her fingers warm and close, and today it was mine. Marvelous. An act of destiny. A miracle of succession. When we married I would tell Miss Hopkins about it. We would be lying stark naked in bed and I would kiss her on the lips and laugh softly and triumphantly and tell her that the real beginning of my love was on a day I saw her reading a certain book. And I would laugh again, my white teeth flashing, my dark romantic eyes aglow as I told her at last the real truth of my provocative and eternal love. Then she would crush herself to me, her beautiful white breasts full against me, and tears would stream down her face as I carried her away on wave after wave of ecstasy. What a day!
I held the book close to my eyes, searching for some trace of white fingers no more than an inch from the bottom. There were fingerprints all right. No matter if they belonged to so many others, they nevertheless belonged to Miss Hopkins alone. Walking toward the park I kissed them, and I kissed them so much that finally they were gone altogether, and only a blue wet spot remained on the book, while on my mouth I tasted the sweet taste of blue dye. In the park I found my favorite spot and began to read.
Near the bridge it was, and I made a shrine from twigs and blades of grass. It was the throne of Miss Hopkins. Ah, if she but knew it! But at that moment she was at home in Los Angeles, far away from the scene of her devotions, and not thinking of them at all.
I crawled on all fours to the place at the edge of the lily pond where roamed bugs and crickets, and I caught a cricket. A black cricket, fat and well-built, with electric energy in his body. And there he lay in my hand, that cricket, and he was I the cricket that was, he was I, Arturo Bandini, black and undeserving of the fair white princess, and I lay on my belly and watched him crawl over the places her sacred white fingers had touched, he too enjoying as he passed the sweet taste of blue dye. Then he tried to escape. With a jump he was on his way. I was forced to break his legs. There was absolutely no alternative.
I said to him, "Bandini, I am sorry. But duty compels me. The Queen wishes it — the beloved Queen."
Now he crawled painfully, in wonder at what had taken place. Oh fair white Miss Hopkins, observe! Oh queen of all the heavens and the earth. Observe! I crawl at thy feet, a mere black cricket, a scoundrel, unworthy to be called human. Here I lie with broken legs, a paltry black cricket, ready to die for thee; aye, already nearing death. Ah! Reduce me to ashes! Give me a new form! Make me a man! Snuff out my life for the glory of love everlasting and the loveliness of your white legs!
And I killed the black cricket, crushing him to death after proper farewells between the pages of Catherine of Aragon, his poor miserable unworthy black body crackling and popping in ecstasy and love there at that sacred little shrine of Miss Hopkins.
And behold! A miracle: out of death came life everlasting. The resurrection of life. The cricket was no more, but the power of love had found its way, and I was again myself and no longer a cricket, I was Arturo Bandini, and the elm tree yonder was Miss Hopkins, and I got to my knees and put my arms around the tree, kissing it for love everlasting, tearing the bark with my teeth and spitting it on the lawn.
I turned around and bowed to the bushes at the edge of the pond. They applauded gloriously, swaying together, hissing their delight and satisfaction at the scene, even demanding that I carry Miss Hopkins away on my shoulders. This I refused to do, and with sly winks
I held the book close to my eyes, searching for some trace of white fingers no more than an inch from the bottom. There were fingerprints all right. No matter if they belonged to so many others, they nevertheless belonged to Miss Hopkins alone. Walking toward the park I kissed them, and I kissed them so much that finally they were gone altogether, and only a blue wet spot remained on the book, while on my mouth I tasted the sweet taste of blue dye. In the park I found my favorite spot and began to read.
Near the bridge it was, and I made a shrine from twigs and blades of grass. It was the throne of Miss Hopkins. Ah, if she but knew it! But at that moment she was at home in Los Angeles, far away from the scene of her devotions, and not thinking of them at all.
I crawled on all fours to the place at the edge of the lily pond where roamed bugs and crickets, and I caught a cricket. A black cricket, fat and well-built, with electric energy in his body. And there he lay in my hand, that cricket, and he was I the cricket that was, he was I, Arturo Bandini, black and undeserving of the fair white princess, and I lay on my belly and watched him crawl over the places her sacred white fingers had touched, he too enjoying as he passed the sweet taste of blue dye. Then he tried to escape. With a jump he was on his way. I was forced to break his legs. There was absolutely no alternative.
I said to him, "Bandini, I am sorry. But duty compels me. The Queen wishes it — the beloved Queen."
Now he crawled painfully, in wonder at what had taken place. Oh fair white Miss Hopkins, observe! Oh queen of all the heavens and the earth. Observe! I crawl at thy feet, a mere black cricket, a scoundrel, unworthy to be called human. Here I lie with broken legs, a paltry black cricket, ready to die for thee; aye, already nearing death. Ah! Reduce me to ashes! Give me a new form! Make me a man! Snuff out my life for the glory of love everlasting and the loveliness of your white legs!
And I killed the black cricket, crushing him to death after proper farewells between the pages of Catherine of Aragon, his poor miserable unworthy black body crackling and popping in ecstasy and love there at that sacred little shrine of Miss Hopkins.
And behold! A miracle: out of death came life everlasting. The resurrection of life. The cricket was no more, but the power of love had found its way, and I was again myself and no longer a cricket, I was Arturo Bandini, and the elm tree yonder was Miss Hopkins, and I got to my knees and put my arms around the tree, kissing it for love everlasting, tearing the bark with my teeth and spitting it on the lawn.
I turned around and bowed to the bushes at the edge of the pond. They applauded gloriously, swaying together, hissing their delight and satisfaction at the scene, even demanding that I carry Miss Hopkins away on my shoulders. This I refused to do, and with sly winks
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