SEDUCERS

Part One

The sand had already surrendered to the sun, and all its grains were glowing with heat, so he had to apply his “diver” step. His toes touched the glistening dune, then his foot plunged into its cool depth. He had mastered this trick to perfection and moved nimbly over the burning waves of sand. The important thing was to plunge your foot rapidly into the rustling infinity of the sand.

Philip often mused on the sand’s apparent pliability that the Elements loved to play with. The wind scattered it about in crunching clouds. The tiny snakes of the rain penetrated its immensity with a hiss. And all the while the sand kept on quietly measuring time, and in the depth of the sea - between two shells – it engendered pearls.

He hesitated about whether to stop by the enormous German woman. She was sweating in her folding chair and leafing through the pages of a gossip magazine in a bored manner. She would hardly feel like taking a picture with a discoloured cartoon mouse. He could not take his eyes off the light dotted apron – an accessory to her bathing suite - and a strikingly tasteless attempt at hiding her formless flesh. He wondered if the designers of the bathing suit would be seized by a fit of bitter irony, seeing how their attempt at camouflage served an obsessive exhibitionism. He nervously touched his enormous mask, as if to make sure that it would not be toppled by a sudden gust of wind.

The German woman smoothed down her apron. She lifted her eyes from the magazine, saw him and gave him a smile.

Philip made a few “divers” towards her, until he found himself under the pleasant shadow of the sunshade, then he tilted his enormous mouse head and spoke to her in German:

“Have we met, Madam?” 

“What have you done with Tom, Jerry?” The huge body chuckled. 

Philip performed  a short pantomime to demonstrate how he made mincemeat of his friend. The walrus of a woman, with skin reddened by the sun, shook with laughter. She patted the sand beside her deckchair, and when Philip sat there, she whispered to him: “I’ve always wanted to have a picture with a movie star!” Philip carefully placed his mouse paw on the fat, sunburned shoulder. A whiff of suntan lotion reached his nose. He heard Dany’s voice: “Smile!” He knew that at this moment the woman’s glittering face was smiling. The cartoon mouse sitting beside her was smiling too. What remained of Philip’s own smile was only a memory. He remembered he had been beaming with joy in silent anticipation when that thing had happened. Twenty years had passed. The child had grown up and turned into a cartoon mouse roaming the beach. It would lean on or sit by bodies stretched upon the sand, shamelessly naked, self-conceited in their unharmed wholeness. He would tell a joke or dance around, always shaking his enormous mouse head or, covered in sand, he would improvise a sketch – a reminder from the silent movies. He would conjure all kinds of tricks to get the opportunity to put his mouse paw on someone’s shoulder - warmed by the sun and hear: ”Smile!” A few seconds after that, the camera would transform his efforts into a banknote, greasy with suntan lotion. 

He had put the mouse paw on so many shoulders. He saw them every night in his dreams - curvy sand dunes made greasy from sweat and lotion; splendidly curved, or made of protruding muscles, drooping, chubby, bony, softly white, deliciously chocolate, reddened by the sun, luxuriously golden. 

He lifted his paw from the shoulder of the fat German woman, took the offered banknote, and with a comic bow he left the pleasant coolness of the sunshade. His retinue of scurrying, happy, little creatures had been waiting for him and now followed him. They were chattering in different languages, looking at him with eyes charmed by a wish suddenly made true, touching him while he gave them candies or whispering seashells that he had taken from the depths of the sea. He felt happy only when embraced by water. That happiness he had known before the turning point, before that scream, before those tears, before the regrets and the dreams.

Now he was surrounded by the dryness of the hot sand, the vibrating air, by lips aiming at bottles dewy with coldness, by grains of grape promising coolness and by icy chocolate  glaze. 

Each of the children would follow him a few metres, until it heard its name pronounced by the one and only voice it couldn’t possibly mishear. Then the child looked round and scurried back to the dangerously far-off safe harbour  Thus, his retinue was in constant flux. New little feet arrived, feet that forgot how hot the sand outside the sunshade could get. New innocent little shoulders that had never carried a burden, neither had been offered as a support to someone else; shoulders like sand dunes taken from the Moon and transferred to the beach, under the fiery eyes of the Sun. 

He wanted to make shade for them with his enormous mouse head, and that’s why he was swinging it in every direction while the little ones giggled and jumped at him, pulling at his whiskers. He stuffed his hand in one of his secret pockets, took out a candy, put it in a sea shell, then placed it in some little, sandy palm. 

Philip had thousands of pictures stuck in thousands of family albums around the world, but on the only unmasked pictures he had, he looked exactly like one of these children: a little boy running towards a big adventure. Each morning when he put on the mouse costume, he had the feeling it would be the last time. He was tired. So many years. So many trails lost in the hot sand… So many shoulders not really touched because of the gloved hand. 

He was only 25 years old, and somewhere in the world there had to be a pair of hands - experienced and precise - that could carry him across the ford to safety.. Sometimes he would dream about this at night. then he looked at the mouse costume hanging from a chair and set off towards the breathing darkness of the sea. He dived into it, yearning for its peace. 

And now, as he was swimming in the haze surrounded by laughing little feet and shoulders, it crossed his mind that he was like a tree among whose branches a cloud of twittering birds had been lost. The anticipation he had had early this morning increased. He looked around suspiciously. Something was definitely going to happen, although everything looked the way it had been looking for the last ten years. Danny, the photographer, was chewing his chewing gum absentmindedly and teasing the chocolate-coloured, straw-hatted beauties. As usual, the crowd was languidly indifferent, everyone committed to the desire to feel good right here and right now. 

It did happen, after all. At first Philip didn't understand what stopped him from making another one of his “divers”. His eyes tried to look through the blaze of the morning and past the throbbing of his own expectations and didn’t see anything except…

 The pair of little feet had sunk in the sand – already an expressive gesture of  resolve. The white T-shirt was not long enough to cast a shadow over the slopes of the tiny knees. One little hand was clutching a small stone as if trying to obtain the force of nature from it while the other hand was stretched forward – a most  determined gesture to hold someone back. Philip wasn’t able to hear what this little prince was crying, but he simply knew that the word had to be “NO!”

Philip stretched his hand forward as well, as if he was a mirror image of the little creature. How dubious in its meanings is this gesture! With it we protect ourselves, murmuring “NO”. With it we protect the other with the soothing “I won’t do it!” “I won’t do it!” That is how we reach out to a desire that is moving away from us. Philip didn’t exactly know what his outstretched hand meant. 

He stepped aside, then backwards, in an attempt to resume his beach performance far away from the little hindrance – so insuperable because of its fragility and vulnerability. But he couldn't do it. He had lost the protection of the mask forever and now the sun rays were scalding what was left of his face. A silent, blinding light was pouring over what the blinding thunder had once chiselled. Then he had not been able to stretch out a hand and cry out: NO! 

Then he had been waiting for the rain of multicoloured stars to fall. At night he had been dreaming of mounting one of those blazing comets and galloping amid the darkness of his fantasy world. When they had asked him for the first time what kind of present he wanted from Father Christmas, he had not known the difficult word, so his answer had been “heavenly fires”. Since that day there had always been fireworks on his birthday. But his “always” had lasted no more than the cheerful triumph of the multicoloured fireworks. 

He was five years old when Jimmy and Bobby took him to the old chestnut tree in the middle of the night to show him what fireworks they had made themselves. While he was stumbling in the darkness, he was making plans for how he would open a workshop for heavenly fires in their attic. He dreamed how he would experience that well-known happiness without the presence of his father’s smiling face and without the softness of his mother’s hand around his shoulders. Stars had got entangled among the branches of the old walnut tree. The luxurious green shadow of the tree was quietly resting at his feet. The autumn had already turned the tree into a creaking hieroglyph. Later he recalled this tree so many times – the last thing he had seen while he still possessed a face. 

A few weeks after the night of the walnut tree he was already a child without a face and without parents. The cradle of his childhood was being destroyed. The warm coziness was giving way to a hostile afterwards. His mother and his father had been on their way to visit him in the hospital… He never saw the driver-killer. Was it possible that he had already put his mouse paw on his naked shoulder? The threads of the cradle were not simply  unravelling, they were tearing apart. Since then, Philip had been falling down into the abyss of alienation. The walls of the abyss were written with signs that he had been trying to understand. Up to this day. 

Until today when he had been stopped by the tiny bare feet which had forgotten how hot the sand was, stopped by the tiny hand stretched toward him with the most emphatic NO! in the world. How happy he would have been if he would have taken off the enormous mouse head, run his fingers through his hair, put the mouse head at the feet of the child as a trophy and as proof that everything was just a game. But he couldn't do it because it wasn't just a game. Because he was not allowed to put down the mask. Because he was the mask. He continued to roam the beach, but he had already forgotten the „diver“ step. He looked like a blind man or a sleepwalker with his arm stretched forward. A few carefree tourists on the beach asked themselves whether this enormous Mouse had been on the booze a little more than usual. 

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“Look, what we have here, Philip!” 

 The tall, tanned woman put down the beach bag beside the folding chair, picked up the enormous mouse mask, put it on and started to dance in front of a little creature with a striped cotton blouse that didn’t cover his knees, who was squinting in the sun and giggling. The woman took off the mask and carefully put it down at the feet of the child. It started to fumble with it, it pulled at the whiskers, tried to lift it, tumbled down and giggled again. 

“And yesterday he frightened you so much!” The man with the ponytail quipped and continued to inflate the child's rubber ring .

Part two 

“Would you like to come upstairs, Lillian?” 

Lillian had just run up the stairs which still smelled of freshly baked rolls (this time she had not heard the song of the baker), rushed through the enormous, half-empty apartment, switching on every lamp on her way (she could not stand darkness when she was alone), tossed the little beady bag on the couch and had run out on the balcony to see if Kate’s window was lit. If it was, it would mean that the wish she had made when she and Alexander said goodbye would be fulfilled. 

“Something incredible happened to me, Lillian! I must tell it to you! Would you please come over!” 

 Kate's whisper was vibrant with impatience, agitation and eagerness. She had indeed been waiting for her. 

“I’ ll just change my clothes and I’ll be there, Kate.”‘ Her hushed tone could not hide the jingle of happiness in Lillian’s voice. She breathed in the loveliness of the night. Her eyes caressed the luxurious tree whose green irresistibility poured in from the balcony and spread inside the spacious living room, whispering: “Let me in! Let me become part of your life!” Lillian had fallen in love with the tree the first time she had entered the apartment. She did not know the tree well then, she didn't know how the autumn would change it, nor did she know what kind of sign its branches would draw when the last leaves fell; how it would screech under the heavy snow and how its blossoms would pop up in the spring. She had not known all this, and still the tree had become part of her life. So had Kate. 

Lillian threw a glance at her silhouette in the enormous bedroom mirror before peeling off her ash-coloured taffeta dress and before putting off her shoes - the colour of a summer night. She was pleased with what she saw. What was it that had happened to Kate? She didn’t seem to be seriously worried. She wasn’t happy either. She was somewhat agitated… and very vivid. 

Kate’s vividness had struck Lillian when they met for the first time. Kate had called in to introduce herself and invite her for a neighbourly coffee. Lillian had never seen such a concentration of life in a human being. 

They used to talk for hours. Their emotions and their thoughts blended and got richer until they reached that level of intensity when they shared both tears and laughter. 

Thus, Lillian won her most extraordinary friend.

Time and again they would stand in front of a mirror and meditate pleasantly on what made time consider itself almighty. Lillian's body exuded flexibility and Kate's - fragility. Lillian's golden skin sparkled in the light, while Kate’s parchment-like skin looked like bestrewn with fine dust. Lillian's auburn hair smelled like summer, and Kate's snow-white hair smelled of smoke. Lillian's eyes attracted the eyes of others and Kate’s eyes could be seen only if someone lifted the fine cobweb off them. So what? Lillian and Kate laughed. The half century that was between them seemed to have done nothing more substantial than play a little with form and colour. 

Lillian slipped into her old jeans, put on a T-shirt with a Shakespearean sonnet printed on it and ran up to the fourth floor. Kate had already taken out the bottle of Jack Daniels. Only the two of them knew the story of this bourbon. About 10 years ago a little after her 70th birthday, when there was no one to wait for her at home, Kate had bought a few bottles of Jack Daniels and placed a note between them. 

Lillian and Kate burned the note before they tasted the bourbon for the first time. They watched how the words turned into ashes and laughed. “All you who see my body, please have a drink! It will chase away the shivers caused by such scene.” This was written on the note addressed to anyone who might chance upon the corpse of an old lady. Then Lillian told a story about a man whom she had loved and with whom she had split up; she told it with a somewhat unusual prolongation of the vowels which made her speech sound fuzzy. Kate offered a drink. That night both of them let a story fly to that remote place in the universe where all human narratives go to create new worlds.

Tonight, Kate kept up the tradition. After pouring some caramel-coloured liquid into the glasses, she took an absent-minded puff from her cigarette and fell back into her armchair. Her simple, linen dress, the colour of cinnamon, stood out against the background of the cream-coloured armchair, making her look even more brittle.

“I have been robbed today, Lillian.” 

The little woman spoke almost solemnly. Lillian stared at her friend. There were little fires flickering in her eyes and something more. Something very feminine… A kind of content, both primitive and sophisticated. Exquisite. Fuzzy with languor. A clink of glass touching glass was heard in the room. Lillian put down her glass mechanically on the table, keeping her eyes fixed on Kate. She wondered if this woman absent-mindedly smoking her cigarette was talking about a real theft or was using one of her peculiar metaphors. One evening Kate had gotten so carried away that she had created a whole theory about the orange type of men and the potato type of men. 

Was something like that happening now? Lillian looked around and saw no trace of  disarrangement or struggle in the apartment. But it might have happened outside, among the crowd. She pictured someone rudely pushing an old lady dressed in a cinnamon dress and snatching her handbag.

“Are you alright, Kate? Did they hurt you?” Lillian wanted so much to embrace this fragile woman with a gait so vulnerable that she walked like someone carrying a shallow vessel filled with water. Yet in her eyes she saw again that glint of femininity and softness that…

The extravagant ring on Kate’s middle finger, made of finely polished bone, drew a strange sign in the air as if Lillian's words were irksome tobacco smoke that Kate was trying to disperse. 

“I am all right,” she said.

“No one has put a finger on me.”

“Do I look like a fool, Lillian?”

She took a puff on her cigarette. 

“Because today I have done the most foolish thing in my life.” 

Lillian smiled. There was a story already vibrating in the air around them. And now it was about to be told with the somewhat abrupt and staccato intonation of the other. It would be given an aroma and a golden-caramel colour. Because it was well after midnight, because it was the end of the summer, and because the story was one of Kate’s. Without sounding sweetish, this woman could savour the moment as if it were a softly melting mouthful of chocolate. 

“I went to the bank today.” Kate put out her cigarette. “I had to draw money for Ronnie's ticket. My nephew is coming from Paris next week, and I have decided to indulge him with a few days spent in Florence. He studies sculpture.” 

“Coming out of the bank I said to myself ‘What a wonderful day!’ and decided to walk a bit. I love the crowd, you know. The crowd, however, does not respond in the same manner anymore. Rather, it doesn't notice me at all.” 

“I had not gone very far when someone cried ‘Madam! Madam!’ behind my back. I felt a hand on  my shoulder. I stopped and turned around. He was young. He wasn't handsome but he exuded unquestionable authority. The corners of his eyes, the little scar on his upper lip. The hand that touched my shoulder so lightly. Everything about him promised the pleasure that comes when you succumb to a temptation. It has nothing to do with a memory, Lillian. Everybody thinks that the older one gets, the more memories one piles up and experiences over and over again…” 

“It wasn't a memory. Those eyes, those lips and those hands didn’t remind me of anyone or anything. They were a revelation.” 

 Lillian could not get her eyes off Kate and off the soft glow  surrounding her. Her hand was holding yet another cigarette, and Lillian didn't know whether it was the smoke or the self-irony that made the eyes of her friend squint a little.

“I felt a strong desire to follow him. Can you imagine that, Lillian? I felt so carried away by this man. I felt like I would like to be led to... I have no idea where... Then he told me: ‘Excuse me, Madam, but you have to follow me.’ My goodness, Lillian! He spoke my wish aloud and then he went on with a most obvious yarn; the banknotes they had given me in the bank had turned out to be forged. The signal had come just after I left, and now I had to follow him, go back with him, so that they could change the money.

“This was a very poorly  fabricated story; perhaps they thought I was a doting old woman. I can assure you, Lillian, that my rational mind signalled the threat. But the crowd around me was swaying with aromas and whispers. The only unwavering form I was able to discern was that of the stranger who wanted me to follow him.

 “And I followed him. Can you imagine, Lillian? I told him: ‘All right! Let's go!’ And I tucked my hand under his elbow. The crowd was shouting out “What are you doing!” I was just following my desire - that was what I was doing. I immediately forgot what he asked me and what I answered him. Time and again I saw in a shop window an elegant young man bending down slightly towards a woman dressed in a cinnamon-coloured linen dress, and I wondered what the two of them were talking about. I had enough time to pull out my hand and start shouting, but I didn’t want that, Lillian. 

“I kept telling myself ‘Just one step more.’ I was both alert and in a kind of stupor at the same time. Everything about him - his voice, his words, his somewhat distanced smile - blended into an alluring presence. I saw that we strolled past the entrance of the bank. I asked why. He answered me that we would use another entrance. My logic coldly suggested that a few steps more and a door will slam  after me, and I will be bereft of consciousness. But when you succumb to temptation, you lose consciousness anyway. I crossed the threshold, Lillian. He led me up a staircase. I asked him where exactly we were going. I was turning into a suspicious old woman, Lillian.” Kate laughed. “A woman who was giving in to the desire to follow a man. I just needed to ask those questions since they were the last thread connecting to me to what is the opposite of madness. On the stairs we came across another, older man. He asked me to give him the money, explaining that he was a bank official and would change it. These people were just playing at robbers. They did not make any effort to sound convincing. They were putting together a chaotic mosaic of clichés. They were enjoying their blatant fabrication. Of course, I asked another question born of another, equally blatant fabrication: “Can’t I give you the money here, on the staircase?’ The man I had followed just smiled. For a few seconds we stood still in the dusk. I was not frightened. I was not surprised. I had chosen the impossibility of making a choice. And I did the only thing that had to be done. The two men continued to climb the stairs, unperturbed. Determined to change my bank notes. At that time, I saw a lift going down. I heard the door of the entrance bang. I heard myself saying another cliché aloud: “Gentlemen, what are you doing? I am just a helpless old woman!” 

“Then, I don't know how long I stood there on the stairs, in the dusk.” 

 Lillian noted that Kate’s bone ring was no longer writing mysterious signs in the air. The cigarette smoke traced a path that was leading nowhere. 

“Lillian, I was quite aware what was going to happen from the very start. And right from the very start I did exactly the opposite of what I was expected to do. I am either getting senile or I'm going mad... I yielded! I don’t know what I yielded to. At my age I should know myself far better and control myself a lot more. But perhaps I don’t know anything, Lillian. Why do we desire something? When do we choose freedom, when do we yield to our desires, when do we resist them? One thing is sure: after losing so much money there's nothing left for me but to philosophise a bit.” 

Lillian rose silently, went to the piano, sat on the stool, and opened the lid, her fingers pausing a moment in the air above the keys and…

On one summer night, in a cream and golden-coloured dining room, a young woman was playing the piano.

In the armchair across from her a lady with white hair and a cinnamon-coloured dress was smoking and smiling. 

Translated by Hristo Dimitrov / Edited by Tom Phillips

The Bulgarian text first appeared in ‘The Disappearing City’, Vesela Liutzkanova publishers 2011