by Dan Chişu
excerpt You haven't the slightest idea what sound the stopper makes when you hit it with that "DAMNHUGEBOLT". Yes, that's the bolt I'm talking about, the bolt I'll never forget, as long as I'll live 'cause it was damn necessary to stop it without making any noise in the night when we got home very late from some tea party, when the lights of her parents' bedroom were off. Once we got in front of her gate we'd sink into some deep, wet 10-minute kiss, with tongues and everything, a kiss that made my dick as hard as "purshing" rockets. We pricked our ears up for anybody that might've shown up inside the house yard and caught us in a "kissus captivus". If I was quick enough, the "damnhugebolt" remained silent in the night, but I ran the risk of not being able to stop it before the stopper which would have been deadly dangerous, not so much for the noise, but for the vibration that the iron plate of the fucking gate would have given out, waking up the entire neighborhood, not only her parents. I pressed it nicely with my knee, but not so hard 'cause it'd bulked on the other side, making horrible noises like thunder while I'd lift the gate with the other hand, nice and easy so that it didn't slip in rumbling noises down the pebbles in the yard. Have you ever played with a piece of zinc, trying to imitate the sound of thunder? Well, that's the sound I'm talking about, the sound her gate made if I wasn't skilful enough to stop the "damnhugebolt" in time and, I repeat, if I didn't push it too hard, remember? with one knee, that's the move, 'cause it'd fucking bulk on the inside and start the World War 3 of noises. Where were we? Oh, yeah, to that "damnhugebolt" as I liked to call it. It's morning. I get off from my night job, drink a whole bottle of champagne to brace myself up until her folks are off to work, hide the bottle in some bushes to sell it later (it costs 3 lei, that's two tickets for the swimming pool), I stand in front of her gate, push the bass of my heart louder and wait, staring at the bolt. Holiday started three weeks ago and I know this road by heart. I took it several times and the bolt moved a few times, too. Nice music that rattling of some piece of metal on some other piece of metal when you know what's in it for you, she lets you inside the house. We'd stay in a long embrace or pet each other for hours on end, well, when she was in the mood for it. And then, there were times when she didn't let me in. I used to wait there for minutes on end, staring at the gate, in complete misunderstanding of her behavior since we agreed to see each other. Stupid me, I never took my eyes off that gate, now of a shriveled green, ex dark yellow, and I'd discover imaginary maps or human faces, all familiar to me since the 10th grade when I'd stay in front of the same gate to take her out for a walk along the main street. The imaginary map on my Liliana's gate had changed over time; the paint had cracked with every new vibration that you already know, as if in the original move of continents in the geography classes when Africa had separated from South America. The human faces changed, too, growing beards or horns, or changing into elephants or whales, depending on light or season.This morning I couldn't care less for the maps and faces in spite of my habit of keeping track of all changes on the surface of the gate. Now I was watching the bolt. It was the most important thing in the world. I was there yesterday, too, but with no result. It never opened. I called and she replied that she didn't hear my signal this time, 'cause the other time she told me she had left home in the dead of the night. She promised last night on the phone that she'd see me today. She was to leave with her parents out of town and that must have been one of our last meetings at 6, Kiralina Street. Now you see why I was starring at the bolt. The minutes seemed endless, I repeated our signal, three short whistles and three snaps in the vibrating gate.I'm dreaming, I'm high, my love, that "damnhugebolt" twists nicely, and its silvery head shines in the morning sun. Then it heavily sticks into the stopper, making the most beautiful music in the world: iron hammer grinding on metal, accompanied by rattling against the pebbles in the yard and then her, the prime singer of this symphony, sleepy and diaphanous, waltzing, clearing her bleary eyes with her fists. We kiss like cousins do and I follow her into the house. She is barely dressed and she smells like sleep. I know the house too well; I told you earlier that I had a taste of my lover before, so I make for her room, where the bed, too small for the both of us, still preserves the shape of her body between the wrinkled sheets. I don't know what had got into her that morning, but she grabbed my hand and pulled me to those stairs that I believed led to her parents' bedroom. The house was not that big. There was this entrance hall that opened into another hall, once quite large, but now filled with useless stuff. The kitchen was on the left side and then a door that opened into the living room where they served me jam with soda on many occasions, long time ago when I had been promoted to the official boyfriend rank and when they invited me in. Those were the times when I was not forced to wait in the street and watch the move of continents on that greenish gate, ex dark yellow to the despair of even that damnhugebolt which had just become my new best friend. A staircase started climbing right in the middle of the hall, in front of the kitchen door, but I'd never gone that way. I let myself led by the hand, guessing what might have followed. I meet a laaaarge bed upstairs, and all I can think of is how I'm going to chase her all over it. We crash into the huge bed and I barely touch her that my Liliana disappears down the stairs. Not even to this day had I found out what she was doing in her room, rummaging through all her stuff; all I know was that I was tired after my night shift and a little dizzy with champagne, and I fell asleep instantly. I was woken up by kisses and caresses, but my face looked so tired that my girl ran down again in the kitchen to make me coffee. Wow, wow, wooow, wait a minute! That arched back with a nice tan I've just seen was completely naked. What has just flashed before my eye was a nice round tush, the most amazing in the world! Tell me, you've seen it, too, haven't you? Don't be upset, but please, read this again and tell me if I am wrong. Liliana was naked when she got off the bed, no knickers on. That's what I saaaw. You might think I've never seen a naked woman before, that's why I'm so exhilarated. Well, man, you're aaall wrong! THE KNICKERS. That's my point. YOU DON'T KNOW LILIANA. I've already told you before that we spent several pleasurable morning hours in that small bed of hers (the bed you saw when you entered the house, when I peeked into her room, the one with the metaphor about her body). Nothing happened, I mean nothing I wanted to. Because Liliana never took her knickers off, they were some sort of the last fortress to be conquered. I began by reaching out one of my fingers, the brave one, that adventured to the edge of her knickers and lift it to touch one of her hairs only to caress her clitoris. Later, the luckiest finger from the most courageous hand would get inside, at the right moment when everything was about to happen; she only needed to get rid of her knickers, but she wouldn't. SHE said: "No, no, no, we can't do that, you don't respect me if you want to do that"…bla, bla, bla. Now you know why I was so thrilled. Liliana didn't have her knickers on from the beginning, do you want me to draw you a map or something? She made up her mind! This is the big day! I'm busy now, can't you see? I need to scream at the top of my lungs: "She's naked! Completely naked!" This is a waste of time, I'm not talking to you anymore, I don't even bother to explain you the obvious, and things you don't believe or understand. I need to get naked this instant, 'cause I'm still with all my clothes on, while she's downstairs, making me coffee so I don't fall asleep on my, on our big day. She might come up any minute now, with a full cup, I already smell it. I don't want her to come up and find us chatting. My blue jeans are off; my trunks land on the wardrobe or under the bed, I don't even care. What matters now is that she's made up her mind. She was so beautiful without her dress on! Now I realize that she never took off any of her clothes in front of me, none. We started to fool around fully dressed and then I'd begin to eliminate the bra, then her shirt and then her jeans, against her fake disapproval, because, at that point she was prepared to cover her breasts. Now I get it. I don't even know how she looks without her clothes on. I was lacking the perspective; I was too close all the time, wrapped in her arms. It was my first chance with her perfect, tanned body, marked by the whitish stripes from her bathing suit. And that's from behind. You know how things go when you're in love. Sun shinning, birds tripping… YOU ARE NOT YOURSELF ANY MORE. Well, that's me at 17, naked in my girlfriend parents' bed who went downstairs to make me coffee, which I don't even need any more. I can hear her climbing the stairs, stepping firmly not to spill my coffee and… I can't believe it; I can't believe what I'm doing. But I'm unstoppable. I jump naked from bed and hide behind the door. I can see the bed, my jeans hanging down on one of the wardrobe's door, and the painting with long dead flowers or watermelons with black seeds. I can't see my trunks. Look at me, look at what it's crossing my mind, hidden behind the door, searching the room when I'm actually waiting for my girlfriend to startle her, bang! She spills the coffee all over her and then, pouting, she tries to escape my arms before we have a chance to make out in that huge bed with grownups smell. She's so close. I can hear her breath. I can smell the coffee. "Ta-dam!" here am I jumping in front of the one I believed it was my girlfriend but who, in fact was Mrs. Rusu, my girl's mother. We both froze; more, the lady dropped her bags on the floor and I, you know what I did? You won't believe it, 'cause YOU haven't the slightest idea what I did. I told her: "Excuse me, madam. Good day!" That's all that the naked fool from Brailitza was able to articulate in that moment, after bang! Please excuse me, bye! I can't remember too much. Except that I got dressed really quick, left the crime scene and forgot my trunks in the room. I was striving to recover the image of the room from the great position "naked butt behind the door", my last coherent memory. I might have seen my underwear somewhere. So it seemed at that time. I try to imagine Mr. Rusu's face when he'd found my trunks under the bed, meaning that Liliana would've negotiated the secret of my visit with her mother. Hard to believe, though, judging by the sizzling sound of her mother's slaps on her nicely tanned back. I heard everything while I was humping around with one leg inside my blue jeans and the other up in the air, my T-shirt hanging on one shoulder, feeling the floor in the dark for my Chinese sneakers, fearing I might get one of her father's shoes. Or worse, one of her mother's, wickedly turned backwards, pointing one heel at me. Have you ever heard the sound made by a drop of water on a hot pan? Well, my friend, that's the sound of the mother's slaps on my girl's back, whom I deserted like a thief who hadn't stolen one thing yet he was caught. And it never happened again. We never saw each other again that summer. My calls were useless, she never answered the phone and when her mother did, I couldn't find the nerve to say a single word. I was in horrible pain. It was a nightmarish summer. I kept walking on her street hoping to see her once again. My efforts never paid off. I'd begun to love that "damnhugebolt", even the gate with its fucking vibrating iron board. I was getting more mature. It was then that I understood that taking a girl's knickers off didn't necessarily mean getting laid and not all that a girl said was necessarily true. Sweet words and promises are cheap, you buy them for nothing, for two embraces and then you sell them onward for a nicer smile. Cooked up words lie in piles in any second-hand love supermarket. Never in my life was I so nervous as when school started and I was in the 12th grade. I think I already told you this. We were classmates. 15th September 1973. The school building was veiled in the beautiful colors of autumn. I was waiting for her to show up. I couldn't believe that was the beginning of school and she wasn't there yet. During my first break I went over to her obnoxious friends and asked them about Liliana. They knew nothing and seemed sincere in their surprise of my girl's absence. I guess I'll forever be in complete oblivion about her absence that day at school. I never had the chance to ask her. The next day they took us to the village of Dropia, for autumn harvest; you have no idea what hell that was. We slept on the farm premises and sorted potatoes all day long. This might've been an easier task if I hadn't been in so much pain. The whole period was some sort of scam gathering, with heavy drinking of raw wine, still in fermentation, that we bought from peasants for 2 lei. We were allowed to go home after a week to take a bath and wash our muddy clothes. I couldn't wait to go back to my town to find her. I'd caught this fucking cold. I was coughing all day long, feeling a sore ache in the back, under my shoulder blade. Mum took me directly to the hospital the next morning where they kept me for a while, suspecting me of having pneumonia, caught in the camp, of course, after the stupid joke of placing a plastic bag full of water under the bed sheets so that whoever came home and jumped into bed got wet, along with his bed. The wet mattress you slept on gave you pneumonia in no time.I spent two weeks in hospital and only one at home, and real school started. It was then we met for the first time since that ridiculous morning. I was weakened with my illness; she was more beautiful than ever, proud and bumptious. I cornered her during a break and she told me she wouldn't see me again. When I went crazy for reasons, she told me she had another boyfriend from another high school. Dan Chişu's (b. 1955) Alone in the Shower (Nemira, 2004) was eagerly awaited by voyeurs curious about the affairs with celebs its author is credited with, ironized by feminist web surfers, or envied by less successful would-be Casanovas, yet it is surprisingly discreet, providing almost none of the expected real-life spiciness. In Chişu's own words (in an interview from Viva magazine), "if I told you why women have been loving me, only then could I be accused of disclosing concrete facts about real persons… Maybe, I say just maybe, because I have a nonconformist nature, I communicate quite freely, and I never impose any rule of cohabitation."
by Dan Chişu
by Dan Chişu