Primordial Soup Page 12

  He struggled out of my grip as soon as I tried to stick a safety pin in the towel. I did my best to hold him down, but his knee knocked me in the chin; he was as ticklish as he was clumsy.

  “You are no fun!” I complained, crossing my arms over my upset stomach.

  “I was expectin’ dinner,” he retorted sorely.

  “You are going to have dinner. But my way.”

  “I don’t like some spoiled brat treating me like no goddamn baby.”

  I vindictively removed my hair dress to show him what he was missing.

  “What the hell’d you wanna do with it anyway,” he muttered, toeing the towel.

  “If you tried it, perhaps you would have liked it … ”

  “I ain’t no faggot, go play dolly with someone else.” He lifted one foot up after the other, a brief march, and tore each sock off.

  “I’ll prepare your supper,” I consented, more to escape his presence than to fulfil an appetite he had already spoiled.

  When I returned, I was startled to see him pinned in the nappy, his legs in the air.

  “Wah!” he laughed until his belly jiggled like a mound of custard one sets down too roughly on the table, “Wah, wah, wah! Is this what turns you on, girlie?” His eyebrows, sparse and grey, established a distinction between his face and forehead, but the transition between his forehead and scalp was impossible to determine, granting him the naive charms of infantile baldness. His stomach was the happy hump of every baby, and his sagging breasts sat upon this hump.

  I uncorked the bottle of white wine and dampened his nappy with a minute splash. “Oh, you bad baby boy, you made pee-pee,” I wished to participate in the merriment.

  “I paid f’r that there wine, now give it here!” he bellowed unexpectedly, wrenching the bottle from my hand and swallowed the remaining contents without inhaling once. When he had finished, he licked the circumference of his lips and burped without anyone having to pat his droopy back.

  I don’t know what came over him, but he crawled around the apartment on all fours and began going through my belongings. When he discovered the severed mattress, a series of hiccups jarred his slouching, grey-haired breasts.

  “You made someone pretty damn mad, I’d say. Do you do this here of’en?”

  “Make dinner?”

  “This here.”

  “Dinner is ready.” I turned about neutrally.

  How oddly he reacted, babbling stupidities: if I was trying to get even with someone, for something, if this whole thing had to do with some ex of mine or some present-day jerk, then he preferred to leave before anything happened because if someone was going to walk in and see him like that, in a goddamn nappy on the floor, his feet up in the air, I might as well know that he was well-known in Pasqua County, owned the corner store for thirty-two years, worth, thanks to no one but him, its weight in gold, had distributors, clients, and a reputation.

  I spoon-fed him his dinner to keep his mouth busy, tomato soup, carrot purée, strawberry mousse. The shopkeeper did not consume any substantial amount, rather he took advantage of his role and spat in my face.

  “Never cared for it,” he coughed, “Not even one year out’a my old lady’s legs, I hate rabbit food!”

  “Then why do you sell it?”

  He let out a second despicable burp and brawled, “So why don’t you change my nappy, Mummy?!” When I didn’t react, he groped for one of my breasts and said, “I’m thirsty! Got anythin’ to suck?”

  “That is odd, for you have drunk a whole bottle.”

  “Fuck the bottle! Give me the real McCoy!”

  With his foot, he knocked the globe off my banana case, put it like a pillow under his bald head and spread his knees so I would attend to his needs. I patted his bottom. The nappy was damp with white wine. I inhaled the alcoholic fumes, how keenly they resembled the smell of urine.

  “Don’t waste no time smellin’: suck!” he invited, fumbling to unpin the nappy as fast as he could.

  Though I lapped his skin clear of residual moistness, he hardly seemed satisfied. He executed a series of annoyed huffs, left the room and returned with a miniature parcel, the size of an After Eight, but shiny as a candy wrapper. He fumbled to open it, an exploit of diplomatic expertise, how to tear it open like a brute, yet preserve the precious contents. I wondered what quaint morsel could he have the delicacy to transport, imagining a refined rarity.

  Whatever it was, it unravelled like a troll’s tongue, was transparently pink and at first interpretation, disappointing. Like a dainty stocking, he rolled it upon his member to enhance its natural, faded pink hue. I was astounded at the intricate pains one will undertake for vanity, when I understood its raison d’être. It was a rubber casing equipped with a built-in nipple. What a wonderful gadget, I exulted, recognizing his willingness to play. How clever, out of his impressively stout member, he had concocted a baby bottle.

  I drew with force, straining my lungs, but could not retrieve a drop of milk. His face contorted with pain. I excused myself, withdrew to the closet, and removed a needle from the Best Western sewing kit my mother had offered me as a last minute farewell gift.

  “What the hell you doin’?” he jerked.

  “It’s to pierce the point, it won’t come out.”

  “Give it time, lady! An’ take it easy with y’r damn rabbit teeth!”

  “Shall we boil the nipple for fun?”

  “Are you out’a y’r frigin’ mind?”

  He rolled over to me and put the baby bottle in my face. I was a good sport and accepted it, but again the unpleasant rubbery taste without the recompense of a dairy extract dampened my eagerness after reasonable effort on my part. Not only did my jaw ache, but the more I pumped, the more I noticed his thing grew limp.

  I moved it politely aside and he had the nerve to say it was my fault rather than admit the deficiency of his device.

  “You’re supposed ta suck the whole thing, not just the damn tip! I got ten inches you kin appreciate, ya know, case ya didn’t notice!”

  If the rubber cylinder were adapted to his piston, agitating the nipple would have sufficed to tap liquid according to the laws of air pressure.

  “Main course!” I avoided a fight.

  “My dick is on fire,” he wailed.

  He pivoted himself to expose his profile. It lifted extraordinarily high, I’d say about eleven o’clock, a missile about to take off into the sky.

  “I’ve got something for it,” I promised from the kitchen.

  “Move it, baby, my balls’re gonna explode t’outer space!”

  I hurried to him, raised his legs in the air, slid the nappy back into place, then massaged his crotch and buttocks with cream cheese, using my thumbs and chin.

  “Whatever gets y’r motor goin’ baby doll, make my day, I’ll make y’r meal …”

  I sprinkled on a layer of curry, massaging it to an even mustard colour with my tongue. My mind dwelled on Harry’s potty-training problem. An emptiness I’d felt since childhood, a sort of ravenous hunger grew to an excessive state I’d not yet known. I heard hedonistic grunts escape my throat.

  “Now yer talkin’,” he encouraged, his barometer displaying his corporeal elation.

  “Keep on truckin’, yeah baby, yeah baby, yeah baby …”

  I pushed grains of corn into the mess. A fly landed on his buttocks to share the feast. Unfortunately, his skin was tougher than leather; his meat, compact and unyielding so that my jaw ached. All at once, the shopkeeper’s body underwent a great spasm. I tried again, this time with all my might. The rage on his face was the last thing I remember.

  CHAPTER 22

  When I regained consciousness, the globe was inches from my face. I squinted into the paper ocean. The lines, where man attempts to organize the wild seas into handsome squares, wavered and made me seasick. North America was the victim of a dent; it looked as if an asteroid had collided into its flanks, giving it the forced curve of a corseted lady.

  My heart had migrat
ed to my head, and every thump gave me pain. When I finally moved, something rolled off my chest and struck the floor with an ear-splitting clink. It was the bottle of white cooking wine with a note inside; it reminded me of a bottle one casts into the sea in desperation. I shook the bottle every which way, but the paper stuck to the side and I was forced to read it through the green glass: “You’r gonna pay bitch.”

  The daylight shone in through the window and left a blank visiting-card on the floor. With my bare toes, I expected to rake up a ball of dust and hairs, when I started at a clammy texture. I advanced to the thing, my nose practically upon it. It was the shape of a horseshoe, though smaller, and its edges had tooth marks.

  I sprang up and threw it in a pot. I couldn’t wait for the hob to get hot. The curry rose like oriental incense, a yellow smoke teasing me, intoxicating me. As expected, the hardened cream-cheese slid from side to side, softening, liquefying until it reached a state of erupting bubbles. I scraped and scraped the bottom of the pot with a spoon. I couldn’t believe it. There was no meat, no skin in there, nothing!

  I paced back and forth, cursed. I put my hand in the garbage disposal. Not even a last string I could chew to get the taste of the roast it had been in contact with. I stumbled around and cursed more. Pulled my hair. Lowered my own finger into the pot and burnt my fingerprint. I sucked my fingertip, reflecting how my own taste differed only minutely from another’s.

  I set the pot on the floor and attempted to lower my buttocks inside. The pot’s edge branded a circle around them. It helped not to insist, I would never get inside. The hob was a glowing red plate. How tempting it would be for me to sit upon it, to smell the aroma of my own cooking meats, to feel them snap and sizzle, to watch the cloud of gases that would rise from them … Yes, yes, yes, I would taste a small piece of myself …

  I rushed out of the apartment, for the occasion was a grand one, and I wished for some uncommon seasoning. I kicked aside every newspaper, flip-flop, and beach-ball that got in my way.

  “Where ya think yer goin’ in such a hurry?” The voice I heard was friendly.

  A woman in late middle-age was sitting on a weathered sack of charcoal, taking in the sun. Her hair was three sorts of blonde, and if this weren’t enough variety, her roots were grey. She had on a grass-stained pair of trainers, a tight pair of jeans, a T-shirt and, from what I could see (and anyone else, quite easily) no bra. Her smile was empty, a rag-doll smile with black button eyes.

  I assumed she was one of my neighbours and replied, “Just some shopping, Ma’am. Salt and pepper are fine things, but one does need variety in life.”

  Her smile transformed into a contortion of malice. “You bit my man.”

  I could not apologize before I knew whom she was talking about. “Which one?” I asked, and not in the least insolently.

  “You bite often?” she sneered and came at me with clenched fists. Like the neglected fruit of an overgrown garden, her breasts sagged under their own weight. Although they could feed a famished army, the man to whom she was referring had apparently not bothered to take a bite for many a year.

  “My past samples do not concern you unless you have consumed your partner since? I did not think so. Goodbye.” I did not wish to dismiss her rudely, but her face answered my questions quicker than her speech did, and besides, I had my own cuisine to worry about.

  “So you eat every dick you come across?”

  “If you enjoy the same flesh over a prolonged period, I congratulate you. As far as I’m concerned, no piece has yet addicted me.”

  She blocked my path.

  “Now if you shall excuse me.” I pushed past her, but didn’t get very far.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” she grabbed me, “You bit my husband’s ass bad!”

  She was breathing heavily; a hiccup jarred her chest and I detected a trace of pork and beer.

  “I do not wish to upset you, Madame, but your husband was given the gift of free will from Our Lord above, he consented willingly, I promise you, you shall find no signs of chains or thrashing if you examine him more thoroughly. He should cut the links off himself if serving as a woman’s meal, other than his lawfully wedded wife’s, tempts him so much.”

  “He told me all ’bout how it happened, you prick-tease, you was jerkin’ off a carrot in his face, you was playin’ with a cherry like it was y’r tit, you were puttin’ yer mouth on all kinds o’fruits an’ lickin’ ’em nasty, toyin’ with every obscenity you could get yer dirty fingers on!”

  As she pulled my hair, I stepped around in an ungainly little dance. “I beg your pardon?!”

  “Whadda ya think, yeah gotta go to university ta understand? You all think yer so high an’ mighty, yer all ajecated an’ smart, well lemme tell yeah, yer more a slut than I ever put my eyes on!”

  “Let no man judge you in eating, Colossians, 2–16.”

  “Don’t you play no holy mouth with me, ya nasty cunt!”

  “One [man] has faith to eat everything, but the [man] who is weak eats vegetables. Let the one eating not look down on the one not eating, and let the one not eating not judge the one eating, Romans 14:2, 14:3.”

  “Shut yer mouth, you stinkin’ sperm bag!” She gave my head another more forceful tug backwards; unfortunately, she was pulling the silver chain of my crucifix as well as my hair. “Tell me how it all happened, I’m curious t’hear yer vursion. Tell me why ya picked ’im? You knew he had a big one, ya could smell it a mile away, couldn’t ya? Was that yer criterion? You teased him ’til you was certain? You was just starin’ at it in the mirror, dying t’have it, wasn’t ya?”

  “If truly you are intent on learning the particularities, Madame, since I was a child, I never was one to clear my plate, so I assure you, I couldn’t care less how big the portion is.”

  I never saw a face so sceptical when hearing the truth spoken. She looked down at my hair dress, crinkled her nose in disgust, and pulled my hair mercilessly. I was certain the silver chain was going to cut my throat, when it all of a sudden broke, and the tiny Jesus fell into the cleavage of my breasts.

  “If you’ll forgive me, Madame, I left something on the stove … and I really must be going …”

  Grass seeds had been planted around the building, but the grass had not yet grown; normally we weren’t allowed to be standing where we were. I looked down and saw my silver chain, long and fine, a shiny scar across the earth, a tiny food chain, a food chain Jesus was an integral part of.

  “Don’t give me no fuckin’ cop-out! I asked you a question an’ I wanna answer now!”

  “Would you terribly mind restating it more specifically?”

  “Why in hell did ya choose my husband?!”

  “I assure you, I did not choose him. I did not even sample him. There is all of him still available for you.”

  “You think he was good ta play with, an’ now ya throw him back like scraps! Like a bone ta an ol’ dog!”

  “Scraps? I didn’t even get a mouthful! If he came home stripped, it wasn’t me!”

  It was not easy for me to concentrate on what she was saying; however, I did pick up a few of her claims: her husband was to be vaccinated for rabies because of me, I was financially responsible, and was not to escape into thin air. At this point, I fell to the ground for her hold on my throat was depriving me not only of words, but of oxygen. She withdrew my wallet from my red vinyl handbag and extracted my student identification card from it. Something about it quelled her instantaneously. I noticed her thumb touching her fingertips until she was convinced of a number. She glimpsed at the fifty dollars I intended to spend, but did not separate me from it.

  “Delinquent,” she kicked me before crossing the street as an old man peddled by, flag high on his three-wheeler like a proud tail.

  CHAPTER 23

  I studied the shelf with care before making my choice: tarragon, allspice, capsicum, celery salt, grains of paradise, bay leaves, caraway seeds, juniper, mace, turmeric, coriander, garlic powder, oregano,
nutmeg, cardamom, thyme, cloves, saffron, cumin, paprika, red pepper, thyme, sesame seeds, and dried parsley. I avoided looking at the cashier. I looked down at my bare and blistered feet instead. She rang the small bottles up and, one by one, rolled them down to the bag boy. I could feel her eyeing me like I was weird; maybe it was my teeth chattering, or my shifting from foot to foot.

  When I returned, the hob was beaming with anticipation. The idea of cooking was succulent to me. I tore off my hair dress. It stuck to me and I felt like I was skinning myself. My whole body was perspiring, which proved useful, for the spices adhered more easily. I powdered my self instinctively, primitively, powerfully.

  When I sat on the hob, the heat was like a magnet attracting my skin, adhering to it so thoroughly, it felt like being sucked into the metal disc. I did not scream, only my other self did, for it was weak just as flesh is known to be. I smelt meat quite soon, several meats at that, for sitting as I was, I’d offered the hob all seven, and as many different skins. The small triangles of fattiness at the junction of my thighs were most unlike the leanness of the red meats; the stringy, brown loop to the back yielded an earthy scent I could clearly distinguish from the buttery, lardy layer of the buttocks; the mild cheesiness of the labia, the fishiness of the mucous membranes, the warm, eggy, yeasty gases that came from the life-giving orifice were each quite unique. I had detected the particular aroma of fish, fowl, red meat, rabbit, pork, veal, and shellfish, when unfortunately the bouquet was spoilt by the smell of burning hairs. These were like onions, put in the pan too early, and now scorching, overpowering the dish. The snapping and popping were not everywhere uniform. Those dangling flaps which can be spread like a tiny quail’s wings, whose edges were already crinkly like bacon, strangely, reacted the least, stuck too sadly to the burner to move, they turned a greyish-white. My buttocks, the most sedate of the mass, on the contrary, made a tremendous fuss. The tiny pockets of air behind the dented orange skin were liable to unexpected explosions, and the onslaught of greasiness threatened fire. My intimate folds shrunk before my very eyes. My juices ran down the front of the stove and onto the floor, between the other burners and down my legs and feet; some of it cooked as soon as it was freed, thickened, browned, blackened. The pain was atrocious, for my uncooked cells were still imbued with that force, pulling themselves away from inert food, holding tightly onto the miracle, the autonomy, the fuss, one calls life.