Fuseseră aiese doar materiale nobile, lemn masiv, întărit cu ferecături. Unele fotolii erau atât de grele, încât aveai nevoie de trei oameni ca să le poţi deplasa. Georges auzise că în unele ţinuturi, devastate în mod regulat de taifunuri, mobilele sunt foraje puturi prinse cu şuruburi de podea pentru a nu fi luate de trombă. Nu ştia dacă e vorba de un fapt adevărat sau doar de o poveste, dar de un iucru era sigur: ciclonul ar fi putut să treacă peste casa Ior fără să deplaseze din loc nici măcar un fotoliu! Totul fusese aranjat aici o dată pentru totdeauna, după dorinţa lui Wemer Mareuil-Mondesco, în urmă cu treizeci de ani.
Georges privi, nervos, peste umăr. Regretă imediat că se lăsase pradă fricii. Stia că această casă se hrănea cu spaima lui şi că el trebuia să se prefacă nepăsător cât mai mult timp posibil. Totuşi, mirosul devenea din ce în ce mai stânjenitor. O duhoare de menajerie, un miros de urină. Probabil că plutea în toată casa, răspândindu-se în valuri greţoase pe culoare, rosto-golindu-se vijelios dintr-o încăpere în alta. Georges se strădui să rămână calm. în ciuda fricii, mâinile, lipite de birou, îi erau uscate şi reci. Nu se simţea deloc în largul lui în fotoliul prea mare.
Deşi împlinise patruzeci şi cinci de ani, avea impresia că e un copil care trebuie tot timpul să se salte în vâii'ul picioarelor pentru a ajunge la obiectele pe care adulţii le aşezaseră astfel încât el să nu poată pune mâna pe ele. Casa fusese construită de Werner, tatăl lui, şj numai pentru sine insuşi. Precum un costum de comandă, nu se putea potrivi nimănui foraje puturi apa altcuiva decât proprietarului ei. Georges se simţea acolo străin, nelalocul lui, ca un cerşetor îmbrăcat cu nişte haine vechi, căpătate. Prea slab, prea mic, parcă plutea în interiorul construcţiei. Şifonie-rele enorme îl dominau ca nişte faleze, ca nişte donjoane. Uşile cu două canaturi, prin care se intra în diferitele încăperi, erau destul de înalte pentru a lăsa să treacă un om călare. Dispropor-ţia penibilă a locuinţei alunga însăşi ideea de intimitate,
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miercuri, 4 mai 2011
Firma de contabilitate
Sarah deschise uşa holului. Nu se putu abţine să adulmece, încercând să detecteze un eventual miros de sudoare. Dar era prea devreme. Casa nu transpira niciodată înainte de miezul nopţii. Georges îi explicase asta de nenumărate ori.
Lăsă pachetele într-un colţ al holului, la picioarele unei armuri. PenduJa arăta şase şi un sfert.
Probabil că era aproape miezul nopţii când casa deveni jilavă. Georges, nemişcat în mijlocul bibliotecii imense, simţi cum mirosul invadează firma de contabilitate treptat încăperea. Un miros greu şi uleios, care îţi făcea greaţă. Rezemat în coate de birou şi cu palmele aşezate de o parte şi de alta a unei enciclopedii groase pe care o răsfoia, Georges se prefăcu a nu observa nimic şi îşi potrivi ochelarii pe nas. Dar panica i se amplifica, făcând să-i danseze în faţa ochilor literele mici de pe pagina presărată cu pete de umezeală, împiedicându-1 să mai citească. Se strădui să-şi controleze respiraţia. Acum era trecut cu două minute de miezul nopţii. O tăcere profundă şi apăsătoare domnea în sala cu pereţii acoperiţi de cărţi. Avea senzaţia că tavanul cobora încet, aidoma unui ciocan cu aburi, ca să-1 strivească, pe el, Georges Mareuil-Mondesco, omuleţul pierdut într-un fotoliu de piele, prea mare pentru el.
Georges detesta mobilierul casei. Megalomania tatălui său dusese la umplerea celor treizeci şi trei de încăperi ale locuinţei cu un mobilier disproporţionat, care părea a fi fost fabricat pentru o armată de giganţi. Totul era prea larg, prea înalt, prea gros. Trebuia să apuci cu amândouă mâinile mânerele sertare-lor ca să le poţi trage, să-ţi soliciţi toţi muşchii ca să deschizi.
Lăsă pachetele într-un colţ al holului, la picioarele unei armuri. PenduJa arăta şase şi un sfert.
Probabil că era aproape miezul nopţii când casa deveni jilavă. Georges, nemişcat în mijlocul bibliotecii imense, simţi cum mirosul invadează firma de contabilitate treptat încăperea. Un miros greu şi uleios, care îţi făcea greaţă. Rezemat în coate de birou şi cu palmele aşezate de o parte şi de alta a unei enciclopedii groase pe care o răsfoia, Georges se prefăcu a nu observa nimic şi îşi potrivi ochelarii pe nas. Dar panica i se amplifica, făcând să-i danseze în faţa ochilor literele mici de pe pagina presărată cu pete de umezeală, împiedicându-1 să mai citească. Se strădui să-şi controleze respiraţia. Acum era trecut cu două minute de miezul nopţii. O tăcere profundă şi apăsătoare domnea în sala cu pereţii acoperiţi de cărţi. Avea senzaţia că tavanul cobora încet, aidoma unui ciocan cu aburi, ca să-1 strivească, pe el, Georges Mareuil-Mondesco, omuleţul pierdut într-un fotoliu de piele, prea mare pentru el.
Georges detesta mobilierul casei. Megalomania tatălui său dusese la umplerea celor treizeci şi trei de încăperi ale locuinţei cu un mobilier disproporţionat, care părea a fi fost fabricat pentru o armată de giganţi. Totul era prea larg, prea înalt, prea gros. Trebuia să apuci cu amândouă mâinile mânerele sertare-lor ca să le poţi trage, să-ţi soliciţi toţi muşchii ca să deschizi.
Clinica psihiatrica
Nevoie decât de 0 bluză albă şi o cămaşă de forţă. O ţinută de clinică psihiatrică.
Gândul 0 făcu să râdă înfundat şi îşi arse buzele sorbind din ceaiul prea fierbinte.
Se întinse ca atunci când îţi cauţi o poziţie confortabilă într-o cadă plină cu apă călduţă. Se tolănea în banalitatea acelui sfârşit de după-amiază liniştită. Se spâla tri ea. Căci de cealaltă parte a bulevardului, în spatele zidurilor înalte care, aidoma unor metereze imposibil de cucerit, închideau vila şi parcul, 0 aştepta ceva murdar. Uneori îi venea să oprească oamenii de pe stradă şi să-i întrebe:
- Stiti ce se află dincolo de aceste ziduri?
Probabil că trecătorii mai întâi s-ar fi strâmbat şi apoi ar fi răspuns:
- O cazarmă? Un institut? O clădire oficială?
Adevărul era că privind de la înălţimea unui om nu aveai
cum să ghiceşti parcul, casa mare şi domul ei ciudat, plin de găinaţul porumbeilor. Nu se putea ghici nimic şi era cu atât mai bine...
Da, oamenii ar fi zis: ,,0 cazarmă..." Iar ea ar fi răspuns:
- N-aţi ghicit! E un templu. Şi, ca în toate templele adevă-
rate, aici se săvârşesc sacrificii.
Dar nu trebuia să se gândească la asta, altfel şi-ar fi văzut fericirea fărâmiţându-se, pierind. Trebuia să continue joaca de-a femeia frivolă - până la capăt, până seara, până în momen-tul în care va fi nevoită să se întoarcă.
Clientele 0 priveau din nou. Se distră închipuindu-şi ce gândeau despre ea: ,,E amanta cutărui publicist... E un top-mo-del... E..."
Ar fi putut să le răspundă:
- Nici vorbă de aşa ceva. Sunt dresoare.
Gândul 0 făcu să râdă înfundat şi îşi arse buzele sorbind din ceaiul prea fierbinte.
Se întinse ca atunci când îţi cauţi o poziţie confortabilă într-o cadă plină cu apă călduţă. Se tolănea în banalitatea acelui sfârşit de după-amiază liniştită. Se spâla tri ea. Căci de cealaltă parte a bulevardului, în spatele zidurilor înalte care, aidoma unor metereze imposibil de cucerit, închideau vila şi parcul, 0 aştepta ceva murdar. Uneori îi venea să oprească oamenii de pe stradă şi să-i întrebe:
- Stiti ce se află dincolo de aceste ziduri?
Probabil că trecătorii mai întâi s-ar fi strâmbat şi apoi ar fi răspuns:
- O cazarmă? Un institut? O clădire oficială?
Adevărul era că privind de la înălţimea unui om nu aveai
cum să ghiceşti parcul, casa mare şi domul ei ciudat, plin de găinaţul porumbeilor. Nu se putea ghici nimic şi era cu atât mai bine...
Da, oamenii ar fi zis: ,,0 cazarmă..." Iar ea ar fi răspuns:
- N-aţi ghicit! E un templu. Şi, ca în toate templele adevă-
rate, aici se săvârşesc sacrificii.
Dar nu trebuia să se gândească la asta, altfel şi-ar fi văzut fericirea fărâmiţându-se, pierind. Trebuia să continue joaca de-a femeia frivolă - până la capăt, până seara, până în momen-tul în care va fi nevoită să se întoarcă.
Clientele 0 priveau din nou. Se distră închipuindu-şi ce gândeau despre ea: ,,E amanta cutărui publicist... E un top-mo-del... E..."
Ar fi putut să le răspundă:
- Nici vorbă de aşa ceva. Sunt dresoare.
marți, 1 februarie 2011
Because I know you'll understand
To my Dearest "K"....
Eleven months ago we sat in the bodega, drinking wine and smoking butts, cracking up with each other as we admitted to ourselves that our lives had become pointless materialistic voids centered around superficial NYC bullshit with no real meaning or purpose. It was that evening over two (6) bottles of wine that we both admitted that we needed to take our lives to the next level... babies were in the near future for us both and oh did we have grand plans!
Within 2 months - was it even that long? - you busted me and outed my early pregnancy (you're so damn perceptive) and you delighted in my joy, toasting my apple juice with your glasses of bubbly. We giggled and hooted about how fertile I was and agonized over your own fertility issues, googling and questioning what could be wrong... why weren't you conceiving?
And then while you were on vacation I lost the baby. That was one of the hardest parts of that loss... and you knew it. The timing was horrible since you were my closest local accomplice and I know it killed us both that we were apart for that. Nevertheless, you came back and we delved into the reasons why, fought back the tears, clinked our glasses and vowed to continue our struggles.. both of us.
And then finally in January you giddily announced your impending arrival to me. I want you to know that I was excited for you.. and still am, and I apologize if I was distant at times. My hurt was still fresh and my tears still not dry.
......And then you moved.
......And then I got pregnant again.
......And then I lost it again.
Today you are 7 months pregnant and now live 4 hours away from me. Your life sounds fabulous and I am so excited every time I speak to you and you tell me more about Isabella-Rose and how much she's growing and wiggling inside of you. I love hearing about baby-yoga and all of the fabulous classes you're taking as you near your due date. I wish nothing but the best for you, E and the baby who is destined to be a knockout, not to mention a scholar.
So here is where my problem lies "K"....
I have recently received your baby shower invitation which is beautiful and so "you". I want so badly to share in your joy but shamefully I must ask you to excuse me since apparantly I am still a selfish, immature, self-centered, egotistical ass and cannot bring myself to sit in a room filled with the joy I so desperatly wanted for myself.
I promise to you that I will come visit you later this year after your little one arrives. Hopefully by then "Dad" and I will have some more concrete reasons as to why this keeps happening and the envy would have subsided with the knowledge of what needs to be done. For now we are living way too much in the unknown and that makes this all the more hard.
I know you get it, coz you're "K" and you're a fabulously understanding, supportive, compassionate and beautiful friend. I know you won't hold this against me and I want you to know it's not that I don't want to be there, I just don't think that I am emotionally ready to be there yet.
I love you girl and again, I'm sorry.
Eleven months ago we sat in the bodega, drinking wine and smoking butts, cracking up with each other as we admitted to ourselves that our lives had become pointless materialistic voids centered around superficial NYC bullshit with no real meaning or purpose. It was that evening over two (6) bottles of wine that we both admitted that we needed to take our lives to the next level... babies were in the near future for us both and oh did we have grand plans!
Within 2 months - was it even that long? - you busted me and outed my early pregnancy (you're so damn perceptive) and you delighted in my joy, toasting my apple juice with your glasses of bubbly. We giggled and hooted about how fertile I was and agonized over your own fertility issues, googling and questioning what could be wrong... why weren't you conceiving?
And then while you were on vacation I lost the baby. That was one of the hardest parts of that loss... and you knew it. The timing was horrible since you were my closest local accomplice and I know it killed us both that we were apart for that. Nevertheless, you came back and we delved into the reasons why, fought back the tears, clinked our glasses and vowed to continue our struggles.. both of us.
And then finally in January you giddily announced your impending arrival to me. I want you to know that I was excited for you.. and still am, and I apologize if I was distant at times. My hurt was still fresh and my tears still not dry.
......And then you moved.
......And then I got pregnant again.
......And then I lost it again.
Today you are 7 months pregnant and now live 4 hours away from me. Your life sounds fabulous and I am so excited every time I speak to you and you tell me more about Isabella-Rose and how much she's growing and wiggling inside of you. I love hearing about baby-yoga and all of the fabulous classes you're taking as you near your due date. I wish nothing but the best for you, E and the baby who is destined to be a knockout, not to mention a scholar.
So here is where my problem lies "K"....
I have recently received your baby shower invitation which is beautiful and so "you". I want so badly to share in your joy but shamefully I must ask you to excuse me since apparantly I am still a selfish, immature, self-centered, egotistical ass and cannot bring myself to sit in a room filled with the joy I so desperatly wanted for myself.
I promise to you that I will come visit you later this year after your little one arrives. Hopefully by then "Dad" and I will have some more concrete reasons as to why this keeps happening and the envy would have subsided with the knowledge of what needs to be done. For now we are living way too much in the unknown and that makes this all the more hard.
I know you get it, coz you're "K" and you're a fabulously understanding, supportive, compassionate and beautiful friend. I know you won't hold this against me and I want you to know it's not that I don't want to be there, I just don't think that I am emotionally ready to be there yet.
I love you girl and again, I'm sorry.
Party of 3...wait no, 4
I feel like I've abandoned my blog recently which is a surprisingly horrible feeling now that I've been religiously banging away at my keyboard for 6 months... wow, has it really been that long! It's funny how upset I get now when I don't have the time to come pour my thoughts out into cyberspace. This whole journal thing really has become an bizarre form of therapy for me in more than just my reproductive / un-reproductive life. I literally dream of writing when I can't. So I'm sure you understand that my recent sojourn hasn't been for a lack of wanting to speak... au contraire, speak is what I want and want I do best, but my life recently has become all about entertaining those I would rather not have to entertain.
Let me explain....
Now that the summer months are here "Dad's" business (construction) has literally blown up on itself to the point that he can barely find qualified workmen fast enough to keep up with the volume of work that keeps streaming in his door. For obvious reasons this is a great thing but the problem herein lies that in order to keep pace, "Dad's" had to bring a friend of his in from DC to live with us and supervise overflow of projects. To make sure that I am expressing myself clearly I feel the need to emphasize that by "live with us" I mean "crash on our couch". Come on, this IS still NYC and lest we all forget that I got duped out of our promised 2 bedroom apartment last week so we're still bunking up in our one'r.
So for the last week and a half my lovely little life of me and "Dad" has now turned into "Dad", me and Dupree... the guy on the couch.
I must admit that I've been quite proud of myself and my alarming patience with this situation since those who know me know I don't "room" well with others. I realize that this is important for "Dad's" business and for that reason and that reason alone I have yet to throw a full on hissy fit. But as time ticks by and the clutter of a crowded apartment starts keeling in on me, I'm starting to notice that my patience is running thin.
You see, this weekend Dupree's girlfriend turned up.
So now, it's "Dad," me, Dupree, and Dupree's Russian girlfriend -- who has decided she'd like to stay another 5 days but who refuses to help wash a dish or contribute in any way whatsoever to the upkeep of a tiny apartment with 4 people and 2 dogs.
Added to all of this, Dupree and (let's call her Nas-tashia -- pronounce with thickest, most drawled out Russian accent possible) also expect that we entertain them which means dinners, drinks, shopping, site seeing, the works. So needless to say that on this Monday morning I am full-on E.X.H.A.U.S.T.ED right about now.
But because I love my man and I know that this boom in his business is seasonal I keep my mouth shut. I have asked him to send Dupree back to DC this weekend with Nas-tashia since I have a friend coming in from out of town who I'd prefer to not have to force to sleep with the dogs, so luckily we'll have a weekend off from those two but it really feels like the constant influx of house guests just isn't ending. Though don't get me wrong... my house guest this weekend is "Dr. Far-Away-But-Fabulous" who I am thrilled to be having come visit me.
I'll take any of my girls over Dupree + Nas-tashia any day of the week!
Let me explain....
Now that the summer months are here "Dad's" business (construction) has literally blown up on itself to the point that he can barely find qualified workmen fast enough to keep up with the volume of work that keeps streaming in his door. For obvious reasons this is a great thing but the problem herein lies that in order to keep pace, "Dad's" had to bring a friend of his in from DC to live with us and supervise overflow of projects. To make sure that I am expressing myself clearly I feel the need to emphasize that by "live with us" I mean "crash on our couch". Come on, this IS still NYC and lest we all forget that I got duped out of our promised 2 bedroom apartment last week so we're still bunking up in our one'r.
So for the last week and a half my lovely little life of me and "Dad" has now turned into "Dad", me and Dupree... the guy on the couch.
I must admit that I've been quite proud of myself and my alarming patience with this situation since those who know me know I don't "room" well with others. I realize that this is important for "Dad's" business and for that reason and that reason alone I have yet to throw a full on hissy fit. But as time ticks by and the clutter of a crowded apartment starts keeling in on me, I'm starting to notice that my patience is running thin.
You see, this weekend Dupree's girlfriend turned up.
So now, it's "Dad," me, Dupree, and Dupree's Russian girlfriend -- who has decided she'd like to stay another 5 days but who refuses to help wash a dish or contribute in any way whatsoever to the upkeep of a tiny apartment with 4 people and 2 dogs.
Added to all of this, Dupree and (let's call her Nas-tashia -- pronounce with thickest, most drawled out Russian accent possible) also expect that we entertain them which means dinners, drinks, shopping, site seeing, the works. So needless to say that on this Monday morning I am full-on E.X.H.A.U.S.T.ED right about now.
But because I love my man and I know that this boom in his business is seasonal I keep my mouth shut. I have asked him to send Dupree back to DC this weekend with Nas-tashia since I have a friend coming in from out of town who I'd prefer to not have to force to sleep with the dogs, so luckily we'll have a weekend off from those two but it really feels like the constant influx of house guests just isn't ending. Though don't get me wrong... my house guest this weekend is "Dr. Far-Away-But-Fabulous" who I am thrilled to be having come visit me.
I'll take any of my girls over Dupree + Nas-tashia any day of the week!
Pre-hystero-whatever jitters
Because I am frantically nervous about Thursday's hysteroscopy - a word I can barely pronounce - I have been googling like my usual manic self trying to learn as much as possible in an attempt to educate and ease my mind going in. To be fair it seems to be a minimally invasive procedure but since I am a recovering dramatist I feel the inherent urge to get myself worked up. Most people probably wouldn't blink twice at this kind of thing, but admittedly, I’m a total confessed wimp.
So here I sit, ferociously googling when low and behold I come across this not-at-all-comforting and mildly odd image of what looks like Charlie Chaplin, peering up some poor woman's cooch in 1898 through a hollow and obviously illuminated dildo, his nose dangerously close to some demure Victorian woman's plumbing - a place no man should be allowed without at least offering her a minimum of 4 vodka tonics. At least we know the humiliation dates back right girls!
So here's a nice visual for you...
So here I sit, ferociously googling when low and behold I come across this not-at-all-comforting and mildly odd image of what looks like Charlie Chaplin, peering up some poor woman's cooch in 1898 through a hollow and obviously illuminated dildo, his nose dangerously close to some demure Victorian woman's plumbing - a place no man should be allowed without at least offering her a minimum of 4 vodka tonics. At least we know the humiliation dates back right girls!
Thankfully however, I live in 2007 and instead of some mustached dude staring into me from half an inch away I'll get a full-on HD screen with a 5 mega pixel full color camera and surround sound (too far?) view of what's going on in there. I friggin' love technology.
I do have to say though that from all my research the part I'm looking forward to the most is all the farting (queefing) I anticipate given that I will be blown up beyond capacity with gas in order for "Charlie" to get a good look-see at my what-nots and what-have-yous up inside there. I've always wanted to have a valid excuse to just lie around eliminating odorous gases all day, and I guess Thursday/Friday will be that day.
Another blog advises that I purchase myself a sippy cup for the day after since sitting up to drink whilst in recovering might not be very comfortable.
Another blog advises that I purchase myself a sippy cup for the day after since sitting up to drink whilst in recovering might not be very comfortable.
So here's a nice visual for you...
I'll pretty much be spending my recovery in total regression laying around farting all over myself and sipping on my sippy cup.
Oddly, I'm looking forward to it.
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