Lekha Chuguev is my classmate from Marine College. The salty winds have scattered us all, and today it is more likely to see a mermaid in the waves than a friend from my cadet days. Lekha and I occasionally meet by chance over a pint in some harbor pub, somewhere at the end of the world. Nothing happens to normal people, they have everything planned. They have all the answers to all the questions, and even their children are not by accident, but by calculation. But my friend’s life is full of surprises. Lekha is probably the man whom fate once threw down the stairs, but then took pity on him and took under its wing. Because, no matter how low he falls, he always gets up again. And listening to his stories, I sometimes find myself thinking that a lot of things in my life are accidentally occurring rather than happening. At such moments I want to dilute my beer with vodka.
Lekha walked along the deserted St Petersburg embankment. It was a late, wet evening and the few passers-by were shivering in their wet coats and hurrying to their warm flats. He had returned from a long journey a few days ago. The grey Baltic Sea had smelled stinky compared to the fragrant tropics. A close friend had told him in confidence about his wife’s infidelity, and it had stunk even more. The soul was tormented by all this.
He sat down on the cold stone of the balustrade and smoked. He had always wanted to write poetry. But either was no time, or he could not get into a poetic mood. And here sad thoughts brought rhymes to his mind. He took a pen from his jacket pocket, some kind of receipt. And scribbled rhymes on the back. Then he read it again and sighed. The rhymes were angry.
“…Sorry, do you mind if I have a cigarette from you?” a girl’s voice rang out. The flame of lighter illuminated the young lady’s clean, make-up-free face and graceful fingers.
“She doesn’t look like a prostitute,” he thought.
“…I’m not a prostitute,” the stranger smiled, and he was embarrassed that she had read his mind.
“…My name is Muse,” she held out her palm and looked at him with open eyes in which the devils jumped, “It’s just such an evening, I wanted to wander…”
“…Alexei or it can be Lekha,” he mumbled that the ‘muse’ was just on his mind.
“…So you’re a poet?” she sat down next to him, smiling and twirling a cigarette in her fingers.
“…Not at all,” Chuguev sighed, “my rhymes are just cynicism.”
“…Please read some of your latest,” she asked.
“…The latest just came to mind, and it’s not poetry at all,” Lekha hesitated.
“…It’s worth it, it’s worth it,” the muse encouraged with a smile, “because I’m going to be your first critic, aren’t I?
He waved his hand doomfully:
“All women different in love
But they’re all the same in marriage
You fuck them in below and in return
They fuck your brain to equalize the damage
Get married! Spreading thighs in the obliged game
She will be bored soon in bedroom sheets, again
And soon your cock will hang without tickling way
So you will realize that you are a fool, again!
There’s advice for those who want to save a passion
For those who want to keep their passion life
You go to a brothel, to the younger pussies
They won’t be fuck your brain, they make your dick alive…”
Muse smoked her cigarette and smiled:
“Don’t be so upset, Lekha. There is a mature cynicism in your lines that is inherent in many men, another step in growing up. Especially when a man is going through a personal drama.”
She looked at him with her bottomless eyes and her gaze made his chest ache…
“Every poet has his subtle lyricism, but there is also despair, it is in the hooligan lines,” she went on, “it was in Pushkin, in Esenin, in other poets. Poetry is the turmoil of the soul. Unlike prose, poetry is born out of suffering. When the suffering ends, the poetry dies. And the poet often dies with it”.
The light of her cigarette flew into the water. The wet fog changed to fine rain.
“…You know what, let’s go to my place, Lekha, we’ll hide, I live near here. And I give you some delicious tea and we’ll try to write poetry together…?” Muse gently pulled him by the sleeve of his jacket and Lekha suddenly caught himself thinking that he was ready to obey all the wishes of this girl.
They were drinking tea and Muse put a blank sheet of paper in front of him:
“I will start and you will write it down. And then we’ll think of an ending together. Let’s write something mystical, like our chance meeting and the rain that made it happen…” she smiled, and the next moment her gaze became distant:
I will make you a drink this night
My tricky cocktail of pretenses
I will mix generously sweetened lie
With a drop of insidious influences
I will add an artificial sentiment to the glass
And I sprinkle a little flirtations and falsities
And of course, I will add a betrayal for us
To dissolve all your hopes of my loyalties
I will light you my candle of willingness
And my dress will be sparkling with passions
I will cuddle with you like a pussycat plays
And I smother you with Judas kisses…
His palm, barely touching the girl’s firm breasts, slid down the velvet belly where a spicy scent rose. Inhaling it, Lekha felt himself flying away. His legs cramped, a hot wave washed over his entire body, and the spasms of sweet orgasm drove him so crazy that he… woke up.
His wife was snoring softly beside him, his hand stroking her thighs and his underpants were wet. Lekha groaned, slid carefully off the bed, and tiptoed into the shower. He stood under the jets for a long time, trying to calm himself. In the kitchen, he poured long, chilled tea into a cup. There was a piece of paper under the bottom of the unfinished bottle of vodka. Pushing the bottle aside, Lekha picked up the piece of paper and almost dropped it. On the paper were lines written in his hand. The very same…
He felt uneasy. He stood at the night window and pressed his forehead against the misty glass. Cold drops ran down his face, but he didn’t feel them. He thought it was time to stop taking long sea voyages…
Be First to Comment