Lekha and I were classmates at the Marine College. The salty winds have scattered us all, and these days, it’s more likely that you’ll see a mermaid in the waves than a friend from cadet days. Occasionally, however, Lekha and I bump into each other by chance over a pint in a harbour pub at the end of the earth. Nothing happens to normal people — they plan everything. They have all the answers to all the questions, and even their children are calculated choices, not accidents. But my friend’s life is full of surprises. Lekha is probably a man whom fate once threw down the stairs, but then took pity on. No matter how low he falls, he always gets up again. When I listen to his stories, I sometimes find myself thinking that many things in my life also accidental rather than intentional. At such moments, I want to dilute my beer with vodka.
The last time I saw Lekha, he told me a story. It was quite mystical.
Lekha walked along the deserted embankment of St. Petersburg. It was a late rainy evening, and the few passers-by hurried home, shivering in their wet coats. He had returned from a long journey a few days earlier. Compared to the fragrant tropics, the grey Baltic Sea smelled unpleasant. A close friend had told him about his wife’s infidelity. That smelled even more unpleasant…
He sat down on the cold stone balustrade and lit a cigarette. Lekha had always wanted to write poetry. But he could never find the time or get in the right mood. Here, sad thoughts inspired him. He took a pen and a receipt out of his pocket. And wrote a few rhymes on the back of the receipt. Then he reread them and sighed. They were not poems.
“…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,” she smiled, and Lekha was embarrassed that she had read his mind.
“…My name is Muse and it’s just such an evening, I wanted to wander…,” she held out her palm and looked at him with open eyes in which the devils jumped.
“…Alex 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,” he 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, please. Because I’m going to be your first critic, aren’t I?“ she encouraged him with a smile.
He gave up and waved his hand:
“The women may be different in love,
But they are all behave the same in marriage.
You rape her body, and get action in return,
She rapes your brain to compensate the damage.
Get married! Spreading legs in bedroom flame,
She will get bored soon between two pillows.
Your dick will hang without tickling game,
And you’ll realize that you’re cheated fellow!
And one advice for those who want the passion,
For those who want to keep their brains alive:
Just go to a brothel, get the game you lost in bedroom
To all your sexy worries you can say good bye..”
He fell silent and there was an awkward pause.
Muse smoked her cigarette and smiled:
“Don’t be so upset, Lekha. There is a mature cynicism in your lines, which is inherent in many men, another step on the way to maturity. Especially when a man is going through a personal drama.”
She looked at him with her bottomless eyes, and her gaze made his chest snap…
“Every poet has a subtle lyricism, but there is also despair, it is in the hooligan lines,” she continued, “it was in Pushkin, in Yesenin, in many other poets. Poetry is the turmoil of the soul. Unlike prose, poetry is born out of suffering. When suffering ends, 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 hide in my place, Lekha, I live near here. I have 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 for this night
Make 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 my misterious candle of willingness
And my dress will be sparkling with passions
I will cuddle with you like a pussycat plays
And I smotherly kill 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…
© Copyright: Walter Maria, 2024
Certificate of Publication No.224070600110
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