Emancipation, n. A bondman's there and change from the tyranny of another to the despotism of himself. (A. Bierce, ibid, p. 36)
amphetamine little commedia embarrassing embarrassing, he corrects himself, by specifytuation even more awkward and
Driving with Jacques. I've always wondered what it feels like to be driven by a professional. Answer to fundamentally pointless question remains unexpressed, as it feels just like anything else he does: easy. His driving doesn't strike me as particularly fancy or professional: just plain safe, smooth and fast. As we sail through unfamiliar roads, I recognize places and spots, which I earlier thought totally unrelated, as being tied by an invisible thread, almost like a necklace of buildings and squares. The tape is playing at a minimum volume emanating pleasant French rock (I think) and question comes up to my mind to the effect of drug-use on the part of my chauffeur. Question is filed in the history section of my mind. However other kind of query crosses my mind and is eventually worded aloud and answer comes after short pause.
"Have you ever tried MDA (or XTC, as some other people call it)?" "What's that?" Am amused at the idea of him searching through his memory, in vain. "It's an amphetaminic, a bit like acid. You don't have hallucinations, but emotionally much more pleasant. It makes you feel in love with everything and everybody." "Hm, a love potion. So that's what was in the drink last night, right?" "Yes, if you want fast effects, you can swallow it diluted in some water." "What happens then?" "You get really excited, fall in love with the person next to you.... it's a lot of fun!" "Do you have any with you now?" He's getting into it. "Just a bit. Do you want it?" "A bit?" "Well, what do you expect? I'm not a dealer, you know. It'll be enough for the both of us, don't be greedy." He stops and parks near by the shore, deserted, rather gloomy. His eyes have grown wilder with excitement, his face tenser with surprise. I produce a little brown envelope from my bag and pour out its content on a little portable mirror.
"So, you're all set. Do you do this often?" "I've seen better days." I reply gloomily. Don't feel like telling my addiction stories, but launch him a large, inviting smile. He watches me in silence while I draw the lines and roll up a piece of paper into a straw-like object. "Now, just relax: you put one end in your nostril...." "Oh, I know how to handle it." "You've done this before?" "Not this, coke. I love it." "I thought drivers were pretty straight, after all you have to keep your reflexes in good shape, don't you?" "Je m'en fishe! Que sera sera!" I like his attitude, but I'm a bit disappointed. Why do I feel like he's using me? "Would you like to drive?"
Question as much abrupt as unexpected. Maybe I should hint at my lack of recent experience with the wheel and should also point out that in present circumstances offer might result into a grave mistake. Naturally refrain from explicit show of insecurity (which is an innate quality of mine) and limit myself to expression of astonishment. "What? You're tired of living?" "Oh, don't be ridiculous! It's not that hard. Haven't you driven before?" "Sure, but a long time ago... my reflexes aren't so good any more, I don't know this car at all." "Excuses, excuses. I'm here, next to you, don't worry. I'd like to see how you drive." "No better plan for amusement? Look, I don't really feel like it, can we do something else?" "Like what?" "For example, like strolling, there's nobody around now. Or we could go to have a drink or a cup of coffee, or we could just sit here and talk." "You're right, we must talk." "All right, let's talk. What about?" "Us. Like in 'you and me'." "Oh." But cannot say more. Issue very touchy for me, and feeling that earlier disappointment meant something more than just a feeling. "La comedia e' finita", I remember last time I heard that and I didn't like it at all. I felt trapped. Now, I'm waiting for him to say it. Wait, what's the matter with me? Didn't I want this in the first place? Why be afraid now? Didn't I do my very best to turn him on? I should take what comes.
A moment's silence feels like ages. I perceive that he knows what I feel. He remains silent and I think my duty to say something. "What about us?" Always good tactic feigning innocence. "I cannot see you anymore." "Why?" Suddenly feel very tired and wish he never brought up the subject. "I have to leave in a couple of days, I'll go back home." So?! Very embarassing silence ensues once again. I would like to know what that has to do with me, but am determined not to make things easier for him and my lips remain sealed. "Well, I like you a lot, I'll probably never see you again, I don't want us to get too involved...." "I like you too, but there won't be any danger of us going too far. I understand your situation, I'm in a very similar one myself. You're right. We shouldn't see each other any more." "Don't say that. Oh boy, I feel so good, now. We should talk about sad things." "You brought it up." "I know. I'm a bit confused. Maybe I should tell you about my wife." "No, please, I don't want to hear it." "As you wish, but... oh, forget what I said before. I do want to see you. I was trying to detach myself, but I can't. You've got to hear this. My wife and I aren't getting along any more. But we have a daughter, a really cute little child and for her sake we are staying together. For her sake I don't want a divorce, and getting involved with someone I like would be so frustrating and hurt the both of us." [how enormoursly considerate, i'm all touched from the inside out]
"Who told you I'm all for it?" The look of astonishment on his face tells me that it was obvious and I can only blame myself for this evidence. "All right, I like you a lot, and I would sleep with you now and ever, but we are human beings and we have reason, right? We have to use our head before we use our heart, or whatever, and so this is it. It was nice meeting you, and now it's all over." Have to stop talking, tears are urging behind my eye lids. He's been listening to me quietly and thoughtfully. I run out of words and am full of dread now. He's luckier than I am and resumes the ability to speak, in soft low voice.
"How long are you going to stay here?" Just as I am about to say "as long as it takes me to get out of this embarassing situation," but realizing a misunderstanding could have taken place, he corrects himself, by precising "in Nice", not here in the car.
"Two or three weeks, maybe, maybe a month, I don't know." "Will you then go back to the US?" "I guess. After that, I don't know, I think I'll write some more." "Why don't you stay here?" Panic and hope of future happiness mingle inside me. "Why should I? Paul and my friends and my books are over there. I am still with him, remember?" "Look around, don't you like it here? You'll have friends here too, and you'll be writing just as easily as anywhere else. And you'd have me." This offer does not surprise me, but the actual, verbal confusion realized by our conversation puzzles me. Had I been the heroine of a movie, I would have already thrown myself in his arms, declared my passion for him and made a decision forever. But I am not a movie heroine and I don't like choices, especially when they present problems; so decide to put an end to this painful conversation, to a potential love story. "No, I can't stay. And that's that."
He sits still, motionless and speechless, and I feel like I just killed a squirrel. But think that pity should not alter the decision taken. He makes a move which I have always feared, in spite of my sensual nature. He tries to kiss me and I know I can't resist and I am not virtuous at all and I kiss him back. The kiss attempts to become major arousal and I panic. "Would you drive please?" My moody companion hesitates for a moment, tries again but my resistance makes him desist; he takes the seat and we drive off in thick, heavy silence. Am inwardly regretting already what I said. Now that everything is over and danger has been avoided, I feel more talkative; should like to explain myself, why it is better this way; enough has been said already and further talk would only make situation even more awkward and encumbersome. Curiosity is devouring me with regard to his true feelings, and remember that not a word to the effect of his feelings towards me had been breathed, and should very much like to know.
Am I missing the opportunity of my life? Is this just an illusion of happiness like all the previous ones, or is it the one I've been waiting for all my life? And what about Paul? Maybe he's right, maybe I should let myself go loosely in the arms of Eros. However questions are not thought out quite this way. The deeper confusion going on right now in me prevents me from thinking at all, at least not in the sense we usually give to the word. For a moment I stop existing. My conscience bids me to stay quiet, but the newly aroused passion demands action. He remains stubbornly silent. Uffa. "Are you all right?" Dare to ask. "I shouldn't?" "You didn't say anything about what I told you earlier." "I should have?" Does he really care about me? Or is he only sexually attracted and maybe we should just fuck it out of our system and never lay thought on it again. We arrive at the hotel and I am in a state of total dejection. We part semi-friendly and we promise each other to write and keep in touch. All this, I realize all too well, is false, hypocritical and absurd.
Finally, my contemplation of death became wimpy decision. Determination to kill myself more as an act of melodrama than firm convinction, blended with willingness to buy any excuse coming from any stranger to live on. As I was getting closer and closer to the final, long-procrastinated execution, undertaking all sorts of actions that could have hurt me badly, both physically and spiritually, and yet leaving me very much alive, one day I started driving around, smiling at the idea of crashing somewhere, ended up in a solitary, bleak neighborhood. What used to be nice, rich houses were now their own greyish, bleak, deserted ghosts (Sunset Blvd.? no). In one of those front yards, hammering on a piece of metal, I recognized Paul, an old, but not aged, hollywood actor. Behind him, a large, empty, desolate house bearing resemblance with sixties hollywood golden period. I drove around the block with an idea in mind. Then returned in front of his house, parked on the opposite side of the street and waited for him to get back inside. I went up to the door and rang the bell. A voice from the inside yelled "Coming!" twice, in between strange banging noises filtered through the green peeling door. He finally appeared with an honest smile on his face. He was definitely older than I remembered, but still quite sexy and much thinner.