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I Am Your Man
I didn’t
tell anybody, especially my husband, about my plan, for as a matter of fact I
was running no risk. In the afternoon, as I snoozed with my children, I could
provide access to my subconscious to those interested in return for a modest
entrance fee. You may have heard about that company from New Castle, The
Subconscious, Inc. Of course, if you were a businessman or a lawyer with an
intense working schedule, you wouldn’t have heard about it; the commercials
like me watch all sorts of stuff while they give their kids
mid-afternoon snacks.
Some genius
had concocted the commercial that ran: Tourism in the world of the
subconscious! That is the true modern industry. You choose your own working hours;
you establish the entrance fee to your sub-conscious;
and we will find guests eager to visit it. We will make you rich!
The most
convincing argument for me to try that hi- tech venture was the fact that the
company did not demand any initial payment. They said they’d include my
sub-conscious in their system of tourist routes free of charge.
The man’s voice
that answered the phone invited me to visit him at his office in the city, a
place I hated to even think of, much less to go to. I was just about to decline
the offer when the man informed me he could come to my place; there, I could
sign the contract and choose the days when my sub-consciousness would
be open to visitors. So I made up my mind: from 3 p.m. to 5 p.m. every working
day. It was the time when I took naps with my sons: chaps who used every minute
of their lives to beat, bite, kick and shout ugly words at each other. I
couldn’t care less about my sub-consciousness while I dozed off in the
afternoon.
Boredom poisoned my days. My nerves
were constantly crucified by my sons’ fights and my husband’s complaints about
how ungenerous his salary was. He refused to waste money on a nanny for his
belligerent sons. He had funds neither for a butler nor for a maid to do the
housework. He paid a fat girl to clean the house twice a week, but I had the
feeling the rooms became dirtier after her sustained efforts. My sons adored
her; she opened the fridge and took out thick pieces of cake which the three of
them guzzled, and that was exactly a thing they all knew I strictly forbade. I
hated fat girls. My husband was getting fat too, although he often dragged me,
together with the kids, to our family gym, a place where the boys shouted their
heads off while he puffed and panted, complaining about his boss, his
secretary, his staff and his friends. He felt good when we had sex, but
then I didn’t feel good. He never seemed to notice that; I
thought he was too busy with his own plans, or perhaps I faked happiness too
well.
You must
understand that my days were perfectly identical: the children’s fights; the
constant squabbles over what to watch on TV, who had chosen the better truck
and who ran faster. My husband, of course, encouraged them. It was a
commendable achievement, he thought, if they learned about competition at an
early age. He applauded their militant spirit and interpreted it as thirst for
victories. The boys will be ready to live outside the home, dear. You know
nothing about life. You live amidst the oasis of calm that I built for
you.
Yes, I feigned happiness too well.
Amidst the
oasis he had built all hours were identical like the specks of dust on my
kitchen cupboard, so when the employee of that funny company paid a second
visit to my modest domicile I was so surprised and excited to see anything,
that I let him in. I had to admit he looked smashing. I hoped that my nosey
neighbors had seen him enter my house.
“Madam, you
received the greatest net receipts resulting from visits to the world of your
sub-conscious,” he said bowing slightly. “Thanks to you, I was elected the
Officer of the Month for my financial contribution to our company’s standing.”
You must
have heard the expression “a bolt out of the blue.” Right then, I felt exactly
as if a thunderbolt had struck me on the forehead.
“What do you
mean?” I asked.
“Your
sub-conscious was visited by an overwhelming number of tourists, Ma’am.
People make reservations for months to come. Ma’am, have you checked your bank account recently?”
“I have
not,” I said. I thought the phrase ‘bank account’ sounded too pompous for the
hundred and fifty dollars I kept in it. My husband was in the habit of
depositing negligible sums with my bank account when he went on long business
trips. I took out the money the minute he closed the front door and when the
fat girl came to clean my house, I went to the cinema. I paid the girl
generously so she looked after my children and I was free for a couple of
hours. After the film was over I walked to a small candlelit restaurant where
I drank half a bottle of Chardonnay, a dry
white wine of 1987 or 1989, the only good thing I could afford. I sipped at my
drink all by myself, doing my best to neutralize all sorts of bores who
attempted to buy me a drink. I happily spent all the rest of the money on the
dullest film possible I could lay my hands on.
On
principle, I preferred half-empty cinemas where strangers had only a slim
chance of annoying me. I didn’t even watch the film; I could have all films in
the world on my home video-system; I adored the absolute absence of human
beings around me. I knew very well that the fat girl and my sons took advantage of my
absence to gorge themselves on cake, chocolates and sweets.
So I basked
in the radiance of the dull film and its loneliness, a place where no one
coveted my thighs. Of course, this didn’t always happen; losers went to watch
even the dullest films. I was a magnet for them; they all claimed it would be a
pleasure for me if they showed me around the places of interest in our totally
uninteresting town. For days after that, I despaired. It was improbable that
another sum, however negligible, would land in my bank account any time soon;
and so my ruined evening seemed the blacker. My husband was convinced that
wives should not have money to burn so he gave me virtually none. In his
opinion money generated bad ideas about unauthorized shopping.
Actually, I couldn’t have cared less about shopping. I
longed for silence. It had never crossed my husband’s mind that I could cheat
on him. He believed I adored him. I didn’t.
“Ma’am…”
started the young clerk and I shuddered. First, I did not like strangers.
Second, I hated being called Ma’am. I couldn’t say I liked my acquaintances
either, although the man seemed acceptable: he had carefully cleaned his shoes
on the doormat before he entered my house. “Ma’am, I took the liberty of
meddling with the entrance fee to your sub-conscious.The tourists paid, so I charged higher fees. Please, check your
bank account, Ma’am.”
I said I’d
check it and waited for the remaining part of his lecture. I suspected that he
hadn’t driven for hours to my little hole just to thank me for the good job my
sub-conscious had done for his company. My sons started bickering over a
walkman they had broken a couple of years ago. The man rose from his chair and
looked me directly, an act that in my opinion was equal to an affront: I hated
it when people looked at me that way.
“Ma’am,
could you lengthen the time of access to your sub-conscious?” he asked, staring
at the base of my neck. This made me feel better. I knew the Jesuits back in
16th century were instructed to look at exactly that spot of their
interlocutor’s neck while they made efforts to keep the conversation
going.Intimidation made me feel
more comfortable. It always did; I
didn’t scare easily.
I was
surprised when he suggested, “Perhaps you would allow me to prolong the access
hours into the evening?”
“Into the
evening?” I thought about it. At night, my husband would be at home. His
presence would demand my undivided attention.
Men always took something
from you. Even as young boys they robbed you of your peace and quiet. They enraged
you with their shouts; when you were not at home they crammed down mountains of
cake in order to become more arrogant when you came back after your lucky
bottle of Chardonnay.
“By my
calculations, you made a profit of twenty thousand dollars, Ma’am,” the young
man said. I hiccoughed. “Perhaps a little more. I had a day off and another
administrator is servicing the access to your sub-conscious.”
“Are you
sure?” was all I could say.
Twenty
thousand dollars! I had been dreaming of twenty thousand all my life. In my
dreams, I always landed in a remote land far away from my sons. That place was
very far from my husband as well. His complaints about the stress he worked
under could never reach me there. Sometimes,
in my most daring dreams, I hired two bodyguards, all dressed in black. When
they noticed my husband approach my new place not far from Silver Moon Lake (I
have seen the lake in a commercial on the TV), my bodyguards would warn him
that the distance between me and him should be at least a mile. My husband, of course,
did not obey their instructions; he tried to persuade them I was his wife. The
guys had already
warned him that they’d shoot him in the face if he persisted.
My husband never gave up. He did persist. To be honest, that happened only in
my very best dreams.
The pleasant
young man fidgeted in his chair, but I had no desire to put his mind at ease. I
would not prolong the hours of access during which his fatuous tourists could
visit my sub-conscious. They might want to eat their picnics there. Well, if I
really had twenty thousand dollars… it would be clear what I’d do, wouldn’t it?
“Ma’am, I
visited your sub-conscious. Actually, I visited it seven times and… and I
would like…”
“Seven
times?” That was really something. “Did your company charge an entrance fee to
you?”
“As a matter
of fact they did… I would appreciate if you would allow access to your
sub-consciousness during the evening, Ma’am. I would be the first to take advantage
of that opportunity.”
“What… what
makes you feel like visiting again?”
“Please,
don’t ask me that question, Ma’am. You know best what you dream about.”
A shudder
ran through me. I knew very well what happened in my best dreams. The Silver
Moon Lake and a man prostrate on the shore, dead. Men went into raptures over blood
and gore. I should be very good at dreaming now that I had made twenty thousand
dollars!
“Are there
sex scenes in my sub-conscious?” I asked, my voice thinning.
“Well… As a
matter of fact…I didn’t go in for them, Ma’am.”
What if the
tourists were attracted by what my bodyguards did to my husband?
“I will not
allow access to my sub-conscious in the evening,” I said, unflinching.
The young
man who a minute ago seemed quite normal, even diffident, a quality I
appreciated, jumped up from his chair and grabbed my hand suddenly.
“Why should
you do that, Ma’am?
I pushed him
off. I hated anyone touching me. My husband’s hands were sweaty, although he
treated them with musk lotion and corn-flower oil. My whole house was sweaty;
the sky above me was sweaty when someone touched me. The memory of a stranger’s
skin touching mine often haunted me for days. I suffered severe asthma-like
attacks after that. One of my husband’s colleagues, a senior executive manager,
had oncetouched my shoulder and caused me to
choke.
“Are you okay, Ma’am?”
the young man asked, sounding concerned.
“Please, do
not touch me.”
His
hands escaped from my skin like terrified insects.
“I am so
s..sorry, Ma’am,” he stuttered, beads of perspiration glistening on his
forehead.
“By the way,
who visits me more often, men or women?” I asked.
“Both men
and women do, Ma’am,” he whispered, and his hands twitched on his knees as if
trying to reach me.
“Please!” I
cut him short. Luckily, he got control of himself. His fingers looked soft like
cakes, with perfectly kept fingernails: the type of hands I particularly
disliked.
A cold
picture rushed through my mind: two bodyguards were taking aim at a pudgy man.
He shouted at them, infuriated, informing them he was my husband and they’d
better hurl their fucking weapons onto the ground. It was only natural the
bodyguards hurled nothing onto the ground.
“It is quiet
in your sub-consciousness, Ma’am.” The clerk’s eyes dwelt on the spot of
my neck much beloved by Jesuits. Even that made me itch. “It is so beautiful
there… it feels like a cozy, quiet cinema, and there’s a good film on. A film
about… love.”
When he
pronounced the word ‘love’ the beads of perspiration on his forehead glowed
red.
At that
point my children simultaneously yelled and belted out a song; next they
started pummeling each other for no reason at all, scratching each other’s faces,
emitting a low-pitched wail. If my husband were here now, he’d applaud warmly.
“Ma’am…” Now
the young man’s voice was sweating, and his words dropped out of his mouth wet
with discomfort. “Ma’am… you dream about a man who… who is…everything for you…
he is like a cozy, quiet cinema… he is… your life. You can’t stand anybody touching
you because you want him. You dream of … of… seeing springs and summers in his
eyes. Ma’am, I… I felt I knew what your problem was. I helped you out of it.”
My feet
felt colder now. I could hardly breathe.
My children
had started throwing plastic toys at each other; they could swear in Latin,
too, an achievement my husband rewarded with a generous daily allowance.
“Ma’am, I…
when I entered your sub-conscious… you know what?” My visitor babbled on.
“It…it seemed to me…” at that moment his eyes left the quiet spot on my neck and settled on my breast.
“Go on,” I
said. I felt prickles sinking into my skin: a sure sign I the asthma attack was
approaching.
“You know…
It seemed to me I was that man for you. So I came here and…”
The sun lit
my visitor’s face.
“Perhaps
another guy… another guy… thought he was… he was the man of your… dreams,” he
stuttered on. Only I knew your address… and…I came to… tell you. I am that man,
Ma’am.”
I remembered
the most beautiful moments of my dreams: the bodyguards’ guns were aimed at the
forehead of a man who was explaining to the armed guys I was hiswife. That man believed I adored him.
At that
moment I knew the truth: I had faked my dreams. A pack of lies that was what
I was.
“So it was you
who helped me…. You?”
In a flash, I imagined my young visitor dressed all in black.
I imagined the prostrate body by the Silver Moon Lake.
“I… I love
you, Ma’am!” he whispered.
At that moment the telephone rang. I
disliked my neighbor’s voice intensely; she was a journalist and a brazen-faced
one at that.
“Jane, is that you? It’s Catherine… yes, Catherine Grissom.
Guess what I saw on the TV a minute ago! Oh, Jane! Your poor husband was
found dead near the shores of Silver Moon Lake! That’s what they said on the
TV! The poor man! ”
I gulped for air. My visitor
looked like he was about to kiss me.
“He was shot in the face,
Jane! The poor man! He had a heart of gold! They said his assaulter, a
tall man, dressed all in black, escaped,” she blabbered on.
A diffident
smile crept on my visitor’s lips. He reached out a hand to touch me. I froze in
my tracks.
“Jane! Jane!
Are you okay?” the receiver shouted as Catherine Grissom’s voice disintegrated
into a shower of hectic electrons.
Zdravka Evtimova's short stories have been published in the USA
Antioch Review, Mississippi Review online, Night
Train, In Posse Review, the anthology “The Best
Fiction of Eclectica”, UK Quality Women’s
Fiction, The Dreamcatcher, Canada Filling
Station Magazine , Lichen, Australia Going Down
Swinging Literary Magazine, Antipodean, Germany,
France, Russia, India, Czech Republic, Poland,
Hungary, Argentina, Turkey and Serbia.
Two of her short stories have been broadcast on Radio
BBC, UK.
Her short story collection Bitter Sky was published
by Skrev Press, UK, in 2003.
Her novel, God of Traitors was published as
a e-book by booksforabuck.com
Dallas, Texas in June 2004.
Her short story collection Somebody Else
won the ‘best short story collection by an established
author’ award of MAG Press, San Diego, California in
2004.
Zdravka Evtimova
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