Die, My Love. Ariana Harwicz

laughter from atop the tractor he drove, all ended up locked in a pinewood coffin. As did the little secrets, the visits to the local brothel, the time his roving hand found its way under the skirt of a secondary-school student on the bus and it was the talk of the town. In it, too, went the heroic exploits from his time in the navy, the deaths he tracked with marks in his groin, the game of cards in a train carriage at the age of thirty-two and the time he made her laugh so hard she wet herself and had to hurry off to change. It was a run-of-the-mill wake, a quick goodbye. An excellent father and husband, said the guests. Better than excellent. The procession then made its way to eat at the inn where the dead man had been a regular. He was there every lunchtime, drinking his beer and his aperitifs, telling witty tales of his time on the front line. The guests remembered him as a man among comrades, but his widow revealed that he used to sit for hours in the semidarkness of the living room facing the lit-up tree. And it wasn’t so much my father-in-law’s death that affected me, but rather the loss of his words, In all my born days, his turns of phrase, Well, I happen to be rather good at that, and his thick, spit-filled tone. So much screwing around, so many memories of bravery from the war, so much debauchery, but in the end no one really had anything to say about him.

      The night was high, black and smooth above us. An unwelcoming, pretentious darkness. The fan was rotating. My wonder-daughter was dreaming inside the white netting, soft as a fish with no scales. I was obsessed with sleeping. My wife had been dreaming away by my side for hours and the mosquito coils had disintegrated, leaving behind the smell of teenage holidays. I got up and tiptoed to the door, taking with me the clothes that were hanging on the back of the iron chair. I got dressed in the darkness of the hallway, carried my shoes to the door and tied my laces below the open sky. It wasn’t until I’d pushed my motorcycle a block away that I got on and started the engine. I saw the trees that had been chopped down by a single blow from an axe. I saw the rabbit skulls riddled with holes, scattered like flowers at the entrance to the woods. I saw a cluster of nocturnal butterflies that fluttered around my head, into my ears and under the collar of my shirt. They gradually got tangled in my hair and flew up my nose. The fresh air coming off the hill and the road didn’t take away the feeling I had of being smothered. I rode on along the motorway, passing peaceful men carrying rifles and machetes. I was getting closer to her in large leaps. I passed the houses that came before hers. The house with the boarded-up windows, the one with the fake roses outside, the one with the twin Siberian huskies. I turned off the engine, left the motorcycle leaning in the grass and moved towards her front gate. I walked there and back, seeing and not seeing into her garden and house. All I could make out through the foliage were fragments. Then a light pierced the pitch darkness. Someone had just woken up. Or was it the baby, shaken by the images in his dreams. I put my hand on the gate latch and set foot in her territory for the first time. Her house standing before me looked like a landscape. My shoes flattened the earth. I took a few steps forward, careful not to be seen from either of the two small front windows. I ran my hand along the wall that was cracked as though by lightning, and made my way round to the back of the house. The light was still on but nothing more than the aggressive shhh of the barn owl could be heard. I was expecting to see her come down through the air in a white nightdress, possessed by spirits. I was expecting to see her appear in the window with red eyes. Or floating above the roof dressed all in black. There, in her space, I could feel the hatred that dug at her womb and I begged not to be infected by the depression she felt at having to live. Because she’s infectious, the bitch. Infectious and so beautiful. Another window opened. A sudden gash in the wall. Too scared to run away, I stayed put and waited for something to happen. For her husband to come out or a dog to bite me. Or for her to appear, which would be more frightening still. Then I heard creaking thumps on a wooden staircase. Her feet were metal talons. Her long hair hanging down to the floor was made of particles. I stood there like a statue with wet feet. She appeared. She rode the wind towards me but was pulled back by a strong gust. Suspended in mid-air, she opened her glorious mouth as if to scream but nothing came out. I could hardly restrain myself. I found her irresistible the way she was, even though she was a few steps away from the septic tank. Despite my violent lust, despite my desire to gobble her up, to inhale her, I didn’t move. Neither did she. I’d say that was when we met for the first time, there among the shadows. In that instant, we shared the tragedies of our lives. That was us talking about the past, about why we were in this pit, this insect-infested hole, and why we were running away in the middle of the night. Grab a knife and slice your lip open, she told me. I obeyed while she galloped into the house, and even with her back turned she was watching me bleed. I escaped on my motorcycle, waking everyone up.