Transgressions

  “You were a bit bored by that. I could tell. I thought you would be. All that natural history. Dead stuff. I knew you were more physical than that. Not enough going on for you there. You don’t remember this, do you? You don’t remember that I was there, too? Well, welcome to law enforcement, baby. That’s what cops are good at, tailing people so they don’t know they’re being tailed.

  “You don’t even remember me on the subway platform. How romantic it was that we got on at the same stop.

  “I’m not sure what I would’ve done if that jerk hadn’t started to hit on you. Could be I would have had to cause an incident. I got it ready-made, though. And you liked it. Oh, yeah, I know you may think you were scared but I saw it in your eyes. This is what you’d come to America for. To be frightened, to be fought over. To be wanted. Course you didn’t know that. For you it was all stars in your eyes and neon flashing. Like a kid with a paint box. You didn’t see the horror, or the fuckups, didn’t feel the violence in the graffiti. You just liked the colors. America. Where women don’t have to pretend. Where a hard man is good to find.

  “We were looking for each other, Mirka. Don’t you realize that? I only played it cool so you’d feel you’d won me. To give you the pleasure of getting your own way. Or thinking you had.”

  The room was silent. She felt her pulse through the throb in her hand. The painkillers were wearing off.

  He let his head fall back against the chair. “You can’t leave me now, Mirka. It isn’t possible. Where would you go? What would you do? They’ll never be enough for you, all those soft-fingered old men with their accents and credit cards and old-fashioned diamond bracelet courtships.”

  She took a sharp intake of breath. He looked up.

  “What, you think I didn’t know?” He laughed. “It’s me, baby, Jake. Remember? You can’t take a shit without me being there. Oh, sorry. Not the kind of language you like, eh? What words would he use? Don’t tell me, ‘the ladies’ room’?”

  But it wasn’t any fun without her talking. He let the silence hang.

  She took a deep breath. “I’m not going back with you, Jake,” she said gently. “I’ve decided to stay here.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes, here. I’m going home.”

  “Home.” And this time it was a big laugh. “Well, that’s a good joke. What happened? Did playing around with a country boy make you homesick?”

  “I—”

  “Jesus, Mirka, it’s about time you grew up,” he cut her off. “Stay here? This place is falling apart, or haven’t you noticed? I’ll tell you about here. They don’t have the money or the vision to hold it together. Capitalism hurts too much when you’re this far behind. And these guys have already had too much pain. So people are going to get dissatisfied and then it’s all going to come bubbling up from below. You can export crime like you can export everything else. And we’re not even talking future here. They’ve already arrived. Who do you think was paying your hay boys to keep you captive? The locusts have come, Mirka. The plague is upon you.

  “You don’t have a clue how fucking powerful these guys are. We’re talking sophistication here. They half-run America already. What price a crummy little country like this one? They’ll buy anyone they want, and the ones that aren’t for sale they’ll kill. You think I’m a big boy, Mirka? I’m shit compared with these guys.” He laughed. “Though I can still kick their ass when I want.”

  He took another swig. “You’re not going to stay here. You’re coming back with me.”

  She waited till he was listening. “No, I’m not, Jake.”

  He slammed the glass down on the arm of the chair. “So, tell me, was it just him or was it the fat one, too?”

  She left a beat of a pause. “What are you talking about?” she said quietly, though they both knew.

  “You know what I’m fucking talking about, Mirka. He had his pants around his ankles. I got a real good impression he’d been persuaded that way.”

  “Jake.” She got up from the bed, and for the first time there was a kind of energy in her eyes. “Jake, listen to me. They cut my finger off, do you understand? If you hadn’t come they would have killed me.”

  “But I was coming, Mirka. You knew that, fuck you.”

  “No, fuck you. Fuck you, Jake, and all your Superman fantasy. You want me to sit around and wait till you burst in like something from an action movie? Well, I didn’t want to be saved by you. You understand? I wanted to save myself.”

  He was listening. But, then, he had needed to get her talking, back in the race. “So, tell me about it,” he said lightly, as if it didn’t matter to him.

  She sighed. “He was a farm boy. He didn’t know what had hit him. He just wanted to be rich, that’s all.”

  There was a pause. “And now he’s dead.”

  “Yes, well, that’s the way you like them. Did you kill Luis, too? You’d better be careful. In America diplomats have got more power than cops. Even a cop as good as you.”

  This time it was his turn to be silent.

  “You’re wrong about me, Jake. Maybe I was like that once. Maybe there were stars and neon. But I’ve changed. You’ve contaminated me. Now I have this disease, too, this American thing. But I’m not going to die of it. I’m going to get well. And without you.”

  He stared at the carpet for a long time, his teeth playing over his bruised lip. Then he sighed. “I love you, Mirka,” he said, so quietly she almost didn’t hear it. “That’s the beginning and the end of it.”

  “No, you don’t, Jake. You love the idea of me. Not me anymore. Me you have to let go.”

  He left a pause. Like all good cops, timing was one of his talents. “So, did he come?”

  “What!”

  He looked up at her. “I would have asked him, only by the time I got to him he was having trouble talking. But he still wanted you. You could tell from the way he went for me.”

  “Jake,” she said slowly, as if she were talking to a child and it was suddenly very important that he understand. “Jake, I stuck a knife into his stomach.”

  “Yeah, I know you did. And I know how it feels. Because you’ve done it to me, too, babe. Only I didn’t have a hard-on at the time.”

  She walked over to him, took the glass out of his hand, and slung it at the wall. It smashed into a fountain of slivers. “Is that it? Is that what you want? Well, come on, then. I’ll shove my finger stump up your ass.”

  He let out a large laugh. “Oh, listen to you. What a mouth the lady has.”

  “And where do you think she learned it, Jake? You don’t get stuff like that from English phrase books.”

  She stared at him, then turned on her heel and went back to the bed. He didn’t move. For a while neither of them said anything. She sighed, shaking her head as if to clear it, then, eventually, she looked up at him. “So, what now?”

  He gave a shrug. They held each other’s gaze. She opened her mouth a fraction, a half-frown on her face. He got up from the chair and crossed the room until he was standing right in front of her, his body suddenly very close to hers. “Why shouldn’t I be jealous, Mirka?” he said without moving. “I love you more than anyone else could. Is that so bad?”

  She closed her eyes for a second, then opened them back into his gaze. He put out a slow hand, hooking his index finger under the rim of the cardigan and pushing it slowly down her arm, taking the strap of her dress with it. As it reached the elbow her breast came free. She didn’t move. Neither did he.

  “So why don’t you tell me how much you hate this. Tell me to take my fucking hand away.”

  She swallowed. “Take your fucking hand away,” she said, but with no feeling in her voice.

  He smiled, then slipped his palm under her breast, lifting it up slightly. “You must be cold.” He moved the hand to her nipple, pinching it between his fingers. “Oh, look at that, your very own erection.” She took in a sharp breath. “Oh, but I forgot. You don’t like erections, do you? Too crude. Too ‘American.’
”

  And he let his hand drop away. When he pulled the other shoulder strap down it caught. This time he tore it. She flinched. He bent over slowly and took the other nipple in his mouth. When it was ready he pushed it out with his tongue, like a grape pip. It stood there quivering.

  “Do you know what I’m going to do now?” he said as he stood above her.

  She shook her head.

  “I’m going to fuck you. Or should I maybe use another word? What do you think, Mirka? Would you like it better if I said I was going to ‘make love’ to you?”

  No, fuck would do. He was sure he could feel it in her body. But that wasn’t what her voice said. “You don’t know the meaning of the word Jake.”

  He snapped a hand back as if he were going to hit her. She didn’t flinch. But, then, she wasn’t the one who had been hurt. “No? You really think so. Well, let me tell you something, Mirka. It’s you who doesn’t know the meaning of it. You think you do but you don’t.” And now his voice was shaking with the anger. “You wash it out of us, do you know that? Drip by drip you wash it out of us, drown out the love, till all that’s left is the fuck. We bring you feelings and you walk all over them. Do you know what it’s like to be rejected? Do you know what it’s like to want to love someone and to hear them say that they’re not interested in you tonight? That you’re too up . . . or too down . . . or too caught up in yourself. Too crazy . . . Do you know what that’s like? Oh, baby, if we did that to you, you’d hate us. Fucking hate us. You’d feel worthless and ignored. But it doesn’t matter to us. We’re guys after all. Sex is just sex. Go and jerk off in the bathroom, Jake. Get the tension out that way.”

  It was the conversation they had never had. How cruel to be having it now, when it was too late.

  “That’s not true, Jake,” she said fiercely. “That’s not true. I did make love to you. I made love to you for a whole year. But it was never enough. That’s why we started fucking.”

  “No. That’s why you started fucking. Or should I say faking?”

  “Oh!” It was her turn to laugh. “Oh, that was what hurt, was it?”

  “Did you fake it with him, too?”

  She tossed the question away with an angry wave of her hand.

  “I said, did you fake it with him, too?”

  “No,” she said after a while, her voice as quiet as his shout. “With him it was for real.”

  “So what was his trick? Did he ask your permission?”

  “He didn’t have to. He just wanted me. As opposed to needing me all the time.”

  This time he hit her. Not hard—he was a pro in such things—but enough to knock her backward onto the bed. He climbed on top of her, pinning her hips down. She stared up at him, then tried to move her pelvis. He slammed his weight back down into her. This time she froze. Something passed between them. They both felt it: heat as a kind of physical shock—desire and fear flooding into each other and fusing like a chemical reaction.

  “So?” he said at last, almost under his breath. “Want rather than need? And how do I do that, eh?”

  She shook her hair back onto the bedspread and lifted her hands up above her head in a deliberately provocative gesture of surrender. “Why don’t you use your imagination?” She paused. “And watch what you do with my hand.”

  She kept her eyes on his face as he moved his way down her body, pulling away the clothes until she was naked apart from her panties. He used his tongue to massage her nipples, then ran slow fingers down over her stomach, tracing the arrow line of dark hair that ran from her navel until it disappeared under the edge of the elastic. He pushed a finger underneath. She shivered slightly. He removed it again. Then, moving the heel of his palm slowly over her panties, his hand reached her crotch, playing and probing until he located what he was looking for. He rubbed his forefinger over the material into the point of her clitoris. She started to move into his touch. He got into the rhythm, his gaze still hard on her face. She became moist through the silk. She let out a slow gasp and closed her eyes. He stopped. She opened them again, a question on her lips.

  “You like that,” he said, the voice almost cold, a statement rather than a question. She nodded, a little unsure of this other Jake. “Then keep your eyes open, lady. I don’t want you fantasizing about somebody else here.”

  His fingers started again, the material wet now beneath his touch. She felt the slow tension of orgasm building inside her. She made a move to reach up and kiss him, but he pushed her down again.

  “You want me yet?” he said, watching her lips open and hearing her pull in an uneven breath. She laughed, then shook her head, starting to move herself up against him. “Then stay still.”

  She let out a small moan. He played with her more, then as he felt her excitement accelerate he pulled at the top of her panties, yanking the material hard up into her slit. She gasped. He cupped a hand under her ass and lifted her buttocks off the bed, one hand holding her up, the other probing and rubbing. He watched her as she came, his face impassive, enjoying the power as much as her pleasure. Then he moved his head down and pushed the material of the crotch to one side, using his tongue.

  This time when she climaxed the sensation was almost too intense to stay with. She broke free to get her breath back, curling up away from him onto her stomach, her damaged hand hitting the blanket as she did so. She let out a yelp of pain.

  He reached up and pulled down a pillow. “Here,” he whispered gently. “Lay it on here.” She did as she was told. “And keep your mouth shut. I told you, I don’t want to hear your groans.” They both knew he was talking pleasure and not pain.

  He slid his knee high up under her thigh, pulling her toward him until she was lying half across his lap, her hips off the ground, ass in the air. He slipped his fingers back into her from behind, in and out and over. In, out, over. She was so wet now they could both hear it. “Now that’s what I call an erection,” he said softly, as she pushed her clitoris hard against his fingers. “Come on, baby. Let’s do it again.” This time when she came her whole body was shaking. When it was past she tried to slide herself around to face him.

  “Uh-uh,” he said coldly. “Not unless you’re ready for me.”

  She gave a little moan.

  He slapped her lightly on the ass. “Does that mean yes?”

  “Yes.” The word coming out breathless as she began twisting her body toward him again.

  But as she moved he held her back down. This time he stroked her before he hit her, once, twice, then again—sharp rhythmic slaps, hard enough to hurt. She gasped but made no move to pull away.

  “So tell me. I want to hear you say it.”

  The slap that followed was harder still.

  “I want you,” she whispered, and this time they both felt her arch her buttocks off his legs toward his hand. He laughed as he caressed her ass. “Me or this?” And the next slap was loud enough to make her groan.

  “Oh my God.” Her voice was hoarse with desire. He slapped her again, then slipped his fingers into her and shoved her up onto her knees until he straddled her doggie-fashion. And as his cock pushed inside her he felt a long shudder go through them both.

  “Oh Christ.” Hard to know which one of their voices it was. It was over so fast it had them both gasping for breath. “Shit,” he said. “Shit. Sorry. Sorry.”

  She threw her head back into his shoulder. “No. No, it’s fine. It’s fine.” And she laughed.

  They lost their balance and fell sideways together onto the bed. He let out a huge gasp, then curled himself around her, hugging her tightly into him. She put out her good hand awkwardly behind her and tried to hold him. “See,” she said. “See. You don’t have to be old and wrinkled to do it properly.”

  Outside, the clock chimed one. The beginning of a new day. Christmas. As good a time for a new start as any other. “So,” he said after a while. “Do you think I should try for a job in the diplomatic service? We could always live in Prague.”

  She smiled. The
locks were off now, on the doors of her heart as well as her body. “Let’s talk about it in the morning.”

  He turned her over. “What? You think we’re going to sleep now?” And he slid his hand down toward her.

  twenty-three

  Someone threw a snowball against the windowpane.

  The thud made her jump. She looked up, still dazed from their lovemaking, trying to separate herself from her words. From the back gardens she could hear the yells and shouts of children. She rose slowly from her seat. She felt dazed, her legs shaky, as if the moment of release had been shared and she didn’t want to be the one who got up to make the tea.

  Pulling aside the sheet she saw the smear of melting ice crystals on the glass. A few seconds later another thump hit nearby. They were coming from next door. She could hear them all out in the garden: Mum, Dad, little Jonny (was that his name?), and friends, snow and laughter flying everywhere. She saw the child’s face again, pressed against the window. He’d be tired, having missed so much sleep. But it wouldn’t matter, the excitement would see him through. The same could be said of her.

  She went to the computer and scrolled back to halfway through the scene. Their joint lust rolled out in front of her. Did she really write that? She tried to imagine him reading it. Could you fuck like that? She didn’t know who she was talking to. Him or herself. She read it again. It wouldn’t work. Despite its flirtation with dominance the pleasure was too mutual. Erotic violence wasn’t real violence. There was too much desire and not enough fear, not enough panic. She should try it again. Make it nastier. Make it hurt more. Either that or go back to the original. But that was dead prose, unthinking, traditional—the final rocks-off/I-love-you fuck for the man who had everything, including a wife turned on by his macho ways with a gun. He wouldn’t be attracted by that. It was even more sentimental than love.