The woman wants to choke on Klemmer’s stone-hard dick when she is so thoroughly tied up that she can’t move at all. The letter is the fruit of Erika’s years of silent reflection. She now hopes that love will prevent anything from occurring. She will insist on it, but an amorous reply will make up for his refusal. Love excuses and forgives, that’s what Erika thinks. That’s also the reason why he should shoot in her mouth, if you please, until her tongue almost breaks off and she may have to throw up. She imagines in writing, and only in writing, that eventually he should even piss on her. Although at first I may resist, so far as your rope allows me to. Just keep doing it, often and generously, until I no longer resist.
A tinkle on the keyboard, played by the mother because the child’s fingering was incorrect. Unerring memories pop up from the inexhaustible box of Erika’s brain. Meanwhile, Mother drinks a liqueur, and then another liqueur in a contrasting color. Mother tries to arrange her limbs, but has a hard time finding them. She begins her preparations for going to bed. It is time, and late.
Klemmer has finished reading the letter. He does not honor Erika by addressing her directly, for this woman is unworthy of such gifts. Klemmer finds a welcome accomplice in his body, which reacts unintentionally. The woman has made contact with him in writing, but a simple touch would have scored a lot more points. She deliberately refused to take the path of tender female touching. Yet she seems to be in basic agreement with his lust. He reaches for her, she doesn’t reach for him. That cools him off. He therefore replies silently to the woman’s letter. He remains silent until Erika suggests an answer. She asks him to mark her words, but not show them. Just follow your secret heart. Klemmer shakes his head. Erika points out that he normally obeys hunger and thirst. Erika says he’s got her telephone number, he can call her up. Think it over in peace and quiet. Klemmer’s silence has no musical termination or suspension. His hands and feet sweat; so does his back. Long minutes have worn by. The woman, who has awaited an emotional reaction, is disappointed, for he merely asks for the twentieth time whether she’s serious, or is this just a bad joke? Klemmer is an image of time-delayed calm about to explode! He looks like people obsessed with possessing—just before their fulfillment. Erika tries to figure out where his love has gone. Are you angry with me? I hope not. Erika attempts a timid preemptive blow: It doesn’t have to happen now. Tomorrow is another day, mañana is good enough for me. In any case, the predestined cords and ropes are in the shoebox today. There’s a nice assortment. She forestalls an objection, saying she could easily buy more. You can have chains custom-made. Erika utters several sentences that go with the color of her willpower. She speaks as if she were teaching. Klemmer does not speak because only the teacher speaks during class. Erika demands: Speak now!
Klemmer smiles and jokingly replies that they can discuss it! He wonders whether she’s gone totally overboard. He pokes her: Has sex driven her completely out of her mind?
For the first time, Erika is afraid that Klemmer will hit her before they even get started. She hastily apologizes for the banal diction of the letter; she tries to create a relaxed atmosphere. Without disgust, and in a good mood, Erika says that ultimately the basis of love is utterly banal.
Could you always come to my apartment? You can let me waste away here in your sweet, cruel chains from Friday evening to Sunday evening, if you dare. I would like to waste away as long as possible in your chains, I’ve been longing for them for such a long time.
Klemmer doesn’t waste many words: Maybe. A short time later, he’s quite serious when he says: Absolutely not! Erika wants him to kiss her ardently, not hit her. She says that the act of love can straighten out a lot of things that seem hopeless. Say something loving to me and forget about the letter, she asks inaudibly. Erika hopes that her savior is here, and she also hopes for discretion and secrecy. Erika is dreadfully afraid of being hit. She therefore hits on an idea: We can keep writing letters to each other. We won’t even have to spend money on postage. She boasts that their correspondence can become even raunchier than this letter. It was only a beginning, and a start has been made. May I write another letter? Maybe it’ll be better. The woman longs for him to kiss her intensely, not hit her. He can kiss her painfully so long as he doesn’t hit her. Klemmer replies that it doesn’t matter. He says please and thank you. His voice is almost toneless.
Erika knows that tone from her mother. I hope Klemmer won’t hit me, she thinks fearfully. She stresses that he can do anything to her. Anything, she stresses, so long as it hurts, for there is hardly anything I don’t desire. Klemmer should forgive her for not, she thinks, writing beautifully. I hope he doesn’t hit me unexpectedly, the woman thinks. She reveals to the man that she has been longing to be hit for many years now. She assumes she has finally found the master she has been longing for.
Erika is so scared that she talks about something else. Klemmer replies: Thank you. Erika allows Klemmer to pick out her clothes from now on. In case of transgressions on her part, he can take drastic measures regarding her wardrobe. Erika pulls open the closet door and shows a selection. She takes a few items out or displays a few things on their hangers. She hopes he’ll see what an elegant wardrobe she has; she offers him a colorful view. If there’s something you especially like, I can buy it just for you. Money’s no object. Money’s an object for my mother, but it’s nothing for me. You don’t have to worry about my mother. What’s your favorite color, Walter? My letter was no joke; she cringes before his hand. You’re not angry, are you? If I asked you to write me a few personal lines, would you do it? Write me what you think about my letter, how you feel about it.
Klemmer says goodbye. Erika cringes, hoping his hand will come down lovingly, not destructively. I’ll have a lock installed tomorrow. Erika will then offer Klemmer the only key to her door. Just think how nice that will be. Klemmer is silent about the suggestion. Erika is pining for affection. She hopes he’ll react in a friendly way when she offers him access to her at any time. No matter when. Klemmer shows no reaction beyond breathing.
Erika swears she will do everything she has written in her letter. She emphasizes: What I’ve written isn’t carved in stone! And better late than never. Klemmer switches on the light. He doesn’t speak and he doesn’t beat her. Erika tries to find out whether she can send him her desires again. Will you allow me to keep writing to you, please? Klemmer says nothing that would elicit an answer.
Walter Klemmer answers: We’ll have to wait and see. He raises his voice over Erika, an obscure standard value, who is dying of terror. He tentatively hurls a four-letter word at her, but at least he doesn’t hit her. He calls Erika names, adding the adjective “old.” Erika knows she has to be prepared for such reactions, and she shields her face with her arms. She drops her arms: If he’s going to hit now, then go right ahead. Klemmer says he wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole. He swears he felt love before, but now it’s over. He is not going to go looking for her. He’s disgusted with her. She dares suggest such things! Erika buries her face in her knees, the way air passengers get into a fetal position when the plane is about to crash. They want to forestall death. She wants to forestall Klemmer’s blows, which she will probably survive. He won’t hit her because, as he puts it, he doesn’t want to dirty his hands on her. He throws the letter at the woman, trying to get her face. But he only gets the back of her bent head. He lets the letter snow down on Erika. Klemmer jeers at the woman: Lovers don’t need to write letters. A written pretext is necessary only if lovers have to deceive each other.
Erika sits solidly on her couch. Her feet lie parallel in their new shoes. Hopelessly, she waits for something like an amorous advance from Klemmer. She senses irrevocably that love is about to disappear! She hopes his love hasn’t disappeared. As long as he’s here, there’s hope. She hopes for at least passionate kisses, if you please. Klemmer answers her question: No thanks. Instead of torturing her, she wants him to practice love with her according to Austrian standards. If he let go with
her passionately she would jab him with her words: Either my way or no way. She expects the inexperienced student to court her with his lips and hands. She’ll show him how. She’ll show him, all right.
They sit facing each other. Salvation through love is nigh, but the rock sealing the tomb is too heavy. Klemmer’s no angel, and women are no angels either. Roll away the rock. Erika is harsh toward Walter Klemmer when it comes to her wishes, which she has written down for him. She has no wishes other than those in the letter. Why waste words? Klemmer asks. At least, he’s not beating her.
He embraces the unfeeling bureau with all the strength he can muster and pushes it millimeter by millimeter, without Erika’s help. He pushes it until a tiny air sluice appears, so he can open the door. We have nothing more to say to each other, Klemmer doesn’t say. He leaves without saying goodbye and slams the apartment door behind him. He’s gone.
Mother, in her half of the bed, is snoring away, under the influence of unwonted alcohol, which is meant only for guests who never come. Many years ago, in this very same bed, desire led to sacred motherhood; and desire was terminated as soon as that goal was achieved. A single ejaculation killed desire and created a space for the daughter. Father killed two birds with one stone. And killed himself with the same stroke. Because of his internal indolence and weak mind, he was unable to follow through on the consequences of his ejaculation. Now Erika slides into her own half of the bed, and Father is six feet under. Tonight, Erika hasn’t washed or cleaned herself in any way. She smells of her own sweat, like an animal in a cage, where the odor of sweat and the vapor of the wild gather and cannot withdraw, for the cage is too small. If one animal wants to turn around, the other has to squeeze up against the wall. Covered with sweat, Erika settles down next to her mother and lies there, sleepless. After two hours of stewing in her own juice, neither sleeping nor thinking, Erika suddenly feels her mother waking up. The thought of her child must have aroused her, for the child has not moved. Mother recalls what the liqueur helped her to flee. She jerks around, silvery bright, gleaming without sunlight. Glaring at the child, she issues a grave accusation, coupled with a dangerous threat and the utopia of bodily injury. Next come taluses of unanswered questions, in no special order as to priority or urgency. Erika remains silent, so Mother turns away, insulted. She interprets her feeling of insult as disgust at her daughter. Yet she turns back to her daughter and reemits an acoustic version of her threats, only louder. Erika is still gritting her teeth; Mother curses and nags. Her wild accusations drive her into a state beyond self-control. Mother gives in to the alcohol, which is still raging in her blood. The egg liqueur has an insidious effect. And so does the chocolate liqueur.
Erika mounts a halfhearted love attack, for Mother is already picturing far-reaching consequences for their future life together. Mother is horrified at the worst consequences—for instance, a separate bed for Erika!
Erika is carried away by her own amorous overture. She throws herself upon Mother, showering her with kisses. She kisses Mother in a way in which she has not even thought of kissing her for years. She clutches Mother’s shoulders, and Mother angrily waves her fists, not striking anyone. Erika kisses Mother between her shoulders, but doesn’t always hit her target, for Mother keeps jerking her head toward the side that’s not being kissed. In the semidarkness. Mother’s face is merely a bright splotch surrounded by dyed blond hair, which helps orientation. Erika promiscuously kisses this bright spot. She is flesh of this flesh! A crumb of this maternal cake! Erika keeps pressing her wet mouth into Mother’s face, holding her in steely arms so Mother can’t resist. Erika lies halfway, then three-quarters upon Mother, because Mother is starting to flail her arms seriously, trying to thrash Erika. With hectic thrusts of the head, Mother’s mouth tries to avoid Erika’s puckered mouth. Mother wildly tosses her head around, trying to escape the kisses. It’s like a lovers’ struggle, and the goal isn’t orgasm, but Mother per se, the person known as Mother. And this Mother resolutely puts up a fight. It’s no use, Erika is stronger. She winds around Mother like ivy around an old house, but this Mother is definitely not a cozy old house. Erika sucks and gnaws on this big body as if she wanted to crawl back in and hide inside it. Erika confesses her love to her mother and Mother gasps out the opposite, namely that she too loves her child, but her child should stop immediately! Now! Mother cannot defend herself against this tempest of emotions, but she feels flattered. She suddenly feels courted. It is a premise of love that we feel validated because someone else makes us a top priority. Erika sinks her teeth into Mother. Mother begins to beat Erika away. The more Erika kisses, the more Mother thrashes away at her: first of all, to protect herself, and secondly, to ward off the child, who seems to have lost control even though she’s cold sober. Mother yells “Stop!” in various keys. Mother resolutely orders her to halt! Erika’s kisses keep dashing over Mother. Erika hits Mother demandingly, though lightly, because Mother’s reaction is not desirable. Erika hits Mother wantingly, but not wantonly. Mother takes it the wrong way; she threatens and hollers. Mother and child have exchanged roles, for a mother is usually the one who does the hitting; from up there, she’s got the best overview of the child. Mother feels she has to defend herself against her offspring’s parasexual attacks; she slaps out blindly.
The daughter pulls Mother’s hands down and kisses Mother’s throat. Erika’s intention is cryptosexual; she is a strange and unpracticed lover. Mother, who has likewise never enjoyed any higher education in love, employs the wrong technique: She tramples everything around her. This wears hardest on her old flesh. It is treated purely as flesh, not as Mother. Erika’s teeth graze down her mother’s flesh. She kisses and kisses Mother wildly. Mother calls her daughter’s actions disgusting. Erika’s lost all control. It’s no use—Mother hasn’t been kissed like this for decades, and there’s more to come! For the kisses keep on, until, after an endless drumroll of kisses, the daughter collapses in exhaustion, half lying on her mother. The child weeps over the mother’s face, and the mother bulldozes the child off her. She asks whether the child has gone crazy. When no answer follows and none is expected, Mother orders Erika to go to sleep immediately, for tomorrow is another day! She cites professional duties that lie waiting. The daughter agrees: It’s time to sleep. Like a blind mole, the daughter reaches toward Mother’s body, but Mother shovels Erika’s hands away. For a brief moment, Erika managed to see her mother’s sparse pubic hair, which closes off the fat belly. The sight was unusual. Mother has always rigorously kept this pubic hair under lock and key. During the struggle, the daughter deliberately shoved around in her mother’s nightgown, so she could finally see this pubic hair which she has always known was there. Unfortunately, the light was very poor. Erika cunningly uncovered her mother so she could see everything, simply everything. Mother’s protests fell on deaf ears. Erika is stronger than her slightly work-worn mother, at least from a purely physical point of view. The daughter now hurls what she has seen into her mother’s face. Mother remains silent, as if nothing happened.
The two women fall asleep, cheek by jowl. Not much left of the night. Soon the day will herald itself with unpleasant brightness and irksome bird calls.
Walter Klemmer is astonished at this woman, for she dares to do what others merely promise. After a breather and some deliberation, he is reluctantly impressed by the limits she pushes against in an attempt to expand them. The elbow room of her pleasure is expanded. Klemmer is impressed. Other woman have only a jungle gym and one or two swings in their playground—a dusty area covered with cracked concrete. But this woman has an entire soccer field with tennis courts and a cinder track—all for the happy user! Erika has known her limits for years; Mother drove in the stakes. But Erika is not afraid to pull those stakes out, as Klemmer acknowledges, and to hammer new ones in. Klemmer is proud that she is making this effort with him of all men. His insight comes to him after long reflection. He is young and ready for something new. He is healthy, and ready for disease. He is ope
n to anything and everything, no matter where it comes from. He is broad-minded and willing to slam open yet another door. He might even lean out the window, indeed far enough to nearly lose his balance. He’d be standing on tiptoe! He deliberately takes a risk, and enjoys the risk because he is the one taking it. He has always been a blank page waiting for the ink of an unknown printer; and no one will ever have read the likes of this. He’ll be marked for life! Afterward he won’t be the same person, he will be more and have more.
If necessary, he will inflict cruelties upon this woman. Such are his thoughts. He will accept her conditions without qualms and dictate his own: greater cruelty. He knows exactly what will happen after he steers clear of her for a few days in order to see whether emotion will survive the inhuman stress test of reason. His mental steel is sagging, but it hasn’t broken under the weight of promises made by the woman. She will place herself in his hands. He is proud of the trials he will undergo. Why, he may very nearly kill her!
Nevertheless, the student is glad to maintain a distance of several days. Better to play hard to get than give someone your little finger. He’s been waiting a couple of days, to see what this woman, whose turn it is to get loved, will fetch in her mouth. A dead hare, a partridge. Or just an old shoe. Showing his independence, he arbitrarily stops his lessons. He hopes this will make the woman shamelessly try to waylay him. Then he’ll say no and wait for her next move. Meanwhile, the young man prefers keeping to himself. The wolf knows no better friend before he meets the goat.