Aslan Norval

19.

Holved, who had returned a week ago from Indonesia, was sitting nonchalantly in Aslan’s boudoir, flipping carelessly through the evening newspaper.

“You know, Aslan,” he said, without looking up from the paper, “I really don’t feel like spending the evening and the night, maybe until four in the morning, with Elmer Tuckers and his other half. He, Elmer, I mean, is a delightful guy with whom you can have quite some fun when you are alone with him. But she, Minnie, really gets on my nerves. She is so boring that even God would be bored. She only gossips about her neighbors, how often they fight, give each other black eyes, reconcile, and then go to their lawyers a week later to get an irreversible divorce. It could make you go to sleep.”

“Why did you invite both of them, then?”

“Since they are both in New York, I can’t just run around with Elmer alone as we usually do. And since I am saddled with both, you have to participate. One couple with another couple. Business. As you know, Elmer is powerful in the administration of his city and his electoral district. Last year, he pushed three construction contracts our way. When he told me on the phone yesterday that he was in New York and would gladly accept an invitation for a cheerful evening, what was I supposed to do? I offered to show him and his rib New York at night. He quietly hinted he might have a new contract for us in his pocket. The way I understand it, they want to build two significantly larger airports and a new, extremely modern overland bus station out there in Idaho.”

Holved continued to talk without wondering whether Aslan was listening or not. She was sitting dressed in a light housedress in front of the mirror, polishing her nails and lost in thought. Her nails, however, were already in perfect condition.

Without looking up, and keeping her eyes focused on her fingertips, she said: “You know, Holved, I cannot keep any secrets from you.”

“There is no reason to keep secrets. Don’t tell me you shot someone during my absence and need me to get you out of that mess now.”

He was still leafing through his newspaper. He was used to Aslan’s frequent confessions: A collision with another car at a total cost of five hundred dollars, including damages to be paid. Or a confrontation with a police officer; in a hurry, she had hurled about a dozen remarks at the officer, which he had misunderstood since he was in a bad mood, and which had resulted in a citation. Another time, she had had troubles with the cook, who had quit on the fifteenth. Of all things, it had been the cook whom Holved loved particularly because she actually knew how to cook. Usually, Aslan confessed to such incidents, really more to be talking and less because she thought it was her duty to report everything that happened. Holved rarely got excited by her confessions. Since his thoughts were often all over the place when Aslan told him something that was of little interest to him, he hardly listened now when she casually mentioned that she could not keep a secret from him.

Without looking up from his newspaper he said indifferently: “Well, what is it this time that you cannot keep secret?”

“Nothing as embarrassing as a fine or a citation,” she said, picking up her comb to fix her hair in front of the mirror. “It’s very simple. I got involved with a man. That’s it, and I think as your wife, I should confess this to you.”

She said all this so casually that Holved did not understand even half of it. Apparently, her words only slowly took on shape and meaning for him, since he remained unaffected for a few seconds, concentrating on a newspaper article.

Suddenly, however, he looked up, startled, and dropped the newspaper onto his knees. “What did you just say? Did I hear correctly?”

“You did hear correctly, Holved. And it didn’t just happen once, it happened twice. Once late at night and the second time was in broad daylight the following day in the afternoon. Of course, I had drawn the drapes.”

“Well, at least the drapes were drawn. Very careful on your part. Of course you only dreamed all this.”

He was quietly hoping she would admit that it had been a dream and that she would say with a laugh she only wanted to see what he would do if he learned of something like this. And as if she had indeed guessed his thoughts, she said: “I did it for two reasons. On the one hand, I wanted to find out what you would say or do.”

“And on the other hand?”

“And on the other hand, I did it out of curiosity, pure, unadulterated curiosity.”

“Curiosity?”

“Yes, really and truly out of curiosity. And there was no other reason. I wanted to find out personally what kind of difference there is between a man of your age and a man my age, who is built like a boilermaker and could perform as a wrestler at the circus in the evenings.”

“So, it was curiosity. That’s all well and good. And what is the name of this man?”

Aslan was still sitting in front of the mirror and playing with her comb. She looked at Holved from the side. “I didn’t ask him his name.” She was happy with this answer. She avoided lying whenever possible. She was speaking the truth since she had not asked Beckford what his name was, because of course she had known his name for a long time already. It would have been trickier if Holved had asked: Do I know this man? It would have cost her quite some effort to answer that question without lying.

“His job?” asked Holved, more to distract his thoughts from her adventure caused by curiosity than because he was interested in the gigolo’s profession. His name and career could not change anything about the facts.

“I did not ask him how, where, and in which way he makes his money.”

Again, she spoke the truth. She had not needed to ask Beckford how he earned his money, because after all, she knew better than anyone else.

“So, you didn’t even ask that. Strange.”

“No reason to do so. Why should I have asked him anything? He would have lied to me anyway.”

“And where did you amuse yourself in this manner while I slaved away in tropical heat to finish up our contracts?”

“Good God, don’t get sentimental! I would have attempted to still my thirst for knowledge anyways, whether you were at home or as you said so beautifully and cinematographically, whether you had to bake in the sun in the tropics.”

Holved had gotten up and was now pacing in the boudoir, which was not exactly easy due to the tightly packed precious furnishings. However, he felt he had to do something. And if a wife gives an unsolicited confession of having talked more or less deeply with another man, there is only one option. Since time immemorial, such a husband has had to pace, whether in an ultramodern boudoir or in front of a stone cave. Usually, a dagger, revolver, or club did not emerge until the husband, whose manhood had been deeply wounded, had decided during his wild pacing which solution would serve his own interests best.

Aslan took off her housedress and put on a bathrobe, sat on the chaise longue and began pulling at her nylon stockings. Her eyes were tracking Holved, however. He downed a whiskey and stopped in front of the mirror to see whether he had changed due to the knowledge that Aslan had successfully quenched her thirst for knowledge.

He was just going to start pacing again when Aslan, who had just pulled off one of her stockings, said: “So, now do you maybe want a divorce from me? Reason: confession of adultery.”

“A divorce? Get a divorce from you? I wouldn’t even consider it. I am happy with you. I couldn’t wish for anything better. But maybe you do.” He stared at her face. “Maybe you want a divorce since now you have found a young, vigorous boilermaker who knows how to satisfy your curiosity beautifully.”

“Me? I should get a divorce from you, Holved? Not for anything in the world. Not even for the greatest pleasures with all the boilermakers in the world.”

“It sounds great when you say that in such a lovely way. However, you strayed into areas where they offer such knowledge carelessly and if you think you got away so easily, you are wrong. I have a little something to say, don’t you think?

“Okay, then say something.”

“It was an offense, no matter what. Right?”

“If you see it that way, what can I do about it?”

“You have to atone for offenses. And better right now before this is old news and while I am in the mood to restore balance.”

“As you wish, my lord and master. What can I, a weak, helpless woman, do about it?”

He gave her a thorough hiding. When she examined herself in front of the mirror to view the landscape of her behind, she said: “As red as a freshly boiled lobster. You didn’t need to spank me so much. Half would have been plenty.”

“The first half was for the first time and the second half for the second, superfluous time.”

“The second time was not superfluous at all, but rather essential to obtain an accurate result. And I did obtain it. And so that you finally know, jackass, you don’t need to fear any competition, neither from a boilermaker and wrestler nor from a dandified gigolo.”

She snuggled into her bathrobe, searched with her feet for her slippers, put them on and slid them playfully across the thick carpet. As she followed the play of her slippered feet with her eyes, she asked: “Do you know, Holved, what Frenchwomen claim?”

“Frenchwomen claim many things of which I know nothing.”

“I mean in terms of satisfying my curiosity and the results thereof.”

“How would I know that? None of the few Frenchwomen I know have taken me in their confidence,” he said as if he did not care.

“All right, then. I think comparatively Frenchwomen have the greatest experience in this matter. They say maliciously: brains over brawn. Muscular men don’t perform well at all.”

“And do you think Frenchwomen are right?”

“What do you think?”

“I asked you.”

“Don’t get a big head, cruel chastiser of helpless women, lord and master of your wife and livestock! Here is the result of my research trip: Frenchwomen are right. Nice muscles are a feast for the eyes like beautiful paintings, but they are only for viewing and worthless for practical use. You can interpret the rest as you wish. Actually, you should praise me for undertaking such a—let’s say—relatively dangerous research trip. The results have increased my esteem for you significantly, as far as that is even possible.”

He stood by the door with the face of a young boy who does not know how to act or respond in light of praise for something for which he thinks he does not deserve any praise. Eventually he decided to say nothing and to leave her boudoir, closing the door behind him carefully.

Lita came in to help her mistress dress. She was a Mexican girl. Her real name was Adelita, which was too long for Aslan. She was neither tall nor small. She was pretty, with long, thick black hair. Her large, dark brown eyes were always slightly moist, which gave her an expression of great passion. Her shape was soft, well-rounded, and inviting, which she did not know of course, but given her female instinct knew how to express perfectly well.

If you assessed Lita coldheartedly, you would be safe in assuming that at age thirty she would gain more weight than necessary for her well-being. A bonus that was not included in her relatively high salary was that she served Aslan with devotion. She was affectionate and loyal like a dog.

Aslan disappeared in the bathroom to take a three-minute shower.

“Which dress for tonight, señora?” asked Lita when Aslan came out of the bathroom wrapped in a large bath towel.

Aslan did not answer immediately. Apparently, her thoughts were far away from the present moment.

“Que vestido, señora?” asked Lita again, while holding out Aslan’s undergarments.

“If I myself only knew which dress to wear. I have nothing to wear. Absolutely nothing.”

Lita pursed her lips. “Nada, señora? Absolutamente nada? Really nothing? But there are—let’s see, how many?—there are twenty-six evening dresses on hangers here. Each one more beautiful than the other.”

“I think so. What do I know. You know, Lita, sing me a Mexican song with the word ‘here’ in the lyrics. How do you say ‘here’ in Mexican.”

“Aquí, señora, aquí.”

“All right then, sing a song with the word ‘aquí’ in it for me. And while you sing, close your eyes and run your hand along the whole row of my evening dresses back and forth. And when you get to the word ‘aquí’ in the song you take hold of the dress you are touching. That will be the dress I wear tonight whether it pleases people or not.”

“Todos sus vestidos, señora, all your dresses are glorious and in all of them, you look divine like a goddess who has just descended from heaven.”

“Let’s go, Lita, sing. Close your eyes tightly and give me my dress.”

While Lita went fishing for the dress, singing quietly, Aslan pulled on her stockings. She did so in a truly voluptuous way. She lay on her back and held her leg up high in the air. Then she pulled the sheer stocking down her leg as if she were caressing it. Fitting like gloves, her stockings were held in place by silk garters. Aslan did not like to wear a girdle to attach these veil-like materials.

Finally, Lita had managed to choose a dress for Aslan according to her instructions. It was a glorious silk creation, made in Rome and there was no other like it. For now, Aslan was wearing nothing else but her gossamer stockings. Lita held out an undergarment. Aslan sat upright, slipped on her slippers, and got up, dropping her bath towel onto the floor.

“Oh my God,” exclaimed Lita, throwing Aslan’s undergarment onto the chaise longue in her shock, because she needed that hand to cross herself energetically several times.

“Señora, what in the name of all the saints have you done to your rear end? That looks horrible. Que horror!”

Aslan’s first thought was to wrap the bath towel around herself again and to put on the undergarment beneath it. However, at the same time, she realized that it was too late for that and that she had to come up with an excuse so Lita would not guess what had happened.

“You know, Lita, I sat in boiling-hot water by mistake. I should have been more careful. But you know what happens when you are in a great rush,” Aslan explained, and she thought that was the end of the incident.

Lita picked up the silk undergarment and gave it to Aslan, who began putting it on with casual movements. Lita picked up the towel from the floor and draping it over her arm, she said: “Curioso, señora, muy curioso. It is really pretty strange that you burned your bottom, sus nalgas, I mean, and not also your feet and calves. How did you manage to do that, señora, if it is not impolite to ask?”

Aslan laughed out loud. “See, Lita, I cannot lie. I will never learn to do so. I always get caught. Of course I did not burn myself.”

“Well, well,” said Lita, grinning intimately at Aslan. “Then it was your old man who spanked you hard. I thought something like that had happened. I was on my way to your boudoir to ask whether I could help you dress. When I got to the door, I heard that someone was getting spanked. Of course, I didn’t know who was spanking whom. Unfortunately, these modern doors don’t have any keyholes anymore. But as my mother always used to say: ‘Silly girl, if you see or hear a spanking somewhere, get out of there as fast as possible, because you might get caught in the middle by mistake.’ And that’s why I got out of there as fast as I could, señora.”

Aslan smiled with some melancholy. “Maybe I really deserved the ‘spanking,’ as you call it, Lita. In any case, I am his wife, and as his wife I have to respect and obey him.”

“Whether you deserved a spanking or not, I cannot say, señora. As my mother always said, ‘Never get involved in family affairs if you want to live in peace.’ And therefore, I never get involved in family affairs and live peacefully.”

Lita was holding out the evening gown for Aslan to slide it over her head when there was a knock on the door.

“Come in!” called Aslan.

“Beg your pardon, dear, I didn’t know that you were not dressed yet,” said Holved. “And now you don’t need to anymore. Elmer Tuckers just called and canceled the night shift for today.”

“And why?”

“First, he told me that his car was not running, and he wanted to postpone till tomorrow. But then he confessed that they had run into a couple from home and had gone to a bar to drink to their meeting. They toasted so much that his always-faithful wife is a little drunk now. She downed more than she can handle and if we took her out to drink, we would be fishing her out from under the table, as Elmer Tuckers said so sweetly.”

Aslan wrapped herself in her bathrobe. “You know, Holved, life is funny sometimes. I owe the fact that I am not forced to move from one hard chair to another during our bar crawl tonight to the fact that Mrs. Elmer Tuckers can only handle a limited number of strong cocktails. I think I would do better lying on my belly in my soft bed.”

She looked at him with an innocent expression.

“What did you just say, Holved?”

“Me? I didn’t say anything.”

She looked at him playfully. “And I thought you had said something or were just getting ready to say something.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” he answered blankly, looking from Aslan to Lita and back to Aslan.

“I—I—yes, I will still read a little. A murder mystery, you know.” With those words he reached for the doorknob.

“Lita,” said Aslan, “hang up my evening gown in the closet again. Maybe you can choose another dress tomorrow by singing for me.”

Lita picked up the dress. Aslan playfully snatched her garters, which were holding up the nylon stockings.

Indecisive and feeling superfluous, Holved was just about to open the door when he happened to glance at Lita, who was trying to hang up the dress in the closet. He could only see her back and her long black hair, which was hanging down one side of her neck. His glance enveloped her youthful hips, and when she bent over to put the dress carefully back where it had been, the soft, well-shaped curves of her bottom swelled lavishly toward him.

With a thoughtful expression, Aslan began taking out her earrings.

Lita was still bending over to organize the dresses properly inside the closet. Holved’s eyes ran up and down Lita’s shapely legs and again finally landed on the inviting curves of her bottom.

When she had organized the dresses in the closet, Lita turned around and whether intentional or not, caught Holved’s glance. Half dreaming, half fascinated, Holved assessed her body as if he were undressing her. For a few seconds they were lost in each other’s eyes. A little confused, Lita then hurried toward Aslan.

Aslan looked up. “What is going on with you, Lita, you are shaking.”

“Nada, señora, nada, nothing—I—I hit my hand against a sharp hook. It hurts a little.”

She shook her hand and blew on her fingers.

Aslan turned toward Holved, who was still standing by the door in silence. She intended to ask him whether Elmer Tuckers had said when they were going to do the bar crawl, the next day or the day after that.

Since she could not catch his eye, she followed his glance and found his eyes stuck on Lita. He was following the snakelike coils and movements of her body as she kept conspicuously busy rushing around Aslan, nervously helping her take off the few pieces of clothing she was wearing. Aslan looked swiftly from Lita to Holved and back. Keeping him in view she casually said in an innocent tone: “You know, Holved, since the evening has been ruined, I am going to bed. Of course, tonight I will have to sleep on my stomach.” A few seconds later she added: “Did you say anything, Holved?”

“Me? No. Not a single word. Why?”

“Oh, I thought you wanted to say something.”

He pretended to yawn—as he thought convincingly—holding his hand in front of his open mouth.

“So, good night, dear!” He came to her and kissed her.

She returned his kiss, pulling him close and throwing her arms around his neck. As soon as Holved had left the boudoir, Lita said unexpectedly: “I think, señora, you should be truly and seriously happy in your marriage, even if you get a spanking every once in a while.”

“Why do you think I should be happy in my marriage?”

“Bueno, señora, su viejo. When I look at your old man from the side and see how he devours you with his eyes I could swear that he knows how to fulfill his husbandly duty!”

“Now listen to this,” exclaimed Aslan, surprised. “It seems you have studied my husband carefully. Too carefully, I might say. Come here and look at my face, Lita!”

Lita came closer and blushed under Aslan’s intense scrutiny.

“How old did you say you were, Lita?”

“Twenty years old, señora. Should I help you take off the nylon stockings?”

Without waiting for the answer, Lita sank to the floor in front of Aslan and began to take off the stockings carefully. She did not look up while doing this but kept her eyes on Aslan’s legs. Aslan looked Lita over, assessing her body, and bit her lips roughly. Lita smoothed the stockings almost lovingly and placed them back in the drawer.

She came back to Aslan and stood in front of her to see whether she needed anything else. Aslan pushed her bare feet into the slippers. She observed the playful movements of her feet as she was lifting and dropping them back to the ground. It’s strange, Aslan said to herself, I only need to think about moving my feet and they do it independently. Suddenly, she looked at Lita, observing her face silently.

For the moment, there was nothing else to do. Aslan was by now completely undressed. She was only wearing her bathrobe, which was draped over her shoulders. Lita knelt in front of her on the carpet, as she loved to do so often in the evenings when Aslan was in the mood to gossip. Aslan stretched her naked legs, wriggled her feet, and the slippers fell to the floor. Lita picked them up and put them back on Aslan’s feet.

“You know, Lita,” she said, squinting at the girl, “you know, when I look at you, as you are kneeling in front of me, and when I think about what you said a little while ago, I am convinced that you are mature enough at twenty to know that if you get too close to fire you can get burned badly. Even if it is nothing more than”—she stopped for a couple of seconds and then continued—“yes, as I said, even if it is nothing more than that he is fulfilling his duty.” She repeated, emphasizing the word “his”: “Yes, fulfilling his duty.”

As she finished saying this, she forcefully slapped Lita’s face.

“Why, señora? Why? I really don’t understand what you are talking about or what you are implying. If you seriously think that I did something wrong, then beat me up with this slipper. But I have done nothing wrong, or I would confess immediately.”

“It depends, Lita, on what you consider ‘doing something wrong’ or—as—as the desire to please someone.”

Lita felt that she was blushing bright red again, and not only on the cheek where she had been slapped. To hide it, she jumped up from the floor, and standing behind Aslan she said: “Señora, here are your pajamas. I will help you put them on.”

“Just give them to me and put my bathrobe on that armchair over there.”

In her pajamas, Aslan stretched out on the chaise longue, hanging her head over the edge.

“Lita, come here to brush my hair and sing a Mexican ranchera for me. I feel romantic and melancholic at the same time. I don’t know what is going on with me today.”

“Same here, señora. It happens to me quite often. Then I go lie down in my bed and cry for a whole hour and don’t know why. Then I cry myself to sleep and the next day, I am refreshed and happy as never before so that I could dance around like crazy all morning. That’s how it is with all of us women, señora. We don’t even understand ourselves. How can someone else understand us then? And least of all a man!”

“Are all twenty-year-old Mexican girls as smart as you?”

“My mother always said I was the stupidest of all the girls born in Mexico. All the other Mexican girls are much smarter than I am.”

“Then God protect me from Mexican women. And if you ask me, Lita, I don’t agree, at least with what your mother said.”

Aslan pulled Lita’s head close and kissed her on the cheek she had slapped. “There. Lita, it’s all good now.”

“I never hold a grudge, señora. And least of all do I hold a grudge about a bofetada, a slap in the face. My mother slapped me half a dozen times every day and I was never angry. Stuff like that remains in the family, as my mother always said.”

While Lita was talking away, she brushed Aslan’s hair and began to sing.

“What is this beautiful song called, Lita?”

“‘Reina de Mi Jacal.’ ‘Queen of My Poor Hut.’”

She had finished singing the rancheras and dressing the hair.

Aslan sat up, stretched her arms, yawned blissfully, and as she walked toward her bedroom she said: “Lita, I just realized that I haven’t had any dinner. Run and get me two sandwiches, a bowl of fruit, a large glass of porter, and a little glass of sherry. I need something stimulating. Anyways, it was a turbulent evening. What do you think, Lita?”

“If you ask me, señora, I would say it was a typical family evening without incident.”

“Maybe. I guess it depends from which perspective you look at it. In any case, from my vantage point, and especially from my bottom’s perspective, it is not possible to say that this evening featured regular entertainment.”

“Well, if you see it that way, señora, I guess it must be true.”

“Now, run. If you come back and find me as a beautiful corpse, tell the world that I died of terrible starvation, because Lita did not bring me food fast enough.”

“Voy volando, señora. I am flying,” Lita answered, and rushed out.