Confessions of a Librarian Page 7

  I zipped up my slacks and in bounded a giant dressed in white wearing a huge turban. His head nearly reached the ceiling. He took hold of my arm and pulled me toward the door. I tried to escape his grasp but he held tight. When I howled, he gave my arm a twist that showed he meant business.

  No policemen were in sight. By late afternoon the crowds had thinned-out. Their eyes on the world beyond, nobody paid attention to a foreign woman being marched along by a mountain of a man. Although he refused to answer my questions, I decided, because he wore a turban, he must be a Sikh. The giant pulled me along by the left elbow, so I maneuvered my other hand toward the clasp of my handbag and found Raj’s whistle. I blew as loud as I could. Seconds later, Raj, pushing pilgrims out of the way, came huffing and puffing down the ghat. The two men glared at each other like dogs fighting over a bone. Stubbornly, my assailant held on tightly.

  Instead of summoning a policeman, Raj grabbed my right arm and tugged hard to extricate me from the stranger whose plans I dared not imagine. Being pulled like taffy by two strong men was so painful I bellowed. My caterwauling and squeals scared my abductor, who finally let go and disappeared into a crowd of old women leading a skinny cow with marigolds round its neck. The beast looked in my direction to acknowledge a fellow sufferer.

  Since there were no rickshaws, Raj carried me back to his house, then upstairs to my room. Exhausted, both of us plopped on the bed. As though drugged, I dozed off. My arms and shoulders were bruised, although much less painful after Raj massaged them. Acting cuddly as a puppy, he nuzzled me all over. My body felt disconnected as though it had been whirled in a blender.

  Half asleep, I felt Raj strip away my clothes and climb on top of me. Sticking his large tongue into my mouth, it darted around licking the inside of my cheeks. Grabbing my nipples, he twirled and bit them. When he jammed in his cock, I lacked the will or energy to resist. Raj’s body seemed unreal like everything else in Benares. He pumped furiously back and forth trying to come. In response, my vagina became dry and hurt, while my mind hovered over the Ganges. Huffing and puffing, wheezing, frustrated, he tried to rouse a drop of warmth and wetness from me by whispering words of love. Raj sweated from every pore.

  Scents from Raj’s body—turmeric, curry, coriander, cumin—were the pungent reminders of Indian food. My nose tickled, my stomach rumbled. As I lay stretched out on the bed, a kind of numb gratitude came over me. After a terrifying day, sex affirmed life and offered pleasure—at least more pleasure than my would-be kidnapper planned for me.

  The realization I would leave Benares without knowing if I ever would return jump-started my libido. Like a horror movie mummy rising from a tomb, I suddenly came alive. Shifting around, we fumbled to find a comfortable position. Aggressively, I climbed on top of Raj, guided his cock inside me to set a rhythmic pace that kept me in a constant state of arousal. My cunt clenched his cock as though to keep it prisoner.

  An earlier reading of the Kama Sutra, inspired me to improvise love play that reached a level both thrilling and sublime. I held his head in the appropriate position, spread my legs and opened my moist groove while guiding Raj’s tongue in as deeply as it would go. Forcing him to lick me there, at first he shied away. Not to be denied, I kept him at his task until I reached orgasm. A tremor that would have registered on the Richter scale spread throughout my skin to stir every separate hair on my body. I dug my nails into his back. Yelping like a baby, scared then aroused, he took my cue and surrendered to his orgasm.

  Clumsily, Raj rolled on top of me. A convulsion caused him to buck, then leap into the air. For a moment, I thought his huge body might crush me on its descent. Luckily, he landed on his arms avoiding the spent creature too tired to move out of the way. Wickedly, I imagined that, instead of Raj, my partner was the turbaned giant on the ghats. What kind of wild sex would we have had in realms no western woman had entered before?

  The look of rapture on Raj’s face, like a worshipper at a holy shrine, embarrassed me. Was this the first real orgasm of his life? Stroking my hair, he looked at me with such adoration that I pulled the covers over my head to avoid his gaze.

  Eventually, Raj fell asleep, his hand on my stomach. I lay awake mulling over the onslaught of extreme experiences that were running through my mind like currents in a river. During the madness rampant in Benares during Kumbh, anything could happen. Blame it on the Ganges, I whispered to myself. Its transformative presence elevated and intensified everything. Near the Ganges, sex lost its mundane aspects and took on the aura of a sacred ritual. At some point, I fell asleep for an hour or two. At four, Raj woke me in order to leave.

  On the bus in daylight, a standoffish, embarrassed Raj avoided my eyes. Perhaps he worried that his wife would find out about the previous night’s romp. I tried to put him at ease but he stared straight ahead, quiet as Delhi’s Red Fort. Not one word of his usual chatter. Finally, I tried a ploy that got his verbal motor running. Pulling out pencil and paper, I quizzed him about Indian libraries. “Do they have card catalogs or computers?” I inquired in a mock serious tone.

  A torrent of boastful words about the new automation system that he had introduced into Delhi’s library gushed forth. Faster than I could write, Raj elaborated on his creation of a book club focusing on English and American authors. His face lit up talking about the extensive network of inter-library loan services.

  Doing my best to remain awake, I yawned now and then. Raj did not notice because he refused to look at the sex-crazed American, who would certainly attack him in front of other passengers on the bus. My notebook filled, we arrived at the Delhi bus station. After a cursory goodbye, Raj formally shook my hand and mumbled about my sending him the published article. As he disappeared into the crowd, I stood alone in the bus station, far from my hotel.

  On this trip I had accumulated none of the usual travel souvenirs: books, clothes, jewelry. In a roundabout manner, with detours into India’s sexual underbelly, I had accomplished my research for the biography of Alexandra David-Neel. And in the Ganges’ waters I had washed away past mistakes of “negative karma.” Emerging from the river, I felt like a newborn emerging from its mother’s womb.

  Nearing my home in New York, a laundry list of “what ifs” made my stomach do flip-flops. If Raj hadn’t come to my rescue, I might still be a prisoner in some remote corner of India—pounding chapattis, polishing my master’s dagger and whitening cloth for his enormous turban, along with the rest of his jealous wives. Sometimes, when I walk along the Hudson in lower Manhattan, I visualize myself cavorting in the Ganges alongside bathers unaware of the librarian who shared their euphoria. Hopefully, the Indian gods and goddesses were not offended by my presence. I thank the deities, and my university grant, for allowing me to briefly play in a cosmic dimension.

  PART TWO

  O body swayed to music

  O brightening glance

  How can we know the dancer

  from the dance? W. B. Yeats

  EIGHT: THE GANG’S ALL HERE

  To chase the glowing hours with flying feet. Lord Byron

  April 2003, wings on my heels, I headed for my reunited Confessions Club. Before 9/11, I had braved rain, sleet—once a blizzard—to insure that our group would have a quorum. Hurrying from home in the West Village, due east, I passed my favorite coffee house, the Reggio, where I regularly sipped green tea made from the freshest leaves. I waved to the longtime waiter busy putting tables outside in anticipation of customers hearty enough to handle the crisp weather.

  In the East Village a thrift shop with unbelievable bargains almost waylaid me. Writing and shopping are two of my fiercest passions. That day I neglected the latter to advance the former. Further east, I paused to admire lovingly tended neighborhood gardens. I felt akin to the buds about to flower after a dormant spell. Patrillio’s makeover had caused a few male heads to turn in my direction, silly smiles to brighten my face.

  As I rang Marilyn’s bell, she opened the door immediately with news that Tiffany
had phoned several times to say she would be late. It had been ages since I’d seen the Janus-faced character whose actions were as unpredictable as the causes she championed.

  “Come, join the others,” insisted Marilyn. Taking my hand, she guided me into the downstairs parlor. Not having seen each other for almost two years, the atmosphere reminded me of a Sixties love fest—lots of hugs and kisses. Chloe had her arms around Sarah who smiled through tears that coursed down her cheeks.

  Candy rushed over and kissed me smack on the lips, then announced: “Hey gang, I’m dancing again in a posh club in Red Bank. Swell to be home again!” Whooping, she did a shimmy around Sarah, Marilyn and me to music on the radio. Revolving round and round the room, eventually worn out, the curvy dervish tumbled onto Marilyn’s couch.

  “Everybody follow me,” announced Marilyn. We trooped after our inventive hostess, up winding stairs to our original room. Marilyn threw open the door and we remained on the threshold to gape at the transformed space.

  “So what do you think?” inquired Marilyn. Two of the three pusses, furrier than ever, stopped eating from fancy new bowls. Their presence completed our ecstatic reoccupation of Marilyn’s. Frequent meows indicated they were happy to see us. My favorite, Miss Mops, shyest of the trio, had wandered off at the approach of strange footsteps.

  “Wow! Burgundy walls, satiny cushions in purple and gold, mirrors all around. The rug’s got pictures of nymphs and satyrs sporting naked. Is this a bordello or what?” gulped Sarah, shocked.

  “Finally, I’ve redecorated, tossed out the dilapidated furniture. Our Confessions Club deserves a sexy atmosphere. Picture me someday reclining with a lover on these luxurious cushions.” Marilyn hugged herself.

  “What’s that big chair doing at dead center of the room?” asked Sarah.

  “Victorian, bought at an auction. While reading, I’d like each one to sit there and belt out her stuff. Agreed?” We assented, shuffled our papers and mulled over which work to share.

  Pregnant with stories, I longed to sink into the comfortably padded chair—welcoming its support. Indecisive, I had thought about answering personal ads in New York Magazine and advertising online for a guy potent enough to cut the paté. But telling Tiffany, happily absent, about my plans was a more daunting proposition.

  Tiffany’s response would be a harangue on the bourgeois practice of selling yourself to the highest bidder—never mind she had gone to the altar three times to accumulate rich settlements. She would pluck the details out of me like an eyebrow tweezer, hair by painful hair. If only she would emigrate to Cuba to act as Fidel’s minister of propaganda! Recently I realized that a rivalry, entirely on her part, defined her behavior toward me. I had a successful career, a rewarding marriage and lovers! She resented my happiness.

  Candy, restored to her former splendor, riveted my attention. Today her newly dyed dark hair contrasted with gold colored bangs. Cut in a Louise Brooks style, it glistened with pomade. Her short black skirt clung to her shapely hips; a black silk blouse fit so tight the buttons kept popping. Long, fake black and purple fingernails made her resemble a character from a Charles Addams cartoon.

  “Are we ready to charge forward with our Confessions Club?” asked Marilyn. “Don’t be afraid to tell or write anything. Genuine Bacchantes refuse to accept restrictions in art or life. Agreed?” When no one objected—although Sarah frowned—Marilyn dropped her schoolmarm pose to assume a chef’s hat.

  Several plates of appetizers—humus, hard-boiled eggs, hunks of Brie—provided our fuel. Marilyn placed a steaming pot of Jasmine tea on a low table. Cream-colored mugs covered with pictures of cats attracted the residents who peered quizzically at their feline representations.

  While everyone else gobbled the tasties, Sarah painstakingly cut a few minuscule slices. Chewing each morsel, she took care not to speak with food in her mouth. What a tacky outfit! Her loose-fitting, checkered dress went out of style in the Fifties. Troubled by the Club’s anarchic drift, Sarah spoke in a voice louder than usual: “I think we should restrict ourselves to specific topics voted on at the end of each meeting. Otherwise things will get too chaotic.”

  “Still the same Sarah,” responded Chloe, “either trying to control things or fretting. Let’s enjoy each others’ company. It’s been too long.” Chloe appeared listless. Was this woman the same imp who, at our last meeting in the Tribeca restaurant, giggled over her one night stand? Silver streaks stood out in her formerly luxurious black hair. Wrinkles etched around her eyes and mouth gave her face a pinched expression.

  “Sorry, Chloe,” muttered Sarah. “Did you have fun in Greece, even though you went for a sad reason. You’re so lucky to have a large family.”

  “You should know from Greek families!” Chloe pounded the cushion she sat on and groaned. “Mine did a job on me after my cousin died in the Towers. Every uncle, aunt, niece and nephew, beating their breasts, ganged up on me. If I went back to New York, they swore something terrible would happen to me. Now they phone to hammer home the same refrain. And my daughter’s at it again.”

  “What daughter?” we chorused, as though acting in a Greek tragedy.

  “Let’s not talk about her!” Chloe cleared her throat nervously. I’d heard that Chloe had a daughter, although she never mentioned her by name. Likewise, I didn’t discuss my extra-marital affairs. Each of us, for prudential reasons, had skeletons hidden away. Little by little, they were being trotted out to dance.

  “Since it’s our inaugural day, let’s read whatever.” Expectantly, Marilyn glanced at each one of us.

  “To get us moving maybe I should start off with a bit of Sappho, the greatest love poet,” chimed in Chloe. “My family bitched but I made a pilgrimage to her native island, Lesbos. Hiking along the rocks, I shouted her verses to the roaring winds.”

  From memory, Chloe recited a fragment of “To Anactoria”—”Her lovely step and the brilliant glancing of her face I would rather see than the Lydians chariots or their infantry fighting in all their armor.” This poetic lament for a lost love, as we remembered our own disappointments, briefly transformed our exuberant mood to a somber one.

  Then Candy made a beeline for the writer’s chair. As she settled in the padded chair, her stiletto silver ankle straps glittered in a dramatic contrast to the room’s dark decor.

  “In San Francisco I spent weeks interviewing Fannie and Berta, a couple of senior cuties who used to dance in a burlesque hall on the Barbary Coast. So cool to hangout on Pacific and Columbus where the raucous saloons were during the Gold Rush. Now it’s Chinatown. My zippy burlesque girlfriends filled me in on the neighborhood’s history.”

  “Hey, what are you reading? It’s not right to occupy the writer’s chair empty handed.” Sarah glanced around the room for support. Nobody responded.

  “My stuff’s visual. Take a gander,” insisted Candy. She whipped out a scrapbook and showed photos of herself bookended by two frizzy-haired dames kicking their gartered legs up in the air. Assuming zany poses against the former burlesque theaters, they mugged for the camera.

  Tapping her foot impatiently, Marilyn stared at Candy in the writer’s chair.

  “In San Francisco, everything’s wow this and wow that,” Candy continued. “Nobody listens. I need to be heard by people who care about me.” Nervously, Candy twirled long rhinestone earrings like those for sale in 99-cent stores. “I’m still living in shitty Boundbrook till I earn enough to get my own place. There’s a complication. This guy I met at the Mexican restaurant on Thompson.”

  “Tell everything,” Chloe urged. “At least one of us is getting some action.”

  “Jorge lives in Williamsburg in a roachy dump, bathroom in the hall, no heat. Guess what he does for a living?”

  “Porn!” exclaimed Marilyn. “Sometimes, after midnight, I watch the Robin Byrd show. Well-endowed guys and busty babes show off their equipment. Last week I almost called to rent a stud who reminded me of my first boy friend.” Sarah, drinking juice, gulped noisil
y.

  “Jorge’s an Argentine elevator operator at the Carlyle Hotel. Always dressed in black, he reminds me of a fugitive from a noir film.”

  “Bet he’s got greasy hair and greasy skin. He might have a sexual disease,” warned Sarah.

  “We use condoms,” replied Candy. “We make out on a lumpy cot pushed against the wall, panting strangers in the night.” She checked our faces to see if we caught the reference to the Sinatra song.

  “Poor Jorge’s dead broke. He breaks dates or stands me up. Why do I turn down offers to go great places for his crummy four walls?” Answering her own question, Candy lit up. “It’s his damn cock that can stay inside me for hours. I get so wet I nearly flood the bed. Am I obsessed or what?”

  Positively occult, it was happening again. Last time, at our Tribeca restaurant dinner, Chloe and I had similar one-night stands in Greece. Tonight, Candy’s Argentine lover brought back my affair with Roberto, a devil whose memory still haunted me years after our dance ended.

  “On the subject of Argentines, does anyone mind if I read a short poem about my obsession with tango and the man who taught me?” When nobody objected, I read my poem “Tango Argentino,” careful to explain that bandoneon meant an Argentine accordion:

  Teasing dance of wet dreams

  My gypsy soul sighs

  for the Pampas

  I slink into mists of longing

  Pursuing a dark stranger

  Bewitched, we tango

  Under diamond stars

  Nose to nose, torsos taut