The Fetishist by Katherine Min

Author:Katherine Min [Min, Katherine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2024-01-09T00:00:00+00:00

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A few weeks later, he had been amused to see posters for Cello Vendetta around campus, and he smiled to himself, as though he were in on the joke. He remembered the girl in the black lipstick, with the Pippi Longstocking braids, the provocative mouth, and the radiant presence, and even though he had classes to prepare for, on top of rehearsals and auditions, he found himself that night in a dark, crowded basement on Chasen Street, squinting through a blue haze at Alma and her band. There were three female cellists in black leather and stilettos, and three schleppy-looking guys on drums, guitar, and bass. One of the guys Daniel recognized as Harry Suthers from the Balfour Quartet. He wondered how they found the time to moonlight in this way. Alma sat in the middle, her hair in one long braid across her shoulder. She wore some kind of medieval-looking costume, a bustier, or a corset, with grommets and lace-up ribbons that hoisted her breasts and thrust them forward as she leaned over her cello. She was singing in an oddly pitched and angular alto that was surprisingly appealing, her eyes closed, her red lips poised indecently over a stationary mike. The music was frantic and loud, the amps kept feeding back, bodies kept bumping into him with over-slopping beer and drunken dance moves. In his blue oxford shirt and brown corduroys, Daniel had felt square and out of place.

Later, between sets, Alma had come over; her mascara smeared under one eye, her lipstick faded to orange. She was sucking on a Chloraseptic lozenge, and her tongue, which she stuck out to show him, was a bright, nuclear green.

“Thanks for coming,” she shouted in a hoarse, ragged voice. “I have kind of a cold and I’m trying not to fall over.”

“You sound great,” Daniel said.

“I sound like shit,” she said in a neutral tone.

“I’m glad you picked Cello Vendetta,” he said.

Alma looked at him blankly for a moment. “Ohhh, yeah.” She took his beer from him and drank, leaving a waxy mark on the side of his cup. She made a face. “That tastes terrible with this.” She indicated her lozenge. “We put it to a vote,” she said. “I wanted Cello Kitty, but it lost.” She shrugged.

“Oh,” Daniel said, feeling oddly hurt.

“I’m glad you came,” she said, and Daniel’s spirits rose.

“Me, too,” he said.

“Everyone kept mentioning this Daniel Karmody,” she said. “How handsome he was. What a hotshot violinist. How great a teacher.”

“Did they mention I was faster than a speeding bullet?” he said.

Alma shook her head. “No, but they did say you were single.” She smiled at him, and when, a few hours later, he had kissed her, he was so far gone he hoped he would catch her cold; he wanted every molecule of her being to merge with his, to trespass his defenses—the astringent mix of Chloraseptic and beer, lipstick and cold germs marking only the beginning, the gateway for the atomic comingling, the woozy-headedness and high fever, that was falling in love.

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