The Masterpiece by Ana Schnabl

Author:Ana Schnabl
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Istros Books

2 April 1986

Lounging on the bed, she lifted her legs in the air and pulled on her stockings. Lying on his side, he watched how her long, narrow feet circled in the air, the tensing and stretching of her toes, the dance of her veins and leg muscles. When the stockings were on she had a fit of giggling, began to bend her legs in turn so that her calves bounced off her thighs and she also stretched out her arms so that she could wiggle her hands. She was laughing in waves, like someone short of oxygen or who had overdosed on sucrose. A grown-up body and girlish behaviour: she was not the only one who in intimate moments allowed herself a playfulness still not outlived, which in an erotic context recalled childishness. He reflected that people do that out of an old, real childish embarrassment and at the same time adult ease, but the thought disappeared at once as soon as Ana took his hand. She pulled him to her and with her, among the covers, tickling, tussling and giving wet kisses. Into a burst of laughter with no cause. But with an ecstatic reason.

“Ow,” she suddenly moaned, putting her hand on her stomach, “that hurts.” The game suddenly stopped. The ecstasy on Ana’s face was replaced by a grimace and it struck him that this kind of switch was appealingly childish. From strength to complete vulnerability. Dependence.

“My period’s coming, is it,” she rolled on her side. He answered her with a fleeting ‘probably’ and raised himself on his elbow. He stroked her on her flushed cheek and on the hands that she was pressing beneath her ribs.

“It’s bearable, isn’t it?” he added rhetorically. He lay on a strand of her hair, which smelled oily; she was silent and waited for the cramp to pass. She was trained in monitoring physical discomfort, as all women are trained, but Adam, in his ignorance of women’s experience of pain, was a real patriarch, she was thinking. He took advantage of her accusatory immobility to move his free hand – with his eyes closed! – to her small, still naked buttocks, and to play with the smooth, flexible skin which marked the contact between the cheeks. She decisively shifted her bottom away from him, giving him an unblinking look.

“Sorry, I’m such a moron,” he said quickly, gently moving his hand to her navel. In its fold he felt the first mole, another beneath it, and then a third and a fourth. No woman that he had previously had the opportunity to explore naked had so many. In constellations, in some places so dense that the skin seemed scribbled on. It was hard for him to reject the thought that her moles were more than just moles. That in a special way nature had not thus marked her by chance, but as a result of gracious reflection: this exceptional creature should be exceptionally decorated. It was hard for him to reject this conclusion, but each time it washed over him – and that wasn’t so rarely – he smiled.

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