Marius Benta - Mud-Covered Filthy Creatures (Five Stories)

Cluj-Napoca 2011
ISBN 978-973-0-11554-3
Copyright 2004-2011: Marius Benta

I'm waiting.

She's a bit plump.

Two minutes. You only have two minutes.

But her teasing smile makes her rather sexy.

To grab that phone and call. A minute and fifty seconds. It's an easy word. You just pick up those letters: C, E, R, and so on, six letters altogether, and just mix them up. I want a different word. The name of a sign.

She's comfortable in front of the camera.

A constellation. And you win five hundred bucks. Is this a difficult question for five hundred bucks? It's super easy, I tell you. Come on. I'm waiting. One minute to go now. Think. What's the sign? Is it the Capricorn? Is it the Crawfish? It might be your own sign, you know? Or my own sign. You just need to grasp that phone and dial nine two, seven five, nine five, six five, and tell me that six-letter word. Come on. A six-letter word. For five hundred bucks. Look. Before time runs out, I have a surprise for you. I know you're there, I'm absolutely certain that you're there and you hear me. And I want to offer you something really special tonight. Pick up that phone, dial nine two, seven five, nine five, six five, and tell me the answer to this anagram. Tell me the name of the sign you get if you mix up the letters on the screen. The name of the sign. And you get, well, you get a very special gift tonight. It's a chance you've never had before. And you'll never have again if you miss it this time. A very special gift. Worth more than five hundred bucks. Have no doubt about that. Dial nine two, seven five, nine five, six five. Now. And I'm going to dance for you. That's right. I want to dance for you tonight. You only have to call. And tell me a word. Just a word. A six-letter-word. A sign. A constellation. How does it look like, this constellation? A human being? An animal? Look, I'll give you a hint. It's an animal. It's the sign of an animal. A creature. Do you think it's a fish? A shellfish? A mammal? Think. Look, I'm going to tell you another secret. It's my own sign. It's indeed the sign I was born under. I know you're there, watching me. I want to dance for you tonight. Not tomorrow, not the day after tomorrow. Now. Here. Tonight. This is your only chance to see me dancing. You just need to answer the quiz. I'm waiting for a call from you. A call. I want you to call. Now. Grab that phone and call. Nine two, seven five, nine five, six five. I'm waiting. Nine two, seven five, nine five, six five. I'm waiting. It's not like I'm going to wait an eternity here, you know? You need to call now. I know you're there. I know you're watching me. I know you're there. Nine two, seven five, nine five, six five. All right, the five-hundred-quid thing was dumb, okay? Not that I couldn't give you five hundred quid. I do have five hundred quid. But really, I wish I offered you something special. Isn't special enough the gift I'm offering you here? I've never danced for you, you know that.

Dancing is kind of mystical, isn't it? There's something, there's a sort of particular intimacy when you dance for someone, don't you think? You give them more than just the beauty of your body. You kind of give yourself altogether, don't you? And it's different from when you make love, isn't it? It's different.

Her accusatory eyes are mute.

How many times have I asked you anything? I can count it on my fingers. Well, this time I really need it. I really need to talk to you, don't you get it? This is important. I have to know what you want from me. How can I make you call?

She's smoking now. Is her cigarette trembling?

I don't deserve this, you know? After all you've done to me, your silence is the last thing I deserve. All right, it's not like you've damped loads of shit on me. You've only done one thing. But whoa, that was enough, believe me. And you know, this isn't even about pain. I don't give a shit that it hurts. It's that I don't understand why you did it to me. I don't understand what you want from me. Your silence hurts more. I'm waiting for a call now. For an explanation. Before it's too late. I know you're there.

She's going to dance soon.

I want to hear that phone ringing.

She will stop crying.

I want to hear that phone ringing.

She will regain her composure.

I want to hear that phone ringing!

She will remain silent for a while.

I want to hear that phone ringing!

Then she will dance. A passionate, violent, disordered, and jerky dance.

See, this whole thing was not supposed to sound like this. It was supposed to be a prayer, you know? That's right, I wanted this to be a kind of a genuine prayer. But look where I am now. God.

Yes.

This story was originally published in the literary magazine Fly In The Head, 6/2007, Sofia, pp 49-50.

From a certain point on, you forget that you're walking. Your feet get disconnected from your brain, and they begin doing their work on their own, silently, while you somehow get busy with other things, such as pondering your so-far unsolved businesses, lingering on images from the movie you saw last night, or half-closing your eyes and just relaxing without thinking of anything in particular. The heavy burden on your shoulders is still there, yet you've turned comfortable with it, as if the two of you you and your burden are now supporting each other, because, when you have the right angle with your upper body, the rucksack turns into a nice propulsion system that helps you move on. Your body keeps making those little steps forward. And the path follows you.

Everyone seemed enthusiastic when they stepped off that little train, shouting and cracking jokes. Now, after five hours, of which the last three meant a constant march up this harsh country road, no one seems to feel like talking anymore. Everyone knows it's better to try not to stop. If you halt even for a minute, you somehow lose your pace altogether, and your body immediately falls into that sweet state of inappropriate relaxation.

Apart form Pedro, none of them is really used to the mountain. Not surprisingly, Zoe finds it the most difficult to keep up with the group. She is the one who needs to rest often, and she does, and then Emma stops, too, in female solidarity, and in those resting times they chat. Enda refuses to rest, but it's obvious he has a difficult time. Perspiration flows abundantly off his hair, and grimaces of suffering flash on his face every now and then.

The camping isn't big. A dozen of tiny wooden chalets are scattered on the left side of the little river among trees and rocks around the central building. On the right side, in a little clearing, rise a few tents.

Two shared rooms in a chalet will be enough, they agree. In the smaller one will sleep Pedro and Zoe no erotic disruptions forecasted; in the bigger one will sleep Enda in one bed and Emma with Chris in the other. For shower and toilet, they will have to walk to the main building that also hosts the restaurant.

They all have tea in the restaurant, and eat the sandwiches they have bought in town. They revise the plan for tomorrow's tour: a three-hour walk to The Red Lake, a glacier formation with breath-taking sight, as the guidebook promised. Then they take a nice shower, and go to sleep.

Emma is almost snoring, and Chris steps outside to have his end-of-the-day cigarette. He often enjoys to be alone, but especially here and now in this special place. It's a bit chilly, yet he sits on the entrance step of the little porch wearing only his briefs and socks, trembling a little. He inhales the smoke slowly and deeply, and a strange peace invades his being. The forest huge, silent, and black is everywhere on all sides.