Georgi Tenev - Party Headquarters

THE strangest part is when I see shes starting to cry. With us, tears often lead to unexpected consequences.

Even without the tears I still want to hit her, painfully hard. But when she cries it just gets out of control. The victims magnetic attraction inflames the perpetrator. Im driven to tears myself out of frustration that I cant force myself to finish it off, to do absolutely everything I want to her. In exactly the order I would like.

If anyone were to see us at this moment, bawling, locked in this torture chamber at opposite ends of the bed in the middle the bloody sheets are stained with wet spots, but not from blood, lymph, vaginal secretions, sperm, or who knows what else could it be that some other beings are copulating here with us? at that moment the shocked outside observer would think we are crying for each other, for ourselves.

Wrong. An incorrect judgment, a faulty interpretation of ambiguous facts. Im not sorry. What can I say? Regret is most certainly far beyond the boundaries within which I would torment her. Tears are just one more weapon in this battle, nothing more. I must be very careful now; tears, like all water, temper freshly forged metal. Her blue zirconium glare blazes out twice as pliant, resilient, like eyes on a rifle sight, eyes like bullet tips and Im the bulls-eye.

On the very first day, or afternoon, rather, when we met, on that fatally happy day of our acquaintance, she explained to me that she didnt have a father. She stubbornly insisted that her father did not exist. He was alive, you see, but as soon as she spoke his name and sharply declared, Its as if I dont have a fatherthen I understood, it was all clear.

His name is K-shev.

I never imagined that I would get mixed up with the daughter of one of them. But fatal meetings are always marked by signs from the very beginning. Im talking about fleeting clues. But no one tells you Watch out!, you dont hear any voice yelling Stop! And the fact that at that very moment the angels fall silent most likely means theyre egging you on. That the meeting is divinely inspired; the meeting is the beginning of the collision of love.

So his name is K-shev.

Everyone remembers their names, theyre strange. And they get that way because of the people they belong to, and not the other way around. Yet it somehow seems like fate also chooses them by the sounds of their names.

Who is this person, completely anonymous behind his name? Later I began to understand, things started to become clear. But by then it was too late to save myself, I was already caught in the trap. So why bother trying to go back now to fix things? Theres no point. I can only return as an observer, as remote and nonchalant as if Im watching a stranger and not myself.

You are the reason words exist I want to pause on this thought. That is, I want to pause precisely here to make this absolutely clear. Its doubtful Ill succeed in getting any relief or satisfaction, as much as I would like to. Perhaps I suspect there is some higher purpose or calling in pornography, when you watch and somebody shows you everything.

The moment I took my eyes from the screen, the last thing lingering in my pupils was the image of naked bodies. Everything about it screams scam, despite the originality of the moans and the excitement in the voice of the nude, sweat-drenched woman. Its a scam because of the presumed viewer, because of my gaze. This is also the source of the shame.

I leave the colorful barn, its booths with their blue doors and neon lights. The dark room and the screen overhead reflected in the mirror. Next to the armchair are buttons to select the channel, a box of Kleenex, a wastebasket with a plastic liner. The silver slit that swallows coins, black speakers that spit out sound.

I go outside. It would be frightening if it werent night. But now theres no light, just electric sparks from the street. I light a cigarette to dull the arousal. I dont want it to stay with me, I have to separate it from myself, from my body. If I had come inside like I wanted to, I most likely wouldve failed all the same. But I didnt make the move, I froze up, I couldnt do it. A naked woman pretty, by the way. And another one, looking very much the same. Both with nice, full breasts, one with long fake fingernails, the other with girlish, almost infantile fingers, both with navel rings. I shouldnt feel bad about it, yet there was some kind of anxious beauty in that shot of frantically jumping bodies. Thats exactly what shouldve relaxed me the precision and obvious professionalism of the action. Even to the point of seeming to give them pleasure paid for in advance by me or someone like me. These two golden-skinned bodies impatiently jostling on top of each another, with no man in between, of course because I wouldnt be able to stand anyone else besides myself here.

I got up and left before the final minutes, leaving behind a part of myself, my hotly beating pulse I didnt run, but somehow, despite the tension, casually and masterfully made my way to the exit. With the professional gait of a smoker waiting for intermission to give himself over to an older and more acceptable vice, one that can be shared on the street.

Although its difficult for me to admit, I dont think theres anyone here who could help me. Yet I still have faith in words theyre the only thing I have left. I worship them fervently. For their sake I put up with all of you, whom I honestly couldnt care less about. Youre just some mute imaginary listeners to talk at. You are the reason words exist, because otherwise it would simply be too difficult. And at least you know who he is.

The name K-shev scared me, took me aback. Yet the girls flight, her shame, her self-disgust I thought to myself in the first instant isnt it all very unusual? It made me feel compassion for her. But also a sort of suspicion. Fear.

Ive tried to make sense of it before: the thrill of suspicion is the hidden urge that incites you to crush her with your hands, with your whole body. To force her to scream, to make her cry. To hurt her, to see the real depths, the entire essence. To my regret, I was soon forced to realize that she had told me the truth. She had wanted to escape from the nightmare, but its not as easy as simply crossing out your fathers name and taking a new one in its place.

This is most likely why the angel stayed silent: he caught a whiff of compassion. But what angels, what am I even talking about the truth is always repulsive. Since it is still too early for the truth, lets console ourselves just a bit longer on the brink of our first meeting, that moment back then.

Perhaps times were different then. I even suspect that they illuminated that which lay ahead, the future, with a shadowless light. Sometimes when I reminisce about a kind of coupling, for example, Im trying to get at that accumulation of concentrated tenderness. Is it possible that she was perfect, despite her last name? Was it the same with my navety temporarily wonderful, but navety all the same. When falling in love we are children, if only for a short while. In general we are children only for a short while, like a brief attack of perfection and light. But enough of that.

I had this dream of something like a Communist party headquarters in a provincial town. Or in the capital, but in some rundown neighborhood. Outside the summer heat is stifling. Deathly calm, a park bathed in scorching light that bleaches the green from the trees. The immaculate walkways with whitewashed curbs, all deserted. As usual the bureaucrats are using their work time for something else. Inside the hallways are cool and it would be almost pleasant if it werent so cold. Although there arent any mummies here, the door-lined tunnels make it feel like some kind of space for preservation, a mausoleum. But never mind all that, whats important is the content.