Velvet Cages: Three Erotic Stories

Contents

Epigraph 

Acknowledgements 

Heat Stroke 

A Splendid Soldier 

The Sadist* 

About the Author 

END NOTES 

Epigraph 

I think that here lies the sense of literary creation: to portray ordinary objects as they will be reflected in the kindly mirrors of future times; to find in the objects around us the fragrant tenderness that only posterity will discern and appreciate in the far-off times when every trifle of our plain everyday life will become exquisite and festive in its own right: the times when a man who might put on the most ordinary jacket of today will be dressed up for an elegant masquerade.

Vladimir Nabokov, A Guide to Berlin

Acknowledgements 

Over the past four years, David Mitchinson has encouraged me to write. However, his emotional support alone would not have sufficed, had he not constantly demonstrated it by reading my manuscripts and by giving various practical suggestions. English is not my mother tongue. And, in spite of speaking it fluently, I am still at war with certain prepositions, punctuations and syntaxes. Semantics, too, sometimes prove to be a problem. My thanks also go to Sabine Sweeney, a long-time friend and writer herself whose patient and painstaking reading of my work proved invaluable. And I owe a great debt to Lillian Hellman who taught me Creative Writing as a Distinguished Professor at Hunter College (City University of New York) when I was an undergraduate there quite some years ago. My thanks go especially to Henri Peyre, Sterling Professor of French at Yale University. This indefatigable teacher could not have been more generous with his time and energy. Last not least, I want to thank my children, who bore with me when times became hard and dark. The young closeness of my son and daughter kept me afloat when nothing else did. Their love is the frail bubble in which I live.

Heat Stroke 

Sometimes life seems unbearably strange! One moment I want to dance, shake my shoulders and skip from one foot to the other and the next instant life makes me feel so awful that I no longer wish to live. As the tip of my nose turns red and starts to itch and my stomach behaves as if I had swallowed several small stones, I cannot help but think that I have seen it all. At those times I feel that I have sniffed at every flower on three continents. Flowers! I remember vividly standing once on top of Cape Town’s Table Mountain with my brother Helge. Surrounded by a fresh sea wind and brilliant sunshine we were enjoying the splendid landscape that lay at our feet. On one side a large, horseshoe-shaped bay glittered in silver and blue, its narrow entrance protected by enormous coarsely edged rocks. And on the other side of the shore woods climbed in gentle profusion the hills, which huddled close to the sea. Helge and I talked, walked and laughed together. At one point I had bent down and plucked two or three delicate, unknown yellow blossoms that grew by the thousands around us. I didn’t know that I had engaged in an illegal action. But on our way down I was quickly reminded of the criminal offense I had committed.

‘Didn’t you read the sign?’ an elderly, ill tempered, bored and badly paid official accosted me. Unseen by us, he had walked out of a dark, narrow room that was built into the huge flank of the mountain.

Wrinkling his low forehead, he scrutinized me from top to toe as Helge and I tried to leave the large, steel elevator cage that had taken us off the mountain.

‘What sign, Officer?’ I asked in utter amazement as I blushed like a schoolgirl.

‘The one that says all plants on the summit of Table Mountain are under ecological protection, Madam,’ the old guard responded icily without blinking an eye. He obviously had experience with trespassers like me. Before we knew what would happen, the annoyed mountain angel pierced my innocent flowers with another severe look, flapped his enormous, invisible wings and then started to give Helge and me a lengthy lecture about the value and exceptional beauty of South Africa. And the necessity of its preservation I had so blatantly disregarded. I was furious but for my brother’s sake kept my mouth shut and pretended to listen carefully. Helge stands more in awe of authority than I do. When the guard had finally finished his stilted, pompous speech, he waved a shaky arm and dismissed us without any further ado.

‘No more flowers from Table Mountain,’ Helge grinned with relief as we walked toward his car. I love my brother’s good-natured humor. He had developed it in a household in which he was outnumbered by several women: his wife, two daughters, two South African maids and three beloved female dogs of different sizes, fur lengths and breed. Not to mention his two sisters who lived at a safe distance in the United States but kept in touch with him on a fairly frequent basis.

Flowers were not my only predilection. During my lifetime I had also listened to an wide range of sounds: From heavy gun shots to bombs falling night and day over a defeated Germany, to the faintest chirps of a mocking bird in southern Florida. I have been mesmerized by the art of a noble tenor on an outdoor stage in Italy, capable of holding a note in a powerful crescendo. And I have heard the trills of tongues as they vibrated against gums and white front teeth of young, thin Ethiopianwomen in smelly rags. The clever musicians were caught in a trance of joy standing barefooted in the midst of a dusty road in Addis Ababa.

While I am in the throes of a depression, I feel as if the world had suddenly turned black like the velvet gown that now hangs uselessly and forgotten in a spare closet. And I imagine death as a welcome escape from life’s wheel whose nauseating turnings force me to babble and cry like a child. Sheer misery reduces me to an eight-year-old girl again who has been punished, most probably for a good reason. Or at least what one of my struggling, war-weary parents then considered to be a good reason for a severe spanking, slowly administered with a rubber cudgel. Ignoring my fierce screams, they measured their judgment against the prevailing Zeitgeist, that mysterious entity, which influences our forever changing morals. I refer to those time-honored attitudes of a country and its people, reinforced by a common consensus and often based on religion, that changes the good thing of today into an intolerable and obsolete one tomorrow.

Now, with my own children long grown up but with life still administering blows that cause me to wallow in self-pity and throw my weight against any given object, often at someone who is close to me, I am slowly coming to my senses. Heroically, I no longer attempt to put the blame for my unfortunate situation on someone else. Which is not an easy task! Then, as I am still occupied with a hair-splitting thought, meaningless to anybody except myself, life, forever fickle, suddenly spins around like a ballet dancer and smiles at me with a mouthful of brightly gleaming teeth.

At least most of the young man’s teeth were sparkling as he grinned at me through the open window of my small car I was attempting to park at Miami’s busy airport. Only one of his upper front teeth was encased in gold—a lasting scar from one of his many street fights.

Hey, what do you expect from a Miami street kid? We fights all the time. Nobody never grow up here without getting hit over the head. That’s part of the deal, Babe.

The smile on the stranger’s face deepened and made his eyes dazzle even more. His irises swam on a dark deep pond. But he still looked like a small boy, eager for a new game. Thin waisted, he could not yet have been thirty years old.

It was an unbelievably hot and humid June day in Southern Florida. The weatherman with his smooth, seductive voice had promised another twelve hours in the mid-nineties with a humidity that hovered around 100%. The young stranger in uniform and I were talking under tons of overhanging, concrete blocks at the arrival level of Miami’s airport. Every huge slab of cast concrete seemed ready to burst open from the unrelenting heat and raised the temperature to an even higher degree. My face was purple and the backless, blue and white striped halter I wore, stuck to my frontal anatomy as if someone had used a fast holding glue. I was getting nauseated from the unbearable stickiness and urgently needed water to cool down. But I could not leave my vehicle. Sweating patrolmen in shorts that were held up by a belt with a big, shiny buckle in front walked back and forth on the crowded pavement. The guards were constantly on the watch for an illegally parked vehicle without a driver. It was obvious that these officers were only too ready to issue an expensive violation ticket, which the unfortunate driver upon his return would find attached to one of his windshield wipers.

In the late afternoon and under a cloudless sky I had driven on Interstate-95 from Fort Lauderdale to Miami in my un-airconditioned Dodge Omni. For most of the time the car had moved steadily along. I had kept to the middle of three lanes and watched calmly as faster cars overtook me on my left. For once I was not in a hurry and did not feel the urge to speed. Usually I drive too fast. It is a character trait I have inherited from my high-strung, hard-working father who was always pressed for time. To escape the heat somewhat I had rolled down both front windows where the wind instantly held up entire fistfuls of my hair, playing wildly with it, like a kitten leaping after a skein of wool. In spite of wearing sunglasses the constant strong draft blew several strands of hair, some dark-brown, some blond and some gray, into my eyes. As long as the car moved, heat and high humidity were bearable. The joyride lasted about forty minutes. But as soon as I reached the outskirts of the airport where I had to slow down while I passed an endless row of large unmarked automatically opening and closing glass doors that presumed to be the arrival stations for different airlines, the temperature became intolerable.

Please let me perspire at least a little, I prayed to some imagined deity who is supposed to be responsible for people like me that suffer from malfunctioning sweat glands. It is an inherited defect that often stealthily develops into a full-blown heat stroke, an affliction so unpleasant and dangerous, that I try to avoid it at all cost.

As much as possible, I kept close to the low, stark looking buildings on my right and scanned door after unlabeled door for any signs of British Airways. But there were none. Afraid I would miss Eric, who was arriving from London after a ten-day business trip, I pulled over to the teeming pavement that stretched forever under the darkly looming concrete overhang. Engine running and getting hotter by the minute, I searched for a kind soul I could ask where the arrival gate of British Airways was located. Yet the closest people rushing about were a family of four, each member loaded down with a big bulky suitcase or bag. The nervous looking parents and their two children, who skipped along and shrieked with excitement, unhindered by the bags they carried, were on the far right of the car I could not leave. Sighing and cursing under my breath, I slowly cajoled the Omni along one of several curbs that marked a row of oblong shaped cement islands.

When I saw a young African American, wearing a uniform similar to that of a traffic officer, come straight toward me, I did not want to ask him for help. Not because he was black, but because he wore a uniform. Having spent an early part of my childhood in war-torn Germany, I hate and fear most uniforms, no matter how elaborate and dashing they look. Yet there was nobody else except several impatient drivers in their cars directly behind mine. For the past ten minutes or so, every one of them who had managed to squeeze past me, had let me know by angrily blowing his horn that I was in his way.

Hold your horses, I yelled through the open window at the vehicle that was closest behind me as I bore as far to the right as I could without going up on the pavement lurching toward me. Then I put my left arm through the window and waived at the angry, sweaty driver, stuck to my back bumpers, to pass.

Some people are so stupid, I mumbled under my breath. When I get nervous, I quickly lose my patience, usually to the detriment of my most immediate environment.

Apprehensively, I checked my face in the mirror. Just as I thought, my skin from hair roots to chin had started to turn a purplish-red and my forehead began to throb madly—telltale signs that my system was overheating. But although I felt as if I were burning up, my face was barely moist.

Darn it all! Why can’t I sweat like any other decent woman? I’m close to having another heat stroke, I groaned and tried hard to ignore my throbbing head as slight waves of nausea began to infiltrate my system.

Worried, I stretched once more as far over to my right side as I could, leaned toward the open window on the passenger seat and smiled. That was all I needed to do. The friendly face of the officer, who had been approaching me, appeared between the doorknob and white roof of my car. He was perspiring profusely under a hat with a wide rim that almost covered his sparse eyebrows; below them glowed two large eyes with unusual brilliance.

Hi, Honey, how can I help you? His smile deepened as the young man looked at my halter and bare legs, uncovered more than usual. Pulling at my skirt and feeling embarrassed under his scrutinizing look, I quickly asked him for the arrival platform of British Airways.

You got to the right place, Babe. You are right smack in front of them airline. Just stay where you are and you’ll be ok.

His voice was less obtrusive than his eyes; it was a little raspy but sounded so good-natured that without feeling offended by the familiarity with which he addressed me, I eased into his kindness.

Do you know if BA flight #293 from London’s Heathrow airport is on time?

I briefly studied his jaw and looked at his neck that was barely visible under the collar of his uniform. Just a little below his left shoulder, I saw his name-tag, Richard Stanton. Without my glasses I could not see his badge number and assumed that he was one of the security employees with which Miami’s airport swarms.

Yeah, Honey. I happens to know she’s arrivin’ on time. Right on the dot at 5:00 p.m., as scheduled. You are all right an’ won’t not have to wait long.

Again there was a reassuring smile and a keen look from his soft, dark-brown eyes that leisurely walked all over me. I felt like a sitting duck out of her element.

Normally, I would have squirmed under such a prolonged stare. I am quite aware that, in spite of having a son and a daughter in their mid-thirties, my figure is still presentable. And at the risk of sounding conceited, I’m especially proud of my bosom. Contrary to those of many women my age and even some who are several years younger than I, my breasts do not sag yet. And my waist and even my stomach are still rather firm. Narrow hips, a fine gift from mother, have always helped me to look slim. My legs…, well, the left foot and calf show some veins and both of my thighs, most women’s weak spot, would benefit from lypo-suction. But my purse is too slim to consider such beautifying adjustments. Also, when I look at the upper legs of other women my age, I am quite happy. While my thighs do not live up to the demanding standard of a ballerina or a highly paid fashion model, they are neither too fat, nor too badly shaped. Daily walks and even forbidden short jogs on a wooden board walk around the island on which I live, as well as skating and swimming have developed certain leg muscles I would like to be somewhat more visible—preferably like those of a dancer. I adore dancers, especially when they are long-limbed. There is a vein on the inner thigh of a Russian ballet star that becomes visible when he performs one of his gravity defying, golden-skinned leaps in La Bayadere with which I fell in love at first sight. And why not have an ideal I can look up to and admire?

Oh, for God’s sake, when will you act your age, a friend of mine, now deceased, asked me not too long ago. Although I understood that he meant well, I despised him for trying to rub my nose in reality.

‘Let me dream a little longer,’ I had thought. I did not dare to speak aloud. In spite of his frailty—the muscles and tendons that had once made him a good looking man were all eaten up by his long illness, a heart that beat less strongly with each day—my answer, sharp and short-tempered, would have led into one of our frequent arguments. ‘What harm is in this dream of eternal youth, fostered by a society in which I live, except vanity? And who, for heaven’s sake, is not vain in one way or another, I ask you?’ I issued an audible sigh.

I had forgotten the young black man and stared through the front window of my vehicle before I again became intensely aware of the heat, the ghastly high humidity and my misbehaving, burning head. Waiting for Eric was quickly becoming sheer torture. More than ever I felt trapped under the low, dark, concrete slabs that jutted out above the arrival gates of Miami’s airport.

‘I hope they hold up,’ I thought briefly and saw my four-year-old self crouching on the hard damp floor of a bomb shelter with my head buried in mother’s bony flimsily covered knees. Two younger, crying siblings occupied her arms.

Hidden under a vague smile, I tried to lure my thoughts back into their previous, safer channel. ‘Every human being I have met so far and gotten to know to some extent, clings to one ideal or another—be it religious, aesthetic, political or simply materialistic. It seems that ever since man became conscious of himself, he needed an image with which he could identify. He constantly searches for something he can project outside of himself in the form of cathedrals, museums and libraries, theaters or even observation towers that bring the stars closer to him. The funny part is that often he does not realize until he has lived a fairly long time that the godhead he pursues so relentlessly lives within himself.’ Another deep sigh escaped my lips.

Where are you from, Honey? The young stranger, who now clung to the left front window of my car, interrupted my reflections. He, like many Americans before him, was curious about my accent. Slowly, my admirer had walked around the front of the Omni until he stood next to me. Somewhat startled, I looked at him as he beamed, pushed his hat a little higher and wiped his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief that looked apple blossom white between his dark fingers. A small bus, which was about to pick up passengers for rental cars had stopped in front of us. The driver had not shut off his engine and a stream of venomous air from its exhaust pipe ran along my arms resting on the steering wheel. Knowing that we were partly poisoned by the gas, I still hoped I would cool off at least a little that way.

The stranger bent slightly forward so that most of his face appeared in the opening of my window and gave me another encompassing friendly look. Once more, I became conscious of my exposed legs.

No, no, you don’t needn’t to pull down your skirt. Your legs are pretty and no one can see them except me, he smiled.

From Germany, I laughed against my will as I answered his question. Then I tucked nervously at my worn blue garment that had seen far better days.

Again, when I normally would have taken offense at such a personal remark from someone I did not know, I just shrugged it off. My head hurt badly, it was simply too hot for any moral compunctions and the low cement ceiling above me had begun to wobble slightly back and forth. Besides, I could not detect a shred of malice in my young man’s face. He behaved like a small boy in a toy store who walks from item to item, looking, touching and even quickly smelling at a favorite plaything when he thinks that no one can see him.

Please don’t do that! I said sharply, keenly aware of a slight tremor in my voice. Out of nowhere one of Richard’s forearms had extended into the interior of the car and, as if incidental, brushed against my left breast.

Oh, but it is so soft, he said. Although I felt embarrassed and annoyed, the surprised innocence in his voice made me laugh again. I also began to realize that I could ill resist his boyish rambunctiousness, nor his wide grin.

Well, that’s how it is supposed to be, isn’t it? I retorted, still giggling childishly as I squirmed in my seat. His face hung above mine. Two shiny, wide nostrils were closest to me. Above the broad ridge of his nose that looked foreshortened from my low angle, his irises were large, very dark and luminous. Like a couple of tiny moons his pupils reflected the light in two small dots; suspended on the same invisible horizontal line they moved in unison as if they performed a passionate pas de deux.

For a moment a warning sign blinked red in my mind: ‘Watch out, you are flirting with this boy who has no idea what that means. How could he? He has lived all his life in a ghetto. For him this airport is like a gate someone left ajar; it allows him a glimpse into another world. But even in Europe flirting is an acquired taste, a dying art that is only partly understood by experienced adults. You are just being utterly ridiculous.’ I was getting angry with myself as my observations rattled on like a freight train pulling a hundred loaded cars.

‘You behave like a teenager who has escaped parental supervision for a few hours; but you have a three-month-old grandson now; when are you going to learn something in life?’

As I took myself to task, I turned my head away from the young man who kept looking at me.

Yet the next minute I thought: ‘So what! We are in a public place. Nothing can happen to me here; I’m terribly hot and my head is pulsating so hard that I don’t care what is going to occur. If nothing else, Richard is a pleasant diversion from this heat and abominable nausea I can’t shake off without immersing in a tub of ice-cold water.’

I was also aware that regardless of any rational considerations, I stood at the edge of something that was far stronger than any human emotion. Sometimes, the sexual instinct reminds me of electricity. It has always existed on our small blue fragile planet and the moment someone plugs into it—usually by serendipity rather than by volition—he is swept off his feet by something very strong and overwhelming. It is a power that lifts him off his feet and tosses him into the air with such force, it could easily kill him. Look at Edison who not only invented the light bulb, one of the great blessings for mankind, but also the electric chair, this horrible nightmare whose long, indelible roots go back