How to Forget a Woman (novel , excerpt form) – by Dan Lungu

[...] In the beginning there was Andrea. With Andrea I discovered America and saw
Paris, call it what you will, at the age of nineteen. She was about twenty-five, I
think. Quite simply, I liked her and one day she took me off and gave me what I
wanted. I wouldn’t even have dared look at a woman six years older than me – a
real woman, as it were. My contribution was modest: I moved my two hands, as rigid
as brooms, over her nicely arching back and made a pleasant sperm donation. I
repeated the manoeuvre a number of times, registering satisfactory progress. I had
discovered, for example, the efficacy of the erogenous zones: I even used to
imagine them as secret buttons under the skin, which you had to identify, like in
a computer game, getting closer and closer, and which, once activated, quickened
her breathing, made her voice hoarser, knocked the stuffing out of her. After a
while, roguish lad that I was, I set myself the task of getting a shrill out of
her. But for that I needed a larger collection of buttons, a bit like you used to
need an entire collection of stamps to cut a figure in the neighbourhood. I
decided to enrich my collection by going out with other girls. Especially since I
had the experience now, didn’t I? I pulled Laura. She wasn’t a beauty, but I
reckoned that she must have erogenous zones. I didn’t manage to ferret out many
buttons, because I was barely at the stage of holding her around the waist and
kissing her when a common acquaintance told Andrea that she had seen me slobbering
over some girl down a side street in town. Things ended lamentably. Andrea was
very firm: she didn’t want to be mixed up with a bastard like me, while I didn’t
really have any explanations to give her. My performance in that situation was
woeful; when I remember it, I feel like thrusting my head inside my shirt for
shame. I began by promising solemnly that it would never happen again, the same as
I used to do in front of my parents whenever I put my foot in it, and I ended up
pleading, with tears in my throat, for us to a least meet one last time, in token
of farewell, blah-blah. I think that by the end I even had the cheek to tell her
that she didn’t know what she was throwing away.

With Laura it was something else. We were both students and I pulled her in a bar.
In the meantime I had seen Paris a few times, or America, however you want to call
it, but that wasn’t what she was primarily interested in. She was a tomboy and we
used to drink elbow to elbow. We were happy in our way. Lord, how much we supped
together – I get a shiver down my spine when I think of it now! We used to drink
in the rooms of the student hostel, in grotty bars, on park benches, on the shore
of the lake, in the bus, up trees, and even in the scoop of a mechanical
excavator. After a while, she convinced her old folks that she couldn’t go on
living in the hostel, where the conditions weren’t conducive to studying, and they
rented her a bedsit, where we used to drink as though we were demented. We had no
shame in front of each other. Heavy drinking and above all hangovers create a
special intimacy. At first, what I felt when I was with her was the same as if I
had been with the lads at school drinking liquor on the sly, and towards the end
of the year we spent together we felt like two decrepit veterans, who had gone
through no end of scrapes together. Of course, what brought us together the most
was the final period, when we practically cohabited in a ménage-à-trois: me, her,
and the booze. A bottle of booze was in no wise ever lacking. It was our staple
foodstuff. A bottle of beer has calories equivalent to a loaf of bread, as we
always jokingly used to hearten ourselves. Or to four eggs, if I remember rightly.
We devoured whole ovens of bread; we ate enough eggs for a lifetime. We ruined
ourselves shoulder to shoulder, but we felt wonderful. Lord, how much care of each
other we took! I would wake up in the night, my stomach griping, when I heard her
first retches, and hold the basin for her. I would pat her reassuringly on the
back and give her a slug of beer to rinse her mouth. Nor was she any less
forthcoming. In the morning, she would put cold compresses on my brow and make
salty coffee. Every now and then she would wash the sheets. She used to buy
pickled cucumbers. She would open the tins of corned beef she received from home.
I would pour the vodka into the glasses, measuring it out equally to the
millimetre, and she would rotate the beers in the freezer compartment, because
they didn’t all use to fit at once. I would go out to buy some mustard while she
boiled the Frankfurters. We could almost understand each other just by a glance.
Sex, although not lacking, wasn’t essential. Most of the time, we wouldn’t even be
able to remember how it was we woke up undressed one next to the other. “You were
a beast last night,” I would tell her, with my tongue like felt. “You were nothing
less too,” she would reply affectionately, casting her eyes around for a bottle
that might still contain some dregs. I won’t dwell on the embarrassing moments we
went through together because of swinish binges, nor on the odours we reciprocally
offered each other. It was lucky that we separated after a year. I’m sure that we
would have ended up a banal couple of alcoholics. That year, I barely managed to
scrape through my exams. She didn’t even turn up, and her father withdrew her from
the faculty. He had had enough of pouring money down the drain. We wrote each
other e-mails for a while. But without the salutary warmth of alcohol, our
relationship no longer had any zest.

That’s why Marga, with her way of being, left me mouth agape.

[...] I think it was three days after we crossed paths, Marga and I, that I
witnessed a scene that for me was strange. It all happened in the bedsit where I
was living at the time, not the same one where I used to have drinking sessions
with Luana. A more modest and relatively outlying bedsit. I spend almost a year
and a half there with Marga, although, at the moment we got together, I was on the
point of leaving it. I couldn’t keep abreast of the expenses, even though the rent
was way below the going rate. I put off leaving only because Marge turned up. For
that I was obliged to borrow money from friends. I couldn’t carry off my meteorite
– because she had effectively fallen out of the blue – to a room in a bachelors’
hostel, which is what I had been planning for myself. After the night of the
drinking binge, we began to see each other daily, even to spend a good many hours
together. After a week, she moved in with me, without, however, giving up the two-
room flat she shared with a girlfriend. Around three days later, as I was saying,
she turned up at lunchtime with a chic little suitcase, in which I could have fit
my entire wardrobe. I thought that she wanted to give me a surprise, bringing her
clothes. As a sign that our future was now to be shared. She carefully laid it on
the table and we began to chat. We talked about everything under the sun, without
once mentioning the name of Tudor. Unexpectedly, she started to undress. Without
interrupting the conversation. The same as any normal man’s, my blood began to
race, like a formula one engine. And with good reason! Up until then I hadn’t seen
her naked from any distance, but rather bared her skin in portions, caressed it by
chance; we had frolicked in semi-darkness. I knew the mentholated taste of her
saliva, had sniffed the perfumed lobe of her ear, and had discovered the scent of
her favourite deodorant, but I had not had the chance to enjoy an overall image of
the nude. As the fabrics peeled away, like in those electronic strip-poker games,
I went weak at the knees. She was gorgeous! A real corpse, as they say at the
newspaper office. Smashing from head to toe, from heel to crown. I even wondered
how such a looker could have landed in my ramshackle bed-sit. Maybe she had
wandered into the wrong neighbourhood by mistake. She was quite tall, almost as
tall as me, and had glossy skin. The same sandy colour was uniformly distributed
over her whole body. She had snub breasts, with nipples like two mulberries. When
she moved through the room, it was as if her bones were dancing beneath the skin,
as if they were somehow musically floating. I had only ever seen the like on the
small screen. Luana, even though many was the time that she had seemed appetising,
was a cartoon compared to what was now presented to my eyes. And it wasn’t
something on a screen or on glossy paper, but rather sat square on my threadbare
blanket. To feel her pulse I only had to reach out my hand. Exaggerating, I can
say that I didn’t even know whom it was I slept with. She had seemed beautiful to
me, but not dangerously beautiful. Of course, in time I got used to her charms,
but back then I goggled like an idiot. She went on talking calmly, carefully
placing her blouse over the back of the chair or meticulously inserting one bra
cup into the other. After a moment of paralysis, my heart leapt back into place, I
approached and clasped her waist. “It’s not the right moment yet, Andi,” she told
me in an off-hand voice and headed toward the bathroom. I heard the shower flow
and thought with horror about my Lilliputian and ramshackle bathtub, about the
patched-up showerhead that hissed and spat in all directions like a toothless old
codger. Then I looked around my room and got the urge to do a quick bit of tidying
up. I gave up the idea, realising that it was stupid, given that Marga had already
seen very clearly what a disaster there was in my den. If I think about it, both
the embarrassment about the bathroom and that subsequent urge were not at all in
my nature and had only arisen against the backdrop of the confusion caused by her
presence. In fact, they were a homage. A homage of which I was not conscious and
of which she had no idea. I moved aimlessly about the room, fetching a cup of
water from the kitchen and then taking it back. Waiting for the shower to shut the
hell up so that I could pounce on her. I would have gone after her into the
bathroom, but it was so cramped that there wasn’t room for two. I would have had
to stay there with my arse sticking out of the door. In short, I was bursting with
impatience. I examined myself in the big mirror in the hall. I pulled my lips back
and looked at my teeth. I champed them a few times. I tugged my ears foolishly. I
felt the mole on my shoulder. Everything was in order. With the exception of my
tracksuit bottoms. Which I was not only still wearing but which also benefited
from an indecent swelling at the crotch. I burst out laughing and in a few
manoeuvres I tried to arrange things. In vain. I was just turning round as Marga
emerged from the bathroom. Before I could throw myself on her, she had arrived in
the room, next to the table. I caught up with her and put my hands on her
shoulders, but she had already grabbed the little suitcase. She said, “What’s all
the hurry, Andikins!” Then she installed herself on the bed, with the suitcase
next to her. She opened it radiantly, like a Christmas present. But she didn’t
extract a pair of knickers, as I had been expecting, but rather she brought to
light a whole new world to me: fancy little boxes of various colours; small, large
and medium tubes; scissors whose point was curved like a duck’s beak; coloured
jars and phials; hairclips, teased elastics and bobbles; two plain combs and one
with a socket in the handle; a mirror embedded in a purple plastic frame, with a
handle; a brush and who knows what other bits and pieces I can no longer remember.
In other words, a veritable pharmacy. She began by inspecting them minutely,
sorting them. Some to the left, others to the right. Then she detached a double
bottom from the suitcase lid, in which were inserted dozens of tubes of lipstick,
as though in an ammunition belt. Following complicated calculations that furrowed
her brow, she extracted five items, which she deposited in front of her, beyond
the suitcase. After that she puckered her lips and hesitated. She had a cute
little face, like a squirrel’s. Her nipples had become small and hard, like two
unripe mulberries. She made up her mind relatively quickly. She took a piece of
cotton wool, which she soaked in liquid from a little canteen – acetone as I was
later to discover – and started cleaning the varnish from her nails, much to my
puzzlement: it had suited her very well and wasn’t at all chipped. “Why are you
spoiling it?” I asked her in a whisper. “Ugh, I’m bored of this colour… I’m going
to do them in orange, I think,” she answered sulkily. We exchanged a few more
words, but the more she went on scrubbing her nails – first her fingernails then
her toenails – the conversation began to wilt, and then completely died. Marga was
absorbed in her meticulous task, which she was performing with visible pleasure.
She was sitting bent over herself, attentive to each little detail, to each
brushstroke. She was holding her tongue between her teeth and every now and then
she would let out a satisfied “aha!” To her, I was probably somewhere beyond the
horizon, maybe even at the polar icecap. So I sat on a chair and leafed through a
newspaper. My tracksuit bottoms were now draped over my crotch as prim and proper
as could be. Only a slight disarrangement interposed later on, after Marga had
finished painting the new varnish, violet much to my surprise, and started
flapping her hands in the air like a frightened bird. The disarrangement was due
to the fact that I thought she had finished all her business. But I had a rude
awakening. After the drying of the fresh nail varnish followed the spreading of
the creams. I had finished going through the articles and gone on to reading the
small ads, but not for one moment did it enter my head that I would also reach the
obituaries. Nonetheless, I have to admit that the spreading of the creams involves
a ritual worthy of close attention. It was a great pity that I didn’t ascribe it
the proper importance from that very day, but within a year and a half I had
occasion to catch up with a vengeance. At the time, I only caught the ritual from
the head down, missing the stages dedicated to the forehead, cheekbones and chin,
as well as the eyes – for which she would delicately squeeze from an orange tube a
little thread of cream the size of a sparrow’s dropping, then spreading it with a
circular massaging motion around the circumference of her eye sockets. But that
day I saw her fingers moving with infinite delicacy over her throat, which she
gracefully stretched forward, insisting on each individual cell, especially in
those areas where there is a major risk of wrinkles appearing. Naturally, the
effect of the cream was, as I was later to discover, almost null if at night you
don’t sleep on a cylindrical pillow, under the neck more than the head, so that it
keeps the throat slightly flexed. Then her hands descended over her body,
caressing her shoulders, diligently massaging her breasts – from above and from
below – evenly distributing the cream over her abdomen and buttocks. She was
wholly absorbed in this activity, with a smile of contentment on her face that
betrayed a profound satisfaction. The thighs and calves came next, for which she
reserved long and rectilinear movements. The last quarter of an hour was dedicated
to her feet, with the proper attention to each individual toe. It was not until
then that she deigned to cast me a velvety glance. I had long given up on my
planned
assault. Nor was she in a hurry, for, sitting motionless, so that the beneficial
creams could deeply penetrate the skin, she animatedly expounded her own theory of
feminine beauty to me. According to her theory, women have the supreme duty to be
beautiful. For that reason, they must make use of all the means that progress and
the human mind have discovered to this end. No, it shouldn’t be an egotistic act.
Woman had to look as good as possible for the man by her side, for her lover. As
proof of her love. She was not at all in agreement with those women who pampered
their bodies only in order to display them in magazines, on the screen, or in
pole-dancing clubs. The only beneficiary should be her partner. Which is to say
me, I told myself, and I felt my chest puff out as though under the sweet weight
of a medal. That’s how I got it into my head not to bother her at such moments,
because it was for my benefit. We went on chattering for a while, for her skin was
feeding slowly but thoroughly, and in the end we both got into bed, because it had
grown late. We both slept happily.

Then, one fine day, Marga vanished the same as she had appeared: unexpectedly.

Of course, Marga was an extraterrestrial creature and had arrived from a faraway
planet. She used to feed through her skin. The nutritive substances were hidden in
cosmetic creams. That’s why she had no smell. The vitamins and minerals were
contained in creams so as not to attract attention. She had intelligent chiefs.
Her chic little suitcase was no less than a secret laboratory with a handle. It
was a portable kitchen, but one that also contained the apparatus whereby she
could send and receive information. Of all her accessories, the comb with a socket
in the handle was the most suspicious. She, artificial woman, had come to extract
a secret from the earthlings. Because she had to bear a name, they called her
Marga. But her real name was something else. Probably something with a lot of W’s
and X’s, maybe even a Q. What secret she wanted to extract is not known. The
secret she wanted to discover was secret. In order to fulfil her mission, she
needed a source. From whom she could wring information. Which is to say a sap. In
order to be successful with the earthlings, the female had been tailored to their
tastes, by consulting Internet porno sites. At first, the spy hooked on to Tudor.
But Tudor was a moron who didn’t know what world he was living in. He didn’t have
a clue about any secrets. So, it was necessary to change the source. Her chiefs
authorised it, vexed at wasting so much precious time. For the secret was also
urgent. And so she found another sap, Andi by name. He was a down-at-heel
journalist, with limited access to information. That is why the spy worked a spell
and infiltrated him into the investigative department of the newspaper where he
was employed. Andi thus became less down-at-heel. At work, he soaked up a huge
amount of information, which the spy would wring out of him at night between the
sheets. It was hard work wringing out the data, but she did her duty. The most
difficult thing was the smell, but apart from that it was quite enjoyable. The
earthling didn’t smell of cosmetics. He reeked like a human male. Which for a
synthetic being is rather icky. She put up with it for as long as she could, and
when she could stand it no more, she reported back to those above. She gave a
detailed explanation of the situation. Her chiefs, holding their noses, had to
agree with her. They allowed her to end her sojourn without having extracted the
whole secret. But they transmitted the following to her: “Be nice to that stinker
and don’t leave him out on a limb. At least write the lamebrain a note. End of
transmission.” She replied: “I wasn’t just nice about it but very nice, and I
wrote him this: ‘You reek horribly like a human. I’m sick of you. I hate you!’ End
of transmission.” “That’s no good, girl! The bloke will catch on. He’s not daft.
Be more subtle. End of transmission.” “Oh, alright… I’ve changed the text: ‘Dear
Andi, I’m sick of the squalor…’ End of transmission.” “We knew that you were a
clever girl. You’ve done a wonderful job. For that we’re giving you another two
lives as a bonus. We’re looking forward to seeing you! End of transmission.” After
this dialogue, the spy opened her chic little suitcase and rubbed herself with a
special cream. Not so much as twenty seconds passed and she grew a pair of huge
wings, as beautiful as could be. Then she carefully climbed onto the window ledge,
picking her way among the littered cigarette-ends, and took flight towards her
distant planet.
Of course, she took the little suitcase with her.
She must have tucked it somewhere under a wing…
I had to find out somehow why she had disappeared!

Translated by Alistair Ian Blyth