Nine by Andrzej Stasiuk Read Free Book Online Page A

pulling out his flesh in handfuls and molding it into balls, cubes, shapeless and novel objects, tossing them around the room, into corners, under the kitchen sink, behind the radiator, on the windowsill. The stuff would be covered with dust, forgotten like children’s clay, and no one would ask about him anymore. It didn’t hurt. He was heavy, sticky dough, his nerves, blood, eyes all folded into putty meat. Then there was a chill on his ribs. Her slender hand slipped inside, felt for his lungs, bit by bit removed the spongy matter, making pink balls the size of doughnuts. He could survive in this disjointed state, his mind dimmed but not dead, and someone eventually would piece him back together. Except that the apartment was too small for him now, there weren’t enough places to hide all the shapes, pieces, pellets. He didn’t want to be thrown into the trash bin at the far end of the dark courtyard with high walls on all sides and where white shirts flashed in windows—some offices, though the main occupant was gloom and still air. And the cats, constantly fighting for food in the garbage cans. At night their yowls were louder than the traffic. He was barely living
stuff now, but those insatiable animals would tear at him. He felt her touch his heart.
    â€œThere,” she said, “you’re relaxed.”
    Now she slapped with open hands, tenderizing meat. He felt good. He imagined her large breasts bouncing under her black blouse and knocking together with the same wet sound of the hands on his back. He told her to stop a moment.
    â€œAll right,” she said.
    He turned on his back, showing his hard-on. But she was sideways and paid no attention. Her forehead was covered with sweat. He noticed that she wore a silver earring.
    â€œWhere do you live?” he asked.
    â€œIn Praga.”
    â€œWhat do you feel when you’re doing it?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œIt doesn’t turn you on?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou know, massaging me?”
    â€œIt’s supposed to relax you, not turn you on.”
    â€œWhat turns you on?”
    She shrugged. He reached out and touched a breast. She didn’t move, didn’t look. He took advantage of the reality of it, that there were no secrets, and slipped his other hand under her skirt.
    â€œIt’ll all be wasted,” she said. “No benefit, just more tension and blocked energy channels.”
    He found a nipple, pinched it lightly, gently twisted, but nothing. The other breast seemed heavier. He knelt on the bedding, put his arms around her from behind, squeezed both breasts. He and she made a strange pair. She leaned forward, not to defend herself, only to rest her elbows on her knees. He
brushed her hair with his lips. It hadn’t been washed. He could see the white part at the top of her head.
    â€œI also know Thai massage,” she said.
    â€œWhat’s that like?” he asked, holding her even tighter. He passed his hand over her stomach and found three small rolls of flesh and her navel among them.
    â€œIt’s done with the feet. You lie on the floor, and I walk on you.”
    â€œBut you take your shoes off?”
    â€œYes. The energy mustn’t be blocked.”
    Â 
    He liked this too, though at times he couldn’t catch his breath. He was on his stomach next to the bookcase—she had to hold on to it so she wouldn’t slip off his oiled back. He could feel her feet up to the ankles sinking into his body. She waded through his innards, which were warm and slippery, but there was no pain. Earlier had asked her to take off her jeans. She did it indifferently, as she had allowed him to lick the sweat from her forehead. “She doesn’t have to be lively, as long as she’s warm,” he thought, and knew exactly what he was doing as her fingers kneaded his hot mud. He was drawn to an old and formless thing, an inconspicuous, unmoved, and passive thing.
    When he