The Swede by Robert Karjel Read Free Book Online Page B

closed his eyes, feeling only her hands and his own breath. His sleeve was in the way, and she made him take off his shirt. She felt him, up and over the shoulder. Again on the other arm.
    When N. looked up, she had taken a scalpel from the bag.
    “They’ve got to come out now.”
    N. didn’t answer. She held the knife in her hand in a way that suggested habit, heating the blade by the candle flame without getting it sooty. He let her. It didn’t hurt, only pinched a bit, as the stitches were eased out of the skin around the scars.
    N. stretched out his arms and looked at them: irregular stripes that looked like something sewn by Dr. Frankenstein.
    “Lift it up,” said Mary, and clapped her hand once in her lap. N. raised one leg so that she could reach. He was wearing only a pair of thin shorts. With the bandages rolled off, once again she examined him with keen little movements. Felt around the edges of hiskneecap, massaged a tendon in his knee, then touched a sore on the inside of his leg that extended down the calf.
    Her fingertips subtle, he got an erection. His hips responded but, overcome by shame, he pulled back his leg and sat up. He avoided looking at her.
    “Lift up your leg,” she said, rolling the scalpel between her fingers. “Leg.” When he didn’t respond, she bent forward and lifted it into her lap again.
    The small threads from the stitches looked like black pine needles when she laid them on the table.
    One last tug as a thread was cut, and N. let the other foot slide down on the floor.
    “Did I get them all?” she asked.
    He looked down at his legs. They had been the worst. He looked at all the twisting scars that branched like white roots. He was about to say something when Mary leaned forward so that her lips just touched his shoulder. Felt her warmth, her hair falling over his arm. Her fingers found their way in between his fingers. A white stripe revealed where there had once been a ring. He didn’t remember if he had lost it or taken it off.
    “It doesn’t matter,” she said, “not anymore,” and stood up. Once again, the tattooed cat’s eyes in the gap on her back when she turned around.
    “Not anymore,” repeated N. He stood up too. Mary moved slowly in front of him, as if she were dancing. Slowly, lightly. She touched her own shoulder with her cheek and came closer. Like a wave.
    “Did you have children?” she whispered.
    N. floated inside, as if he had drunk a truth serum. She felt it.
    He turned to her without looking. Her closeness there anyway, sensed as warmth, a scent. What he saw was his children’s faces. Asclearly as if they were standing right in front of him. Saw the color of their eyes. The blue.
    He held up two fingers, but Mary had already put her index finger over her lips.
    “Ssh . . .” Then she whispered, “No past . . . no future, just like me.” She smiled.
    He tried to smile as well.
    “You can live that way,” she said, with a slow shrug. “Can’t you?” She stood with her back to him, hesitating. N.’s breath moved through her hair. He exhaled again, making the loose hairs tremble. Then he stretched out his hands, gently, as if reaching out in a completely dark room, felt the skin beneath his fingers. Brought them to her hips, saw her shoulder blades relax. Slowly, as when a tree starts to fall, she leaned back against his chest.
    “No,” she said quietly, but not wanting him to stop. Took hold of his hands and led them over her stomach, guiding his movements with intertwined fingers. The inviting indent of her navel. Then it was his power that carried them forward, still with her hands over his. The hip bones’ relentless inward trail, fingertips balancing as if on a tightrope. Her gasp like that of a frightened audience. His own lustful sound when he brought his hands together over her mound. Thin fabric, a hint of hair. He pressed himself hard against her.
    “Does it feel awful?” she asked and turned around, taking hold of his hand