BERT by Rudolf Nureyev Without Make UP
Charitable Organization “The World Patrick White Intellectual Heritage: Australia” / http://proza.ru/diary/yuri2008/2008-04-17 / starting publication of the 10-Books of Australian Writer Yuri Ryuntyu in this year of his the 60-th jubilee: 1949-2009 in English, Russian and French:
Book 1
2009 ROCK IDOL & SUPERSTAR: Freddie Mercury and Rudolf Nureyev
ISBN 978-0-9806446-0-9 ART DOCUMENTARY: 1938-1993
Book 2
2009 RUDY NUREYEV: WITHOUT MAKE-UP
ISBN 978-0-9806446-1-6 SHORT STORY
Book 3
2009 ROUDI NOUREEV: Sans Maquillage
ISBN 978-0-9806446-2-3 SHORT STORY
Book 4
ISBN 978-0-9806446-3-0 BALLET DOCUMENTARY: 1910-1997
2009 ÎÄÍÎÒÎÌÍÈÊ ÂÅËÈÊÈÅ ÍÅÌÛÅ: ÍÓÐÅÅÂ ÓËÀÍÎÂÀ ÄÓÄÈÍÑÊÀß ÝÑÀÌÁÀÅÂ ÏËÈÑÅÖÊÀß ÀÞÕÀÍÎÂ
Book 5
2009 ÑÓÏÅÐÇÂÅÇÄÀ & ÐÎÊ-ÈÄÎË : ÍÓÐÅÅÂ È ÌÅÐÊÞÐÈ
ISBN 978-0-9806446-4-7 ART DOCUMENTARY: 1938-1993
Book 6
ISBN 978-0-9806446-5-4 THEATRE DOCUMENTARY: 1917-1997
2009 ÎÄÍÎÒÎÌÍÈÊ ÐÅÊÂÈÅÌ ÄËß ÔÀÐÈÑÅß: ÞÐÈÉ ËÞÁÈÌÎÂ
Book 7
ISBN 978-0-9806446-6-1 SCIENCE FICTION
2009 ÎÄÍÎÒÎÌÍÈÊ ÏÀÐÀËËÅËÜÍÛÅ ÌÈÐÛ: ÀÍÄÐÅÉ ÒÀÐÊÎÂÑÊÈÉ
Book 8
ISBN 978-0-9806446-7-8 SHORT STORY
2009 ÎÄÍÎÒÎÌÍÈÊ ÑÊÀÇÊÈ ÑÒÀÐÎÃÎ ×ÅËÎÂÅÊÀ
Book 9
ISBN 978-0-9806446-8-5 THEATRE DOCUMENTARY: 1936-1996
2009 ÎÄÍÎÒÎÌÍÈÊ ÐÅÖÅÏÒ ÄËß ÃÅÍÈß: ÐÎÌÀÍ ÂÈÊÒÞÊ
Book 10
2009 ÐÓÄÈ ÍÓÐÅÅÂ: ÁÅÇ ÌÀÊÈßÆÀ
ISBN 978-0-9806446-9-2 SHORT STORY
ÑÅÐÈß ÈÇ 35 ÊÍÈÃ Þðè Ìýòòüþ Ðþíòþ: Youri Mathieu Runtu: Yuri Matthew RYUNTYU - ÏÐÎÔÈÍÀÍÑÈÐÎÂÀÍA ÑÓÏÅÐÇÂÅÇÄÀÌÈ ÌÈÐÎÂÎÉ ÈÍÒÅËËÅÊÒÓÀËÜÍÎÉ ÝËÈÒÛ È ÌÓËÜÒÈÌÈËËÈÎÍÅÐÀÌÈ ÍÓÐÅÅÂÛÌ http://rudolfnureyev.com.au/ È ÔÐÝÄÄÈ ÌÅÐÊÜÞÐÈ http://mercuryfreddie.com.au/, ÓÎÐÕÎËÎÌ http://warholandy.com.au/ È ÓÀÉÒÎÌ http://patrickwhite.com.au/ ÄËß ÁÅÇÂÎÇÌÅÇÄÍÎÃÎ ÐÀÑÏÐÎÑÒÐÀÍÅÍÈß Â 200 ÑÒÐÀÍÀÕ ÑÎÄÐÓÆÅÑÒÂÀ ÎÎÍ c 1998-2008.
Ïèñàòåëü Þðè Ìýòüþ Ðþíòþ:
ÐÓÑÑÊÎE ÇÀÐÓÁÅÆÜE: ÀÂÑÒÐÀËÈß
Àâñòðàëèàía Ëèòåðàòóðà Póññêîãî 3àðóáåæüÿ
Yuri Matthew Ryuntyu was born in KIZHI, ONEGA LAKE, Russia. Following his studies at the Academy of Science, Yuri Matthew RYUNTYU moved to Sydney (Australia) and worked, most notably, as a medico-biology scientist. A prizewinning scholar and academician, he has published a 45 books of literary and cultural criticism, including <The Recipe for the Genius>, <The Requiem for the Foresee>, <The Grate Surrenders>, <Abreast and Profile of The Imperial Russian Ballet> and <The Apostolic Silver Age of Russian Culture>. He has also written for such publication as the World of News, the Book Review, the Theatre Life, the Pravda, the Moscow Evening, the Moscow Pravda, the Megapolis Express and the Evening Club about Poetry, Literature, Movies, Religion, History, Music, Opera, Ballet, Politics and Australian Arts, where he is a contributing editor. His literary works and articles are available in English, French, Russian, German, Japanese and Kazakh for readers. Ryuntyu was able to dedicate himself entirely to literature following the success of <Rudolf Nureyev: without Make-up> in Russia, a gloomy satire on sexuality published in 1995. Ryuntyu’s ironic and often disillusioned perception of the state of affairs in Russia during and after the Communist occupation produced a body of work that is still at the forefront of twentieth-century Russian and Australian literature. A most famous: <The Temptation: Boris Yeltsin>, <On the Way of the Cross: Alexander Solzhenitsyn>, <Idol Russian Gay Culture: Sergey Paradzhanov> and <The Meditation: Bella Akhmadulina and Joseph Brodsky> http://ryuntyu.com/8o/ Yuri Ryuntyu live in Cairns, Great Barrier Reef, Australia + Ðþíòþ o Êóëüòóðe Ðîññèÿí â ÑØÀ The Ronald Reagan Presidential Library and Museum USA http://www.reaganlibrary.com/
+ http://ryuntyu.com/BIBLIOGRAPHY.htm + http://ryuntyu.com/DIPLOMA.htm
ÏÐÎÄÎËÆÅÍÈÅ HA ÏÎÝÇÈß: ÐÓÑÑÊÎ-ßÇÛ×ÍÀß ÀÂÑÒÐÀËÈß-ÕÕI ÂÅÊ THE MODERN RUSSIAN LITERATURE: POETRY RUSSIAN-SPEAKING AUSTRALIA-XXI CENTURY http://stihi-ru.com/ ÄÅÒÑÊÀß ËÈÒÅÐÀÒÓÐÀ: ÐÓÑÑÊÎ-ßÇÛ×ÍÀß ÀÂÑÒÐÀËÈß-ÕÕI ÂÅÊ THE MODERN RUSSIAN LITERATURE FOR CHILDREN: RUSSIAN-SPEAKING AUSTRALIA-XXI CENTURY http://ryuntyu.com/
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THE MODERN RUSSIAN LITERATURE FOR CHILDREN: RUSSIAN-SPEAKING AUSTRALIA-XXI CENTURY http://ryuntyu.com/
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THE WORLD ANDY WARHOL INTELLECTUAL HERITAGE: XXI CENTURY http://warholandy.com.au/
THE WORLD RUDOLF NUREYEV INTELLECTUAL HERITAGE: XXI CENTURY http://rudolfnureyev.com.au/
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THE WORLD YURI MATTHEW RYUNTYU INTELLECTUAL HERITAGE: XXI CENTURY http://ryuntyu.com.au/
The traffic light’s red.
It’s forbidden to cross the street.
I stand at the cross section and watch the oncoming pedestrians.
There are two more weeks until my holidays, all my works complete.
Christmas is at the tip of my nose. Which means? The year is over. One more year has bit the dust.
I think only about presents and nothing else. If I fly to the island of Fiji then there won’t be too much time left. I need to choose, wrap in pretty boxes and post today or tomorrow. It’ll be a shame to be late. Though a parcel to the States takes a couple of days or maybe even a week. What about to Europe? It could be there the next day if I send special delivery. What about these? These presents and postcards, perhaps amount to one hundred and fifty. That’s correct isn’t it? From such care it’s boggling to the mind.
I love holidays. They are a difficult and glorious time of the year, especially between Christmas and New Year. I’m glad that I have many friends.
At last the green light flickers on
I hurryingly cross the street. Bert comes up to me. No I’m not late. He knows me, so that’s why he’s sure, that if it’s one o’clock then everything is already ordered for my lunch.
We walked hand in hand. Here’s our fancy cafe on the busy corner.
He sits then... leans over to me... over the table and asks...
“Do you know Fitzgerald, the painter? He’s in hospital after attempted suicide. On Tuesday the thirteenth,” he quickly explained.
“Two days after the death of Lady Dell in the nursing home,” swept into my head.
I freeze and watch, as his fingers dipped in the sweet bilberry and yellow cream, drawing all over the table cloth. His lips pleasurably sip ...the cappuccino... his tongue... nervously quivers.
“That’s horrid,” I scream uncontrollably, attracting the attention of the suddenly quiet customers.
Immediately to hide my feelings, I begin pretending to wave my arms and with discontent stare at the curious neighbors, wiping demonstratively my mustache with the purple serviette. My eyes pleadingly ask him to tell me at once.
“Did he write a farewell letter, or drink some sort of tranquilizer? Poor unfortunate Matthew, Matthew Fitzgerald,” I say confusingly.
“I don’t know the rumors, but they found him on Friday,” Bert explains unwillingly, losing faith towards the sincerity of my curiosity.
I hide with great difficulty from my friend, that I’m gravely jolted. My lunch is stuck in my throat. I try with all my might to act and camouflage my true feelings. Will I get away with it?
I try to hide it from myself and not to look at Bert. I concentrate my whole attention on the desert table. My hands convulsively tear the collar of my shirt. I don’t know what will be ahead; I can’t even hold the cake spoon. My knees are knocking together. How can I hide my paleness? Is it even possible? I watched secretly myself in the mirror opposite me. I can somehow focus my eyes on my reflection. I was right. I’m as white as the table china.
I pity suicide and am deeply sorry for his lover Steve, but who do I pity more? I don’t know? All want to do is moan and groan, sob and stamp my feet.
“Don’t suffer over him. Matthew was a scoundrel. All the time that you knew him he was with Steve on the sly. They’re both the same. You know sexual maniacs. All of their girls... boys. They’re filthy bedroom rugs. Is it possible to feel something towards such scum, as Steve and that fool in the hospital?”
“How old is he?” I add from jealously to slut - Steve, who dumped me for the sake of Matthew Fitzgerald.
“Thirty eight,” Bert uttered, staring nonstop at my tortured eyes.
“And at thirty eight, he’s already tired of living? Didn’t you know that … he was a successful painter? Many loved his collages, although I’ve never got a chance to see them.”
“You’re right, many people love him, and not only for his paintings, mostly for what’s in his pants,” Bert winked. “Well, I have to rush, I’ve got work to finish. Bye, Rudy. See you tonight,” he kisses me on the run.
I say nothing in reply. My tongue is swollen and mouth inflamed. I can’t force it to move. I try to whisper something, but it was impossible. Nothing is heard from my throat except the gurgling of saliva. I try harder to cover; I stick my lips to the rim of the cup. What for? It’s empty and it looks idiotically. I try again to gaze at myself in the mirror on the other wall, that’s hanging behind the palm. Bert has vanished and nobody is peeping into my cup, so I calm down.
I’m ashamed of myself for my weakness and passions, which burst open my heart on any, even the most trivial conversation about Steven... his lover.
Another minute passes and I again feel that I finally lose control and that I’m close to hysterics. In a half faint I turn my head and peer into all the corners of the cafe. I’m overjoyed that I’m at last alone and do what I want, I longed to do. I closed my eyes.
I don’t need to talk to myself, to suffer and search for an excuse for his unexpected death. Good that everyone nearby had finished lunch and the customers returned back to work. It encourages me, even when I’m at last left alone there... from where there’s no escape. My legs are paralyzed; they refuse to obey my brain’s commands.
Steaming tears stream down my cheeks for us all. Yes’ it’s for Steve, for myself and for everyone. There is so much tragedy in our lives. Here heartlessness rules the demons of death, unhappiness, filth and treachery. Who’s guilty in it all? Fatigue crushed my shoulders. With disgust I threw the serviette under the table. Who’s tired of living? I’m tired of living too. My hands grab my head tightly. I forgot where I was and who loves me!
Aren’t I the only person that remains one on one with what happened in my life a week ago, before the tragedy in the hospital? What and why do I want to hide from myself? All of my unhappiness is before me, before my eyes. Here they are, right here. What’s ahead? What else can there be? Why do I need it?
I remembered about the pain, that I experienced a week ago.
My light, my glory is life. Steve cynically lied to me all these... months. He was together with that painter, inseparable for one day. Did they love each other? Does it really matter? I have no excuse for them. I don’t understand such love. It seems to be like a zoo.
I hear bashing in my head. Blood hiccups in my veins. A headache cramps my skull and teeth start to click a rock-n-roll rhythm. How’s it possible? How can I love, if every one of them has... three lovers? How many does Steve have? Phil, Chris, David and.... super sexy Fitzgerald. Love is dying out in me, giving birth to hatred and the vindication of revenge.
“How difficult was it to divide us into a schedule?” I hiss through clenched teeth.
“A bed with five men. That demands a knack.”
No, there’s one cunning thing that can’t be passed by.
What’s with me?
I was hit by a foul stench emitted from my mouth.
Perhaps my stomach wants to revenge me. Is it a bit late for such obsession?
I want to resist against the disgust I feel towards Steve and Matthew Fitzgerald, but I can’t... find truthful words.
What can I do?
Ah, what can I do?
I pity them all, I can’t be vindictive to the dying and to the future widower-Steve.
I’m bitter for my blind trust to him, Steve.
I understood that he led me through some kind of secretive camouflage and peculiar timetable, like I’m the next train to come along.
Isn’t it a vile confession to your… self?
I entrusted my body with him, my priceless Steve,
undertook upon me his lewd scoffing...
an uncountable number…
of times.
Oh, oh, Steve... my love.
I don’t understand why he entangles me with his lies.
What excuses are there?
He was only starving for my flesh.
His ties to... me turned... inhumane and... an outrage.
Why did he punish me for my love to him, for my fidelity to him alone and no one else?
Where does the hatred in him emerge from, to my sincerity in love?
Where did he gather heartlessness?
Let him open the secrets of his cruelty.
Why does he inflect such pain?
Why don’t I have such evil bitterness in me?
Yes and what for?
How can I resent myself?
Isn’t there something a bit crook with me?
Have I turned into a shit?
Absolutely not...
Steve had already long ago been born into a ravenous beast.
Could it be possible that someone taught him to kill hearts before he met me?
The puzzle frightens me with its simple answer. I hate to believe it.
What if my pain is the same pain, which arouses pleasure in?
Why... so... Steve?
Is it an orgasm through masochism?
Yes, perhaps I’m close to the truth. Is that why he wounds everyone who’s in love with him?
Chris, David, Phil, him and... me. Isn’t that so?
It’s very much so.
How I don’t want to believe it. Is it in his youth and till now, is a feral beast, revenging for the treachery of his first lover... to everyone around.
Each of us has a dark secret, but why did this dreadful thing collapse upon me from Steve?
Why, such torture and suffering?
I discovered the truth. Has an explanation been overturned? It is the answer. The secret of Steve... and his... lascivious… sex……hunger for sex. It lives and hides inside him. Why couldn’t I agree with it earlier? If only I knew... that then, I wouldn’t have stepped into that vile garden. The place where his insects hunt for fools, like me. I shouldn’t have known how he loves to live for him… self, counting like beads, mine... or.... someone else's fates. I wouldn’t have been trapped where he habitually sifts tens of loves through his cynicism intrigue and timetables. It’s where hours are corrected for the arrivals and departures in his bed of all participants of the game in love.
My eyes opened and I became mature, that’s why I could see what occurred. He tormented my nerves, exhausted from voluptuousness that was given by lying to me. The victim was I. “But I wasn’t alone,” I huffed to myself. There are many more who love me. It’s true that we’re becoming scarcer. One of them is in the hospital, or maybe already in the morgue...
Suicide is a serious intention without any reasonable reason.
“Death of one of us was just part of the fun. Weren’t they your plans?
Yes, Steven the bones don’t always fall in amusing combinations, even if the player like you is experienced and extremely professional.
Steve you lost. My dear friend it’s your bad luck, my Steve.
Congratulations, live ... long, Steve,” I talked to his apparition, which flickered of a second before my eyes.
I’m helpless to do anything about myself. He’s not to me, your Fitzgerald. I’m bitter that he too lost. I need to accept that the game of love was successful. Tears flow like rain that I see from the window. I can’t help ... myself, I ...love him. I can’t even pull out my hanky. I pity ... Matthew, myself ...and ... him. Steve fatally wounded me when he shredded my heart. I’m lost for words to explain my own stupidity, what else can I think of? I’m not malicious and can’t undertake the same revenge as he practices. In the worst case, I must find another victim... and? It’s my habit and style to cause suffering to someone. I searched and will continue to search for a real love. I didn’t strive to slash hearts or souls of someone, to become... relieved. Do I need it? Not, of course, not. It’s no for me, Steve.
Has God punished me? For... what and ... why? Do I really need to relive such thing and banish my fragile conscious, then cruelly stamp on my restless heart? Why? Why did I give him love? Is it this that has devastated me in the end? Such ... unbearable ... burning pain from ... loneliness.
I sit for ages with closed eyes. My head leans on the table and looks as if I’m reckless. My fingers become numb. I can’t believe, what’s wrong with my head. My legs are twisted like a busted wheel from my neglected bike dumped in the garden. When I rolled the dice controlling my life it landed on his happiness. My tragedy is clear. I lost without cheating. I never knew that he was so sadistically. My love is mutilated before being involved. God what’s with me? I’ve lost balance... and the ceiling's crumbling over me.
I strain with all my will but can’t lever my face from the surface of the marble table. The split ends of my hair dangle limply. I’m nearly sure of it. What a terror I feel how they screw into metal nails and begin to rip apart my skull. I raise my hands and massage my head.
There’s an electrical squall and sparks from a silent fire in a race that ran through my elbows and now danced on the table. I’m not surprised. I don’t believe that now I’ll be better, without this lightening in my swollen brain. I don’t agree with one thing. How could I give up my body to be humiliated? Why and to whom? To the first ...acquaintance ...that caught... me… like a rabbit... in the dark alley... by the Seine. Yes, it’s true, but why do I still love him and continue to do so… more stronger ...and stronger. Is it possible after everything, Steve? What do the rest of his lovers know about him? Maybe they need exactly the same? From him ...to live between them ...like a double ...adapter. What’s he like inside, that Steven of mine? However, he’s already long ago ceased to be mine. How is he mine now my far away Steve? I slightly and very timidly began to fit into his cold... cynicism towards me. It stops being prohibited for me. Did his sodomite nature hide here? No, Steven is no longer a secret for my heart. To be exact what’s left inside my chest. I again inhale with difficulty. Isn’t it how it all should have happened between him and me? You see I was pure and innocent. I collapse from under the pressure of his professional talents. I’ve undertaken only a few sexual experiments and he became my first temptation.
I never before knew lies before I met with this sodomite. My gay-hood began with him. Do I need to say more? Traditions, rule the world. This means simply that the first love is without fail unhappy. That’s exactly what happened. Love blinded my soul. Didn’t he warn me that I wasn’t his first? He told me more than once that he was born that way. I knew that he was attracted to every male since he learnt to speak. Why? Why didn’t I keep my distance from him like from the devil? What number was I, one hundred or maybe it’s more, but far from the last? Perhaps it’s clear... I began with him and he continues to serve newcomers as if nothing happened.
What’s in it for him? Does he really need to sacrifice me?
Are we involved in a never-ending rage of madness?
I conquered myself and blinked at an unfamiliar view.
I didn’t know what’s happening...
Is there anything going on anyway?
What’s this then? Why do I see him, Steve?
I looked ...again, yes ...it’s him.
Am I sick? Why did I lose him from sight, I barely even winked with my left eye. What is it? Where's Steven? Of course... he’s not here. It’s all my due to my worry. What does he mean to me now? What kind of feeling is crueler than his? He’s standing two paces from me, so I repeat everything that Bert gossiped to me. I called him a street boy prostitute and used rug for by passers.
He sat and caught his breath. Steve began to convince me that I don’t understand his unique sexuality.
“Steve ... forgive … me ... I am fifteen years older and can’t be like you,” I try to take exception as I answer.
He flared like a ball of lightening. His eyes flooded with blood in indignation. He loses me as one of his clients and ardently starts to persuade me that there’s nothing dishonorable if you love twenty or thirty people at once. It’s a reason to live. To ...give up ...never-ending... lust.
To rape them all senselessly and give yourself to be raped is the inspiration of his life. Is it possible that it’s your soul reason to live? Isn’t my faithfulness enough, you feral mongrel?
“How dare you love everyone free to use and without groveling or pleading for their collection of lips, sperms and affection on the putrid floors of over-pissed toilets,” I choked and gasped for breath.
My essence... couldn’t accept what was said in a downpour of sincerity, anguish and depression. Grieving over the death of a lover … Fitzgerald.
No, he hadn’t given up protecting himself. He began to talk about something, which I didn’t understand... Gradually I seemed to grasp the meaning of his words.
Steven didn’t see lies between us. It was his everyday life before me. It all started long ago from the moment he started school. He was fascinated by everyone around, to women as well as men. They were the same to him. Steve didn’t separate anybody into special categories. He was attracted to them all and they loved him, but each in their own way. Steve’s love can’t be their love. He was madly alone from misunderstanding. It was such love, which another person couldn’t know... and no less accept as the truth.
He sobbed knowing that he was doomed and no place to go. Pain and self-torture celebrated victory and finally crushed his courage.
His confession blinded me. No, it’s true. I never loved him this youth. I accepted enjoyment when I sampled a piece of his cake... and sweetness of his body.
If you’re in love you must be able to understand without any stupid question. Everyone loves dreams and wishes, isn’t it a natural destination of mankind. It’s our native essence.
“No, no, no, it’s impossible,” my teeth chatter.
Steve’s religion, his feeling of worship, stunned me. Yes, he’s a real, Tarzan in the jungle of human Eros, with many substitute lovers.
He’s no hunter here. He lives.... here, it’s his... home. Everything is cozy, real and simple. There is no egotism and desires to overpower somebody or rule him or her. Here is no acidic jealousy, which once blinded ...me ...and ...a novice, to... hatred and stupor. I wanted suddenly to be like him, so decided to leap into the boiling geyser... of tenderness. A second later I changed my mood and surprisingly forgave him. I’m guilty of sinful desires... that will cause him responding pain. I’m petrified of my brutality. I have no excuse for what I had time to call him as a highway for pedophiles. I saw my intolerance and understood almost everything about myself. I have no rights to be cruel to my lover, who refused me. No, no. My pain is fair punishment for me is response to his torture. My insanity hides here, doesn’t it?
What about the quality of his soul? Maybe Steven’s soul is from another dimension? What if he’s here inside someone living as a butterfly? Perhaps such butterfly could hate me? It’s clear that all my hostility is furtive. I simply don’t want to accept the truth, that I’m always myself. I’m a man that’s why I’m an egotist as well. I don’t want to agree that I didn’t love a human, but myself as a butterfly. Soon I loved myself and only myself. No, I never loved him the way I love a butterfly. My love is simple. My superstitious minds are cruel to insects.
It’s completely unfamiliar to him. He’s from another world where my laws don’t exist. My rules of love are alien to him. He doesn’t search for support. He’s mind wanders to fly under the wind of his butterfly wings. He runs from one scented flower to another transforming from one love match sexuality to another, which is more remarkable and enjoyable compared to each other.
I can’t live likewise. I need to feel the gravity of love and a permanent partner. In his world there are no ties between lovers. Here it’s completely different. They love each other simply by chance and joke, only if they’re butterflies.
I tasted his love like as a weightless airy cloud of rainbows, which are entwined in the veins of his wings. Weights and the load of loneliness are unfamiliar to him without his lovers; he is like a fish out of water.
Only trust and permanency stops me from being pushed towards suicide and holds me simply on this planet. I would have been safe, living in my cocoon of combined loneliness. I need, like clean air a faithful lover, but no reckless butterfly.
I want to believe in his permanent presence behind my back. Its physical attraction between our hearts forces me to live. Without Steve’s breath on my face I’ll smother and without his love I’ll die. My happiness is to be with him, my chosen one.
My life is in my fantasies about him Steve is only one inspiration and second breath for me.
“Well, what now?” I hear his phantom voice; “I’m my own master and you are yours.”
No, I can’t step back into the world of butterflies again, beginning to convince myself. The past has ploughed my heart. In another tick I understood, that I’m not going to die... for him. I was never with him. Was he ever here with me? Must I leave him for his own fate?
He’s left and I still don’t understand who is who? Is that really Steven with the butterfly wings? Is it a guardian angel, that’s ... come to say ... “Hi” to me. Does that mean that the came to save me from suicide? I remember our fatal last day, No, there wasn’t anything classical or trivial, as an idiotic joke or farewell kiss. No, there wasn’t anything of the kind. Everything was simpler, and then could be guessed.
“Bye,” I utter a single word to Steve in reply to his reproach about my animosity with his hanky panky boys. What I said was like a ringing expiration, akin to New Year … b o n – b o n s and midnight darkness. After my “cracking word” I at once felt somehow if different dimensions. I separated my world form his. I continued to talk in his inhumane language. I didn’t have to cross... onto the butterfly dialect. My sincerity transformed un … noticing … l y …into a flaring chitin substitute as hypocrisy. We started to pay for all of our prices... together. Our eyes were blind. The feeling of heart pain turned into an uncontrollable nervous spasm. We lived in different ages. Time flowed in different directions. Somebody helped to change the hands. I asked myself... “Who’s the magician, who helped me to be safe? What happened to put everything into their own correct place, between me as a human and the butterfly Steven?”
It happened sometime in the evening, when Bert dropped in on me. He knew about me by hearsay. It was him that stopped me at the cross section and grabbed my arm. His eyes were warm and honest.
“Your Steve is filth. He’s taking you for a ride. Come on and I’ll tell you about everything,” he said crossing his arms in front of his chest, showing some aggressive traits.
“Why do you want to kill me? I don’t even know your name.”
“I love you Rudy. I’ve seen you on the billboards lots of times. You never fib. Which is as rare as hens teeth, among all this social shit around, anyway I’m Bert,” he answered casually.
I remember that something inside me knocked me over and I fell hard on the asphalt. After that I didn’t rush anywhere that day. I discovered things about myself that I didn’t even guess. It turned out that I was a complete laughing stock in the eyes of local idiots. Steve never shut up about us, ever. I already didn’t feel sorry that I met Bert. He showed me photos of all of Steve’s lovers, from the timetable between Saturday and Tuesday and from Wednesdays to Thursdays. The rest of the days were mine, I knew that well. Everything looked so funny. My train was never late. We always kept to our schedule. I came to him or he came to me... came to me on Friday and Sunday. Two days a week... the butterfly flew in to feed on my nectar and pollen. Where did it take place? Everywhere ... in Li Galli or St Barts, in Kew Gardens in London, or Paris, or in the NY apartment with the view to Central Park. O, yes … Steve especially loved my New York.
Yes, I gifted him with paintings, tapestries, priceless trinkets from ancient Rome and Moses’ Egypt. Steve lived enjoyable years on my unlimited American Express card.
How many millions of dollars have I wasted upon him? Only know my insurance agents in Paris, Vienna and Barcelona.
My internal self-control ripped me to bits. I said nothing about my spending to Bert. I’m drenched in blood. My nose no longer could hold back its pressure, suddenly a vein split open. It was the first blood between us. It was real... My nose always conceals my passions from everyone, but my nose could always tell show everybody immediately about the secrets of my heart. Now for example, the blood flowed and flowed. I couldn’t do a damned thing about it. I had to call a taxi to take me to doctors.
After talking with Bert I dropped Steve. I wanted to remain alone. I hated Bert for the truth, which I should never have known. Never, even over the price of my life. Bert knew everything. He left me for six months.
What’s up with me? Am I sleeping, or am I still on the cafe on the banks of the Voltaire and through the park is my luxurious villa?
How long ago was it? Was it yesterday, or this morning? But now I’m ashamed to think about Steve and myself. It’s all drowned in the past; my heart holds no venom against him. No, I’m no collector of tropical insects... or people. I’m not even an addict to Kafka.
The textures of shells or scales don’t seduce me to ejaculate. I’m not a Kafka. Maybe his love wasn’t completely from a butterfly, like him, that caterpillar. How is he now, that juvenile caterpillar? Maybe his love began to walk with his own rough legs along the road to human love? Steve is so young and he still has lots of time. He has so much ahead of him if God will help my dear little caterpillar.
At last I get up from the chair to look around. Am I still here? Where did all these people come from? I didn’t hear them come in. How long have I sat like that? What have I forgotten? Oh, yes, that’s right! His painter is dying somewhere.
I go to the neighboring fruit and vegetable shop and chose a handful of cherries, plums, and a mango, some kiwis.
My legs lead me to the district hospital. It occurs as if all by itself. I don’t ask myself anything. I go because I’m going. How will I recognize him? I can’t even imagine what his face is like. I saw him long ago in a crowd. Steve ordered me to glance in the direction to where the drunken artist sat. Wasn’t it only for a few glimpsing seconds? Yes, perhaps I still remember, how blushed my face was from misgivings.
What about now is there any jealousy left? Isn’t everything extinct after so long ago? Steve is hunted off and forgotten. Matthew Fitzgerald wanted to end his life and now is critical with the possibility of death. I wanted somehow to ease his pain. I know that I’m a participant in what happened.
After my last conversation with Steve, something unbelievable happened... He suddenly dropped all his boys, which also meant Matthew. I didn’t agree with what they screamed and that I was the main link in Steve’s adventures. One thing is true, that after Steve lost me, he left his unlucky artist, who couldn’t keep Steve after my separation with him.
Now I’m already here at the hospital with its endless corridors. Names are plastered in the door as I came inside the ward. He’s alone and asleep. A huge dose of tranquilizers doesn’t give him a chance to wake up. His returns to life are in the caring hands of the nursing nuns.
“He already came to, but still isn’t ready to accept reality,” someone told me behind my back.
His questions are still to arise, but the answers aren’t necessary for him now. To ... be ... or not to be? Nobody needs his answers here.
“Everyone thinks that the artist should live to be and for sure become somebody’s proud husband,” the nurse explained, even though I asked nothing.
I stood transfixed by his bed. Where does such ecstasy come from? I’m quivering all over. I saw him for the first time so close. His opened eyes are glazed and nose like a waxed mountain. His dyed hair neatly groomed. What’s that? His thrust out tongue slightly flickers. Why? Maybe it’s due to unwept tears? Yes, I think so. His face is distorted by pain. Tiredness and suffering from human life. Is it a dream? I see how he’s uneasy and the muscles on his neck become more and more … tense. His legs are similar to ski poles, convulsively stretched under the blanket. Then I suddenly noticed his hands tied. They “as required” are crossed and firmly fixed under the medical straps.
Yes, he slept, the unusual sleep of the sick. It’s the same, that we entrust philosophers and doctors, calling it the rest stage... from the boring life. Is it our entity or our essence between the past and the future? But where is our “real slumber”? How is it possible to sleep in a dead faint? What type of dreams do we have there? Doesn’t he “sleep” with the dream of never waking up from the sweet commitment of suicide? This swindler’s idea never left him, but death still didn’t trust him.
Like a bird death flew from his hands into the sky, to return immediately and settle into him as drugged dream. Here it pecks the seed of his sorrow about unrealized wonders, dreams and wishes. It’s possible that death’s wings of such a magical bird completely concealed him half alive and erased his memory.
Doesn’t the roots of evil rule here that hindered Matthew’s urge to live. Why did he search for self-destruction? Couldn’t here be an answer for Steve and me.
Now I understand everything about butterflies ... with label - “Skull and cross bones”. It’s the same as his love to me, from my Steve.
Matthew, like me didn’t need unselected love. I don’t need a collection of lovers, which I hang as decorative jewelry around my collapsing heart. I want to live happily with only one perfect lover.
Matthew only needed him. Only Steve, solely... Steve. I have no love for him, my stolen Steve my most reckless entertainment in life, that bastard - Steve.
I’m petrified when I realize that I’m still alive. He almost conquered everyone. Death is on his side.
Nobody could save the artist for the bewitchment of love. After that he started to search for hell. Steve’s leaving from everyone and him, pierced his heart. Everything became meaningless. He’s blind without love. His pupils are burnt out. Peace leaped out from under his feet and made him collapse into a bottomless shit pit. He transformed into who he could never be and then continued to live. He finally remained one on one with himself. Loneliness sucked deeper into the pit and further away from love.
Did he accept it as the “end” of himself or something else? Don’t I remember myself in his... scales? Will I really remain alive when I’m stripped of my skin? Thanks Bert. He’s my accidental miracle. I’m so lucky and that’s why Matthew is … more then … happier. My Bert pulled me away from self-destruction, before it was too late.
I stared and stared at his body. Matthew` s half dead and mute. He hasn’t sniffed or stirred for a long time and it seems that he hasn’t breathed. I closed my eyes and collapsed on a chair. Is it my imagination or did I hear something? It’s as if Matthew’s telepathic voice is talking to me. I agree with him at once. The voice was right, absolutely right.
“He discovered myself for myself. Why? It’s simple. He was in love with me; this is the answer to everything. My love is fermented from light wine and thick acidic poison... of fatality. My unhappiness is because it’s all perished... Steve dumped me and went to you... slimy Rudy.”
I instinctually shake my head, frightened of the strike to my face. I don’t believe it so study his lips once more. Before me is a fossilized face. I see Matthew... dead. I overheard one of his last dreams, a stupefied parting dream. His darkening mask is strict and sincere. He prayed about returning... but not here. He was petrified to be captured among the living even in a lying dream. He just wanted to evaporate into no man’s land. If there is no other choice, then break his head and leap into unconsciousness of death.
Anyway he wasn’t native to this world. Why? This last attempt on him was successful. I watch his melting eyelids. They are apathetic to me. There’s no flinching as in the living when they’re asleep. Creases in his forehead swiftly curved into wavy wrinkles. His appearance ages and also becomes youthful while you gaze at him. The color of skin seems to pulse between blue and brown. It’s such a puzzle. I never guessed that the two parts of these colors gravitate and mix into each other. So I know the gray from the man’s face is a mixture of accidental reflections of hair between his mustache and beard. Why is it so interesting to me?
I’m completely bewitched and stunned at what’s happening in front of my eyes. Is it important to Matthew now? I know that he’s right in his own way and will always be right.
I saw how tumors crawl over his scalp. Is it death that’s dancing under his skin? In the next second he becomes limp and his neck was outstretched. Now he’s completely rimless. His eye slits illuminate and phosphoresce. Something went stiff inside him. His paleness disappeared. His feet and hands were covered with enlarged tendons between the fingers and toes. It sees that there’s no skin, or it’s transparent … one. Mucus dripped from his nose when he breathed his last gulp of air. He’s no longer with us. Death, his master came to lead away his soul. What does his soaring soul feel like now? What’s it wishing for? Isn’t it the same dream that follows each of us all our lives... until death comes?
Dreams are hopeless. They do nothing for us. Only our eyes swell from tears. Why did I witness such a frightful confession? I don’t want anything that the mortals are forbidden to know. Didn’t his body tell me everything about himself?
Look, I’ve gone mad. I imagined that he tried to raise his melted lids. It’s tempting to touch and help. His eyelids... shake for a second and become stiff. I feel that the eyes have broken inwards and are orbiting around his skull. No, death has already beaten him. His dreams at last came true.
I’m still touched by his eyes. I waited for nothing. My voice fails me. Rare scraps of ... sounds ... out ... with froth from his mouth. Matthew … grinds his teeth, to be more exact, his teeth scrape over him.
With… is … whose soul he disagrees? With ... God’s? Whom is he fighting with, with himself? Where is its tranquility? Is it with him, his Steve, or is nobody there? Maybe the dead soul is passing away in the direction to say good-bye to Steven.
Yes, it’s right. It’s always right. God is with his soul... forever. I was never the favorite, like... Matthew. Bye... Steve.
“Perhaps I need to go to my place, bye painter,” I kiss him through clenched teeth.
With sorrow I backed away from the corpse. I don’t understand what’s with me! I stand weightless with relief. I hurry to my world where I now have my new friend, Bert. Bye, farewell, un … living flesh.
I leave the hospital grounds. I plucked a flower and start to guess my fortune. He loves me - he loves me not - he loves to destroy me. My internal voice begins its voiceless monologue; “No we didn’t talk today. Our conversation didn’t take place. The artist is far way from me ...and.... perhaps already.... from everybody. He no longer needs my help. He chose a non-refundable one-way ticket to death. He placed his hands on himself. It’s so easy in our century.
The tedious miracles of medicine make us sleep deeply before the doors of nowhere. The agony of narcosis is silent. The violation over his life resembles vengeance of parents, lovers, and orphaned children... friends. Their hearts and fates warp around suicide ... Through the dead didn’t pity them, being doomed to loneliness. The survivors remain alive with wounds; they learn to love the coffin. It’s frightening that in our age separation for “eternity” has become as easy as a gulp of water. Why choke on handfuls of sleeping pills. It’s of course easier to be released from poisonous reality than rudely face and live with the living. Yes and to remain alive... like everyone as a cynical escape. Oh, how difficult and hard it all is. Isn’t that true? Who knows, who’s next?
“No, it all exceeds my strength,” I leap up and race from the hospital garden. I have no tears and no grieving for anybody. The cold corpse obeys the commands of fate. The artist chose his irreversible path to God, his judge. I’m no critic for anyone. I never tried to be... a judge. Yes, I really chased off Steve, but he in response dropped his... artist, and so I ask ... “Who is the killer?” Could it be that I am? No it’s impossible to call me the executioner. No ... never.
I cross the road and stop near a kindergarten. Everything is … surrounded … by a sea … of blue flowers. They don’t warm me ... I ... instead. They... freeze my soul. There is nobody here that I need. “Must I return back to the hospital? Have I forgotten to ask something?” I race back into the building.
“How many days was he at home, helpless?” I ask with a voice of an outsider... at the information desk of the emergency section.
“We’re not completely sure, but about two days. He was brought in on Friday according to the records,” the nurse carefully explains in as ingratiating singsong voice, as the Lutheran psalms are sung ...
“Yes, it’s possible a ruptured brain. Two days is a long time, without having his stomach pumped.” I say aloud, watching my refection in the hospital window.
“What doesn’t happen in life?”
The patients behind my back are shocked from my discovery. I very much fear my intonation more than the tears that are welling up under a bitter knot in my throat.
I didn’t have a chance to get outside, when Bert caught me. He rudely stuffs a giant penis shaped brick of chocolate into my mouth and sarcastically smiles with his whole mouth like an idiot. His … rosy cheeks and ... wonderful ... than is ... shocking. I urgently want, but don’t have time to say something insulting in reply to his compliments. Nuts and sultanas deter my tongue... to answer to his... absurd humor. Of course, I hate it when I’m crammed with sweets.
“Well, how is he? Is that fool still alive?” Bert asks, intensively studying my eyes. “Why are you so depressed? Have you fallen in love with that swine?” he continued in a grimace.
“No.....” I answer, tightly clamping my lips to cover colorless lipstick, my skin cracks for the sun.
In reply he places his little fingers between my lips and softly kisses my ear.
“Stop these soap opera tragedies. That painter isn’t even your brother or sister...”
“Sister?” I misunderstand and hide my lipstick in the front pocket of the jacket.
We walk arm in arm to gaze at the sunset. The early stars are starting to wink at us. Without a doubt, tomorrow’s midnight will be the end. It’s not for nothing that it changes its lives. I recognized such phenomena many times.
There is no reason to become a “Skull and cross bones”. Now I know that multi love is a tragedy. It’s the same as burning yourself to death. Games with yourself as well as others are doomed to suicide. The soul isn’t able to handle lies... life becomes void and worthless.
Now everything is settled in its right place. But, why did the solution come so late? And ... through ... someone else’s agony. At last I understood. Isn’t it because I have his eyes? I’m sure this miracle took place when I touched Matthew a century before his death. Even Bert didn’t recognize such accidental exchange. Have I been born again? Yes, reborn. I know everything that the artist took with him to the grave. Perhaps what it is. One thing is clear; Bert was and remains my Guardian Angel.
One thing interrupts my peace of mind. I think what happened to me in Matthew Fitzgerald’s hospital ward is a serious attack against my soul from another world. I was near to death when he started to give up his soul. I’m still puzzled about the force, which saved me from an inescapable danger. I just remember the feeling of frosty wind behind my back when... darling Matthew passed away.
I gave myself a report, that I’m not yet an artist and only because, I “left” the hospital’s bed a minute before where lay the dead Fitzgerald. Everything that I said about it is a stupid fantasy of mine.
Bert walked with me, with his arm cuddled into mine.
I swear on the Bible that the artist decided to forget about me for his sake.
He doesn’t follow us like an evil spirit for revenge, that I remained alive, among the living.
“And so, would my Angel like to have supper?” I ask demandingly and kiss Bert’s forehead.
Love dashed alarmingly from me. His eyes filled with horror and inhumane fear.
“Well, fuck, you’re going too far. I don’t even fuck Matthew and I still haven’t bloody died yet,” he kisses my forehead. “What, do you want my death?” my friend pauses every now and again and swears like a hooligan.
“Please, forgive... my idiotic …… y. I want to see my Guardian Angel at his table. Do you agree to cover yourself with white feathers and have supper with me alone, by the fireplace? You see... I’m only just baptized, thanks to you, my Angel and twin.”
“No, to hell with feathers. I want you at my place in bed. But, now lets grab a cab and fang to the most expensive restaurant,” Bert say and grabs my body from under my arms.
I’m frightened of the truth that I understood.
What happened to me is mysterious.
I start a new life when his soul, a dead man’s soul nestled inside me.
I know for sure that my new soul belonged to Matthew Fitzgerald.
Believe me that soul is from a man who’s passed away.
I’m losing my own soul, which is ready to leave me forever.
I recognize my old, my truly own soul because I see a tattoo with the initials R.N. on it.
It’s the only way of knowing that I’m losing it. I’m not mistaken!
I already see my tag with the date of birth and death.
I distinctly see, that R.N. won’t live to see the next birthday on the 17th. of March.
I already know that I’ll die before I’ll reach my double five’s jubilee of my fifty- fifth anniversary in 1996.
“Why an anniversary?” I ask myself, and then answer...
“Every single one of my birthdays, my worshipers celebrate it as a real anniversary.
I’m a superstar in the World of Ballet...
I’m the honor and glory to my tartar - nationality and Muslim people.
Who will argue that I’m not one of the highest peaks of art in the twentieth century?
Everything that I achieved in my life will be the pride of future generations, until the end of time.
Nobody is going to remember the shit and
crap that’s been plastered around my name and career by green-eyed frogs
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