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Alms

Alain Marciano

    2.35 am shines on the alarm clock that lies on the floor next to her bed. It was 10.23 pm when she went to bed. There were no nightmares tonight. She didn’t dream either (or does not remember that she did). She simply drifted in and out and in and out of blank sleep. Now, she is out of it for good, and she knows that she won’t catch it back before soon. She looks for something else to do. Excitement. Life. Hope. She gets up. It’s now 2.47 am. The bedroom is dark and comfortable with its smells of dirty sheets. Time, my God. Raising her arms above her head, she removes the “Mickey-loves-Daisy” t-shirt she wears at night and that she bought for her husband when there was a sale at the Dollar General store at the corner of Broad and Markham. She saves and uses it as a nightgown for those days and nights when her husband is absent (the bastard, shit), away, traveling by plane, from one airport to the other, going through airport security check points and catching yellow, black, white taxis, eating in restaurants, eating chinese food because it’s what he prefers (and how she hates chinese food, the substance in her mouth when her tongue touches the meat or the vegetables or the noddles, even the rice she doesn’t like that), drinking coffees in the mornings (with milk and sugar) and whisky (with water and ice, he has no preference about whisky) in his hotel room in the evenings, working hard for his big company and having sex with Alex, Sydney, Candice, Sam, (that’s him, being attracted and aroused by girls with this type of first name), all of them, cheating her or not actually (is it cheating if she knows?), and at home she wears his t-shirt and feels his odor, no need to qualify it, it’s his, his odor is on her. Now she rolls the t-shirt in a ball and she throws it on the empty bed. Naked, goose-fleshed, she tiptoes out of the room. She closes the door gently, goes down to the hall and sats down on the floor in front of the telephone. Then, she lies down on the poor quality carpet that covers the floor of the hall of the small house. When they — with her husband — moved in, she rented a special, highly sophisticated cleaning appliance and scrubbed very carefully the carpet. Small brown dots remained. It is stained, but clean. It is perfectly safe to lie on it, even if naked. She feels all the carpet threads against her skin. Each of them connects to her body, slightly scratches her skin and leaves its imprint on her. They are small metal thorns or spikes and she is one of these asian monks, an indian magician. She is a fakir, capable of lying naked on a bed of metal thorns or spikes. It is dangerous for anyone except for her.
    A dog barks. She hates dogs but finds reassuring to hear one at this precise moment. It’s a connexion, a wire with the world. She smiles and starts dialing numbers on the receiver, eyes closed, careful not to look at her hands, not to look at her fingers. She lets them doing what they want. She does not want to think to, does not want to know, to remind the numbers she is dialing. Her brain has to be left out of this. She just hopes that they are doing a good job, dialing a correct, real phone number. She hopes that someone, a real person is going to answer her call. Ring ring ring, it makes in her ear like an hesitation, on which side the coin is going to roll? Crossed fingers, she waits and then she hears someone. It’s a man — again. “Good”, she thinks. She pushes her back, her shoulders on the floor, eyes still closed. Her body shivers. Her hands tremble, her arms too and her position is not comfortable.
    “Hello” the man says. “Hello” she says. He says “Yes”. “Hello” she says again. He says “Yes, who are you? Do I know you? What’s going on?”. It’s always the same sentences she hears them saying when they pick-up the phone and answer her call. Even the tone of the voices barely changes, they are afraid of something, or excited and hopeful. Excited like dogs. Tonight, it is a hoarse uneasy and worried whisper. He does not want to be overheard by his wife or his children or her lover — maybe his lover but she thinks that he is not gay not with this tone of voice. He says, “Myra, is that you? Myra? Are you alright?”. (who is Myra?) She says, “No, no, it’s not Myra. You don’t know me. We don’t know each other”. She could lie, of course and pretend she is Myra and tricks him into a fake game. The ring ring ring the telephone made still vibrates in the back of her mind. She doesn’t pretend. Ring ring ring. It mixes with a the metallic honk of a car. She wonders if it’s happening in her street or in the phone. The dog is no longer barking. Where is her husband tonight? Alone? Or not? Probably not? She How would he face the situation with his habit of all the girls he has fucked instead of fucking her. She almost asks her about his wife, Myra, or her lover, and him cheating her, or the reverse (does it happen, really?) but she waits in silence. Her left arm, with which she holds the receiver and is lifted to her ear, stiffens because of the lack of blood (or is it because there is too much blood?). In a few seconds, the man is going to say something. She doesn’t even anticipate. She knows. Sometimes they hang down. It’s rare. They always say something. Why wouldn’t they? They always want to know, worried and excited, it’s how they are, she knows that now after all this time calling people at night when her husband is not at home. She just has to wait before they start talking to her.
    The man whispers and it makes his voice coarser, more aggressive than before. “What do you want? You know what time it is. Fuck. Who are you? WHO! THE! FUCK! ARE! YOU!”. A fuck-type of angry guy and he is angry now, obviously. Maybe it is because he actually wants to fuck her and cannot disguise his sentiments. Probably, if he could, he hit her and tear her closes and rape her. It frightens her. She tenses up, feeling his aggressiveness oozing, a wound bleeding over her, through the phone, disturbing her good moods, spoiling her phone therapy. She rapidly drops a few words of apology, “I am so sorry, I am so sad and desperate. I mean my life is so empty. Miserable. I think I could kill myself”. She wishes she could listen to his answer but she can’t. She switches the phone off.
    She feels no pain. She feels no cold. Nothing, except her arm ankylosed and the malaise of a failed phone call and the self-pitying fear that has now invaded her. She slips two fingers in her throat and she coughs and saliva, bile, blood maybe fill her mouth. She spits on the carpet that she then touches, pressing the tips of her fingers on its thorny surface. She won’t be able to dial another phone number, face someone else. She now lacks the energy to face someone else. She needs to rest. Anger and violence is frightening. It is also as difficult to bear as perfect empathy, when they are trying to be nice, when the man says “OK, ok, we don’t know each other, but if you call me in the middle of the night, it’s because you need help. Do you need help? Are you alright? If you need help, I’ll help you, I won’t tell anything to my wife, when do you want to meet, do you want to meet, that’s why you are calling”. She says abruptly, “No”. This guy also wants to fuck her and he is also a pervert but he won’t say it, doesn’t even dare acknowledging it for himself. She puts the receiver down on the carpeted floor. She hears the voice echoing through the phone. She does not understand and doesn’t want to understand. She doesn’t want to hang down but she doesn’t won’t to be involved more deeply into this either. He won’t trick me. Not that easily, at least. The bastard. I hate their hypocrisy. Why would he want to help me if he doesn’t know me? How could he help me? After a while he hangs down. She switches the phone off and lies down on the carpet.
    After a few hours of sleep, she wakes up. She move her eyes first to check where she is. Then, inside her brain, she plays with the idea of moving her body and then she moves her hands and legs and she stands up. “Will I take a shower? Will I take a cup of coffee? Tea?”, she says, her voice clear and loud. She almost shouts. She goes back to the bedroom, opens the door and looks for the the “Mickey-Daisy love you” t-shirt on. It’s 7.13 am. The bed is still empty. Now that her husband is gone, she has not much to do. She reaches for the small, finely decorated pill-box that is besides the alarm clock. She sticks her tongue like a snake would do to sting you and catches two of the white pills she likes so much. She rubs her tongue on her palate and saliva starts filling he mouth. She swallows the pill. Maybe tonight she will try again to reach someone. Maybe tonight it will work. She will find a real connection with real people. She decides to take another pill and to go to bed. She needs rest before she can try again. Or maybe her husband is back today and she will tell him.

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