[random section of larger work. nonfiction. takes place in obscure central asian republic of tajikistan]

-seven-

Yui and I had made plans to meet at ten o’clock in

Malohat’s apartment. I went to the bazaar café, to get

drunk. I always drank before I went out with a woman. It

was easier when I was drunk.


The bazaar was closed. The cafe stayed open longer than

the bazaar. Rowdy merchants from the bazaar would go

there, drinking late into the night.


The cafe was one long room. Lights hung down from the

high ceiling. There were rows of plastic chairs. The tables

were covered in shiny plastic tablecloths. It was crowded.

There were no women. Everyone was old and broken.


A space opened at the counter. I squeezed in. I ordered

vodka and a Pepsi. The man next to me had Russian

military medals and faded ribbons pinned to his wrinkled

suit jacket. His back was stooped over. He reminded me

of a tree in wintertime. He held a glass of beer with shaky

hands.


We drank together in silence.


-eight-


When I got back to Malohats apartment Yui was sleeping

in my room. Fabrice was sitting in the table. He was

reading a French newspaper and smoking a cigarette.

The room was quiet. A lazy curl of grey smoke hung in the

air.


‘You wanna come drink tonight?’ I asked.


‘No. I quit drinking years ago.’ He put down his paper. ‘I

am the type of person that does things in extremes. If I

drink, I am drinking until I am finished. On the ground,’ he

said, making a motion with his hands; ‘black out.’


‘I’m like that sometimes,’ I said.


I went in my room. The door was halfway open. The room

was dark. Yui was sleeping. She was turned on her side.

Pale, yellow light from the living room light spilled inside.

Long shadows crept along the carpeted floor and up the

walls.


I turned the light on and sat on her bed. The shadows

vanished. Yui turned onto her stomach. I leaned over her.

Her earlobe was fat and round, pink from having been

slept on. I touched her cheek with my thumb.



I wondered what she would do if I touched her again. She

was wearing a faded yellow t-shirt. The air conditioner

was on. It hummed noisily. I could see an outline of her

nipple through her shirt. I held my breath.



‘Yui,’ I whispered hotly. I leaned closer into her. I moved

her hair away from her ear. Strands of her hair were stuck

to her cheek and in her mouth. I put my hand on the back

of her neck. She stretched her legs. I was drunk.



I looked in the direction of the living room. I could hear the

muffled, distinctive noise of a shower. I pulled the cover off

Yui. I didn’t know if she was sleeping or just letting me do

what I wanted. I wondered how far it would go. The

situation had an irresistible, magnetic pull. It made me

anxious.



I began to pull her shirt up her back. ‘Here,’ I

whispered, ‘move this shit.’



Yui propped herself upright her elbows. With one hand

she unclasped her bra. I pulled the shirt over her and

tossed it onto the floor. Her back was clean and beautiful-

a blank, unblemished canvas of brown skin.



Her skin felt soft and hot. There is always a special feeling

when you touch a woman’s body for the first time. It’s a

magical, electric energy that always feels new.



In the beginning there were always women around me;

babysitters, teachers, girls in schoolyards. Later in life,

girlfriends and lovers.


Always women fussing over me, taking care of me. No

matter how bad things got, women were always there to

save me.



Sometimes I would be rough with them, pulling their long

hair, holding them down, making them cry. The cruelty felt

good to me; it satisfied a darkness deep within me that I

was unable to repress.



There were always girls. I lived in crowded apartment

complexes, where there were many children my age. I

would find a girl and bring her to the roof or into a dark

stairway. We would take our clothes off, clumsily imitating lovemaking.

Sometimes we played with matches. The dangerous

taboo of fire and sex aroused me. I watched the flames

lick the walls and felt powerful.


Over time I grew to hate women.


I hated women because they fascinated me-their

complexity and fragility, their selfishness-the secrets I was

sure they knew. Women were a mystery, powerful and

elusive. When I became aware of their presence-and its

centrality to life-my life, all lives-I made a subconscious

vow to conquer them.



-nine-



Port Said was the most famous nightclub in Dushanbe. It

was located on the far side of Rudaki Avenue, near the

American embassy. It was popular with NGO workers on

holiday from Afghanistan, French soldiers and Russian

hookers. I took Yui there because I wanted to get her

drunk and fuck her.



I had never been attracted to Asian women. I thought they

looked like cats. Their bodies were too skinny. I only

wanted Yui because she was there; an empty conquest-

something to have only for the experience of having it. I

had an insatiable apatite for women. My sexual energy

was reckless and destructive.


I paid the cover charge. We went inside. Port Said was

packed: a throbbing, hot sea of people. A skinny, shirtless

Russian wearing a tiny backpack gyrated inside a cage,

raised high above the dance floor.



Yui went to dance. I didn’t dance with her because I didn’t

know how to dance. I watched her slowly disappear into a

hot, solid mass of people. Somebody had thrown an

inflatable beach ball into the crowd. I watched the ball sail

through the air. Whenever it landed, someone in the

crowd popped it back up. I went to the bar and bought

whiskey.


The woman sitting next to me was a Russian prostitute.

She turned and looked at me hopefully. Her eyes were

empty and lifeless. I remembered the teenage prostitutes

I had bought the night before. She was wearing a high-

riding g-string made out of rhinestones that glimmered in

the lights.



-ten-



Port Said was close to Malohat’s apartment. We walked

back. Dushanbe was pleasant. The streets were wide

and never carried much traffic. The buildings, which had

been shot up during the civil war, had been immaculately

refurbished, painted in soft pastels. Taxi drivers driving

beat up old Lada’s would slow to a stop as they passed

by. Every few blocks we would stop and kiss. Her skin

was sticky from her dancing in the club. The streets were

empty. Dushanbe used to be a dangerous place.


It felt good to be out late. The stark bareness of the streets

consoled me. The only stores open were small, hot

bakery kiosks. We stood, looking in the windows. I

watched orange-yellow flames leap out of concrete

ovens. ‘It’s great,’ Yui said. The fire hypnotized me and

made me feel warm.


We walked slowly, taking it in. Trees lined the sidewalks,

tall powerful and old. They looked black and shapeless in

the night. Their branches hung down low and trembled,

the leaves shaking in the wind.



-eleven-


The elevator button had been broken off. Only a cloudy

piece of hard plastic remained. When I pushed the button

a small yellow light came on and glowed dimly.


We waited. She put her ear to the door of the elevator and

listened. Then she said: ‘Broken.’ She was wearing wide

silver bracelets and heavy earrings. Yui’s hair was cut so

the bangs were straight across, like Cleopatra.


We walked up the stairs. I lead the way. The stairs were

concrete. Yui followed, holding my hand. She was smaller

then me, drunker than me. She was wearing black nail

polish. At the top of each set of stairs a single light hung

down. Moths flew around in lazy, blind circles, casting wild

shadows along the walls. Yui’s black hair reflected the

florescent light with a glossy sheen.


We got to Malohat's floor. I grabbed Yui, pushed her

against the heavy iron door and kissed her. She pulled

me into her. It became a rhythm: us kissing, pressing

against each other, swaying back and forth, kissing in the

dark.



A car alarm went off in the parking lot. A few feet away was

a garbage disposal. The air was hot with the thick, sour

stench of garbage and rotting food.