This is the time and the place, reader, to discuss with you the doodle as symbolism and funhouse mirror. Allow me to just scribble some down again, here and now. Not with pen strokes this time, but with words. And let me, in sketching their smirks, most of all depict the cause of their smirking: gloating with schadenfreude, they gaze from the margins of the page upon the grating and grinding of a love-machine. They were travelers on a paper swing that swayed from me to Z. and back again. With each pass, their number swelled and their derision augmented over such unspoken desire from the one, and such obstinate naïveté from the other. Allow me to list and name them, just as everything deserves a name, even a bunch of brazenly sniggering scribbles.
Adoration: by the end of that last year, Z. had developed into a barbarous beauty whose apparent ignorance of his handsomeness made him even more beautiful. His nostrils quivered gentlemanly, his forehead was perfect, his glance, at any given moment, unwittingly inviting. He was now a head taller than me. Never had I seen redder lips. Never a more stunning body. Athletically chiseled, sharp as an axe. His gestures were nonchalantly elegant, like those of a dancer on holiday. And yet his wrists were square and strong from years of gymnastics. He could do a hundred push-ups; his shoulders were as broad as our classmate Dopey’s. Ask him to do a split, and he would, and just as well. Every muscle was toned. That he did not flaunt it—on the contrary, he quickly changed clothes in the dressing room like a seasoned sportsman, so that I could only get the briefest glimpse of him—only exacerbated my heartsick state. He trod with a Greek foot. Sculpted Achilles tendon, powerful ankle, burnished instep. His second toe longer than the first, the big toe. His thighs were still hairless, as was his chest. Only along his shins and forearms was there a hint of dark down. He already shaved twice a week. If I happened to notice that he had wounded himself in the process—a tiny cut on cheek or chin, a drop of clotted blood—it made me want to cry. Isn’t this how love works?
Tremulation: another machination of love. While my body previously misused my soul as the storeroom and copy machine of visual stimuli, now my soul struck back with a terrible vengeance. It waited until Z. happened to enter my field of vision; it received, via my abetting eyes, images of him and spread them, as if with a convex mirror, to the least reliable parts of my body, where they would cause a short circuit. Regardless of present company, if I beheld Z. unawares my lungs would contract like clenched fists and cause the sigh of the tormented to roll across my lips. My mouth became as dry as dust in the sun, or just the opposite: I’d drool as if ice cubes were melting under my tongue. Speech in any form became a hazard: either I stood gasping like a fish on dry land or I sputtered saliva in all directions, preferably in the direction of my companion. My heart rattled like a roulette wheel, my temples throbbed like a troubled tanker. A haze of mist or darkness fell over my eyes, depending on whether they were about to fill themselves with emotion, or to cease seeing altogether, the first sign of a total blackout. I had to grab hold of something: doorframes, parked cars, shopping carts, old ladies in the park. I had to sit down to relieve my knocking knees, I had to stand up from the seasickness of sitting stock-still. The one thing I could have done to alleviate my agony was to look away. But that, I did not do.
Mystification: if my soul did not receive any images, it invented them itself, as behooves a modern dictator. It then montaged these forgeries into passion propaganda films, which would then be shown during every daydream or catnap. Movie house The Waterworks. Cinéma Pathétique.
Film short. I cycle, in Technicolor© and larger than life, past Z.'s house and just as I reach his front door I am hit head-on by a truck. All my bones broken. I lie dying photogenically on his stoop. Z. comes running out. No, he wails; no, cruel world! Do what you will, but don’t let him die! He tearfully bends over and takes me in his arms. I am expiring in ecstasy. Coughing up blood, I choke out my last words. You know, I’ve always loved you, I moan. Golly! he bawls. And I you, my darling, and I you. But why do you only say so now, when it’s too late? Ach, I groan. I try to shrug my shoulders, and scream with pain. Then I get ready for my final sigh: it doesn’t really matter, I just needed to say it. My eyes go all glassy, my head droops to one side. Z. lets out a heart-rending cry and embraces my corpse. His life is in ruins. Sirens swell in the distance. The End.
Feature film. Z. cycles down my street, accompanied by ominous music. Right in front of our shop door he is mowed down by a city bus. All his bones are shattered. He lies there gorgeously in agony on the black asphalt. I’m in my room, I hear the thud and know immediately what has happened. No, I cry, say it’s not true! Woe is me! I storm down the stairs and out onto the street, fall to my knees and rest his injured head on my arm. Be calm, I say, stroking his bloodied cheek with the back of my hand, Jeezus, how could this happen? Y’know, he moans, I was riding by and I kept looking up at your window. Course I didn’t see the bus. Well, I gulp, these things happen, and anyway those bus drivers are animals, maniacs. No, no, he says, it’s got nothing to do with bus drivers—it’s all about you. You see, I love you. I’ve loved you from the moment I set eyes on you. I know, I console him, trembling, hush now, I love you, too. Right, he smiles, that’s why I feel so bad for you now. I love you, you love me, and look at me lying here like this, isn’t it terrible? Mmwahh, I say bravely. Promise me, he smiles again, promise me you’ll be happy, even without me, then I can die in peace. I choke back my tears and nod yes. He keeps his word and gives up the ghost. Harps and violins. I close his eyes and am about to stand up with dignity, but as soon as I hear the swell of a siren, I have a seizure. I collapse onto the asphalt next to Z. My head sinks in slow motion against his bloodied shoulder. The End.
Amputation, transpiration, constipation, hyperventilation, hallucination, degeneration, emigration: since the beginning of time, the dreaded secondary symptoms of the Syndrome of Amor. Also: hair loss, fever blisters, epilepsy, gluttony, anorexia, and double-suicide are arrows in Cupid’s quiver.
Temporary medication: masturbation.
Masturbation: see previous chapter.
Imitation: a servant emulates his master; a dog gradually resembles its owner. Why, then, would a person in love not imitate his beloved? The goal of a lover is not so much to unite himself with his beloved, but rather to become him. Cease to exist by being absorbed by the higher life form he worships.
I tried to do just that, by learning to flip a ruler in the air with one hand and catch it without letting it fall. It took hours of practice, but I managed. I also started strengthening my stomach muscles with sit-ups, and my arm muscles with push-ups. The first day I could hardly do ten, but a month later: forty. Not without results. If I stood at a mirror and flexed my muscles, I could make out a vague copy of that higher life form. Especially if I took off my glasses. I even started following Olympic gymnastics on television, to acquaint myself with my idol’s idols, so I could surprise him with my knowledge. It worked. He was euphoric, and launched into a discussion of modern training methods, using jargon I hadn’t the foggiest understanding of. I responded to everything he said with Yes and Amen so as not to get caught out—which happened anyway, when I was supposed to have said No. I bought his brand of jeans, his brand of sneakers, I learned to crack my knuckles the way he did. And then once we went to the municipal swimming pool. He wore a new bathing suit. Dark blue, glossy, with a breathtakingly low-cut waistband. I hardly dared look at him. His belly was hairless until way under his navel, his tanned back tapered into the white cleavage of his buttocks. I said—truthfully—that I didn’t feel well and took refuge in the changing booth, where I dejectedly sat cursing that piece of satiny fabric. But the next day I bought the exact same bathing suit. The horniness that came over me as I tried it on in front of the mirror was intoxicating. It would have been exceeded only by the horniness that would have scorched me had I not been wearing a copy but his very own bathing suit, still warm from his crotch, still clammy with his sweat.
Sublimation: diverted energy of white-hot desire. There are those who take up painting, there are those who overeat, there are those who run marathons. I read like crazy, went to countless movies, and I worked myself to death waiting tables weekends and vacations. Anything for some distraction, not a moment’s rest. This way I had a ready excuse not to confront Z. with my white-hot desire: “I was too busy”. I would do it “later”. You had to “take your time” with something like this.
Stimulation: any advances on my part, I was convinced, would be met with scorn and rejection—so lofty was my admiration for Z. and so low my estimation of myself. If I were in Z.’s shoes, I would not squander even a second on my insignificant self. So, I determined on his behalf, I had to count myself lucky that I was at least his friend. But on my own behalf, it was more difficult to be satisfied with the same thing. Of course Z. and I were pals. But I wanted more. I was more. I dared not show it, however, afraid of losing what little attention I got. But on the other hand, restricting myself to comradeship and abandoning love—this I couldn’t do either. That was just as unthinkable as voluntarily breathing with just one lung. So I had no other choice. I had to resort to the strategy of the school administration. The tactic with which the headmaster deflected every pedagogic innovation: silent sabotage. My love’s survival depended on being flexible. It had to bend, not break. It had to take cover in the bunkers of friendship and, thus sheltered, ward off its assailants from there.
No sooner said than done. Rather than abdicate my throne of love, I turned it into a throne that existed only in the safe haven of my mind. Adoration seeks ruse! Signed: me, the little love-commandant. The Napoleon of passion, the Machiavelli of emotions.
