ՆԻԿՈԼ ՓԱՇԻՆՅԱՆ. ԵՐԿՐԻ ՀԱԿԱՌԱԿ ԿՈՂՄԸ
54. երազախաբություն` բաց աչքերով
Պառկել էի մի տապճակի ու փորձում էի հաղթահարել ներվայնությունս: Իսկ ներվային էի ֆուտբոլի, ավելի ճիշտ` ֆուտբոլային անհեթեթության պատճառով, որ մատուցում էին Ֆրանսիայի հավաքականի մարզիչ Ռայմոն Դոմենեկը եւ Իտալիայի հավաքականի մարզիչ Ռոբերտո Դոնադոնին:
The Other Side of the World - N. Pashinyan54. Wet Dreams with Eyes Open
I had lain down on a chaise lounge and was trying to calm down. I was upset because of the absurdity in football that was being offered by Raymond Domenech, the trainer of the French team, and Roberto Donadoni, the trainer of the Italian team.
A little while ago I had watched the France-Italy game, which ended with the victory of the latter. It was clear from the start that Italy would follow the example of France and wouldn’t let go of the European Championship for very long. But that wasn’t the problem, nor was it the absurd gave played by the teams in this and previous games.
I’m not a great fan of the Italian team, or of the French team. It’s just that the trainers of these teams are the personifications of an old Soviet anecdote. A friend of Brezhnev, the Chairman of the Communist Party goes to him and asks for an easy job. Brezhnev asks his friend what kind of job he has in mind when he’s asking for an easy job. The friend thinks hard and says: “You know, the job when you stand before an orchestra and move your arms up and down.”
Now, they’ve given an easy job to Domenech and Donadoni. But woe is on them; yet the insulting thing is not that, but the fact that they look at the field as if they understand what’s going on there. That’s really insulting for a lover of football. I was in a pre-stressed condition before, but didn’t know how much more stressed I would be in a couple of weeks when it became obvious that the trainer of the Italian team, Donadoni will not want to resign. But that’s still nothing. I almost had a heart attack when I read that the Football Federation of France intends to keep Domenech in his job. At that time I was thinking of writing a letter to Isabelle, to say, my dear, dear Isabelle, do something, give that Domenech a kick, otherwise he’ll cause heart attacks of genocidal proportions among the fans of football. Dear Isabelle, in the name of football lovers over the world, ask Meme to convince Nikolya, to get rid of Domenech.
While I was trying to decide whether I should write or not, the news came out that Domenech had been appointed Chief Trainer of France’s team. I was following the news in disbelief, hoping that that decision would cause mass street unrests in Paris. But, it seemed, the poor French football lovers were in a depression and nobody could make it out to the streets because of high blood pressure.
But that was later, when I was already in Russia. Back on the ship, my heart was in turmoil. If only there could be someone with whom I could argue this theme, if only we could fight, vent our emotions… But it was not possible to argue about Domenech or Donadoni on the ship, because any discussion of this theme would last 20 second at best, and the sides would say that they completely agree with each other and that they thought exactly the same thing, verbatim, about Domenech and Donadoni. And so, the passengers on the ship all gathered in one place, stooping and eating their hearts out. And that Luca Doni…I’m surprised at him. How did that guy get to be Italy’s first goalie, then the goalie of the Bundes league? Man, he doesn’t even know where the goal is, he’s an expert in missing the goal and being kicked out of the game!
So after these thoughts I had closed my eyes and was trying to relax, when I heard a woman’s voice:
“Are you trying to be different?” the voice was asking.
I was surprised because if I wanted to seem different, I wouldn’t get upset about Domenech and Donadoni but would try to justify them. But the voice wasn’t referring to that. I had been noticed because I hadn’t yielded to Paola’s flirtation. The voice was Paola’s. I opened my eyes; she was standing before me. Her black hair cascaded over her shoulders, the dark glasses obscured her gaze. She had put on a white silk bathing suit, if the term ‘suit’ could be applied to it. A suit, or clothing, is usually used to cover nudity; this particular ‘suit’ underscored her nudity. The bra, which in her own use, simply covered the tips of her breasts, was now netted and showed everything under it. From the little slip of a brief a couple of curls had escaped, as if they were asking ‘guess what’s here.’ Paola was exhibiting the short hairs that had grown in her armpits, which were extremely erotic. “This must be the new fashion,” I thought. She had a cocktail glass in her hand:
“Are you trying to be unique? It’s clearly working,” she said
I had overcome my initial confusion and answered:
“Every person has a special way of appearing unique.”
Paola understood that I was referring to her:
“So we’re not compatible,” she said, and turned around. She was moving away and with each step her ass was quivering like jelly.
“Paola, what are you drinking?” I asked, losing my self-control, and rose.
She stopped and turned around:
“You know my name. That means you’re not as unique as you try to be. Margarita, the name of the cocktail is Margarita.
“Would you object if I joined you?”
“I won’t object,” she said.
“Caballero, uno Margarita, por favor,” I ordered. We both sat down, side by side, on nearby chaise lounges. More accurately, we lay down, only keeping our shoulders higher, which was more convenient if you were having a conversation.
Paola raised my left hand gingerly and carefully started examining my wedding ring:
“I’ve considered a few hypotheses, but none of them seem credible.”
“Hypotheses? About what?” I asked, pulling my hand back.
“About you. For a while I thought you were gay; but you didn’t flirt with anyone. Then I though you would be impotent; but I’ve read somewhere that impotent men flirt more aggressively. But then, why would an impotent man be in this environment? It would be humiliating for him. Then I thought you may have escaped from a terrible family scandal and were trying to slowly recuperate; but then it seemed that your recuperation process was taking a long time. Do you hate women? But then, the fact that you know my name and you invited me to have a conversation with me, means that you do have some interest.”
“Yes, what interests me is the games you play; I follow your game with the addiction of a football fan. The only problem is that I don’t know the score,” I said.
“The score for what?”
“Your game.”
“My game? What do you mean?”
“What I mean is how many people had any success in the flirtation marathon you’ve fired up?” I asked with a slight smile.
“Hey, are you jealous?”
“Damn it, am I really jealous?” I asked myself. But it was necessary to have a come back:
“How absurd; the question interests me purely the point of view of sports.”
“Perhaps you think all women are whores and britches?”
“There are those, too,” I said, and realized that I was saying idiotic things.
“One.”
“What?”
“One was successful; I will give you three chances to guess who it is.”
I started thinking:
“Carlos,” I said.
“You didn’t guess right.”
“The guy, whose name I don’t know, who has a tattoo on his chest,” I continued to search.
“I can see that you won’t be able to guess.”
“Okay, I give up.”
“Me, I’m the one.”
“Excuse me…?”
“You were asking who in the game of flirtation had scored success; I’m saying one—me. Who else could it be? Or do you be thinking that sex is the man’s success and the woman’s failure?”
I was in total confusion and realized that I should have been smart enough to avoid this whole thing. Of course the conversation was very interesting, but I felt that I might not be a worthy conversationalist. I was constricted, like a child, and I couldn’t accept that:
“It’s just that your game interested me; and I must confess that you play it well. Yet the question is, how long will you continue,” I said, gathering my strength.
“And the others don’t play? Doesn’t everybody play? Don’t you play?”
“Why do you think I’m playing a game? Maybe I’m trying to remain true to the values I believe in.”
“Perhaps I, too, am trying to remain true to the values I believe in.”
“But at one point your beauty will fade. How long will you play the game?”
“Until my prince charming appears on a white horse.”
“Are you talking about love?”
“You guessed it.”
“And have you considered protecting your virginity for prince charming on the white horse?” I continued.
“Don’t tell me you belong to the Mologa sect,” Paola was surprised.
I, too, was surprised, too:
“How do you know about the Mologa? I asked.
“They’re not so few in Argentina.”
“And what do you think about virginity?” I continued.
“It’s not a bad idea. But can you guarantee that prince charming will come? Do you know how many beauties like me grew old as virgins, waiting for their princes, who, on the way, were lost in the arms of women like me? Stop it already; virginity has a value if you are determined to lose it. I can surmise from what you say that virgin men should marry virgin women and live in eternal bliss. Most of those relationships end up in ruin, in the ruins of a disappointed sexual life.”
I felt that I had been had, that I would inevitably be defeated, and didn’t know what to do. Paola continued:
“But, I am crazy about virgin men. First of all, when you’re their first, that’s a guarantee that they will remember you all their lives. They tremble like scared rabbits and as a rule, they climax at the first penetration.”
Having said this, Paola bit her lips, pressed her thighs slowly together and then, wrapping her feet around each other, she visibly convulsed. I began to sweat, and panicked. I moved as if I was trying to sit more comfortably, but my hand hit the Margarita glass where a slice of lemon had been left. The glass hit the ground and broke. I came to my senses but it was already too late. With her big toe, whose nail was painted with emerald flowers, she was touching my drawers. I tensed up, but didn’t know what to do.
“Your values are indefensible, my friend, and you are loyal to your instincts,” she said without sarcasm, but with a hint of victory.
I didn’t know: did she want to take me to her cabin or to get me to have a wet dream with my eyes open. What was obvious, though, was that all this must stop.
“Paola, do you know Marta?” I asked, gathering whatever was left of my strength.
This seemed to scare her somehow.
“Marta, Marta. Yes, there is a girl like that,” she said and got up. Then she turned to me and asked: “Don’t you want to swim?”
“No, I don’t’ want to,” I said.
“I do,” she said and went to her swimming pool.
I wanted to cool down, but preferred the other swimming pool.
***
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