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babybottlepop96 · 3 years

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Home Again Chapter 1

Jean x Marco

Summary: Jeana and Marco have been friends since the tender ages of 5 and 7. They grow together and fall in love.... then Jean disappears.

Warnings: This story will contains mentions of past rape and abuse. The violence parts will probably be descriptive, but the rape will not be. There will be eventual smut further along into the story.

~20 Years Ago~

"Jean, honey, this is mommy's new boss, Mr. Bott. He is the man who is going to help us, so I need you to be on your best behavior, okay?" The small five year old with ash blonde hair, dark brown undercut and honey golden eyes nodded his head as he stared at the tall dark haired man with dark chocolate eyes.

"Nice to meet you Master Jean." The man smiled down at the boy with a warm smile. "This is my son, Marco, he just turned seven a few months ago. Heard you enjoy dinosaurs and superheroes?" Jean nodded as he stared at the boy just two years older than himself with wide eyes, mapping out all the freckles along his tanned skin, milk chocolate eyes staring back into his own with a smile that could make the grumpiest of men relax. "Marco has a boatload of dinosaur and superhero toys, Marco, why don't you show Jean your room?" Marco smiled, grabbing Jean's hand and dragging him up the giant spiral staircase to the second floor.

Once inside the room, Jean's jaw dropped, the size of Marco's bedroom was bigger than his whole house combined. The ceiling was high with detailed trim along the edges, painted in a dark brown and a pale maroon shade of red. The bed was bigger than what any seven year old should have, a giant flat screen tv was mounted onto the wall across from the bed and games, movies and toys filled the rest of the room. "Do you want to play a video game? I have Spyro the dragon, Crash Bandicoot, Mario Kart?" The freckles kid asked, naming off games while setting up one of the many gaming consoles he owned.

"I… ummm.." Jean stood there nervously, rocking on his feet while twiddling his tiny thumbs. "I've never played a video game before." He looked up to see Marco smiling at him.

"That's okay! I'll teach you! We can start with Mario Kart, it's a multiplayer game, so I'll be able to teach you!" He smiled proudly as if he just won first place at the spelling bee.

"Oh, okay! Thank you!" Jean grabbed the controller Marco handed out to him with shaky hands. The two sat down on the squishy blue and purple bean bag chairs and started a game, Marco showing him how to pick his character, how to move and control the kart and how to throw the special abilities gained when hitting the boxes with the question marks.

"So, Jean, what's your favorite color?"

"Purple." Jean spoke as he tried to concentrate on what he was doing on the screen, still having a bit of trouble with the turns.

"Cool! Mines red!" Marco spoke as he gestures to the room around them.

"Favorite food?" Jean asked, stealing a glance at the older kid next to him, he couldn't help but smile, Marco's smile was infectious.

"Spaghetti! Well, all kinds of pasta! Penne, ravioli, ricotta-"

"I thought ricotta was a cheese?" Jean questioned, he wasn't actually sure himself, he just knew that cheese was a luxury in his home, never having enough money most of the time for really fancy things like cheeses.

"Oh, yeah! It is!" Marco giggled, "I just really like ricotta cheese." Jean giggled too, this kid was alright. "You're my new best friend, Jean."

~8 Years Later~

"Will you just shut up, Yeager?" A thirteen year old Jean Kirstein, as calmly as he could, spoke with his fist balled up at his sides as he walked out of the middle school building.

"Come on, Kirstein, didn't your poor piss excuse for a mother teach you it isn't nice to tell people to shut up?" Eren, the school bully, asshole and dick, in Jean's opinion, insulted. That's when Jean's resolve faded into nothing and landed a swift punch to the tanned, unblemished skin, a crunch was heard throughout the whole parking lot. Eren fell to the ground but quickly regained his strength and landed a kick to Jean's guy. The wind was knocked from Jean's lungs, but his anger was dominant. He lunged for the bastard who insulted his mother, the only parent he ever knew who worked her ass off to make sure he survived, to give the douche-nozzle a good pounding, but warm, strong arms held him back before hos fist could collide with it's intended target.

"Jean." A warm voice whispered in his ear, Marco. He relaxed in the freckles arms but he was still livid. "Let's go." Then, he was dragged off to the black Chevy Impala.

"Is that your boyfriend Horse Face? Man, I knew you were fruity but seriously? You could do better!" Jean almost got out Marco's grip, but the taller, older teen had his grip firm and all but threw the teen into the back seat.

"Jean-"

"No, don't start Marco! He taunted me about how I have to live my life, insulted my mother, then insulted you! He deserved to get his lights punched out!" Jean yelled, unshed tears forming in the corners of his Carmel eyes, threatening to spill any second. Marco just simply drew the younger into his arms and the driver drove towards Bott Manor. "He… he doesn't have to be so mean! I never did anything to him!"

When they finally pulled into the Manor, Marco led Jean to his room, the same room they first became friends in eight years ago. The stuffed animals and small toys are now replaced with books, CDs and even more games and movies. Marco sat them down on the bed and neither spoke for a few minutes. "He was right, ya know." Marco finally spoke and Jean looked at him like he had four heads. "You could do better than me, if we were together."

"Marco Bott, you stop right there! No one could ever replace you! You are literally the best person alive! If I had the balls to kiss you I would!" Jean and Marco's eyes widened and Jean turned into a blushing, flustered mess. "Oh my god! I'm so sorry! I.. I don't know why I said tha-", but Jean couldn't finish, Marco's lips pressed firmly against his in a gentle yet passionate kiss that spoke thousands of words and so many feelings.

"I love you Jean." Marco whispered as they pulled apart, foreheads still touching as both tried to regain their breath and slow their hearts. Jean cupped Marco's face in his hands and kissed him again.

"I love you too, Marco."

~2 Years Later~

Jean Kirstein, fifteen year old freshman at Trost High, walked through the park on his way home after work. He hates his job, hates working behind the counter at the local Taco Bell, hates that Eren works there too in the kitchen as a prep cook, hates dealing with annoying ass customers with snarky attitudes complaining that their crunch wrap supreme doesn't have enough sour cream. Well sorry, Karen, I don't make the fucking food nor do I determine how much sour cream goes on it. Today was a particularly bad day, Eren called off claiming he was sick when Jean really knew he was out with his "boyfriend" leaving him to prepare food and take orders. Then someone took a dump on the men's bathroom floor, didn't even try to aim for the fucking toilet! Just took a shot right there in the middle of the goddamn floor which he had to clean up himself while his manager bitched about him not doing his job at the counter. All Jean wanted to do was go home, talk to his boyfriend for a little before he eventually went to bed and got up early the next day for school.

It was a simple request that he wished for while the clock ticked by slowly. Jean was so into his own head, he never heard the footsteps coming up behind him until it was too late. A wet cloth covered his nose and mouth, his eyes widened for a second before the world faded to black.

-------------

"We have to find him!" Marco shouted at his father who was looking at him with a solemn expression. Marco paced back and forth in front of his father's desk, hands taking through his u kept hair. He has barely slept a wink since Jean vanished three days ago, his mind wondering about all the worst scenarios it could think of.

"We are trying, son, but we have no evidence of anything taking place. No struggle, no personal belongings, nothing to suggest anything has even happened."

"But Jean couldn't have just vanished into thin air! He wouldn't run away either! He loved his mom too much to just up and leave her and me…" Marco trailed off, thinking about his and Jean's time together over the last two years. Picnic and arcade dates, eating pizza and hot wings while they binge watched their favorite tv series at that moment, the soft and gentle kisses they shared between one another before they parted ways, always promising to text each other once they got home, letting the other one know they got there safe. That's the single most reason why Marco knew something was wrong. Neither of them forgot to send the 'im home safe and sound' text. Not once, in the ten years that they've known each other, did they miss sending that text. Even as children and Marco's father gave Mrs. Kirstein a cell phone as a gift to keep in contact, did they miss THAT text.

"Son, we are doing everything we can to find Jean. But we also need to think rationally, Jean might not ever be found." Marco froze at those words, Jean may be lost forever? He may never see those honey eyes, beautiful smile, perfect sketches and vibrant paintings painted by those slender pale hands and fingers? May never run his hands through those soft locks of ash and brown ever again? That's when Marco broke, he screamed and fell to the floor in a fetal position on the floor. His father looked at him with hurt in his own dark chocolate eyes, for him, his son and Jean's mother who was currently out looking for her only child as they speak. Don Bott rose from his leather chair and walked around the desk, kneeling in front of his son. He put his hand on his back and whispered a pained, "I'm sorry, Marco."

~10 Years Later (Present Day)~

Here he was, once again, at an underground auction. Mr. Bott hated these things, but he had no other choice, ever since Mrs. Kirstein passed away three years ago from a drunk driving accident, he hasn't been able to find someone who cleaned as well as she had. Every person he hired had an attitude or just didn't speak at all, always forgetting to dust the book shelves or take out the trash. So he relented and took up on Mr. Ackerman's suggestion to go to an auction. Getting there early to get a good seat, Mr. Bott, along with Mr. Ackerman, Mr. Braun and Mr. Hoover, the Dons of their respected parts of New York City, all sat down to converse while the auction for the…. Pleasure portion of the auction slowly came to a close. Mr. Bott cringed as the scum of New York bid money on these poor people just for the gratification of getting their dick in a hole.

"And now for our last and best prize of the night!" The auctioneer spoke as the Dons sighed in relief, none of them liked the idea of people being sold for pleasure as they themselves, tried for years to get it under control but never succeeding. "This one has been in the business for ten years, used and a bit rough looking, but this little beauty will be the best fuck you ever had. Clean and pliant, not a bad body either if I do say so myself. Number 54!" The announcer spoke as someone roughly shoved a young man out into the center of the room. The numbers flying from the crowd started pouring in left and right and it got the Dons wondering whom this "prize" was. "Three-thousand!" "Ten-thousand!" "Twenty Five-thousand!"

"Two hundred-thousand!" The crowd went quiet after hearing the deep booming voice coming from the front row.

"Two hundred-thousand! Going once! Going twice! Sold! To Do Bott!" The young man was then hauled out of the room to be prepped for leaving the facility.

--------------

"Dad! I'm home! Reiner, Bert, Mikasa, Eren and Armin are here too!" Marco called from the doorway as he and the others walked into the Manor. "Dad?!"

"In the living room son!" He heard his father call and the group walked towards the sound.

"What's up? We heard your voicemail and hauled ass here. What happened?" Marco asked as soon as he saw his father, eyes brimmed with tears and a small smile. The others in the room, specifically Dr. Yeager, looked at them, small sad but slightly happy smiles on their faces. "What's going on here?" The group looked at each other, confused and concern plastered on their faces. Once Mr. Bott moved to the side and gestured to the couch, it was then that the group realized what was happening. On the couch asleep, lay a thin pale man, dark circles under his eyes, bruises and scars and even some fresh wounds, now neatly stitched up thanks to Dr. Yeager, littering his almost naked form. Marco stared at the man laying on the pale green couch and tears flooded down his cheeks. "Jean?"

#attack on titan #Jean Krischtein #marco bott #jean x marco #kidnapping #abuse #eventual smut #jeans mom #marcos dad #eren yeager #mafia au #reiner #bert #mikasa #armin #erens dad

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khilluas · 7 years

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An Oikage story - Ideal

Pairing: Kageyama x Oikawa Word count: 2,3k NSFW? Some steamy kissing, not more than that yet Continuation might follow

Author’s introduction

A tangled tale of admiration and envy, of growth and failure, of dreams and despair. This is the messy story of Oikawa and Kageyama whose fates are undoubtedly intertwined.

No seriously. This is an angsty story of Oikawa and Kageyama’s relationship, set a few years in the future where Kageyama’s talents have fully blossomed, leaving Oikawa behind. This is the story of Kageyama’s unconditional and blunt love of Oikawa and Oikawa’s road to accepting his own love for the pupil who surpassed him.

***

Anticipation. The ball was in the air. Three steps he ran, the last shifting into a jump. A long jump with perfect form. His knees were bent at just the right angle, his posture stiff, yet agile. For a very short moment, he looked as though he were floating through the air. The ball was descending now, steadily approaching his head. Naturally, his right arm had already started it’s swinging motion. It had curved all the way from behind his shoulder to reach zenith above his head, fully stretched and trembling with force. Thud. It had happened. His strong hand had sent the ball flying at tremendous speed. The ball plunged straight to the court floor. An utter destruction of the opponents’ defences. All of this had happened in seconds, at a speed too fast for a normal eye to make out the independent movements.

But then again, Oikawa was not normal. And furthermore, this was his move. Had he himself taught Tobio? No, not really. Of course, he had always noticed Tobio staring at him, his whole body concentrating on breaking down his movements, mimicking him whenever chance was given. But his teasing nature disallowed Oikawa to actively help Tobio. Sure, occasionally he had practiced a serve or two with Tobio, but never more than that. Did he regret it now? Yes, a little, to be honest. Tobio had prevailed anyway and this left Oikawa in a bad light. Naturally, Tobio would never view it like that, but still.

The audience roared, yet Oikawa remained silent. It would not do to let a college Volley ball talent be seen at a high school preliminary match. The audience was still at large. Tobio had become a true star of a calibre that Oikawa would never be. He smiled at his own petty and almost laughed out loud. There was a time when such base thoughts of envy and self-pity would have consumed him, where he would have wailed at his own inferiority, but not anymore. He had accepted that Tobio was what Oikawa wasn’t; a genius. And instead of hating him for it he had taken to admiring Tobio. For Oikawa, though he would never admit it in front of Kageyama, Tobio was a kind of setter ideal, almost a demi-god, whose very movements were to be worshipped. Which was Oikawa’s current affair. Admiring at a distance and learning from his old pupil.

Tobio had jumped again. The second serve determined the match. A swift ending for Karasuno’s opponents. They had been playing some b- or c-rank team, but still these results were almost too much. They had overwhelmingly won the first two sets. When playing a low class-team Tobio scored almost a third of the points because the opponents simply had no way of stopping his serve. Whenever they did kill his streak it was as much due to luck as anything else.

Ka-ra-su-no the crowd cheered and cheered. Crows, they called themselves. Oikawa disliked the name. Tobio was no crow, though his face fitted the title well enough, Oikawa supposed. Black hair and that ever-grumpy expression. But his body was almost the opposite of that screechy, black bird’s. He was tall. Tobio had actually always been tall, but being two years his senior Oikawa had for a long while been able to boast of being the taller of the two. But Tobio had grown during high school and now in his last year he had, by only a couple of fatal centimetres, surpassed Oikawa. Though tall, he was extremely graceful, his limbs long and slim. He was a little broader than Oikawa and of a heavier build, but still he was thin and athletic. Oikawa had always liked observing Tobio’s arms, the contraction of his muscles.. and currently caught himself staring at exactly that as Tobio shook the hand of the other team’s captain.

When the formalities had been preserved, the two teams were allowed to leave the court. The teams left in lines as they had entered. Tobio was the very last player to leave. On the way out he stopped for a moment and looked around the tribunes, his eyes searching through the audience. His expression grew more worried the longer he spent looking, not finding what he was searching for. He looked almost desperate when he finally spotted Oikawa in the masses. With Tobio’s eyes on him, Oikawa smiled teasingly, his eyes narrowing ever slightly. Oikawa knew his own power. His pretty features offered a perfect contrast to a scornful expression. His face was made for teasing. And sure enough, Tobio had turned beetroot in a second. Would he never learn? And then again, though popular, Tobio had never been good at love.

As if entranced, Tobio stood dumbfounded, not taking his eyes off Oikawa. “Kageyamaaa,” Hinata called from behind, “hurry up you great oaf!” . “What did you call me!!” Tobio’s angry side flared whenever he was with Hinata. Tobio still owed him a lot, though. The shrimp had somehow managed to refine the great oaf that Tobio so often was. Oikawa rose from his seat, turned around and left up the tribune stairs. That motion apparently caused the quarrelling to cease.

***

Oikawa was making his way out of the gymnasium, walking nonchalantly as if he were at home. He had played countless of games here, crushing the enemy close to every time. Now that he thought about it, this gymnasium was quite small – at least compared to the college courts he was used to now a days - but that made perfect sense, he supposed. After all, this place was only used for preliminaries. Oikawa sighed. Thoughts like these always made him feel old, though he was indeed what anyone would have describe as young. 20 years, exhausting himself in his second year of college, ruining his body by playing too much volleyball. Why was he so pessimistic right now?

From the tribunes, he continued down the familiar halls, not aiming for the exit right in front of him. Instead, in the far end of some by-hall, he found the vending machine he was looking and approached. He had left early for the sole reason of this. He needed something sweet, but not too much so. An orange juice would be perfect; just the right sourness with a slightly bitter twist. After purchasing the orange juice, he clicked another button. With a hollow clank a banana milk fell.

***

Kageyama was in a hurry. Very much so. Swift as light he packed his things, changed his shoes and threw on his jacket. Apologising in a highly (for Kageyama) unusual manner, he declined joining the subsequent celebration, offering no convincing reason for this. His exaggerated stiffness was enough to close Hinata and Hitoka’s mouths, while ensuring him some teasing words from Tsukishima as he departed. Awkwardly he ran from the locker room, sprinting through the hallway towards the exit. He did not even feel the apparent pain gushing through his legs, his mind was entirely elsewhere. Oikawa had come to watch his match again. Kageyama had not seen him for ages, let alone at a match. Wait, maybe it was always after matches they saw each other? After Kageyama’s matches that was. Oikawa had explicitly warned him not to show up as audience for any of his matches. Kageyama had been curious once.. no truthfully, he had longed to see Oikawa play again. That idea had not been well received. Oikawa had not as much as glanced at him and had not turned up to watch any of his matches for weeks. Complete silence. But now he was there again, watching this of all matches. Kageyama was utterly puzzled. Puzzled, but happy. Extremely happy. Still, he couldn’t help wondering why Oikawa had turned up at this exact time. Oikawa’s timing was never good, or rather, he purposely picked bad times, Kageyama suspected.

Kageyama had reached the exit and threw the door open like some idiot. He blinked as he stepped outside, blinded not by sunlight, but by the chocolate brown eyes and dazzling smile that awaited him. “You’re late,” Oikawa complained mocking an irritated tone. “Sorry,” Kageyama blurted out before his brain could process the teasing. But Oikawa’s reaction was not bad; he had started laughing. “Oh yes, I always forget that Tobio is horrible with teasing,” he said as he started walking. Kageyama followed, not knowing their destination. They turned around the corner of the gymnasium and walked along it’s longer side. About half-way down its length, Oikawa turned, apparently headed for a cluster of bushes and trees located nearby. They seated themselves side by side on a bench half-covered by the crown of a tree, shielded from view from two sides (keeping anyone exiting the gymnasium from seeing them) by compact thicket.

Oikawa was a master at finding secluded places like this. Kageyama did not dare imagine why, but once seated, his curiosity once more opted him to step out of his comfort zone, and he let the question slip. As an answer, Oikawa just smiled cheekily, his eyes alive and playful. “I always made sure to research all our locations thoroughly. For my fans, you know,” he winked during the last part, causing Kageyama to blush once more. “Oh, Tobio, you’re too easy to read.” Those words only deepened Kageyama’s colour.

***

Silence followed the small incident. Again, Kageyama was brave and broke the silence. “Oikawa-san, why are you here today?” It was Tobio’s directness that made him such a great lover, and made it impossible for Oikawa to leave him alone. And though he had seen him naked, Tobio preserved etiquette and addressed Oikawa as formally as ever. “Would you believe me if I said, I’d missed you?” Oikawa raised his brows and looked straight into Kageyama’s eyes. “Honestly, I have missed you. Your serves at the very least.” “Then why did you choose this match? You knew it would be an easy win for us,” Kageyama protested. “And that is exactly why. I came to see your serves. There are more of them and they are better when you play against an easy opponent,” for the first time, Oikawa spoke the absolute truth. “I see..” Kageyama put his arms on his thighs and buried his head in his hands. “The real questions is.. why are you here?” Oikawa challenged Kageyama with another question. Kageyama raised his head instantly and looked into Oikawa’s eyes with an expression clearly saying why wouldn’t I be here?. “Have you forgotten that you have a girlfriend?” Oikawa’s tone was no longer teasing, rather it was slightly reprimanding.

***

“Being with a guy is cheating as well, you know?” Oikawa was not finished scolding. Not that this would ever have any consequences. Oikawa knew his own weaknesses too well. “That is not for Oikawa-san to worry about.” “Becoming a real player, aren’t you?” Kageyama hesitated before offering his unexpected reply, “With all due respect.. I learn from the best.” At this remark, Oikawa’s laughter filled the air again. He opened his orange juice and passed Kageyama the banana milk. Kageyama’s expression was surprised, not understanding a reality where Oikawa went out of his way for Kageyama’s sake. “No, but, seriously. You know I would break up with her if you even considered going out with me for real.” Ever the honest man. Oikawa knew he would never, during his whole life, be as honest to himself as Tobio was to others. Another defeat really. “Then why do you keep tormenting yourself? You take the bait every time.” Oikawa was back to his teasing, his eyes slightly narrowed, an arrogant look on his face.

***

“Oikawa-san, you know I’m completely smitten by you.” Kageyama’s last words were a half-growl as he placed one hand behind Oikawa’s head. Oikawa could hear his heavy breathing, as Kageyama leaned closer – or rather, dragged Oikawa’s face towards his own. Tobio could be unexpectedly forceful. Another quality of his that Oikawa favored. Oikawa knew how easily he could seduce Kageyama; he always became like this after a little teasing. He also knew there was no stopping when they had begun, and thus let himself be led astray. The first kiss was too rough, too lusty, Kageyama pressing his lips hard against Oikawa’s in a sloppy manner. As Oikawa gave in, Kageyama became gentler, waiting to follow Oikawa’s pace. To allow evolution, Oikawa opened his mouth to which Kageyama eagerly responded. Slowly their tongues met, just on the outskirts of Oikawa’s mouth. For a couple of minutes, they continued in this fashion, Oikawa’s pulse steadily rising, his head starting to spin, his mind starting to grow blank. Kageyama had sensed the change in Oikawa and beastly as he could be, he pulled off before anything could escalate. For a moment they sat, staring at each other, Kageyama’s eyes filled with lust, Oikawa’s half-eager, half-disgusted, both breathing raggedly. “Oikawa-san. I’m alone for the next couple of hours, if you’d like to come with me?” Slowly, Oikawa raised his juice and emptied it in one go. He then looked straight at Kageyama, inclined his head ever slightly and rose. In one gulp, Kageyama finished the sweet banana milk and followed.

Notes: I hope you do not think I’ve done Oikawa injustice. Like all the other basic bitches, Oikawa is my absolute favourite HQ character so I’m not trying to put him in a bad light… but he really is a big shit in this story, but I guess that’s how I love him the most.

#haikyuu!!#oikage #kageyama x oikawa #oikawa x kageyama #hq!!#hq fanfic #oikawa tooru #oikawa #kageyama #kageyama tobio #this is the fruits of my labouring at 4:30 in the night...#I'm so tired today omg #i cannot leave this ship alone #ffs #haikyuu!! fanfiction #mine

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ecotone99 · 4 years

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[RF] Foodie (~4500 words)

Warning: Contains some violence, as well as swearing and some mention of sex. I don't think this is very risqué, but I submitted it recently for a creative writing class. Most students liked it, but one guy thought I should've warned people before they read it. So I'm erring on the side of caution.

Also, some may consider this horror. I do not, and so I didn't tag it as such.

Foodie

Carol Wilkenson was a foodie. It was a title she wore with pride, the way other women her age might casually mention that they or their spouse were chiropractors or paralegals. Tell me about yourself, Doug had asked on their first date. Her answer was as obvious as it was immediate.

It was their twentieth anniversary. Carol marked it on the calendar in bold red sharpie, her mouth turning into a cheshire grin as she X’ed out the box. Today was not going to be just another Wednesday. Today there would be romance. Today there would be sex—and not just of the five minute variety. Today there would be a wonderful dinner, prepared by Carol, as she had nearly every night since her honeymoon. And perhaps most importantly: today she would cook not out of habit or familial obligation, as had happened every afternoon for the past few years, but with that elusive magic ingredient her mother always told her about: love. That invisible spice that makes everything smell; taste; feel more vibrant and linger in your memory for years after it happened; playing like a tableau vivant in your mouth. The spice that had for so long been scarce was ready to be recaptured.

Doug joined her for breakfast. He picked up the sports section. And said:

“Good news: the Bills are making the playoffs.”

She smiled. She thought he was joking. Then, he courteously thanked her for breakfast, as he had every day since their honeymoon, tightened his tie, and walked cheerily out the door.

It was only after the screen door screeched to a halt that Carol realized she had broken her honey dipper. Its neck lay strangled in two pieces, one of which bit into her palm. Some of her blood mixed with the honey remaining from Doug’s cursory oatmeal.

“Oh dear.”

Carol sucked on her palm (the honey and blood made it sweet and salty, like some exotic fruit), threw the honey dipper in the trash, and washed her hands, careful not to drive the few remaining splinters further into her skin. She bandaged the wound. Then, she woke up Meg and sent her off to school. Carol insisted that her daughter eat some kind of nutritious breakfast, but she only settled for the desultory Honey Bunches of Oats.

She wished Meg would eat more out of her comfort zone. But Meg did not share her adventurous spirit. A few years ago they had a trip to Bangkok for something involving Doug’s work. Carol didn’t remember exactly what. Doug brought the family along, which made it an exciting opportunity for Meg to learn about other cultures and imbue in her a love of food. But whatever they ordered (on big communal platters, common for Asian restaurants), no matter how exotic or mundane, Meg took one bite, slid her plate back, and said “I’m good.” And Doug was somehow worse; she shuddered to think of the memory.

“Have a good day!” she called out to the bus, which was patiently waiting with its STOP sign extended like an enthusiastic middle finger. Meg didn’t look back.

Carol hung her head and busied herself in the kitchen. It was still her anniversary, and she and Doug would have the best goddarn dinner the two of them ever had. And they’ve had many excellent meals. In Venetion diners and Parisian cafes. Black risotto and escargot. Frog legs and couscous. Cajun food that upset Doug’s stomach so much that he couldn’t handle a second bite. All the organic, orgasmic food they ate in all the wonderful, envious places they traveled. Before she made a pitstop in her local Walgreens. And that little plastic stick showed two lines, not one.

They stopped traveling and settled down. They couldn’t raise a kid on the go, in cramped hotel rooms and seedy bathroom changing stations. Still, Carol had loved her career as a photojournalist. It took her to all the places where the best cuisine was hiding. Some of her work was pretty well reviewed too, making waves in the small and esoteric community of photojournalism.

But that wasn’t compatible with a child. The last interesting thing she ate—interesting and good, not the Arbys that gave her food poisoning—was her daughter’s placenta. It was mostly made of blood cells, and was entirely tasteless. She finished it more for curiosity’s sake than enjoyment factor, but it only made her long for the savory, dramatic dishes of years past. As she had sat there, unenthusiastically consuming, she felt like a cow that chews its own cud. Then, there was Doug, who had walked into the kitchen at just the wrong time. He saw the placenta, opened from its styrofoam box that the hospital sent home, per her request, like a perverse McDonalds Happy Meal. Then, he had made a face—the same fucking face—as Bangkok.

Her daughter’s bowl shattered against the fridge.

“Fuck you!” she screamed at the picture of Doug, pinned with a magnet and now soaking in spilled milk. Like the milk puddling on the pool, regret immediately seeped in.

“Oh, God. I didn’t mean it.”

Unconsciously, she bit the back of her hand. Chewing it, testing the muscles and tendons as her fingers flexed. It was an unconscious habit of hers, like Meg when she bit her nails or Doug when he pulled at his tie. She never bit too deeply, just massaged the back of her hand with her teeth. Feeling her teeth grind across the heel of her hand, fleshy as a ripe apple and underlain with tendons taut like piano wire. Her habit was a strange one, but not unheard of. She figured it was the same self-affirming way an infant sucked its thumb; built from a natural yearn to find comfort using the only means at its disposal.

She heard that fingers snap with the same strength it takes to crack a baby carrot. It was an interesting thought: that such a precious instrument, the nimble and adroit hand, could break so easily. Dipped in hummus and eaten like just another Super Bowl dish. She wondered, fleetingly yet not for the first time, what human tastes like.

It was surprising that she didn’t already know. Over the years, she had sampled a king’s ransom of dishes. On her trip to Venezuela, building houses for those displaced in Hurricane Isidore, she was offered local meals from the grateful inhabitants: goat’s blood and guinea pig, the first of which was customary, the latter of which was a delicacy. She gratefully accepted both. Neither was particularly good, but at least she tried them, and that was the ethos of being a foodie, she had explained to Doug. Five years later, they went to the New York State Fair. Doug, hungry and unwilling to wait for their reservations at Le Pamplemousse, a fancy french restaurant twenty minutes from the fairground, bought a stick of fried butter. He offered her half. When she refused, he educated her on the ethos of being a foodie. She chewed. She swallowed.

In a moment of curiosity, she turned to Google for answers. What does human taste like?

After fifteen minutes of patient scrolling and several clickbaity headlines, she found out that humans tasted, strangely enough, like pork. You probably wouldn’t taste the difference if served side by side, the website explained. Is that a challenge? Carol jokingly thought. With her foodie taste buds, she was certain she could sniff out the difference. Not that she would ever try, though. As if.

While she thoroughly wiped the picture of Doug, Carol apologized to his image. She didn’t hold anything against her husband. Nothing. On the contrary, he had supported her in hard times. When her father passed. When she had her second pregnancy scare, this one (thankfully) false. And of course, his constant companionship to all those places—Marseille and Istanbul and Galway and Marrakesh.

The last of the ceramic fragments were deposited in the trash. The milk was puddled up with a dish towel, then thrown in the laundry bin. Carol got back to work.

Last month she was skimming through the Food Network and came across a fascinating recipe: hot and sour soup. She had always wanted to try it out, but never got around to it. Paired with her signature linguine and clam sauce—a dish that always appealed to Doug’s taste, the Wilkensons could have a perfect anniversary dinner. She went to the pantry, which was overflowing with jams and spices after twenty years of marriage, and selected her ingredients.

White pepper. Onions. Vinegar. Bottled mushrooms. Jarred olives. Some shrimp from the fridge. Mozzarella slices. Bits of chicken, diced like cheese. Eggs, but not too many; she didn’t want her final product to be too “slushy.”

As she mixed, chopped, sautéred, and cooked, she cheerily hummed All You Need Is Love to herself, a song that played at her wedding.

She finished the soup and went to work on the linguine with clam sauce, which by now was as habitual as brushing her teeth while Rachel Maddow gave her the news. She lingered in the pantry and brought out her spices—fourteen in all, although Doug admitted that he could only taste three. By now, she had calculated that it took two trips to the pantry for linguini, and one perusal of the fridge.

Spaghetti and bowtie pasta, finely mixed. Olive oil. More onions. A clove of garlic. Lemon juice. Parsley. A dash of Maruso soy sauce. A sprinkle of salt. Tomato sauce, but not too much. Minced clams.

Lastly, Carol went to the cellar and brought up a bottle of Château Margaux. At half a grand, it was the most expensive wine they owned, a wedding present from Doug’s childhood friend, some rich Wall Street guy named Joe, not yet humbled by the crisis of ‘07. Doug had stuck it in the basement, saving the bottle for a special occasion. Carol figured two decades was time enough at last, and stuck it in the fridge.

Oh dear! She thought with a start. I almost forgot the carrots!

She looked at the kitchen clock. It was three minutes short, but Carol realized it was nearly four. Where had the time gone? Doug would be getting back from the office around now. Meg would soon join them—she had soccer practice until five. A teammate’s mom was driving her home.

Carol cursed herself for the two hours she spent watching The Crown while letting the chicken thaw, then cook. As she hurried to chop the carrots, her mind wandered again to Olivia Coleman, venerable and austere as Elizabeth II. Carol was so far removed from all those ladies in the show, who would never burden themselves with housework (they had servants for that), but instead perform diplomatic duties, making speeches and traveling to foreign countries. To Carol, it was more and more unlikely she would ever work or travel again. After her stint as a photojournalist, she worked at home for a couple years, putting her English degree to use writing advice columns in a American Woman, a near-unheard of women's magazine. My boyfriend left, someone would write in. My husband’s not talking to me. She always gave some fancy variation of the same answer, which could be distilled to: Get a grip, girl! You’re a grown-ass woman. Take charge of your life.

Now she felt like a terrible hypocrite, an unemployed housewife with no career prospects, fussing over the thickness of Doug’s hot and sour soup. She paused from chopping carrots, bit her hand, then resumed the task. How could she have ever had the audacity to write such advice?

It had been 2007 when she quit the magazine, when Meg entered the terrible twos and ate up all her time. For the time being, she had said to Doug. But they both knew it was permanent. After an exciting and successful career as a photojournalist, anything less was cripplingly depressing. Better nothing than something less. And they both knew it wasn’t Meg’s fault. If it was, she would’ve had an abortion. She was an independent woman. Neither of their families were picky about things like that. It was just… they both knew—although neither he nor her said anything—that they’d have to stop traveling and settle down. Grow up. Move on with their lives. It was time.

It was time.

“FUCK!”

She looked down at her hand, spouting blood from the tip of her pinkie finger like a water balloon with a hole. The knife rattled against the cutting board. Blood trickled on top of the cut carrots like the decorative sauce drizzled over hors d'oeuvres at some fancy eatery. Carol knew from years of restaurant experience that this was called plating. The top of her pinkie lay with the carrots; just another delicacy.

She hurriedly covered her hand with a wad of paper towels. It soaked through.

She rushed to the bathroom and threw open the door above the sink. Toothbrushes and bottles of aspirin clattered into the sink as she found the bandages. Wielding her teeth like some disgruntled animal, she tore open the box of bandages, then struggled with the waxy strip, tears welling in her eyes and blank black painspots eating up the foreground.

When the bandage was on and she felt healed enough to move, Carol wiped up the blood. Much of it was dried and black.

Black as elderberries.

Carol looked over to the cutting board. The carrots lay there, all in a row, quiet as a crime scene. She used the knife, still bloody, to scrape the bleeding carrots into the trash. Then she stopped. The finger was still there, an unpainted nail like a postal stamp in the corner of the cutting board. It clung on by a sticky glob of blood. Carol recalled a time when she read Meg a book of scary children’s stories.

(Meg was really into that stuff as a kid, and Doug thought something might be off with her, as if she was destined to become the first female serial killer.)

As one story went, there was a boy who ate some soup with a toe in it. After dinner, he’s sent to bed. He’s later haunted by the toe’s owner. Where is my big toe? Where is my toe? Carol always thought that was the scariest of all the stories. But even still, gazing at the piece of truncated pinkie like a crumb of meat left on the plate, it looked kind of… appetizing.

She set the cutting board down. Then, moving quickly as to not regret it, she peeled the finger off the cutting board and threw it into her mouth, nail and all. It caught in her throat for a moment, and for a second she was sure she’d choke on her stupidity, but then it gave.

Down the hatch and ‘round the corner, she thought. Then, out loud, with an air of awed tranquility:

“Tastes like chicken.”

She laughed at her crack, then tended to the mess. She washed the cutting board, not caring about chopping another carrot. Doug will just have to go another day without any carrots, that’s all. He’ll manage.

Doug wheeled his Prius into the garage at 4:30 p.m. By then, the linguine was sizzling on a saucepan, and its tangy scent permeated the house. Carol was ecstatic.

By now, he would have remembered their anniversary. He must’ve felt horrible (just horrible!) all day at work, upon remembering, with a start, that today was December 2nd. He would walk through the door and drop to his knees, exalting her with compliments and pleas of “I’m sorry,” and declaring his commitment to marriage. And love for her.

And this morning? It was just a fluke. His morning coffee hadn’t yet set in, and he was groggy and disoriented. He had forgotten their anniversary, but only for a minute.

The door opened with an anticipatory groan. Carol breathed deeply. The smells of her fresh cooking intermingled in a miasma of spice.

“Hey,” he said, with all the gusto of a cottonmouthed telemarketer. Doug walked into the kitchen. He hung his coat. Slipped off his shoes.

“I prepared a nice dinner for us,” she said.

He said nothing, just trudged into the living room, sat on the couch, and flicked on the evening news.

Not even a “smells good.”

A minute passed. Carol saw a chime on her phone. From Meg.

“Meg’s at Amy’s house,” she told Doug. “Says she’ll be back at nine.”

“Okay.”

“We should eat without her, just the two of us.”

“Okay.”

She set the table and placed the linguine on a dish, carefully so, like an offering on an altar. She did the same with the soup, and stirred it lovingly. She blew into the steam as if in prayer.

“What’s this?”

“Hot and sour soup.”

When she saw the disgruntled look on his face, she added:

“It’s Asian cuisine.”

“Chinese food,” he said dejectedly.

“Doesn’t it smell good?”

“Yeah,” he conceded.

They ate like mannequins, miming out their movements as if reading from a script. Pick up fork. Stab bowtie noodles. Swallow.

“Anything interesting happen at work today?”

“Same old, same old.”

Test spoon in soup. Raise it to your lips. Swallow.

“You haven’t touched your linguine,” she says, once he had finished the soup.

“Sorry. Do you want it? I’m not in the mood for this stuff again.”

This stuff again. This stuff again.

Those words played in her head, round and round, heating up slightly, like the plate in a microwave.

“No, I’ll just put it away.”

She took the plate and ducked behind the kitchen counter. Retrieved a large tupperware. She tilted the plate—a move so simple yet to her as melancholic as the R.M.S. Titanic sliding into the Atlantic. Most of the plate sludged into the plastic. But some noodles remained.

This stuff again.

She took an oversized cutting knife and scraped them off, trying to get as much of the clam sauce as possible. The knife shined silver, the sauce was white as semen.

“It was good,” Doug said, and Carol couldn’t help but smile. She deposited the tupperware in the fridge, and, positioning her back to Doug to cover his view of the kitchen, discreetly removed another item.

“I’m glad you like it. But there’s more.”

With that, she heaved the full weight of her body against the corkscrew wine opener and popped the bottle of Château Margaux.

Pooompf!

Bubbles instantly fizzed up; tiny iridescent balloons in celebration. Like whitewater on a beach. Carol smiled, so lost in thought that she barely understood the words coming out of Doug’s mouth. They must’ve echoed three times around the kitchen before they reached her eardrums.

“Are you crazy?!?”

“Huh?” she was still smiling, pouring the green bottle into the first of two wine glasses.

“That’s Château Margaux!”

“I know,” Carol says, hesitantly at first. Then, with a firmer voice:

“That’s why I’m pouring it.”

“That was from Joe Briggasson. We were supposed to save it for special occasions. You just opened it. You ruined it.”

Carol couldn’t stop herself. As she spoke, she strangled the neck of Doug’s wine glass.

“Special occasions?”

She laughed, a hollow cackle that scared her more than him.

“Ruined it? Did I, Doug? Did I really?”

Anger crept into her voice in the same sneaky way she found herself humming along to a tune in the supermarket she didn’t know was playing.

“Yes, you did!” Doug said. “You’re supposed to sit on that for a few decades.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Doug.” Carol said, with mock sympathy. It was a tone unfamiliar to both Doug and herself. “I guess twenty years of marriage wasn’t enough for you.”

“Twenty years? Twenty...” he trailed off, head turned toward the calendar behind her. Red sharpie accused him. Red like blood.

“I told you, honey.” he said, getting his voice under control. “This morning. I said Happy Anniversary. You must’ve forgot.”

“Liar!”

Shmakkkk!

Carol looked down. Her hand had thoroughly choked the neck of the wineglass. It lay shattered, its glass spread out on the linoleum floor like petals of some deadly flower. Puddled with blood and $500 wine. It was the third time she cut her hand today. That’s a hat trick.

“Oh, Carol,” he said sadly, condescendingly.

“Here, let me help.”

The chair pushed back. He went into the kitchen, wearing a face of both sympathy and disgust. It was the look he wore in Bangkok. Bangkok. The beautiful city with the grilled octopus that Doug was too afraid to try and looked at her funny when she did, as if he had walked in on her performing fellatio on another man. The disgust he wore never left her memory. It was such a minor grievance, so silly that they never talked about it. One of those inconsequential peccadilloes that married people are supposed to forgive, and, if God forbade, forget. But still, like a bad stain, it didn’t seem to fade. On the contrary, it grew. Festered in her mind. Fed there.

She realized, then, that she hated Doug.

She looked at the knife, snuggled in its block of triangular wood.

“Are you cut?”

She didn’t answer. She bit her hand. Most of the wine remained in the bottle, still bubbling up. Up and up and up. Fizzing. Like grease on a skillet.

“Okay, not too bad.”

He inspected her palm. Only a few scrapes. Some blood, but nothing too deep. There was a bandage on her pinkie finger covering the nail, but it looked like Carol had handled that already. So, he crouched down and picked up some of the glass from the floor. Collecting it into a sparkling pile.

She couldn’t look at him. She bit her hand. She looked at the wine. Fizzing.

Like a snake’s hiss.

“I can’t believe this.” he said, head bowed, his balding hair displayed like a half-assed attempt at a monk’s tonsure. “Five hundred down the drain.”

She looked at the block of wood, knife nestled cozily inside. The wine bottle stood beside it. Then, without thinking, her hand left her mouth. She wrung the bottle by the neck and thrashed it against his head. It exploded in a hail of glass and colored fluid.

He doubled over.

“Fuhhh—”

Glass everywhere.

Blood, too, black as elderberries.

Wine, fizzing. Hissing like a snake.

He turned around, and she could see that he fell on glass. Some pieces twinkled to the floor. They sparkled like the spilled champagne. He raised his mangled hands defensively. Fingers bled like the carrots sitting in the bottom of the trash can.

“Carol…”

She pounced on him, driving the full weight of her body into her hand, which clutched the corkscrew wine opener like an epipen. It slid into his throat.

Then, everything was red.

For one fleeting infinity: that awful, scarlet ubiquity.

She blinked, and he was there again. Eyes glazed and trembling like spoonfuls of jello. Beads of sweat on his brow, pustules of blood, drips of wine, all pregnantly static. Lips parted, as if to taste. He managed to croak out one word:

“Whhhhhyyyyyy?”

And she—still draped over him like they were a much younger couple, faces inches apart, ready to do the deed—answered:

“Octopus.”

She twisted the spiral.

He sputtered; twitched; convulsed like having a seizure. She felt every movement. His hands fell sleepily to his side, parting the broken glass.

His mouth was a science project: a volcano oozing magma. Drops cascaded down his chin the way chocolate sauce topped an ice cream sundae. They pooled in his fat neck, which was resting, bonelessly, on the linoleum.

Carol uncurled her fingers from the twisted metal spiral. She looked at them—cut up and covered in both their blood. Like a wounded animal, she licked her fingers.

Finger-licking good, she thought, and released a hollow laugh. Then, she put her mouth to the back of her hand, chewing. Ponderous, but not nervous.

“Oh, Doug. What did you make me do?”

The room smelled sickly sweet, the fragrances of wine and home cooking still identifiable. Its sallange permeated the entire house, clinging like flies to a corpse.

She surveyed the kitchen—all that blood and wine and broken glass, some volleyed across the room—and saw the oven. She looked back to Doug’s volcano face. And knew, just knew, what to do. She kissed him on the lips, wet and still warm. Then she leaned back, licked the blood from her lips, and said:

“You look delicious.”

Meg came home at 9:15 p.m. She sniffed the air. Something was off, but she couldn’t tell what, exactly. She shook her head. Meg had had her period this morning, and the smell of blood still lingered.

Her mother was in the kitchen, cooking, though that was usual for her. Even late at night, she always had something in the oven. With her mother, a bowl was always ready to lick, and a good meal perpetually at their fingertips. In recent months, she felt bad about turning down mom’s cooking, saying she wasn’t feeling the chicken parmigiana. In reality, she didn’t want to get fat. She didn’t want to have a nickname at school like Size-Forty Sandra.

But that would change. She would eat what her mother cooked. She didn’t want to hurt her mother’s feelings.

Besides, as far as chefs were concerned, her mother wasn’t half bad.

“Hi, Meg. How was Amy’s?”

“Alright.”

“Did you eat yet?”

“Yeah, a little. Some chicken with Amy and her parents. But I have room for more. What do you have?”

“Let’s just say… mystery meat.”

“Sure, as long as it’s not octopus again. I couldn’t stand that when we went to Bangkok.”

“Oh, no,” her mother said, flashing her pearly whites like a walking, talking dental ad. “Much better.”

She plopped a steaming chunk of meat on a plate and turned around, looking radiant. Meg could not remember the last time her mom looked this happy. She looked ten years younger! Even in the wan light of the kitchen, her wrinkles seemed smoothed, her eyes sparkled with brilliance. There was a renewed bounce to her step as she set the plate down in front of her, all the while grinning ear to ear. To Meg, this seemed almost a comical sight. Because for all this renewed vigor and ebullient veneer, her mother had not noticed what was caught between her two front teeth: dangling there, like a fly entombed in a spider’s web, was a slim sliver of meat.

“Dig in,” she said, and Meg did.

End.

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how2to18 · 6 years

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LARB presents Isaac Bashevis Singer’s story “In the Beginning,” translated from the Yiddish by David Stromberg. This is the story’s first appearance in English. It is featured in the LARB Print Quarterly Journal: No. 18, Genius

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A heat wave spread across Tel Aviv. The “veterans” — the ones who’d live there for a while — called it a hamsin. But for the newcomers it was hard to tell the difference between a hamsin and just plain heat. A hot, dry wind blew in from somewhere, reminding Liza Fuchs of flames from a furnace. At night, while she slept, her mouth and throat became dry, and her nostrils filled with sandy dust. The sun went down as flaming red as coal, and for a long time after sunset blazing tongues continued to rise as from a heavenly abyss on fire. The moon was unusually large, blood red, a burning globe mapping otherworldly lands. The nights were not still. Voices could be heard in the middle of the night — just like in Warsaw. Young men cried out in Hebrew. Young women laughed. Cars and trucks passed in the streets. There was no war in the country, but neither was there peace. The Polish-language newspaper that Liza bought each morning reported tension on the border. There were skirmishes in the Negev, near Gaza, or whatever those places were called. Against the shine of the moon you could see military trucks and motorcycles driven by soldiers in helmets. A silent mobilization had begun.

At dawn, Liza stood at the window, stark naked. A light wind, smelling of dead fish and sewage, blew in periodically from the sea. Liza’s body was both shivering and sweating. Over the flat roofs of Tel Aviv hung little bundles of stars, like fiery bunches of grapes. Cats meowed. A few light poles shone with a yellow light reminding Liza of the lanterns that were carried behind coffins in Warsaw. It was strange to think that she had found herself in the Jewish state, Palestine, Israel. But what good was all this Jewishness to her? She would never learn their Hebrew. She’d tried taking Hebrew classes at an ulpan. But right in the beginning, the grammar made her head spin. The Hebrew words, with their khets and their khafs, got stuck in her throat. Perhaps, if she’d come when she was younger, she might have managed to learn a little. But she was over 40. She could just as well forget about understanding anything.

Yes, she might as well say goodbye to everything. She’s left without a job, without a husband. She no longer goes to the cafe where the Polish-speaking Jews gather — the Warsaw Manjeks and Salczes who greet each other with servus and kiss the women’s hands. They leave her sitting alone at her table. The men don’t even look at her. The women throw sharp glances at her. The waiters are impolite. They scoop up the few coins she leaves for a tip and don’t even say toda — thank you. Liza had even tried going to a kibbutz. But she didn’t last there more than a week. The sun left a rash on her face. In the dining hall she was eaten by flies. She couldn’t stand anything there: the aluminum spoons, the bare tables, the half-naked servers who slammed the plates and bowls, the scent of disinfectant, used to wash down the tile floors. A thick darkness reigned at night, a tropical blackness which no lampposts could illuminate. Snakes slithered in the grass. Bats flew overhead. The frogs quacked with human voices. The crickets didn’t chirp — they sawed invisible trees. The jackals howled as in childbirth. Arabs lurked on the other side of the mountain. At the cultural center, the beit tarbut, the newspapers and magazines were all in Hebrew. The men at the kibbutz were either too young for her — sabras who knew no language other than Hebrew — or old men who smelled of garlic and groaned when they spoke Yiddish. Here in Tel Aviv, Liza at least had her own apartment, though it didn’t have a bathtub or a shower, just a toilet on the roof. She could wash herself at the sink. And even for this rooftop apartment she had to pay 800 lira in key money.

Liza had already done all kinds of work here: cut women’s hair, ironed shirts at a cleaner’s, even cleaned the rooms of a two-star hotel. But she was now, again, without a job. Her entire fortune consisted of 12 lira and a few coins. She had already stopped making lunch, satisfying herself with bread and lebenya, a kind of sour milk that had an aftertaste to which Liza could never quite get accustomed.

Now, after a couple of hours of sleep, Liza stands and looks off into the distance, with her face to the sea, toward Italy, toward Europe. It could have been different. She could have easily gotten a visa to America. She could have now been looking out onto the Broadway lights, which never went out, or at the Hollywood studios. She could have acted in English and been a star. But her bitter luck had carried her here, to the Jewish state, where everything was small, poor, and where you always needed protektsia — to know the right people. The civil servants to whom Liza came with all kinds of questions and requests would make her wait, scribble something with their pens, and pretend they couldn’t hear her.

What did she actually have in common with these people? It was true, she was Jewish, but she’d never liked Jews. She’d always, since childhood, had an aversion to their black eyes, crooked noses, beards, kaftans, sidelocks. Even worse than the Jews of olden days were the modern Jews — short, fat, with poorly shaven faces, thick fore- locks, quick eyes, sly smiles. Their jokes always made her sick. She especially hated the Jewish ladies in their fur coats, who screeched when they spoke Polish, filled all the Polish cafes, pushed themselves into all the Polish pension houses, read the newest Polish books. Almost all of Liza’s lovers had been Christian. She’d been ready to con- vert as soon as her mother shut her eyes for good. But the Germans burned her mother in Auschwitz or Treblinka. Liza had been through every kind of hell and had ended up in Israel. The years passed like a bad dream. Nothing was left of them but a broken career, a confused mind, a pained heart, and a void that nothing could fill.

Every morning Liza asked herself the same thing: Why bother getting up? What can this day give me? But she lacked the courage to commit suicide. The bitter truth was that she lived on daydreams, sexual fantasies. Since leaving her Jewish lover, Edek Grizhendler, the almost-doctor who worked here as an electrician, her only satisfaction has been imagining trips abroad, love affairs, treasures, chance acquaintances. Millionaires fall in love with her and build her theaters. Hollywood magnates see her playing somewhere in a coffeehouse and write up years-long contracts for her. She travels the world in a yacht and everyone loves her to death — from the captain to the last deck-hand. She has a kind of a potion or pill that inflames desires, makes men crazy. A genius playwright shows up, a second Bernard Shaw, who writes plays just for her, Liza Fuchs, and when she acts, the public is constantly amazed. When she sings a song, the audience falls weak. She’s crowned Miss Universe, and in every single country a handsome gentleman is chosen to serve her, like a court page.

Liza feels a little cold and goes back to bed. She covers herself with a blanket and lies in silence. Her body is both hot and damp from sweat. The dye that she uses on her hair, which went gray early on, pricks her scalp, and the roots sting. Her whole body feels pinched, stung, and bitten. No, she won’t sleep tonight either.

Liza closes the shutters and turns on the light. Her eyelids flicker in the blinding light and she starts looking for something on the shelf. Strange, but despite running away from country after country, and wandering through all kinds of camps, she had nonetheless managed to save an album with photos, flyers, and reviews. She had al- ready decided many times not to go near these yellowing leftovers, but she can’t stand the temptation. This is the only proof she has that she once played on the Polish stage, in a small theater, and received some recognition. Her photograph was printed in the Polish press, even in the anti-Semitic newspapers. Liza sits down and again reads what they wrote about her: a promising talent, a rising star, an actress with character, chic, charm. God in heaven! Poland is ruined, the theaters destroyed, the reviewers dead. Nothing was left of the old days except these little scraps of paper, crumbling at the edges. But she can still read the words, look at the pictures and illustrations. Why should the past be any less important than the present? Won’t the present pass too? What’s left of Mademoiselle Rachel, Sarah Bernhardt, Eleonora Duse? Dust — and binders full of memoirs.

Liza reads and reads. Here and there a critic sticks in a nasty word, and it still stings her breast today, just like that first morning, on the week of the premiere. After a while, Liza puts the album back on the shelf and walks over to the hanging mirror, which has a crack running down the middle. She looks at herself, from all sides like an expert. Her body is still youthful, her bust small, her waist thin, but her hairdo has several shades: blond, brown, yellowish. Her neck has a middle-aged fold, a network of wrinkles. Under her gray eyes hang bluish bags. The only perfect thing is her nose, totally Arian, and the thin lips. Is it possible that I’m 43 already? Am I the same Liza Fuchs? Can it be that I’m stuck somewhere in Palestine, in Asia, surrounded by wild Arabs, without any hope of ever acting in the theater, or even getting a visa to civilized country?

It’s bad, very bad. Liza turns off the light and goes back to bed. The sheet is damp and full of sand. The pillow too hard. God in heaven! First Hitler tried to make soap out of her, and now she’s fallen into a Jewish trap. She’ll grow old here, ugly and broken. She’ll have nothing left to do but sit on the sidewalk on Ben Yehuda or Allenby Street and beg.

Liza shuts her eyelids and when she opens them again it’s daytime. She puts on her robe, lifts the shutters. The sun shines in the pale blue sky, ready to burn for another long day. On the left they’re putting up a building. The construction workers are already at work. Down below there are sacks of cement. From the open window frame you can hear the sounds of banging, pounding, cursing. It seems she’s gotten up late because the shops are open: the makolet or corner store, the maspera or hair salon, the makhleva or milk shop — even the shop where in the window they have menorahs, candlesticks, spice-holders, and water basins. A tall military man in khakis, with dangling epaulettes on his wrinkled shirt, walks next to a short woman, a soldier with messy hair and sandals on her feet. A man pulls an oil barrel on rubber wheels tied to a little horse. A Yemenite dealer of used clothes calls out with a Yiddish singsong — alte-zakhen, alte-zakhen — “old stuff ”. A blind beggar in a turban, a kaftan that looks like a nightshirt, and two sidelocks as thin as rope, holds out his hand for charity. Liza is astonished anew every single day. Is this really a Jewish state? How did they do it? Who? When? How long can this last?

A child appears calling out the morning news. Liza listens to his voice. Is it war again? No, at least not for now. But the sun is already beating down on this morning. Her forehead’s already completely wet.

The old lady that lived in the apartment across from Liza has suddenly moved away. The doors had always been closed and locked. Now they were spread open, and out of them came a broken piano, chairs, tables, dishes, an icebox. Then painters painted the rooms. When the paint dried, a new neighbor moved in: a little man with a dark face, shiny black eyes, and a white little beard. He yelled at the wagon-carriers in Hebrew and carried his belongings in himself. He had little furniture, but many books. The walls were covered with shelves. The new tenant was dressed in a pair of khaki pants and a blue shirt from which gray chest-hair stuck out. For his age, he was quick and flexible. Dirty, like all Jews, thought Liza, but why does he need such a big library? Liza kept the door open on account of the heat. He soon stood at the threshold speaking Hebrew to her in a grating voice. She answered him in Polish and he switched to a broken Polish with a Yiddish accent. He threw in Russian words. He told her that he was from somewhere in Lithuania, but that 30 years ago he had spent some time in Warsaw, where he’d been a Hebrew teacher. He asked for a drink of water, and Liza poured him a glass from a bottle that she kept in the icebox. He drank thirstily, like a young man, and drizzled on his little beard.A Litvak pig, Liza said to herself, all the troubles start with them. He thanked her, put the glass at the edge of the door, and called out, “Has thepani lived here long?” “Too long.” “What’s wrong with this place? When I first came, I lived in a tsrif, a shed, worse than today’s transit camps. The jackals howled all night. I even had malaria. I caught a fever that I still have today.” “So you’ve become a Zionist?” “I myself don’t know what I’ve become. Since the gentiles didn’t want us, we had to build something of our own.” “The Arabs don’t want us either.” “No one asked them!”

He’s old, but he talks like a young man, Liza thought. It seems he has no family. She watched the man run up and down the stairs, carrying stacks of books, sweating, and wiping his sweat with a dirty handkerchief. His little beard was white, but his eyebrows were black. His pupils looked mean, sharp, full of the kind of ridicule, Liza thought, that only Jews have. She kept looking him over, again and again. He had a kind of Middle Eastern darkness, not unlike the Jews who came from Tunisia, Morocco, or Yemen. It was as if his skin had taken in endless amounts of sun. It seemed to her that a person like him could glow in the dark, like the phosphorescent face of a wristwatch. Well, what’s there to see here? Liza cut him down in her mind. A Jew like all the others. A hedgehog on two feet. She dressed and went out to put an announcement in a German newspaper, where many short-term announcements were made.

God in heaven! She hated everything about this city: the names of the streets, the Hebrew signs, the dark Jews who looked nearly black, the beggars with the wild sidelocks, all the commotion of Tel Aviv. On the bus people pushed and cursed. The conductor was angry. The banknotes with the Hebrew letters were soft and damp like wet rags. At the offices of the German newspaper no one understood her Polish and Liza had to speak Yiddish, a language that disgusted her even more than Hebrew.

She went back home on foot. The heat was beating down on her head, so she sat down next to a table at a sidewalk cafe. A waiter brought her coffee in a metal cup. She took a sip and winced. They call this coffee, these Jews. It tastes like burnt marsh. I don’t have enough strength for this! decided Liza at once. It’s time to end it. The thought of suicide always calmed her a little. You could bring the whole thing to an end with some rope or a little bit of poison. If there’d been a gas stove in the apartment, it might have been even easier, but all she had was an oil burner. She paid and continued back home. Just don’t let that Litvak’s door be open! she begged the higher powers. She wanted to lock herself in, be alone. Thank God, the door across from hers was closed. Liza went inside and locked her door. Her clothes were wet and she took them off. She sprawled across the bed and fell asleep — the weary sleep of despair, and of heat that doesn’t let up for days, weeks, months …

Liza woke up, drank some water, and was again overtaken by fatigue. Am I sick or something? she wondered. She could barely stay on her two feet. What day is this? she asked herself. Since coming to Palestine, she’d lost track of the months, days, weeks. Sunday seemed like Monday to her. Winter got mixed up with spring, fall with summer. This place had no seasons. Time stretched into one long heat wave, punctuated only by sudden rains and lazy cold air.

Liza continued to drowse and by the time she woke up it was already evening. Tel Aviv cried out with a summer cry. The air in the room was as warm as a Turkish bath. Though the shutter was closed, large insects had somehow crept in, grasshoppers and moths that flew, buzzed, and bumped into the walls with tropical strength. The boy who brought ice hadn’t come today. Just in the worst of heat, they were on strike. The last piece of ice in the icebox melted and everything inside went lukewarm, rotten. In the half-darkness, Liza set down a bowl for the water to drip into. She sat down on a stool, wiped her sweat with a handkerchief, and was suddenly reminded of snow. Had there ever really been such things as snowstorms, frosts, and ice flowers on window panes? Had she really ridden a sled from Zakopane to Morskie Oko, and had her shirt collar really filled up with snowflakes? Had she really spent the night in that cabin at the top of that mountain, and made the acquaintance of Stefan Kruszynski? It all seemed so far away to her, perhaps a hundred years ago. She herself would have considered it all a fantasy were it not for a photograph of her standing on skis, in boots, with thick wool socks and ski poles in her gloved hands. She’d nearly broken her foot then, sliding down the mountain. Stefan Kruszynski caught her in his strong arms and carried her like a special delivery parcel. “Oh, these memories! They’ll break what’s left of me,” said Liza out loud. “Where in the world is Stefan Kruszynski now? He probably fell in the Warsaw Uprising…” Someone knocked at the door. “Who’s there? One second!” Liza quickly put on a kimono. She put on her slippers. Perhaps it was an express letter? Perhaps a telegram? But from whom? She opened and saw the neighbor, the Litvak. His little beard had whitened in the evening darkness, lit up by light beams passing through the slats of the shutters. “What do you want?” “I hope I haven’t disturbed the pani. Do you, by any chance, have a little salt?” An old trick! Liza nearly said. She went looking for the salt shaker on the shelf. “Here’s some salt.” “Thank you very much.” For a moment they stood in the half-darkness, silent and uneasy. Then Liza said, “Have you maybe heard anything about a job?” “What kind of job?” “Whatever. I’m ready to do anything.” “What’s the pani’s profession?” “Acting. A Polish actress.” “I see. I don’t, unfortunately, know of any jobs, but one can always ask. Why doesn’t the pani play in any theater?” “How? I don’t know Hebrew.” “All you have to do is to learn the part.” “I can’t even read the Hebrew letters.” “That’s easy to learn.” “I’ve tried. I even went to a — what’s it called — an ulpan.” “You can, you can. I’m already 63 years old, but if I had to, I’d learn Chinese. Before I came to this country, I was a law student, but I’ve had 30 jobs here, if not more.” “What do you do now?” “Well, it’s a long story. I’ve argued with all the political parties, and here, without a political party, you’re half dead. But I get a pension. A very, very small pension.” “I see.” “If the pani would like, I could teach her Hebrew.” “No, I’ve given up on that. Why would you do that?” “Oh, just for the sake of it. Because it’s sad.” “Well, thank you.” “It’s never too late to start over.” “That’s what they say in books.” “It’s the truth. Look at the Jewish people. After two thousand years they’ve started up with the same story.” “I’m no Zionist.” “Well, you don’t have to be a Zionist. History brought us here by force. Or call it God. If we haven’t died, it means we have to live.” “Thanks anyway.”

The neighbor left. Liza closed the door after him. For a while it was quiet, as if he’d stayed in the hallway to eavesdrop. Then Liza heard him go back into his apart- ment. She lay down on the bed again. Argued with the political parties, she mumbled. Obviously also argued with his wife. Those who argue, argue with everyone. Otherwise he wouldn’t have that white little beard! Liza suddenly felt like laughing, crying, yawning, sneezing — all at once. She lay there and listened to her own depths. She’d heard plen- ty of Zionist propaganda, and it always had the opposite effect on her. But the simple things this Litvak had said returned to her mind again and again: History had brought us here by force. If we haven’t died, it means we have to live. Yes, the Jews just won’t die. How many times had Liza decided to kill herself — and been unable! In this sense, she was a Jew. She couldn’t die either. Not by any means.

She got up and washed herself at the sink. I have to go out into the street! I have to eat something! The water was cool. Every now and then a grasshopper bumped into her shoulder, neck, stomach, and she peeled it off, flicked it away. They won’t die either, those worms. Liza washed and soaped herself. Then, in the dark, she put on a dress and a pair of shoes onto her bare feet. She didn’t powder her face or put on lipstick. Yes, I have to eat. Maybe I can still find something … She opened the door slowly. It seemed the Litvak, too, hadn’t completely closed his door, and a line of light shone through. She stretched out her hand and knocked. Footsteps could be heard, as if the neighbor had read her thoughts, and had the whole time listened and waited. He now stood before her and all she could see was that little white beard and two shadowy snares from which his eyes sparkled. “It’s your neighbor,” she said. “Do you really want to teach me?” “I meant what I said.” “When can we start?” “What about now?” “Isn’t it late?” “It’s not late.” They stood on either side of the threshold, silent, poised, very close, without any apprehension, like people who’ve wasted many years and have lost all hope. It seemed to Liza that this had already happened. In a dream? On the stage? She thought of her father. She wanted to cry. “Do you have a workbook?” she asked. “Yes, I have a workbook.” “I’ve forgotten it all. Everything that has to do with Jewishness. We have to start in the beginning.” And the neighbor repeated, “Yes, in the beginning…”

Isaac Bashevis Singer was a prominent figure in the Yiddish literary movement. He won two U.S. National Book Awards, one for his collection A Crown of Feathers and Other Stories and one for his memoir A Day of Pleasure: Stories of a Boy Growing Up in Warsaw. He won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1978.

Translation by David Stromberg.

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