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Fiction

Lynn

By Alise Redviņa
Translated from Latvian by Laura Adlers
Latvian author Alise Redviņa portrays a socially awkward office worker searching for true love.  
The upper body and head of a naked, bald mannequin in a shop window
Photo by Janko Sebök on Unsplash

Before Lynn came into my life, I only knew how to love people from a distance, only in my mind, and it was torture to bring myself to demonstrate verbal or physical affection.

My mother was convinced that I did not love her. Even the time when I gave her a bouquet of white lilies and an amber necklace I’d bought by saving my lunch money for a whole year and told her that she was the best mom in the world, she just thanked me dryly and didn’t speak with me the rest of the night. That was all because I once again withdrew when she tried to kiss me on the cheek and made a face when she stroked my head. Something about my mother’s caresses felt unbearable to me, too intimate. I wanted to like them and wished that I could respond sincerely, but I could not even muster a convincing act. I wanted to learn how to touch, but I didn’t know how to do it in a way that did not seem painful and unnatural.

It was the same with all of the women I liked, even with the one before Lynn—Greta. Back then when I was all alone, I would think about her a lot. It was so easy for me to imagine our relationship: my life would not change much, except I would have someone with whom to make dinner, my favorite macaroni with cheddar cheese and pecans, and discuss the latest episodes of “Game of Thrones.” And at night, I would kiss not the pillow but Greta. Of course, when I met with Greta in real life, these simple fantasies became impossible. Everything I said I had to consider five times over, as I was afraid of saying something inappropriate, not to mention touching her—I never knew what was allowed, what was not, what she would like, what not. The last time we met, we sat at a brightly lit table in the middle of a crowded cafe, and, unintentionally, I asked her too loudly in front of the waiter if I could hold her hand, after which she got scared and immediately asked the waiter for the bill.

After that, I gave up and decided that my only experience of love would be lonely dreams. I started to look in the other direction as soon as I saw a pretty girl, and had decided that I would spend the rest of my life dining alone. But then—then I noticed and found Lynn. 

She arrived in a long cardboard box, lying down. She looked just like the kind of girl that I like best: long, dark red hair, green eyes, a bit chubbier than the models in magazines. Lynn also had an ideal personality: calm and reserved.

On the first day, I just sat her on the sofa and observed with insecurity her curvy limbs and face full of superhuman love. The next day, I started to talk to her. I shared my opinion about the last episode of “Game of Thrones.” On the third day, I touched her hair, and after a few days also her skin. It was soft and smooth, almost too much, but not one hair out of place. With each day my courage grew and I started to kiss her belly, caress her feet, touch Lynn in all of the ways that I had dreamed of touching a woman. Her body, despite being cool and hard, always responded to my touches with complete surrender. If I held Lynn’s hand for a long time, it would warm up a bit. At first this scared me and left me uncomfortable, but soon I started to like it.

I couldn’t take her outside, so my home became our mutual world. Together we prepared macaroni with cheddar cheese and pecans, curled up on the sofa, and watched “Game of Thrones” or listened to Tchaikovsky, who was our favorite composer.

When I wanted Lynn to touch me or cuddle up in my lap or kiss me, I always had to fold and arrange her arms and legs myself, since, although she cooperated, she did not show initiative. She used only words to express what she wanted, but Lynn’s wishes were always the same as mine, and her voice was so quiet that I heard it only in my mind.

I am not crazy. I knew that I was the one giving Lynn her words and opinions, I knew that she gave in to my touches because she could not protest. But I liked to fantasize about what Lynn could think and feel, pretending that she wanted to touch me as much as I wanted to touch her. I held Lynn in my grasp, she was real and touchable, yet half-imagined, but all the same it felt like the truest love that I had ever experienced.

Until the moment I met Mary. A real woman in flesh, blood, and mind, who started working at our company as the office assistant, and who eventually I would see every workday. Her hair was not red, nor were her eyes green, but the fact that she tended to smile shyly and clumsily walked into the corners of furniture moved me. From time to time she would come up to my computer monitor, where I was tapping out new programs, and give me some client update or ask what kind of tea I wanted to order for the office. It was difficult for me to answer Mary without hesitating and, after returning home from work, I still could not stop thinking about her beautiful voice, her eyes, which looked straight at me, rather than empty space. Once I lay down in bed, arranged Lynn’s arms on my naked chest and imagined how soft and warm Mary’s hands would be. Lynn could only get such warm hands in a microwave oven. I held Lynn close to my chest and tried to imagine that it was Mary, but Lynn was offended and stiffened even more, and became even colder, and I had to get up and seat her in a chair on the other side of the room.

But the next day I saw Mary again. She smiled and again banged her hip on the corner of my desk. This made me thirst for her touch, to have her next to me, more than ever before, and after work I returned to Lynn. I was angry with Lynn, because I could not imagine Mary in her place, because she lacked warmth, because she was so annoyingly quiet and still and agreed with everything I said and wanted with indifference. Even so, I continued to touch her, I used her with malicious pleasure, knowing full well that she could not resist. Once I thought I detected some expression in Lynn’s eyes—disapproval, perhaps, that someone else now lived in my thoughts.

This is how I suffered, my imagination leaping from one woman to the other. Being at work and speaking with Mary, I sometimes longed to be with Lynn, because with her it was easy after all. I didn’t blush, get tongue-tied, or work myself into a frenzy about what she would think or do. As I increasingly felt Mary leaning out from behind her desk and staring at me, I missed Lynn’s empty, indifferent, uninquisitive eyes. Once, on a Friday, Mary invited me to have lunch with her, when she asked hopefully about my plans for the weekend, and from fear I blurted out that I would be relaxing at home with my girlfriend. Mary lowered her eyes, so did I, and we no longer spoke that day.

When I returned home again to mute, cold Lynn, I of course bitterly regretted what I had said. Lynn just sat there quietly grinning, and I squeezed my hands into fists to avoid grabbing her and throwing her against the wall. But I was incapable of harming a woman, even a plastic woman. That weekend I didn’t even touch Lynn.

Mary no longer invited me to lunch, and she bumped into my desk less often. When she distanced herself, my obsession with her only grew. Once I found the courage to invite her to have lunch with me, but she just smiled shyly and declined, saying that she had quite a bit for breakfast that morning. On other days, when I showed great interest and asked Mary about office paper and coffee supplies, Mary answered politely, but was always very businesslike.

Everything ended—or one could say, finally began—that night when we were celebrating our boss’s birthday at the office. The boss bought a few drinks for everyone and later several colleagues went to a bar, including me and Mary. I was generously soaking my stressed brain in beer and noticed that Mary was drinking more than I imagined her capable of. While others were heading home, I convinced Mary to stay for one more drink. She hesitated, so I immediately ordered two rum and cokes, so that it would be rude for her to leave. And then when we sat down at a corner table, just the two of us, my protective walls came down. I told Mary that actually my so-called girlfriend was not alive and partly imaginary and that I really liked Mary, but was frightened by how alive and real she was. Mary did not understand what I was talking about, but I was afraid to tell her the whole story. I ordered two more drinks and told her about how hard it was for me to hug my mother when I was a child, and about how I didn’t know what to say and where to put my hands when I was together with Greta and all the other women that I have ever liked. Mary nodded her head in understanding. We each had another drink, and with the last sip I found the courage to ask Mary, a little too loudly, if I could show her something at my place. I said it and hoped that Mary would understand completely once she saw it with her own eyes. My enthusiasm, the alcohol, Mary’s realization that she did not live far from me—something convinced her.

When we came into my apartment, Lynn was sitting in the bedroom—in the recliner, thank god, not on the bed. I imagined how embarrassing it would have been if she had been rolling around naked in my unmade bed, and I laughed nervously. But my laughter fizzled when I saw Mary’s serious face, which was looking first at the passionless Lynn and then at me. I waited for her to call me a pathetic lecherous man or something like that and rush out the door, but then Mary started to laugh. Loudly, uproariously, really laughing. And this laughter, although the most wonderful sound I have ever heard, scared me a bit, just like Mary’s experienced, caressing hands when she approached me, having lost her inhibition in her drunken state. But then I glanced one more time at Lynn and remembered that when I was with her, I tried to imagine I was with Mary. I was not successful, and yet I had touched Lynn in all the ways I wanted to touch a real woman. And now I was acting the opposite: I remembered all of my time spent with Lynn and touched Mary in the same ways that I had done with Lynn. I put my palms in all the same places, starting with her hair, moving to her upper arms, her belly, her legs. And Mary let me, she responded to my caresses similarly to how I imagined Lynn would respond: she ran her fingers through my hair, kissed my neck, brushed against my chest. At one point, I noticed that Lynn’s face was turned toward us. I wanted to throw a piece of clothing on her, but then I remembered that she is only a doll, of course, she couldn’t see a thing.

Still, when Lynn’s place in my life was replaced by Mary and we decided to live together, we did not get rid of the doll. Mary learned to live with her. Sometimes we prepare macaroni with cheddar cheese and pecans together and afterward watch “Game of Thrones.” Sometimes Mary argues with me and says that she would rather order a pizza and watch “Sex and the City,” and at these moments, I tend to think about the time I spent with Lynn, secretly putting her hand in mine and smiling about how compliant she was, even if artificial, cold, and helpless. 

But when we have guests, we hide Lynn in the closet. They would not understand.

 

“Linna” © Alise Redviņa. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2018 by Laura Adlers. All rights reserved.

English Latvian (Original)

Before Lynn came into my life, I only knew how to love people from a distance, only in my mind, and it was torture to bring myself to demonstrate verbal or physical affection.

My mother was convinced that I did not love her. Even the time when I gave her a bouquet of white lilies and an amber necklace I’d bought by saving my lunch money for a whole year and told her that she was the best mom in the world, she just thanked me dryly and didn’t speak with me the rest of the night. That was all because I once again withdrew when she tried to kiss me on the cheek and made a face when she stroked my head. Something about my mother’s caresses felt unbearable to me, too intimate. I wanted to like them and wished that I could respond sincerely, but I could not even muster a convincing act. I wanted to learn how to touch, but I didn’t know how to do it in a way that did not seem painful and unnatural.

It was the same with all of the women I liked, even with the one before Lynn—Greta. Back then when I was all alone, I would think about her a lot. It was so easy for me to imagine our relationship: my life would not change much, except I would have someone with whom to make dinner, my favorite macaroni with cheddar cheese and pecans, and discuss the latest episodes of “Game of Thrones.” And at night, I would kiss not the pillow but Greta. Of course, when I met with Greta in real life, these simple fantasies became impossible. Everything I said I had to consider five times over, as I was afraid of saying something inappropriate, not to mention touching her—I never knew what was allowed, what was not, what she would like, what not. The last time we met, we sat at a brightly lit table in the middle of a crowded cafe, and, unintentionally, I asked her too loudly in front of the waiter if I could hold her hand, after which she got scared and immediately asked the waiter for the bill.

After that, I gave up and decided that my only experience of love would be lonely dreams. I started to look in the other direction as soon as I saw a pretty girl, and had decided that I would spend the rest of my life dining alone. But then—then I noticed and found Lynn. 

She arrived in a long cardboard box, lying down. She looked just like the kind of girl that I like best: long, dark red hair, green eyes, a bit chubbier than the models in magazines. Lynn also had an ideal personality: calm and reserved.

On the first day, I just sat her on the sofa and observed with insecurity her curvy limbs and face full of superhuman love. The next day, I started to talk to her. I shared my opinion about the last episode of “Game of Thrones.” On the third day, I touched her hair, and after a few days also her skin. It was soft and smooth, almost too much, but not one hair out of place. With each day my courage grew and I started to kiss her belly, caress her feet, touch Lynn in all of the ways that I had dreamed of touching a woman. Her body, despite being cool and hard, always responded to my touches with complete surrender. If I held Lynn’s hand for a long time, it would warm up a bit. At first this scared me and left me uncomfortable, but soon I started to like it.

I couldn’t take her outside, so my home became our mutual world. Together we prepared macaroni with cheddar cheese and pecans, curled up on the sofa, and watched “Game of Thrones” or listened to Tchaikovsky, who was our favorite composer.

When I wanted Lynn to touch me or cuddle up in my lap or kiss me, I always had to fold and arrange her arms and legs myself, since, although she cooperated, she did not show initiative. She used only words to express what she wanted, but Lynn’s wishes were always the same as mine, and her voice was so quiet that I heard it only in my mind.

I am not crazy. I knew that I was the one giving Lynn her words and opinions, I knew that she gave in to my touches because she could not protest. But I liked to fantasize about what Lynn could think and feel, pretending that she wanted to touch me as much as I wanted to touch her. I held Lynn in my grasp, she was real and touchable, yet half-imagined, but all the same it felt like the truest love that I had ever experienced.

Until the moment I met Mary. A real woman in flesh, blood, and mind, who started working at our company as the office assistant, and who eventually I would see every workday. Her hair was not red, nor were her eyes green, but the fact that she tended to smile shyly and clumsily walked into the corners of furniture moved me. From time to time she would come up to my computer monitor, where I was tapping out new programs, and give me some client update or ask what kind of tea I wanted to order for the office. It was difficult for me to answer Mary without hesitating and, after returning home from work, I still could not stop thinking about her beautiful voice, her eyes, which looked straight at me, rather than empty space. Once I lay down in bed, arranged Lynn’s arms on my naked chest and imagined how soft and warm Mary’s hands would be. Lynn could only get such warm hands in a microwave oven. I held Lynn close to my chest and tried to imagine that it was Mary, but Lynn was offended and stiffened even more, and became even colder, and I had to get up and seat her in a chair on the other side of the room.

But the next day I saw Mary again. She smiled and again banged her hip on the corner of my desk. This made me thirst for her touch, to have her next to me, more than ever before, and after work I returned to Lynn. I was angry with Lynn, because I could not imagine Mary in her place, because she lacked warmth, because she was so annoyingly quiet and still and agreed with everything I said and wanted with indifference. Even so, I continued to touch her, I used her with malicious pleasure, knowing full well that she could not resist. Once I thought I detected some expression in Lynn’s eyes—disapproval, perhaps, that someone else now lived in my thoughts.

This is how I suffered, my imagination leaping from one woman to the other. Being at work and speaking with Mary, I sometimes longed to be with Lynn, because with her it was easy after all. I didn’t blush, get tongue-tied, or work myself into a frenzy about what she would think or do. As I increasingly felt Mary leaning out from behind her desk and staring at me, I missed Lynn’s empty, indifferent, uninquisitive eyes. Once, on a Friday, Mary invited me to have lunch with her, when she asked hopefully about my plans for the weekend, and from fear I blurted out that I would be relaxing at home with my girlfriend. Mary lowered her eyes, so did I, and we no longer spoke that day.

When I returned home again to mute, cold Lynn, I of course bitterly regretted what I had said. Lynn just sat there quietly grinning, and I squeezed my hands into fists to avoid grabbing her and throwing her against the wall. But I was incapable of harming a woman, even a plastic woman. That weekend I didn’t even touch Lynn.

Mary no longer invited me to lunch, and she bumped into my desk less often. When she distanced herself, my obsession with her only grew. Once I found the courage to invite her to have lunch with me, but she just smiled shyly and declined, saying that she had quite a bit for breakfast that morning. On other days, when I showed great interest and asked Mary about office paper and coffee supplies, Mary answered politely, but was always very businesslike.

Everything ended—or one could say, finally began—that night when we were celebrating our boss’s birthday at the office. The boss bought a few drinks for everyone and later several colleagues went to a bar, including me and Mary. I was generously soaking my stressed brain in beer and noticed that Mary was drinking more than I imagined her capable of. While others were heading home, I convinced Mary to stay for one more drink. She hesitated, so I immediately ordered two rum and cokes, so that it would be rude for her to leave. And then when we sat down at a corner table, just the two of us, my protective walls came down. I told Mary that actually my so-called girlfriend was not alive and partly imaginary and that I really liked Mary, but was frightened by how alive and real she was. Mary did not understand what I was talking about, but I was afraid to tell her the whole story. I ordered two more drinks and told her about how hard it was for me to hug my mother when I was a child, and about how I didn’t know what to say and where to put my hands when I was together with Greta and all the other women that I have ever liked. Mary nodded her head in understanding. We each had another drink, and with the last sip I found the courage to ask Mary, a little too loudly, if I could show her something at my place. I said it and hoped that Mary would understand completely once she saw it with her own eyes. My enthusiasm, the alcohol, Mary’s realization that she did not live far from me—something convinced her.

When we came into my apartment, Lynn was sitting in the bedroom—in the recliner, thank god, not on the bed. I imagined how embarrassing it would have been if she had been rolling around naked in my unmade bed, and I laughed nervously. But my laughter fizzled when I saw Mary’s serious face, which was looking first at the passionless Lynn and then at me. I waited for her to call me a pathetic lecherous man or something like that and rush out the door, but then Mary started to laugh. Loudly, uproariously, really laughing. And this laughter, although the most wonderful sound I have ever heard, scared me a bit, just like Mary’s experienced, caressing hands when she approached me, having lost her inhibition in her drunken state. But then I glanced one more time at Lynn and remembered that when I was with her, I tried to imagine I was with Mary. I was not successful, and yet I had touched Lynn in all the ways I wanted to touch a real woman. And now I was acting the opposite: I remembered all of my time spent with Lynn and touched Mary in the same ways that I had done with Lynn. I put my palms in all the same places, starting with her hair, moving to her upper arms, her belly, her legs. And Mary let me, she responded to my caresses similarly to how I imagined Lynn would respond: she ran her fingers through my hair, kissed my neck, brushed against my chest. At one point, I noticed that Lynn’s face was turned toward us. I wanted to throw a piece of clothing on her, but then I remembered that she is only a doll, of course, she couldn’t see a thing.

Still, when Lynn’s place in my life was replaced by Mary and we decided to live together, we did not get rid of the doll. Mary learned to live with her. Sometimes we prepare macaroni with cheddar cheese and pecans together and afterward watch “Game of Thrones.” Sometimes Mary argues with me and says that she would rather order a pizza and watch “Sex and the City,” and at these moments, I tend to think about the time I spent with Lynn, secretly putting her hand in mine and smiling about how compliant she was, even if artificial, cold, and helpless. 

But when we have guests, we hide Lynn in the closet. They would not understand.

 

“Linna” © Alise Redviņa. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2018 by Laura Adlers. All rights reserved.

Linna

Pirms manā dzīvē ienāca Linna, es pratu cilvēkus mīlēt tikai no attāluma, tikai domās, un mokoši bija piespiest sevi vārdiski vai fiziski izrādīt pieķeršanos.

Mana māte bija pārliecināta, ka es viņu nemīlu. Pat toreiz, kad uzdāvināju viņai baltu liliju pušķi un dzintara kaklarotu par visu gadu krāto pusdienu naudu, un pateicu, ka viņa ir labākā mamma pasaulē, viņa tikai sausi pateicās un atlikušo vakaru ar mani nerunāja. Tas viss tāpēc, ka kārtējo reizi biju atrāvies, kad viņa mēģināja mani noskūpstīt uz vaiga, un saviebies, kad viņa noglaudīja man galvu. Kaut kas mātes pieskārienos man šķita nepanesams, pārāk tuvs. Es vēlējos, kaut man tie patiktu un kaut es spētu no sirds atbildēt, bet nespēju pat ticami tēlot. Es gribēju mācēt pieskarties, bet nezināju, kā lai to izdara tā, lai nešķistu samocīti un nedabiski.

            Līdzīgi bija ar visām sievietēm, kas man patika, arī ar to pēdējo pirms Linnas, – Grētu. Toreiz brīžos, kad paliku vienatnē, daudz domāju par viņu. Tik viegli spēju izsapņot mūsu attiecības: dzīve daudz nemainītos, tikai man būtu kāds, ar ko kopā vakariņās gatavot manus mīļākos makaronus ar čedaras sieru un pekanriekstiem un pārspriest “Troņu spēļu” jaunākās sērijas. Un naktī es apskautu nevis spilvenu, bet Grētu. Taču, kad satikos ar Grētu dzīvē, šīs vienkāršās fantāzijas kļuva nepiepildāmas. Viss, ko teicu, bija pieckārt jāpārdomā, jo baidījos pateikt ko nevietā, nemaz nerunājot par pieskaršanos – nekad nevarēja zināt, ko drīkst, ko nedrīkst, kā viņai patiks, kā ne. Mūsu pēdējā tikšanās reizē sēdējām pie gaiša galdiņa piebāztas kafejnīcas vidū, un es netīšām pārāk skaļi viesmīļa klātbūtnē pajautāju, vai drīkstu satvert Grētas roku, viņa nobijās un uzreiz palūdza viesmīlim rēķinu.

            Pēc tā es padevos un nospriedu, ka manā dzīvē mīlestība tā arī paliks tikai vientuļi sapņi. Sāku skatīties citā virzienā, līdzko ieraudzīju kādu glītu meiteni, un biju apņēmies vakariņas visu atlikušo dzīvi ēst vienatnē. Taču tad – tad es ieraudzīju un ieguvu Linnu.

            Viņa ieradās garenā kartona kastē, noguldīta guļus. Izskatījās pēc tieši tādas meitenes, kādas man vislabāk patīk: gari, tumši rudi mati, zaļas acis, mazliet apaļīgāka nekā žurnālu modeles. Arī Linnas raksturs bija ideāls: mierīgs un kluss.

            Pirmajā dienā es tikai nosēdināju viņu uz dīvāna un nedroši vēroju viņas izliektās auguma aprises un pārcilvēciski piemīlīgo seju. Nākamajā dienā sāku arī sarunāties, izstāstīju savu viedokli par “Troņu spēļu” pēdējo epizodi. Trešajā dienā pieskāros viņas matiem, un vēl pēc dažām dienām arī ādai. Tā bija maiga un gluda, pat pārāk, bez neviena lieka matiņa. Ar katru dienu arvien vairāk saņēmu drosmi un sāku apskaut viņas vidukli, glāstīt pēdas, pieskarties Linnai visos veidos, kādos biju sapņojis pieskarties sievietei. Viņas ķermenis, kaut arī vēss un ciets, vienmēr atsaucās maniem pieskārieniem ar pilnīgu atdevi. Kad ilgi turēju Linnas roku, tā mazliet sasila. Sākumā mani tas biedēja un lika justies neērti, bet drīz iepatikās.

 

            Es nevarēju vest viņu ārā, tāpēc mājas kļuva par mūsu kopīgo pasauli. Mēs kopā gatavojām makaronus ar čedaras sieru un pekanriekstiem, saritinājāmies uz dīvāna un skatījāmies “Troņu spēles” vai klausījāmies Čaikovski, kurš bija mūsu abu mīļākais komponists.

Kad es gribēju, lai Linna pieskaras man, iekārtojas klēpī vai apskauj, vienmēr nācās pašam ielocīt un izkārtot viņas rokas un kājas, jo, kaut arī atdevīga, viņa neizrādīja iniciatīvu. Tikai vārdos mēdza izteikt, ko vēlas, taču Linnas vēlmes vienmēr sakrita ar manējām, un viņas balss bija tik klusa, ka dzirdēju to tikai savās domās.

Es neesmu jucis. Zināju, ka visus Linnas vārdus un viedokļus viņai piešķiru pats, zināju, ka viņa ļaujas maniem pieskārieniem tāpēc, ka nespēj pretoties. Bet man patika fantazēt, ko Linna varētu domāt un just, iztēloties, ka viņa grib man pieskarties tikpat ļoti, cik es viņai. Tā es turēju Linnu savās skavās īstu un taustāmu, tomēr pa pusei izsapņotu, bet vienalga tā šķita īstākā mīlestība, kādu esmu piedzīvojis.

Līdz brīdim, kad satiku Mariju. Ar miesu, asinīm un domām apveltītu sievieti, kura sāka strādāt mūsu uzņēmumā par biroja asistenti, un turpmāk man nācās viņu redzēt ik darba dienu. Viņas mati nebija rudi, nedz arī acis zaļas, bet tas, kā viņa mēdza kautrīgi smaidīt vai neveikli uzskriet mēbeļu stūriem, mani aizkustināja. Šad tad viņa pienāca pie datora monitora, aiz kura es klabināju jaunas programmas, un nodeva man kāda klienta ziņojumu vai jautāja, kādu tēju es vēlētos pasūtīt birojam. Man bija grūti Marijai atbildēt bez stomīšanās, un, pārnācis no darba mājās, es vēl nespēju pārstāt domāt par viņas skanīgo balsi, par acīm, kas skatījās uz mani, nevis kaut kur tukšumā. Reiz apgūlos gultā, iekārtoju Linnas rokas uz savām kailajām krūtīm un iedomājos, cik mīkstas un siltas būtu Marijas plaukstas, Linna tādas varētu iegūt tikai mikroviļņu krāsnī. Es spiedu Linnu pie krūtīm un centos iztēloties, ka tā ir Marija, bet Linna apvainojās un sastinga vēl vairāk, un kļuva vēl aukstāka, un man nācās celties un nosēdināt viņu krēslā istabas otrā pusē.

Taču nākamajā dienā es atkal redzēju Mariju, kura man uzsmaidīja un vēlreiz atsita gurnu pret mana galda stūri. Alkas pēc viņas lika man slāpt pēc pieskārieniem un tuvības vairāk nekā jebkad agrāk, un pēc darba es atgriezos pie Linnas. Es dusmojos uz Linnu, ka nespēju iedomāties Mariju viņas vietā, ka viņai nav sava siltuma, ka viņa ir tik kaitinoši klusa un nekustīga un vienaldzīgi piekrīt visam, ko es saku un gribu. Un tomēr es pieskāros viņai, izmantoju viņu teju ar ļaunu prieku par to, ka viņa nespēj pretoties. Vienu reizi man šķita, ka Linnas acīs parādās izteiksme – pārmetums par to, ka manās domās tagad dzīvo kāda cita.

Tā es mocījos, iztēlē mētādamies no vienas sievietes pie otras. Būdams darbā un sarunādamies ar Mariju, es dažreiz ilgojos pēc Linnas, jo ar viņu tomēr bija viegli, man nenācās sarkt, pīties vārdos un drudžaini satraukties, ko viņa padomās un darīs. Kad arvien biežāk notvēru Marijas skatienu, uz mirkli pagriezdamies pret viņas darbagaldu ieslīpi aizmugurē, man pietrūka Linnas tukšo, nekritisko, nepētīgo acu. Reiz kādā piektdienā Marija uzaicināja mani kopā ēst pusdienas, un to laikā cerīgi apvaicājās par maniem nedēļas nogales plāniem, un es nobijies uzreiz izmetu, ka atpūtīšos mājās kopā ar savu draudzeni. Marija nolaida skatienu klēpī, pēc tam arī es, un todien mēs vairs nerunājām.

            Kad dzīvoklī mani kārtējo reizi sagaidīja mēmā, aukstā Linna, es, protams, rūgti nožēloju pateikto. Linna tikai sēdēja klusi izsmējīga, un es sažņaudzu rokas dūrēs, lai nesatvertu viņu un netriektu pret sienu. Bet nespēju nodarīt pāri sievietei, pat plastmasas sievietei ne. Tajā nedēļas nogalē Linnai vispār nepieskāros.

            Marija turpmāk vairs neaicināja mani pusdienās, un arvien retāk uzskrēja manam rakstāmgaldam. Kad viņa attālinājās, mana apsēstība ar viņu tikai auga. Vienreiz pats saņēmos uzaicināt viņu kopā pusdienot, bet viņa tikai kautrīgi nosmaidīja un atteica, ka torīt paēdusi pārāk sātīgas brokastis. Citās dienās, kad ļoti ieinteresēti uzmācos Marijai ar jautājumiem par biroja papīra un kafijas krājumiem, Marija atbildēja laipni, tomēr lietišķi.

            Viss beidzās – vai var teikt, beidzot sākās – tajā vakarā, kad birojā svinējām priekšnieka dzimšanas dienu. Dažus dzērienus boss visiem uzsauca, un pēcāk vairāki kolēģi devās uz bāru, starp tiem arī es un Marija. Es savas saspringtās smadzenes dāsni mērcēju alū, ievēroju, ka arī Marija dzer vairāk nekā es būtu iedomājies viņu spējīgu. Kad citi jau posās mājup, pierunāju Mariju palikt uz vēl vienu glāzi. Viņa vilcinājās, tāpēc es uzreiz pasūtīju divas rumkolas, lai aiziet kļūtu nepieklājīgi. Un tad, kad mēs apsēdāmies pie stūra galdiņa divatā, man sabruka visi aizsargmūri; es Marijai sacīju, ka patiesībā mana tā sauktā draudzene ir nedzīva un pa pusei izdomāta un ka man ļoti patīk Marija, bet biedē tas, cik viņa dzīva un īsta. Marija nesaprata, par ko runāju, bet es baidījos paskaidrot līdz galam. Pasūtīju vēl divus dzērienus un tad izstāstīju viņai par to, cik grūti man bērnībā bija apskaut māti, un par to, kā es nezināju, ko sacīt un kur likt rokas, esot kopā ar Grētu un visām citām sievietēm, kas man jebkad patikušas. Marija saprotoši māja ar galvu. Mēs iztukšojām vēl pa glāzei, un līdz ar pēdējo malku man izdevās saņemt drosmi un mazliet par skaļu Marijai lūgt, lai ļauj man kaut ko parādīt savās mājās. Sacīju un cerēju, ka Marija līdz galam sapratīs tikai tad, kad būs redzējusi savām acīm. Mana dedzība, alkohols, atklājums, ka Marija dzīvo netālu – kaut kas no tā viņu pārliecināja.

Kad mēs ienācām manā dzīvoklī, Linna sēdēja guļamistabā – paldies Dievam, klubkrēslā, nevis gultā. Es iedomājos, cik apkaunojoši būtu bijis, ja viņa kaila vāļātos manā nesaklātajā gultā, un nervozi iesmējos. Bet smiekli apdzisa, kad ievēroju Marijas nopietno seju, kura vērsās te pret bezkaislīgo Linnu, te pret mani. Gaidīju, ka viņa nosauks mani par nožēlojamu izvirtuli vai ko tamlīdzīgu un steigsies uz ārdurvīm, bet tad arī Marija sāka smieties. Skaļi, dzīvi, īsti smieties. Un šie smiekli, kaut arī patīkamākā skaņa, ko jebkad esmu dzirdējis, mazliet biedēja mani, tāpat kā Marijas pieredzējušās, glāstošās rokas, kad viņa man tuvojās, dzērumā aizmirsusi kautrību. Bet tad es uzmetu vēl vienu skatienu Linnai un atcerējos, kā, būdams ar viņu, biju centies iztēloties Mariju. Tas man neizdevās, un tomēr es biju pieskāries Linnai visos tajos veidos, kādos gribēju pieskarties īstai sievietei. Un tagad es rīkojos pretēji: atsaucu atmiņā visus ar Linnu pavadītos brīžus un pieskāros Marijai tāpat, kā tiku to darījis ar Linnu. Liku plaukstas visās tajās pašās vietās, sākot ar matiem, virzoties uz augšdelmiem, vidukli, kājām. Un arī Marija ļāvās, viņa atbildēja maniem pieskārieniem līdzīgi, kā biju iztēlojies Linnu atbildam: izbrauca ar pirkstiem caur matiem, apskāva kaklu, aizskāra krūtis. Kādā brīdī ievēroju, ka Linnas seja ir pavērsta pret mums, gribēju viņai uzmest kādu apģērba gabalu, bet tad atcerējos, ka viņa taču ir tikai lelle, viņa neko neredz.

Tomēr, kad Linnas vietu manā dzīvē aizņēma Marija un mēs sākām dzīvot kopā, no lelles neatsacījāmies. Marija iemācījās ar viņu sadzīvot. Dažreiz mēs trijatā gatavojam makaronus ar čedaras sieru un pekanriekstiem un pēc tam skatāmies “Troņu spēles”. Reizēm Marija strīdas pretī un saka, ka labāk grib pasūtīt picu un skatīties “Seksu un lielpilsētu”, un šādās reizēs es mēdzu pārdomāt ar Linnu pavadīto laiku, paslepus ielikt viņas plaukstu savējā un pasmaidīt par to, cik tā pakļāvīga, tomēr mākslīga, auksta un nevarīga.

            Tikai tad, kad nāk ciemiņi, mēs Linnu noslēpjam skapī. Viņi nesaprastu.

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