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The Art of Resistance. Justus Rosenberg
Читать онлайн.Название The Art of Resistance
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780008306038
Автор произведения Justus Rosenberg
Жанр Биографии и Мемуары
Издательство HarperCollins
ELISABETH WAS TO become a person important not only to my mother but to me. In fact, if the violence I had witnessed constituted a kind of initiation into the darkest aspect of adult reality, I was soon to experience with her an initiation of a far more pleasant sort. One afternoon I arrived home from school earlier than usual and heard her and my mother talking and giggling in my parents’ bedroom, trying on new dresses. The bedroom door was open, and I caught a glimpse of Elisabeth standing in front of a full-length mirror with nothing on but her bra, laced panties, and silk stockings. The sight made me yearn for something I certainly didn’t imagine was possible. Elisabeth, at twenty-six, was ten years younger than my mother and ten years older than I. She caught my libidinous gaze and answered it with a flirtatious smile. My mother must have seen my glance but not Elisabeth’s response and immediately ordered me to my room. From then on Elisabeth’s body inhabited my dreams. My days were spent preparing for final exams at the gymnasium, so I could not afford to be completely occupied with erotic reveries, but she was never very far from my thoughts.
One early spring Friday, home alone studying late in the afternoon, I heard a soft knock at the front door. When I opened it, before me stood the very woman who was already present to me between more studious attentions. After a moment’s hesitation, she asked, “Isn’t your mother home? We were supposed to go to a movie together this evening.”
“Oh,” I said. “She must have forgotten to tell you. She and my father have gone to Sweden for the weekend.”
“Too bad,” she said. “Today is the last showing of The Blue Angel with Emil Jannings and Marlene Dietrich.” She paused and looked at me smiling. “Didn’t you tell me you read Heinrich Mann’s novel Professor Unrat—the film is based on it. How about coming to see it with me?”
“I would love to.” The words were out of my mouth before I had a second to think about them.
On the way to the theater, we spoke about nothing very consequential, but I was quietly summoning personal qualities I had no inkling I possessed. At the box office, I nobly offered to pay for the tickets (actually with money my parents had left me to purchase my meals). Elisabeth didn’t stop me. She was watching me closely and seemed impressed with how confidently this adolescent was dealing with the transaction, as well as with the subtle interpersonal intricacies of such an excursion. In the theater we sat close, mere inches apart, as the show began.
Short reels of comedic sketches and cartoons preceded the main feature. When the screen lit up, I let my eyes drift toward her, just catching her profile. She had high cheekbones; the lines of her face drew to a perfect, narrow chin, ruby red lips darkly accented in the low light, bosom slightly exposed, not carefully or modestly hidden. Marlene Dietrich was amazing to behold, but I was accompanying a woman, who, in the flesh, was more amazing than any beauty on the screen. The tragic obsession of the aging professor in the film was fascinating, but far less so than the object of my awakening passion. My longing for Elisabeth could not possibly be masked, though even I was sophisticated enough to understand the advantages of coyness.
After the movie, she walked me back home. To bid me goodbye, she kissed me on my cheeks, but my lips sought hers and I briefly pressed my body against her, just long enough for her to feel the force of my excitement. She did not pull away.
“Have you ever tried?” she whispered.
“Not yet,” I replied.
“Would you like to?”
I was trembling all over as we got to the couch in the living room. I fumbled to get my trousers down. To shorten the agony of excitement, Elisabeth immediately instructed me how to proceed, gently guided me into her, and fully participated, enjoying it as much as I. From then on we got together, if possible, at least twice a week, until I left for Paris six months later. The motivation driving our behavior I do not consider immoral. It never even felt socially incorrect, though it might indeed have seemed to be so, given the sexual mores of the time. My mother suspected nothing. The idea that her best friend, in the bloom of womanhood, could be turned on by a teenage boy, never crossed her mind. Nor did Elisabeth’s attitude toward my mother change; and they both were very proud of me when I passed my final exams with excellent grades.
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