Shhh Page 9

  Once he was satisfied with the circle he had made, he began to dig into the dirt with a spade. As he worked he became more and more red and sweaty.

  I forgot to mention that it was a rather hot spring day.

  All the people in the building were at their windows watching him. Even the anti-Semites on the main floor.

  Oh, now I remember, he was wearing suspenders. I don’t know why I suddenly remember those suspenders. They were mauve, like those of Adolphe in the Rendez-vous des Cheminots that gave Roquentin la nausée.

  Wow! was Leon sweating. His shirt was all wet in the back. And he was groaning as he kept digging. My uncle Leon was not a very strong man. He was tall but not very muscular. He was not built for manual labor. To sew clothes with a sewing machine is not the kind of work that requires big muscles. His skin was white, and we could see the swollen veins of his arms as he kept digging the hard ground.

  Finally, when the hole was deep enough he set the tree into it, closed the hole around the roots with dirt, and then he leaned on his spade to admire his work. All the people at the windows applauded, and me too.

  Leon didn’t say anything. But it was obvious from the way he leaned on his spade, that he was pleased with his work. But to tell the truth, Leon’s tree never grew. It remained a miniature tree. It always looked like it was dying. A moribund tree. During my entire childhood the tree never grew. Even when spring came, it had only a few leaves. But to have seen Leon plant that tree has remained a memorable day for me. I saw how my uncle Leon made himself ridiculous.

  Since I am telling about my uncle Leon, I should describe the atelier where he worked. The atelier had a large window, a vitrine that opened onto the street. The people who walked past would sometimes stop to watch Leon and Marie work.

  Above the window, carved into the wall, there was a sign that said Leon Tailleur. I remember the day that sign was carved into the wall.

  Leon stood in the street, facing the house, admiring that sign with satisfaction.

  Even though Leon was just a tailor in a proletarian suburb, and not one of the famous tailors in the swanky neighborhoods of Paris, he was proud of the suits he made for his rich clients.

  Leon and Marie spent their entire day working relentlessly in the atelier making men’s suits. From early in the morning till late in the evening, they would sew, by hand and the sewing machine. They would measure and cut the fabric, press the suits with the big steam iron, day after day, even on Sundays. The atelier was like a factory, a mini-factory. Oh, the steam iron was heated with coal on a small stove in the middle of the atelier. It was very heavy.

  I spent a lot of time in that atelier because when I’d finished my homework and wanted to go play in the street, I would try to sneak past the windows of the atelier, but Leon would call me, and he would find something for me to do. Picking up with a small magnet the pins and needles that had fallen between the cracks of the wooden floor, or gathering the little pieces of cloth that had fallen to the ground when Leon was cutting the fabric with his large scissors. If there was nothing for me to do in the atelier, he would have me clean the W.C. in the courtyard. Oh, did I hate doing these chores. It made me angry. The worst was when he sent me to the cellar to get coal. But I never complained. I was too shy, too ...

  Federman you’ve said all that before, Leon the tailor, the cellar, the rats, the out-house.

  I know, I know, but I’m remembering more details. Besides, as it has been said before, the persistence of the twofold vibrationsuggests that in this old abode all is not yet quite for the best.

  While I was doing all these chores, my cousin Salomon was upstairs supposedly doing his homework or practicing his piano, but instead he was reading the coming books that he sent me to buy for him. Or else masturbating.

  In the evening, after they closed the atelier, Leon and Marie would continue to work late into the night in their apartment. So that the people in the street would not see the light, and wonder why they were working so late, they would cover the windows with blankets, the way people in the cities had to do when the war started because of the alerts. I suppose it’s because Leon and Marie worked so hard that they were so rich.

  Well, I think that’s enough about them and their atelier.

  Now I should perhaps say more about the shit-house in the courtyard, and about the staircase that always smelled as though there was something rotten in it. And I should also tell about the young woman who lived on the same floor as us, in a one room apartment to the right of the landing. Her name was Yvette. I’ve never forgotten her. She was beautiful. Later you’ll hear what happened one day with Yvette when I was a young boy, and she ...

  Federman, you know you’re really going too far with these postponements, and all these I’ll tell later, I’ll tell later. Why don’t you tell the story of Yvette now?

  If I get into another detour in the middle of what I’m telling, it’s going to mess up everything. There won’t be any continuity in the story. I just want to finish the description of the house.

  So what else is new. That’s all you do is mess up continuity page after page with all your detours and digressions .

  Alright then, I’ll tell about Yvette now.

  One day, my father tired of hearing my mother complain that he didn’t give her enough money to feed the children decided to do something about it. He decided that he would make money by selling things at the flea market, le marché aux puces of Montrouge. Somehow he managed to borrow a hand-cart, and he and my mother loaded it with all kinds of things—kitchen utensils, pots and pans, old pieces of furniture, even used clothes. I have no idea where they got all that camelote, as my father called it. Probably from some of the uncles and aunts who didn’t need those things any more.

  My sisters and I were sitting on the curb when Maman and Papa left. Maman was in front pulling the cart with a big rope tied around her shoulders. Papa was pushing from behind.

  Maman told us to be good, and to watch out for the cars in the street.

  Jacqueline must have been seven years old. I was nine, and Sarah eleven. We were not afraid to stay alone. We felt very grown up to be trusted in this way.

  After the cart disappeared around the corner, my sisters and I played hopscotch for a while on the sidewalk, and then we went into the courtyard to play.

  Leon, Marie and Salomon were not home. They had gone to see our grandmother, as they did regularly on Sundays. I think they gave her money when they went to see her, as did the other uncles and aunts who were wealthy. Because we were poor, my mother could never contribute.

  All the other people who lived in the building were also gone, except for the young woman who lived upstairs, on the same floor we did.

  It was a nice sunny day. May, I think. Jacqueline was playing with her doll. Sarah was sitting on the ground her back against the wall, reading La Comtesse de Ségur, and I was playing with my tin soldiers who were engaged in a major battle.

  Yvette, yes that was her name, was at her window combing her hair. She had long reddish hair. I don’t know how old she was. I was still too young to be interested in girls. But I liked her long shiny hair, and the way she sung all the time, and how she would pinch me gently whenever we passed each other in the staircase.

  From our apartment we could hear her singing. We shared the same wall. Everybody in the building liked her, except my uncle Leon who kept saying that she was a courveh. Papa, to the contrary, said that she was a professional singer because she had such a beautiful voice.

  While my sisters and I were playing in the courtyard, Yvette called out, What are you kids doing? How come you’re all alone?

  And we answered, We’re playing. Maman and Papa went to sell things at the marché.

  Then she called out, Raymond come on up a minute, I want to show you something.

  Curious to see what she wanted to show me, I left my soldiers in the courtyard, and went up to her apartment. The door was ajar and she was sitting on the edge of the bed. She was
wearing a dressing-gown. It was lilac. At least, that’s the color

  I remember every time I think of Yvette. Oh, and also, the dressing-gown was slightly transparent.

  I was standing at the door. Unsure about going in. Yvette said, Close the door, sweetie, and come here. So I went to her and when I was very close, standing in front of her, she began to unbutton my shorts. French boys always wore short pants in those days.

  Shorts didn’t have zippers, only buttons.

  When she started unbuttoning me, I was surprised, but then I thought that the reason she wanted me to take off my shorts was because she was going to fix the hole I had made in the seat sliding on my behind on the ground from one side of the battlefield to the other. My soldiers were divided into two armies. The black army and the red army. And I had them spread out on the ground. The red army won most of the time because it had three soldiers on horseback. The black army didn’t have any horses.

  My father always said that Yvette was a nice and beautiful young lady. And if she was not a singer then she must be a model. So that’s what I thought while she was unbuttoning me. That it was very nice of her.

  After my shorts were off, I stood there in my underwear, blushing, and holding my legs tightly together. I didn’t know what to do. I was so intimidated. Yvette laughed gently. Then she said, Don’t be afraid, take off your underpants, and your shirt too, and come and sit next to me.

  Come on, little darling, don’t be ashamed, take it off, she insisted. So I took my underwear off and I sat next to her all naked. Even though it was a hot day, I was trembling a little. But when she giggled, I started giggling too.

  Slowly her hand touched my penis. It was not very big at that age. I had no pubic hair.

  Yvette kept saying in a soft gentle voice, Don’t be afraid, you’ll see how good it is. She held my little thing with two fingers and rubbed it gently against my thigh. Yes, my thigh. Not hers.

  Then she asked, Do you ever do that?

  I shook my head and said, No, never.

  You never touch it? You never hold your little pine in your hand? She asked, while rubbing it faster on my thigh.

  Yes, I hold it when I go pipi.

  She laughed. It’s good, isn’t it?

  Yes, it was good. It made me feel good all over my body. I felt happy sitting there next to her while she continued to rub my cock, as she had called it, against my thigh. Then she stopped, stood up, gave me a little pat and a little kiss on the cheek, and said, Get dressed quickly now, go back downstairs to play, and don’t tell anyone.

  So I put my dirty underwear, my torn shorts and shirt back on, and went down into the courtyard.

  My sister Sarah asked, What did she want to show you?

  Oh, nothing, I replied. Just a photo of her when she was little.

  My sister Jacqueline asked, Why did she want to show that photo to you and not to us?

  I don’t know, just like that.

  Did she show you anything else? Sarah asked

  Nothing, I said. And I went back to the battle of my tin soldiers. That day, the red army won again. All the soldiers of the black army were decimated, and I laughed when they all fell to the ground and died.

  Yvette was back at the window, combing her hair.

  After that day, often in my bed at night, I made myself feel good the way Yvette had shown me. But it took some time before I ejaculated for the first time.

  I don’t remember when that happened, but I got really scared in the morning when I noticed the yellowish stains in the sheet of my bed. Maman will see this. What will she say? How will I explain it?

  Maman must have noticed what I had done, but she didn’t say anything. She put the sheet into a big kettle of boiling water, and then she hung the sheet on a rope in the courtyard to make it dry in the sun. Later, when Maman was not looking, I went to see if my circles were still there.

  After that first ejaculation, I would masturbate almost every night. But before going to bed I would sneak a piece of newspaper under the blanket to ejaculate in it. In the morning, when I was taking the dirty pail downstairs, I would toss the newspaper into it.

  Speaking of newspapers, in the cabinet in the courtyard, there was no toilet paper. I mean the regular kind. We would wipe ourselves with pieces of newspaper.

  Leon, was so cheap, he would cut the newspaper into little squares for us to use in the toilet, rather than buying regular toilet paper. Everybody in the building had to use this toilet, since it was the only one. Except, of course, Leon, Marie, and Salomon because, as I already mentioned, they had a toilet installed in their apartment. I used their toilet only once, when I was in their apartment and I suddenly had to go. My aunt Marie said, Go quick use the toilet, but make sure you flush it afterwards, and wipe yourself.

  Sometimes when I had to go to the toilet in the courtyard, and there were no more newspaper sheets, I was forced to wipe myself with my finger which I rubbed against the wall when I was finished. I wasn’t the only one to do that. There were always traces of caca on the walls of the W.C.

  Whenever Leon saw that, he would make me wash the walls with a scrub brush.

  Sometimes when I couldn’t hold back, I would masturbate in the toilet. There was a little hook to lock the door. If I was not careful when I ejaculated the sperm would splash all over the walls, and I had to wipe it with a piece of newspaper. Afterwards, I would come out of the toilet and would feel ashamed and guilty.

  My mother caught me once. She didn’t get angry, but she said, If you do that again I’ll tell Papa, and if you continue, you’ll go blind and you’ll have pimples all over your face.

  I got scared when Maman told me that, so I held back for a while.

  During the night when I masturbated, I would see Yvette inside my closed eyes. Yvette in her lilac negligee. I had never seen a grown woman totally naked. But because we lived in a very small apartment, sometimes I would see parts of my sisters’ bodies when they were getting dressed, or when they were washing themselves in the sink in the kitchen.

  Oh, this reminds me of the night when my sister Sarah had her first period. She started crying in fear not knowing why she was bleeding. Maman took her behind the curtain and calmed her down.

  Maman never explained anything to us about these things. I forget how old I was when I stopped believing that children came out of cabbages, and also ...

  Federman, you should be ashamed. You better stop because for sure your publisher is going to tell you that these kinds of filthy stories no longer sell in the world in which we live.

  The other day I was reading the autobiography of a writer who won the Nobel Prize a couple of years ago. He was telling about his youth, but not once did he say, I masturbated, or I was jerking off, or I was giving myself pleasure alone. Not a word about that. He didn’t even use the word onanism. Total silence about that. It was as though he was censuring his own life in his writing.

  If I were to tell the story of my childhood without talking about the pleasure I gave myself, the story would be incomplete. It would be false.

  So I’ll go on with the little dirty things boys do.

  In school the boys my age would tell each other how they masturbated. They would let me listen, but I never told them how I did it. There was one boy who told us how he always did it in front of the mirror because he liked to watch the grimaces he made while going full blast. Another said he loved to come in his pillow, and another while looking at photos of naked women he’d found in one of his father’s books. All the other boys kept asking him to bring the book to school, but he refused. There was one boy who told the best stories. He would explain how he did it each time in a different position. Sometimes standing, or sitting, flat on his back his legs up on a chair, on all fours, on his knees. He would also demonstrate the many ways he used his hands. Sometime doing it with only two fingers, or with both hands. He had a great imagination. I envied him. But during the entire time we were in this school together I never spoke to him. Never played wit
h him. He intimidated me. He was blond.

  I was too shy to tell how I did it under the blankets or in the toilet. So the other boys would make fun of me, and kept saying, Le fils de tubard he doesn’t know how to jerk off, he’s ashamed to do it.

  Ah, the dirty little things that went on in school. But I suppose it’s like that in all boys’ schools.

  We had two maîtresses d’école. One was old and ugly. Always poorly dressed. She had gray hair pulled tight into a chignon. She wore black cotton stockings that were always falling down. She would not hesitate to slap us across the face if we did something wrong. She taught math and science classes. Geometry, calculus, chemistry. And also human anatomy.

  The other teacher was young and beautiful, and she dressed well. She wore short skirts and silk stockings with a seam in the back, and high heeled shoes. All the boys were in love with her, even me. She liked to recite poetry to us, and made us learn poems by heart. I loved her voice.

  In class she sat behind a table so that we could see her legs below the table. It was unbelievable the numbers of pencils, erasers, rulers, fountain pens that fell to the ground.

  From underneath our desk we could look between her legs. We could see her white thighs above her garters. That was enough to make all of us dream of her at night. Once in a while we could even see her panties when without realizing it she opened her legs wide. The only time it was frustrating to look from under our desks was when her legs were crossed one on top of the other. Then we could see the side of her thigh, but it was not like looking between her legs.

  I wonder now if she spread her legs on purpose knowing why so many pencils, erasers, rulers kept falling to the floor. Today I can speculate about that, but when I was a boy searching for my pencil under my desk, I didn’t ask myself why I was doing what all the other boys were doing. I would take a quick look, and at night, under my blankets, I would try to remember what I had seen.