Malaparte Like Me
August 18th, 2010 at 18:56YOU want your woman to become a pretext for your dreams, hopes and deeds. A pretext: nothing more. That is a lot, you say, if indeed it is true that nothing is more difficult or more dangerous than being the pretext for a noble existence. A man’s existence. You can’t imagine that things could be otherwise. Or can you?
I want my man to play the male part; I want him as preface to my voice. A preface: nothing more and nothing less. For this is the duty of man: to speak before I do, to speak beforehand, before my hand… His power ends where my pleasure begins. Because my man would always be ready, always already there, I could be late. There would be no need for me to fake an origin, I’d be able to plunge right into the stream of words. To speak, to dream, to write. To be brave and daring, to pursue a thought to its very end, to exhaust an emotion.
I want him to be the beginning but not the end. I want him to have the first word but not the last. At the end of the day, when he will have spent his words, I want to see him cry.
I would like his face to be as soft and variegated as only marble can be; the color of the skin a finely textured greyish-white. I would like the lips to be full but not parted, the eyes sensitive and blank like the surface of a very still lake. I would like the nose to be noble and straight. I want the head to be small and round. The hair dark, curly, and full. Thick curls. Curls as luxurious as those adorning the head of an ancient Roman emperor’s statue. I want his body to be slender. I want his hands to be small.
I want beauty and I want grace. I want his movements to be measured and smooth. I don’t want anything languid and stiff about him. I want him to dress like an Italian dandy. The comforting cashmere of his coat, the gentleness of his expensive cotton shirts, the silky radiance of his ties, the brown leather of his shoes, the iridescence of his mother of pearl cufflinks – in all of this I would find the confidence to move swiftly. The way he would wear his clothes, self-possessed, generous — would satisfy my craving for beauty. For this is the curse of aging: one has to look elsewhere for consolation.
To attach myself to him at the right time. Not as appendage or adornment, or private property, but like a woman dons a veil — with dignity, and with conviction. With him as pre-face I would play the male part: to be free to look without being seen, to travel incognito, to act courageously. The days when I was reduced to nothing but a flat mirror reflecting a man’s ambition would be over.
I want generosity. For only the generous can fight the bitterness of a life half lived, a life in abeyance. I know this life well. I once locked myself in a prison of the imagination, a penitentiary for emotions, a place so dismal and barren it went by the name Happy Valley — an expression of self-deception or an indulgence in self-castigation?
I want my love for him to be a secret. For him to be the object of my most anxious memories, of my vulnerability, of this dark & red chamber within myself that no-one has ever seen. I want him to be a stranger, for we must encounter ourselves somewhere.
I want him quick witted and ironic, well read and well fed. I want him to entertain and amuse me. I want him to be a food lover. I would listen to his fine opinion on wine, truffles and cheese. He would read me stories of lavish dinners, exquisite banquets, subtle desserts — I would share my table with him, but not my bed.
I would like him to be my captive. Like a statue in a sculpture garden to which I possess the only key, I want him to be available and ready. In his solitude I would drink my morning cup of tea. Peaceful and calm. I want unrequited love to be his first memory of love. In this I want him to resemble me most.
I want him to be naked and irrefutable.
I want him to be a eunuch.
For I put my trust in those who have foregone their male parts but retained their masculinity. I have reason to believe that those afflicted with a wound take good care of other people’s secrets. More than anything else the eunuch is the guardian of his master’s privacy: he bathes him, cuts his hair, makes his bed, dresses him, takes out the litter, sorts through the mail, prepares his night potion. He is the first person to greet him in the morning, and the last person to see him at night. I like to imagine the private chambers of an ancient emperor, or the female quarters of a Byzantine palace, as therapeutic spaces. I like to think that eunuchs are the first psychoanalysts. Neither male nor female the eunuch does not take sides. His ambiguity is his strength. For those who are neither this nor that are not afraid of empathy. That’s why I want my man to wear his secret wound with pride.
Most of all I would like him to be the mask I put on when I need to show my face.
