11 Bulgarian Love Songs #4
“‘Walk slowly and don’t look at it,’ my mother said, grabbing my hand again.
‘Let’s see what it does.’ But it did nothing.
We walked past it, and it didn’t come any closer.
It just started walking a few steps behind us, matching our pace.
She was a girl dog. She was a thin German shepherd, with a short, light coat.
She was older, and, according to my mother, was rife with fleas.
I couldn’t tell. I did notice, though, that she was wearing a pink collar, with some kind of plastic Barbie medallion on it.
It looked like she belonged to a little girl who had forgotten that she had put a necklace on the dog as part of a game.
“To our surprise, the dog followed us along the entire path, like she was watching over us from a distance. Or maybe she wanted to keep us company. We didn’t know where she had come from, but it looked like she had been abandoned or lost for several days.
She no longer looked like a beast that wanted to attack us.
Prancing behind us with her ears flopping, it felt like she was asking for our friendship.
When we couldn’t hear her, we looked for her out of the corner of our eyes to make sure she was still with us.
And so we walked, maybe three kilometers, which is a long time, carefully, watching each other.
“My mother and I gradually relaxed when we realized that this dog was a gentle soul who wouldn’t hurt us.
Just when we thought the situation was all under control, our little path came to an end.
We emerged out onto the paved main road that would take us to Orfes.
The road was very French. It was narrow, straight, lined with big trees on either side, and at the very end, there was a village with the cemetery at its entrance.
You know what I mean when I say it was very French.
“We walked along on one side of the road so that the cars heading our way could see us. Traffic in the Empordà, especially in those years, was very light. But instead of moving aside, the dog walked down the middle of the road. When a car came, they honked for her to get out of the way. She paid them no attention, and then they honked at us, because they thought the dog was ours and that we weren’t doing anything to get her off the road.
That was the first time we felt like the dog could be ours.
“‘Mommy, let’s give her a name. We can call her Rosseta—Blondie—because she’s a little . . . blond.’ My mother loved the name. She and I were beginning to grow fond of that dog, who was more she-wolf than dog but gave us a pleading look.
“As we walked through the streets of Orfes, Rosseta stayed with us like it had always been that way. She would wait for us at the next crossroad if we lost sight of her around some corner. I wanted to pet her, but my mother said no, because she was dirty and had fleas. When it was time to go back to Espinavessa, we thought that Rosseta would want to stay in Orfes, or that maybe she belonged to some family there. But that wasn’t the case.
“In what was the most intense experience of my childhood, Rosseta followed my mother and me all the way back home. She had adopted us, and she hoped we would adopt her. She endeared herself to us very quickly. It didn’t matter that, on the last stretch of the walk, it began to rain.
In fact, there was a torrential downpour throughout the final leg, and the three of us were absolutely soaked.
Like it was a sign, Rosseta followed us right up to the front door of the house.
“I begged my mother, please, please, to let her come in with us. She said no. I ran to the window to watch her once we were inside. She was still there, with those little eyes. That was when I asked my mother again, please, please, if we could keep her and take her back with us to Barcelona. My mother said no, there was no way we were bringing her to our apartment. I continued, telling her that it would mean so much to me, I never asked for anything, it was what I wanted most in the world. Based on what she told me later, I think she was starting to give in. I kept insisting, please, Mommy, we couldn’t leave her alone.
I felt so sorry for her. I thought more about Rosseta than I did about myself.
“Finally, in a moment of weakness, my mother said, ‘Ask your father.’ But my father said no. And my father’s no was much more final.
‘Go change, you’re soaked,’ he added. After the third warning, I went to change.
Through the window, I said to her, ‘Rosseta, don’t move.
I’ll be right back.’ I put on some dry clothes as fast as I could, but when I pushed the curtain aside and looked out the window again, Rosseta wasn’t there anymore.
It was still raining hard outside, but Rosseta was gone.
“My mother tells me that I cried. I opened the door and ran out calling for her, but Rosseta was gone. And she never came back. They said I was very sad that day. I talked about Rosseta nonstop. At six years old, I said something at the dinner table that my parents never forgot: ‘I feel so sorry for Rosseta. I wish today had never happened.’ Can you imagine that? And then my mother, who was the kind of woman who knew when to strike the right tone, explained to me that even if it hurt right now, it was better to have experienced and known Rosseta than never to have experienced it at all, because I would remember her for the rest of my life. It was hard for me to see that she was right. It took weeks. Maybe months. But she was right.”
Jean-Pierre, who had listened to Pauline like she was recounting a tale, took a while to react. He resorted to his sense of humor, a defense against the transcendence this moment might have for them.
“Did you just compare me to a dog, or am I just making that up?”
“No, what are you talking about?”
“Now I’m not sure if you’re Rosseta, or if I am . . .”
“You’ve never had a dog?”
The happy Jean-Pierre started to slowly sing in her ear in his deepest voice, “When the hours of this day run out, I’ll invent new ones for you.”
More than singing, he was reciting the song so as not to go off key.
Calmly, he opened her towel and delicately moved his hand from her bare feet up to her hips.
Up and down. Perfect legs. Ava Gardner’s skin.
The sensual smell of coconut he noticed when he kissed the inside of her legs.
They let the hours pass slowly without thinking about what would happen next, careful not to get too worked up, never going beyond caresses, in silence—relaxed, unhurried, biting their lips and kissing each other all over.
Without saying it aloud, like a game of strategy, they focused on the journey and avoided their genitals, carefully, skimming close, passing right alongside until, at the height of their attunement, they synchronized themselves.
When Jean-Pierre inhaled, Pauline exhaled.
When he exhaled, she inhaled at every point of contact between them like there was nothing beyond.
It took little effort for them to find the rhythm until excitement, carried by measured breathing, led them to a mutual, loud, simultaneous orgasm.
It was a new, tantric experience for both of them.
Aroused and astonished by their shared discovery of spiritual sex, they understood the point. La joie de vivre. A drop of honey.