Eleven Minutes

Then his body collapsed onto mine, and I don't know how long we stayed there, our arms around each other; I stroked his hair as I had done only once before, on the night when we locked ourselves up in the darkness of the hotel room; I felt his racing heart gradually slow to its normal rate; his hands began delicately to move up and down my arms, making all the hairs on my body prickle.

He must have had a practical thought--the weight of his body on mine--because he rolled over, took my hand, and we lay there staring up at the ceiling and the chandelier with its three light bulbs lit.

"Good evening," I said.

He drew me over so that my head was resting on his chest. For a long time, he just stroked me, and then he said "Good evening" too.

"The neighbors must have heard everything," I said, not knowing quite what to say next, because saying "I love you" at that juncture didn't make much sense; he knew that already, and so did I.

"There's a terrific draft from under the door," he said, when he could have said: "Good!"

"Let's go into the kitchen."

We got up and I saw that he hadn't even taken off his trousers, he was dressed just as I had found him, only with his penis exposed. I put my jacket over my bare shoulders. We went into the kitchen; he made some coffee; he smoked two cigarettes and I smoked one. Sitting at the table, he said "thank you" with his eyes, and I replied "thank you too," but our mouths remained shut.

He eventually got up the courage to ask about the suitcases.

"I'm flying back to Brazil tomorrow at midday."

A woman knows when a man is important to her. Are men capable of that kind of realization? Or would I have to say: "I love you," "I'd like to stay here with you," "Ask me to stay."

"Don't go." Yes, he had understood that he could say that to me.

"I have to. I made a promise."

Because, if I hadn't, he might think that this was all going to last forever. And it wasn't; it was part of the dream of a young woman from the interior of a far-off country, who goes to the big city (well, not that big really), encounters all kinds of difficulties, but finds the man who loves her. So this was the happy ending to all the difficult times I had been through, and whenever I remembered my life in Europe, I would end with the story of a man passionately in love with me, and who would always be mine, because I had visited his soul.

Ah, Ralf, you have no idea how much I love you. I think that perhaps we always fall in love the very first instant we see the man of our dreams, even though, at the time, reason may be telling us otherwise, and we may fight against that instinct, hoping against hope that we won't win, until there comes a point when we allow ourselves to be vanquished by our feelings. That happened on the night when I walked barefoot in the park, cold and in pain, but knowing how much you loved me.

Yes, I love you very much, as I have never loved another man, and that is precisely why I am leaving, because, if I stayed, the dream would become reality, the desire to possess, to want your life to be mine...in short, all the things that transform love into slavery. It's best left like this--a dream. We have to be careful what we take from a country, or from life.

"You didn't have an orgasm," he said, trying to change the subject, to be careful and not to force the situation. He was afraid of losing me, and was thinking that he still had all night to make me change my mind.

"No, I didn't, but I had an enormous amount of pleasure."

"But it would have been better if you'd had an orgasm too."

"I could have pretended, just to please you, but you don't deserve that. Ralf Hart, you are a man in the most beautiful, intense sense of the word. You've supported me and helped me, you've let me support and help you, without there being any humiliation on either side. Yes, it would have been good to have an orgasm, but I didn't. But I loved the cold floor, your warm body, the force with which you entered me.

"I went to take back my library books today, and the librarian asked if I talked to my partner about sex. I felt like saying: Which partner? What sort of sex do you mean? But she didn't deserve that; she's always been so sweet to me.

"I've really only had two partners since I came to Geneva: one who awoke the worst in me, because I let him and even begged him to. The other one, you, who made me feel part of the world again. I would like to be able to teach you where to touch my body, how much pressure to apply, for how long, a

nd I know you would take this not as a criticism, but as another way to improve communication between our souls. The art of love is like your painting, it requires technique, patience, and, above all, practice by the couple. It requires boldness, the courage to go beyond what people conventionally call 'making love.'"

The teacher in me was back, and I didn't want that, but Ralf knew how to take control of the situation. Instead of agreeing with me, he lit his third cigarette in less than half an hour and said:

"Firstly, you're staying here tonight."

It wasn't a request, it was an order.

"Secondly, we're going to make love again, but with less anxiety this time and more desire. And finally, I'd like you to understand men better too."

Understand men better? I spent every night with them, whites, blacks, Asians, Jews, Muslims, Catholics, Buddhists. Didn't Ralf know that?

I felt lighter; I was so pleased that the conversation had shifted into being a discussion. At one point, I even considered asking God's forgiveness and breaking my promise. But reality returned, telling me to remember to preserve my dream intact and not to fall into destiny's traps.

"Yes, to understand men better," said Ralf again, seeing the doubtful look on my face. "You talk about your female sexuality, about helping me to find my way around your body, to be patient, to take time. I agree, but has it occurred to you that we're different, at least in matters of time? You should complain to God about that.