Chapter 12 Chapter 5 The poet is jealous (1) (1)

Jaromil kept running, and the world kept changing: his uncle, the man who thought Forter was the inventor of the Volt, was falsely accused of fraud (along with hundreds of other businessmen).Not only did they nationalize his shop, but they also sentenced him to several years in prison.His wife and son were expelled from Prague as enemies of the working class.They left the house in cold silence, never forgiving Mamen for Jaromil's defection to the family's enemies. The government allocated the vacated ground floor of the villa to another family, who were quick to act rudely and aggressively, with the new tenant having been moved from a gloomy basement, thus assuming that anyone with such a Spacious, comfortable villas are a huge injustice.They feel that they are not just here to live in this villa, but to settle a past historical wrong.Without asking anyone's permission, they ran wild in the garden and asked Maman to repair the walls of the house, as peeling plaster could endanger their children while they played in the yard.

Granny was getting old, she had lost her memory, and one day (barely felt it) she was reduced to smoke in the crematorium. Given the circumstances, it's no wonder that Maman found her son's growing estrangement particularly difficult to bear.She was disgusted by the subject he was studying, and he stopped showing her his poetry.When she tried to open his drawer, she found it locked.It was like a slap in the face.Thinking of Jaromil suspecting her of spying on his private affairs!She resorted to a spare key unknown to Jaromil, but when she checked his diary, she found no new entries or new poems.Then she noticed the picture of her late husband on the wall, and she recalled how she had begged the statue of Apollo to erase every trace of his husband from the baby growing in her womb.Oh, isn't her husband going to compete with her for ownership of Jaromil in the grave?

At the end of the previous chapter we left Jaromil in the red-haired girl's bed.About a week later, Maman opened his desk drawer again.In his diary, she read a few terse lines that she didn't understand, but she also discovered something more important: new poetry.She felt that Apollo's lyre had once again triumphed over her husband's uniform, and she was secretly glad. After reading the poems, this good impression was strengthened, because she really liked them (in fact, it was the first time she sincerely appreciated Jaromil's poems!).They were rhyming (deep down Maman always felt that poetry that didn't rhyme was never real poetry), perfectly intelligible, full of beautiful lines, no feeble old men, no corpses rotting in the earth, no sagging Belly without dirt.Instead, the poems refer to flowers, to the sky, to clouds, and in several places (never before) even the word "mother" appears.

Jaromil went home; when she heard footsteps on the stairs, all the bitterness and bitterness of all these years suddenly came to her eyes, and she couldn't help crying. "What's the matter, Mother? What's the matter?" He asked softly, the tenderness in his voice hadn't been there for a long time, and Maman absorbed it heartily. "It's nothing, Jaromil, it's nothing," she replied, crying even more when she saw her son's concern for her.Again, she shed many kinds of tears: tears of sorrow for her loneliness, tears of reproach for her son's abandonment; tears of indignation at the way he stood awkwardly before her (couldn't he at least touch her hair?); and false tears that tried to soften and capture him.

Finally, after awkward hesitation, he took her hand.Great, Maman stopped crying, and her words flowed out just like the tears just now.She talks about all the grievances of her life: her widowhood, her loneliness, the tenants who tried to drive her out of her own room, her sister who no longer cares about her ("It's all because of you, Jaromil!"), Finally, and most importantly—her only close friend in the world was rejecting her. "But that's not true. I'm not rejecting you!" She would not be calmed by such an easy answer.She smiled wryly; how could he say that?He always came home very late, and sometimes for days on end neither of them exchanged a word, and even when they spoke occasionally, she knew very well that he was not listening, that his mind was elsewhere.Yes, he is becoming a stranger.

"But, mother, that's not true." She smiled wryly again.Oh no?Did she have to prove it to him?Did he want to know what really hurt her the most?Is he interested?Well then.She had always respected his secret, even when he was a little kid.What a struggle she had fought with the rest of the family to give him a room of his own!And now—what an insult!When cleaning his room one day, she found out by accident that he had locked the desk drawer because of her, what did he think of her feeling at that time!Why lock it?Who might be willing to interfere in his private affairs?Did he think that she had nothing more important to do than spy on him?

"Hey, mother, it was a misunderstanding! I barely used that drawer! If it was locked, it was by accident!" Maman knew her son was lying, but it didn't matter.More important than his words was the obedience in his voice, which seemed like a gift of reconciliation. "I want to believe in you, Jaromil," she said, squeezing his hand tightly. As he looked at her, she became aware of her tear-stained face.She rushed to the bathroom to look in the mirror, and she was horrified; her tear-wet face looked ugly, and the outdated gray dress she was wearing only made it worse.She briskly washed her face with cold water, changed into a pink pajamas, and took out a bottle of red wine from the cupboard.She began to tell Jaromil again that the two of them should understand each other better, because in this world, they have no other relatives except each other.She talked about this topic for a long time, and she felt that there was excitement and approval in Jaromil's eyes.So she took the courage to say that she had no doubt that he—a college student growing up—had his personal secrets, which she respected, but nevertheless she hoped that the woman in Jaromil's life would not It will damage the good relationship between them.

Jaromil listened patiently and understandingly.The reason he had avoided his mother for the past year was because his misfortune required solitude and darkness.But ever since he landed blissfully on the sunny shore—the red-haired girl—he has yearned for peace and light; his estrangement from his mother has broken the harmony of life.In addition to emotional considerations, there was a more practical need to maintain a good relationship with Mama: the red-haired girl had a room of her own, while he—a grown man—still lived with his mother, only through her. Only the independence of the master can realize an independent existence.The difference pained him so much that he was glad that Maman was sitting with him now, in a pink pajamas, sipping wine, like a pleasant young woman with whom he could discuss his affairs in a friendly way. power and privilege.

Claiming he had nothing to hide (Mama's throat tightened in anxious anticipation), he began to tell her about the red-haired girl.Of course, he didn't mention that Maman had seen this girl in the store where she bought things, but he explained that the young girl was eighteen years old, she was not a college student, just an ordinary working girl (he almost Dou said this sentence), relying on his own hands to support himself. Mama poured herself another glass of wine; things seemed to be turning for the better, she thought.Jaromil's image of the girl reassured her.The girl was young (the fearful thought of a well-loved, depraved woman happily dissipated), she had little education (so Mamen need not worry about her influence), and Jaromil so vehemently emphasized her Simple and good-natured, she not only guessed that the girl wasn't too pretty (so it was conceivable that her son's infatuation wouldn't last long).

Jaromil felt that his mother did not disapprove of his description of the red-haired girl, and he was very happy, dreaming idly that he would soon be sitting at the same table with his mother and his red-haired girl; With his childhood Patronus and his adult Patronus.All this seemed as good as peace; peace between his own home and the outside world, peace under the wings of his two patron saints. So, after a long period of estrangement, mother and son are savoring their intimacy.They chatted happily, but Jaromil was still thinking about his modest, practical purpose: to win the right to his own room, where he could bring a girl whenever he wanted, where they You can do whatever you want and stay as long as you want.For he rightly perceives that a man is only a real adult when he is the master of a well-defined field, of a completely personal sphere.He expresses this to his mother in an oblique and careful way.He said he would be more happy at home if he could consider himself his own master here.

Maman woke up from a slightly drunken bliss.Be vigilant like a tigress.She suddenly realized what her son wanted to say. "What do you mean? Jaromil, don't you feel uncomfortable at home?" He replied that he liked his home very much, but he wanted the right to invite whoever he wanted, to live freely like his girlfriend. Mamen began to realize that Jaromil had inadvertently offered her a great opportunity: after all, she also had several admirers, whom she could not invite to her home for fear of Jaromil's reprimand.Isn't it a very good opportunity to exchange Jaromil's freedom for a little of her own? But when she imagined a strange woman in the room of Jaromil's childhood, a wave of uncontrollable disgust came to her. "You have to admit, there's some difference between a mother and a landlady," she said fiercely, knowing that she was going to ruin her own chances of living a fulfilling life as a woman.The discovery that she disliked her son's carnal desires more than her own body's desire for physical gratification terrified her. Jaromil, who was still stubbornly pursuing his goal, did not understand the turmoil in his mother's heart. He continued to emphasize his lost reasons and further presented useless arguments.It was a moment before he noticed his mother sobbing.The thought of him hurting his childhood Patronus terrified him so much that he fell silent.Through his mother's tears, he suddenly saw that his demands for independence were impertinent, arrogant, even obscene. Mama despaired: she saw the gulf between them open again.She got nothing.But lost everything!She then tried to figure out how to maintain that precious thread of understanding between her son and her.She took his hand and said through tears: "Please don't be angry, Jaromil! I'm just disturbed by your change. You've become very powerful lately!" "Change? I don't understand you, Mother." "Yes, you have changed, you are not what you used to be, and what breaks my heart the most is that you don't write poetry anymore. What beautiful poems you used to write! Now you have dropped it altogether. It breaks my heart." Jaromil wanted to say something, but she wouldn't let him. "Believe your mother," she went on, "I have a feeling about these things; you have an extraordinary talent! It is your gift. It would be a pity to underestimate it. You are a poet, Jaromil, a born poet. poet. I'm sorry you don't take it seriously." Intoxicated by his mother's words, Jaromil was extremely happy.True.His childhood patron saint understood him better than anyone!How depressed he had been because he had ceased to write poetry! "But now I'm writing poetry again, Mother! Really! I'll show you!" "It's no use, Jaromil," Mamen shook her head mournfully. "Don't lie to me. I know you don't write poetry anymore." "You are wrong! Please wait!" he cried.He ran to his room, unlocked the drawer, and came back with a packet of poems. Maman looked at the poems she had read in Jaromil's room a few hours ago. "Oh, Jaromil, these poems are so beautiful! You have made great progress. Great progress! You are a poet, and I am very happy for you..." Everything seems to indicate that Jaromil's strong desire for new things (belief in new things) is just a cover for a virgin youth's desire for unimaginable sexual experience.When he first reached the blissful shore of the red-haired body, a strange thought occurred to him: now at last he knew what absolute modernity meant; it lay on the shore of the red-haired body. At such moments he was so alive and full of enthusiasm that he wanted to read poetry to her.He ran over all the poems he had memorized (his own and those of other poets) quickly in his mind, but decided (to his surprise) that the red-haired girl might not care about them at all.It made his head flutter for a while.Then he understood that the only absolutely modern poems were the ones that the red-haired girl, an ordinary girl, could easily take in and understand. It was a sudden revelation; why was he so foolish as to try to step on his own throat?What's the point in abandoning poetry for the sake of revolution?After all, he has finally reached the realm of real life ("real life" as Jaromil understands it is a frontier of parade crowds, carnal love, the whirling of revolutionary slogans), and now he has only to throw himself completely into this new life, Be its violin strings. He felt poetic and desperately wanted to write a poem that a red-haired girl would like.This is not an easy task.Before that, he had only written free verse, without the technique of the more structured poetic forms.He was sure that a girl would not consider a rhymeless work to be true poetry.Even victorious revolutions hold the same view.Let us recall that in those days blank verse was not even considered worthy of publication.All modern poetry is declared to be the work of a decadent bourgeoisie, and free verse is the surest feature of literary decadence. Is the Revolution's penchant for rhyme a mere accidental preference?Probably not.In rhyme and rhythm, there is a magical power.Once squeezed into a regular rhythm, the chaotic world immediately becomes orderly, clear, beautiful and charming.If a woman tires of life and goes to death, death is harmoniously integrated with the order of the universe.Even if the poem is meant to be a violent protest against mortality, death is justified as an inducement to a beautiful protest, bones, funerals, wreaths, tombstones, coffins—all in one poem becomes a ballet , in which readers and poets perform their dances.It is certainly impossible for a dancer to disapprove of dance.Through poetry, man achieves his unity with existence, and rhyme and rhythm are the most natural ways of achieving unity.Could revolution be possible without repeated confirmation of the new order?Can a revolution be without rhyme? Roar with me!Nezvall inspired his readers, Baudelaire wrote, to live always drunk...in wine, in poetry, in morality, in each one's way...poetry is intoxication, and people drink to more easily integrate with the world together.The revolution does not wish to be examined or analyzed, the revolution desires only to merge with the masses.Therefore, revolution is lyrical and requires a lyrical style. Of course, the lyrical style pursued by the Revolution is very different from the kind of poetry Jaromil wrote earlier.For a while, he was eager for the quiet adventures and fascinating hints of his inner self.Now, however, he has purged his soul and turned it into a sprawling arena for real-world raucous circuses.He exchanges a unique beauty that only he understands for a general beauty that everyone understands. He couldn't wait to think of the old-fashioned miracles, the miracles that art (with the pride of a traitor) had already despised; sunsets, roses, morning dew, stars, nostalgia for homeland, motherly love.What a beautiful, familiar, clear world!Jaromil came back to it full of surprise, like a prodigal son returning home after years of wandering. Oh, be simple, absolutely simple, as simple as a folk song, a child's game, a babbling brook, a red-haired girl! Ah, to return to the source of eternal beauty, to love simple words, such as stars, songs, and larks—even the word "ah," which is scorned and mocked! Jaromil was also seduced by certain verbs, especially those describing simple actions; walk, run, especially drift and fly, and in a poem celebrating Lenin's anniversary, he wrote that an apple tree branch was Throwing it into a stream, the branch drifted all the way to Lenin's hometown.There is not a Czech river to Russia, but poetry is a magical land where the river can be diverted.In another poem he writes that the world will soon be as free as the scent of pine trees floating on mountaintops.In another poem he evokes the fragrance of jasmine, which becomes so intense that it becomes an invisible sailing ship sailing through the air.He imagined himself on this fragrant ship, drifting far away, all the way to Marseilles, where, according to a newspaper article, the dock workers were on strike and Jaromil wanted to join them as a comrade and a brother go. His poetry is also full of the most poetic of all modes of movement, wings, with which the night pulses with the soft flapping of wings.Longing, sorrow, even hatred have wings.Of course, time travels unchangingly along its winged ways. All these lines suggest the hope of an embrace of the immensity, reminiscent of Schiller's famous lines: Seid, umschlungen, Mi-llionen! Diesenkussderganzenwelt! (German: Embrace, everyone! Send this kiss to the whole world!—Annotation) This embrace of the universe includes not only space, but also time, not only the marseille docks, but also the magical , Distant islands - the future. Jaromil had always seen the future as an awesome mystery.It contains all that is unknown, and as such, it is both alluring and frightening.It is the opposite of certainty, of home, (which is why, in times of anxiety, he dreams of the love of old people, who are happy because they have no future).The revolution, however, gave the future an entirely different meaning.It is no longer a mystery; revolutionaries know the future.He knew all about it from pamphlets, books, reports, publicity speeches.It does not frighten; on the contrary, in an uncertain present, it offers a certain resting place, to which the revolutionary stretches out his arms as a child stretches out its arms to its mother. Jaromil wrote a poem about a Communist worker.Late one night, when the raucous meetings were replaced by morning dew (in those days, a fighting communist was always presented as a contentious communist), he fell asleep on the sofa in the clerk's office.The tram bells under the window, in the party worker's dream, became the joyous ringing of all the world's pendulums, announcing that there would be no more wars and that the globe belonged to the working class.The party worker realized that, by a magical leap, he had somehow traveled into the distant future.He stood between a field, and a woman driving a tractor towards him (women of the future are often depicted as tractor drivers) recognized with astonishment the worker as a socialist hero of yesteryear - labor of the past Or, he sacrificed his life so that she could now be free and happy tilling the land.She jumped off the machine to meet him. "This is your home, this is your world," she said, wanting to repay him. (For God's sake, how could this pretty young woman repay a tired old worker?) At this moment, the trolley above the window honked particularly forcefully, and the man who slept on the narrow couch in the corner of the party's office The man above woke up... Jaromil wrote several similar new poems, but he was still not satisfied.No one had read the poems except Jaromil and his mother.He sent them all to the literary editor of the daily newspaper, which he pored over every morning.One day he finally found a quatrain in five stanzas at the top of the third page, and his name was printed in bold letters below the title.On this day, he proudly handed the issue of the newspaper to the red-haired girl, asking her to read it carefully.The girl failed to spot anything noteworthy (she usually ignores poems and therefore pays no attention to the author's name), and Jaromil finally had to point to the poem. "I had no idea you were a poet!" She gazed into his eyes admiringly. Jaromil told her that he had been writing poems for a long time, and took out a bundle of handwritten poems from his pocket. The red-haired girl began to read the poems, and Jaromil told her that she had inspired him to return to poetry after he had given up on it for a while.Meeting her is like meeting poetry itself. "Really?" she asked, Jaromil nodded, she hugged him and kissed him. "The amazing thing," Jaromil went on, "is that you are not only the queen of the poems I have written lately, but even the poems I wrote before I knew you. When I first saw you, I felt that my old Poetry comes to life, the embodiment of a woman like you." Encouraged by the curious, incomprehensible look on her face, he went on to tell her that he had once written a long prose poem, a fantasy tale, about a boy named Xavier.In fact, he didn't actually write the poem, he just dreamed about it and hoped to write it someday. Xavier's life is completely different from others; his life is a dream.He fell asleep, had a dream, in the dream he fell asleep, had another dream, woke up from this dream, and found himself in the previous dream.In this way, he passed from dream to dream, leading several different lives at the same time.He passed from one life to another—isn't it a wonderful existence?Not tethered to a single life, but living multiple lives in one person. "Yes, I think it would be nice..." said the red-haired girl. Jaromil continued: "When he saw her for the first time in the shop, he was taken aback because she looked exactly like he imagined Xavier's dearest person: frail, red-haired, lightly freckled. ... "But I'm ugly," declared the red-haired girl. "No! I love your freckles and your fiery red hair! I love it all because it's my home and my old dream!" The girl kissed him again, and he continued. "Imagine that the whole story begins like this: Xavier likes to walk through the soot-blackened suburban streets. He often opens a ground-floor window to pass. He always stops at the window, imagining that there may be a Pretty girl. One day, when the light came on in the window, he saw a tender and delicate red-haired girl. He couldn't help it. He opened the window and jumped into the room." "But you ran away from my window!" the girl laughed. "Yes, yes," Jaromil replied, "I ran away because I was afraid that I was passing from reality to fantasy. Do you know that when you find yourself in a situation you have seen in a dream, What would it feel like? You'd be so terrified that you'd want to run!" "No." The red-haired girl agreed happily. "So, in the story, Xavier jumped in through the window to pursue the girl, but then her husband returned and Xavier locked him in a heavy oak wardrobe. That husband is still there to this day, a A skeleton. Xavier took his lover far away, just as I will take you!" "You are my Xavier," the red-haired girl whispered gratefully in Jaromil's ear.She playfully called him Zevi and Zevik's nicknames.Then hugged him tightly and kissed him for a long time until late at night. We want to recall one of the many visits Jaromil made to the house of the red-haired girl, when the girl wore a dress with a row of large white buttons on the front.Jaromil tried to undo the buttons; the girl laughed because they were only for decoration. "Wait a minute, I'll take it off myself," she said, and reached for the zipper on the back of her neck. Embarrassed by his own clumsiness, Jaromil was eager to make up for his gaffe when he finally figured out how the clothes worked. "No, no, I'll take it off by myself. Leave me alone:" She smiled as she stepped back from him. It would be ridiculous for him to insist, but he was distracted by the girl's actions.He believed that a man should undress his mistress—otherwise the whole act would be indistinguishable from ordinary, everyday dressing and undressing.This opinion is not based on experience, but on literature, and its evocative sentences: he is an expert at undressing a woman; or, he unbuttons her blouse with skilled fingers.He couldn't imagine intercourse without a burst of eager, excited frenzy of unbuttoning, unzipping and unhooking. "Why do you want to undress yourself? You are not seeing a doctor!" The girl has already taken off her clothes in a hurry, only wearing underwear. "See a doctor? What do you mean?" "Yes, I think that's the whole thing. Like a doctor examining a patient." "I see!" the girl laughed. "perhaps you're right." She took off her bra and stood in front of Jaromil, sticking out her small breasts. "I have a little pain, doc, just under my heart." Jaromil didn't seem to understand the joke. "Excuse me," she said apologetically, "you may be used to having your patients lie down for examination." Then she stretched out on the couch. "Please look carefully at my heart." Jaromil had no choice but to do so.He leaned over the girl's breast and put his ear on her heart.His earlobes pressed against the soft cushions of her breasts, and from deep within her torso he heard a rhythmic pounding.It occurred to him that this was the same sound he felt when a doctor examined the red-haired girl behind the mysterious, closed door of the consulting room.He raised his head, glanced at the naked girl, and felt a sharp, painful jealousy.He was looking at her with the eyes of a strange man, a doctor.He put his hands hastily (not a doctor's way) on her breasts in order to end this harrowing game. "Doctor, you are so naughty! What are you doing? That's not the place to be examined!" the girl protested. Jaromil was furious.He saw the look on his girlfriend's face, the way a stranger's hand would touch her.Seeing her frivolous protest, he really wanted to hit her.But at the same time he realized how excited he had become, so he tore off the girl's panties and entered her body. He was so excited that the jealousy was quickly quenched, especially when he heard the girl's moans and sighs (this wonderful allegiance), and the caressing words "Zevi! Zevik!" A permanent part of their ritual of intimacy. Then he lay peacefully beside her and kissed her lightly on the shoulder with great pleasure.But it was Jaromil's unwiseness to never be satisfied with one good moment.For him, a good moment only makes sense as a symbol of a good eternity.A moment of beauty dropped from a tainted eternity is a deceitful lie.So he wanted to be sure that their eternity was perfectly innocent.He asked more pleadingly than defiantly, "Tell me it was just a stupid joke, that thing with the doctor." "Yes, of course," replied the girl.What can be said about such a stupid question?However, this did not satisfy Jaromil, who continued: "I can't stand it if people touch you. I can't stand it!" He cupped his fist on the poor, underdeveloped breasts of the girl, as if his future happiness depended on their inviolability . The girl laughed (very innocently). "But what if I'm sick?" Jaromil realized that he could not rule out all medical examinations, that his position was untenable.But he also knew that if a stranger's hand tried to touch a girl's breasts, his whole world would crumble to pieces.he repeated. "I can't stand it! Do you understand? I can't stand it!" "So what do you want me to do when I need a doctor?" He said in a calm reproachful tone, "You can find a female doctor." "What choice do I have? You know the situation!" she exclaimed angrily. "We're all assigned to one doctor, whether we like it or not. You know what socialist medicine is all about. They tell you what to do, and you do it. Like, gynecological exams..." Jaromil's heart sank, but he said calmly, "Oh, what's wrong with you?" "Oh no, it's just for prevention. For cancer. It's the law." "Shut up, I don't want to hear this!" Jaromil said, putting his hand on her mouth.The gesture was so violent and rude that he was afraid the girl would take it for a slap and get angry; but her eyes looked at him so humbly that he felt no need to apologize for his unintentional rudeness.In fact, he came to appreciate the gesture and continued to put his hand over the girl's mouth. "I tell you," he said, "if someone puts their finger on you once, I will never touch you again." He still pressed his palm to the girl's lips.It was the first time he had used violence against a woman's flesh, and he found it intoxicating; he put his hands around her neck as if to strangle her.He felt her throat grow weak under his fingers, and it occurred to him that he could easily strangle her by simply pressing down on both thumbs. "If anyone else touches you, I'll strangle you," he said, continuing to strangle her throat, and it pleased him to think that the girl's life was in his hands.He felt that the girl belonged entirely to her, at least for the moment, and it filled him with a pleasant sense of power, so ecstatic was he that he was inside her again. During the lovemaking, he violently crushed her several times, put his hand on her throat (how exciting it is to strangle a lover during intercourse!), and bit her several times. Then they lay down to rest next to each other, but the intercourse did not last very long, also because it failed to appease Jaromil's anger; the girl lay beside him, not strangled, still alive, her The nudity made Jaromil think of a doctor's hand and a gynecological examination. "Don't be angry," she said, stroking his hand. "I can't help it. A body touched by many strangers makes me sick." The girl finally understood that he meant it."For God's sake, I was only kidding!" she pleaded. "This is no joke. It's the truth." "No, not the truth." "Stop it! It's the truth, and I know there's nothing I can do about it. Gynecological exams are compulsory, you have to go. I don't blame you. But being touched by someone else makes me sick. There's nothing I can do about it. This is who I am." "I swear, I made this all up! I never grew up sick. I never saw a doctor. I did get a notice for a gynec exam, but I threw it away. I never went there ." "I don't believe your words." She tried to assure him. "Fine then. But what if they call you again?" "Don't worry, they're too unorganized to notice I'm not there." He believed her, but his pain would not be quelled by reason.After all, his pain wasn't really caused by a medical test.She was bewildering him, that she didn't belong to him completely, and it pained him a lot. "I love you," she repeated.But this brief moment could not satisfy him.He wanted eternity, at least eternity in the girl's life.And he didn't own it.Even the little part of her life from virginity to womanhood belonged to someone else. "I can't stand that someone is going to touch you. And someone has already touched you." "No one will touch me." "But someone already got inside you. It's disgusting." She hugged him. He pushes her away. "how many?" "One" "you are lying!" "I swear!" "Do you love him?" She shook her head. "How can you sleep with someone you don't love?" "Stop torturing me!" she said. "Answer me! How can you do such a thing?" "Stop torturing me! I don't love him, that's terrible." "What's scary?" "Do not ask." "What is there to hide?" 她突然流出眼泪，向他坦白，那人是她村里一个年纪较大的人，他令人厌恶，他曾摆布她（"不要问我，你不会想了解这件事！"），现在她已竭力忘掉了他的一切（"如果你爱我，永远不要使我再想起那个男人"）。