fragrance of barbecue the day long. The striking difference between my wife and my mother-in-law, when put side by side, naturally reminded one of the struggle between classes. My mother-in-law was like the well-kept concubine of a big landowner, whereas my wife was like the eldest daughter of an old, dirt-poor peasant. No wonder the hatred between them was so deep seated they didn’t speak to each other for three years. My wife would rather sleep out in the newspaper yard than go home. Every time I went to see my mother-in-law, my wife would become hysterical, cursing me with languge unfit to print, as if I were visiting a prostitute, not her own mother.
To tell the truth, in those days, I did indeed harbor vague fantasies over my mother-in-law’s beauty, but these evil thoughts, bound up by a thousand steel chains, had absolutely no chance to develop and grow. But then my wife’s curses were like a raging fire burning through those chains. So I confronted her:
If one day I sleep with your mother, you will bear full responsibility.’
‘What?’ she asked, enraged.
If you hadn’t called my attention to it, I’d have never considered the possibility of someone making love with his own mother-in-law,’ I said venomously. ‘The only real difference between your mother and me is our ages. We’re not related by blood. Besides, recently your own newspaper ran an interesting story about a young man in New York named Jack who divorced his wife and married his mother-in-law.’
My wife let out a scream, her eyes rolled back, and she fainted dead away. I hurriedly splashed a bucket of cool water over her and pricked the area between her nose and upper lip and the spot between her thumb and index finger with a rusty nail. Finally, after half an hour, she came to sluggishly. With staring eyes, she lay in the mud like a stiff, dry log. The shattered lights of despair in her eyes sent chills down my spine. Tears welled up in her eyes and flowed toward her ears. At this moment, I thought, the only thing to do was apologize with all my heart.
Calling her name affectionately, while holding back my disgust, I kissed her nauseatingly stinky mouth, at the same time conjuring up thoughts of her mother’s mouth, which always smelled like barbecue. No taste-treat could compare with taking a sip of brandy and kissing her mother’s mouth; it would be like washing down fine barbecue with good brandy. Strangely enough, age had not eroded the attraction of youth in that mouth, which was moist and red even without lipstick, and was filled with sweet mountain grape juice. Her daughter’s lips, on the other hand, weren’t even on a par with the skins of those grapes. In a drawn-out, thin voice, she said:
‘You can’t fool me. I know you love my mother, not me. You married me only because you fell in love with her. I’m just a stand-in. When you kiss me, you’re thinking about my mother’s lips. When you’re making love with me, you’re thinking about my mother’s body.’
Her sharp words were like a paring knife that was flaying my skin. In anger I said – I patted her face softly, pulled a long face – and said:
I’ll slap you if you keep spouting that nonsense. You’re letting your imagination run wild, you’re hallucinating. People would laugh if they saw you. And your mother would explode with anger if she knew what you were saying. I am a Doctor of Liquor Studies; a dignified, imposing man among men. No matter how shameless I might be, I’d never dream of doing something even an animal wouldn’t stoop to do.’
She said:
‘Yes, you’ve never done it, but you want to. Maybe you’ll never do it as long as you live, but you’ll be thinking about it the whole time. If you don’t want to do it during the day, you’ll want to do it at night. If you don’t want to do it when you’re awake, you’ll want to do it in your dreams. You won’t want to do it while you’re alive, but you’ll want to do it after you’re dead.’
I stood up and said:
‘That’s an insult to me, to your mother, even to yourself.’
She said:
‘Don’t you dare get angry. Even if you had a hundred mouths, and even if those hundred mouths all spat out sweet words at the same time, you’d never succeed in deceiving me. Ai, What’s the point in going on? Just to be an obstacle, to be despised by others, to suffer? Why not just die? That would solve everything…
‘When I die you two can do whatever you want.’ With her stumpy little fists, which looked like donkey hooves, she pounded her own breasts. Yes, when she was lying on her back, all that showed on her concave chest were two nipples in the shape of black dates. On the other hand, my mother-in-law’s breasts were as full as those of a young woman, showing no signs of withering or sagging. Even when she wore a thick, double-knit sweater, they arched like doughty mountains. The reversal of figure between a mother-in-law and a wife had pushed the son-in- law to the edge of the abyss of evil. How could they blame me? Losing control of myself, I started to scream. I don’t blame you, I blame myself. She uncurled her fists and tore at her clothes with a pair of talons; the buttons popped off, exposing her bra. My god! Like a footless person wearing shoes, she was actually wearing a bra! The sight of her scrawny chest forced me to turn away. I said:
‘That’s enough! Stop this madness. Even if you were to die, there’s still your father to worry about.’
She pushed herself up into a sitting position, as terrifying lights shot from her eyes.
‘My father is only a front for people like you,’ she said. ‘He cares about nothing but liquor, liquor liquor liquor! Liquor is his woman. If my father were normal, why would I need to worry so much?’
‘I’ve never seen a daughter like you,’ I said, feeling powerless.
‘That’s why I’m begging you to kill me.’ Kneeling on all fours, she banged her bone-hard head on the cement floor and said, ‘I’m on my knees begging you, I’m banging my head to implore you. Please kill me, Doctor of Liquor Studies. There’s a brand-new stainless-steel knife in the kitchen. It’s sharp as the wind. Bring it over and kill me. Please, I beg you, kill me.’
She raised her head and arched her neck, which was long and thin, like that of a plucked chicken; greenish purple, the rough skin was marked by three black moles, and the swollen veins throbbed. Her eyes were rolled halfway up, her lips hung slack, her forehead was covered with dirt through which small drops of blood seeped, and her hair was as matted as a magpie’s nest. How could this thing be called a woman? But she was my wife, and to tell the truth, her behavior horrified me. After horror came disgust. Comrades, what could I do? She sneered, her mouth like a tire tread, and I was afraid she was losing her mind. ‘My dear wife.’ I said, ‘the saying goes: “Once a couple, the feelings between two people are deeper than the ocean.” We’ve been husband and wife for many years, so how could I have the heart to kill you? f d be better off killing a chicken, since then, at least, we could make a pot of soup. But if I killed you, I’d have to eat a bullet, fm not that stupid.’
With a hand on her own neck, she said softly:
‘Are you really not going to kill me?’
‘No, I’m not.’
'I think you ought to,’ she said, drawing her finger across her throat, as if she were holding the knife that was sharp as the wind. ‘Ssst – one light touch, the veins of my neck would open up, and bright, fresh blood would spurt like a fountain. After half an hour, I’d be nothing but a transparent layer of skin. And then,’ she continued, a sinister smile on her face, ‘you could sleep with that old demon who eats infants.’
‘Bull – fucking – shit!’ I cursed savagely. Comrades, it wasn’t easy for an elegant, refined scholar like me to utter such filth. She drove me to it. I was so ashamed. ‘Shit on your mother!’ I cursed. ‘Why should I kill you? Why would I kill you. You never let me in on anything good, and now you come to me with something like this. Anyone can kill you, I don’t care, as long as it’s not me.’
Angrily, I stepped aside. I may not be able to deal with you, I was thinking, but at least I can get away. I picked up a bottle of Red-Maned Stallion and –
