Metempsychosis, M.A. (11)

There was one more thing. At the funeral, I could not help but notice how incredibly beautiful Kora is becoming. She outshone everyone – they seemed almost like ugly menacing demons next to her. She was the only one alive, the others were only pretending - a masquerade of the dead dressed up as the living... She is almost sixteen now, but already manifests such maturity, such monumental completeness, I could barely take my eyes off her. Neither of her parents makes an impression of excessively well put together; attractive, yes, but nothing like her wonderfully radiant complexion, her dark wavy hair, her melancholy eyes, her perfect figure, her impeccable manners, her persuasive voice, her captivating smile, even her immaculate dress. She grows to become an incredible beauty - a sublime and awe-inspiring human being. I don't know how, but amidst people staring at the coffin with inexplicable, morbid curiosity, I might have been the only one attentive enough to know that the only object worthy of appreciation in this drowsy gathering of false pretences was Kora's perfect profile. If only some Klimt, Schiele or Praturlon were around... They would instantly know what a unique moment it was, what opportunities it offered to those receptive enough. She will surely break hearts among her peers, or maybe she already does. I hate those who will bet on her charms. If only I could protect her from their nefarious transactions, from their aggressive acquisitiveness, their fraudulent sentimentality, the counterfeit market of their seductions, their shortfalls, their offshore speculations, purses loaded with unbacked assets, their profligate spending, their reckless withdrawals, their capital losses, and inevitable bankruptcies... How I wish I were younger, and as pure and uncorrupted as her. I would give anything to be with her. Isn't she the only wealth worth having? I would be madly, madly in love. Perhaps I am...

Except that I'm turning fifty-five, she is my adolescent niece, her mother keeps me away from her as if I were some toxic deposit and my brother's obscene preoccupation with money drives me into his private bank of spent metaphors and chokes me with his ill-intended ultimatums.

Back there, in the funeral home, I had this sudden urge... I don't know where it came from, or why at this particular time, but I felt I wanted to get down on my knees, lift her skirt, pull down her tights and smell her. The time would stop, the space would get as relative as in a quantum equation, and our unconditional mutual consent would be the only effective causality in force. I wanted it so badly I nearly left the ceremony for fear I might be ready do it. I wanted to drown in her scent. I wanted to find out if she still smells like when she was a baby, when we were left on our own and no one dared interfere. I wanted it back, I wanted it all to myself. I felt that her body can be my only solace.

I cannot find it in myself and by myself. My body does not entice me to such lavish pursuits. My body does not pertain to desire. It facilitates the experience of inspiration without being inspiring. It is a seat of wonders that it cannot reciprocate. As far as I'm aware, my body has never exuded any lasting external desirability. The notion of surgical intervention I so adamantly avoided as a child could perhaps have brought about a change in this context, but it's too late. It may well be that the only impulse that diminishes my desirability is my own obstinacy, my exaggerated emphasis on lacking it, the bastard reasons I manufacture in order to justify the absence. A self-made killjoy.

I don't blame my family for not insisting, I don't blame them for their indifference to my queer flaws. The responsibility is all mine and I learned how to live with it. I found ways to sublimate my deficits. Why should it be any different now, when I'm getting old? It is supposed to be much easier to forego sensual yearning. Except that with Kora, it is about much more than sensual allure. What I wanted to smell was her spirit, to blend into one inseparable unit. She's the rose on my cross. She is the spark of sunlight in my broken vessel. Mend me, seal me up, help me to gather back the broken shards, and make a new home for the light inside.

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