WHAT BELONGS TO YOU
By David T. Little
after
the
novel by Garth Greenwell
MOVEMENTS
(Corrected 9 17 24)
Part I: Mitko
I. Palace
a. descent
b. transaction
c. the theater of all our embraces
d. the first of many threats
e to make of him what I would
II. Apartment
Interlude: entre chien et loup
III. Sea
a. preamble
b he was soaked and cold
c. how helpless desire is outside its little theater of heat
d. the next day
e. enough
f. if I were someone else
g. whatever happens next
h. like the dry grinding of gears
Part II: A Grave
I. A Note
II. It Must Have Been Summer / The Orphaned Light
Interlude: Among the blokove
III. His True Face
Interlude: A Land of Ravens and Dogs
IV. the best of me was words
a. K.
b. the night before Halloween
c The Foulness
V. The Wastes of Mladost
VI. Lachrimæ veræ (The Flowing Stream)
PART III: Pox
I. Apartment
a. fierce wind burned uncovered skin
b. a sinking feeling, a constant friend
II. Two Clinics
a. a consequence and its cause (fluorescent ballet)
b R.
III. The clicking of metal as it cools
a. in the days the followed (my true face)
b. giving with false motives
Interlude: entre loup et chien
IV. Earthquake
a. that spring
b. gone
c. keiner mag ihn hören, keiner sieht ihn an
(Corrected 9 17 24)
Part I: Mitko
I. Palace
a. descent
Even as I descended the stairs I heard his voice, Like the rest of him, too large For those subterranean rooms.
Though mid-October in Sofia, It was not autumnal. Grapes hung ripe from the vines, and Burst warm in one’s mouth.
Mitko:
Tall, thin but broad-shouldered, A close-cropped military cut Affecting an air of Hypermasculinity and criminality, A chipped-tooth smile.
I am American. Been in the city a few weeks, Will stay at least a year; A teacher at the American College, With American money. My name unpronounceable in his language.
There was only one reason we were there, In that chill room with its impression of damp: The bathrooms at the Palace Were hardly used for anything else
(Spoken:)
…thelongerwe avoidedany eroticproposalthemore finally he seemedunattainable, notso muchbecausehewasbeautiful, althoughIfoundhimbeautiful,as for some stillmore forbidding quality , a kindofbodily sureness or easesuggesting…
Freedom from doubt.
b. transaction
Mitko looked at me with intensity, Tilted his head slightly down. One hand making the universal sign for money.
There was nothing in this of seduction, As he moved his other hand down to his crotch. What he offered was a transaction.
At first I said no. The answer I’d always given, Not out of moral conviction, but pride.
But this pride had weakened of late, As time had shifted me from one category of erotic object to another.
As soon as I declined I regretted it. Though he showed no disappointment. As he shrugged and turned to leave I said:
Chakai!Chakai!Chakai! Wait!
Mitko turned back, docile but sure: Knowing he had me.
Still pretending to be skeptical, I asked about his size. He showed me, and my pretense of hesitation fell away:
I would pay whatever he wanted.
c. the theater of all our embraces
Kiss me.
Kiss me generous. Unrestrained and welcome Your tongue antiseptic with gin.
I will choose to believe That your kisses are genuine. A response to my own desire, About which nothing is feigned.
But I know Your desire is performance, Too drunk to be real.
My brain spins: The theater of all our embraces. We desire too much, or not enough, And compensate.
Sensing my thoughts He pulls me close. His body. His scent. Put an end to my thinking.
Kiss me.
Kiss me generous. Unrestrained and welcome Your tongue antiseptic with gin
I move my face
To the pit of your arm. Shaven skin against my tongue, Necessary nourishment from an inadequate source.
I sink to my knees.
I take you in my mouth.
d. the first of many threats
Withastrangesound,hetensedhimself. Palmsflatagainstthestall: Apoorperformance ofanorgasm, Ifthat’s whatitwas.
Iprotested:wantedmore
Butour transactionwascomplete. Stillkneeling,Iwatchedhimdress.
My anger showing, He called to a friend, Who answered from the dark. He showed me we were not alone.
It would be the first of many threats.
e. to make of him what I would
That this first encounter ended in betrayal, Should have given me greater warning. Should have lessened my desire, If not done away with it completely.
But my pleasure wasn’t lessened. This betrayal had only refined our encounter, Allowing him to become more vividly present to me. Allowing me to make of him what I would.
II. Apartment
I would seek him out repeatedly As October became November, And the grapes shriveled on their vines.
Even once bringing him home with me, So I could have him to myself.
There I saw his knuckles, Skinned and raw from fighting, Fierce and damaged.
There I realized my fear That should I fall asleep, I might wake to see that I’d been robbed.
But I embraced this danger, Suffocating my shame with desire, And for this was rewarded.
As I tasted his mouth, sweet with soda, And kissed his wounded hands.
As I clasped his hips like the brim Of a cup from which I drank.
As he wrapped himself around me, arms and legs, So the air I breathed was filtered through his scent and sour alcohol.
The nighttime passed, My sense of danger abated, And I slept as I have seldom slept, Deeply and almost without disturbance, As he held me like his beloved or his child; Or, it must be said, like his captive or his prey.
And then, accounts settled, He was gone.
Interlude: entre chien et loup
III. Sea a. preamble
For three months,
There was no sign of him.
A hospital stay, I’d learn: Ten weeks for a liver disorder, Which kept him off the streets and Away from the Palace.
Then a ping on Skype, His face appears: Beautiful as I’d remembered; First tense, then alive with a smile; With a smile, my desire.
We catch up. Agree to meet. This time in Varna, His hometown by the sea, Seven hours to the east.
b. he was soaked and cold
It was pouring when I arrived, At a dank gas station bus stop. Mitko was waiting for me in the dark, Shoulders hunched against the rain.
He was soaked and chilled to the bone, So we went directly to the hotel.
Mitko dried off on the radiator. Turned on the TV, so that Balkan folk-pop blared as he Swayed to jagged rhythms, And poured himself a drink.
In the light I saw A wound above his left eye, Just a day or two old, The skin still split.
Still so fierce and damaged, Mitko
Unable to resist, I went to him, And as I touched him, He put his hand on my neck, Pushed me down to his unbuttoned fly, And fished himself out.
He was detached and dutiful, Distracted by the TV.
I asked what was wrong, and he shrugged: He’d had sex that afternoon.
Another small betrayal.
c. how helpless desire is outside its little theater of heat
How helpless desire is outside its little theater of heat;
How ridiculous once unwelcomed, even if that welcome is contrived.
Though Mitko lay next to me, Naked now and stretched out, Half-hard against his stomach, And though I’d been granted access, He was not present.
I was alone in my longing.
So I concentrated on his warmth, Where our bodies touched. Closed my eyes, As I brought myself off.
d . the next day
The next day, Was more of the same, An absent consent, Mitko went through the motions; More whiskey, and a violent movie on TV, As if to distract from what I was doing to him. Made to feel like an aggressor for the first time in my life.
IsaidIwantedmore, andheresponded.Dutifully reachingdown, andstartingtostrokehimself,slowly, withsomethinglikelanguor .
Anacidicentrapmentsetin,as Iwas forcedtowait,untouched, watchinghimwatchingthescreen, astrangedullnessinhiseyes, fixedon theTV’s violence.
Only whenhefinisheddidhetouchme, pullingme towardhim, andfillingmy mouth.Lessan eroticactthana convenience, a way quitesimply ofcleaningup.
“Thethirdtimetoday,”hesaid.
e. enough
Whatdoyou mean? WhileIwas outthismorning? Why wouldyou dothat? Why wouldyou dothatalonewhenyou know how muchIwant it?
ButIcame alltheway from Sofia! I’vepaidfor theroom. Paidfor our meals. Paidfor everything
. I came to be with you, to have sex with you.
Butyou know that’s nottrue Mitko... Mitko... Mitko we’re not… friendslike that. We bothgetsomethingfrom this.
I get sex, and you get money. That’s all.
f. if I were someone else
I felt terrible and apologized by the damage was done.
He turned, Wearing a face I didn’t know, Strange and unsettling. He said to me:
Think if I were someone else. Think if I were a different person. I could have been anyone. I could have robbed you. I could have taken everything. I could have hurt you.
Did you think of that? he said. When you took me home with you? Did you think of that when you came here?
I felt threatened, as he intended me to feel, And I asked him to leave, but He just stood there smiling at me, Widened his eyes with amusement.
g. whatever happens next
Then his arm swung in a wide arc, And he struck my face with the back of his hand. I fell to the bed, as much from shock as the force of his hand.
We both froze. Real fear of what he might do next.
I flinched; shut my eyes. But it wasn’t a blow I felt upon my face, But his mouth, his tongue
As it sought my own mouth, Which I opened without thinking.
I let him kiss me. Though it wasn’t like a kiss. His violent tongue expressing nothing of desire.
Hebore down on me, pinningme tothebed,Grindinghischest, andthenhiscrotchagainstme. AndIthought:whatever happens nextIwillletithappen.
Butnothinghappenednext.Hewas on me, unbearablypresent, andthenhewasgone, withouttakinganythingorspeaking anotherword,thoughhecouldhave taken whatever hewanted.
h. like the dry grinding of gears
I lay frozen in in place, In shame, in fear I remembered my childhood, When this stillness was my only response To the terror I often felt at night, And to an anger like the dry grinding of gears.
Part II: A Grave
I. A Note [inthepresent]
…the middle of a sentence, A knock at the door.
A woman entered my classroom, Holding a single, unfolded page. An email sent to the school, printed out, delivered by hand: My father had fallen ill, suddenly, gravely He was in danger, might be dying.
Though it had been years since we had spoken, He asked that I come home.
I left the classroom, Descended the school’s broad stairs, Into a hot September day in Sofia. I walked without thinking.
Images burst in on me Scenes I’d worked to forget, From a childhood not thought of in years, Came all at once back to me now, Too quickly to fully grasp:
II. It Must Have Been Summer / The Orphaned Light [inthepast]
It must have been summer. My grandparents’ farm. My father lay beside me In a large field used as pasture.
The air was cool, as the ground Released day’s heat in long exhalation. Awake far past my bedtime, I mimicked his posture: Hand behind my head, as we lay there
And I listened to his voice direct me To the stars and their patterns. “Cassiopeia,” “Big Dipper,” “Little Bear.”
I put my arms around him Buried my face in his chest, As I was still young enough to do.
And he wrapped his arms around me,
Even as he withdrew into private contemplation.
We both knew the light we lay beneath, Had been orphaned long ago by dying stars, But we were not afraid of the hidden darkness. My father and I felt free.
Interlude: Among the blokove
[inthepresent]
I emerged from these thoughts among the blokove, Dire Soviet apartment complexes which make canyons of streets.
Waking past, Units identical in size and shape, But in each, some distinguishing feature: A flower box, Or patterned curtains, Or small panes of colored glass to catch the light. Attempts at beauty, I thought, Or at least signs of care
My eyes would briefly meet The solitary residents, As I passed.
III: His True Face
[inthepast]
I must have been nine or ten, Still young enough to shower with my father, Though it happened less often, And excited me more
I remember the room: Ornamental bulbs and tile, The water already running,
The mirror obscured with fog.
And I remember my father, And his body large and bare, Fascinating and available, As we wrestled, laughing, To stay beneath the hot stream of water.
Though often severe and sometimes cruel, He was gentle with me there; If the soap ran into my eyes he would rinse them,
Tilting my face up with his hand, A kind of physical care he seldom undertook. Be careful, he’d say, As we stepped onto the sick tiles.
I was innocent but not without intent, Or if not with intention, then an ache, Which drove me to him and which he felt, also.
Iapproachedhim. Iputmy arms aroundhim, Andpressedmybodytohis, Andhefeltme, hardagainsthim.
He thrust me away. The end of care. No thought now of slick tiles.
I still remember his face twisted in disgust. Not the learned face of fatherhood, but disgust: His true face.
His look entered me, Rooted beneath memory, And showed me to myself.
Interlude: A Land of Ravens and Dogs
[inthepresent]
Thesun washigh,and Idrippedwithsweat. Thepage Ihadbeengiven— theprintedemail— Was adampballinmyhand, AsIwalkedwithoutthinking. AndfoundmyselfinapartofMladost Ihadnever seen before.
Theblokove hadgrownsparse, with Plotsofwastelandbetween thebuildings; Abandonedconstructionsites, Like excavatedruins,or rottingshipsatsea.
Itwas a landofravens anddogs, Whichpeckedatrottenfruit, Orgrowledatme from theshadows.
IV. the best of me was words [inthepast]
a) K.
We’ll call him “K.”
We liked the same writers.
He was from my city, But our paths never crossed.
Connected by friends, We would talk on the phone, Talking, such talking, As one does at that age, Or when early in love.
Not meeting for months. We were nothing but words.
The best of me was words.
When we finally met, he was beautiful. Shorter than I, and thin, With red hair he’d let hang over his eyes. And his face!
b) the night before Halloween
It was Halloween Eve. K. was sleeping over, And we searched the streets for mischief.
A night of awkward freedom: Talking, still talking, Arms draped over each other’s necks, Our bodies draped over swings on the playground.
I leaned back too far, Lost my balance. In my search for the stars, I fell to the ground.
K. chose to fall with me, and, Our backs in the dirt, We scoured the sky together.
Later that night, in an uneasy waterbed, He would ask me to rub his back, and I did. To reach under his shirt, rub the skin itself, Rub his neck, down the column of his spine, and I did.
And I did, And for the first time in our friendship, Our constant chatter ceased.
Then he leaned slowly back, Let his head fall against my chest.
Then he shifted, or maybe I did, And he was holding me, We were holding each other, As we half-slept.
We were young, but Our boy’s bodies did not seem, Less than fully formed.
Ihadnever touchedanyone inthatway before, AndIwantedtokeeptouchinghim— Hisstomachwhere myfingerscurled, Tracingeachridgeorrivulet, Where sheetsofmusclemet, Coveredwithhair , Impossibly softandfine, Like theskinofcertainfruit— Thoughitnever occurredtome towantmore thanthat.
Hewas entirelybeautiful,and —inthatmoment— Icouldnotimagine Athingmoreperfect.
c) The Foulness
I woke to find K. ill, and vomiting. I cleaned his mess, and asked my father to bring him home.
We sat like strangers in the car. His bitter smell in the air —his vomit, yes, but also his body, his sweat— And I knew my father could smell it, too, and knew
The scent of foulness and shame. His glare in the rearview.
K. only spoke to my father, Showed me that, to him, I was the foulness: That my father was health and I, contagion.
I was the foulness in this foul air
And then, as he exited the car: His true face.
And, in its cruelty and pain, A farewell.
V. The Wastes of Mladost
[inthepresent]
I had walked to the wastes of Mladost. Among the trash discarded there: Bottles, cans, tires, bricks, and Cement piles poured down by trucks.
The ground below me shifted: The pavement turning soft.
The ground below me shifted: A muck beneath a sea of grass, Enveloped my shoes as if welcoming me
These shoes, black dress, of the kind My father had taught me to care for, to polish, Now soaked in mud.
Then, like now, I was never careful enough: My shoes would get scuffed, Or dirty or damaged.
And he’d say to me, That I had no sense Of the worth of things. And he’d say to me, That I had no sense of pride.
My father, who had descended from dirt. My father, who was dirt himself. Adulterous father, who would Disappear for months at a time.
My father, who had called me a faggot. My father, who had proven the foulness in me, Having gone through my journals, And conspired with his wife to confront me:
My father…
My father.
My father. K.
Youdisgustme.
IfIhadknown whatyou were, You wouldnever have beenborn.
Youdisgustme
How couldyou bemy son? Howyou couldbemine?
I was cast out.
Alone
I remember my tears that day. (Tears, sighs, and groans.)
More than shock, or grief, I felt anger. More than anger, I felt rage.
A rage that filled me up A rage that would never dissolve.
I thank this rage, Which ebbs or surges but is always there. I thank this rage. For without it I would have lost myself altogether.
I ended my walk
At a broad low stream, Sliding shallow over rock. And it softened something in me.
As I stood
Looking over the water I thought of my father, old and sick, Imagined him bedridden and frail. Could I feel grief for him?
Afterso muchtimeitwas an effort, To releasemygripon thewaddedpage, Whichwas barely more thanpulpnow inmy hand.
I let it fall into the cold stream, And watched the water carry it away. I would not answer, would not mourn. I would not see my father again.
Part III: Pox
I. Apartment
a) fierce wind burned uncovered skin
February now, and The dark came early: A fierce wind burned uncovered skin.
It had been almost two years, Since I’d last seen Mitko in Varna, Though I thought of him often, And saw him in dreams. Still, I was relieved that he was gone
Then one night A knock at my door,
So quick and assured, I knew at once who it was.
Unshaven, unkempt, and very thin, As if he‘d been worn away Since last I saw him. His shoulders slumped, His hands shoved in his pockets. He was wet, unwashed, And stinking of alcohol.
A pitiful state, Yet something in me leapt up At the sight of him, at his smell, And I let him in. Though I kept my distance: Remembering too well, What had happened before.
b) a sinking feeling, a constant friend
He had come to tell me that He was sick. He had come to tell me that I might have it too, Though I had no symptoms. A sinking feeling. That illness.
I had a “constant friend” now: Postoyanenpriyatel. We’ll call him “R.”
A “constant friend,” Who had lifted me out of Mitko’s world.
“R.” My “constant friend.”
That I might have infected him Felt unforgivable.
I said, Mitko, I’m sorry, Concerned, That is serious.
Then he asked me for money For pills, for his treatment. Of course I gave it to him.
Then he left, Though first he kissed me.
II. Two Clinics
a) a consequence and its cause (fluorescent ballet)
Later that week as I awaited test results at a Sofia clinic, Under buzzing fluorescent bulbs, Of a different pitch than they would have been at home
I thought back to my childhood, Growing up at the height of AIDS, when Desire and disease were bound together, Their relationship absolute and unchangeable: A consequence and its cause.
Disease was the only story told About men like me where I was from. It flattened my life to a morality tale: I could be either chaste or condemned.
I remember a strange disappointment, Being read my first negative test results: I wanted the world to have a meaning, And want that meaning to be
b) R.
Chastisement.
Andhere inSofiathatchastisementcame, underbuzzing fluorescentbulbs,intheform ofa nineteenth-century diseaseI knew only from books.Aphysicalconfirmationofmyshame;the deferredresultofmy timewithMitko: aconsequence andits cause.
I told R. He forgave me
We agreed that we’d both get treated, And that I should only see Mitko outside of the house, If I should see him at all.
III. like the clicking of metal as it cools
a) In the days the followed (my true face)
But I did see him.
And in the days that followed,
More pleasure,
More shame:
After Mitko took me
In the bathroom of an all-night McDonalds. An infectious gratuity for giving him more money A pleasure only Mitko could provide. And I wanted it.
In the days that followed:
More pleasure,
More chastisement:
As I stared in the bathroom mirror saying, “R. loves you, he loves you, he loves you, he loves you!”
R. had been gone from my mind, but came rushing back, As my organism settled, A sensation like the clicking of metal as it cools.
I felt so hollow, such regret: I was sick, infectious, and children came here. I was again a foul contagion, Surrounded by bathroom tiles.
I was sick I was sick I was sick I was sick.
b) giving with false motives
I had to end this, I knew; Both Mitko’s taking, And my giving with false motives. What once had brought me pleasure, Now had a sour cost.
ThenexttimeIsaw Mitko, weeksafterour encounter , hewas homelessandbroke, andlongingtovisithismother athomeinVarna,
But I would turn him away empty handed.
III. Earthquake
a) that spring
That spring. Sleeping deeply one night, In a state beneath dreams. I bolted awake.
Like weeks earlier, Pinned to my bed by an animal fear, In the strongest earthquake To strike Bulgaria in a century.
But rousing me now was not That deep grinding thunder, but
A banging on my door: And of course, I knew who it was.
Mitko came in, Not stepping, but stumbling, His eyes rolling eerily, Around in his head. A posture of agony
Drunk, yes, but He must have Taken something, too.
He looked terrible, still thinner, So that the clothes he wore tight, Hung loose on his frame. And his skin, off-color, Made me pull away.
b) gone
He approached me, and His eyes welled with tears, and He said, weeping:
“I’m gone, There’s no one, I’m not here, Disappearing into smoke”
He was dying, he said. His liver and kidneys failing. Only a year remained, if that.
And I held him in my arms, This body, so beloved to me; Unbearable that it could die, Could dissolve into dust.
I pressed my face to his neck, And breathed him in, his familiar scent. But I knew that that’s where it ended. That the death he faced, he must face alone.
c) keiner mag ihn hören, keiner sieht ihn
Hehadalways beenalone, Ithoughtas hewalkedaway, gazingata worldin whichMitko hadnever foundaplaceandthatwas now almostperfectly indifferenttohim;hewas incapableeven ofdisturbingit,ofmakinga soundit couldbebotheredtohear .
Thesewere only my ownthoughts,Iknew, butthey broughtme no nearerhim, thisman Ihadinsome sense lovedandwhohadnever intheyears Ihadknown himbeenanythingbutalientome.
Iwatchedhimuntilheturnedoutofsight,headedtowardtheboulevardandthe busthatwouldcarry himaway tohismotherinVarna. Intheend,Ihadgiven him themoney.
Istoodthere for some time, gazingatthecorner from whichhehadvanished.I knew Iwouldnotsee himagain.
ThenIsteppedinside, andsittingwhere hehadbeenjusta momentbefore besideme,
I lowered my face into my hands.
EndofOpera