I stare at the boy, trying not to laugh out loud. Isn’t that the limit – now they’re demanding that their sexual spoils be tidy and well-behaved and have a noble character to boot! Next thing they’ll be asking women to present a police affidavit testifying to their dean record before they’re allowed to bed down with the victors! But this one just gazes at me with hopeful eyes and looks so tender-skinned, so much like mama’s little boy, that I can’t be mad at him. So I shake my head with the proper regret, and explain to him that I haven’t been living in the building very long, that I hardly know a soul, and that, sad to say, I don’t know where he might find such a nice girl. He takes it all in, visibly disappointed. I have an urge to check behind his ears to see if he’s still wet. But I know that even the most seemingly gentle Russian can turn into a savage beast if you rub him the wrong way or offend his self-esteem. I just want to know why they keep expecting me to play matchmaker. Probably because I’m the only one around who understands them when they say what they’re after.
My sailor boy held out his little paw to thank me and then took of But why are these youngsters so eager in their pursuit of anything female? At home they’d probably wait a little longer, though it’s true that most of them marry earlier than our men. They probably want to prove themselves in front of their older comrades, like sixteen-year-old Vanya, the stairwell rapist, to show that they’re real men, too,
Anyway, the unbridled raping sprees of the first few days are over. The spoils are now in short supply. I hear that other women have done the same thing I have, that they’re now spoken for, and therefore taboo. The widow has more details concerning the two drink-and-be-merry sisters: evidently they’re for officers only, who don’t take kindly to low-ranking poachers trespassing on their private preserve. As a rule, those who don’t have marching orders in their pockets look for a more permanent arrangement, something exclusive, and they’re prepared to pay. They’ve realized how badly off we are when it comes to food. And the language of bread and bacon and herring – their principal gifts – is internationally understood.
As for me, the major has brought all sorts of things; I can’t complain. First he brought a pack of candles under his coat. Then more cigars for Pauli. Next the Uzbek showed up, heavily loaded down, and started pulling out one thing after another a can of milk, a tin of meat, a side of bacon covered with salt and a lump of butter wrapped in cloth – at least three pounds of it, all smeared with tiny wool fibres that the widow picked out right away. Then, when we were sure nothing more was coming, he fished out a pillowcase filled with sugar, probably five pounds’ worth! Princely wedding gifts indeed. Herr Pauli and the widow were astounded.
The widow dashed off to the kitchen cupboard to squirrel away the presents. Herr Pauli and the major had a friendly smoke, and I sat there brooding. By no means could it be said that the major is raping me. One cold word and he’d probably go his way and never come back. So I am placing myself at his service of my own accord. Am I doing it because I like him, or out of a need for love? God forbid! For the moment I’ve had it up to here with men and their male desire. I can’t imagine ever longing for any of that again. Am I doing it for bacon, butter, sugar, candles, canned meat? To some extent I’m sure I am. I didn’t like having to sponge off the widow. I’m happy to be able to give her something of mine – through the major, of course. That way I feel more independent, can eat with a cleaner conscience. In addition, I like the major, and the less he wants from me as a man, the more I like him as a person. And he won’t be wanting much, I can tell. His face is pale. His knee wound is causing him trouble. He’s probably not so much after sexual contact as human companionship, female company – and I’m more than willing to give him that. For out of all the male beasts I’ve seen these past few days, he’s the most bearable, the best of the lot. Moreover, I can actually control him, something I didn’t dare do with Anatol, not that easily, though Anatol was extremely good-natured with me. But he was so avid, such a bull, so strong! Without meaning to he might give me a little box on the ear… and I’d end up spitting out a tooth – just like that, from sheer excess of strength, sheer bearishness. But I can actually talk with the major. Which still isn’t an answer to the question of whether I should now call myself a whore, since I am essentially living off my body, trading it for something to eat.