off the rack

the writing flowed spontaneously, at a pace that was not mine, and it was on teresa’s calf that I wrote my first words in the local tongue. at first she like it and was flattered when I told her I was writing a book on her. later she took it into her head to get jealous, to refuse me her body, saying I only wanted her to write on, and the book was already in the vicinity of chapter seven when she abandoned me. without her, I lost the plot, returned to my preface, my knowledge of the language receded, and I even thought about giving it all up and returning to hamburg. I spent my days catatonic before a blank sheet of paper: I had become addicted to teresa. I tried writing something on myself, but it wasn't as good, so I went to copacabana in search of whores. I paid to write on them, and perhaps paid more than I should have, as they simulated orgasms that robbed me of all concentration. I rang the bell at teresa’s house, she was married, I cried, she gave me her hand and allowed me to write a few brief words while her husband was out. I began to besiege schoolgirls, who sometimes allowed me to write on their blouses, then in the folds of their arms, where they were ticklish, then on their skirts, thighs. and they showed this writing to their peers, who greatly admired it, and they came to my flat and asked me to write my book on their faces, their necks, then they removed their blouses and offered me their breasts, tummies and backs. and they showed my writing to other peers, who came to my flat and begged me to rip off their knickers, and the black of my letters shone against their blushing buttocks. girls came and went from my life, and my book became scattered, each chapter taking off in a different direction. that was when I met the one who lay on my bed and taught me to write back to front. possessive of my writing, only she knew how to read it, looking at herself in the mirror, and she erased by night what had been written by day so that I would never cease writing my book on her. and she fell pregnant by me, and on her belly the book took on new forms, and I worked for days and nights on end, without eating a single sandwich, locked in the little room in the agency, until I composed, on my last legs, the final sentence: and my beloved, of whose milk I had partaken, made me drink from the water in which she had washed her blouse.

from the novel "budapest" by chico buarque