Thursday, November 20, 2008

Only the truth

Hagai Cohen

If I have learned anything from life, I have learned it is better to tell the truth to one’s spouse rather than let them hear it from rumors. The citizens of the world still remember how a small incident between Monika and Bill was blown out of proportion by the media. The world trend now is to come clean so I decided to follow the trend and like the others, to confess about my affairs and, if necessary, even to apologize sincerely.

The first incident I chose was a mild one, just to assess my wife’s reaction. My friends advised me not to do it. Some told me to see a lawyer first. However, I was determined: “I have to do it” I said.

The right time came, while dining at home, one evening.
"I got a letter", I said, “From a Mrs. Rinna Kunz. It was mailed from Remagen, a small town on the Rhine River in Germany. At first, I did not know who she was, but after reading a little, I realized Mrs. Kunz was Rinna Golan, a girl I had met sixteen years earlier at a Naval Academy dance. Yes, I know it sounds strange. I myself was very surprised.”

I went on to tell my wife the whole story of how the letter had informed me that Rinna, Frau Kunz, was living in Germany and that she planned to come for a visit, and she wanted to meet me. I had no wish to meet her.

"The letter took me back to a time long ago when we students were only boys with lots of muscles, a good tan and supercharged with hormones. Despite all this, sadly there was not a female in sight. However, about five miles away from our base was an all-girl’s boarding school. Likewise, the girls had no boys to impress. With frustration and hormones on the rise I took the liberty of writing a letter to the school, suggesting a dance party. The girls agreed with enthusiasm.

On the assigned day, we all wore nametags and reported to the school gym.
The nametags proved a success, as they created an opening for easy-going communication. Quickly, the party warmed up. At a certain point, the ‘queen’ of the class suggested a kissing competition. Her idea met with little opposition and soon a bottle was spun to make the match. On my turn, the bottle pointed at Rinna Golan.

Rinna’s dress was radically different from the other girls. It was a long floor length dress, with full-length sleeves, which completely covered her arms. Only the skin of her face and hands was exposed. As I approached her, she paled, she appeared to be about to faint. I took her trembling hand, with a quick motion leaned over, and whispered in her ear: ‘Come, there will be no kissing.’ I turned to the others and said: ‘Look, we are not kissing in front of you without first practicing,’ and despite the boos, I walked her out of the room.

Once outside, after drinking some water, Rinna explained to me that although she was not a religious girl she could not stand the idea of being kissed. She hated it when men even looked at her, and she became anxious at the thought of being touched by a man. Rinna was a pretty girl and despite the 16th century clothes, it was obvious she had a perfect body. Frankly, I did not understand her attitude. I did not comment about it then, but felt it might be interesting to chat about it. I suggested we go to the movies the following week. She agreed. We met on three occasions and she always came completely swathed. I did not consider touching her, apart from a mere handshake.

Two months after the party Rinna graduated and I did not see her again. In fact, I never even thought about her. When I received her letter sixteen years later, it took me time to place her, and when I did, I had no desire to meet her and sent her an apology note. Rinna sent a second letter, she said she was sorry we could not get together and gave me her phone number, ‘in case I happened to be in the neighborhood.’ Events, however, have their own dynamics. A few months later, I was on a business trip to Germany. Because of a local two-day holiday, I could not do any work, so, to fill in the time, I called Rinna
I’ll try to be accurate now with the sequence of events" I told my wife.
"Rinna answered my call and spoke quickly:
‘I am glad you telephoned. Please come and visit us tomorrow. The 10:30AM train from Bon arrives here at noon. We will pick you up at the station. Please pretend you are my Brother Joel’s friend. Do not speak Hebrew in front of my husband. See you tomorrow. I have to go now.'
It was all very strange. She showed neither excitement nor delight. Why did I have to pretend to be Joel’s friend? Why did she ask me not to speak Hebrew?

The next morning, after an hour and a half train ride, I arrived at Remagen station. Mrs. and Mr. Kunz came in a big car driven by Mrs. Kunz. I must confess that Rinna had become a very attractive and classy lady. Mr. Kunz on the other hand, looked like a beerstube dweller. He was thick necked, red cheeked, barrel bellied and smelled like a brewery. (I later learned he had already downed two bottles of Mosel.)

During the twenty-minute ride home, I was quizzed about Joel, his children and his new truck. I answered appropriately, yet Rinna was so formal and cool I regretted coming.

At a certain point during the drive Mr. Kunz turned to me and said:
'Vat kind of music you like Mr. Shamir? I am a musician, you know.' I imagined his taste in music would match the beerstube image, so I said patronizingly: 'I like classical music Mr. Kunz. Old German classical music.' 'Vell, vell, Herr Shamir, you haf come to zhe right place.'

Upon arrival to the Kunz house, which looked like a small castle, I was shown into a salon decorated like a baroque foyer, furnished with three large pianos. To my surprise, Mr. Kunz uncorked two bottles of semi-dry Mosel wine, filled two glasses and said: 'Come Mr. Shamir, let me play for you the Moonlight Zonata on a piano vich is a replica of the piano Beethoven composed on.' With that, he waddled over to the piano, sat down, opened the lid, placed his stubby fingers on the keys, and closed his eyes in concentration. To my absolute amazement and delight, Mr. Kunz revealed himself to be a fine musician. His playing was expressive and gentle while both romantic and passionate.

The first bottle of Mosel was emptied before the end of the sonata. The second Mosel was consumed during Mozart’s Piano Zonata K 330, which he played on the baby-grand Steinway. During the hour and a half of extremely enjoyable music, I had one glass of wine while Mr. Kunz emptied both bottles. At the end of the Rondo alla Turca (the ‘Turkish March’), Mrs. Kunz called us to the dining room. The food she had prepared for lunch was exceptionally good: a succulent fillet mignon au poivre vert, a superb Caesar Salad, an Idaho potato, baked to perfection, with sour cream and chives. To enhance the taste of the excellent steaks, Mr Kunz uncorked two bottles of Bordeaux. Mrs. Kunz had one refill, as did I, while Mr. Kunz, once again, polished off both bottles.

During the repast, I questioned Mr. Kunz about his music. I learned that he was both a composer and conductor of contemporary music, and that he also conducted the church chorus on a voluntary basis. It turned out that he was quite famous throughout the Rhine, Saar and Mosel valleys.

I began to like Mr. Kunz. I admired his music and was enthralled by his wine consumption. However, his wife, Rinna, showed no interest in either of us and did not participate in the conversation at all. Towards the end of the meal, she brought a tray of cheeses with fresh Kummel bread. Mr. Kunz flushed down the Munster the Roquefort and the Camembert with the last drops of the red wine. He then excused himself and abruptly plunged into the soft seat of a nearby armchair and, in less than ten seconds, was snoring loudly.

Ten seconds were all that Mrs. Kunz needed to get rid of her apron and, with a swift movement, like a tigress grabbing her kill; she took my arm and said insistently:
'We have three hours!'
'For What?' I whispered.
'We have an unfinished business or have you forgotten?'
'What about him?' I stammered.
'Don’t worry,' she assured me, while pushing me out of the door. 'Go to the guest bathroom, take off your clothes and leave them there. Put on the robe I have left for you and come back here. If he moves, you sneak back to the bathroom, lock the door and come out dressed.' Was she nuts?

I felt trapped. I was in the claws of a bird of prey... my mind went blank. I walked to the bathroom under her spell, and did as ordered. When I came out, she dragged me down to the carpeted floor behind her husband’s armchair.
She was prepared, wearing nothing under her dress but her exquisite body.
The truth? All I wanted was to get it over and done with and disappear from the vortex I’d found myself in. However, I was incapable of doing anything other than following the orders of the ‘assailant’ who had vanquished my resistance.

It was the quickest quickie I had ever experienced. The overdose of adrenaline in my circulation, revved up my heartbeat to an impressive level, which remained high for two weeks. Although in my opinion, it was a lousy act, for her it was the summit of excitement and pleasure. No, I am not taking any the credit for Rinna’s orgasm, as I am well aware that it was the proximity to the sleeping hubby that took her to such a climax.

Some time later, after regaining my senses, I wondered how anyone, who had once dressed like an Amish woman and had been afraid of touching my hand had become the sexual predator. I never did discover what had caused Rinna’s transformation, but I was able to define two new theorems, which I wrote down on my way home.

One. The level of adrenaline in the blood during lovemaking is in inverse ratio to the distance from a sleeping husband. Meaning: The closer you are to the sleeping husband the higher your heartbeat.

Two. The duration of the act in seconds is in inverse ratio to the distance from the sleeping husband. Meaning: with the husband around, you go through the act like an express train through a rural station.

Mr. Kunz woke up exactly three hours after he had fallen asleep. He discovered Rinna and I sitting at opposite ends of the couch, chatting in English and drinking coffee.
“Hello Mr. Shamir, you are still here? Vhy don’t ve go for a vew beers. I know a place vhere zey make ze beer on ze premizez”.

I couldn’t bear the thought of spending any more time with this bizarre couple so I proffered a silly excuse and made a dash for it. On the train, I felt like a prisoner of war returning home. One thing troubled me though, and I don’t think I shall ever have the answer. Did her brother, Joel know how many friends he has?”

My wife listened without interrupting with an expression of contempt. When I finished my story, she sat quietly, but I could see the fury bulding up in her eyes. Suddenly she forcefully threw her napkin on the table and said with a tongue full of venom: “You are a pervert. You definitely need help. Your wild, sick imagination qualifies you for the nut house. I do not believe a single word of all this crap. Tell your stupid stories to people who don’t know you and spare me please.”

I had expected some kind of reaction but certainly not this. After all the preparation and effort I had put into telling the truth, my ever-loving wife did not believe a word. As God is my witness, I was ready to tell her all my stories and clear my conscience. As God is my witness ALL my stories.
The End

Note published on my blog

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Your stories are getting nicer and nicer
keep the good work.....
Pity it was a story and not a real life adventure :)