A STORY BY LEONARD COHEN

Tamara had long legs; God knowshow long they were. Sometimes atthe meetings she used up threechairs. Her hair was tangled andblack. Breavman tried to select onecoil and follow where it fell andweaved. It made his eyes feel asthough he had walked into a closet ofdustless cobwebs.

When Breavman and Krantz wereseventeen they wore special costumesfor hunting communist women; darksuits, vests which buttoned high ontheir shirts, gloves, and umbrellas.

They attended every meeting of theCommunist Club in Montreal. Theysat imperially among the open-collared members who were munch-ing their sandwich lunches out ofpaper bags.

During a dull speech on Americangerm warfare, Krantz whispered,"Breavman, why are paper bags fullof white bread so ugly?"

'Tm glad you asked, Krantz. Theyare advertisements for the frailty ofthe body. If a junkie wore his hypo-dermie needie pinned to his lapel,you'd feel exactly the same disgust.A bag bulging with food is a kind ofvisible bowel, Trust the Bolsheviksto wear their digestive systems ontheir sleeves.

"Sufficient, Breavman. 1 thoughtyou'd know."

"Look at her, Krantz!"Tamara appropriated another chair

for her mysterious limbs. At the samemoment the chairman interruptedthe speaker and waved his gavel atKrantz and Breavman.

"If you two jokers don't shut up,you're getting right out of here."

They stood up to make a formalapology.

"Siddown, siddown, just keepquiet!"

Korea had swarmed with Yankeeinsects. They had bombs filled with

From The Favorite Game by Leonard eonen to be publishedby The Viking Prees, Inc., © 1963 by Leonard Cohen.

18 CA VALIER : SE PTEMBE R

contagious mosquitoes."Now 1 have some questions for

you, Krantz. What goes on underthose peasant blouses and skirts shealways wears? How high do her legsgo up? What happens after her wristsplunge into her sleeves? Where doher breasts begin ?"

"That's why you're here, Breav-man."

Tamara had gone to his highschool, but he hadn't noticed her thenbecause she was fat. She lived onlyastreet away, but he never noticedher. Lust was training his eyes to ex-clude everything he could not kiss.

But now she was slender and tall.Her" ripe lower lip curved over itsown little shadow. She moved heavily,though, as if her limbs were stillbound with the mass of flesh she re-membered with bitterness.

"Do you know one of the mainreasons why 1want her?"

"1 know the main reason.""You're wrong, Krantz. !t's be-

cause she lives one street away fromme. She belongs to me for the samereason the park does."

"You're a very sick boy."A minute later Krantz said, "These

people are half right about you,Breavman. You're an emotional im-perialist. "

"You thought about that for a longtime, didn't you ?"

"A while.""!t's good."They shook hands solemnly. They

exchanged umbrellas. They tightenedeach other's ties. Breavman kissedKrantz on each cheek in the mannerof a French general awarding medals.

The chairman hammered his gavelto pres erve the meeting.

"Out! We're not interested in avaudeville show. Go perform on themountain!"

The mountain meant Westmount.They decided to accept his advice.They practiced a soft-shoe routine at

the Lookout, delighting in their ownabsurdity. Breavman never couldmaster the steps, but he liked swing-ing the umbrella.

"Do you know why 1 love com-munist women ?"

"1 do, Breavman.""You're wrong again. !t's because

they don't believe in the world."They sat on the stone wall, their

backs to the river and city."Very soon, Krantz, very soon I'm

going to be in a room with her. We'regoing to be in a room. There's goingto be a room around us."

"So long, Breavman, I've got tostudy."

Krantz's house wasn't faro Hemeant it, he really went.

"Hey!" Breavman called. "Youbroke the dialogue."

He was out of hearing.

"Don't you see it, Tamara, don'tyou see that both sides, both sides ofevery fight, they're both always usinggerm warfare?"

He was walking with her in thepark behind his house, telling thesecret of conflict and the habits ofnocturnal goldfish and why poets arethe unacknowledged legislators ofthe world. .

Then he was in a room undressingher. He couldn't believe his hands.The kind of surprise when the silverpaper comes off the triangle ofGruyère in one piece.

Then she said no and bundled herclothes against her breasts.

He felt like an archeologist watch-ing the sand blow back. She wasputting on her bra. He helped herwith the clasp just to show that hewasn't a maniac.

Then he asked why four times.Then he stood at the window.Tell her you love her, Breavman.

That's what she wants to hear. Hecame back and rubbed her back.

Now he (continued on page 58)

TAMARA

(continued trom page 18)

was working in the small of her back.Say I love you. Say it. One-two-

three, now.He was getting an occasional finger

under the elastic.She crossed her ankles and seemed

to squeeze her thighs together insome kind of private pleasure. Thisgesture shivered his spine.

He dove at her. Then there werethe strange, strained voices whichhad turned into whispers, rushed andbreathless, as though time wereagainst them, bringing police andparents to the keyhole.

Who was she? Who owned herbody?

Congratulations, like slow-fallingconfetti, covered his mind with sleep,but someone said, "Tell me a poem."

"Let me look at you first.""Let me look at you, too."Then he walked her home. It was

his personal time of the morning. Thesun was threatening in the east. Thenewsboys were limping with theirgray bags. The sidewalks lookednew.

Then he took her hands in hishands and spoke with serious ap-preciation, "Thank you, Tamara."

She slapped his face with the handthat was holding the key. "It soundsso horrible. As if I let you take some-thing. As if you got something outof me." ,

She cried for the seconds it tookuntil a line of blood appeared on hischeek. Then they hugged to rep aireverything.

When she was inside she put hermouth to the window of the door, andthey kissed through the glass. Hewanted her to go first, and she wantedhim to go first. He hoped his backlooked good.

C'mon everybody! He exalted as hemarched home, newest member of theadult community. Why weren't allthe sleepers hanging out of their win-dows cheering? Didn't they admirehis ritual of love and deceit? Hevisited his park, stood on the nurseryhill, and looked over the city to thegray river. He was finally involvedwith the sleepers, the men who wentto work, the buildings, the commerce.

He threw stones at Krantz's win-dow because he didn't want to go tobed.

58 CAVALIER: SEPTEMBER

"Steal a car, Krantz. Chinese .souptime."

Breavman told everything in threeminutes, and th en they drove insilence. He leaned his head againstthe window glass expecting it to becool, but it wasn't.

"I know why you're depressed. Be-cause you told me."

"Yes. I dishonored it twice."It was worse than that. He wished

he loved her. It must be so nice tolove her and to tell her, not once orfive times, but over and over, becausehe knew he was going to be with herin rooms for a long time.

Then what about rooms, wasn'tevery room the same? Hadn't heknown what it would be like? Weren'tall the rooms they passed exactlythe same, wherever a woman wasstretched out? Even a forest was àglass room. Wasn't it like withSharon under the bed when they werechildren playing the Soldier and theWhore? Wasn't it the same, even tothe listening for enemy sounds?

He told the story again, six yearslater, but he didn't dishonor it thattime.

Tamara and Breavman rented aroom in the east end of the city. Theytold their families they were visitingout-of-town friends.

"I'm used to being alone," hismother said.

On the last morning they leanedout of the small, high window,squashing shoulders, looking at thestreet below.

Alarms went off through the board-ing house. Bulging ashcans sentriedthe dirty sidewalk. Cats cruised be-tween them.

"You won't believe this, Tamara,but there was a time I could havefrozen one of those cats to the side-walk."

"That's very useful, frozen cat.""I can't make things happen so

easily these days, alas. Things hap-pen to me. I couldn't even hypnotizeyou last night."

"You're a failure, ·Larry, but I'mstill crazy about your body. Yummy."

"My lips are sore from kissing.""So are mine."They kissed softly, and then she

touched his lips with her hand. Shewas often very tender, and it alwayssurprised him because he hadn't com-manded it.

They had hardly been out of bedfor the past five days. Even with thewindow wide open, the air in the roomsmelt like the bed. The early morningbuildings filled him with nostalgia,and he couldn't understand it until herealized that the buildings were ex-actly the color of old tennis balls.

She rubbed her shoulder against-his chin to feel the bristle. He lookedat her face. She had closed her eyesto savor the morning breeze againsther eyelids.

"Cold ?""Not if you stay.""Hungry?""I couldn't face another anchovy,

and that's all we have.""We shouldn't have bought such

expensive stuff. It doesn't quite gowith the room, does it?"

'''Neither do we," she said. "Every-body in the house seems to be gettingup for work."

"And here we are, refugees fromWestmount. You've betrayed yournew socialist heritage."

"You can talk all you want if youlet me smell you."

The cigarettes were crushed. Hestraightened one out and lit it forher. She blew a mouthful of smokeinto the morning.

"Smoking with nothing on is so-so luxurious."

She shivered over the word. Hekissed the nape of her neck, and theyresumed their idle watch in thewindow.

"Cold ?""I'd like to stay for a year," she

said."That's called marriage.""Now don't get all frightened and

prickly."A very important thing happened.They caught sight of an old man in

an oversized raincoat standing in adoorway across the street, pressedagainst the door as if he were hiding.

They decided to watch him, just tosee what he did.

He leaned forward, looked up anddown the street, and, satisfied that itwas empty, gathered the folds of hisraincoat around him like a cape andstepped out onto the sidewalk.

Tamara flicked a roll of ashes outthe window. It felllike a feather andthen disintegrated in the rising wind.Breavman watched the small gesture.

"I can't stand how beautiful yourbody is."

She smiled and leaned her headagainst his shoulder.

The old man in the swaddling coatkneeled and peered under a parkedcar. He got up, brushed his knees, andlooked around.

The wind moved in her hair, de-taching and floating a wisp. Shesqueezed her arm between them andflicked the butt. He flicked his out,too. They feIllike tiny, doomed para-chutists.

Then, as if the butts were a signal,everything began to happen faster.

The sun jeIled suddenly betweentwo buildings, intensely darkeningthe charade of chimneys.

A citizen climbed into his car anddrove away.

A cat appeared a few feet fromwhere the old man was standing andcrossed in front of him, proud,starved, and muscular, With a flurryof folds, the old man leaped after theanimal. Effort.lessly, the cat changedits directions and sofUy padded downstone stairs to a ceIlar entrance. Theman coughed and foIlowed, stopped,baffied,and climbed back to the streetempty-handed.

They had watched him idly, aspeople watch water, but now theylooked hard.

"You've got goose flesh, Tamara."She refastened a wisp of floating

hair. He studied her fingers in theexercise. He remembered them onvarious parts of his body.

He thought he would be content ifhe were condemned to live that mo-mènt over and over for the rest of hislife. Tamara, naked ánd young, herfingers weaving a loek of hair. Thesun tangled in TV aerials and chim-neys, the morning breeze whippingthe mist from the mountain. A mys-terious old man whose mystery hedidn't care to learn. Why should he golooking for better visions ?

He couldn't make things happen.In the street, the old man was lying

on his stomach under the bumper ofa car, grasping after a cat he hadmanaged to corner between the curband the wheel. He kicked his feet inexcitement, trying to get thé cat bythe hind legs, getting scratched andnipped. Hè finaIly succeeded. He ex-tracted the cat from the shadows andheld it above his head.

The cat wriggled and convulsedlike a pennant in a violent wind.

"My God!" said Tamara. "What's

he doing with it, now that he has it ?"They forgot each other and leaned

out the window.The old man staggered under the

struggle of the big cat, his face buriedin his chest away from the threshingclaws. He regained his footing.Wielding the cat like an axe, his feet

spread wide, he brought it down hardagainst the sidewalk. They could hearthe head smash from their window.The cat convulsed like a landed fish.

Tamara turned her head away."What's he doing now?" she

wanted to be told."He's putting it in a bag."The old man, kneeling beside the

twitching cat, had produced a paperbag from out of his huge coat. Heattempted to stuff the cat into it.

"I'm sick," said Tamara. She washiding her face against his chest."Can't you do something?"

It hadn't occurred to Breavmanthat he could intrude in the action.

"Hey, you!"The old man looked up suddenly.((Qui! Toi!".The old man stopped short. He

looked down at his cat. He vibratedhis hands in indecision. He fled downthe street, coughing and empty-handed.

Tamara gurgled. "I'm going to besick." She broke for the sink andvomited.

Breavman helped her to the bed."Anchovies," she said."You're shivering. 1'11 close the

window.""Just lie beside me."Her body was limp as though it

had succumbed to some defeat. Itfrightened him.

"Maybe we shouldn't have fright-ened him off," he said.

"What do you mean ?""He was probably starving.""He was going to eat it ?""WeIl, we protected our fragile

tastes."She held him tightly. It was not

the kind of embrace he wanted. Therewas nothing of flesh in it, only hurt.

"We didn't sleep very much. Try tosleep now."

"Will you sleep, too?" ."Yes. We're both tired."The morning world had been re-

moved from them; the jagged soundsof traffic were beyend the closed win-dow, distant as history. They weretwo people in a room, and there wasnothing to watch.

With his hand he soothed her hairand closed her eyelids. He remem-bered the miniature work of the windunfastening and floating wisps ofhair. A week is a long time.

Her lips trembied."Lawrence ?"

CAVALIER: SEPTEMBER 59

"I know what you're going to say,and I know what I'm going to say,and I know what you're going tosay .... "

"Don't be mad.""No.""I love you," she said simply."I'll wait here."<lyou don't have to say anything,"

she said,"Thank you," he said."Will you kiss me?"He kissed her mouth lightly."Are you angry with me?""What do you mean?" he lied."For what I said. I know it hurts

you in some way.""No, Tamara, it makes me feel

close to you.""I'm happy I told you."She adjusted her position and

moved closer to him, not for sens a-tion but for warmth and proteetion.He held her tightly, not as a mistressbut as a bereaved child. The room washot. Sweat on his palms.

Now she was asleep. He made su reshe was asleep. Carefully he disen-gaged himself from her hold. If onlyshe weren't so beautiful in sleep. Howcould he run from tliat body?

He dressed like a thief. His shirtuncrumpled loud as a paper bag.

A round sun burned above thesooty buildings. All the parked carshad driven away. A few old men,brooms in hand, stood blinkingamong the garbage cans, One ofthem tried to balance the cat's car-cass on a broom handle because hedidn't want to touch it.

Run, Westmount, run.He needéd to put distance between

himself and the hot room where hecouldn't make things happen. Whydid she have to speak? Couldn't shehave left it alone ? The smell of herflesh was trapped in his clothes.

Her body was with him, and he leta vision of it argue against his flight.

I am running through a snowfallwhich is her thighs. Her thighs arefilling up the street. Wide as a snow-fall, heavy as huge, falling Zeppelins,her damp thighs are settling on thesharp roofs and wooden balconies.Weather vanes press the shape ofroosters and sailboats into the skin.The faces of famous statues are pre-served like intaglios. . . .

Then he was thinking of a specialpair of thighs in a special room. Com-mitment was oppressive, but thethought of flesh-Ioneliness wasworse.

Tamara was awake when he openedthe door. He undressed in a hurryand renewed what he had nearly lost.

"Aren't you glad you came back?"

For three years, Tamara was hismistress; until he was twenty.

In the third year of college, Breav-man left his mother's house. He andTamara took a couple of rooms down-town on Stanley Street.

The house had been built at thebeginning of the century. There werestill some colored frames in thewindowpanes. The city had installedmodern fluorescent street lamps onStanley which cast a ghostly, yellowlight. Shining through the blue andgreen Victorian glass, the re sult wasintense artificial moonlight. The fleshof any woman looked fresh and out-of-doors.

His guitar was always handy. Thecedar wood was cool against hisstomach. The inside of the guitarsmelled like the cigar boxes his fatherused to have. The tone was excellentin the middle of the night. In thoselate hours the purity of the musicsurprised and alinost convineed himthat he was creating a sacramental

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relationship with the girl, the out-side city, and himself.

Breavman and Tamara were cruelto one another. They used infidelityas a weapon for pain and an incentivefor passion. And they kept returningto the bed on Stanley Street and thestrange light which seemed to repairthe innocence of their bodies. Therethey would lie for hours, unable totouch or speak. Sometimes he wouldbe able to comfort her, and sometimesshe him. They used their bodies, butthat became more and more difficult.They were living off çne another, hadties to each other's gut. The reasonswere too deep and original for himto discover.

He remembers terrible silences andcrying he couldn't come close to.There was nothing he could do, leastof all get dressed and leave. He hatedhimself for hurting her and he hatedher for smothering him.

He should have kept running thatbright morning.

She made him helpless. They madeeach other helpless.

Breavman let Tamara see somenotes of a long story he was writing.The characters in it were namedTamara and Lawrence, and it tookplace in a room.

Tamara read it carefully. "But Idon't talk that way,' she said softly.

"Neither do I," said Breavman.The act of writing had been com-

pleted when he handed her the manu-script. He no longer feIt ownership.

"But you do, Larry, You talk likeboth characters."

"All right, I talk like both charac-ters."

"Please don't get angry. I'm tryingto understand why you wrote it."

They were lying in that eternalroom on Stanley Street. The fluores-cent lights across the street providedmoonlight.

"I don't care why I wrote it. I justwrote it, that's all."

"And gave it to me.""Yes.""Why? You knew it would hurt

me.""You're supposed to be interested

in my work.""Oh, Larry, you know that lam.""WeIl, that's why I gave it to you.""We don't seem to be able to talk.""What do you want me to say?""Nothing."The silence began. The bed became

like a prison surrounded by electricwires. He couldn't get off it or evenmove. He was gnawed by the notionthat this was where he belonged,right on this bed, bandaged withsilence. It was what he deserved, allhe was fit for.

He told himself that he should ju stopen his mouth and speak. Simple.Just say words. Break up the silencewith any remark. Talk about thestory. If only he could assault thesilence. Then they could make warmand friendly love and talk likestrangers right up to morning.

"Was it to tell me that you want toend it between us?"

She's made a brave attempt. NowI must try to answer her. I'll tell herI wanted to challenge her love with adisplay of venom. She'll say, "Ohthat's what I wanted to hear," andshe'll hug me to prove that the venomfailed.

All I have to do is force open myteeth, operate the hinges of my jaw,vibrate vocal chords. One word willdo it. One word will wedge into thesilence and split it open.

"Just try to say something, Larry,I know it's hard."

Any noise, Breavman, any noise,any noise, any noise.

Using his brain like a derrick, helifted his twenty-ton hand and low-ered it on her breast. He sent hisfingers through buttonholes. Her skinmade the tips of his fingers warm. Heloved her for being warm.

"Oh, come here," she said.They undressed like they were

being chased. He tried to make up forhis silence with his tongue and teeth.She had to put his face gently away

from her nipple. He praised her witha conversation of moans,

"Please say something this time."He knew if he touched her face hè

could fëel te ars. He lay very still. Hèdidn't think he ever wanted to moveagain. He was ready to stay that wayfor days, catatonie,

She moved to touch him, and hermotion released him like a spring.This time she didn't stop him. Sheresigned herself to his numbness. Hesaid everything he could with hisbody.

They lay quietly."Do you feel O.K.?" he said, and

suddenly he was talking his head off.He rehearsed all his plans for ob-

scure glory, and they laughed. Hetold her poems, and they decided hewas going to be great, She pitied himfor his courage as he described thedemons on his shoulders.

"Get away you dirty, old things."She kissed his neck.

"Some on my stomach, too."After a while Tamara fell asleep.

That was what he had been talkingagainst. Her sleeping seemed like adesertion. It always happened whenhe feIt most awake. He was ready tomake immortal declarations.

Her hand rested on his arm likesnow on a leaf, ready to slip off whenhe moved.

He lay beside her, an insomniacwith visions of vastness. He thoughtof desert stretches so huge no ChosenPeople could cross them. He countedgrains of sand like sheep and he knewhis job would last forever. He thoughtof airplane views of wheatlands sohigh he couldn't see which way thewind was bending the stalks ; Arctic

territories and sled-track distances;miles he would never cover becausehe could never abandon this bed.

Tamara and Breavman graduatedfrom college. There was no longerany framewerk around their batteredunion, so down it came. They werelucky the parting was not bitter.They were both fed up with pain.Each had slept with about a dozenpeople, and they had used every namelike a weapon. It was a torture list offriends and enernies.

They parted over a table in a coffeeshop. You could get wine in teacups,if you knew the proprietress andasked in French.

AU along he had known that henever knew Tamara and never would.Adoration of thighs is not enough: Henever cared who Tamara was, onlywhat she represented. He confessedthis to her, and they talked for threehours.

"I'm sorry, Tamara. I want totouch people like a magician, tochange them or hurt them, leave mybrand, make them beautiful. I wantto be the hypnotist who takes nochances of falling asleep himself. Iwant to kiss with one eye open~r Idid. I don't want to any more."

She loved the way he talked.They returned to the room on

Stanley, unofficially, from time totime. A twenty-year-old can be verytender to an ancient mistress.

"I know I never saw you. I blureveryone in my personal vision. Inever get their own music .... "

After a while her psychiatristthought it would be better if shedidn't see him again. 0

CAVALIER: SEPTEMBER 61