DER ROSENKAVALIER

BY MASAHIKO SHIMADA

FROM

AND ANJU FALLS ASLEEP

SHINCHOSHA,1996

The Marschallin thought highly of my enormous gifts: my boy soprano singing voice brought tears to her eyes, my fine skin was darkly voluptuous to her touch. Though the marketplace swarmed with boys much younger than I, prettier, stronger, and far cleverer, all of whom who could be bought for the price of a camel, the Marshallin had no taste for refined design or perfect function. She was after a boy who would remain nondescript in her boudoir, who was possessed of only rudimentary functionality, and who was therefore much more likely to remain enamoured of her for a longer period. Since the first days of our association, the Marschallin had insisted on the crucial importance of any initial encounter, whether with a person who was to become a lover, with a pet, a piece of furniture, or an entire town for that matter. Her tastes ran to love at first sight and impulse buying. So entrenched were these impulses in her character, that I owe to her my good fortune of being saved from nearly going on the block at distress prices. She snapped me up for twenty percent less than the going price.

Each morning I was tasked with playing the Marschallin’s wake-up music. Lately, she had become partial to being aroused by the vocal music of Handel. The accompaniment provided by horns to the morning light was as compatible as milk is to coffee, while diminishing, then crescendoing melodies, ranging up then down the musical scale, brought her such exquisite pleasure she could hardly bear the gentle passions the music aroused. And so it was that the coloratura of my boy soprano whetted her appetite. In the morning when I was summoned, I went to her bedside where she nestled her cheek against mine and spoke these words:

“Your skin, my child, is like a freshly scrubbed baby, so taught and smooth I could spread you with jam and eat you alive.”

Thinking that the Marschallin’s comment had been directed at him, her lover who until now had remained curled up in the bed, whispered: “had you eaten me last night, my love, it would have melted in your mouth. And you, my sweet, are as delicious to my mouth as a morsel of my favourite veal steak,” he said and proceeded to suck on the Marschallin’s breasts. No doubt because they had licked each other, turned over and licked again, then repeated the order, the bed, the entire room, in fact, smelled slightly sour.

“Darling pussy, my stomach’s growling.”

“Not yet, my little Cancan. You mustn’t call me that. Don’t look at me first thing in the morning.”

But Marie, darling, don’t you call me poopee? Pussy and her poopee. Sounds suggestive to me. I’m horny. Want to do it again?”

Despite appearances to the contrary, Cancan was a model of virility. I had always thought of macho men as being hunks, heavy breathers, muscular types who ate a lot, had fat turds, loved to run themselves to death, were thick-skinned and fearless and who slept in the afternoon. The penis would always figure in such a list, but in his case, if there is a Mr. Penlight, his would qualify: slim, but long and hard, everready. Cancan has big bones and broad shoulders, but is so thin the wave pattern of his rib cage is there for all to see. Peach fuzz, a tendency to blush, and childish adequately describe the face. Who would have expected him to have such staying power? It was a surprise to the Marschallin that his tool was as big as it was. Women crave men who are beyond ordinary. Out of the ordinary, but not overwhelming. The Marschallin is head over heels about Cancan. For that matter, Cancan is a model student . The bed has been locale for many a truly romantic ‘education sentimentale.’ At one time, it had been witness to what the beautiful people do, caught up in the elegant staging of the act, willingly shooting their loads of passion. They fought to preserve the dignity of their prowess. Love as a subject of banter is a twentieth-century preoccupation. And now at its end, conversation has turned only to matters of style and function. Cancan is, like me, clumsy and far from refined, but still, we do our best. The Marschallin’s last lover was very much like him. She preferred beautiful young boys, colonials.

The Marschallin had had her fill of her husband the Field Marshall’s macho behaviour, yet I can see no guarantee that Cancan in his old age wouldn’t turn out to be every bit the same as her husband. It was only a matter of time. What Cancan was doing, in his own naïve way , by fucking the Marschallin, was using his body to curry favor with the man.

“I had a dream he might be coming home this morning. If it’s for real, you’ll be deported.”

“The Field Marshall may know how to keep the Empire in line, but I’m not going to let him have his way with my darling Marie’s feelings. I’d betray the Empire to be loyal to you. You are the motherland.”

There was something endearing about Cancan, as he continued to fuck the Marschallin, in ecstasy over knowing his sex might amount to an act of treason. Even the way his dick pistoned full shaft into the crafty toad-like orifice was charming. In his youth, the Field Marshall himself had been treated like a son by the illegitimate potentate of the realm until, with the ex-officio ruler’s imprimatur, he took over the duties of servicing the man’s lover. The Field Marshall knew his position, never failing to repay the Imperial debt. In the political world, treachery amounts to a payback. Real macho men live in only two ways; as dictators or as terrorists. While the Field Marshall was still busy being a young revoltionary, the Marschallin had come under his control and become his wife.

Cancan, by comparison to the Field Marshall, was as submissive as a pussy cat, never fearless unless in the face of bad news. Perhaps it was his meekness that guaranteed his sexual power. They say a third of young terrorists are impotent, but Cancan won’t have to worry himself over that. My father had been one of those terrorists, and this is what he used to say to his so-called impotent followers: “might as well die if you can’t get it up. Douse your penis with ice. Prick it with a knife. If you still can’t get it up, try sticking a bullet from a Kalashnikov up your ass.”

A bullet from a Kalashnikov rifle takes the shape of a suppository. I remember my father’s advice because sometimes when the Marschallin catches a cold, I have the duty to slip a suppository up her derriere. Every single one of my father’s followers failed at being a terrorist, and were now refugees under the protection of the Empire. By the gracious will of the Field Marshall, they lived under house arrest in a hotel in the capital. Not content to stay cooped up in tight hotel rooms playing chess or constantly telling their favorite stories in a café about the plans they had to be terrorists, or to let it go at harassing couples strolling in the park, my father and his followers sought out space in which to display their youth and their lofty souls. Not having any recourse in this Imperial capital to express political opinions, they became as obsessed as knights in the pursuit of eternal love. Foreign women on the prowl for a little adventure were delighted to be seduced by the likes of former guerillas, but their sights were set more on the high born ladies of the Empire. They thought often of taking sexual revenge on the snide ladies of the Empire who had decimated their protests, pacified them, and finally emasculated them. Yet the impotent ones stayed limp when the ladies of the Empire remarked, “’Forget it. It doesn’t matter. You’re tied by the other sins you’ve committed. Cooperate with us, and you’ll get back on your feet.”

The Marchallin and Cancan sat on the bed eating their breakfast. In an ante-chamber since the crack of dawn, the hoi polloi had packed tightly, waiting their turn to have a petition heard. I stood in front of the corridor leading to the Marschallin’s bedroom singing a favourite Rossini aria for the day’s clients. And today they were a rabble. Despite the beauty and skill of my singing voice in performance, they puffed on cigarettes, ate chocolate, and talked only of money. Some fumbled about with the contents of their bags. I had eaten too much breakfast and felt an attack of heartburn like the rest, so I blew a sausage-reeling burp into the assemblage.

At that moment, a large and squalid middle-aged man broke the lineup and began to pommel the guard with questions: “I have an appointment. Don’t you realize who I am?” He was about to set foot in the boudoir. I panicked and ran into the room to inform madam of the arrival of such an obstreperous claimant. Though she realized that the man was not her husband, still she sought a hiding place into which she might stuff Cancan. I gathered up Cancan’s shoes, trousers, and hat, and shooed him into the bathroom where I shaved his face and his hairy legs completely clean before allowing him to escape into the closet. Mumbling under his breath and gazing at each of the hanging garments, Cancan turned to consult me on which one he should choose. Drawing back the curtain on a section of party dresses revealed a complete selection ranging from white gowns to bunny girl outfits, stewardess uniforms, a leather corset, and a pair of long enamel boots to go with a set of panties containing a dildo. I remained silent, pointing to a chambermaid’s clothes, but Cancan picked out a bondage-like straightjacket and asked me what I thought. This what the Field Marshall often wore to bed. Now in his fifties, he had frequent dreams about enemies of the state he had slaughtered who would come back to exact revenge on him. It was in this boudoir that he participated in a ceremony asking to be forgiven before falling to sleep. And so the Marschallin had taken to the role of S & M Queen, toying with her husband dressed in bondage. I took off Cancan’s trousers and slid his legs into a skirt. Instantaneously, he was transformed into the maid Mariandel. “I look like a waitress or something. Shouldn’t I pack some plastic bags full of yogurt into where the tits ought to be?”

While Cancan changed, I quickly poured yogurt from this morning’s breakfast into two bags, catching him as he emerged from the closet to complete the job.

“Chilly, chilly. Nice, though.”

Cancan looked incredibly good as a chambermaid. “Lovely, darling. What am I do to?” the madam remarked, looking somewhat perplexed, as she brought her lips to Cancan’s, rubbing off the lipstick.

“Stop it. I feel silly. I didn’t know you were capable of a GENTLE kiss.”

Completely absorbed in his guise, Cancan ran smack into an irate citizen as he made his exit.

“What a cutie! What’s your name? Um, what a nice, small, hard ass you have. Are you into body building?”

Quickly, the sexual harassment began. The madam’s wry humor prevailed.

“So you’re the louse who’s being making a ruckus all morning!”

“I beg you madam, I have something that I absolutely must talk to you about. “

“Must be something dire to rob me of sleep. What could it be, my dear Baron Ochs?”

“Well, it has to do with my wedding plans. You see, as I’ve indicated in my recent letter, I intend to be a candidate in the general elections next year. I have a strong commitment to strengthening economic cooperation with the Asian nations, with an aim toward realizing a more just society, to breathing new life into government, all of which carry the Field Marshall’s stamp of approval, but he’s abroad at the moment. Under normal circumstances, I would wait to bring the matter up with the Field Marshall on his return, but, you see, the engagement was made quite suddenly. You’ll understand my haste in bringing the matter to your attention. There isn’t a minute to lose. The proposal I have for you, dear madam, is....well, knowing that you have all those friends in the media, and, well, you know, that they might have some knowledge of the scandal I was involved in....well, to be point-blank about it, I wonder if you might not be able to use your influence to straighten out the way the press has been getting out of hand. That’s the real issue I’d like to bring up with you actually.”

“Things of that nature are beyond my power, after all.”

“Quite the contrary. Haven’t you, in fact, been casting aspersions lately on low-class journalists who engage in sensationalism?”

“Am I too unfair? All they care about is scraping the bottom. Dear Baron Ochs, speak up. Don’t you just want me to quash your problem?”

“I can’t hide the truth, I see. What a mess! Dear madam, the truth is while I’ve been putting all my efforts into allowing the Asian labor force in, I’ve unleashed a fury of activity from the God Eros. The men of the Empire have become lax, and the high-born ladies of the same affiliation have lost trust in male affection. Men have started cuddling up to Asian women who cater to men, who have infinite patience. As a result, all the young men in my house have gone crazy over migrant Asian working women. It’s a problem of serious proportions. One has to think of the future of the Empire, after all. I took it upon myself to sponsor Asian women who had been abused and abandoned. I gave them a life, and look what a can of worms I’ve opened. How could the press be so mistaken, saying I created a harem, surrounded myself with women! What trash! They’re saying ‘harem’ when they should be reporting more on a ‘convent.’”

“Your so-called convent is a harem. It’s obvious how you so generously take women under your care. Not that I care to see.”

For some moments, the Baron had been scanning Cancan as though he had been running his tongue over his skin. Cancan served the tea, exchanging glances with the Marschallin as if to imply that he, as Cancan, would like to put one over on this lousy man who went by the name of ‘Ox.’

The Baron whispered softly in Cancan’s ear, “How would you like to come work for me, be my secretary? Do you want to spend the rest of your life as a chambermaid? I can see you have a noble face. You might even become a female member of parliament. Dream about it.”

“Stop making jokes.”

“Oh yes, my dear madam, there is one other request I have of you; I thought you might be able to provide me with an introduction. I am in need of an excellent secretary, a strong and attractive young man of whom the madam would approve. Do you know anyone?”

“Well, yes, I might. Mariandel, bring me that photograph of Octavian.”

“What? Mine? You mean the small proof of Count Octavian?”

“Yes, yes. Bring it immediately.”

(Um. Her backside is stunning. How I’d love to run my tongue over those tight little buns.) “Oh, I beg your pardon.”

“By the way, the poor young lady who is to become your wife, who is she?”

“She’s beautiful beyond compare, and wealthy in equal measure. Unfortunately, her father is ill and is worried about her future. I said I would not stop at anything to take care of her.”

“You seem to make a hobby out of taking care of women. I’m afraid I’m running out of time. I must ask to take your leave. “

The Baron, it seemed, had not yet had his fill of trying to seduce Cancan who now brought out a photograph. As he exited the room, he glanced at the photograph of Cancan whom madam had recommended as a secretary, mumbling under his breath (“He’s ripe and ready. What a tasty pleasure it would be to have a threesome with the chambermaid and such a secretary. Like two peas in a pod!”) In his place, the hoi polloi stremed into her boudoir. Again today, her visitors were many of the rabble who lived by mooching off the Empire.

The first entrant was an employee of a boutique who brought a catalogue, and the next in line was a beautician who laid out a package of seven tools and began to fix madam’s hair, followed by a line of public servants who made a pile of presents. The president of a production company often brought along a singer he was agenting for, passed her under madam’s eyes and had her perform.

Today madam was told the singer had studied voice in the capital and was sure to make her mark in the role of Queen of the Night if only she had a powerful connection, which she did not of course. Nor was she able to get other roles. In the same vein, someone else asked for a good word to be put in for a badly educated child whose parent wanted back-door university admittance. Yet another group of mafia junkies burst in to ask for a favor in mediating a dispute. After madam had gone through listening to each supplicant in turn, a secretary disposed of the matters in any way he saw fit. As the parade ground to its end, in came the paparazzi. What was she do to with them, cameras slung on both shoulders and around their necks, vest pockets bulging, hair hanging in great dreadlocks? It was like Figaro singing ‘I am the gossip monger of the town’ (Note: insert Italian original line here in addition to the English). Corrupt, operating basically as terrorists, they are uncommonly fast at the escape, experts at interloping. If the Empire needed real terrorists who wished to serve the state with their special talents, then paparazzi would be just the ticket, but in reality, they’re no better than cheap extortionists. The first to get their hands on this sort of work made a decent profit, but in this day and age, the numbers of paparazzi have multiplied to such numbers that competition is fierce.

This morning, they had brought in for madam’s perusal a collection of photos and videos all of which looked the same, so as madam had her hair set, she evinced absolutely no interest, remarking in the manner of a televised weather forecast that, as usual, the world could expect more of the same unsettled goings-on.

“Madam, this video provides valuable evidence because I have documented, at the risk of my life, a bloody incident which happened in broad daylight in the immigrant district. Posing as customers, two men entered a Chinese restaurant, pulled a huge broadsword out of a golf bag and stabbed the owner. Look at the scene dripping in blood.”

“Keep that out of my eyes so early in the morning.”

“Madam, here then is a scoop. I’ve got Ochs leaving a hotel room with that actress, you know the one, who’s declared her candidacy in the next general election. “

“I’ll take that one.”

“How about the one I have? Look, the Crown Prince having a ball singing karaoke.”

“Haven’t I seen one like that before?”

“I’ve got some pretty raw images here of a gang of looters making a raid on a supermarket.”

“Haven’t I told you no one’s interested in immigrant crime. Murder, fire, whatever, it has to happen in the best section of town to be of any value.”

“How about a picture of a guy who died on his back in a suite at the Hotel Metropole?”

“I suppose I’d have to buy it if it were of the Field Marshall in the nude. I ask you, all of you, to bring better things, things like a nude photograph of the Crown Princess, or some raw footage of a superstar’s crime scene, for example.”

The paparazzi have no idea how to create news. They wander in search of blood, fire, and nudity. Finding an item for the news is about as difficult as getting terrorism to work. Audiences and the police are no easy target. Sniveling their displeasure, the group leaves madam’s boudoir.

“One last thing, boys. I’ll buy what you’ve got if it’s to do with the Baron Ochs scandal.”

On hearing this last word from madam, the paparazzi revived, establishing a new codeword for their mission; ‘Operation Ox.’ Hoping to be the first to get the story, they scatter to the ends of the realm. Madam’s morning endeavors were finished at this juncture. Cancan, hidden somewhere out of sight, returned to madam’s side in his guise of the belle in male drag.

“Has Mariandel vanished, my dear?”

“Um, and the moment I took off the skirt, I was somehow depressed. I wonder how you feel when I’m inside you. Just once, I’d like to try being the woman.”

“It’s an experience beyond words. It feels like being transported to another world. With me, though, the longer it lasts, the more I return to where I left, feeling I have lost something, wanting to cry. In the end, you too, my dear poopee, will take yourself away on a journey, and then, well there’ll be no one to be with.”

“What do you mean? Did I say something wrong?”

“No. Time is cruel, Cancan. I feel terribly sorry for the girl who is going to marry that wretched Baron. When one is young, one is careless about time until one finds that the most precious time of all has been stolen by a total stranger. You are looking at a lady, once as young as you, an exact copy of that girl, who regrets the irrecoverable passing of her life as the wife of an aged Field Marshall. Just how many people are there in this Empire who are crying over what can never be recovered? Murderers, traitors, the ruined, loss of children—all of these--why regret anything when all that’s left is emptiness, I am often reminded. What’s the use of trying to think of how things might have been? It might have been the right decision at the time. I have no recollection of my motivation or my objective, but as the years pass, the eternal question of why things have turned out this way never goes away.”

“Something’s bothering my dearest today.”

“Forgive me. The virus of melancholy has come to live in these rooms.”

“ I never want to leave you. Don’t you know how much I love you? Don’t cry. Let the sunshine back in.”

“Cancan, how different it would be if I were your aunt or your sister. We would have a blood tie as supremely important as among the Chinese.”

“Trust in my love. You’re depressing me.”

“Don’t be like other men. Don’t be as arrogant as the Field Marshall or the Baron.”

“I’ll take that Baron down a peg or two. Isn’t that why you recommended me to be his secretary?”

“I had that in mind, yes, but still there is the worry that you might end up, on the other hand, coming under his influence.”

“How can you say that, pussy? Have I ever let you down? Answer me truthfully.”

“Never, Cancan. You’re always 100 percent, surfing through time like riding waves. I love that about you. For you, there is only the now. But me? In my eyes, the past turns into the future. It’s painful. Enough of this talk. You must leave me now. If you’ve nothing on tonight, how about the opera?”

“As you command. Until later, at the theatre.”

Leaving a smile and the fragrance of eau de Cologne in the room, Cancan left in such a flash his tracks would be difficult to follow. By the time madam had seen she had forgotten to kiss him goodbye, and summoned me to bring him back, we heard the roar, from below, of a motorcycle. Heaving a deep sigh, madam confided in me. “You understand, don’t you, how I feel? Come here my little insurrectionist friend. Give auntie a kiss. Come wash my back in the tub while I have my bath. I want you to help Cancan teach the Baron a thing or two. You have something against the Baron, remember? He’s the perpetrator of the deed that made you and your father refugees.”

“Yes, but the Baron is the Field Marshall’s brother. They’re accomplices, two louses who will have to answer for the same crime in the eyes of the immigrants. I know, of course, that you belong to their side. And still, you want to bring them down? Rationally, I think what madam is about to do could damage her position. In the first place, why did you buy me knowing I was the son of a former terrorist? I can’t fathom it. On the one hand, you worship the naivety of a couple of adolescents like Cancan and me, but at the same time you’re not impartial to the wickedness of the Baron and the Field Marshall. And you’ve got the old guerillas of the paparazzi and the media in the palm of your hand. It’s as though madam’s got the whole Empire within her uterus.”

(To think that I’ve gotten this far without being put on the spot by a woman! There has to be someone on the police force paid by the Baron to keep things hushed up. How else would he be able to keep denying he has a harem! What am I going to do? At this rate, she’ll have to stand by and watch herself being installed in a special wing of his so-called ‘convent.’ Can’t somebody do something about this?)

Cancan, like the Baron, has now fallen immediately in love with Sophie. Cancan may have been given a privileged role as secretary to the Baron, but whether he will win the sweepstakes with Sophie is another matter. I think he’s off his mark. He’d be better off obeying the Baron’s orders and sticking to his job of keeping the ladies of the ‘convent’ pacified. It takes a maximum of vigor applied effectively, after all, in those circumstances, to do the job. I think it’s simply too young for him to act on romantic impulse above all else. Sophie, to me, isn’t any purer, gentler, or more aristocratic than any of the other ladies of his ‘convent.’ While the Baron quarrels with Sophie’s father over the wedding arrangements, Cancan and Sophie hit it off, and are in the midst of a heated conversation, the likes of which can only be understood completely by members of the Empire’s ruling class.

“Listen, did you know Prof. Mori? You know, the one who told dirty jokes in class to stay popular with the students?”

“Yeah, I knew him. He came on to me. Always reeking of that cheap eau de Cologne of his. He thought, poor girl that I am, I’d approve.”

“Wow! Never knew you were in my school.”

“I never went much to school. Hung out doing modeling. Did a bit of tutoring on the side too.”

“Are you really going to marry that guy?”

“Like I nearly fell through the floor. I mean, it’s the first time I’m meeting him, right, and he goes right ahead and wiggles his touche right in front of my face. I tell you, I kicked him right in the crotch. Rumor is he has a ‘convent.’ Wonder if he’ll build a ‘convent’ just for my use. If he will, marriage might be o.k. Would you come see me in my own ‘convent’, honey?”

“Sure, but you think he’ll go that far?”

“No way. Never fly. The jerk would come after me, wanting it for free. What am I gonna do?”

“Get off it. Your father arranged the marriage.”

“Well, I don’t want to cause papa any trouble. Besides, everybody else in the nobility gets married and then plays around. You don’t need love to get married. This marriage is intended to keep the two family’s assets together. I won’t have to put up with him for long.”

“How long is long? I don’t want to have to imagine how you’ll look in that greasy guy’s arms.”

“Then why don’t you take me away?”

“Easier said than done.”

“I’m yours. Do what you want with me.”

As though he has heard my thoughts, Cancan turned toward me. I tell him, “she’s waiting for you to kiss her.” As though puzzled, Cancan made to brings his lips to hers when, at that very moment, the Baron re-entered the room.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?”

Cancan, blushing, made an incoherent excuse; he had been trying to remove a spot of dirt from Sophie’s eye.

“I see you’ve finished with the arrangements for the wedding. Congratulations!” All the time, the Baron smiled out of the corner of his mouth, and stared at Cancan’s crotch.

“And do you always have an erection when you take dirt out of people’s eyes? Insolent bastard!

I had thought of making you the caretaker of the ‘convent,’ but never mind. I’ll make a eunuch out of you instead.”

Cancan as a eunuch? This is no laughing matter. The red blush on Cancan’s cheeks suddenly went pale, and his crotch detumesced. If he had ever wanted to be a traitor to the Empire, now would have been his moment to rise up and fight to the finish, but instead he prostrated himself on the ground, or seemed to, but in the next second, aiming for the Baron’s crotch, Cancan charged. Caught off his guard, the Baron doubled over, yelling ‘bastard!’ with what strength he had left, and mumbling how badly the family jewels had been scarred.

Rolling his tongue and leaving Sophie with a promise that he would return for her, Cancan took me by the hand and we fled. The Baron’s bellowing chased us from behind.

“Mark my words. I’ll turn you into a eunuch and put you in the ‘convent.’ Sophie, you’re on your way to the same place.”

I delivered a letter to the Baron. The sender was the chambermaid Mariandel he had encountered earlier in his wife’s boudoir. With madam’s and my help, Cancan metamorphosed again into a gigantically endowed female with tits of yogurt. To hide a potential erection, his cock was taped to the right side of his inner thigh. Together we shaved his beard, hairy legs, and any extra pubic hair until he was shiny; then we gave him a red wig, and a dash of the Marschallin’s favorite perfume. At long last, we had a figure of a Mariandel that would be sure to entice the Baron. The trysting place was an inn whose name sounded like ‘condom.’ We had the paparazzi standing by, ready at any moment to set foot in the scene.

“Mariandel, what a pleasure to see you again! The drag really suits you. Women are a handy thing, don’t you think, when it comes to seducing a man?”

Unaware of madam’s underlying plan, Cancan went gleefully on, playing a naïve game. The Baron’s downfall was now only minutes away. Madam and I had an agreement. I was to ride on the back, on the wheel of Cancan’s motorcycle, and so off we went to the House of ‘Condom