Pits

It was summer. The sky was an extraordinary blue. The days were long.

The two men, one old, one young, walked along Karl Johan Street from the direction of the Royal Palace. The elder man, Harald Bjoergen, impeccably dressed and of a somewhat grave and upright bearing, put his arm through that of the younger.

“You need not get so carried away by these matters, Christoffer,” he said. “You are enraptured by sentiments, but sentiments are even more ephemeral than a woman’s body, which, like other fruits, is only good for a season.”

“Then you consider love to be preposterous?”

Bjoergen gently stroked the wings of his moustache. “Not preposterous,” he said, “but certainly a hindrance to pleasure.”

“Then there is no pleasure in love?”

“No. There is only pleasure in being loved.”

“But that is mad! If such were the case, then all you have taught me would be...”

The words died on Christoffer’s lips.

Bjoergen smiled. “My dear fellow, I said there was no pleasure in loving. I said no such thing about making love.”

“But then why, when I speak of her eyes and the rotundity of her breasts, do you look on me as if I were a puppy?”

“Every great libertine starts out as a puppy. It is a prerequisite for becoming a hound. When I was a young man, I, too, thought as you do. I was shallow-minded and thought the stimulation produced by touching a woman’s hams to be the very Olympus of luxury. But refined libertinism, like a refined taste for wine, is a thing gained over time; learned, as a great athlete learns to ski, to soar like a bird above the spectators’ heads, to hazard down treacherous slopes at breathtaking speed... Yes, one is not born a a Birger Ruud of the bedroom.”

They passed cafés, the outdoor tables full of people. The scene was a juxtaposition of vibrant primary colors, reminiscent of an Edvard Munch painting; wide eyes and pasty oval faces were in accord.

Bjoergen put his hand gently on his protégée’s shoulder. “Ah, you are still young and have yet to learn of the subtleties of gyneolatry—have yet to fathom where the jewels of a woman’s body lie.” His white teeth flashed as he spoke, pronouncing his words with the clear precision of a pedagogue. “The art of pleasing oneself consists in arriving at a woman’s most delectable harbour.”

“I can guess where that is.”

“Can you though?... Hmmm... Those piquant nests of curly golden down... and their aroma, that pleasurable animal stench that sends quivers coursing down a healthy man’s spine. Indeed, what pleasure could be greater than to burry one’s nose in that soft fleshy envelope, have it be tickled by those feminine filaments and breath deeply, breathing in that nocturnal odour of dilection—blondes with their scent of carnal gold—brunettes, the hot delight of roasted chestnuts... And then... and then the redhead, the finest of all, bright orange flames flickering, shooting forth from the pits of her arms—an aroma of curry leaves, a spicy delicacy, a humid garden in which to lose one’s very senses!”

He was visibly moved. His lips quivered as he spoke.

He took a monographed platinum cigarette case from his jacket pocket, extracted a cigarette and lit it, inhaling deeply.

“Only when a man’s taste becomes thoroughly refined in the crucible of romantic experience can he truly appreciate the magic of the axilla, where the desires of the animal merge with the pleasure of the deity. A woman’s smell, gamy as a hunted fox, is the igniter of memories and passions. To inhale it is to inhale her most secret substance. That tangle of hair, that undiscovered country is, in truth, more intimate than her very soul, and I would cast myself into it, merge with it as salt does with water, not denying it a single particle of my being!”

“And... shaved?” the young man ventured.

“Ah, this modern infatuation with shaving,” Bjoergen replied with disdain. “It might well be the ruin of the human race... It is all the fault of the Americans, with their gross and misguided sense of hygiene.”

The two men continued in silence, each deep in thought. They passed book-sellers and plate-glass windows which reflected their own images—uncertain, quivering stripes of pink and black. Trolley cars hummed past them. And above lurched that formidable swath of molten sky.

Presently, simultaneously they raised their eyes.

A young woman, dressed in jeans and a candid tank top, was walking toward them. A mass of golden-brown hair spilled from her cranium. She was pretty, with a small nose and huge mouth. When she was just by them, Bjoergen slightly inclined his head.

“Excuse me miss,” he murmured, “but do you have the time?”

Her elbow rose until it became vertical with her shoulder.

“It is twenty-two minutes past two,” she said in a gentle cadence.

“Thank you.”

The woman continued on her way.

Christoffer smiled. “Very clever,” he said, pointing to the gold watch wrapped around Bjoergen’s wrist, “considering you have a punctual time-piece at your disposal.”

“I knew it and she knew it both. But the woman does not exist who will not flaunt her apocrine glands when asked.”