WITHOUT SHAME

Thereís one mansion after another here. Street after street of rich people, though thereís no one in sight. The mansions and the lawns look so perfect itís hard to believe anyone lives here. But he assures me people live in these mansions. People richer than he is. People richer than his family. He is not rich in comparison to the people who live in these mansions. Thatís why the man who was left for a cook likes to come here. He comes here to feel poor. He feels poor before he comes here, but only when he comes here can he admit to himself he feels poor. Away from these streets, he canít reconcile being rich and feeling poor, so he hides what he is feeling. Away from these streets, he canít understand how his lover could leave him for a cook! He comes here to dull the pain. Here, the man who is rich can feel poor; a poor man can be left for a cook without shame.

THE WHORE


In Trieste, my husband and I, who are traveling, notice in a dark scruffy bar a middle-aged red-haired whore with numbers on her arm, sitting at the next table, smoking. My husband, who is German, starts a conversation with the woman. She is from Yugoslavia, she tells my husband in German. Her skirt is short and tight, raised high on her thighs. Her eyes are lined with black, her lips are painted red, her green top fits tight across her breasts. In no time, my husband and the woman become engrossed in conversation. The woman relates gruesome details of her internment at Buchenwald during the war, which led to her present profession. I barely understand her account. English is my native tongue. I donít speak German well. My husband, spellbound by her tale, has forgotten my presence. I nudge him, hoping he will translate what I fail to understand, but he absently pushes my hand away. I turn my eyes toward the streaked windowpane, amazed by my husbandís preference. I, who am young, pretty, and spared by misfortune, feel jealous of this woman scarred by life.