Plagueta de Bord

A REAL AND
FURIOUS TENDERNESS

In the beginning there was emotion.

 [Traducció d’un text meu a l’anglès]

“Shit!” you said with a sharp, strangled
cry, as if you’d trapped your finger in a door. You were reading the newspaper,
and you saw the item in the corner of a page. You were sure that that
twenty-one-year-old skinhead they called Damià S. and that other one of
nineteen, Toni F., were your last two lovers. The reporter stated the facts
very clearly: the two skinheads had gone to the little camp of tents alongside
the ring road of Palma, opposite the Archdeacon’s House, and after insulting
and threatening the families of black immigrants they had thrown a couple of
Molotov cocktails that had burned three tents and injured a child, and then had
fled on their motorbikes.

You, Joana Femenies, since you finished your
teaching
degree a year ago, had been working for the social services department
of the
city council, and you were well aware of the scale of the problem. A few
days
earlier you had accompanied two Senegalese labourers, who had employment
contracts and residence permits, to rent a flat. When you saw the
expression of
the landlady brazenly looking them up and down, it seemed to you that
instead
of two polite, friendly, smiling men of thirty-odd dressed in tracksuits
she
was seeing two wild animals intent on tearing her limb from limb. “I’m
sorry,
I’m not renting to blacks.” She was unmoved by your protests, their
papers,
their references from the council, their friendliness, nothing. And then
you
accompanied them in your Golf back to the wretched camp under the fig
trees
just where your last two lovers attacked you. “Nobody wants us. For now
we can
survive here, but when the cold comes we’ll have to move out or kill
ourselves.” When you left, Obok’s and Tahar’s words remained in your
mind for a
long time.

Your escape began one night at Sonotone. You
had gone there with a group of university colleagues. You met at El
Pesquer,
where you drank two Martinis, you went to have dinner at Can Eduardo,
where you
washed the grilled fish down with that Viña Tondonia that you liked so
much. In
the car you took a couple of drags of some terrific grass that had come
direct
from Amsterdam. When you reached Sonotone your feet were no longer
touching the
floor: you had taken off, you were flying. Squashed among the audience
watching
a new group, Smokedown, you saw those phosphorescent catlike eyes that
were
staring down out you out of a clean-shaven head, and you felt a spasm in
the
mouth of your stomach. After that everything went like a dream. That
fascinating rogue took you to the toilets, where that other skinhead was
waiting for him, covered in piercings and dressed in black leather with
chrome
studs. You did two lines and lost your mind between the lips, hands and
cocks
of those two youths who, with furious tenderness, carried you into the
unknown
jungle of serial orgasm. You ended up in their squat apartment in the
Passeig
Marítim that had the best view of the Cathedral you’d ever seen in your
life.

Less than three hours after you read the
news, the two had been set free. They called you on the phone. You made
an
effort not to show your nervousness. They told you they were going to a
secret
dogfight in Montuïri that evening and invited you to it. You couldn’t
tell them
no. Who says that desire and thought go hand in hand? Those green eyes
of
Damià’s, those mad cat’s eyes, set your spine tingling just by looking
at you,
and Toni’s finely-muscled body guided you on crazed, convulsive
explorations of
your senses. Now you cling to Damià’s waist on the back of his Honda,
with
ecstasy in your blood, while Toni rides ahead of you on his Yamaha,
leading the
way to an estate in the Plain of Mallorca where you will watch a
horrific
spectacle of butchery of two dogs biting each other to pieces.

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