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How to utter the unspeakable
By Mike Nietomertz
He writes: “I know that you will not want to see me anymore because I am deaf and mute.” And I smile at him, hoping with all my forces that I could lie and prove him wrong.
There are many gardens around the world where as soon as the night falls, men meet men, pass very close to one another, touch and make love in the dark hours, as if that hid their shame to love the male body.
That’s where I met him.
In one of these gardens populated by Jacques Maillol statues that hide their eyes with their hands, stretching out on top of their solid support — as if trying to cope with this theatre of shadows.
I love him as soon as I see him. Large, fine traits, intelligent-looking eyes.
We do not speak. That’s the etiquette. We face each other and gently slip our hands on each other’s bodies. Our jeans, we open their buttons. The sweaters, we take off gently.
We make love, standing up, between two bushes, soon putting our clothes back on.
He lights up a cigarette and says nothing. I ask him his first name. He takes out a piece of paper, where he leaves his cell phone number and writes right above it: “Matthew.”
I say I am Mike. He makes a sign that he does not understand it. He writes then: “I am deaf and dumb.”
I am not sure if he is self-deprecating or trying to be funny. He continues his silence. He has a static layer of sadness on his face, a defeatist way of staring at things.
He writes: “I know that you will not want to see me any more because I am deaf and mute.” And I smile at him, hoping with all my forces that I could lie and prove him wrong. That I could say that I enjoyed our meeting; that I wanted to see him again. And that I would like to get to know him better.
But that would be a lie. It’s true; I do not see how we could communicate if we would have to write things down each time. We would need the texting of our cell phones to utter the littlest of all words. Of course, I often say that in love, communication isn’t just about words, or listening — that the body of the other also expresses things, its eyes, its unintended signals. But Matthew doesn’t deserve my well-intentioned lies.
He writes: “Go away now, if you stay, I will cry in front of you.”
So I go away, alone, inadvertently rubbing my arms against the self-blinding statues, with this unpleasant feeling of not having been able to tolerate difference. This weight in the chest that seemed to say, or to write: “Don’t fool yourself, your open-mindedness is shallow.” I am sorry, Matthew. I am deeply sorry.
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