The Wild Child Part 17

She approached lovemaking as would many a big girl (and I mean big, big, not fat), with a sense of duty and equality and full-bodied joy that smaller, more rodentlike women do not possess. She giggled and playacted. She pushed me onto the bed, and I pretended to tip over, when in actuality that was exactly what I did, nearly snapping my fine Hyatt bed in two. "Come here, sweetie," I said, American to a fault. "Come to daddy." not fat), with a sense of duty and equality and full-bodied joy that smaller, more rodentlike women do not possess. She giggled and playacted. She pushed me onto the bed, and I pretended to tip over, when in actuality that was exactly what I did, nearly snapping my fine Hyatt bed in two. "Come here, sweetie," I said, American to a fault. "Come to daddy."

"Whatchoo got for me, daddy?" she said, arms on her hips, young face shining with sweat, dark brown eyes glazed over with s.e.xy drunkenness. "Show me whatchoo got."

"Yeah, you wanna see, sugarplum?" I said. "You wanna see what I got?" And for the first time since the Hasids snipped me, I was not afraid to bring it out to the light-the long scar, the patches of skin stapled to the stem, the general look of a rocket that had failed reentry. Nana was not interested in the particulars. She shrugged, smiled, then went at it progressively-putting it in her mouth, turning it around, withdrawing it with a popping sound, some laughter at that, wiping her mouth with the inside of her elbow, then stuffing my thing back into the warmth of her oral cavity.

"Oh, that's nice," I said, all riled up by her easy middle-cla.s.s Western ways: such a pleasant contrast from the seriousness of the Russian girls who approached my khui khui with the gravity of Leonid Brezhnev stepping up to the podium at the 23rd Party Congress in Moscow. "Oh, keep doing it to me, baby doll," I said. "Don't make me beg. Uh-huh. Aw, s.h.i.t." with the gravity of Leonid Brezhnev stepping up to the podium at the 23rd Party Congress in Moscow. "Oh, keep doing it to me, baby doll," I said. "Don't make me beg. Uh-huh. Aw, s.h.i.t."

"You wanna pop me?" she said. This must have been some newfangled youth term. The verb "to pop."

"I wanna bust a nut inside you, shorty," I said. "I wanna make you sweat, boo. Let's do this thing."

I'd like to say that she stepped out of her jeans, but in truth it took a while to maneuver two large dimpled b.u.t.tocks and the accompanying v.a.g.i.n.al wedge out of the hard sh.e.l.l of her Miss Sixty denims. We huffed and sweated; I had her hanging off the edge of the bed while I gripped the cuffs of her jeans; I nearly pulled a groin muscle getting her naked; but through it all I stayed hard, a testament to how much I wanted her. She kept her T-shirt on throughout the initial popping, which is just how I like my s.e.x, infused with a little mystery. I slipped my hands beneath the cotton tee and felt the smooth creamery of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s while saving the visuals of those brown glossy globes for later. Her v.a.g.i.n.a was all that, all that, as they say in the urban media-a powerful ethnic muscle scented by bitter melon, the breezes of the local sea, and the sweaty needs of a tiny nation trying to breed itself into a future. Was it especially hairy? Good Lord, yes it was. Mountains of kinkiness black as the night above the Serengeti with paprika shoots at the edges-the pubic hair alone must have clocked in at half a kilo, while providing the inspiration for two discernible trails of hair, one running up to the navel, the other to the base of the spine. as they say in the urban media-a powerful ethnic muscle scented by bitter melon, the breezes of the local sea, and the sweaty needs of a tiny nation trying to breed itself into a future. Was it especially hairy? Good Lord, yes it was. Mountains of kinkiness black as the night above the Serengeti with paprika shoots at the edges-the pubic hair alone must have clocked in at half a kilo, while providing the inspiration for two discernible trails of hair, one running up to the navel, the other to the base of the spine.

Naturally, considering my size, she got on top of me. But given her impressive overall body ma.s.s and natural resilience, I could see a day when we could broach the missionary position, not that there's anything special in attacking a poor woman that way. After we had fussed with the condom, I reached for her p.u.b.es, but she slapped me away. These preliminaries did not interest her. Instead, she just plain mounted me, holding on to my t.i.ts for balance, slipping me inside with no effort, both v.a.g.i.n.al lips working to usher me into her tightness. I find it cliched when couples insist that they have "the perfect fit," but between the busted-up, zigzag, Broadway boogie-woogie of my maligned purple khui khui and the all-encompa.s.sing nature of her Caspian and the all-encompa.s.sing nature of her Caspian pizda, pizda, we reached a third way, as it were. we reached a third way, as it were.

That is to say, she rode me. she rode me. It was all very cla.s.sy and contemporary, like a modern-art survey course at NYU. I wanted to have the slogan It was all very cla.s.sy and contemporary, like a modern-art survey course at NYU. I wanted to have the slogan I RODE MISHA VAINBERG I RODE MISHA VAINBERG imprinted on her T-shirt. "Yeah, do me," she kept saying, after issuing a few grunts so male and a.s.sertive they startled me into a brief h.o.m.os.e.xual fear, a fear compounded by one of her sharp nails digging into my tight r.e.c.t.u.m. "Do me, daddy," she said, her eyes closed, her thighs slapping against my upper and lower stomachs, my own t.i.ts making wet noises against my frame. "Just like that," she said, stealing a brief glance at me and then turning her head to the side so that I could lick her ear and plunge into her neck. "Just...like...that." imprinted on her T-shirt. "Yeah, do me," she kept saying, after issuing a few grunts so male and a.s.sertive they startled me into a brief h.o.m.os.e.xual fear, a fear compounded by one of her sharp nails digging into my tight r.e.c.t.u.m. "Do me, daddy," she said, her eyes closed, her thighs slapping against my upper and lower stomachs, my own t.i.ts making wet noises against my frame. "Just like that," she said, stealing a brief glance at me and then turning her head to the side so that I could lick her ear and plunge into her neck. "Just...like...that."

"Yeah," I said, "I'm f.u.c.king you, boo," but the words did not convince me. "I'm busting my nut tonight," I sang.

"My p.u.s.s.y fills fills so tight," she sang back in perfect ghetto English. so tight," she sang back in perfect ghetto English.

"Ouch," I said. She was crushing my pubic bone, grinding into it. "Ouch," I repeated. "Baby doll...ouch."

"Just a minute, pops," she said. "Just give me a minute. Do me right. Just like that."

"Move up a little," I said. "Move up. It hurts. My bone."

"Just...like...that," she said.

"My bone hurts," I said. "I'm losing it."

"AW," she shouted. "f.u.c.k ME." She leaned back. I slipped out. Her thighs trembled before me, and I felt a warm, abundant liquid spreading on my own thighs, not sure which of us had issued it. My bedroom was filled with the smell of asparagus and related greenery. "Aw," she said again. "f.u.c.k me."

"Are you all right?" I said. "Did I..."

"Did you what?" She laughed. Her mouth was long and equine, p.r.i.c.kly around the edges. When seen in profile, her teeth cast their own shadows. She seemed to me then two bits silly and one bit dangerous, like a middle-cla.s.s American high school girl stumbling upon the lechery of a Cancun hotel room. "That was it," she said. "You did it."

"I did it?"

"Just like that."

"Oh," I said. "So you came?"

She embraced me; I held on to her sweaty T-shirt, tracing circles around her surprisingly tiny shoulders. "Yeah," she said. "Didn't you?"

"Sure," I lied. "I busted a nut." The words were so stale in my mouth that I reached for a breath mint on the nightstand. I plucked off the empty condom and managed to throw it under the bed. I felt strange and happy, violated and possibly p.i.s.sed upon. My a.s.shole no doubt glowed red; my breast and stomach mounds were slippery with our combined saliva.

"Hold me," she said, even though I had been holding her all the while.

"Sweetie," I said. "Sweet girl of mine." These words made me sad with longing, but for what I could not say. For dessert, maybe.

"Talk to me," she whispered.

"About what?" I whispered back. The whispering inspired me to reach for the remote-control dimmer on the nightstand. As I lowered the lights, the distant constellations of oil rigs lit up the panorama beneath us, and the more our bodies faded from each other's sight, the more we could make out the world around us, the seaborne oil-pumping skysc.r.a.pers that stretched out in daisy chains toward Turkey, toward Russia, toward Iran, toward all the places for which we had no use.

"Tell me something," she whispered, her breath humid with the carbon smells of my khui, khui, the saline waft of our afternoon's sturgeon, and the fading echo of an interim breath mint. the saline waft of our afternoon's sturgeon, and the fading echo of an interim breath mint.

It was not the time to mention that I loved her, not before confirming it with Dr. Levine. Besides, there were things more elusive, symbolic, and somehow more important to share with her. I thought of what these things could be. I thought of that distant island lodged between two mighty rivers and the ways it had made us who we were-two fine people trying to overcome (we shall shall overcome, my friend). I thought of a possible future spent f.u.c.king, loving, and eating side by side. I thought of a little red book, not Mao's, exactly, but a volume of far greater importance, one I decided to quote to her from memory. overcome, my friend). I thought of a possible future spent f.u.c.king, loving, and eating side by side. I thought of a little red book, not Mao's, exactly, but a volume of far greater importance, one I decided to quote to her from memory.

" 'This ain't your grandfather's Lower East Side,' say devotees of this 'cramped,' 'walk-in-closet-sized' temple of New American cuisine where Chef Rolland Du Plexis holds sway to a crowd of admiring dot-commers, local hipsters, and the occasional 'bridge-and-tunnel Visigoth.' Although some say the kitchen may have 'slipped on a banana' since 'the limos with Garden State plates rolled in,' a reasonably priced wine list and frequent celeb sightings 'keep 'em coming.' Food-26, Decor-16, Service-18."

I could feel her breathing hard against me. She grasped my toxic hump and rubbed it up and down. "That's that place on Clinton Street," she said. "I've been there."

"Muh-huh," I groaned. Her hands on my hump, kneading the dark, molten rock, were as natural as her v.a.g.i.n.a deep around my khui. khui. I couldn't think of the English word, but when I did, I nearly cried out in recognition. I couldn't think of the English word, but when I did, I nearly cried out in recognition. Soothe. Soothe. She soothed me. She soothed me.

"Go ahead," she said, "tell me some more."

"What do you want to hear?" I said.

"Go north," she whispered.

I walked with her down Rivington, making a turn on Ess.e.x Street; her hand on my back rubbing my hump; her erect bosom arousing the looks of Latino pa.s.sersby, male and female, papi papi and and mami, mami, with its untrammeled young girl's freshness, its simple "I'm just Nana from the block" honesty. with its untrammeled young girl's freshness, its simple "I'm just Nana from the block" honesty.

Avenue A was ablaze with sordid colors. A tectonic shift, an influx of Eurotrash and computer money, had taken place in the past two decades, turning the neighborhood into a roaring volcano of hipness beneath which the cute multicultural citizens of the Lower East Side cowered like the Pompeians of yore. Soon the disaster would be complete, and the whole of Lower Manhattan would be covered by a lava slide of laptops and lattes, 1's and 0's standing in for the khuis khuis and and pizdas pizdas that once kept this 'hood pumping, the nights punctured by the wails of newborns hungry for nipples the size of caramels. that once kept this 'hood pumping, the nights punctured by the wails of newborns hungry for nipples the size of caramels.

I swiveled my Nana around Sixth Street, past First Avenue, and up a flight of stairs. "Tell me," she said.

" 'It's always Christmas' at this reliable Curry Row standby lit up 'like your stomach after a bad vindaloo.' While dissenters call the cooking 'uninspired' and the harried atmosphere akin to 'life during wartime,' the cheap tabs and free mango ice cream make sure 'the party never stops.' Food-18, Decor-14, Service-11."

"Tell me more." She clutched me tight. One of my kneecaps, a solitary outpost of bone amid flesh, was wedged provocatively between her loins. I decided to walk her westward, pushing my knee into her moistness even as I chanted my singsong: " 'Painfully long lines' take the 'Zen' out of this garden spot, but with sushi so fresh 'it water-skis down your tongue' and a sake selection as 'long as j.a.pan,' even the 'most jaded downtown samurai' will scream 'Banzai!' Food-26, Decor-9, Service-15."

"More," Nana said. I rubbed my knee inside her, but she did not encourage my gathering l.u.s.t. "More," she said. I walked her along the breadth of the city to the edge of the West Side Highway; I gave her everything I knew, Food, Decor, Service; I recited from memory, and when memory failed, I reached into imagination, cobbling together restaurants that didn't but should exist, bustling places where the tablecloths were a little dirty, the waiters a little dodgy, but the food was cheap and good and meant to fill you up through and through. And then, once the bill was settled, once the need of both toilet and bidet pressed into you from all sides, you would take a taxi back to your flat high up in the sky, falling asleep in your loved one's arms even before the elevator sounded its bell tone, announcing your arrival to the empty gray corridors, the churning waste-disposal system, the solid anonymous door with the apartment number you would so proudly write, with vestigial Cyrillic curlicues, on the back of envelopes bound for less fortunate lands.

The doork.n.o.b turned, the lights clicked, the cable television came on with a roar. And wouldn't you know it, Nana, my sweet brown rider. Just...like...that. We were home.

27.

The Men from SCROD.

I was feverishly filing my nails when there was a knock on the door. A knock on my door! A knock on my door! The last two weeks on the town with Nana had convinced me I was in a s.e.xy full-bodied thriller, but all that awaited me on the other side of the door was Larry Zartarian's balding head and that of his mother peeking out from behind an ice machine a few paces back. "We've got to talk," he said. The last two weeks on the town with Nana had convinced me I was in a s.e.xy full-bodied thriller, but all that awaited me on the other side of the door was Larry Zartarian's balding head and that of his mother peeking out from behind an ice machine a few paces back. "We've got to talk," he said.

I offered him a bucket of buffalo wings, which he spurned. "Are you popping Nana Nanabragovna?" Larry asked me.

"Her body's mad ripe," I said in my defense. "I'm having dinner with her family tonight. All the SCROD bigwigs are going to be there."

The hotel manager walked over to the window and shoved the curtains aside. "Something's going on," he said.

"What now?"

"The airlift. Those Chinooks that landed at the Exxon. I thought they were evacuating everyone, but they were bringing bringing people, too. Eighty-five foreign nationals, mostly U.K. and U.S." people, too. Eighty-five foreign nationals, mostly U.K. and U.S."

"I don't understand," I said. "Even Josh Weiner got his little a.s.s out of here."

"They airlifted out the emba.s.sy personnel and most of the oil majors-Exxon, Sh.e.l.l, BP, Chevron," Zartarian said, "but now I've got eighty-five new new guests. And they're all..." He motioned me to come closer. He leaned over and whispered into my ear, "KBR." guests. And they're all..." He motioned me to come closer. He leaned over and whispered into my ear, "KBR."

I raised my shoulders and let out a heavy sigh to indicate that I had no knowledge or interest in the affairs of the ubiquitous Golly Burton. There was a civil war going on, or a cease-fire, or something-I was interested in that, that, in the ethnic strife and the killing, and in my own possible role in making things better for Nana's sweet absurdist people. in the ethnic strife and the killing, and in my own possible role in making things better for Nana's sweet absurdist people.

"There's a KBR rooftop luau planned for next week," Zartarian said, nodding meaningfully.

"A luau sounds like fun," I said.

"It's to celebrate the Figa-6 Chevron/BP oil fields coming online."

"Even the wh.o.r.es in the lobby have been talking about the Figa-6," I said.

The hotel manager poked a stubby thumb at the tinted windowpane. "That's Figa-6," he said, inviting me to look inside his thumbprint. I scanned the distant horizon until I made out another inevitable skyline of oil rigs. "That's the future of the Absurdi oil sector," Zartarian said.

"Looks good to me," I said.

"No, it doesn't look good at all," Zartarian said. "There hasn't been activity on those rigs for months. It's a Chevron/BP concession, but most of the Chevron and BP oil monkeys flew out with the airlift. And now there are all these empty KBR trucks all over the place. KBR's buying trucks left and right, even the c.r.a.ppiest Russian Kamaz models. And they're just sitting sitting there." there."

"The cease-fire is holding," I said. "They'll reopen the airport soon and get this Figa-6 thing going. This luau is a positive sign, Larry. Don't be such a worrywart. You're letting your mother affect your mood. I know what that's like, to have a parent. It's not easy." I gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder.

"Do me a favor, w.i.l.l.ya?" Zartarian said. "Nana's father pretty much runs the SCROD. See what he thinks about all this. Try to get a handle at dinner tonight."

"Okay, Larry," I humored him. "I'll try to get a handle. get a handle. You try to get some rest. You're working too hard." You try to get some rest. You're working too hard."

"Hey, if I survive this war, they're going to post me someplace big."

"If," I said, maliciously. I said, maliciously.

Zartarian's cell phone rang, and the Armenian mumbled something in the local tongue. "The SCROD men are here to pick you up," he said. "Remember, Misha, we're all in this together."

"Hey," I said. "How did you get your phone to work?"

"You can still dial inside the country," Zartarian explained. "It's the rest of the world that's verboten."

"Ah, so we're back in the USSR."

The SCROD men were actually two teenage boys in adjutants' uniforms. They were over by the gla.s.s elevator playing with a pair of submachine guns, pretending to mow each other down, then falling on the floor and grasping their stomachs, moaning in English, "Officer down, officer down."

"Boys, don't shoot anything," Zartarian admonished them. "We've got important guests here."

I was hoping for a BTR-70 armored personnel carrier, but the boys drove a Volvo station wagon, rusty around the edges. Feeling like an American high school student departing for the senior prom, I waved goodbye to Zartarian and his mother, who looked sternly at her watch, her bewhiskered countenance reminding me to return at a decent hour and to keep my nose clean.

We drove at an unG.o.dly speed down the Boulevard of National Unity-jammed with sweaty bodies on a summer Friday night-and then plummeted down to the Sevo Terrace. The boys sat up front, chattering in their language and occasionally leaning out the Volvo's windows to shoot rounds into the still night air, a fearsome rat-a-tat that almost made me dip into my Ativan stash. "Boys," I said. "Act a little cultured, why don't you?"

"Sorry, boss," one of the lads mumbled in a farcical Russian. "We're just happy it Friday night. Everybody go dancing. Maybe you dance with a Sevo girl?" The other boy hit him lightly with his submachine gun and told him to shut up.

"I don't know how it is in your language, but when you talk to your elders in Russian, it is important to use the polite vy vy form of address," I instructed them. "Or at least you should ask if it's possible to switch to the familiar form of address," I instructed them. "Or at least you should ask if it's possible to switch to the familiar ty. ty."

"May we switch to the familiar ty, ty, boss?" boss?"

"No," I said.

The boys lapsed into a quiet moodiness for a few minutes and then went back to their barbarian chatter. I was not unhappy to be left alone. The rolled-down windows permitted a delightful breeze to enter the Volvo's cabin, thankfully skirting the young brutes up front with their leather-and-s.e.m.e.n odors and instead tickling my nostrils with the smells of ocean and tropical trees-the tang of jacaranda, say. I took out my Belgian pa.s.sport and, as I often did these days, pressed it to the hard nipple that stood sentinel over my heart. I was happy at the chance to see my Nana in her parents' house. For reasons all too complex and murky, the sight of children and their parents together aroused me.

The Sevo Terrace esplanade was ablaze with the flash and fizzle of makeshift fireworks aimed at the broad front of the Caspian. Most often these missiles failed to reach their watery target and fell instead upon the crowds of Sevo who had a.s.sembled by the edge of the sea and who now beat a panicked retreat from the aerial a.s.sault, children and elderly strapped to the backs of the working-age. "There's a war on," I said, "and these people gather to be sh.e.l.led by fireworks. Unbelievable!"

"They just want to have fun, boss," one of my escorts told me. "We Sevo people like to roast the lamb and have a good time."

"There are many ways to spend an enjoyable evening," I said, "without getting maimed. In my day we drank port wine and talked well into the night about our hopes and dreams."

"We only hope hope and and dream dream of moving to Los Angeles one day, boss. So what's there to talk about?" of moving to Los Angeles one day, boss. So what's there to talk about?"

"Yes-mm," I said, but I could not come up with an equally d.a.m.ning reply.

We circled the floodlit octopus of the Sevo Vatican and took a narrow road that led beneath the so-called Founders' Wall and into the oldest part of the city. Each terrace had its own Old Town, built at the time of either the Persian occupation or the Ottoman incursion, I cannot remember which. On the Sevo and International terraces, these were settled by the original Moslems whose beehive baths and stubby minarets had created two miniature Istanbuls quietly removed from the rest of the city.

But the Sevo Old Town was free of Moslems. Rising on a slight ridge, it was trellised by a set of winding roads, each charting a route between mountain and sea, and each eventually leading to a dead-end bluff upon which a formidable old house, squatting on timber chicken legs, reproached the driver for disturbing its solitude. The choicest homes were bored directly into the ridge and wore the frippery and ostentation of two centuries past. Their exteriors paraded soft colors, pale yellows and greens, and a ghostly azure that may have once mirrored the now-gray sea below. The houses were graced by long wooden balconies, intricate apertures that often hung from all three sides and were engraved with the lions and fishes of Sevo mythology. They were as beautiful as anything I had seen since landing in the country.

We were headed for a house that eclipsed the others in scale, a broad white structure punctured by the occasional skylight, while some of its neighbors were dilapidated to the point of lacking windows and roof tiles. As we neared the Nanabragov manse, it became clear that the house had been built of poured concrete. It was merely an expensive parody of the traditional Sevo home, a sh.e.l.l of cement that had grown balconies and winding staircases with the same cold resolve as it had sprouted the satellite dishes lining its roof.

My escorts had gone silent and slack as we pulled up to the house. They touched their weapons and breathed slowly through their noses. They craned their heads to better see the satellite dishes on the roof. They thought in tandem of their Los Angeles destiny, a fate that could not be articulated in words, only in gunfire and the hot-tub embrace of naked women.

A circular driveway surrounded a copy of Bernini's Fontana del Moro, Fontana del Moro, the portly Moorish sea G.o.d at its center made out of marble several grades too shiny. I saw my Nana run out of the house, dressed in her usual fashion-tightness and youth, puckered flesh and hoop earrings, the hood of her c.l.i.toris clearly visible inside a pair of black sweatpants. the portly Moorish sea G.o.d at its center made out of marble several grades too shiny. I saw my Nana run out of the house, dressed in her usual fashion-tightness and youth, puckered flesh and hoop earrings, the hood of her c.l.i.toris clearly visible inside a pair of black sweatpants.

"Hey you," she said.

I trembled in response. "Hi-hi."

"Don't you look nice?" she said. I was wearing my tent-sized polo shirt and a pair of khaki pantaloons that I had bought on Dr. Levine's advice. "Yum," she said. "Gimme that sweet face." She kissed me long and hard, squeezing the nonent.i.ty of my a.s.s, the pleats of my khakis billowing like two zeppelins in response. I glanced back at my stunned escorts as if to say, "See, this is what happens to cultured people who use the vy vy form of address." form of address."

"Come in," Nana said. "My pops is dying to meet you. Dinner's ready. They just shot three lambs." She took my hand and pulled me after her, her shoulders giving off a sweet peppermint concoction that the bodies of young women sometimes produce to make my life more difficult.

We strode into a vestibule the size of a good barn, four gilded mirrors reflecting the room's emptiness, creating the kind of vacant infinity I had always a.s.sociated with the afterlife. An identical room followed, and then a third and a fourth. Finally we entered a chamber that contained a leather recliner, opposite which hung a flat-screen television. I was reminded of the homes of my former neighbors, the young investment bankers I had known in New York whose downtown lofts ("loft s.p.a.ces," they proudly called them) maintained the air of a hasty wartime retreat.

"Look around you," Nana said, reprising her job as an American Express tour guide. "This is a traditional Sevo home. The layout is similar to that of any peasant's house, only a little bigger. In the old days, the rooms were arranged in a rectangular pattern around an open smoke hole. We're not so primitive, so instead of a smoke hole, we have a small courtyard." We entered the small courtyard, which properly should have been called a national forest, indeed the national forest of more than one nation, a combination of trees ranging from the palm to the mulberry, among which finches and sparrows caroled at one another, spouting their rapid, nervous gibberish like market sellers vying for a single customer.

The courtyard was so big that one often lost sight of the house enclosing it. All the empty gilded rooms we had seen before were merely a front, for the life of the house coursed solely through this warm green center, which was anch.o.r.ed, naturally, by a long table covered with enough aromatic food and dark red wine to stab me in all my needy places.

Nana's father, the master of the house, was surrounded by his many guests, their warble striving to outdo that of the birds above them. Once I was espied, he shouted, "Quiet!" and reached for what appeared to be the horn of a ram, such as the Judeans use in their elaborate ceremonies. Momentarily a similar specimen, jiggling with wine, was placed in my hand by an elderly servant, while the guests, upon discovering the proportions hidden beneath my billowing outfit, began to gasp and exclaim.