Seduced by Nastassja Kinski
I always had a thing for Nastasja Kinski.
My Sorbonne clique and I went to see her latest film. Giant
billboards all over Paris: Nastassja---legs spread, her
lover's face lost in between.
I watched "Paris, Texas" twice, living with
the eternal memory of thos lips
biting into a fleshy strawberry in "Tess".
Thank you, Roman Polansky.
Long after I have gotten over Nastassja Kinski,
I am with a Chicago clique on holiday. I am an atom now,
in constant, ungraspable flux, when my Bulgarian scarf is
pulled off my neck. It is Nastassja Kinski.
She has removed her KGB black-leather coat; bottom of
the ocean eyes are working me, and yes, that mouth...
When we dance, I avoid her gaze.
I am trying every possible way to escape yes,
mouth, smile, determination, scarf pulling me
closer, cheap wine, strobe light, dinner invitation,
"Come home with me. It's all for fun" she says.
I dance with her friends again. I am a tourist in my
hometon, and the girls are showing me a good time.
I think "I'll leave with someone else."
But she finds me at a table in the dark.
"What do you want, my mone?" I ask. She reminds, cockily,
that she has more money than I do. I am a poet, everybody
does. And when we dance, I am a strawberry, ripened and
bursting, devoured, and she has won.
We assure each other, the next day, neither of us has
ever done anything like that before.
By Sunday night, we don't go out for dinner as planne.
Instead, over a bottle of champagne,
Nastassja wants me forever. Unable to bear that mouth,
sulking, too sad for words, I whisper: "te llevaré conmigo".
As if I ever had a choice.
Ana Castillo.