Принц Папа Жан

in a cave

December 8th, 19… We were in a cave near the Miraculous Bridges, as if in the jaws of an enormous beast which might at any moment sink its stone teeth into us. As if we were cave dwellers. As if we belonged to each other’s heart. Perhaps that was how they seemed from the inside. Dark, frightening, beautiful – hearts in which there were only the two of us. Hearts in which our voices reverberated… Irina started singing, louder and louder. Her song reverberated in the cave. The acoustics were perfect and I felt as though I was with a choir of three-hundred Irinas… I started singing too.The male choir merged with the female one and the teeth-like stalactites turned into a piano. The idea of a piano excited us.
The excitement of the bodies was transformed into an excitement of the voices. They struck against the stalactite piano keys strongly, passionately and wildly. We turned into a grand piano. A grand piano on which was making music the tenderest, the most inspired, the most liberated and the most soulful composer. We were his fugues and his requiem. We were turning into sounds and sounds have no clothes, so thoughtlessly, without even being aware how and when, we undressed.We became a polyphony. We merged and we dreamt.The cave turned into a music platform. It turned into an audience, gripped by ecsatsy over which we poured ourselves. Which we possessed.From the heart to the tips of the fingers. From the deep throat of the cave our song poured over the forest and when it turned into the sound of mutual orgasm several stalactites fell down. On both sides of us. Centimetres from our bodies. We kept on making love, screaming and singing. We felt as though a Damoclean sword was hanging over us.
“Love or death!”
“A song!”
“A romance and a requiem!”
“A cave!”
“An oven!”
“A sword!”
“Love or death!”
“Transcendent hearts!”
“A sword!”
We shouted out the words in between our songs and after each scream a sharp stalactite broke off and fell near our passionately intertwined bodies.
Our voices made love. We penetrated like male flesh deep into the cave and it reflected them in an orgasmic tone… Stalactites kept breaking off while we made love ever more furiously, happily, ecsatically in the grand piano of a cave upon whose keys the most talented composer with a name no one knew was creating his “Ode to Love”. The sounds were turning into pictures. The falling stalactites were falling angels and became closing years, lost memories,near deaths in the rush of mad love. The sounds were turning into pictures… The pictures of virtual reality in which Irina and I found ourselves next to the piano in her room. The composer was a young woman.
A young woman with blond, almost silvery hair, snow-white face and eyes of a spring leaf. Her tender fingers struck at the keys. Our cells were turning into keys on which played creatures like that at the piano but transparent and almost invisible. They were composing the most moving, most passionate, tenderest, most earthly and most human fugue…Our voices reverberated in the cave and I wanted to paint “The Voices of Love in the Cave”.
I soon painted that picture, too, and its message was:
Later on I staged an exhibition in another cave near Karlukovo. A quintet of naked female violinists was performing music amidst my pictures and the two memories merged into a single symphony, a single picture. It represents a violin. A violin moaning and in its peculiar way cleaving hundreds of space dimensions… That violin was a cave!
We were that cave!
It was decorated with my pictures and a quintet of nude female violinists played in unison with the enormous grand piano of the cave…
We stood in the cave and our bodies enjoyed the fine music. It gave out the same sounds as Nicolo Busoti’s “red violin”. I told the story of that sinister bloody drama. In 1681 the Italian violin-maker Nicolo Busoti dedicated one of his violins to his yet unborn son. At the birth of the child both it and his wife died. Nicolo mixed blood from his wife with the varnish with which he subsequently varnished a violin.
The famous “Red Violin” traveled across the world, many monasteries and fell in the hands of celebrated virtuosi, but everywhere it went, it brought misfortune and death. All who played on it died in mysterious circumstances. In the 20th century the violin was priced at 2.4 million US dollars. We at once decided to perform a magic ritual at the memory of that sinister drama, leaving imprints with our blood. I tore up Irina’s white skirt which served as a canvas. We cut the palms of our hands and started painting the most beautiful violin in world painting. I took the canvas to my atelier and completed that crazy masterpiece. I called the picture “The Blood of the Violin” and hid it so that after many years experts will try to guess at the mixture of paints.

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