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… Her belly
button was a tiny swirl, almost hidden. If all the breeze it took to
ruffle a tea rose suddenly became flesh, it would be like her belly
button. On different occasions she covered it with oil, semen,
thirty-dollars’ worth of perfume, a burr, rice, urine, the parings
of a man’s fingernails, another man’s tears, spit, a thimbleful of rain
water. I’ve got to recall the occasions.

OIL: Countless times. She kept a bottle of olive oil beside the bed.
I always thought flies would come.

SEMEN: F.’s too? I couldn’t bear that. She made me deposit it there
myself. She wanted to see me masturbate for the last time. How
could I tell her that it was the most intense climax of my life?

RICE: Raw rice. She kept one grain in there for a week, claiming
that she could cook it.

URINE: Don’t be ashamed, she said.

FINGERNAILS: She said that Orthodox Jews buried their fingernail
parings. I’m uneasy as I remember this. It’s just the kind of
observation that F. would make. Did she get the idea form him?

MAN”S TEARS: A curious incident. We were sunbathing on the
beach at Old Orchard, Maine. A complete stranger in a blue
bathing suit threw himself on her stomach, weeping. I grabbed
his hair to pull him away. She struck my hand sharply. I looked
around; nobody had noticed so I felt a little better about it. I
timed the man: he cried for five minutes. There were thousands
stretched on the beach. Why did he have to pick us? I smiled
stupidly at people passing, as if this loony were my bereaved
brother-in-law. Nobody seemed to notice. He had on one of
those cheap wool bathing suits that do nothing for the balls. He
cried quietly, Edith’s right hand on the nape of his neck. This
isn’t happening, I tried to think, Edith’s not a sandy whore.
Abruptly and clumsily, he rose on one knee, stood up, ran away.
Edith looked after him for a while, then turned to comfort me.
He was an A—, she whispered. Impossible! I shouted furi-
ously. I’ve documented every living A—! You’re lying, Edith!
You loved him slobbering on your navel. Admit it! Perhaps
you’re right, she said, perhaps he wasn’t an A—. That was a
chance I couldn’t take. I spent the rest of the day patrolling miles
of beach, but he’d gone somewhere with his snotty nose.

SPIT: I don’t know why. In fact, I can’t remember when exactly.
Have I imagined this one?

RAIN WATER: she got the idea it was raining at two in the morning.
We couldn’t tell because of the window situation. I took a
thimble and went upstairs. She appreciated the favor.

There is no doubt that she believed her belly button to be a sensory
organ, better than that, a purse which guaranteed possession
in her personal voodoo system. Many times she held me
hard and soft against her there, telling stories through the
night. Why was I never quite comfortable? Why did I listen to
the fan and the elevator?”