Rolf-Peter Wille
Cambodia—that’s where Dr. Massey and his spouse went during their Easter vacation. Angkor, the amazing tempels, the old stone apsaras, swaying on elephant back through the enormous gate of Angkor Thom? No. None of this. Dr. Massey and his spouse visited Cambodia because it offered them cheaper massages than Bangkok, for example.
Dr. Massey? I can hear you laughing. With this choice of name I have surely betrayed his figure. But do not be fooled. Dr. Massey was a sinewy dwarf, a little skeleton almost. Muscle material to be massaged was missing. The spouse—if you would call her Massey—did wear this epithet with aplomb and the hands of the slight masseuse began to tremble when they approached those fleshy mountains. But there was no reason for worry. Madame Massey did not care to cultivate her muscles. She just asked for a facial massage while her tiny husband was suffering from lower back pain.
They always received their massage at the duplex suite. In this manner the Masseys could continue their contentious chat without interruption. Madame Massey commanded a sarcastic tongue which composed a strict counterpoint to the sagacious remarks of her husband. The doctor usually began to ask the most nonsensical questions as soon as his bottom had been rubbed with rose oil: "If you’re missing a leg or, let’s say, an arm…," he asked, "or any member, will you get a discount here?"
"Which member, Sir, is missing?" asked Miss Thieu submissively.
"Ach puh!" cried Massey. "That was just a theoretical question!"
"If the doctor is missing a theoretical member he can get a theoretical discount. I’ll ask the manager. We also massage theoretical members."
"Theoretically my husband doesn’t miss anything but he’s practically without head!" snarled Mrs. Massey.
"Does the doctor need a head massage today?" asked Miss Thieu while she massaged his lower back.
"Puh! His head has been massaged away when he was a baby…" grumbled the spouse; but then she was forced to remain silent because the convulsive hands of François—originally from Kunming he was called Jng Chn Hsjng but turned into a François here—had started their rhythmical massage around her fleshy lips. A tangy aroma of citrus superseded the rose oil. "One last word to you, Miss Thieu." passed from her blurred lips. "You will not massage any practical or theoretical members of my husband regardless if they are missing or not. He’s only here for his back and his buttocks!"
"Very well, Madame, of course…" whispered Miss Thieu. She threw a furtive glance at Jng Chn Hsjng, alias François, and soon they had switched their position. Now Miss Thieu’s hands were kneading Mrs. Massey’s face while François’ fingers fumbled around the missing muscles of the doctoral buttocks.
A pleasant fragrance of incense was spreading throughout the suite and I am afraid my story is coming to a standstill now, because the Masseys had nothing to say to each other. Miss Thieu and François began an animated chatter, which I’d like to translate for you but, to be honest, I did not understand much. The complaints of the two masseurs were targeting their manager—neither you nor I know her—and if their fingers were vigorously kneading their minds did not pay the slightest attention to their work. This duet, which Thieu and François performed in lyrical as well as in dramatic style, lasted for 90 minutes. Actually it could be called a quartet because the Masseys were snoring already when they were gently helped to sit up.
But a horrible stereophonic sigh passed from the lips of Madame Massey as she stared at the lower back of her husband. No doubt: She was recognizing her own face. Indeed, the left eye was blinking at her.
And what about her own face? Had it changed? Theoretically it had not. Practically it had split into two. But let us remain silent.
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