The Girl With The Crooked Belly Button

A few steps in front of me and slightly to one side, an old man with a beard was working at a wooden table. From the side, he looked a little like Brâncuși when he was in Paris. Or at least that's how I remembered him from the photographs I had seen in magazines over the years, since I had never met him in person.

Curious, I moved closer and saw that he had a shapeless lump of soft clay on the table, which he was trying to mold into a male figure. I think he sensed me, because he turned his head toward me and said:

"Stop hanging around me pretending to be the Holy Spirit, because you're not like that at all. You're a sinner through and through!"

I didn't really like how he characterized me, but I figured he knew what he was talking about. Especially when I remembered how I used to spend my nights in clubs.

He pointed to a wooden table to his right, similar to the one he was working on, and said:

"Go get some clay from the river while it's still soft, and get to work!"

He turned his head completely toward me, looked at me with incredibly piercing blue eyes, and said with a slight smile:

"In the meantime, you'd better get started, because time is passing and it will soon be noon and you'll be left with nothing done."

I wanted to say that it was only the beginning of the day, but I don't know why I preferred not to contradict him, so I went to the bank of the river flowing in front of us and began to bring a few piles of clay to the table he had shown me.

The river from which we took the clay was quite murky and wide, and the sun had risen quite high above it.

As I was bringing the clay to the table, I wanted to ask something about the river, but the old man seemed to have read my mind, because he said:

"To avoid further questions, the river in front of us is the Euphrates, and its clay has magical properties, you'll see."

I didn't consider myself very skilled at modeling, either with clay or any other material of that kind. Even in kindergarten, I couldn't make anything more than a puppy out of plasticine, always the same, which made all my classmates laugh.

But, to my amazement, in less than an hour, I managed to mold a reasonably acceptable female body out of the clay I had brought. The old man had finished his work and approached my table. With a few movements, he gave my man a perfect final shape.

"Don't you think you've gone a bit overboard?"

"I don't understand," I replied, although I had a pretty good idea what he meant.

"Do you think the breasts should be that big?"

I shrugged and said,

"That's how I'd like them to be."

He shrugged too, then looked at me with a smile in his blue eyes and said,

"Well, in that case, get ready!"

"Get ready for what?" I asked, puzzled.

"I'm going to breathe the spirit of life into your creation to see what happens."

He approached the clay woman on the table and blew hard on her. A blue mist enveloped the clay body, and it seemed to me that it suddenly began to move.

I woke up in my bed and shook my head, but the slight headache would not go away. I stayed in bed for a few moments, trying to remember the crazy dream I had had and, above all, how I had gotten there.

Last night I was at a club with Emma and we had a few shots of tequila because she was buying, and I was feeling a little greedy. I think I got a little tipsy, which is why I didn't find the man who approached us shortly after midnight so strange. He looked a bit like Mephistopheles from an old play I saw last year, and I really wanted to tell Emma, but she signaled me to be quiet, so I figured she knew him. His big ears and overly red nose were all I could remember about his appearance. Oh, and his extremely piercing black eyes.

We exchanged a few pleasantries, Emma more than me, then he motioned to the bartender to come over and said:

"I brought a small bottle of Paradis champagne. I hope it's okay if we drink it here."

The bartender wanted to refuse because it was club policy not to serve drinks brought in by customers, but after a few dollars discreetly changed hands, he said nothing and brought three large wine glasses.

"We don't have champagne glasses because we don't really serve that here in the club."

He deftly opened the small bottle of champagne and filled the three glasses. The liquid in the glasses seemed not only effervescent, but also animated by strange movements that mixed its pearly colors. Seeing that we were looking at the glass with suspicion, the man who resembled Mephistopheles raised his glass and motioned to us:

"To the most beautiful ladies in the club!" he said and tipped his glass back.

Gaining confidence, I did the same, and my mouth was flooded with a wonderful mixture: slightly astringent, slightly sweet, but absolutely delightful.

Our Mephistopheles placed his empty glass on the bar and disappeared among the dancers.

Emma was called by some friends and left with them, so I drank her glass under the reproachful gaze of the bartender, then I couldn't remember anything, not even how I got home. Oh, and then there was the dream that seemed so real that I kept looking around me for the clay to finish the woman I was modeling.

I tried to get out of bed and, to my horror, saw that my hands and even my shoulders were covered in clay. There were even wet clumps of clay on the sheets.

Horrified, I got out of bed and rushed to the shower. Only after the streams of hot water washed away all the clay that felt sticky on me did I calm down. I wrapped myself in a thick, fluffy bathrobe, then left the bathroom with the intention of making myself a coffee and recovering.

As I walked through the hall on my way to the kitchen, my robe fell open, but since I was alone in the house, I didn't think much of it. However, something didn't seem right, so I went back to take a closer look in the large mirror in the hallway.

I opened my robe and froze: my breasts, which had been rather small, were now quite generous, and I wondered with horror where I could get a bra if I wanted to go out. As I racked my brains trying to find a solution, my gaze fell to my waist: I was clearly slimmer than I remembered, but that was nothing compared to what was to follow, because no matter how close I got to the mirror and how much I turned around, I saw that I had no belly button.

How was this possible? I vaguely remembered the conversation in my dream with the bearded man on the banks of the Euphrates River. We had talked about breasts, and he had objected that I had made them too big, but he hadn't said anything about a belly button or waist. I had definitely made the waist finer than mine, because I was always concerned about not gaining weight, but had I given my clay model a belly button? I couldn't remember, because it was all too strange and, after all, it was just a dream, what the hell?

As I searched for my phone, I remembered that my only pleasures were going to the pool and hanging out at clubs, dressed as skimpily as possible with my belly button showing.

I picked up the phone to call Emma, wondering how much to tell her about what had happened. While it was ringing, I decided not to tell her anything and just ask her to come over so she could see everything for herself.

"What's up, girl, why are you waking me up so early?" were her first words, but I cut her off and said briefly:

"Never mind, get dressed quickly and come over here! And on the way, stop somewhere and buy a brown marker, if you can't find a permanent marker."

"But what do you want me to...?" she began to ask, and I hung up the phone.

While I was waiting for Emma, I dressed as casually as possible and kept checking my waist, but my belly button was determined to show.

When Emma finally arrived, the first thing I did was pull her into the living room and strip down to my waist.

"Look closely and tell me what you see," I ordered her.

"What should I see?" she muttered. "A beautiful girl, but after all this time we've known each other, I thought you knew I like boys."

"I know you like boys, but look closer."

At my urging, she took another step closer, then stared at my breasts.

"You've had your breasts enlarged!" she exclaimed, her eyes widening.

She came closer and wanted to touch them, but I slapped her hand away.

"When the hell did you do that? Last night you were so drunk you could barely stand up, so when did you have time to get them done?"

"Leave it," I said, exasperated. "Look closely," and I discreetly pointed to my waist.

"Your waist looks slimmer and... wait a minute: where's your belly button?

She put her hand on my waist in an attempt to find the missing belly button, then started laughing:

"I know how you did it! You bought a skin-colored kit online and put it over your waist to hide your belly button.

"Very well, then pull off that skin-colored kit and take it off."

After a few unsuccessful attempts, she had to give up and asked me, puzzled:

"How did you do that?"

I frowned and, with my tendency to always blame others for my mistakes, I said nervously:

"It's all your fault I don't have a belly button now."

She widened her eyes and asked:

"That's a good one! Explain to me what I did, because this time I really don't feel guilty about anything."

"Last night, when that guy who looked like Mephistopheles poured us a glass of champagne, you quickly went over to your friends and left your glass on the table."

"Well, yes, because I thought that champagne looked a bit dodgy. It had too many multicolored sparkles in it."

I shrugged, unconcerned by her explanation.

"There was nothing suspicious about it, you saw he had a glass too. Well, when I saw you leave, I drank your glass and got completely dizzy. If you had drunk your glass, maybe nothing would have happened, but as it was, when I got home, I had a terrible dream.

And I began to tell him at length about the dream with the bearded old man.

"Of course, knowing it was only a dream, I made my breasts bigger and my waist as thin as I could. But, paying attention to my waist and breasts, I think I forgot to make my belly button.

I put my hand back where my belly button should have been, but all I felt was the silky skin of my abdomen.

"That's why I asked you to buy brown markers, so you could try to draw one for me."

Emma resisted at first, but at my insistence, she agreed to try to draw one for me.

"You know how much I like going to clubs with my belly button showing, not to mention the tanning salon and swimming pools."

I left her to work, but when I went to look at her drawing in the mirror, I was disappointed. You didn't have to get too close to realize it was a drawing and nothing more.

"Hey," said Emma, "you said you had some of that clay from the banks of the Euphrates left on the sheet. If we took a few pieces and made a belly button out of clay, would it stick to your skin?"

The idea seemed completely crazy to me, but with nothing else to go on, I gathered a few pieces of clay, moistened them a little, and shaped them into a belly button as best I could. I was glad Emma hadn't been any later, because I was just about to put the sheet in the washing machine and then, goodbye clay pieces.

"Now, lie on your back and don't move," Emma told me, and I listened obediently, and she took the piece of wet clay and prepared to stick it in place.

I didn't really believe it would work, but what else could I do?

Just as she had found the spot and was about to stick the belly button back in place, my phone rang. It was on the bedside table next to the bed.

Instinctively, I reached out to see who was calling, and that's when I felt Emma sticking my belly button made of wet clay somewhere where the scar from my appendix surgery would be if I ever had one.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Emma shouted, and I dropped the phone like it was hot, but the damage was already done.

I quickly got out of bed and ran to the mirror. My new belly button was stuck somewhere in the appendix area, just as I had felt when she stuck it on.

I pulled at it and tried to move it, but it was stuck to my skin better than the original.

I wanted to blame Emma, but I realized that it was entirely my fault, so I kept quiet and racked my brains to find a solution. Needless to say, I didn't find one, so I told Emma:

"The only thing I ask is that you don't tell anyone what happened, or I'll be known as 'the girl with the crooked belly button' forever."

She nodded yes, but I wasn't very sure she would keep the secret, so the second thing I thought of was to hit the clubs more often than usual in the hope of running into the man with the big red nose who looked like Mephistopheles and asking him to help me fix things. Actually, he wouldn't have to fix everything, just my crooked belly button.