Naked Men

by Alicia Giménez-Bartlett

  “‘Well, that’s just perfect’? Is that meant to be sarcastic?”

  “It’s a reaction, dammit! All I’ll say is this chick has got you by the balls, Javier. But if she wants to find you a job at some friend’s company, that’s great. That way at least you won’t have all your eggs in one basket. Because if a chick’s both your boss and your girlfriend, you might as well go jump in a river wearing a boulder as a necktie.”

  I start laughing. Iván is Iván, and he’s never going to change. The only thing he’d have to do to be the perfect friend is realize I’m not like him.

  * * *

  My relationship with Javier is like a sociological experiment. I don’t really know what it is, but I like it—it makes me feel good. When I get up in the morning, I’ve got some motivation to face the day, something to think about that’s not just totally overwhelming or depressing. I never imagined it would be so exciting to delve deep into human relationships. I guess you can only enjoy them if you’re convinced nobody can hurt you. And I’m convinced of that. I’m immune to the pain others can inflict. My transformation has been swift, almost startling. I’ve gone through the stages set out in psychology books for abandoned women: numbness, sorrow, anguish, shame, rage, anxiety about the future . . . But I’ve experienced them all out of order, sometimes all at the same time. Now I find myself in excess, in anarchy. I’m happy this way. I no longer want to build anything nor am I obligated to preserve anything: The factory’s gone. Everything that tied me down and held me back is gone. I’m free.

  Meeting Javier has turned out to be providential. I’ve really enjoyed sex with him, and I’ve come to understand a lot of things. Like, for example, that love doesn’t exist. Once upon a time I felt cheated because I’d never experienced or inspired love, but I can relax now. Couples are just seeking a balance between what each partner has and lacks, that’s all. And I’m no exception. David was seeking professional success in being with me. Javier is satisfied with much less. I even feel a little bad for the guy! For my part, I was gaining status by marrying David, and bolstering the company. There was a balance between what the two of us wanted and had to offer. But Javier . . . He wants to put his dream of happiness—so modest and humdrum—in my hands: we’ll live happily together, go out for dinner with friends on Saturdays, go to the movies, do our grocery shopping once a week. A wonderful plan, but far too late for me. For him, it’s a way of getting away from stripping and being an escort, which he finds deeply humiliating. I wonder why. If he were a woman I’d understand, but a man? Just look at Iván. He knows a thing or two about life, and he understands the price of freedom. He’s as free as I’d have liked to have been.

  Well, there’s nothing tying me down anymore. Not even friendship—my friends were the first people to drop me after my husband left me. I don’t have children. I never wanted them—that was the only element of Papá’s plans that I opposed. He wanted an heir for the factory, to leave a legacy. But he wasn’t pushy about it; we never talked about intimate matters. An heir for the factory! Poor Papá! I feel a little bad about that too. Poor men, really! Always doing what’s expected of them. David craved social success, Papá had taken on the tasks of building a successful company and raising me, and Javier needs to have a respectable job. Poor men, stripped of free will, naked! Always pursuing achievements the world has created for them.

  I’m over forty, and only two things have mattered to me in life: the company and my father. The company was swept away on the winds of this damn crisis. As for Papá, ever since that numbskull psychiatrist suggested that his affection for me was a type of aggression, I don’t dare think about him. Despite everything, I’m very happy. When anything bothers me, I just do a line of coke. I don’t depend on anybody else. Everything is under my control. I have power.

  I call Genoveva to ask for Iván’s number, and then I call him. He’s dumbstruck when I identify myself. It’s the first time we’ve spoken on the phone. I remember his naked body in the fountain clearly: slim, muscular, energetic.

  “Are you aware Genoveva doesn’t want the four of us to go out together anymore?” I ask.

  “Yeah. She’s afraid we’ll ruin her reputation. But it’s no big deal. We had a great time the other night.”

  “Javier didn’t come into the fountain.”

  “That’s the way he is. You know that I better than I do.”

  “No, not better than you. I’m calling to suggest that the three of us go out. If Genoveva wants to stay out of it, that’s fine, but that’s no reason to ruin everybody else’s fun.”

  He’s silent a while, long enough that I think the call’s been dropped. But no, at last I hear his swaggering voice:

  “Wouldn’t it better for you and Javier to go out by yourselves? I don’t want to feel like the odd man out.”

  “No way, a night out is a night out.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  Shit, man, I never expected this! I wonder what this chick’s after. Is she looking to sucker-punch the teacher again? I’m sure she is, but I have no intention of being played for a fool. I say I’ll have to ask him. I accept my own invitation with pleasure, but I want her to know I’ll be charging. Javier can do whatever the hell he wants, but I’m not interested in that bullshit. Just in case it’s not clear, I say, “The usual fee, right?”

  “The usual.”

  Good for Iván. No trembling in his voice. The usual fee. All clear and concrete. Much better.

  * * *

  Dammit! What kind of bullshit is this? Why am I the one getting nervous? They can just screw off—that crap’s not for me. I do my own thing. The teacher didn’t say anything when I told him the chick had called me to arrange for the three of us go out. I guess she’d called him too—hope so. I don’t want to get dragged into the middle of something without realizing it. If this girl’s counting on me to participate in some plan of hers, like making Javier jealous or some other bullshit, she can forget it. My friendship with Javier comes first.

  Trying to be slick, I asked him, “Hey, teach, you know the three of us are going out tonight, right?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “What’s up with that?”

  “Genoveva doesn’t want to come.”

  “Right, but are you and Irene fighting?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure I won’t be in the way?”

  “Yes.”

  Well, there you have it: yes and no! And if you don’t know what those words mean, do a fucking Google search. Christ, couldn’t the dude elaborate a little? But no, he doesn’t feel like it.

  Anyway, that night the chick invites us to a French restaurant. Lots of lit candles and wine tasting, but at the end of it all, I’m still hungry. It doesn’t matter—I’m just curious to see what will come out of our three-person night out.

  The chick was normal, the usual, wearing that mask of hers where you can never tell what’s going through her head. We were talking all sophisticated, about food, booze, how white wine is good going down but can really fuck you up . . . It was pretty boring, but I was tense thinking that at any moment they were going to start arguing right in front of me. I was ready, my speech all written out in my head: “Look, guys, if you two are having problems or are just itching for a fight in general, go ahead and kill each other for all I care, but please wait till I’m not around. I get faint at the sight of blood.” It was pretty good, I thought, not too pushy but putting them in their place. But it turned out it wasn’t necessary—we spent the whole night talking about white wine, red wine, and whatever the hell else.

  When we were done, the chick paid the bill, and before anybody could ask what we were doing next, she suggested we go do some lines back at her house. Javier got all sullen and said reluctantly, “But no fountains.” She looked at him the same way she’d looked at the waiter all through dinner, like she didn’t give a crap what h
e said or did.

  I remembered the house really well, though it didn’t seem as beautiful the second time around. It looked super generic, like they’d just shoved in the furniture they needed and nothing was really theirs. For one, it didn’t have framed photos all over the place the way fancy houses generally do. I’d have loved to get a look at that husband, or her family—anything that might give me some clues as to what the chick had been like before she turned into the cold fish she was today.

  She put on music and poured some whiskey. She pulled coke out of a drawer, and we did a bunch of it. Who was she buying such good stuff from, and for how much? I didn’t intend to ask her, in case she took it wrong.

  Things started perking up a bit. We were laughing and making fun of Genoveva: “I’m not getting in that fountain—I can’t swim” and “Just call me Saint Genoveva” and “I’m living off my ex’s alimony; he’s supporting me even though he’s a fag . . . ” We all got in on it, trying to one-up each other with our crudeness and cruelty. Laughing and doing bumps of coke. Finally, Irene, sitting next to Javier on the sofa, took off one of her shoes and started sticking her big toe in his ear. It was time for me to beat it, so I stood up and said, “Guys, it’s been a blast, but I’m going to take off. I’ve got to be up early tomorrow.”

  Then the chick goes, “No, you can both leave now. The night ends here. I’ll deposit your money tomorrow.” Some balls.

  The sentence hit us like a bucket of cold water and an electric current. I stood there in shock, not saying anything, waiting for what was coming, but the teacher got to his feet with great dignity, a fury on his face I’d never seen before, and headed for the door.

  “I’m the one who’s taking off. Good night.”

  I raced after him, but he spun around angrily and said, “I’m leaving on my own, Iván.”

  I still went after him, even started down the stairs to catch him, but he was really booking it and there was no way to nab him. Plus, I’d left my backpack in the living room, with everything in it: ID, cash, car keys . . . I turned around and went back into the living room. She hadn’t moved from where she was—she even still had her leg stretched out from when she’d been provoking Javier by touching his ear. She was smirking. I felt like smacking the shit out of her. No, what I really wanted was to drag her off the sofa, push her to her knees, and start whaling on her with a baseball bat till her head lolled to one side like a dead chicken’s. It wasn’t just a thought that flitted through my mind—I really wanted to do it, right there and then. So much so, it actually scared me and I cranked my powerful imagination into gear like I always do when I’m in a blind rage. I picture a waterfall and get under it. The ice-cold water runs down my body. I raise my wrists together above my head, and the chill starts to seep into my veins. Calm down, calm down. I take a deep breath. I’m calmer now. I think, “This isn’t your battle, Iván.”

  “Look, Irene, what’s your deal with Javier?”

  “What’s Javier’s deal with me? Have you asked him?”

  “No, and I don’t want to overstep here, but it seemed like you were trying to get under his skin tonight. You flirt with him and then tell him to get lost, just like that, out of the blue and in front of me.”

  “Want another drink?”

  We had more drinks. I kept objecting to the way she’d treated the teacher, the way she was screwing with his head and playing him for a fool . . . until she gets real serious and says, “You think Javier’s crazy about me? Well, he’s not, make no mistake. Javier’s just like everybody else—he wants something. He wants me to give him a job that makes him feel like a normal, respectable man. He wants my money, but without having to take it from me directly. He wants me to be his good and virtuous girlfriend, like the one he had before he met me. Can you believe it? The poor guy’s totally lost the plot. So don’t come to me with all this crap about how he loves me and I’m making him suffer by toying with his emotions—it’s just a cliché.”

  Shit, man, that’s rough. She’s saying all the same things I do. But she’s trying to tell me this stuff? Me? Me, who takes off running whenever I hear the word love.

  “Did you tell him all this, straight up like that?”

  “No, why should I? He concocts his fantasies and I let him. He wouldn’t listen if I were frank with him anyway.”

  “Damn!” I said, not knowing what to say. Not like I had the chance anyway, because then the chick grabs my arm and pulls me down on the sofa and kisses me and we start getting it on. It was really hot! The chick’s totally wild, a firecracker in the sack. I got totally into it. A primo lay, no games. I start to understand why the teacher’s hung up on her. I never just let go during sex—I always stay a little detached—but this time I did, and when we were through I couldn’t even remember my own name. Then, all cool, the chick says, “You’d better go now, Iván. I’ll pay an additional fee for the sex.”

  “Let’s keep this between us, OK, Irene?”

  “You can count on my discretion.”

  What a sentence, right out a movie! She smiles at me, I smile at her, and I leave.

  I start the car. A wave of fatigue sweeps over my body. I could fall asleep right there. I bet I won’t remember a thing when I wake up. Did I have sex with Irene? How did that happen? Fatal attraction? Anyway, I don’t feel bad about it. The teacher was asking for it. Why the hell is he letting this chick make a hash of his life?

  * * *

  I’m home alone, very laid back. It’s a rainy Tuesday. I don’t have any performances, rehearsals, or dates. I’m reading a book on personality disorders, really interesting. Everything I’m learning about in its pages seems applicable to Irene. She’s not in her right mind, definitely not. What happened yesterday is a clear example. At first she acts with what we might call “good intention.” Feeling relaxed, she cooks up plans, calls me on the phone, wants us to have a good time. But afterward some emotion intrudes in her mind, and she tries to hurt me. I don’t think it’s anything premeditated; it’s just a reaction to the contradictory impulses roiling inside her.

  Yesterday I didn’t have the patience and left in a huff. I should have endured her needling and confronted her with her own behavior, but it’s hard being treated with such disrespect. She threw us out like dogs, Iván and me. “I’ve had it,” a voice inside me said. I was ready to break off our relationship right there. But this morning when I woke up, I felt at peace again.

  Now our relationship is in my hands. If I don’t do anything, she won’t call me and that’ll be the end of it. If I go back to her, everything will continue as it has been. I should think about it carefully before making a decision. Going back to the way things have been seems pointless, absurd, a continual source of stress and servitude. I should make things change, find a solution. I discard the idea of having a long, deep conversation with her—it wouldn’t do any good. The key is to try to help her without her realizing it, gradually unblocking her emotions, subtly guiding her toward positive, luminous thoughts. To be patient, really patient. Never to think that she’s trying to wound me on purpose. Indeed, to be positive that her lashing out is, at a fundamental level, a cry for help.

  I could help her. I’d offer her a simple, quiet life, sharing good and bad alike. With me she’d emerge from her swamp of unhappiness, forget the past, start over again.

  Thinking about all this, I doze off. A ringing sound wakes me up, and the book falls from my hands. It’s her on the phone.

  “What are you up to, Javier?”

  “I’m reading.”

  “You left in a hurry last night.”

  “That was what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

  “I started feeling really tired all of a sudden—I needed to sleep.”

  “Do you always boot your guests out like that? Of course, the two of us were just a couple of employees. I guess that’s the real issue.”

  Why am I saying thi
s to her? Didn’t I decide I needed to be patient? Didn’t I intend to withstand her attacks, redirect her moods toward tranquil prairies and flowering fields? Is that the option I’ve chosen: continuing on with the affair?

  “Don’t take it so personally. I was curt, but you reacted really badly. In any event, I’m not calling about that. I just wanted to tell you that one of my contacts has offered me a job interview for you.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a job as a document retention specialist at a company. You know, organizing and storing: files, e-mails, contracts . . . Do you think you could do that?”

  “Well, yes, of course, if they tell me what they’re looking for . . . ”

  I’m shocked—happy. Before I can ask more, she says, “I don’t have any information about schedule or terms. Not a thing. And of course the job isn’t guaranteed. Do you have something to write with? I’ll give you the name of the company and the address.”

  After this bombshell, I feel drained. I sit down to think. Fortunately, I’ve made the right decision: to stick it out. I’ve got to be patient, tolerant, understanding with other people. I need to analyze everything dispassionately, be adaptable: one idea opens a path among all the others—you can change reality. My life will change, and Irene’s too.

  That afternoon, Iván shows up at my house unannounced. He’s come to tell me he’s lined up a great gig for us the next day. An all-women’s corporate conference. It’s a lingerie firm where all the employees are women, and since the numbers this year have been really good, they’re being rewarded with a dinner followed by a party. That’s where we come in.

  “They want the gladiator number, of course. It’s going to be in a hotel ballroom. And you know how much they’re paying us? Four hundred each, man! Not a bad haul for a little partying, huh? We have to cut in the guy who gave me the contact for fifty apiece—he’s good with a hundred.”