But no, your silence continued, my nakedness exposed on the table. Because we always wait right up until the last minute. The imperceptible movement that was you getting up from the sofa, and I felt your body and the heat of your body approaching, and I was a radar, an antenna catching every movement, every outline. And you kept approaching, closer and closer, and I could feel the muffled sound of your bare feet on the wooden floor. Your bare feet. And you said nothing, and I had lost the nerve to ask, I’d never ask again, I thought, my hand never again seeking out yours, any absence, your name, and somebody waving from the other side. My hand seeking out yours.
But I remained where I was, I could have run, but I didn’t run, and that was your greatest triumph. Me, lying there, naked on the table, looking at the jug of blue flowers; I was able to run at any moment but I didn’t run, not ever.
Behind me, your presence, your breathing. At first, only your fingers were around my neck, heavy and at the same time gentle, as though the whole thing was no more than a lapse, a random act, almost a caress. Then straight after this, do you remember? I wonder if you also sometimes recall this, on a walk, in a meeting or for no reason, just with the passing of time, this memory comes back, because it does keep coming back. Straight afterward, do you remember? Your impossibility. Which had never happened before, that impossibility of yours, you who had exposed me, secret, closed off. Something prevented you, just as desire, just as rage, just as hatred, or the impulse for desire or hatred prevented you, however much you insisted, however much you wanted it, your body refused. At each attempt, your body refused. Or maybe the refusal was mine, that smile, could I have been smiling? Could I be smiling, you thought, mocking this setback of yours, this defeat of yours, with a shy happiness. Our small battle. Me smiling and you standing there, behind me, behind my bent-over body, my secret body, like an altar, like a prayer, silently repeating your name again and again, at every moment. But isn’t that just what battles are like? Lost battles. Your greatest defeat. You stood there, unable to take possession of what was yours, offered up to you like that, open, servile.
And then, do you remember? I wonder if you, too, sometimes recall this on a walk, in a meeting, or perhaps for no reason, just with the passing of time, this memory comes back, always comes back. Do you remember what came next? Afterward, when there is nothing left to say? Do you remember? I do. Your desire and its strategies were finally taking shape. Remember? A knife, a dagger, your flesh tearing mine, at last, do you remember? I do. Your flesh tearing mine. Like a weapon. And the tearing of my skin, the most intimate and exposed of my skin. Do you remember? I do.
And I thought, How was that possible, that violence and that fascination, that invasion and that distance. How was it possible? And I gripped hold of the vase of blue flowers as though it, too, were gripping on to someone, but there was only us.
You were holding on to me hard, angry, and from up there, you were looking down at me, thinking me fragile, too fragile, too gentle, too thin, my narrow shoulders, my narrow hips, and the feeling of my being so intimate to you and also now unknown, something lost to you, how was that possible, you thought. Something that should be only yours, you thought, only yours, even if only quick and fleeting in your hands, my neck, which you could squeeze if you wanted to, and the other hand, which you could open, if you wanted to, and my silence, which you could prolong if you wanted to, and the tears you could provoke, and you did want to. An ancient desire, kept secret, hidden away, an act of revenge, something to make me smile or suffer. Because finally you had lost your fear, for the first time, things no longer half finished, something to make me smile or suffer, even if there was something in me that dissipated and died away. Someplace within me, someplace there was you, now, within me; something that was yours, only yours, something that belonged to you; your hands, the delicate border separating us, because that is what love should be, you thought, that’s the only thing love could be, an ecstasy, a rapture and one body inside another body, undoing it in an impossible symmetry, you thought, that’s the only thing love could be, this conquest, this capture, since now all that was mine was yours, my waiting, my fear and all the joy and all the amazement, and even the words I didn’t say were yours, and you thought that this is what love should be when you lose your fear, and there is nothing else that can hurt you, nothing else that can escape you, now that you’re capable of anything, now that my disorder is wrapped around you, wound around you. Because ultimately our strength and our weakness and the obsessions and the distance is a line that connects us, as though you had created a shortcut, a bridge, between us, and said again and again, endlessly, that what you wanted was yours now, because that’s what love is; when at last we lose our fear, the fear that paralyzes us, the fear that holds us back, we become capable of the most beautiful, the most amazing things, like loving and building a bridge across to another body, and you thought that this should be love after the war and the defeat and the fear, love, that bond that unites us and destroys us, and you thought, that’s what love should be, stretching a bridge out and crossing it and destroying it behind you, so that on the other side, in the other body, there’s the discovery of something that nothing but pain can appease.
But pain, you thought, pain would never be enough to appease the pain; you gripped hold of me, angry, furious, feeling me getting away, feeling the distance between us, and you held me tight and shouted, your hands surrounding me, that pain, that pain would never be enough to appease the pain, and the desire for something that would make me smile or suffer, something in me, in you, now we are even, this impossible symmetry, my desire yours, my space yours, my defeat yours, our truce, our battles, and you thought that this is what love should be, and realized, frightened, clinging to me, to something within me, that this is what love should be, while on the other side, way over there, out there, I could feel, I could feel, your hand opening, like a rose, like a bud, your hand opening, and hear you exhausted saying that love, that love could never be enough to appease love. To appease love, I heard you say, to appease love, way over there, out there, to appease love, I went on, and when you finished, wanting, thinking, when the desire and the confrontation and the enchantment finally dissipated, when everything finally dissipated and died away, and you moved away, shaking. Frightened? Repentant?
When it was finally all over, and you were covered in secretions and aromas from the inside of another body, my body was bent over the table, open, defeated. You moved away secretly, silently, and left that body there, the enveloping body, the receptacle body. An empty body, there, on the table, gripping on to a vase of blue flowers that wasn’t itself gripping on to anything at all.
A.
VIII
The penultimate letter. He sat down on the edge of the bed, the penultimate letter in his hands; he’d been awake all night, it had been years since he’d suffered from insomnia. He usually slept deeply, nothing could disturb him, and something was troubling him now. In the past not even the ringing phone, or a storm, or even an earthquake would wake him, or even Manuela’s crying, Manuela the newborn in the next room, Manuela crying the way newborns cry, that piercing noise, insistent, insistent—he would never wake up, he slept so deeply. Manuela cried all night and you didn’t even give me a hand, his ex-wife complained, the milk stains on her white nightie, the milk that never stopped flowing, that mother smell, child smell, newborn baby smell. But he’d heard nothing, he could have said, I never heard anything, or offered some kind of explanation, but he preferred to keep quiet, he would get up and make a coffee, his ex-wife haggard, bags under her eyes like someone who hasn’t slept for days, who has been breastfeeding a newborn baby.
Somebody being born was the most mysterious thing he had ever witnessed, even at a distance. On his way to the hospital he knew that he was useless, empty, there was a feeling that something extraordinary was about to happen, something beyond his control, his ex-wife was having pains, contractions, his ex-wif
e who would have wanted to squeeze hard on his arm, feel his hand supporting her forehead, hear his voice with soothing words, but he wasn’t there, he was walking toward the hospital without ever managing to arrive; his legs became dislocated with every step, like in a nightmare, his mind lost its course, his thoughts disordered, chaotic. Then there was the need for the whole thing to seem normal, the birth, the newborn child wrapped in his arms, and most especially his ex-wife, a body stretched out to the maximum, proud, then later a body deflated, empty; he felt a revulsion he could not confess, but maybe it was just fear, fear of that unknown body his ex-wife had become. How to get close to it again, to its mysteries.
He remembered the only time, after the birth, months after the birth, the only time, and he thought it strange to be remembering this now, sitting there on the side of the bed, unable to sleep. Baby Manuela was already a bit bigger, sleeping in the next room, crying a bit less, later she practically stopped crying altogether. He remembered the feeling of irritation, the distress, his ex-wife seemed so distant to him, almost a statue, a mask; he remembered that he couldn’t do it, his desire unresponsive, refusing, refusing the naked body of his ex-wife, its new roundnesses, its curves, that unexpected sweetness, he couldn’t bear its touch, its softness, its depth; his ex-wife lying on the bed, eyes closed, a smile, surrendering, open, that open body, he thought, he felt that same old revulsion: her breasts swollen with milk, the smell that infused the bedroom, and he tried to remember her former body, the one before, slim, supple, the former smell, the small breasts he held in his hands, a breast that disappeared within his hand, the nipple soft, delicate, not like now, he tried with all his might to remake her former body in his mind, that image, his eyes closed, but the touch was different now, the breasts were different, the nipples were dark, coarse, the smell of milk and childhood everywhere, the skin had been stretched out to the maximum, the whole texture of the skin was different now, however hard he tried, it was different. His ex-wife embraced him, wrapped herself amorously around him, perhaps gratefully, with a veiled demand; how could such desire exist in her, such will, a contentment that made her overwhelming and frightening, and nothing he did could change that, and nothing she did could change that, or save him from what she had become.
Sitting there now, on the edge of the bed, the letter in his hands, unable to sleep, he remembered after all these years, he remembered that he had run off, in the middle of the night, got up and got dressed and left, leaving his wife and her desire and her demands. He got dressed and left, he didn’t even wait for the elevator or for someone holding the door, he ran down the stairs, far away from himself, far away from everything, and he didn’t even think of getting the car; he ran straight past the garage and into the middle of the road, a deserted street, and he ran, trying to think of something, trying to think why he was doing that, why he had left that room and something that should have been his, unique, fragile, because of some fear, as though in that fragility there was unexpected strength, as though his ex-wife might get up and grab a knife and attack him and destroy him, as though she might lose control and could do anything: a dagger, a knife in his back, a fit of anger, an opportunity. A knife, he thought, at any moment, a knife, the blade going into his back, an unknown organ. A thought that, however much he tried to forget it, never left him.
He ran as quickly as he could down the street, imagining that his ex-wife might be behind him, chasing after him, his ex-wife and her moment of madness and the knife and his obsessive thoughts, something possibly stabbed in his back, out on the street, the deserted street; he ran until he couldn’t run anymore, his body exhausting itself, gradually slowing, his body growing more and more tired, until he was just there, in the middle of the street, in the middle of the night.
And at that moment, he thought, as he sat there on the edge of the bed, the letter in his hands, at that moment in the middle of the street, in the middle of the night, he thought that something had happened. Sitting here now, on the edge of the bed, the feeling that something had happened, something else, not just his ex-wife with her distended body, the milk flowing from her breasts, no, something more than that, something that was still happening, even now. This obsessive thought kept returning to his mind. He wondered why he was thinking about this now. After all these years.
And bit by bit his body ran dry, until finally it had no strength left, he stopped, looked around him, no longer able to recognize where he was, he looked at himself and no longer knew who he was; he was just a man in the middle of the night, in the middle of the street, for a long time, maybe hours, he never knew, he had no idea where he was, which way to go. Until somebody came up to him, he remembered now, sitting on his bed, unable to sleep—a man, possibly a beggar, he never knew, a man came up to him and asked him some kind of question, was he okay, maybe that was it, was he okay, or could he help, something like that, who was it, a beggar, someone passing by, anyone, and he tried to tell this person that it was nothing, it was fine. He felt bewilderment at not being able to communicate this, at not knowing how, as though he had just unlearned his words, his tongue, language eluding him, he wanted to answer, it’s true, he wanted to answer, but there was only that strange dumbness, he wanted to answer but he had unlearned language.
He thought now, sitting on the edge of the bed, at the time, what he had most wanted was to say something, anything, even if it was to ask for help or just to hear the sound of his own voice, even if it was just a primitive, guttural voice, even if it was just the first sound to come out in a tone he didn’t yet recognize, beyond his control, even an unexpected voice, but his own voice didn’t come out, it disappeared somewhere in his throat. And sitting on his bed, after a night awake, after so many years, he was now thinking about that night; why was he remembering that night, and the man who had been there beside him, a beggar, perhaps, someone who happened to be passing by, the man had asked him something, something he was never able to answer, because he no longer had words, not even a guttural sound bursting out from his throat, not even that.
The penultimate letter in his hands. The penultimate letter, as though announcing something. And the man was there beside him, possibly a beggar, asking him something, the beggar was getting increasingly insistent, so it seemed to him, asking him the same question again and again in a threatening tone, maybe violent—he wanted to answer, but felt incapable because of something in his throat, his words, his language, and the man came closer and closer, and asked the question again and again, this man wanted something from him, he thought, to take something from him, his thoughts were incoherent, disjointed, he had nothing, and the beggar came ever closer.
He remembered now as he sat on the bed that night, he was in the middle of the street, in the middle of the night, and he remembered vaguely, maybe he had only dreamed it, he thought, vaguely, this memory, just a dream, he thought, sitting there on the bed, awake all night, after such a long time, awake all night and the beggar kept coming closer and the memory was so vague, perhaps it was a beggar, perhaps someone just passing by, he no longer knew, and the certainty that there was something he had to rid himself of, for his own protection, he thought, for his own protection, because everything we do is for our own protection, there never isn’t a reason, it’s never by chance, just an instinct, a moment of insanity, for our own protection, the beggar was coming closer.
Maybe he didn’t have the courage. It was always about courage, he thought, sitting there on the bed, and he was in the middle of the street far away, had there been blood, he asked himself again, how many times had he asked himself, had there been blood, sitting on the edge of the bed, years later, someone shouting, someone crying, someone being born, is that how it was, he wondered, but he didn’t know, how could he know—courage, you need courage to allow your memory to appear and install itself—he remembered the road, the lights in the middle of the street, the night, the middle of the night, running, and an obsessive question, the words, the words th
at disappeared as fast as he could speak them. But now as he sat on the edge of the bed, after the previous night’s insomnia, why remember this now, he thought, remembering only halfway, there was always something missing, memory just a nagging question.
Hours later, hours, after arriving home, his wife was in a corner of the room, crying, bags under her eyes, her soft body, her immense body, in a corner of the room, crying, the baby girl sleeping in the next room. His ex-wife cried when she saw him, What happened? she asked again and again, his wife looked at him with that animal look, that animal look, he thought, as though she were seeing him for the first time, as though she saw in him a man disfigured, he thought at that moment and even now, on the edge of the bed, in his room, the letter in his hand, that animal look, the soft body of his wife who asked why, he didn’t reply, the words unspeakable, the animal look, he lay down on the bed just as he was, dirty, fully clothed, he didn’t even take off his shoes, just as he was, silent, fully clothed, and he slept, that was all, just as he was, he lay down and slept, as though he had just made some very great effort, and his wife was crying, and he fell asleep.
JANUARY 27
My darling,
What’s to be said now, now that I’ve already said it all? Now that it’s all over. What do we say when everything is over and the day is dawning and the sheets are stretched out on the bed, the rumpled sheets, what’s to be said in the next moment, because even after the end there’s something that comes after, something that pulses and flows? Does something really exist after the end? Something we don’t say, a forgotten word, or a wave, a gesture left half-finished, something capable of transforming us.
Blue Flowers Page 11
