The Weight of the Heart

by Susana Aikin

  After weeks of employing every possible form of persuasion with no result, Father took a different approach: He decided to spoil me rotten. He upped my salary, he bought me a new car, he introduced me to the crème of the Madrid British and American circles, took me on business trips all over Europe, buying me gorgeous, expensive clothes in Milan and Paris, booking vacations in places like Monte Carlo or Venice, dazzling spots where he would indulge me to no end. And I, instead of resisting, let myself be traveled, wined and dined, pampered to death, thinking I was immune to his seduction. But I wasn’t. I learned to enjoy this high life and began to relish being paraded around by him in social circles, making an impression on the men he introduced me to, all those he thought might distract me from my lover.

  But there was no pulling me away from my sweet love. I was just settling into a schizoid, compartmentalized life, where the office, Father, and my social life were on the outside, while on the inside I carried Marcus tucked away in a hidden shrine. After returning from trips or supercilious social gatherings, I rushed to meet him in dark streets, or at one of our sierra hideouts, in surroundings always more silent, always more real, and wondered at the simplicity of his handsome, strong body, of his down-to-earth conversation, or the way in which lying in his arms felt like home.

  In an effort to bridge the growing gap between my two selves, I began to dream about planning our escape. It started as a game. We would sit up on the bed and pull out a bunch of maps that Marcus carried in his car and I had stuffed into his backpack. We sat around and planned trips, at first to all the mountains we could think of, the Pyrenees between France and Spain, the Alps in Switzerland or the Atlas Mountains in North Africa. Then the planning expanded to more exotic places, like the rainforest in Brazil, or the Land of Fire in Patagonia.

  “Let’s go live in a faraway country,” I said.

  “I could get a job as an engineer in a bunch of different places.”

  “What about Tanzania or Kenya?”

  “There’s lots of work in African countries.”

  “Or South America. Peru, the Amazon.”

  “We can also live here and travel all over.” He pulled me into his warm body and we rolled over the maps, which rustled and crinkled under our weight. “But will you be able to leave your house, your father?”

  “We can elope.”

  “Eloping is leaving your family.”

  “Father would never talk to me again if I eloped.”

  “I doubt that. After a while . . .”

  “You don’t know him. There’s no going back with him.”

  “You’re too scared. He’s just a father, what can he do besides staying mad for some time?”

  “I’m scared he’ll split us up.”

  “He won’t. I’ll always come back for you.”

  And he joked, comparing himself to Siegfried, the hero in The Nibelungenlied, invincible after having bathed in dragon’s blood, save for one small spot of vulnerability on his back. And that spot was reserved for me. “Nothing can break us up if we decide to stay together. Not your father, not anyone or anything else.” He might have been older than me, but he was naïve too.

  Father was sending Marcus away on training jobs as often as he could. He started with postings around the Spanish peninsula. The company had expanded into new lines of equipment, one of which was shipyard machinery that demanded supervised installation in faraway ports, such as Galicia and the Basque Country. In the past those jobs had been given to Montes and our other Spanish engineers, but now Marcus took on most of the traveling, sometimes spending a week or more away and returning exhausted, only to be immediately given another assignment. Father was looking to create overwork and discontent, so that Marcus might complain or even quit the job, or at least his commission at our company. But Marcus did all the work without objections, rendered accounts and field reports with immaculate correctness even in the face of Father’s taunting attitude. Father had become short-tempered and cutting with him, always trying to find a way into provocation. And those West Berlin neighborhood bullies he grew up with must have been something, because I’ve never seen anyone as impervious to Father’s affronts as Marcus. Particularly if I happened to be around, Father would probe him to the limits.

  “This job will be tough, but it’ll land well on your résumé,” he was once saying as I walked into his office.

  Marcus sat across from his desk. “Tough? As in field logistics?”

  “Tough on all counts: logistics, human element, comfort level. Think of a prospective rig in the middle of the desert, with temporary accommodations filled with non-English-speaking Chinese workers. Heat, dust, Muslim law, Spanish chaos. The whole gamut.”

  “I see,” Marcus said. “Do we need to go there for a full three weeks?”

  Father smirked. “Afraid so. Someone needs to keep an eye on these chinks, we don’t want them to disgrace our pumps and then be blamed by the Algerians. But you’ll be fine, your countrymen had a lot of experience down in those sand fields during the war, Rommel and his cronies. You’ll tame a bunch of Chinamen all right.”

  Marcus stared at him. “I’m not sure what that would mean, but I’ll do my best.” He got up and left.

  He was being sent down to a place in the middle of the desert called Ain Tsila, in Illizi, a southeastern province in Algeria, close to Libya and Tunisia, where a Spanish company we had teamed up with had a contract to do exploratory drilling. This was the first time Father ventured into oil-rigging equipment, something very much in demand in the north of Africa in the nineties. These were difficult but profitable markets that Father had disdained in the past as dangerous. But now the demand for oil and natural gas was going through the roof and opportunities were rampant. Father was in touch with an affiliate of British Petroleum and Algeria’s national oil company, Sonatrach, and hoped to participate in future provisions of equipment for two desert drilling rigs in that area.

  * * *

  “I don’t want you to go.”

  We had lain together holding each other tight for hours and had not even had sex. The sun had gone down a long time ago but no one had bothered to switch on any light. His packed bags, his special boots and other desert gear, lay around at the foot of the bed. It was one of those rare occasions when I had gone to his apartment, since he was leaving for the airport at four a.m. For the first time, I was full of apprehension at his departure.

  “It’ll be fine.”

  “No, it won’t. I’ve seen this company at work, they’re unreliable. Why didn’t you refuse? He can’t make you do this.”

  “Don’t know. He keeps challenging, and I keep taking up the gauntlet. Whoever stops first, loses. One of those stupid male games.”

  “Marcus, call it off.”

  “Too late.”

  “At least, promise me this will be the last time.”

  “Promise me you’ll stand up and say, Dad, I have a boyfriend.”

  Checkmate. I felt like crying and clung harder to his body. On the bedside table a digital clock flashed red numbers at my tired eyes. Two fifteen a.m. In one hour we would have to get up and start getting ready to go. He to the airport, I back to the house, to sneak in through the back door and pretend the next day I’d had a great night’s sleep.

  “Promise you’ll come back.”

  “That I can promise.”

  We lay in silence, listening to each other’s breathing.

  The three weeks extended into four and then into six. It was very difficult to get in touch with Marcus outside of the office. I could only read field reports sent by fax, ask casually about the progress of the drilling. On the sixth week, there was an explosion in the rig that injured a number of workers and the whole operation was temporarily called off. Marcus returned to Madrid. He hadn’t been hurt in the incident but had contracted typhoid fever. He was hospitalized and lay delirious for days, exhausted with malaise. I could only visit him twice at the hospital, and that had to be done together with Conchita, the
receptionist, as friendly company representatives. A private nurse had been hired by the German company to ensure around-the-clock supervision of his progress. The second time I visited, Conchita talked nonstop with the nurse about soup recipes, while Marcus and I looked at each other across the room. He had dark rings around his eyes, and his face was sad and drawn. The pale green room smelled of antiseptics and a pungent disinfectant reminiscent of chlorine mixed with rotten pineapple. I sat in the small chair by the window, my rib cage reverberating with every pang of my heavy heart. I so wanted to rush over to him, to cover his face with kisses, to wrap myself around his depleted body. Only when we were leaving did I approach the bed and, as I pulled out a bottle of water and a book to leave on his table, Marcus clutched my hand and held it tight against the edge of the cot. We stared at each other for an agonizing moment. Conchita waved goodbye from the door and I pulled my hand away. “We’ll come back tomorrow. Sleep well and get better,” I said in a sweet, neutral voice and left.

  The next day I sat in the office, a bundle of nerves and guilt, under Father’s constant surveillance. This is the moment to step for ward, the voice kept whispering in my head. This is the moment to demolish the whole edifice of lies and deceit. I sat biting my nails and listening to the rain strumming on the windowpanes. Unusual stormy weather was sweeping over Madrid that fall, and unexpected leaks had brought out the smell of mildew and dampened sheetrock around my desk area. I thought of Marcus alone in his hospital bed.

  “Anna,” Father said, walking out of his office, “seems like you’ll have to fly to London in the morning and take our dossier to Paul Anderson for the BP meeting.”

  I stood up. “I couldn’t, really.”

  He cocked his head. “But this is important. Afterwards, you may visit Marion and take her out to lunch. On me, of course.”

  I dug my nails into my fists and swallowed into my dry throat. “I thought I would go see Marcus in the hospital. He doesn’t have anyone in Madrid.”

  “Marcus is fine. He’s being officially discharged tomorrow or the day after. You can see him when you return. I already have your ticket.” He held out the ticket for me to step away from my desk and take it, while he drilled me with his icy eyes.

  “Can’t we send an international messenger? It’s cheaper, and—”

  “Anna, you need to deliver this personally to Paul. Who else am I going to trust?” His eyes flickered with that aching twinge I so much dreaded. “We’re a team, Anna. Let’s not forget that.”

  A feeling like sand sliding down an hourglass overtook me. As if I were being drained of all strength, of all determination. Something that was already brittle and thin broke inside me that moment, like a small twig.

  I took the ticket.

  * * *

  Nothing was ever the same after Marcus’s return. It took him quite a bit of time to recover. He had lost a lot of weight, not just with the typhoid, but even before, during the long weeks working at the rig. I met him at his apartment, which now I felt I could visit casually. Something had changed in him. He looked sinewy and older. He seemed troubled and distant. He talked about the hardship of working in the unbearable heat, of the miserable, inhumane conditions the Chinese workers were kept in, of the terrible solitude of the desert. The accident at the rig had been very dramatic. He had helped in moving the wounded and organizing the rescue mission. Our lovemaking felt strange. I struggled to find a way to confess my angst while Marcus clung to me, distraught. His body felt rattled and slow. As I searched his eyes, I saw the wounds that the desert and the raging fever had left on him, and my betrayal felt monstrous. But we never talked about my trip to London; I never asked him if he had expected more of me while he was at the hospital. For the first time, a screen of smoke rose between us.

  We never quite resumed our escapades outside the city. We now met at his apartment or even at the house, when Father was away. The playfulness of our physical encounters was gone, and now our lovemaking just deepened into dejected tenderness. I began to feel smothered by him. His patience had worn thin, and he started demanding more of my presence. He relaxed his reserve with me at the office, which was a way of defying Father. He couldn’t stand my flirting and teasing other men in front of him, during meetings or events where we could never engage in personal conversations. We soon started getting into squabbles and rotten little scenes, after which both of us were sore for days. Then we would pine for each other again, and end up in one of our hiding places making desperate love, as if on the verge of losing one another forever. And all the time I knew that my betrayal was the wedge that kept our split open.

  Why couldn’t I just confess and ask to be forgiven?

  Why couldn’t I turn to Father and say, You know very well Marcus is my lover? I can only think of Father’s look when he flitted his eyes between the papers on his desk and my gaze, a clabbering swirl that swept up all my courage, all my sense of selfhood, all the uniqueness that had just been bestowed by Marcus’s warm embraces.

  There was also his unswerving seduction. “You understand, Anna, that you will end up inheriting the whole business and the house. It would only be fair pay for all your work. Then you can choose to be generous with your sisters if you like. You are the only one who is making herself worthy of it all.” With words like these he would frequently lay his empire at my feet in a seemingly nonchalant gesture, like a desperate king prepared to toss it all in one sweep, anything to cling to the slippery object of his affection. But I was quite taken with his offerings, they satisfied my vanity, they flattered my conceit.

  And so my allegiance swayed between my father and my lover. It had become a pendulum out of control through which I bounced from one to the other, magnetized and threatened by both.

  “I still hold the position of ecstatic slave, but I suspect I’ll end up just as your dog.” Marcus leaned back against the bed’s headboard with palms clasped behind his head. His sense of humor had turned bitter. This was one of his recurrent, annoying jokes.

  “Why are you always saying this?” I asked.

  “I feel I’m just the instrument of your revenge.”

  “My revenge?”

  “Your revenge, as in getting back at your father.”

  “Why would I get back at my father?”

  “Electra complex? You tell me.”

  I jumped up in fury. “Are you saying you’re jealous of my father?”

  “I don’t even know who’s jealous of whom anymore.”

  “Very funny!” I started dressing in silence.

  He got up from the bed and rocked me in his arms. “Marry me, Anna.”

  I was overtaken by panic. “You know I’m not the marrying type.” This had become my own joking way out of these conversations that were becoming more and more frequent.

  “Come live with me, then. We don’t need anyone. We can set up our own company, we can get a house in the mountains . . .”

  I wasn’t ready to make that type of change, to break up my current life, to leave the house, to fight with Father. I was drowning between two different, opposite loves. I could choose to break my father’s heart, or my lover’s. I was afraid of Father, but I was also afraid of Marcus. His love threatened to engulf my identity, to dissolve me into the magma of our unending ardor.

  Marcus dropped his arms, sat down on the bed, and slumped on his back over the mattress. He lay motionless, staring at the ceiling. “You know what this is beginning to feel like? The last days at the soccer league, when I was still allowed to play, even though the noose had already been fitted around my neck. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I wanted it, it wasn’t going to happen.”

  I went over to the bed and lay by his side. “C’mon, Marcus, it’s not like that.”

  “No, it’s not like that,” he said after a beat. “It’s worse, ’cause my love for you is so much greater than anything I ever felt for soccer. But maybe that’s always going to be the fate of guys like me. We shoot too high, we want the sky, we
dream beyond our means. That’s why we’re doomed to lose out.”

  I took his face with both my hands and drew his lips toward mine. “Don’t say that.” But Marcus resisted, holding me by the wrists, and then pushed me away.

  He lay for a moment more in silence, listless with dejection. Then he jumped up and stood by the window, looking out while he pulled up and zipped his jeans. “I guess we’re back to our old dilemma. Where to have a decent incognito breakfast in this town.”

  I should have known he was reaching the end of his rope.

  * * *

  Our fight outside the consulate was the last. Marcus kept his word. He disappeared. In less than a week his desk was empty, his phone disconnected, his apartment cleared. All the proper, plausible explanations fell in place: He was being called back by the German company and sent to an Asian construction site. No note, no call, no forwarding address. Vanished.

  I waited at first. After a period of rage, in which I hunted down every track of information that could lead to him, without success, I fell into despair. I felt eviscerated, emptied out of all life. During the day I wanted to scream, emit long wails like those of Greek tragedy heroines directed at distant, unfeeling gods. At night, I just throbbed with loneliness, wondering how I would ever get my body to forget Marcus’s hands, if it would be possible for my brain to erase the deep blue tunnels of his eyes. In the morning I dragged my limbs out of bed, heavy with dejection.

  The spring months moved into summer and my restlessness was unbearable. I couldn’t stand the office, least of all the garden at the house, with all the hidden corners where we had so many times made love under bushes and flouncing willow tree branches. I was irritable with everyone, especially with Father, who played the role of innocent bystander of my inexplicable affliction, but couldn’t conceal the smug scowl of victory that spread over his face. The view of the mountains from the veranda became too oppressive to withstand. Micro images of yellow lichen on speckled granite boulders, of tiny chipmunk feet scurrying up a tree, or drops of sticky sap dripping down rockrose bushes, stuck like needles in the cornea of my memory, reminding me of our past amorous ramblings.