The Weight of the Heart

by Susana Aikin

  Marion rummages through her purse. “Do you want to put on some lipstick? It’s a subtle mauve.” I shake my head. She brings all sorts of other items out of her bag. “What about a little spray of Yves Saint Laurent’s Rive Gauche?”

  “Of course not, Marion!” Julia says. “What a slutty thing to do—let her just go out there being herself.”

  “There’s nothing slutty about my makeup, it’s very understated,” Marion says.

  “Still. Just because she’s meeting a guy—go slap some lipstick on? How tacky can that be!”

  “You wouldn’t understand, Julia, you’re in a different kind of game.”

  “Really? Don’t you know I’m considered a lipstick lesbian in my kind of game?”

  And they go on, my sisters, back and forth, jesting and taunting each other, while they play around with their life-size little-sister doll, pulling at my hair and straightening my dress. It’s been a long day. Giving my plight undivided attention is hard. But then, they’re still in step with procedure. A certain ritual needs to be followed, elements of adornment studied, unctions applied in order to shield the contestant against faintheartedness, against despair. The sad princess needs to take up arms. I’m not meeting Marcus or any knight in armor, I’m preparing to battle against this fourteen-year monster that has hardened my arteries, necrotized my brain. I’m preparing to amputate my own tissue. A pang of anguish cramps my rib cage.

  Marion turns to me. “Are you all right? You look so pale!” She folds me in her arms.

  “Anna, you don’t have to do this,” Julia says.

  Marion looks into my eyes. “Do you love him this much? Even after these many years?”

  Her question echoes in my brain. Love, what kind of blanket word is that? What kind of word would encompass all of desire, tenderness, lust, affection, capricious want, yearning, devotion and every shade in between? Isn’t there a way to express what still pulsates after love has risen and fallen countless times, burned itself over and over again, to the point of leaving no ashes? I know love as in the way I lost myself to Marcus in that mountain hotel, fusing body and soul with him on that cheap, creaky metal bed. I have tried so hard and for so long to retain every image, every whisper of that night, to ingrain it all in my gut, etch it all over my skin like the tattooed pictograph of a legend. But who can hold time? Time always runs along, and we failed to run with it. Instead, we floated adrift like boats without oars on the ripples created by that moment, until we ran aground on the shores of languor. Had our love story been bold and out in the open, would we have ended somewhere else? Probably. But here we have been all these years, paralyzed, stuck in the swamp between the water and the land. And now I’m anxious to crawl out, to pull out like a fish striving to morph into a different creature. Ready to trade gills for lungs.

  “He’s calling again, Anna,” Marion says, but doesn’t pick up her phone.

  “I’m all set,” I say.

  “Here.” Julia slips out of her sandals and offers them to me. But I decline.

  I’m going out there barefoot, alone.

  CHAPTER 22

  The street outside the house is dark and deserted, the air still hung with moisture from the rainfall. A couple of old-fashioned lampposts throw small pools of yellowed light over the sidewalk. Marcus leans on one of the poles a few feet across from the gate. His muscled figure, slanted, with crossed arms, exudes intractable patience. He’s dressed in jeans and wears his shirt untucked, which gives him a laid-back, disheveled look I’ve not seen in a while. That, and the fact that his hair is longer. It curls over his forehead, sprinkled with gray.

  I step out onto the sidewalk and stand against the old metal gate. My feet stick to the pavement, and as I look down I realize I’ve stepped into a big clump of purple glob that was once fruit hanging from the mulberry tree above; now it’s all slumped over the sidewalk, with its sweetish, rotten stench filling the air.

  Marcus looks at me, puzzled. “What on earth happened to you?”

  “Nothing. We’re getting the house ready for sale.”

  He points at the gash on my thigh. “You’re hurt.”

  “Please don’t,” I say, raising my hands in defensive gesture. “Don’t touch.”

  Marcus steps back and leans on the lamppost. “Are you all right? You’re crying.”

  “No, I’m not!” But I am crying. At least, tears are streaming down my face. I want to think it’s about the emotion of laying eyes on Marcus again. But it’s not. It’s about fear. The fear that precedes a battle where any victory that lies ahead is messy and unclean, at best.

  I dry the tears off my face with the back of my hand.

  “Are you in pain?” Marcus asks.

  “It was just a small accident. I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks again.

  I nod.

  Then he adds, “Can we talk for a minute? Can we step inside?”

  “No, sorry, the place’s a mess. Julia and Marion are still around, and . . .”

  “Okay.” Marcus sighs, puts his hands in his pockets and stares at his sneakers. “Not the ideal place, but I think it’s best we talk anyway.” He looks up. “I’m sorry I pressured you before, about going down to Cádiz. I understand dealing with the house is a priority.”

  “Did you cut short your vacation just to come and tell me this?” I ask.

  Marcus laughs uneasily. “No, I thought I might save the day. But I already lost the crane. They’re sending it back tomorrow morning.”

  “You could still scoot down there and salvage it. You’ve always had a way with those custom guys.”

  “Maybe.” Marcus thinks for a moment. “I also realize how much I lean on you in some of these dealings. I want you to know I don’t take you for granted.” The back of my neck stiffens with a sense of upcoming danger. He’s moving in. I can feel it in the warmth he’s packing into his words. “I know I’ve offered before and you’ve refused, but I’d like to revise the terms of our agreement.”

  “Thank you, that’s generous. But I’m done. Working together is just not—working for me anymore,” I say. “It’s not even work. It’s my life in general. I need a change. I’m thinking of going away, traveling with Julia to Florida and then going to Melbourne, where Miguel has set up a school. Staying for a while. Maybe even looking at the possibility of starting something over there.” I’m rambling, making up plans as I talk, pumping myself up with a false sense of power, a mirage of resolve.

  Marcus paces up and down as I’ve seen him do many times when he’s figuring out the logistics of a complex deal. “So, you’re leaving.”

  “About time, don’t you think? I’ve been working nonstop since I was nineteen.”

  “Nineteen,” he echoes.

  We’re both silent for a beat. Then, in a sudden sweep, Marcus rushes toward me and embraces me. It’s an awkward move. It takes me by surprise. Our bodies clash and heave against each other as we stumble against the wall. I start trembling as I feel his body heat against mine. Marcus holds me tighter, buries his face in my neck. But my shaking only increases, I feel like a limp puppet in his arms. The vibration starts at the feet and travels in jerks up my body. Like a current, electrifying my conduits of perception, memory storage, attention. My body feels like a screen on which all impressions of pleasure, pain, all the waiting, the treachery, the despair, everything we’ve lived through together is simultaneously projected. The reflections mix and intertwine, they morph like fast-forwarding images of cloud formations, rattling my frame to the point I think I might fall again and convulse, as I’ve just done in the garden. But Marcus holds me fast, upright against the stone, until all impressions and images snuff out one by one and bring me back again.

  I stand for a beat in his embrace. My body feels warm, the smell of his sweat fills my lungs, my belly throbs against his. Where is this taking me? I disengage from him.

  Marcus steps back. “Can we go somewhere? Have a drink, eat something?”

  “Marcus,
I came out here to tell you that we should cut all ties. That we should call it quits, call it a day.”

  Marcus paces again with his hands in his pockets. “You want to call fourteen years a day?” He smirks, and I pull my eyes away from his face. I don’t want to be caught in his smile. It’s always his first line of attack.

  “Yes, I do. I want out. I’ve had enough.”

  “What about me? What if I said I don’t want to lose you?”

  I’m dumbfounded for an instant. Then, it tears out of me like a bolt.

  “You don’t want to lose me? You broke my fucking heart!” We’re both left staggering in the wake of my scream. But there, I’ve articulated it at last. It’s flown out of my mouth like a furious bird that’s been struggling for freedom for as long as it remembers. It’s opened its wings and cut through the air like a burning arrow.

  “I broke your heart?” His even tone highlights the hysteria in my voice.

  “Yes, you did! You left me, just like that. I didn’t hear from you for seven years, and then you came back with a whole family. Who would do that? I mean, why the hell come to Madrid? Of all places on this goddamned earth?”

  “Oh, I broke your heart, and all the time I thought it was you who didn’t consider me good enough to be your boyfriend, let alone your husband.” His eyes are bruised with hidden rage, with anguish. “Who really left who, Anna?” He looks away, chews on his words for another beat. “Did I do anything but love you?”

  Something folds inside me and I begin to blink as I try to hold on to his gaze. “I was so young, I was stupid, I didn’t know what I was doing, I didn’t know how to express”—I falter at the edge of tears, but regain composure—“how much you meant. How you were the only thing that mattered.”

  We look at each other for a long moment.

  “And now?” Marcus asks.

  I sigh. “I’ve finally understood there’s no going back.”

  “Who’s talking about going back?”

  I don’t want to, but I snap again. “Marcus, you’re not going to leave your marriage! And I’m never going to be your mistress, okay?” All of a sudden, I’m mad, I’m defiant. I’m wielding my words like a whip. Marcus looks away toward the end of the dark street. I can feel the throb of his hurting.

  We’ve been here before, Marcus and I, feeling each other’s pain across space, with little or no chance of soothing each other at the level that would befit our true feelings. When I stood at the entrance of the cemetery chapel taking condolences from the small community attending the funeral, I spotted Marcus across the narrow cobbled street of the necropolis. They had just wheeled in the dark, bulky coffin containing Father’s remains, together with the collection of gigantic, ghastly flower wreaths that Marion had ordered for the service. Marcus stood in the distance, holding hands with his beautiful little boys, eyes gutted with grief for me. We stared at each other for a harrowing moment, before Helga came flying into my arms.

  “Anna, we’re so, so, so sorry! We have no words,” she said, and embraced me. She embraced me fully, with the all-encompassing soothing bosom of a mother, of a best friend, of the most loving wife of my very own beloved. I stood in her arms, feeling the weight of her thin chest against mine, her albino blond hair tickling my throat and cheeks. It must have been the loneliest moment of my life. I tore my eyes away from Marcus, thanked Helga, and walked inside the chapel where the service was about to begin.

  Now, I study my dirty toes enmeshed in the squishy bed of mulberry goo, not sure of what to do next. The truth has trumpeted through me, but what does that do for the dejection we’re both feeling? I never thought I’d have summed up our situation into such a vulgar jumble of words. Being a mistress. Leaving a marriage.

  “I’m sorry. It’s not what I really wanted to say. It’s just that I don’t see any way out,” I say.

  Marcus thinks for a moment, his head bent over his chest. Then he looks up. “Helga and I have talked.”

  “Talked?”

  “It’s been hard for us all these years, you know?”

  “Don’t you dare hurt Helga!”

  “Hurt her? I already wronged her by marrying her when I was crazy for you.”

  “What about the children? I can’t be in the middle of this. I won’t do it.”

  “Anna, I’m doing this,” he says, then he adds after a moment, “but I still need to know . . .”

  “Know what?” Where do I get the energy to sound so angry? My heart is beating fast. I’m quickly losing ground. A part of me is dissolving into the pavement. Another part is screaming to follow him into the gates of hell.

  Marcus sighs. “All this is my fault. I should’ve taken this step a long time ago, instead of ruining a bunch of lives with my guilt and wimpiness.”

  Ooh, how I want to kiss those lips, breathe into his nose and mouth and taste every drop of tenderness that purrs out of his throat. Instead, I step away and try to laugh out loud, but my laughter dies into a croak. “I refuse to listen to any of this!”

  I slump against the gate, slide down to the pavement, and bury my head in my hands. “Why is everything always so difficult?” I say. My brain is burning; all my resolve is turning into madness. I’m utterly exhausted.

  Marcus squats beside me. “Hey, hey,” he whispers, and touches my face. “Let me take you into the house. You need to rest.”

  I place my hand over his and press it to my cheek. His warm, strong, cushioned hands, the hands I’ve watched so many times screwing fierce pieces of machinery together, digging into dark, grimy engine mouths to insert a valve, to connect a piston pin, always with precision, with solicitude, a deft surgeon operating on metal patients. The hands I’ve also seen cupped around his children’s bodies, holding little hands, wiping mouths, spaghetti faces. How did I ever imagine I could win any battle against these hands?

  “I can’t go anywhere,” I say. “I only want to lie down and sleep.” I feel lost. Caught between prostration and failure. I slide my whole body down onto the pavement. The flagstones feel warm and wet as I slump over them. The street looks vast and hugely somber from this angle. The foliage of the trees blots out the streetlamp’s phosphorescent lights. All is stone quiet. It’s the end of August. The city is empty.

  Marcus takes me by the arms and tries to pull me up. “C’mon, Anna, let me carry you inside. You’re not well.” But my body is a dead weight and my arms slide away from his hands, they fall to my sides. He tries to hold me up by the shoulders, but I shrug him off. “Leave me alone.”

  “Anna, you’re the one being difficult now,” Marcus says.

  “I’m always difficult.” I close my eyes. I can feel the mulberry glue sticking to my hair on the side of my head. “Anyway, I have nowhere to go.”

  Marcus sighs. “All right, if you won’t come up, then I’ll have to descend to your level.” And he gets down on his knees and lowers his body onto the pavement alongside mine. We’re lying on our sides facing each other. “At least now we’re square with each other,” he says, and puts his arms around me. Our faces are in shadows, dappled by glints of lamppost light filtered through the mulberry leaves. The rotten fruit reeks around us like a drunken fog. I want him to hold me closer, to kiss me, fondle my wilted body; but we only stare into each other’s eyes.

  “Anna, let’s not fight this anymore. I can’t live without you. It’s all I know.”

  “’Tis all you know?”

  “Yeah, all I know.”

  “All as in all?”

  “Just all.”

  A long time ago, when we were lovers, we used to lie so close together, hold each other so tight, that sometimes I thought we would weld into one piece, one beautiful projectile of amalgamated metal intertwined with lips, breasts, bones, and a pair of twinkling diamonds set at the exact points where our pupils had smoldered into each other.

  “Listen, Anna, the truth is Helga won’t have me anymore. She’s served me with divorce papers. She says she won’t live with a man who’s in love with
another woman, and she’s right. I’ve been a shit husband. Now I’m a free man in spite of myself.”

  I’m incredulous. “What? When did this happen?”

  “This past week, in Germany.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  A car vrooms around the corner and screeches to a halt a few feet away. Harsh lights shine on our faces, blinding us. We sit up in confusion. Metallic doors open, a harsh voice says, “What’s going on here?” Heavy boots walk toward us, followed by clinking, jingling sounds. I shade my eyes and recognize the red neighborhood security patrol car. Two men dressed in dark uniforms tower over us, one tall and lanky, baton in hand, and the other short and squat, arms akimbo. Marcus and I scramble to our feet.

  “Don’t move!” the short guy barks. “Vicente, call the police.”

  I recognize this short man, he’s been on the job for a while; he’s always had a soft spot for Julia and me.

  “No, no, Paco,” I say. “Please, don’t. Everything’s all right.”

  “Miss Anna?” He looks at me, startled. I can’t imagine what I look like this instant; the man is having such a hard time recognizing the chichi Miss Anna he has always known.

  “Sorry, we were just . . .” I mumble.

  But Paco is incensed. “Who is this man? What was he doing? Has he hurt you?” He looks fiercely at Marcus and his hand wraps around the gun tucked in his belt.

  “I can explain everything,” Marcus says, standing up.

  All of a sudden I want to laugh, laugh so hard that I’m having a difficult time keeping a straight face as I get to my feet and step between them. “Paco, it’s all right. He’s my friend,” I say. Then to further pacify Paco’s furrowed face, I add, “He’s my boyfriend. Mi novio. I’m sorry we were misbehaving.” I’m back in control. I’m commanding Paco and his colleague to back off.

  Paco is not convinced. “Are you sure, Miss Anna? This doesn’t seem right. I mean the way you look,” he says, eyeing me up and down, concerned. “Has he threatened you against talking?”

  “No, no, it’s not like that at all. It’s just been a long day, I’ve been cleaning the house, and . . .”