The Strange Year
of Vanessa M.
Filipa Fonseca Silva
Translated from the Portuguese by Mark Ayton
Copyright © 2013 by Filipa Fonseca Silva
All rights reserved
To my parents.
March
1.
“Tedium, that’s what I feel, weight that invades my soul and devours my willpower. With every minute that passes, it’s turning into impatience, a gnawing anxiety that constricts my respiration in direct proportion to my accelerating heartbeat. ‘What’s the matter with you’ ‘Nothing.’ ’Why are you sighing then?’ ‘Because I feel like it. Why? Can’t I do that either?’ Just as well he doesn’t answer. After fifteen years of living with me, he’s finally understood there are times when it’s better to keep quiet. Why are you sighing, he asks. He’s got the nerve. He must be completely oblivious of everything that’s going on around him and very self-centred. Maybe it’s because he’s a man. Is life really that much easier for men? Obviously he doesn’t have to worry about cellulite, broken fingernails, hair. As if he wasn’t lucky enough already, being able to take a piss standing up wherever he wants to; he doesn’t have to worry like I do about eyebrows, creams, makeup, laddered stockings, hiding my breasts so I don’t look flighty but not so much that I look a prude. As long as he’s got that just-out-the-shower smell about him, a man with dishevelled hair and unshaven chin is sexy. A woman with dishevelled hair, with no time to wax her legs, is a slattern who ought to be ashamed to show her face in the street, even if she has that fresh-out-the-shower smell about her. So why can’t women start work an hour later than men, for example? That’s what I feel like asking my boss when he gives me that reproachful look whenever I arrive after nine thirty, with his ironic “Good afternoon! Thanks for coming.” What’s the matter with me, he asks. Where do you want me to start, doctor?”
The analyst looked at his wristwatch and all he said was, “Sorry Vanessa, you’ll have to start at the next session. Our time’s up.”
“But I…”
“Now Vanessa, you know the rules. Write down everything you were going to tell me, arrange everything by topic and we’ll talk in our next session.”
Furious, she grabbed her handbag and coat and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her. After almost two months of therapy, she still didn’t understand why they always had to break off the sessions like this. Just when she was beginning to open up. The first twenty minutes hardly count. Does anyone manage to pick up a conversation exactly where they’d left it at the last session? What she felt last week and what she felt now were two different things. She had to think, organize her ideas, pick up her notepad and try to remember everything she’d said last time. Plus she had to try and forget the bad appearance of her analyst. Sweat on his upper lip, fingernails that needed trimming, check blazer shiny at the elbows, and yellow teeth. It wasn’t easy.
Some help, he was, costing over two hundred euros a month. Just thinking about all she could do with that money made her feel ill. It wouldn’t be so bad if she paid him directly. She could pick a different doctor, a less expensive one, and spend the rest of the money on more interesting stuff… But she didn’t have that option. The judge had been very clear; forty psychotherapy sessions with an analyst selected by the court, after which she was to undergo a test administered by an independent laboratory, which would determine whether she was fit to live in society. And she’d only done eight sessions so far.
There were days when Vanessa wasn’t sure if the alternative wouldn’t have been better, four months behind bars. Four months is nothing, after all. The tedium would be the same, but with one advantage, she’d be alone. No one to pester her, no domestic chores, no need to wonder what to make for dinner, no need to look for other peoples’ spectacles, and none of the brutality of everyday life.
Outside, it was raining with a vengeance. Great, she thought, so much for my shoes. She flattened herself against the door of the building to avoid getting wet as she looked for her car keys, which would have been a good idea if it weren’t for the people coming and going through the door all the time. Shoving and elbowing, saying sorry, her hand rummaging in her bag, groping every object in the hope of feeling the metal of the key or the suede of the key fob. Mirror, coin purse, lipstick, tweezers, spectacle case, dark glasses, wallet, mobile phone, pills. The rain soaking through the chamois of her shoes, not just a few splashes, but big dark blotches she’d never be able to cover up. Another shove from another elbow in her ribs and it turns out the key was in her coat pocket.
It’s funny how there aren’t more road accidents, in cities at least. The car is becoming an expression of all the rage and anguish we accumulate over the course of the day. Our eyes glaze over as we accelerate away from traffic lights we thought would never change. We stamp on the brake with the same fury we’d like to stamp on people who drive us crazy. We honk as if the noise that fills the street was the shout we have to suppress. We think we’re untouchable, invincible in our metal fortresses; where we don’t hear the insults, or smell the smell of other people, where the urban grime can’t infect us.
Vanessa gripped the steering wheel with the same strength she’d have liked to use on her analyst’s neck. Or her husband’s. Or that stuck-up blonde’s, the one who didn’t even say sorry when her carrier bag hit Vanessa’s legs at the entrance to the analyst’s building, as if she didn’t exist. Bitch!
She was startled out of her anger by a knocking on her window. A homeless guy. His filthy, bony hands outstretched, the joints of his fingers scarred. That was all she needed. She hated giving money to these people. It was much more convenient to give money to the institutions that gave them a place to sleep or handed out blankets and food. But just then, she remembered her shoes. If the rain did so much damage to a piece of chamois, what did it do to the soul of someone who lived in the streets? She saw a black stain spreading over the man’s body, his coat drenched, rain dripping from his beard. Like her shoes, this guy was beyond repair. She gave him a euro and didn’t care when the car behind her started honking. The traffic light had been green for more than three seconds.
She drove, not knowing where she was going. On and on, avoiding all the familiar exits. After two hours she was running low on petrol and only then did she realize it wasn’t raining any more. She could turn the windscreen wipers off now. She stopped at the first service station she found, without wondering where she was. It wasn’t even a service station; it was just a petrol pump on a deserted back road. She realized she had fifty-three missed calls on her mobile phone, from her daughter, her daughter’s school, her husband, her analyst, the lawyer, her mother, Diana.
What the hell, she thought. What’s so bad about being out of reach for a couple of hours? What if she was just in the cinema? Somewhere with no signal? With her phone in silent mode? Was there no way for her just to disappear? Or make other people disappear? Her daughter, her husband… or Diana, especially Diana. As if they’d never existed. Not that she hated them, but sometimes just thinking about them and the routines they stood for left her feeling suffocated. She often thought about what life would be like as an orphan, single, with no kids, being able to do what she wanted, whenever she wanted, with whomever she wanted. Like going to bed with that guy at the end of the bar or even with the ugly guy from the petrol pump. No family lunches, no enormous Christmas gatherings, no summer holidays with the whole house in the back of the car. Spending the money for her daughter’s dental brace on a holiday in Thailand. Staying in pyjamas all day, without even taking a shower. Eating chocolate biscuits on the sofa and not giving a shit about the crumbs. Eating alone. No conversation. Ju
st staring at the wall for minutes on end, without having to hear ‘What’s the matter?’ What would it be like? To be free? Absolutely free?
2.
Every time Diana began to speak, Vanessa’s brain went click, off like a switch. Her words became a formless mass of sound, like when you hear the neighbours’ voices in the downstairs apartment. You know they’re human voices, you can tell whether it’s a man or a woman who’s speaking, but you can’t make out the words. The trick was not to look away. If she looked at her and nodded, Diana went on with her incessant monologue, not even surprised that the person she was talking to didn't utter a single word. Meanwhile, Vanessa was picturing a tiny Diana, darting frantically back and forward, gesticulating as if she was drowning, in a setting like an eighties video game: various platforms separated by ladders and the main character going back and forth, up and down, running from pixelated monsters that would destroy her if they touched her.
Diana considered herself to be Vanessa’s best friend, although Vanessa had never actually acknowledged this to her. They had been in school together and it was a misunderstanding that had led Diana to think Vanessa not only liked but also above all needed her. And she’d stuck to her like a limpet ever since. Even when Vanessa went away to university, Diana hadn’t let distance or absence affect her ranking. She continued to insinuate herself into social arrangements and would introduce herself to everyone as Vanessa’s best friend. Vanessa had never had the courage to tell her the truth: she found her a dull, conventional busybody. Neither the courage nor the opportunity for even Vanessa’s mother encouraged the friendship, as she was a close friend of Diana’s parents and a strong believer in people keeping strong ties with their roots, in their community. It was Vanessa’s mother who would invite Diana over for dinner, to sleep over, to go on holiday with the family so her daughter wouldn’t get bored among all the adults. During all this time all Vanessa saw was mini-Diana running backwards and forwards in her video game, while the real Diana stood there spewing her banal chitchat nineteen to the dozen. If only she could just tell her that when she wrote ‘D you are my soul mate’ on her physics exercise book she meant David, not Diana... But since she hadn’t wanted to confess her crush on a boy much older than she was, and popular too, who would probably only speak to her so she would let him copy from her during class tests, she had had to endure an entire adolescence of prattle about how many centimetres your boobs grew every month or how many people you can kiss without being considered easy. Like some South American dictator, Diana silenced all the opposition, seized the rank of best friend and never relinquished her position.
This was a recurrent question in Vanessa’s conversations with her analyst. Why can't we simply tell a friend we don't want them in our lives any more? We can tell it to a lover or a partner, someone who shares our intimacy much easier, but we can’t tell it to a friend. Without them hating us afterwards, at least. It would be so easy if we could say, “Look we’ve nothing in common any more. I don't share your values, or your tastes, or the opinions you express. I really enjoyed knowing you in a certain phase of my life, it was great while it lasted, but from now on we’ll go our own separate ways, all right? Don’t call me at Christmas, or invite me to birthday get-togethers. Let’s leave it at that. It’s been a pleasure, so long.” Then they would disappear from our lives, without ill feelings, without scenes, maybe equally relieved to cut the thread of a relationship based on social obligation. Simple as that. At that point her analyst would frown and scribble a few more notes in his notepad. Vanessa could imagine what he was writing, sociopathic tendencies.
So it may appear strange that of the fifty-three missed calls on her phone, the only one Vanessa returned was Diana’s. The reason was simple, Diana could spread news faster than Vanessa could make phone calls. And obviously Diana would fill in all the gaps in the story with inferences of her own making, answering every question she was asked without hesitation. But is she OK? –– Yes, she's fine and she’s feeling great. But where is she exactly? ––– What does it matter? She’ll be back in two days time. Can I speak to her? – Of course you can’t. It’s a silent retreat; she can't talk. And what shall we tell Mimi? – Tell her mummy’s taking a rest on doctor’s orders and she’ll be back at the weekend to cover her with hugs and kisses. But why didn’t she tell us? – Well, it must be those anti-depressants she’s been taking; you know how they can make you have lapses of memory. Diana would plead all this, and more, just by hearing from Vanessa one statement, “I’m fine, I need a few days alone to think and I’ll be back at the weekend.”
Would two days be enough to put her thoughts in order? That would be more than she’d managed in eight sessions of therapy. Eight long sessions and not for one minute had they managed to lessen, or even make her understand, this unbearable tedium. Was that life, then? Was that it?
There was a café beside the petrol station. It was a gloomy and depressing place, with plastic chairs and tables and a high counter with a marble top of indefinite colour. At one end, a yellowed old cash register; at the other, a little display case with dried-out cakes and a couple of salt-cod fritters swimming in oil. Vanessa went in, nevertheless. It suited her state of mind. The man at the counter shot her a quick glance without moving his head, which was turned in the direction of the TV. There was a football match on. The three or four patrons of the establishment didn't even notice her come in (must have been an interesting game). They were sitting in a group, beer glasses on the table in front of them. It smelled of alcohol. Vanessa sat down near the counter display and waited for someone to come and serve her. Looking terribly put out, the man came out from behind the counter and stood waiting for her to order something, his eyes still glued to the television.
“What have you got to eat, apart from those cakes and fritters?” she asked.
“Telma is there any roast left?” he shouted into the kitchen. Telma answered with a yes. The man went on, “There’s roast pork loin with chips, or in a sandwich if you prefer.”
“Can you put it on whole wheat?”
For the first time, the man took his eyes off the screen, frowning. “What do you think this is, young lady, a bakery or something? It’s normal sliced bread. But it’s fresh.”
“Then I’ll have a pork sandwich, please. If you could put a bit of lettuce on it too, please?”
‘”Something to drink?”
“An orange juice, any kind.”
The man returned behind the counter, dragging his feet, his eyes glued to the football, even when he brought more beers to the table where the café’s only other customers were sitting. Vanessa was lost in thought as she watched the cars passing outside. Where were they in such a hurry to get to? What were the lives of those drivers like? Were they in a hurry to get home and hug their families? Or were they escaping from a bad day at the office? Were they happy? Late for some dinner appointment, definitely a tastier, heartier dinner than a pork sandwich and an orange juice, any kind.
The match ended. The men gathered at the counter, discussing the game and the result. Vanessa’s eyes fell on the cigarette machine. She hadn’t smoked for nearly ten years, but now all she wanted was a cigarette. She apologized to the man behind the counter for interrupting the conversation and bought a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She went outside to smoke. Ah, how good was that. The flavour and the sensation were just as she remembered them, the soft caress of the filter on the insides of her fingers, the cloud of smoke below her tongue, taking it down into her lungs, expelling it through her lips. A mild dizziness and an acrid taste in the mouth at first, but by the end of the cigarette she felt like she’d never given up in the first place. That was when she noticed there were rooms to let above the café. In the end it wasn’t as bad as all that. At least she’d have a bed to sleep in, and it would probably be safer and more comfortable than sleeping in a parked car at a petrol station on a secondary road.
It was the man in the café who rented the rooms. This time Vanessa
felt even smaller when she disturbed him once again and took his attention away from his football punditry with his friends.
This was another point she’d have to discuss with her analyst. Why did she feel bad simply for asking other people to do what was required of them? If a man has a café, he’s there to serve customers, not to talk to his friends. The same thing used to happen with her domestic helps. Whenever she hired them she almost apologized for needing them. She had the feeling they saw her as a layabout, incapable of keeping the house tidy on her own. She couldn’t bring herself to call their attention to some mistake they’d made, let alone ask them to do something out of the ordinary, like wash the bathroom walls, or mop the balcony. And the worst part was getting rid of them. Just recently she’d been thinking of dismissing her latest help. No big deal, as she only came twice a week, but it cost money all the same; especially because in addition to what she paid her she also had to replace all the drink the woman threw back on the sly. Whisky, aged brandy, leftover wine in the fridge, even the packet stuff that’s only good for cooking, the lot. How could she bring herself talk to the woman about it? How could she ignore that it took the woman two hours by bus to get there, leaving three children to their own devices and a chronically unemployed husband who spent his days chasing down odd jobs? How often she felt like drowning her sorrows with a bottle of something, indifferent to the floor that hadn’t been vacuumed for weeks and the extractor hood that was caked in grease.
Vanessa went after the man, her head bowed, to the room he had picked for her. The man gave her the key and asked her to pay right away. A lot of people ran off in the middle of the night without paying. Vanessa handed him the money, offered her thanks, once again apologized for bothering him, and locked herself in the room. She was nervous and excited. She felt like a teenage girl who’s run away from home. Alone, sitting on a bed that creaked with every movement, in a roadside room in a strange place. Not even the griminess of the room could stop her from smiling.
The Strange Year of Vanessa M Page 1
