Martutene

by Ramón Saizarbitoria

  The howling. Harri tells them the results of a recent survey: 90% of women admit that they have at some point faked an orgasm. Young women, especially, shout because they’ve seen it in films and because men like it. She admits that she’s done it herself, but normally she doesn’t bother. But she can do it really well. “Do you want me to do it now?” She puts her face on Martin’s forearm, her eyes closed and her mouth open. Martin makes a gesture of repugnance, which probably isn’t entirely false, and Harri says, “One of these days, we’ll have to get over the taboo of incest. You don’t mind, do you?” Julia says she doesn’t. What’s more, she’s still pretty sure they have gotten over it. Once, to be precise.

  In the end, they’re late leaving.

  Julia isn’t used to seeing the hospital in the afternoon, and it looks like a void to her. It seems Abaitua was doing Harri a favor by agreeing to see her in the afternoon. There are very few people in the waiting room. Two pairs of women, both made up of one woman of around thirty and another of more than seventy. She supposes that the younger woman in one of the pairs is the other’s caregiver, because she’s casually reading a magazine while the older woman stares straight ahead, mute. In contrast, she can make out from the other pair’s whispered conversation in a Goierri accent that the younger woman is the patient, because she’s worried about how everyone else will be getting on back at home and the older woman is giving her reassuring answers. It reminds her of the many descriptions Faustino Iturbe gives of hospital waiting rooms: the talkative women accompanying the frightened men and straightening their shirt collars, rubbing out the creases in their clothes, telling them off in a motherly way because they don’t take care of themselves, because of something or other they’ve done or left undone. The young woman who isn’t reading pats the older woman’s hand, so Julia begins to doubt now which of them is sick. She wonders if the woman realizes that she, Julia, isn’t the sick one of the two, and knowing that she isn’t and that she’s only accompanying Harri makes her feel happy, and also guilty. What’s more, she hadn’t felt any lumps in her breasts that morning when following the instructions in the pamphlet that arrived in the mail from the Department of Public Health.

  She didn’t have to come with her, Harri says; she’s embarrassed about her wasting the whole afternoon, but before Julia can reply, Harri thanks her and says she’d be very sad if she weren’t there with her. She mentions another survey according to which men feel reassured when a woman accompanies them to the doctor, whereas men’s company simply irritates women. Julia lets out a laugh. Remembering what Lynn told her about her run-in with Abaitua’s wife, she says, “Don’t you pay any attention to men,” and seeing the inquisitive way Harri is looking at her, she promises to tell her about it later.

  From time to time, doctors walk past them, carelessly talking about their private matters. That’s fair enough, in that the hospital is a workplace, too, as well as being a place where patients and their guests live out their anguish. Even so, they should be a little more careful. The thought comes to her—Shouldn’t they dress and behave in a way that gives the impression they’re only thinking about their patients’ situations?—as she listens to a female doctor’s high-heeled shoes echoing loudly all over the ward while she complains about her vacation being over. “It was so much nicer in Menorca.” Without realizing that anybody who heard her would be happy just to be able to work and have a healthy body.

  “People are a piece of work,” says Harri. She’s quite different when Martin isn’t there, mostly far less histrionic. She says she woke up that morning with a feeling of distress, and for a while—she doesn’t know for how long, but long enough for her to notice it—she didn’t know what was causing it. It isn’t a new feeling. She often gets overcome by sorrow, pain, or anguish, and she usually tries to figure out what’s behind it for that infinitesimal moment until it finally becomes clear to her. Her daughter’s bad grades at school, her quarrel with her husband, having lost her purse with all of her credit cards and IDs. This morning, on the other hand, after that moment of not knowing what her unease was due to, it became obvious to her that it was because she might have breast cancer. And even so, her unease, sorrow, and anguish did not diminish. “¿Qué te parece?” It’s the same reflection that Julia read in Martin’s book a few weeks ago. Faustino Iturbe didn’t know why he felt a tightness in his chest, until he realized he was condemned to death. He realized that in the past, any little matter—someone he knew not saying hello as they passed in the street, the roofer not properly fixing a leak in the living room—used to produce the same effect in him. The same sorrow, the same anguish. After that, he found it miraculous that he was able to lead a normal life, taking an interest in daily problems and handling the decisions that have to be made every day, even enjoying lots of small things, too, until the signs of his impending death would make themselves known once more. Julia thinks Harri would find it comforting to know that they’ve both shared the same reflection, but she doesn’t get a chance to tell her.

  It’s Abaitua himself who comes out to get them from the waiting room. A show of consideration, something he does in a natural way but still making it clear he’s going out of his way to be considerate. He gives them each a kiss, first Harri and then Julia, putting his hands on their shoulders as he does so, in a gesture that seems too paternalistic to Julia. He may have a little too much eau de cologne on, it smells of fresh citrus and has a masculine touch of cedar. Sometimes she smells a trace of it on the stairs going up to the tower. He and Harri talk about the research project they’re working on and Lynn is taking part in, and about people Julia doesn’t know. He says he’s not very happy about things at the hospital, but he tries not to pay much attention to what’s going on around him and just concentrate on his own work. So he’s a resigned sort of man. She doesn’t pay much attention to what he’s saying, but suddenly, just when she’s least expecting it, he turns and addresses her. How’s the translation coming along? It’s obvious he knows about her work from Lynn. She answers with more detail than is required for what was just a polite question. Talking so much makes her nervous, and she has to make an effort not to raise her hand to cover the mole on her neck. When she was getting ready to leave the house, she thought that the bad weather would have justified her wearing a neck scarf, but she didn’t take one in the end, because it would have just reinforced her complex. He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, and the time he’s taking to get on with examining Harri, which is perhaps just out of politeness, is beginning to make Julia nervous; she’d like him to find out what Harri’s lumps are as soon as possible. Abaitua thinks that few people really appreciate translators’ work; when people read translated texts with ease, very few think about the translator. With doctors, fortunately, the opposite is true. Normally, when things are going well, it’s because nature wants them to, and yet it’s we who take all the credit. An expression of humility that Julia doesn’t know quite how to take.

  Abaitua spreads his hands out on the desk—they’re thin but strong, well looked after—and leans forward a little to say to Harri at last, “So let’s see, what’s troubling you?” Then he leans back in his chair and seems to be ready to give her all his attention. He’s attractive and doesn’t look his age. Definitely a man who looks after his appearance. He isn’t wearing a tie, but his shirt would be right for one, it has one of those little straps on the collar for holding a tie from behind, although it’s hanging loose right now. So it looks as if he’s taken his tie off to look more relaxed but is still a little formal. His elbows are resting on the arms of his chair, his hands together in front of his face, his fingers linked together except for his index fingers, which are touching his lips. Suddenly Julia realizes she’s heard him moaning with pleasure, and she’s embarrassed to think that he’s realized it, too, when he takes his eyes off Harri for a moment to look at her.

  Harri tells him she’s been feeling this lump of hers for more than a year now.

 
; He stands up and says “let’s see” once more.

  Harri complains that the changing room’s too small for her, and Abaitua agrees that it’s very small. Julia remains seated on the other side of the screen, and Harri walks past her wearing a hospital gown that leaves her back exposed; she does a dance step, raising her arms above her head and stretching one leg out behind her. Julia still thinks she’s overdone it with the purple nail polish.

  Abaitua’s occasional brief comments break the nervous silence. He keeps on saying “let’s see,” “that’s it,” “closer,” and “very good.” Short commands. The sound of latex. Other identifiable sounds: chair wheels on the tiles; tools on the tray; a spray; Harri’s silence; the quiet ticking of an electric clock on the wall. Something of Noll’s she read that morning: doctors protect themselves and not their patients, just as lawyers protect themselves more than they do the accused. Something Abaitua just said reminded her of that—he used different words, but the idea was similar—and she almost tells them the quote but doesn’t dare to in the end, not wanting him to think she’s being overly clever. And she wonders again whether he’s aware that she knows he’s sleeping with Lynn, but then she banishes the thought again, she doesn’t think it’s appropriate. Another quote, this time something Frisch said to Noll: literature’s task is to obliterate the present. She thinks she understands the meaning of that, but she isn’t sure. Abaitua keeps on saying the same things—“very good” once more, but in a different tone now, because he’s finished examining Harri. The sound of latex suggests it, and the sound of water coming out of the tap confirms it. “You can get dressed,” Abaitua says, washing his hands. Julia thinks he’s going to give her a provisional verdict, because the test results haven’t come in yet, and she gets the impression that Harri wants to put it off as long as possible, because she keeps up a steady stream of ridiculous comments from behind the curtain, one after another. She says that she’s more worried about her breasts getting saggier than she is about the lumps. She’s been telling the same joke for months now. She says she’ll take advantage of her cancer to get some new breasts. Abaitua sits down behind his desk once more. He taps away on his computer with just two fingers but with great ease. It’s strange the way he holds the keyboard on his lap. Without pausing in his typing, he says that he’s seen some very sexy women with mastectomies, to which Harri says, “Oh, really? Are you saying that to keep my spirits up?” His sudden mortification almost makes him drop the keyboard onto the floor. Not at all—Julia is amused by the look of horror on his face—what he meant to say was that women worry too much about the aesthetics of their breasts and he doesn’t think it’s much of a problem as far as men are concerned. He looks at Julia for her understanding, which she tries to give him by smiling. All types of breasts have their own charm—large and small, round and pear-shaped . . . But Harri isn’t convinced. “That must be why you guys choose young women.” Her delivery seems to indicate that she’s unaware she’s just put her foot in it, but Julia gets embarrassed. She wonders if Abaitua’s typing more vigorously now.

  She isn’t sure, but she thinks he says “anyway” when Harri walks out from behind the screen. He waits for her to sit down and leans forward once more with his forearms resting on the desk. He holds his hands firmly together, fingers linked. As was to be expected, he doesn’t give a verdict—they have to wait for her to get her tests, which should be done right away. “As soon as possible,” he insists, when Harri mentions waiting to do them in the autumn. He gives her an appointment slip, which Harri tucks into her thick leather planner.

  When they all stand up, Harri is the one who moves forward to give him two kisses. Julia, on the other hand, hesitates for a moment and then decides that he’s the one who has to move toward her. He puts his hands on her shoulders as before and doesn’t take them off after giving her two kisses. That feeling she always has, that he looks at her mole when talking to her, wondering whether she’s had it looked at. She doesn’t say anything. He says he bumped into Martin a few days earlier, he told him he was making good progress with his novel.

  He seems to be one of those people who have real difficulty saying goodbye. He politely goes with them to the vestibule, leaving his office door open, as if to tell the women waiting that he’ll be back momentarily. Julia finds the situation uncomfortable. Harri, on the other hand, seems calmer now. It’s clear she doesn’t realize she put her foot in her mouth just before; she keeps on talking about her theory that girls nowadays have larger breasts. The doctor seems to listen to her with attention, although his eyes go to the open door of his office a couple of times. Julia guides Harri toward the stairs, saying that Doctor Abaitua has people waiting for him.

  As soon as they’re out of his sight, Julia asks Harri how she had the nerve to tell him that men prefer younger women, and Harri doesn’t flinch. She says he’s a good doctor and an honest man, but that doesn’t mean she’ll let him take her for a fool—it’s fine for him to say that women with mastectomies are sexy, but he himself is sleeping with a women thirty years younger than him with great big tits. Julia thinks Harri knows she was in the wrong but doesn’t want to appear weak. Harri asks her to go to the university with her, which is just what she had been going to suggest. As Lynn would put it, she feels like going to Martin’s friend’s bookshop, if only to see it for the first time. She takes the risk of telling Harri that she’s curious to see what the man is like, because of the things Lynn’s told her about him. Apparently he’s a happy man, a good cook, he knows about flowers, he changes his mother’s diapers. She regrets saying that, because she knows that Harri will use it against her, and that’s exactly what happens—she says to her, as if she’d heard her earlier conversation with Lynn, “If you need a man with a mother, you’ve already got Martin.” She says that what the other guy probably needs is somebody to change his mother’s diapers for him and that at least Martin has enough money to pay for however many nurses he needs to take on. What’s obvious is that Harri doesn’t accept Julia showing the least bit of interest in any man other than Martin.

  “Poor Lynn,” says Harri, as she starts up the car. Julia decides not to ask in what way Lynn is poor, because she knows the answer and doesn’t want to hear it. And Harri says it anyway. The poor girl’s going to suffer, because she’s in love—that man’s never going to break up with Goytisolo. Why isn’t he going to break up with her, and even if he doesn’t, what’s wrong with enjoying what there is to be enjoyed while it lasts? “Beclouded” is how Lynn tried to put it in Spanish. She wishes Harri could hear the girl saying “me tiene obnubilada.” She can’t help laughing as she remembers Lynn trying to pronounce the Spanish verb right. And in any case, who is Harri to say anything if what she’s told them about her own undignified behavior during her search for the man from the airport is true? Although Julia doesn’t use the word undignified. There’s an enormous difference, Harri says, taking her hands off the steering wheel. The man she crossed paths with at the airport, with only the promise he had seen in her eyes—she puts a hand on her chest when she says “my eyes”—told that peroxide blonde to get lost.

  The car is stopped at a traffic light, but it’s green, and car horns start sounding out behind them.

  After parking near the roundabout on the street next to the bevelled building where Martin’s friend’s bookshop is, Harri walks left, even though going right is the way to get to the university, the cafeteria, and, of course, the bookshop. Julia stands still in the middle of the sidewalk and points the other way—“We’ll get there quicker this way.” But Harri says, “It doesn’t make any difference,” and keeps on walking. When it comes down to it, Julia doesn’t much care, she just wants to satisfy her curiosity and meet Martin’s friend.

  “And for you, a shandy?” The pleasing feeling of having the waiter know what you like. She likes sitting at that outdoor terrace—Donostia seems a long way off. There are drops of water on the table from the rain shower a few minutes
ago, and they have to wait for a couple of chairs to be brought out from the bar. It doesn’t look like it’ll rain again. Clouds and patches of blue sky. Julia tells Harri that she’s starting to like sitting at outdoor terraces. It’s a custom from the south of Europe that’s beginning to spread all over the continent, although the heat in other places, of course, is provided by those patio heaters that look like lampposts. It reminds her of when Harri used to say how much she liked the outdoor terraces in Bilbao. She no longer mentions them. Now she just says “that was a great time.” She clearly isn’t very lively, Julia thinks probably because of the tests she’s had to have done. She takes her hands and dares to squeeze them gently. She tells her she’s going to be just fine.