by Loren Edizel
My cousin comes to visit a few days later. Leaning forward and pulling back, she tells me stories I can’t possibly remember except for the one that doesn’t make me laugh. Something to do with a man she loved passionately and who died crossing train tracks. He was absent-minded, she said. He was a musician, a cellist, and a very shy man. I broke into tears, I don’t know why. Maybe I do. Maybe because although she lost him, she has a memory unsoiled by daily realities, of a man who meant everything to her. Where am I now? At the precipice, and none of it behind me is untouched. All of it seems weaved of such ordinary fabric that I almost welcome death, to end the vulgarity of it all. What does love mean when your husband shamelessly screws your nurse below your deathbed? What does anything mean at all? I have been advancing in the valley of thorns — among which platitude most certainly is the sharpest — toward certain death all my life and I do not even know that my children made it worthwhile. Wouldn’t they be here now? No one will find my stinking corpse disfigured by vermin ten days after the fact in a lonely apartment, for sure. It is my cousin’s fate, most likely. But she will have died thinking of her shy cellist crossing the train tracks to the sounds of a symphony filling his head, and I will die hearing creaking bedsprings, moans of adultery. I have such enormous regrets, I sigh to my cousin. She leans forward. I am crushed by their weight, I tell her. She asks what I’m talking about. Being a good woman, a good dutiful wife. All those marble cakes, all the housework, ironing, all that sex without pleasure.
She stays with me a couple of days and leaves. I plan another lemonade party. Meticulously. One that will include my husband this time. And myself, of course.
Tale Two: Burgundy Wine
Today is a most special occasion. Our thirtieth wedding anniversary and I’m preparing my husband’s favourite dish; Beef Stroganoff. I have bought the perfect Burgundy wine to cook it with: a Pommard. I awoke early to slice the potatoes à la julienne, into extremely thin sticks that I will fry to a crisp at the last minute. This will serve as the bed for my Beef Stroganoff that I plan to lay out in the oblong porcelain dish bequeathed to me by his own mother. I intend for it to be the loveliest evening of his entire existence. I will play the Rachmaninoff Rhapsody he always listens to when he is alone in his study. I secretly took the disc and hid it from him a week ago, so that for once, he can listen to it in the dining room, in my company. He noticed the absence of it immediately, of course. And I told him the cleaning lady must have misplaced it, as I never enter his study. Not true. I enter it daily as soon as he leaves for work. When we got married he forbade me from entering that room. I solemnly promised I would not touch anything in there, certainly not on his desk, absolutely not in his drawers. He has always locked certain drawers, regardless of my promise. But, as most women know, the keys to furniture are mostly decorative, and such locks can easily be picked with a hair pin.
I intend to be jolly the entire evening. Those who know me can tell you how much effort smiling alone requires from me. I suffer from bouts of melancholia. It has been a point of contention in our marriage, this propensity toward sadness and an absence of facial mobility. I have found ample proof of this contention in the locked drawers of his desk, in the form of photographs, postcards, and perfumed letters. Regardless, I already feel light-hearted measuring the wine for the sauce. I don’t care about other recipes; mine has Burgundy and my husband loves it that way. Most recipes will add sour cream; I found some that substitute it with yoghurt. Generally, I won’t put any of that. To me, wine is what gives meat that sweet sophistication, the aroma that lingers on the palate and mollifies the soul long after the morsel has been swallowed. I will, in fact, have a glass of Pommard while cooking.
You can say that Beef Stroganoff has accompanied all the significant milestones in our marriage. It has gone through transformations as has our union, which despite its many snags has evidently lasted thirty respectable years. He is my second husband. The first one was the great love of my teenage years. He looked like Gérard Philippe, the French actor from the 1950s, with his black hair combed back and striking good looks. I married him against my parents’ wishes. There was an elopement; travelling through the night, lovemaking in small bed and breakfast hotels, the awkwardness of youthful desires. I smiled and laughed like I never had before. Or after, for that matter. Soon enough, I found out I had been a mere afterthought for him; the girl he loved had already married someone else, presumably for money. He had married me to spite her, to make her feel jealous or out of sheer desperation. I understood the depth of his sentiment for her when he asked me to have an abortion. “I will leave you unless you have it.” he said. I did have the abortion and he stayed. From that moment on, I knew I had lost my chance at happiness. He and his married sweetheart started a clandestine affair. Finally, he left me. She, however, never left her husband. He had the gumption to blame me for the split. Apparently, I never gave him credit for anything. “My father this … my father that.…You should have married your father,” he offered as parting wisdom, and slammed the door one night. The divorce was quick, thanks to my father who hired the best lawyer. I did not give him a penny. Mind you, he never cared for money.
Then, I met my current husband. In terms of looks he was more like another French actor of the same period, Jacques Tati, tall, awkward, beaky. His eyes could sometimes look disturbingly round behind the large black-rimmed glasses he wore. I imagined it safe to marry reasonably this time and physical attraction was not a factor in my choice. We were both divorced, moved in the same circles, and were still young enough to start a family. In this union I was fully supported by my parents who offered us a fully furnished home, decorated with sober mahogany furniture chosen by my father. My mother placed the crystals and silver and thus we began our life in the luxurious apartment where we have lived to this day. My husband found the decoration of the house oppressive. He complained it made him feel like a captive in a medieval chateau. I could not tell my father the furniture on which he spent a fortune would not do for my husband and our first marital friction ensued. My husband wanted some guarantee he would not be emasculated by my parents. Those were the words he used. I retorted that a man who would be emasculated by a bunch of furniture could not have much manhood to begin with. He volleyed a question that amounted to, “Are you complaining about my performance in bed?” I raised my hand to stop the debate and went to the kitchen to prepare my first Beef Stroganoff, which we then ate in silence in our austere dining room that smelled of rich wood and starched doilies, with the silverware and crystal glasses that I carefully removed from red velvet boxes. That first meal was religiously faithful to the recipe except for the sour cream that I had forgotten to buy. I decided to put a swig or two of the red cooking wine I found next to the oil and vinegar in the pantry. I had cooked that Stroganoff in a revolted mood. The lovemaking that followed the meal had a harshness to it; the remnants of the fight still burning within. Perhaps it was simply the Stroganoff causing heartburn or the hurried way we fell onto the dining room floor to finish with it all. In any case, by the following morning, we had peace.
My parents visited frequently. His mother, a widow of no means, not so often. I made sure she came for all the holidays that required family dinners. She would sit in a corner and not speak unless spoken to. She kept her thin grey hair in a tight bun, and wore plain black skirts with pearl-grey blouses. Her stockings, which did not go all the way up her thigh, would roll into small bracelets above her knee and show patches of bluish white thigh whenever she crossed her legs. She kept her hands folded on her lap, in a state of uninterested bonhomie. My mother, who thought her inferior in social and intellectual standing, did not mind letting such opinions show. She imagined she was being subtle when she grilled the clueless woman with questions about the latest movies, or noteworthy events occurring in the city in her loud histrionic manner, her gold bracelets smashing together. My husband did not enjoy family gatherings. He would rise, stretching his arms from
the dinner table, saying he had a long day at work and ask his mother if she wanted to go home. The woman, only too happy to oblige, would spring up and slip on her coat. He drove her home, leaving me alone with my parents. I believe he hoped they would be gone by the time he returned, because it always seemed like he took a very long time to drive her back. My parents would not want to leave me all alone and waited for his return, a situation that frustrated him even more upon his arrival. Needless to say, we would have a fight the next day. He would call my parents “social climbers”; I would call his mother a “hick.” He would lock himself up in his study with his classical music and I would stay in the kitchen reading recipes while eating my way through boxes of chocolates.
I’m told obsessive eating is an unconscious attempt to gratify bruised emotions and unsatisfied yearnings, but I think eating excessively is also a woman’s way of rebelling against her role as a caregiver. We are expected to dedicate our lives to feeding others; how else are we to rebel except with food? How are we to shake off the guilt we feel in moments of selfishness? Perhaps I simply like chocolates too much. I believe I have eaten too many in the thirty years spun by this marriage. I ate them when he came home late, when he locked himself in his study, when he criticized my appearance, parents or cooking, and when I was bored. The only time I didn’t indulge in chocolates was when I felt melancholy. Sadness begins its work by infiltrating the things that surround you, at first. One day, you’re in the kitchen holding a spatula, listening to the radio and baking a cake, let’s say. The spatula, which to that moment had its place in your existence, slowly becomes entirely foreign to you. It floats away from your being, from the memories your hand contains of it. Its particular colour, or your attachment to a dent that occurred on such and such a day when rain was pouring down the windowpane in millions of quick droplets and you felt happy with the smell of the cake wafting into your nostrils. It becomes a mere thing. Then you look at the cuckoo clock, which until now charmed you with its constancy, the rhythm of its pendulum, the song of the mechanical bird rushing out every hour. That too is gone. All your ties to the inanimate world unravel before you know it, and when you are alone, you are starkly so. Then you go to the washroom to wash your hands, and look in the mirror. You don’t recognize those eyes; they mean nothing to you. You feel no love for that stretch of skin and folds and bumps you call your face. Once you have been abandoned by yourself, the husband, relatives, and friends slowly retreat to another parallel landscape where magical connections through glances and gestures are made from which you remain hopelessly disconnected.
When I finally confronted my husband about his infidelities, he confessed that my long faces had pushed him into other women’s arms. He was to be pitied. I retorted that my sadness began with his infidelities. Neither of us was being honest, of course. I never loved my husband.
It is neither the first nor the last marriage that will make it to the finish line less than intact, of course. In today’s recipe, I will be faithful to the original version and add the sour cream as well. I had prepared Beef Stroganoff on the day of my first miscarriage. I was ten weeks into my pregnancy and joyously cooking to celebrate the news when I felt a sudden pain twisting through my guts. Bleeding followed. I turned off the stove and rushed to the clinic to be told I had already lost the foetus. That evening, as we once again ate our meal surrounded by my father’s ominous furniture, the silence was only interrupted by my occasional sobs that I could not contain. My husband remained silent, aloof. He chewed and chewed and hardly looked at me.
There were successive miscarriages over the years. The gynaecologist told me I would never be able to bring a pregnancy to term. I had to resign myself to living a childless life. The desire to have a family had brought us together, and now, without that option, this marriage seemed superfluous to both of us. But we held on. I have often wondered why. Fear of solitude must have been one reason. In my case, I was a woman of independent means thanks to my father, and a divorce would not have changed my economic status. He had his job as an engineer so money was not his reason to hold on to me either. A divorce would have likely made us social outcasts. Middle-aged divorced people are not welcome among married friends from fear they will seduce spouses. I have seen it happen, and must admit am also guilty of doing this myself. I shunned the few divorced friends I had from fear they would increase my husband’s already varied repertoire.
The Pommard is truly divine, even in the early afternoon. I will pour myself another glass as the meat simmers on the stove. I handpicked every single mushroom that will go into this meal, making sure they were the size of buttons because sliced mushrooms do not have the same taste or consistency as whole ones. My husband most likely does not notice these things when he eats; he never comments on them. He will say, “Hmm … good…” to express extreme pleasure. That is the extent of his exuberance. Actually, I find him insufferably dull and cold. A thirtieth anniversary is a time when I can finally be cruelly honest. Darling, you are such a cold fish. How did all these other women suffer your platitude and lack of passionate excess? And why do you listen to Rachmaninoff all the time? I have not figured that part yet. Perhaps tonight I shall unlock that mystery as well.
One thing my husband and father had in common was their love of hunting small defenceless animals. They seemed to bond with guns in their hands and all was forgiven, even the immense mahogany buffet whose sharp corners have caused many bruises on my husband’s awkward thighs. On his birthday, for years, my father gave him various rifles that he keeps locked up in a special closet in his study. Since the time my father passed away, my husband has found other friends to go hunting with, and that is where he is today. At least that is what he has told me. He wore his rubber boots, put on his cap, loaded two of his rifles, decided on one, and took off at five in the morning. Normally, I discreetly check his boots for mud when he returns. Of course, plenty of times he was probably wearing them riding something other than, say, a horse, but I digress. I know how to load and unload a gun, how to clean it, how to shoot. My father taught me — his only child — everything about his hobbies. He actually taught me other distasteful things as well, but I will not revisit old stories today. My husband does not know what a good shot I am. His ego being fragile, I thought it wiser to focus on reading sappy romance novels, running a household, and knitting in front of the television while he snored. I was taught this piece of so-called-wisdom by my mother: Never let a man feel inferior by exhibiting your knowledge and skills. Men need to feel a certain amount of condescension toward wife and children. It makes them feel needed and valued. She was, therefore, submissive at home and insufferable in society.
First, he will shower and groom himself. Then, we will have the Beef Stroganoff in candlelight, listening to his favourite rhapsody. Quietly, I anticipate. We never have any conversations during dinner. They are showing “Casablanca” on television. We will watch it with our friends upstairs, eating profiterole pastries. Then, we will return and go to bed. He doesn’t know the surprise I have for him.
A pinch of pepper. Another swig of burgundy. Another few ounces in my glass. Maybe a little thyme this time. Not that he will notice or care, mind you. Lately, I have been seeing strange colours around his head. Sometimes redness will settle over his eyes, other times black spikes will jut out behind his head. The area around his lips will turn yellow. When he looks in the mirror, he does not see anything; but it is there, I can see it and it does not disappear until the next day and sometimes it doesn’t disappear at all. I asked my neighbour if she saw anything unusual about my husband’s head the other day. He had a purple spot that resembled a bruise on his forehead. She didn’t see anything either. What scares me the most is the redness. He looks like the devil. A tall, gaunt devil with red eyes. I have no explanation for such colours spontaneously appearing on him, except that perhaps I have developed some powers, and can see through him, into his essence, in colours. I believe it is a gift I have. A f
ew days ago he told me he didn’t love me. He said he could not suffer the sight of me. I’m stuck with you, he said. For thirty years I’ve had to put up with those dull crazy eyes of yours. I can’t stand it anymore, do you hear? I can’t stand you! He said he would speak with a lawyer, and we would get this over with. He said I could keep everything; he would just take his music and clothes, the things that belong to him. He said I could keep the apartment, the furniture and everything, he couldn’t care less. He just wants to be happy at last, live his last few years without being tied to a sad sack: me.
I don’t have any true friends in whom I could confide. My vision of the universe is that of a gigantic gap into which I have been falling since the day I was born. Why is it like that with me, I do not know. Surely many people around me must have stultifying lives, ungenerous spouses, and dysfunctional families. How is it that they keep going? Smiling, loving, and pretending the gaping universe is not there swallowing them whole? I have not dared ask. We talk about recipes, their children — no, they don’t even have the decency not to rub salt in my wounds — the maids’ insubordination, clothes on sale, the price of a perm. Subjects whose triviality is a magnificent edifice to female stupidity. I considered bringing a rifle to our Thursday afternoon tea, once. A loaded rifle, which I would carefully place beside me, and start knitting. Whenever an idiocy would be uttered I would grasp the rifle threateningly so they would instantly have to change the subject. It was a fantasy, but how it pleased me.
First he will shower and groom himself. Then we will eat our Beef Stroganoff in our frigid brown dining room. Then, profiteroles upstairs with the neighbours, watching “Casablanca.” Back downstairs to get ready for bed. I will offer him herbal tea to drink as usual, to help his digestion. He will sip it in his striped pyjamas. There will be a couple of dissolved sleeping pills in it and a few spoonfuls of sugar. He will start snoring. I will put a pillow on his multi-coloured devil’s face and shoot him. I will clean up the mess. I will change my nightgown. I will take a glass of water with dozens of sleeping pills. I will float into the gap holding his limp, innocent hand. We will be happy, at last.
