Lito sent me a wonderful e-mail from Salto Grande. With his comma-free sentences, his strange spelling. I miss him as never before, in a way that feels more like physical pain than affection. I feel ransacked inside. As though all the energy I normally spend on my adorable and unruly son had been extinguished due to the absence of any recipient. People who don’t have kids think they suck you dry (which they do, I swear), but they don’t realize that this energy, which our kids guzzle down like water from a canteen, is the exact same one we stole from them. It is like a two-way circuit. Without Lito here I work less but get more tired. The only thing that recharges my batteries is having sex with Ezequiel.
“Two-way circuit?” “Recharge my batteries?” All of a sudden I am talking like Mario. As though language were taking revenge on me.
Bringing up a child and caring for a sick person have this in common: both require an energy that is not really yours. You are instilled with it by them, by their eager love, their expectant fear. And they clamour for it as though scenting fresh meat. I sometimes feel that motherhood is a black hole. Whatever you put in is never enough, and you’ve no idea where it goes. At other times, though, I feel like a vampire feeding off her own child. Devouring his enthusiasm in order to carry on believing in life.
But a child is also a deposit box. However selfish that may sound, you invest in him your time, your sacrifices, your expectations, in the hope that in the future he will yield gratitude. I argued about this with my sister, who called me again yesterday. She asked about Mario and told me she was looking for a flight. I told her not to worry, and that I know how busy she is with work at this time of year. I’m actually dying for her to come. As always, we ended up talking about our respective families. We never talk about ourselves. I told her a child is literally an investment. She said that was a horrible idea. That motherhood couldn’t be understood in economic terms. And that whatever I do I should never say such a thing to Lito. It wouldn’t be so bad. Kids also speculate with their love, they spend their lives making mundane calculations: if I’m good today, I’ll get this; if I’m bad I’ll get that taken away; if I’m nice to Dad I’ll have a few days worth of credit; if I’m nice to Mum the two of us can negotiate with him. That’s how we are.
Day after day you put the best (and the worst) of yourself into your child. And in the meantime you wonder: Will he notice? Will he remember? Will it do him any good? And, because you are no saint, you also wonder: Will he acknowledge it? Will he reward me for it? Will he want to look after me?
I wonder whether, perhaps without realizing it, we seek out the books we need to read. Or whether books themselves, which are intelligent entities, detect their readers and catch their eye. In the end, every book is the I Ching. You pick it up, open it and there it is, there you are.
In a novel by Mario Levrero, I’m startled when I recognize a familiar idea. The fact that the author and my husband share the same name has an even greater impact on my memory. The main character is stretched out beside his lover. He senses she doesn’t want to make love with him. And so he simply lies there on his back and takes her hand in his. She sighs with relief. And lays her head on his chest. Then the two of them experience an instant of complete communion, beyond the sexual realm or perhaps coming after the sexual realm: “I could be more graphic by saying we had a child that night, born not of flesh but of the denial of the flesh. And I sometimes shudder to think it may still be alive in its own world, doing who knows what. And yet I sense it was an ephemeral being.”
I remember when Mario didn’t want to have kids, or wasn’t sure he wanted them. We were just starting out and we thought our solitude was enough to fill the house. We spent whole afternoons simply clutching one another or holding hands, gazing out of the window. Whenever we spoke about it, Mario would tell me that we were our own child. That we cared for one another, nurtured one another. We felt we had created something attached to the two of us. That kind of creature who was both of us when we were together.
In the end we were three. The house filled up. And something, I am not sure what exactly, was driven out from between us.
As we become more confident in bed, Ezequiel begins to reveal himself. My initial response was instinctive rejection. I almost forbade him ever to touch me again. With his first attempt we screamed at each other. Not true: I did all the screaming. He remained calm. He didn’t even get up as I was putting my clothes on. He went on talking to me slowly, in that anaesthetizing tone he has. Lying among the pillows. Smiling, naked. With a slightly lopsided erection.
Angry, I asked him if by any chance he took me for a sadomasochist. Ezequiel merely replied: If you were in my line of work, sadomasochism would seem the most natural thing in the world.
After recovering from my initial shock, I couldn’t help thinking about everything that lay in store for me. That in any event I hadn’t much to lose, or rather that I couldn’t lose much more than I already had. I felt again the way I did the first night we spent together, when Ezequiel admired my composure in dealing with the situation and said to me: I can’t take my eyes off your breasts or your dignity.
I agreed with trepidation. Just this once. To give it a try. As long as he promised to stop the moment I felt uncomfortable. That’s what we did. That’s what he did to me.
It didn’t take me long to realize that it was exactly what I needed. To reclaim my body. All of it, not just a part of it. An unmitigated punishment. A pain that would awaken me.
So now I am awakening.
He wants to hit me and wants me to hit him. He asks me to penetrate him with all kinds of household objects. The more threatening they look, the more they appeal to him. Ezequiel suggests we do things that, until only recently, I would have considered reportable. He collects ghastly films that arouse me in ways I later feel ashamed of. He dreams up forms of masturbation where we suffer simultaneously. He takes me from feeling ticklish to panic, from panting to pleading. As we thrash about he insults me in a way that ought to revolt me. His fixation on my anus reaches extremes I had never imagined. I don’t mean penetration (we already tried that, with remarkable roughness, during our second meeting), but unexpected explorations involving all five senses. I say all five because, as well as seeing, touching, biting, and smelling everything, Ezequiel (I am serious) listens to my flesh. I had never seen, or of course heard, of this before. He does it on any part of my body. He lays his cheek against my skin, his ear up close, like a gynaecologist monitoring contractions, and narrows his eyes. And he smiles. I don’t know what he is hearing.
Tradition has it that sex results in the little death. I now believe that those who say this haven’t experienced the pleasure of harm. Because with Ezequiel I find the opposite is true: each fuck results in a resurrection. We insult each other. We tear into each other. We cause each other pain in order to make sure we are still here. And each time we reaffirm the other’s presence, the other’s suffering, we are as moved as if it were a reunion. Then I have orgasms that stretch the limits of my existence. As though my existence were a vaginal muscle.
I want to avenge myself on my own flesh.
The protagonist of a Richard Ford novel watches his lover in bed. He finds her distant or disappointed. I highlight his speculation: “Maybe that isn’t even surprising when you come down to it, since by scaling down my own pleasures I may have sold short her hopes for herself.”
It’s true, pleasure brings hope. Maybe that is why so many men leave us dissatisfied: their desire holds no promise. They are wary when they get into bed. As though they were already leaving before they have arrived. We women, even if only for a moment, even if we aspire to nothing more, tend to give ourselves completely, out of instinct or habit.
That is what makes Ezequiel so unusual. He gives himself, he squeezes himself dry, he pushes you to the limits. And it is obvious he never expects anything in return.
As a woman you often let yourself go and you don’t even know why. The men you sleep with don’t know e
ither. It usually surprises or intimidates them. As though, with the expansion of your own pleasure, you were demanding something from them. Not that I blame them. We women are one long affliction. Perhaps that is why we are good at caring for the sick: we identify with their demanding side. Perhaps that is why men make such ham-fisted nurses. Filth terrifies them because they feel implicated by it. We women seem to like getting soiled. With discharge, blood, shit, anything. Poor us, poor them. If I could choose, I would be a man. And I would never get soiled without asking why.
I still can’t decide whether Ezequiel is masterfully cynical or a monster of empathy. Every night, after eating together, we talk about Mario. With infinite patience he describes the progress of the disease, the secondary problems in other organs, the general state of his immune system. He is careful to sum up the facts and to find instructive examples so he can be sure I understand. At such moments I find it hard to feel I am cheating, because this feels like a home visit. Ezequiel refers to palliative care with such tact, he speaks of my husband with such respect, that I begin to wonder whether he even considers our relationship inappropriate, let alone deviant. As though, in the meticulous Dr. Escalante’s eyes, caring for his patients involved the carnal duty of attending to their wives.
After clarifying my medical doubts, he lets me unburden myself. He watches me weep from just the right distance: not too close (so as not to be intrusive) not too far (so as not to abandon me). At this stage he refrains from intervening. He simply watches me and from time to time gives a faint smile. I would even venture to say there is a measure of love in his silence. An unhealthy love perhaps, one permeated with the substance he is dealing with. When I can weep no more, I am assailed by a sense of exposure. Then Ezequiel comes to my aid, offers me warmth, embraces me, kisses my hair, whispers in my ear, caresses me, squeezes me, sticks his tongue in my mouth, undresses me, scratches me, rubs himself against me, tears my underwear, bites me between my thighs, pins down my arms, penetrates me, violates me, consoles me.
I think about the orgasms I am having. Not better or longer. Simply different in kind. Radiating from new places. I was convinced I had never experienced anything like it, until just now when I remembered something that may have been a precursor: the sad, quiet, tender fuck Mario and I had the day we found out what his illness was. Almost the last, in fact. Since then we have scarcely wanted or known how to make love amid so much death. On that occasion I had an anomalous orgasm. Like it belonged to some other woman. Perhaps this is where it all started. It sounds grotesque, but besides the sorrow we both shared it aroused me to imagine that the body penetrating me and making me come was fading, was almost a ghost.
That night there was a storm. It rained with a vengeance. There were loud claps of thunder. Trees swayed and objects banged about. We heard it all from the bedroom while we were making love. During the final moment I felt suspended. I was able to think with complete lucidity. Or rather I contemplated ideas that came unbidden. As Mario began to ejaculate, I could picture myself fixed in that instant, fucked for eternity. Knowing at the same time that if it were possible to remain there forever, nothing would make sense. Not even pain, not even an orgasm. For a second the storm seemed joyful. Then the lightning made me very afraid.
In order not to feel inferior in the face of Ezequiel’s scientific knowledge, I made a list for him of the different verbs in Spanish that describe an orgasm. In Cuba, for example, the say venirse—to draw near. I like that verb because it suggests moving toward someone. It is a verb for two. And essentially unisex. In Spain they say correrse—to run. Which implies almost the opposite. Taking off at the end, moving away from the other. It is a verb for men. In Argentina they say acabar—to end. It sounds like an order. Like a military exercise. A Peruvian woman friend calls it llegar—to arrive. Put like that, it sounds almost like utopia (and it often is). As though you were far away or needed more time. Her husband says darla—to give it. Curious. That sounds like an offering. Or, being pessimistic, like a favour done to you: here, take this. In which case it doesn’t surprise me that my friend never arrives. In Guatemala they say irse—to go. A clear statement of abandonment. They need only add: after you’ve paid. In other countries they say terminar—to finish. Frustrating. It sounds like someone barges in and interrupts you halfway through. Here, though, perhaps because we are frontier people, we say cruzar—to cross over.
Are there places where they name women’s orgasms? Where they say I’m drowning, I’m dissolving, I’m unravelling, I’m irradiating?
I asked Ezequiel which verb he liked best. He replied: That depends, Professor. When I’m on top, venirme. When I’m underneath, llegar. If I pick you up, acabar. From behind, correrme. When you blow me, terminar. When I’m outside you, irme. It depends.
Unable to sleep. At seven o’clock I gave up and got out of bed to see the sunrise. It felt like it rose too quickly. Everything happens more quickly than it ought to in summer.
I went out. It was hot. I waited for the shops to open. Standing in front of doors. Like an addict. I bought a lot of food for the day after tomorrow. Chicken, turkey, veal, low fat cheese (so as to feel less guilty), fruit yogurt (Lito hates the plain, sugar-free ones I eat), Coke (caffeine-free, of course, otherwise there is no getting the little angel to bed), good red wine, oranges, grapefruit, legumes for Mario (he needs lots of iron), vegetables for me, sweets for everyone. Then I found a see-through bra and knickers with suspenders. I’ll wear that tonight.
I call and call, but they don’t answer. Every time this happens, I imagine Mario knows everything and is silently punishing me. Last night I dreamt he found Ezequiel hitchhiking on the motorway. He gave him a lift in the truck. And the two of them went off and left me on my own.
Lito doesn’t reply to my messages. Mario doesn’t call, and neither does Ezequiel. I have taken two aspirins and an antidepressant. And have drunk two cups of strong coffee. I find it impossible to read. I feel horny. I think a lot about jumping out of the window. I want my husband and my son to come home now and not to come home. I want this house to return to normal and I will never be normal again. I don’t want to see Ezequiel any more. I want to call Ezequiel and tell him to fuck me hard. I want him to hurt me. I want him to love me. I don’t care what Ezequiel does. I would never fall in love with him. I hope he falls in love with me. I want to throw myself out of the window. I want to cause pain. Some of these things are true.
Work, work. That’s all I know how to do. You have to be very sad to hate holidays. You are so responsible, people tell me. They can go to hell. I look for things to be responsible for because I can’t be responsible for myself. Sometimes I think I don’t deserve to be a mother. Sometimes I think I had a child in order to stop myself from jumping out of the window. Sometimes I think I should have been the one who got ill. Sometimes I think about being fucked hard. Women who know what they want never want anything interesting.
Hallelujah, they called, hallelujah. They are fine. Everything is fine. I am weeping. Lito is eating salads. Mario sounds normal. Nothing is awry. They are arriving tomorrow. So soon. Everything will go back to how it was. I’m going to leave the house spotless. I’m going to prepare a wonderful dinner for them. I’m going to read for a while. I’m going to text Ezequiel.
Message answered. Everything is as it should be. His place at ten. I like 10. It’s a nice number. It looks like a whip taking aim at a backside. It’s our last night. The night. The world is wonderful, terrible.
Mario
… a question only kids ask themselves for real, and then we sick people ask it again: is it okay to lie?, is it okay to be lied to?, a healthy grown-up won’t even give it a thought, the answer seems obvious, right?, we learn to tell lies the same way we learn to talk, they teach us how to talk and then how to be quiet, I don’t know, like when you play football, for example, first you kick the ball and then, unless you’re stupid, you learn to not kick it, to move around tricking the other players, kids lie too, of course,
I lied all the time when I was a kid, but, what I’m saying is, until you get to a certain age, you think it’s wrong, that is the difference, I don’t think we grown-ups are any worse, you know?, every kid contains the beginnings of a possible son of a bitch, this much I know, it’s just that kids, and perhaps we adults are to blame for this, start by dividing the world into good and evil, truth and lies, the only time it’s okay for them to lie is when they’re playing, then it’s allowed, so kids become grown-ups when they play, sort of the opposite of us parents, we play so we can be kids again, well, and then you grow up, and you lie and are lied to, and it isn’t wrong, until one day, when you’re sick, you begin to worry again about lies, you worry about them every time you talk to the doctors, your wife, your family, it’s not a moral question, it’s, I don’t know, something physical, deep down you’re scared stiff of the truth, but the idea of dying with a lie scares you even more, lies help us to carry on living, don’t they?, and when you know you aren’t going to carry on, you feel they’re no use anymore, do you know what I mean?
Why am I talking about this?, ah, the weather thing, these painkillers make me half dopey, when you started doing the weather thing it made me laugh, you should have seen yourself, you were staring hard at the road, doing something with your finger on the windscreen, pulling faces, and soon after you told me the sky had changed, to begin with I played along because I thought it was a game, then, I’m not sure when, I started to realize you were serious, and besides you were so thrilled, from then on, I tell you, son, I spent the whole journey asking myself, do I tell him or not?, bah, best not, I thought, he’ll find out for himself, but I don’t know if you’d convinced yourself, or if it was a coincidence, or what, because you kept saying you’d guessed right, as a game I found it amusing, but as an expectation it was sad, if when you finally saw that the weather did as it pleased, that neither you nor I nor Pedro could do anything to change it, wouldn’t you feel, I don’t know, terribly small?, anyhow, maybe it’s foolish and by now you don’t even remember, but I didn’t want to fall asleep today without telling you this.
Talking to Ourselves: A Novel Page 4
