My Favorite Girlfriend was a French Bulldog

by Legna Rodríguez Iglesias

  But I’m not a man, I’m not even forty years old yet. I like to laugh loud and hard even if I have bits of croissant between my teeth, and I understand nothing about buying and selling.

  My best friend

  found a cat

  and named it Wanda.

  It had a penis

  and testicles,

  and she named it Wanda.

  WANDA

  My husband and I were teenage sweethearts.

  The house where we lived had only one floor.

  We built the second floor ourselves.

  Hand over hand and brick over brick.

  With a spiral staircase.

  The whole town was jealous of the staircase.

  And we painted it red.

  The color of passion.

  I got pregnant right away.

  First the boy and then the girl.

  My husband wanted the perfect pair.

  And we had the perfect pair.

  And I birthed them both at home because there wasn’t time to take me into the city.

  My husband got drunk and fell into a ditch, both times.

  And there was no time to take me.

  Both times I pushed, like a woman, and the kids came out.

  The boy looks like me and the girl looks like him.

  It’s always like that, apparently.

  A matter of genetics.

  Twenty years we’ve been together.

  Both a civil and a church ceremony.

  The whole town was jealous when we had a church wedding.

  They’re not even that Christian, they said.

  They don’t even believe in God that much, they said.

  God forgive them.

  And keep them.

  My husband’s father lives a block away from us.

  He was widowed four years ago and hasn’t been with anyone since.

  He goes out dirty and talks to himself.

  I go over to visit him.

  I bring him a little soup, if I make soup.

  Or a little chicken and rice, if I make chicken and rice.

  The kids went to see him at first.

  Now they go less and less.

  They’re afraid of him.

  In town they say he has a shotgun.

  My husband isn’t the same anymore.

  I’m not the same, either.

  I’ve realized that, but he hasn’t.

  And I’m tired.

  Two months ago, I told him to get out.

  He fought it, but in the end he left.

  He put everything into a bag, his clothes and tools, and he left.

  An entire life.

  He didn’t go to his father’s house, but to a friend’s.

  It’s better that way, he can talk with someone his own age.

  The kids fought it too.

  They wanted to go with him.

  Kids are like that.

  My girlfriends gave me a lot of support.

  If you don’t love him anymore, you have to leave him, they said.

  If you don’t love him, you can’t pretend.

  We’re behind you, they said.

  My boss really supported me, too.

  He’s a very attentive man.

  Last month, he brought me a black prince bud.

  A flower for a flower, was his phrase.

  My girlfriends filled a glass with water so I could put the black prince in it.

  Last week, my boss spent the night with me.

  The kids went to their grandfather’s.

  They spent the night there.

  They were annoyed with me.

  They didn’t speak to me for two days.

  Kids are like that.

  My boss treats me like a queen.

  This morning I arrived at work and found a flower on my desk.

  A black prince.

  I can’t imagine how he did it, because we left the house together.

  I hugged him and gave him a kiss on the forehead, my love.

  What a sweetheart you are, he told me.

  You’re the sweetheart, I said.

  When are you going to get divorced? he asked.

  Don’t pressure me, I said.

  At ten in the morning, my girlfriends went to buy coffee.

  I stayed behind to make some headway.

  There are so many reports to turn in.

  And stamp.

  I’m going crazy here.

  I looked at the black prince and sighed.

  How many petals does a rose have?

  The doorbell rang.

  Too soon for it to be my friends and the coffee.

  It was my husband with a machete.

  Get out of here.

  I’m not leaving.

  I said get out.

  I’m not leaving.

  OK then, what do you have to say?

  Nothing.

  Then what do you want?

  To kill you, whore.

  Your mother’s the whore.

  My mother’s dead, whore.

  Then your aunt.

  I’ll cut off your hands, that’ll teach you.

  They’ll arrest you if you do.

  What do I care?

  Look, you’d better go.

  He brought the machete down on one arm, then the other.

  My hands fell at the feet of the desk.

  The black prince trembled.

  I went outside bleeding, and my husband was still there.

  No one came out to defend me, they were all so jealous.

  Now you’ll see, whore.

  He stuck the machete into my stomach and sliced me up to my throat like a pig.

  So you’ll learn, whore.

  If you’re not mine, you’re no one’s.

  You bastard.

  Asshole.

  From there he went to his father’s house.

  He had everything prepared.

  The rope hanging from the pipe.

  The knot.

  Everything.

  He stood on the chair.

  Put the rope around his neck.

  He jumped and broke the pipe.

  He ended up alive, on the floor, like a chicken.

  Doesn’t matter.

  Where the hell is the shotgun?

  He searched the whole house for the shotgun.

  He opened the fridge.

  Drank some water.

  The only thing in the fridge was water.

  And vinegar.

  The shotgun was behind the bedroom door.

  Covered in dust.

  He brushed it off.

  Fired.

  Perfect.

  That was when my friends returned.

  With a little coffee in a plastic cup.

  Cold coffee.

  Old.

  And half a pizza.

  Cheese pizza.

  Colder than a dead man’s toe.

  My mother was outside the morgue.

  My daughter was there.

  My husband’s father was there.

  And some neighbors and the police.

  The boy didn’t come because he was ashamed.

  Boys are like that.

  They don’t understand.

  My husband’s father and the neighbors wanted to have the wake for both of us.

  In our house.

  With my children, the family, and the neighbors.

  And my mother was against it.

  He killed her, goddammit.

  Because he loved her so much.

  But he killed her, goddammit.

  Because he loved her so much.

  Go hold his wake in hell.

  In the end the wake was for both of us.

  Upstairs in the bedroom.

  One coffin beside the other.

  The whole town went up the spiral staircase.

  These stairs are such a pretty red, they said.

  They came up to pay their respects.

  They only stayed a little while.

  My
boss came upstairs too.

  He asked my mother for permission to put a black prince in my coffin.

  My husband’s father stood up and went out for some fresh air.

  Maybe he thought it was indecent.

  Or that he’d have to find a black prince for his son.

  My mother gave him permission.

  The kids didn’t.

  They were very elegant, sitting beside the coffins.

  But they didn’t want to see any black princes anywhere.

  No flowers.

  Kids are like that.

  I sleep.

  I can’t breathe.

  I choke on water.

  At the bottom

  of the ocean

  there’s a Samsung

  Galaxy

  vibrating.

  GOD

  Mom said, “Take care of each other and respect each other. She said, “Respect each other a lot, and take care of each other.” She said it once a day at first, then twice, then three times, and so on, until the thing became a symphony.

  But she would come in, look at me, sit down, look at me, open her legs, look at me, pick up the contraption, look at me, put it between her legs, look at me, settle it in, look at me, adjust the endpin, look at me, turn the pegs, look at me, tighten the strings, look at me. She looked at me the same way Mom did, with the same chin, the same nose, the same teeth. Mom had perfect teeth, and she wanted us to take care of each other. Take care of each other like sisters do. But she looked at me with the same eyes as Mom. Mom went to a mission.

  The whole town had been going off, little by little, to missions. People went off for years to serve in impenetrable places, catastrophic countries, sick countries, people sick in abstract organs invisible to the eye. And the whole town had been going off, little by little, to save people, strangers, they were swept up by the concept of solidarity. Solidarity turned into dollars, into food, into household appliances. Over chat, even after weeks went by, Mom said, “Take care of each other, I love you both a lot, I see you in every little girl who crosses my path.”

  Over chat, even after ten months, Mom said, “Don’t disrespect each other, defend each other, take good care of each other, I remember you always.”

  Over chat, even after two years, Mom said, “Take care of each other, protect each other, think of me, don’t forget me.” Mom said that and most of the time she’d sit stiff in silence looking at us while we sat stiff and looked at her, and nodded, yes, that we loved each other more all the time.

  In spite of the mission, the distance, and the chat, Mom’s teeth were still the same.

  Missionary Mom missed us, but she had to fulfill her mission, she had to have solidarity and be self-critical, she had to save the lives of other people from other towns in other jungles in other countries on other continents. And she had to return home with her hands and feet and soul full of gifts, countless gifts, for her teenage young adult grown-up elderly daughters.

  That’s what we were and that’s what we’ll continue to be. Two teenage young adult grown-up elderly girls. A couple of girls without their missionary mom in the house to yank their ears, to separate them.

  So she would come in, look at me, sit down, look at me, open her legs, look at me, pick up the contraption, look at me, put it between her legs, look at me, settle it in, look at me, adjust the endpin, look at me, turn the pegs, look at me, tighten the strings, look at me. She looked at me the same way Mom did, with the same chin, the same nose, the same teeth. Mom had perfect teeth, and she wanted us to take care of each other. Take care of each other like sisters. But she looked at me with the same eyes as Mom. The same familial nature. An expression between seductive and mischievous. The mission of mischievousness that we had to carry out.

  —Now I can’t write, thanks to you.

  —But I have to practice.

  —Learn to practice quietly.

  —The contraption doesn’t play quietly, it’s not electric, it doesn’t have volume.

  —There’s no volume in your head, either.

  —There’s no music in your head.

  —Yes there is.

  —Oh yeah? What music?

  —Come here.

  Then she came over, closer, pretended to lift up a lid, pretended to peer into the emptiness, blew with her mouth and her teeth, which were Mom’s mouth and teeth; she pretended to stick her hand into a hole, pretended to pull something out, and she started rolling with laughter.

  —See, there’s music.

  —It’s not music, dummy. What I just took out of your head is a round stone, a pebble from paradise.

  —My head’s not paradise.

  —Your head is a music-less paradise full of pebbles, air, and fear.

  —Why fear?

  —You’re afraid of Bach.

  —What I’m afraid of is all his preludes together.

  —You’re afraid of Bach.

  Yes. I’m afraid of Bach. I’m afraid of Mom. I’m afraid of the comandante who sent Mom to a mission. I’m afraid of her, the one who takes care of me and whom I take care of and who plays Bach with her legs apart, sitting on a chair with her legs apart with her chest out with her chin out with her face contorting from the sounds of Bach. Sounds that are revolutionary, solidary, syllabary. I’m afraid of the comandante who sends missionaries to abandon their daughters.

  Yes. Missions Avenue, August thirteenth, twelfth meridian. Eleven missionaries parade past to celebrate the comandante’s birthday, and to listen to the comandante speak, and to obey his orders. The comandante gives love and orders. The comandante needs to send them to a mission. The mission is secret. The mission is a miracle.

  Yes. I’m afraid of missions. I’m afraid of reptiles. I’m afraid of Facebook. I’m afraid of chat. I’m afraid of the female mosquito. I’m afraid of food. I’m afraid of clarity. I’m afraid of money. I’m afraid of new clothes. I’m afraid of a pebble. I’m afraid of poetry. I’m afraid of music.

  Yes. Las Misiones Airport where Mom left from, and where María left from, and Elvira, and Reina, and Amelia, and Cristina, and Luisa, and Susana, and Esperanza, and Flor, and Carmen, and Laura, and Sofía, and Ester, and Virginia, and Lisbet, and Liset, and Elena, and Caridad.

  Yes. I’m afraid of Luigi Boccherini. I’m afraid of Gaspar Cassadó. I’m afraid of Han-Na Chang. I’m afraid of Jacqueline du Pré. I’m afraid of Emanuel Feuermann. I’m afraid of Pierre Founier. I’m afraid of Antonio Janigro. I’m afraid of Yo-Yo Ma. I’m afraid of Mischa Maisky. I’m afraid of Jacques Offenbach. I’m afraid of Carlos Prieto. I’m afraid of János Starker. I’m afraid of Paul Tortelier.

  Yes. Blue sea of the missions where I dip my foot when I go to the sea and my mission is only that, to put my foot in it. My first foot and my second foot, and then she comes closer, looks at me, puts her feet in.

  Yes. I’m afraid of Angola. I’m afraid of Miami. I’m afraid of Warsaw. I’m afraid of Paris. I’m afraid of Moscow. I’m afraid of Caracas. I’m afraid of Barcelona. I’m afraid of Nafpaktos. I’m afraid of Johannesburg. I’m afraid of Tokyo. I’m afraid of Jerusalem. I’m afraid of Nagasaki. I’m afraid of Port-au-Prince. I’m afraid of Tijuana. I’m afraid of Havana. I’m afraid of fear.

  Yes.

  Yes.

  She was also a little afraid. Doctors, nurses, engineers, teachers, construction workers, peasants, everyone, had been heading off to a mission. Artists, economists, lawyers, sales-people, writers, musicians, had been heading off to a mission. At this point no one was left in the city.

  No one.

  No one.

  She woke up in the night with a muffled scream. She called to me. She threw the contraption at me. She signaled for me to place it next to me, on my other side. She jumped from her bed to my bed like an amphibian from one rock to another. She checked to see that the contraption was well placed. She covered herself with my sheet, head and all. She curled up beside me like a damp pebble. She slept.

  The rest was normal and sequential. Every
night the same thing. Amphibian jump in the early morning. Shared sheet. Dampness.

  In the early morning of one August thirteenth, I woke up dreaming of the comandante. It was the commemoration of the real comandante’s birth—he was turning around a hundred that day. The comandante was a warm girl, at my side, who wanted to send me to a mission. To convince me that the mission was truly important and that I had to leave my house to go there, she kissed me on the mouth in an exemplary way, she put her tongue in, wrapped it around my tongue, licked my gums, cleaned my teeth, slobbered on my lips, and of course, I understood that I had to leave my house to go to a mission. Commander-in-chief, give your order.

  Mom said to take good care of each other, and we really did take good care of each other, we respected each other and loved each other more all the time. Over chat I promised Mom I’d buy my sister a new apparatus, not with the money Mom sent us for food, but with my own money, a bunch of dollars that I’d won in a contest. The contest was about knowledge. The question over the radio was: Who composed the art of fugue?

  I bought her a new instrument, a top-of-the-line Stradivarius, with a wheeled case so she didn’t have to strain herself.

  I lost my fear of Bach.

  I lost my fear of the comandante.

  If someone calls and

  tells you no,

  hang up quickly.

  If someone calls

  and tells you yes,

  hang up quickly,

  as well.

  MIAMI

  AIRPORT, FIVE IN THE AFTERNOON.

  If I count the people my poor eyes (astigmatism and vision loss) can see in just a few minutes, maybe I’ll get up to a million. In my right hand, a hundred books and in my left, my passport. The hundred books weigh more than me, so I hurry to find a cart where I can deposit the bag that holds them. I tug on the cart but I can’t get it out. I pull harder and nothing. The cart backs up toward me in reverse along an aluminum rail, but it won’t come off. I have to put my credit card into a slot in the wall. The slot in the wall is a machine that will access my credit, subtracting a small amount, and the cart will come off the rail. But I don’t have a card. Or credit. In the place I come from, cards and credit don’t exist.