Woman
I see Mariela’s bare back, fair skin dotted with freckles, brown curly hair falling like a waterfall down a mountain. Sitting on the bed, naked and vulnerable, Mariela contemplates the void, absorbed in her silence. Do I love her? I ask myself. Is it possible to “love” someone after only a few days? When we make love, time and space vanish; I lose myself in the depth of her empty gaze, I cease to be myself, the animal is left behind, the act is left behind; we are vital force fused together, stretching into infinity.
I get up to go to the bathroom. I want to urinate. I wonder whether to close the door. The ridiculousness of social conventions: after the utmost moment of intimacy possible between two people, a sticky modesty makes me close it. In the bathroom I look at myself in the mirror, confronting my naked body. I think that years have passed. I still feel like that teenager desperate to be an adult, and now, as an adult, I discover that adulthood is only a myth one must dismantle by oneself. You are the same child as an adult and you will be the same child as an old man, thinking that at some point you will discover how one is supposed to do this business of living, but you will die without solving the riddle.
When I leave the bathroom, the stupid question escapes my mouth: what are you thinking about? The supreme statue of human idiocy, as though it were possible to have even a glimpse of another person’s thoughts. I am an idiot. Mariela comes out of her reverie, as if returning from a long journey on the other side of the universe, turns, and tells me with a smile: you.
“Are you serious, man?” “Why don’t you go talk to them, asshole? It’s work. I’m telling you, they like what you’ve done, and now is the time to get into that shit.” “Fuck, man, you know I hate that shit. A romantic comedy? Fucking Temo, that isn’t my thing.” “Look, dude, I’m going to talk straight. It’s great that you took your film to festivals and all that, but until you can sell it—which, no offence, is honestly difficult—you need to work. You want to do only artistic projects and all that, and that’s great, but everybody has to eat. This job will connect you with more people; it is résumé material, another little tick towards building your IMDb. Do you think Chivo Lubezki was born winning Oscars and all that shit?” “Ha ha, don’t be ridiculous.” “I’m telling you, man, take the cinematography job on this movie. It’s one little month in Valle grinding away on this project, then you can keep trying to place your film. Who knows, maybe you’ll hook up with one of the actresses. Did I tell you who will be in it?” “You’re an idiot.” “Just tell me whether you want to talk to them or not. I’m telling you, they’re desperate because the other guy got hurt, and they are scheduled to begin shooting in two weeks. It has to happen now. Shall I tell them you’re coming or what?” “Go ahead.”
Sometimes we doze after making love. I hold her and feel her breathing. I wake when I sense her restless sleep, her quicker breathing and a murmur. What is she dreaming of? I like to smell her hair, press my nose to her head and smell her. I pass my hand over her breasts and feel her sweat; I press against her, pull her back closer to my chest as if I wanted to fuse us in an eternal embrace. What is she dreaming of? I still remember what it was to be a teenager. I remember being a lovestruck teenager, dreaming that one day I would hold a woman just this way, naked beneath the sheets, safe in my arms, time stopped. Sometimes I ask myself how I got here, when I stopped being a teenager and became a man, because in essence I feel I am exactly the same. I once read that the arrow of time does not exist, that past and future are happening at exactly the same time; we only perceive them as before and after, but in fact they are simply two sides of the same coin. So, at the same time, I am being born, crying because my father left me at kindergarten for the first time, running with my cousins on the old football field, passing Verónica a note to see whether she wants to skip school with me, smoking a joint in Las Islas with Rogelio, breaking up with Silvia because I was told she cheated on me, walking drunk through the streets of Paris, sitting on the toilet staring blankly at my phone’s screen, in this bed holding Mariela, somewhere dying. All of this is happening at once, all of it is happening to me and I cannot do anything to stop it, only experience it and feel that some things came before and others later, when in truth they are all happening to me. She has calmed down; her breathing is gentler. What is she dreaming of? I thought that one day—when I grew up—ages would stop mattering, but no, they remain as they were when I was a child. The second time I saw Mariela, I asked her age and she said thirty-six, six years older than I am, yet she looks even younger to me, more radiant. She always feels clean and fresh, as if she had just come out of the shower, and at the same time always looks as if she has not bathed for days because of her tousled hair and the way she seems always to be wrapping herself in whatever she is wearing. Another sniff of her hair. I feel like a dog. I want to be your faithful dog, Mariela; put a leash on me and take me for a walk. The rays of light coming through the window begin to fade; the sun must be setting. The hour does not matter; I already said time is relative. Wait, Mariela moves. With her eyes closed she turns and kisses me. I have to go.
Some of us had rented houses, and part of the crew was staying in a small hotel in the centre. My house was on Calle de la Cruz, almost at the corner of Calle del Artista: a small gated group of three houses at the end of the steep cobblestone street, with a brick arch as its entrance and an enormous red gate. Inside, the three houses stood in a row, all facing the town and the lake; from their elevated position on the hill, one could see everything. A place of complete tranquillity even though the very centre of town was barely five minutes away on foot. The houses had part-brick and part-white-plastered façades, tiled roofs with wooden beams, that country-house feeling chilangos long for when we tire of eating smog. The first house, closest to the entrance gate, was the largest and had a small second-floor terrace. Ernesto, the owner of all three houses, lived there. He rented out the other two, slightly smaller ones—and without a terrace, boo!—and if I was interested, he was also considering selling them, he told me. The house where I stayed was the furthest in; the middle one was vacant. After showing me around the house, explaining the keys and how I had to open the gate because it had a trick to it, Ernesto explained that he would be out of town for nearly all of my stay. He had to go eat smog, but I should call him if I needed anything—anything? Ernesto, bring me some beers and cigarettes. He would certainly return a couple of days before I left the house and, if for some reason he could not make it back by then, he would send someone from town to receive it from me.
I looked at the view from the generous windows—fucking Ernesto, why did you not put a terrace on this house too?—and began unpacking. Ernesto, a courteous, kind man in his fifties, with a deep voice, green eyes behind round glasses, silver hair, and a sturdy build, came to say goodbye early the next day, and I watched him drive out of the compound in his pickup. It was eight thirty; I was not due to meet the crew until eleven to go to location and finish planning the scenes we would shoot that afternoon. I went into the bathroom and stayed there reading the news on my phone. Always bad news, damn it; I should stop looking at these things in the morning. When I came out, I was abruptly frightened to see a woman standing beside the bed. Before I could speak, she told me, “Don’t be scared, I’m Ernesto’s wife,” and moved towards me with her hand out. Still speechless, I shook it, confused. How did she get in? Why did she get in? Is Ernesto married? He told me nothing, never mentioned a wife. Why did the wife stay here if this guy left for a month? Why did he say he would send someone from town to receive the house when I left? Is she married to Ernesto? But she looks very young. Fucking Ernesto, dirty old man. It is damn impressive. I’m not judging you. Good for you.
“Hello, I… I’m…” “Yes, I know. Welcome. How long are you staying with us?” “A… a month.” “Great. Sorry I frightened you, huh? I wanted to come and leave everything in order and see whether you need anything.” “Oh, thank you. Ernesto did not tell me anything. He came to say goodbye about twenty minutes ago.” “My husband would not lose his head only because it is stuck to him. He is terribly absent-minded; forgive him.”
As we kept talking and I calmed down, I began noticing her beauty—fucking Ernesto. She wore a white nightgown and a long open cardigan that she kept closing with her hands as she spoke. She repeated some of the same instructions Ernesto had given me and began making the bed. When she bent down, I managed to see one of her breasts through the nightgown’s neckline and instinctively looked away—look how modest I am—but curiosity made me look back and continue watching—look what a fucking pervert I am.
“Ernesto did tell you there are some things in the cupboard, right?” “Yes, thank you very much”—turning as though I were looking somewhere else; she almost caught me. “Would you like coffee?” “Oh no, thank you, that is kind of you”—embarrassed? Why embarrassed? I hate talking like that. “Are you sure? I was going to make one anyway, but if you like I can make one for you too, and you can tell me what brought you to Valle.” “All right, yes, thank you very much.” “By the way, my name is Mariela.”
Fucking Ernesto, man, I liked you, but here I am fucking your wife. Sorry, brother, but the one who went to town…
We never arranged a time. She simply visited me. She arrived at the house and threw herself on me. Mariela was voracious, a great lover. She knew which buttons to press, which knobs to turn, which levers to pull in me. Ernesto surely does not satisfy her, I thought. Sitting on top of me, she held my face with both hands and fixed her eyes on mine. “Don’t go,” she said. “Stay here with me.” “I’m here, I’m here,” I answered. “No, I want you to be here. Who are you talking to? Stay here with me; kiss me.” Her head resting on my chest, lying silently together, total peace: it seems impossible that outside this house there is a world, that outside there are other people, each living their own life. Does all this exist or am I dreaming it? I wondered as a child. The idea that other people existed beyond me seemed impossible. Sometimes I played with the idea that perhaps all those people did not exist, perhaps they were part of my imagination, placed there as filler, cardboard figures pretending to be people. Perhaps, if I closed my eyes, they all stopped existing. Perhaps I was God and did not know it. “Where are you, love?” Mariela asked. “Here, beautiful, I’m here with you.” She came close and kissed me—what a kiss. It dismantled me, broke me into pieces right there and put me together again, the wretch. What an astonishing way to kiss.
“I want you to tell me everything about yourself. I want to know everything about your life.” “My life is very boring, beautiful. Better tell me yours. To begin with, tell me how old you are.” “Ha ha, why do you want to know? Thirty-six.”
When I was a child, I loved horses. Of course I still like them, but as a child I loved them. My parents had a ranch where we went at weekends, and all I wanted was to live there forever, riding horses. I remember it and it makes me laugh, but I begged my parents to move to the ranch forever. I did not care about leaving school, piano lessons, or my friends; I only wanted to go ride horses. When I was sixteen, my parents had to sell the ranch. It was financial trouble: they had to close the factory and were left with a couple of small businesses. The crisis that year, you know. They also sold the big house in Pedregal, and we moved to a more modest house in Anzures. I liked that house. It was on Descartes. I remember when my first boyfriend came to visit and we stayed leaning against the gate until the sun went down and my mother shouted for me to come inside. It was a nice house—well, I liked it—white, with little bricks painted red, in that style that had been fashionable some twenty years earlier, that sixties ornamentation that looks very functional. It had a little garden at the front, a white wall with black bars, and the garage gate was black too. I was leaning against it when my boyfriend gave me my first kiss, beneath a lemon tree planted on the very pavement. It was a very difficult period for my parents. They had to lose many things, sold everything, and what they refused to sell was my Steinway piano. As a child I did not understand it, but now I realise keeping that piano was a sacrifice. They wanted to keep giving me the best, just as they did with my tuition. I imagine they went without a great deal to keep me in school. It is curious how you understand and appreciate things only after they have passed, as if you gained life’s wisdom only when you can no longer use it for anything, as if you learned what truly matters when your life is already over.
Where do these stolen moments lead? Waking beside Mariela and telling her I love you—where does it lead? How much time do we have? I feel water rising to my neck. I count the days desperately. We have two weeks before Ernesto returns and I do not want this to end. Mariela, run away with me; leave everything and let us go who knows where. Let us run without looking back. We will live our lie, live our stolen dream forever. Let us go and live together forever. We can live anywhere. What is stopping us? Let us have children and give them names. Let us take them to school and watch them grow. Let us watch them leave and have lives of their own, children of their own. Let us play with our grandchildren, sleep holding each other always even when we are a pair of old people, feel together as the light in us goes out. Let us wake one day dead, but together, always together.
I greeted the old man as I left the house in the morning, a polite, cold, distant greeting, as it should be with strangers. But it became warmer, friendlier each time, until one day we stopped for a few minutes to talk.
“Good morning, young man.” “Good morning.” “You are staying in these little houses, aren’t you?” “That’s right.” “With Ernesto.” “The very same.” “Will you be staying long?” “Only two more weeks, what do you think?” “Ah.” “I came for work, but I’m nearly finished.” “Ah. You wouldn’t happen to be one of those filming a movie on the malecón, would you?” “A mind-reader!” “Well, look at that. Movies. Yes, I like movies very much. My favourites are Joaquin Pardavé’s.” “Well, that’s nice. Don’t you like Clavillazo’s?” “Yes, those too, those too.” “Well, I’ll leave you because duty calls.” “Have a good day, young man.”
Her marriage was taboo. We never spoke of Ernesto or his imminent return. There were no complaints or justifications, no trace of remorse or shame. I think I felt more shame. I had never got involved with a married woman and felt like a rogue. A double sensation engulfed me: on the one hand, a macho thrill and pride—me more man, my penis bigger, unga bunga—and on the other, some guilt and, I admit it, a little fear. Why say “little” when it was not little? The truth was I did not know what to expect. What would happen when Ernesto arrived? The logical thing would be for each of us to go on with our life and for this to have been a simple adventure, a fling, a little grey hair in the wind—Mariela’s, because she is older and married, heh heh. Yet deep down I did not want to stop. We had not stopped to talk about it. As I said, it was a taboo subject neither of us had addressed, so I did not know what she wanted. With only a week until the unavoidable arrival of the cuckolded husband, I felt obliged to decide what I wanted and discuss it with her. First things first: yes, yes, I loved her. I had asked myself, reflected on it, and the truth was I could see myself living with her. I would take her back to the city. We would live in my apartment, and of course I would let her decorate it. We would buy a piano and spend rainy capital afternoons with the view of Colonia Juárez at our feet, she playing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata and I frantically correcting the dialogue of my next screenplay. We would make love every night as we had until then, always wake up embracing, adopt a dog who would initially be a terribly mischievous bastard but later a faithful companion to us both, do our shopping at the Sumesa on Calle Londres. When people asked how we met, we would look at each other with a mischievous smile and say it was a long story. Now the big question: did Mariela love me? I thought so. She was the one who began with the I love yous, you are my life, my love you drive me crazy, love what are you thinking about, and other sentimental things that I must admit I repeated too. You do not say “I love you” in a one-night stand, do you?
“Always so thoughtful, my love.” “You know me, beautiful.” “Come and hold me; I want to feel you.” “Do you love me, Mariela?” “What a question, love. Do you really not know that I love you?” “Of course, but I like hearing you say it.” “Oh, my love, so spoiled. Come get under the sheets and stop telling other people about our life. I want you to make love to me again.”
Ernesto was going to arrive this Saturday, but he has just called to tell me he arrives tomorrow, Thursday. I have to hurry. I told the production people I needed to leave on urgent business, that I would surely be back in a while. They got angry. I do not give a shit. I hurry down the street, walk fast, almost jog. The malecón is left behind and the town centre approaches ahead. I walk fast, hurried and nervous, but decisively and purposefully. I know what I have to do. I will talk to Mariela. She surely received the news moments before I did. I will tell her to forget her old man, that she is mine now and we are leaving. We will get into the car and go to the city right now. There will be time later to speak to Ernesto, time later to explain. Right now I feel life slipping through my hands and all I want is to put Mariela in my car and speed away. I do not care about “doing things properly,” I do not care about being civilised; all I care about is not losing Mariela. I am climbing Calle de la Cruz. Three hundred metres and I reach the house. I love you, I will tell her. I love you and I cannot lose you. Here comes the old man greeting me from a distance. I hope he does not take up my time.
“Young man, good afternoon.” “Good afternoon.” “Back to the house already?” “Yes, excuse me.” “Say, by any chance, do you know when Ernesto is coming back? The dominoes fellows already miss him.” “He just told me he arrives tomorrow.” “Oh, well, that’s good. Such a good man, that Ernesto.”—The comment like lemon on a wound. “Yes, excuse me.” “Such a good man, and yet life dealt him such bad cards. What a tragedy.” “What? What tragedy?” “His wife.” “…” “You don’t know?” “W… what?” “Well, how would you know? Look, it isn’t that I’m a gossip, but since you asked. Ernesto was married to a very beautiful woman, and she died some… fifteen years ago, more or less. Poor Ernesto suffered terribly. She became ill, you see, and the poor thing did not make it. A very beautiful woman. Well, she was no longer so young, but she was very beautiful. Her name was Mariela.”
I came to the city only to sort things out. I have already told Ernesto that I am going to buy the house where I was staying. I still have to sell my apartment here, but while all that is arranged Ernesto agreed to rent me the house at a very good price. Tomorrow I am going back to Valle; I only hope Mariela keeps visiting me.