The Mortifications (14 page)

Willems mentioned this to Soledad's doctor. He was afraid Soledad might wear herself out, that she was busy fucking when she should have been convalescing. He was also afraid of himself. A few nights past he had not only turned Soledad over in bed but had reached around her side and grabbed, with not a little force, the scar tissue of her chest. He'd never done this before, and it made Soledad heave. She'd cried out, but when he let go, she took his hand and pressed it harder into the scar. She'd liked it, and so had Willems, but the gesture had opened a door, and before the night was over, he'd pulled out a tuft of her hair, grasped her neck hard enough to bruise the skin, and bit her in the ass; they had not known it till the morning, but he'd broken the skin, and the sheets were streaked with Soledad's blood. Willems was terrified. He felt as though
his
body were succumbing in some way to the cancer. Soledad's form was retreating before his eyes, and with her permission he'd gone about reclaiming it. Willems had never felt so powerful. He'd also never felt so shamed, so childish, trying to hold on to something that was clearly in the early stages of decay, as if he could hold Soledad back from the pit of death.

The doctor said, You love her. This is strange but not unnatural. You want to keep her.

She's not mine to keep, Willems said. She's not a possession.

Our bodies, the doctor said, are not the people we love. And it seems she wants you to keep at it. If it makes her feel better, I'd keep doing it.

Willems shook his head.

Maybe also schedule a few sessions with a counselor, the doctor suggested. It doesn't sound like she says much about it, and sometimes it's helpful to just talk about these things with no real goal in mind. Just describe the circumstances, characterize it, define it, and whatnot. Perhaps schedule a few sessions for yourself as well. These situations are often harder on the family. They're the ones left behind.

A week later and in a psych-ward office smelling faintly of sawdust, a psychologist asked Soledad how she was feeling lately.

I miss my children, she said. The chemo is fine. I know what to expect this second time around, but I miss my son and my daughter. They're twins. That's from their father's side; their father's mother had a twin sister. Mr. Willems is not their father. That man is in Cuba still. Ulises was born a few minutes before Isabel, but you'd think she was the older one. I don't know whether birth order really means anything, though perhaps it's different when twins are involved. The house was quiet before they left. One of them, my daughter, doesn't speak. She can but chooses not to. I wish sometimes that the difference between them being home and away was more obvious. I keep expecting to walk through the kitchen and see one of them. I can't believe the silence means what it means. Does that make sense? It sounds like nonsense when I say it aloud.

The psychologist asked about the condition of Soledad's body: did she notice any difference in reaction to the second round of chemo compared to the first?

Yes, I do, Soledad said. I am awake at night constantly. The first time through I slept like I was already dead. My body, I think, was in a state of shock from all the drugs, and it just wanted to shut down completely between sessions. Sitting up for hours for the treatment nearly emptied me. As soon as it was over, though, I started to feel remarkably better. The tumor hadn't left, but my body was acting like it had. They originally thought I'd only be strong enough for one round. But here I am, and this second round is a different world.

The psychologist wondered what Soledad thought about all night when she was awake.

My body. I've never been so aware of what my body feels like as I am now that I'm stuck in bed. Before when I slept, I had favorite positions, places I liked to put my arms and legs. But now that I've been altered, I can't find the same spots. My arms lie differently without breasts. Sleeping on my chest isn't painful but it is odd. And I don't like sleeping on my back at all.

The psychologist got to the point: new appetites?

I just want to be tired again, Soledad said. Our sex used to be wonderful, but it didn't ever exhaust me.

We could try sleeping pills, the psychologist suggested.

I suppose. But that won't really make me tired, will they? They'll just shut down my brain, put a fog over it. My body will still feel the same. I take enough pills as it is.

Do you think, the psychologist said, that this is something you should share with Mr. Willems?

I don't see how Henri would benefit from knowing this, she said. To be frank, he hasn't stopped himself from being rough with me. Even if it does disturb him, it doesn't stop him. But if he knew what it was I was after, I'm sure he'd suggest something else. Taking up a sport or longer walks or something without any adrenaline.

What was the sex like before?

Loving. Or passionate. It was heated, but nothing like this. This feels necessary or, at least, necessary if I want to stay sane. Before it was mostly pleasure, mostly another way to enjoy each other's skin.

Do you still find Mr. Willems attractive?

Yes, she said, though to be frank, I am more interested in what he's capable of doing to me than I am in exploring his flesh. It sounds like I'm testing him, doesn't it? To see what he'll eventually do.

Do you think, the psychologist wondered, he could really, truly hurt you? In a matter that goes beyond play?

Soledad thought for a moment. Only if I asked him to.

It's exciting, the psychologist said.

What is? she asked.

You smiled just now, he said. You said
if I asked him to,
and you smiled just a little bit.

Now I feel myself blushing, Soledad said.

What's thrilling about it?

Soledad paused a moment. Throwing away my body, she said.

Doing what you want with it, the psychologist said.

She said, Maybe that's too simple.

Of course it is, but you haven't yet told me how.

Willems also visited a counselor, but not the same one as Soledad, a distinction his counselor pointed out right away.

It didn't seem like a good idea, Willems said. I thought it might make it harder for Soledad if she knew I was talking to the same person. Like I was telling our secrets, confessions a therapist could use against her.

Has she done something wrong? the counselor asked.

No, of course not. She's ill. I just mean it would seem unfair. If her counselor knew things ahead of time, I feel like he or she might come to certain conclusions. Then it might not matter what Soledad is saying. Maybe a diagnosis would already be under way.

Did you tell her counselor anything before their session? Did you write anything down on the intake sheets?

Yes, I think so.

What did you write? the counselor asked.

That our situation feels different now, Willems said. That we don't interact the same way. It feels like our connection is askew.

Anything else?

I mentioned our lovemaking has changed.

I saw that. Very different, it seems. Do you feel that was a betrayal somehow?

I had not considered it one.

But, the counselor said, you didn't want to share the same counselor.

No, that didn't seem like it would be helpful.

So really you didn't want to betray her trust more than you already had, the counselor said.

I know that's not an accusation, but it feels like one. But I see your point. Yes, talking about our problems to the same person would have felt wrong. My version might have skewed the truth. This is her illness, not mine.

So she can talk freely? the counselor said. She's allowed to betray your trust because she's the one who's ill?

Am I afraid she's telling our secrets? I hope she is. I hope she's talking about everything she needs to.

What do you think it would be like if you were talking to her psychologist right now instead of me? What if your session came right after hers?

I believe I'd have a hard time with that, Willems said. I'd feel as though the psychologist would know too much about me, or that he'd know the same things I did, which might be unsettling.

How come?

I don't know. Actually, isn't it obvious? No man likes the idea of another man having intimate access to his wife.

But you two aren't married.

Maybe I've come to think of us that way, Willems said.

You think you've earned that distinction, the counselor said.

We have been through a great deal of pain together, and I can't imagine leaving her.

Is that love or marriage, though? You seem to love her very much, but marriage, if I am being overly simplistic, is someone accepting that love completely. Do you feel completely accepted by Soledad?

I don't think she would do the things she does with me with someone she does not accept. I think that our strange behavior is possible because of our closeness.

And before? Before the new kind of lovemaking, did she accept you then? Or is this now the moment you feel brought in entirely?

I don't know. There wasn't a time stamp on our relationship before. She wasn't dying yet, and we were happy. She does seem to be letting go of herself. But I can't say if she's giving up or giving herself to me. I'm not sure she knows what's happening, which is why we're here.

This, for you, is maybe about commitment then. You are asking yourself if this is her proposal to you.

Maybe, Willems said.

Do you worry about her past, then? The manner in which she left her legal husband?

No.

Have you ever met her husband? the counselor asked.

No, never spoken with or seen the man. The closest I've come is a letter he wrote to his son.

The counselor asked what Willems thought of Uxbal.

Nothing really, Willems said. I can't picture him in my mind. I've hung around his son enough that you'd think I'd be able to extrapolate something, but I haven't. At best, he is the man who gave Soledad children. At worst, he is the man who hurt her.

Who are you in all of this?

The man who deals with her pain.

Do you think about the letter often? the counselor asked.

I think about it the mornings after sex.

The rough sex?

Yes, Willems said. After the rough sex. I think to myself, there is a man shouting out into the void. There is a man who knows things about the woman I am with that I do not. Soledad has said before that her husband and I are not too dissimilar in some cases. Our best parts, she's said, often line up.

The counselor said, You have all these years together now that her husband doesn't. Don't you think you know some things he does not?

Yes, yes.

I don't mean to be crass, the counselor said, but do you think he's ever bitten her on the ass?

Willems said, You're right, of course. Unless this is some older version of Soledad. Unless this is who she used to be when she was with him. Which means I'm the one still learning how to touch her. I feel like she is leading me on, sometimes, but I can't figure out why. She used to want me, but now she wants
something
from me. It's like we've started all over again. As if we're just now at the beginning.

On the streets of Havana, Inez kept touching Ulises's elbow as she guided him. Inez also touched him when they changed directions, when she read from the plaques they came upon, when they slid between parked cars. She slipped her arm into Ulises's, and he thought this was a custom of the city. At one point a truck rushed by, nearly nicking their heels as they passed an alley, and Inez put her hand on Ulises's chest. She touched him enough that Ulises forgot that he was on a tour and acted as though they'd stumbled upon one another as old friends do sometimes. Yet this was a friendship of a different sort, more like an old devotion resurrected, as if Ulises had pined after Inez in childhood. Her fingers—mariposa stems compared to his thumbs, thick as mangrove roots—kept finding his knuckles or palms or shoulders. They put him at ease, and by nightfall he asked her questions he'd not ever thought to ask a woman.

You told me you're not from here, Ulises said.

I'm from the east, Inez said. Near Palma Soriano.

The country? he asked.

A bit like the country, she said, but not entirely. On the edge of the wilderness, maybe.

That's where my family is from, Ulises told her. He told her Buey Arriba was also on the edge of rough country, but he realized he was only guessing. He said, Anyway, there are mountains just to the south, and I've known people to get lost in them.

I didn't think you were a native, she said. You have an odd accent, and you don't seem like you grew up here. You're too big for this city. You take up the entire sidewalk. Is this your first time here?

It's my second time to Havana, he said, but I don't remember much of the first. I was young. I'm looking for my sister. She's left our family, and we think she came through Havana. We think she's gone back to Buey Arriba.

I'm sure you'll find her, Inez said. The towns out east are much smaller. There are fewer people, and they all know one another. A different sort of place than Havana.

I was told that, Ulises said. He asked, Why did you leave?

For school and work, she said.

There are no museums in Palma Soriano? he asked.

There are more here.

And your family?

Still there, she said.

Do you make it back?

I don't, she said.

Inez took Ulises by the forearm and asked him if he was hungry. The rum had long since worn off, and he said yes. She took him to a barrio just east of the fading Chinatown, and they slipped quietly into a restaurant serving tuna wontons, ham sandwiches, greasy noodles, mangoes, glazed herring, and plantains. Inez did not eat nearly as much as Ulises, but she sat as close to him as possible, and once or twice she touched his leg, though when Ulises looked up at her, she'd turn away. She seemed to be making a decision about something that did not concern him, and he found himself jealous of whatever thought kept her attention from him. He wondered if he'd somehow offended her. There, perhaps, was another reason for her migration to Havana, a troubling background his questions had evoked, but the notion only intensified Ulises's attraction to Inez, the possibility that she too had left her home without much choice. He felt his thumbs throb and his lips sweat, and he could not keep himself from looking at the shape of Inez's neck or smelling the gasoline musk she'd acquired from their long afternoon of walking the city and dodging ancient diesel pickups.