The Wanderess (16 page)

“But when it comes to pass,” I broke in, “that she falls into
ruin, I want to be there to help my little gypsy girl know that it is
only financial ruin, so that she won’t go crazy. I want to help her
pitch her gypsy tent by the riverbank… I will build the fire to keep
her warm. And I will feed her while she sings me songs, and
neither of us will weep.”

The center of Saskia’s back was covered this night in the
soft-knit of her pajama top. Sitting beside her, I pressed the palm
of my hand on this place—perhaps the most sacred place on a
woman’s body. The two of us were near the kitchen. And with
my hand on her body, the world felt perfect. Life was perfect. I
felt her body perfectly until, I think, she realized how perfectly I
wanted to feel her body. That is when she spoke and ruined
everything…

“I’m sorry if I didn’t mention yesterday that I had a date
for the theatre for tonight… I guess I didn’t think it was important
to our friendship, so I didn’t bring it up. I guess I was mostly
surprised to see you jealous of him…”

“What then?!” she said, “
Saul…
how could you, man that
you are, be jealous of a child like he is?! And how could you be
jealous anyway,
seeing as you and I are just friends?!”
With that,
Saskia left my side and went to boil water for tea.

I was blown away by all this. For a long time, I sat with my
head drooped, saying nothing, feeling myself a dupe. When I first
met Saskia, she said
everything in the world depended on our being
together.
Was it not her devotion to our relationship that had
seduced me into being with her? I had tried to leave her, but she
sought me out again… checking into my old hotel and playing her
siren song from the balcony. Now her devotion had turned into
indifference. Her dreams seemed to fall like snow in the night,
only to melt with the rising sun—and I was the dupe.

I only opened my mouth after a quarter of an hour: one, to
tell Saskia she was right; and, two, to tell her that she was a
ridiculous creature, a mere adolescent, and that I had expected a
maturity from her of which she was not capable. I finished by
saying that I could only be happy far away from girls of only
seventeen years, because they are all idiots.

I couldn’t believe the effect my words had on her! She
erupted in tears, choked on her sobs, and trembled and made fists
so tight that her nails cut the soft skin of her hands. “What I
mean is that you are right,” I told her, “we never did make a vow
of commitment, it was I who imagined that we had a strong
emotional bond—but this was a reaction to your attitude towards
me. That aside, I have to tell you I can never respect you again. I
suggest we go our separate ways.” With these grim words, Saskia
exploded into even louder sobs. I went on, “Things would be
different had you cheated on me for
passion
alone. In that case, I
would be jealous and despise you, but I would know it wasn’t your
fault because
passion
infects even the noblest hearts. But the
truth remains that you took your friend home with you
not
out of
passion
but only so that you would continue receiving your
money. There is a word for such women. We call them whores.”

Her pan of tea water dropped to the floor. Her hands
trembled and she stood in the kitchen sobbing away. As tears
tumbled from her eyelids, I took a pinch of tobacco and laughed.

“You are a monster!” she said, and turned to me to let
these words pour out, “Stop laughing, damn you! You have an evil
heart, a black soul, etc…. So you know, I took him to my home
only so he could snoop in my apartment. I hoped that he would
get bored with what he found and stop spying on me. His pretext
for wanting to come see my place was that he wanted a cup of
coffee after the dance, and before going to his hotel. That is all!
So why did you say I had sex with him, Saul? Tell me that you
have never once in your life brought a female to your home at
night with whom you did not have sex. Really? Not even once!
You’re a liar. So then you, Saul the Great, think that I am a
whore? Well you are wrong! And you know what else?... who
gives a damn about your destiny, or
my
destiny, for that matter!
To hell with both you and me! What? I can say that if I want. I
don’t care what happens anymore. I think I hate you, Saul. How
could you say such a thing?—that I’m
a whore!
…” Her tears kept
her from saying more. She didn’t run away and she didn’t shout
in anger, she just kept crying in her kitchen. All the water in her
sweet body poured from her face, dripping down her beautiful
cheeks, soaking in her pajamas, splashing on the floor. I was
made tender by her crying, her sensitive heart made me ache
profoundly. I felt torn, I wasn’t sure.

Before I’d ever set foot in Greece, in Spain, in Europe
altogether… when I was living in Alexandria, I didn’t have much
money and lived in a very poor quarter of the city where the
prostitutes and erotic dancers were. In that part of town, one met
a
different kind of woman
—the kind of woman who never took a
man to her home
unless
it was to let him sleep with her. Thus, in
Alexandria, I got used to thinking of
that kind
of woman; when I
came to Europe and met the
other kind
, the
virtuous kind
, I didn’t
recognize the difference right away; so I confused the virtuous
Saskia with the former kind and I couldn’t work it out in my head.
And so that night, with the alcohol and the confusion, I lay on her
bed in the darkness and thought. After some minutes, Saskia
came from the kitchen where we had talked, and she approached
the bed. Still crying, she lay down beside me on top of the
blankets. She didn’t touch me, she just lay there. Finally, she
confessed, “I have not slept with anyone since I met you, Saul.”
Her tone of voice was so sincere, I knew she was telling the truth.
And like the wispy smoke of an opium cloud that disappears in
the night once it leaves the smoker’s lungs, so my anger
disappeared when that phrase left Saskia’s mouth. I thought then
only of one thing: of comforting her until she stopped crying. I
touched her shoulder. “Don’t ever call me an idiot again, you
idiot…” She made a small laugh.

“Me too… don’t you think it’s strange that we had a fight
about nothing?—well, except that it was not about nothing,
because you were jealous because I had a meeting with another
man. That means you are attracted to me.” She giggled again.

I didn’t know how to escape from that. It is true that I was
depressed without her when I was alone at the Urquinaona; and
sick with longing for her when she left me alone in our suite at the
Sant Felip Neri… but was I attracted to her?

When I woke up in the bed with her at the Sant Felip Neri,
I felt a sort of love for her, but as I said: more than wanting to
embrace her as a woman, I wanted to protect her as my child.
Although, she was no longer a child. She was almost eighteen
years old, and she had lived longer on her own than many women
had. By experience with the world she was a woman, only in love
was she a child… And so, when I became sick with jealousy seeing
her on the arm of another man, I knew I was falling in love with
her as a man falls in love with a woman. Now I knew, and the
whole business was all-too-obvious to Saskia. She clung to me
then, in the darkness, on her little bed. I bowed my head and she
kissed the lobe of my ear. Her kiss was not on the lips as lovers
do, but I was happy not to go deeper than that this night.

“The truth is,” she told me, “in all my life, I’ve only slept
with one person—it was three years ago, I was only fourteen. I
told you about my uncle’s will. They way in which he adored me
was all too evident in its terms—I earn a yearly income from his
estate for life, although I am not allowed to ever love a man…

“I went to live with him when I was thirteen, as soon as my
parents died. He treated me as a child then, he considered me a
child… and I was a child. But at fourteen he saw my body change
and I developed the haughty and flirtatious character of a young
woman. He was intrigued by this change…

“So one night, while I was sleeping, he entered my room
and caressed me. I pretended I was asleep at first, and let him do
it. I was partially afraid to show him I was awake, partially curious
to know what he was doing. I continued to let him until it had
gone on so long that I was too afraid to show him that I was
awake unless I had anything but a look of happiness on my face.
Then, I don’t know what happened. I started to feel sexual myself.
I was already interested in boys—and in men—and this was the
first time one touched me in this way. I let him proceed and,
what may surprise you, or even disgust you, is that I started to
return his affection, in my own clumsy inexperienced way. He
was rough with me, and he took my virginity that night. But the
whole time, I thought… it wasn’t awful. No, it wasn’t completely
awful, although I wish he had been more gentle. Can you imagine
that reaction from a niece? ‘It wasn’t completely awful, although I
wish he had been more gentle!’—I bet you think I’m deranged. I
slept with my uncle, and it didn’t disgust me at all… although I
wish he had been more gentle.”

“Afterwards, he kissed me on the cheek and told me he
loved me and respected me, and that he would always be there for
me, but that now he would leave me alone to sleep. I fell into a
deep sleep, and by the next morning when I awoke, he had
already left on a business trip to Athens.

“Every other day, I received gifts from him by the post:
vases with Greek goddesses painted on them, incense, jewelry
with pearls, precious stones, and seashells. I tried not to think too
much about that night we were together. I knew he was a
bachelor, and that it must have been hard to have a pretty girl
sleeping in his house—even if I
was
his niece. In short, I forgave
him. He didn’t get me pregnant; and at fourteen, I felt old
enough, and developed enough sexually and emotionally, so that
it didn’t ruin my childhood or leave scars…

“Still, although he didn’t scar me, that experience with
him made it difficult for me ever after. I had trusted him as a
protector, as my guardian, and when he took the initiative to
sleep with me, it made me distrust the protection of protectors.
Do you know what I mean? A youth thinks their protector is
more powerful that anything; that he can and will save them from
anything. That’s probably why young people think they cannot
die—those who love them and protect them can save them even
from death. So when your protector reveals to you that they are
defenseless to their desires, it makes you feel defenseless yourself.
Ever since, I have felt that if I were to give myself to a man, I
would have to trust him as much as I trust myself. Now, if a man
makes advances on me, I see him like I saw my uncle: a man at the
mercy of his desires. And if
he
is at the mercy of his desires, and
wants me to submit as well, then we are both at the mercy of
things stronger than us—and this scares me. So ever since that
experience with my uncle, I have been waiting to trust a man
entirely, and to feel his strength and control, as well as his love for
me, before I sleep with him. I hope you believe what I’m telling
you…

“If you knew all that was in my heart,” she continued, “you
would believe me without a doubt that it is unthinkable,
impossible, that I would have slept with that silly boy from the
theatre. Not only could he never be a protector for me, but he is
even acting as the opposite. He wants to
take
my income from
me, and leave me stranded in the street. To prevent this, I have to
act like I enjoy his company, and that I do not love any man. If he
knew about my feelings for you, I would be disinherited. Don’t
forget this as well Saul… Andrea loves money more than he loves
women. Do you think he would abandon his evil plan to enjoy a
sensual relationship with me? No, if he ever succeeded in
seducing me, it would only be so he could use
that
as the proof I
was with another man.

I listened to all that Saskia had to say. She spoke with
wisdom, and I felt her words deep in my body. Her head was
against my shoulder where we lay on her bed—I on my back, and
she on her side with her hand clasped innocently and childlike on
my upper-arm. I believed everything she said; more than
believed, her story was more real than life. She trembled as she
spoke. This was a girl who was beautiful to the depths of her
creative soul. She was innocent, yet she knew the world. She
loved people as she loved the world. She had loved her uncle
although she didn’t ask for his passion. But her passion was
abundant and free, and so she gave it… family member or not, she
discovered through her uncle the sensation of being made love to.
I had been a fool at the theatre. In Saskia, I recognized a sensitive
female who could now as a woman only give herself to a man she
loved and trusted. When she said she was ‘free to make love to
whomever she wants,’ she was telling me that she was free in her
wildness; that she was a wanderess, a drop of free water. She
belonged to no man and to no city. She told me she was faithful
to me because she saw something in me that I didn’t see in myself.
I had grown weary of myself by this time. With the advancing
years, I was getting more and more aware of who I was—going on
the theory that a man is no more than the sum-total of his
actions, that his actions make up his character. And his character
is who he is…